CHAPTER
67
THE MERCEDES SL600 was parked in front of Puller’s motel room when he drove in around two o’clock. Jean Trent was sitting in the driver’s seat. The car was running and the AC was cranked. Puller parked next to the other car and got out. Jean Trent did the same. She had on a sleeveless pale yellow dress with a V-front and a white sweater over top, coordinated pumps, and a white pearl necklace. Her hair and makeup were flawless. The old motel seemed an incongruous backdrop for such glamour.
“Looking for a room at the motel?” Puller said as he walked over to stand next to her.
She smiled. “When I was fifteen I used to clean this place for four dollars an hour and thought I was rich. Sam did the same, but she only got three dollars an hour.”
“Why the discrepancy?”
“She was smaller and couldn’t work as hard. People around here drive tough bargains.”
“I believe it.”
“You got time for lunch? Or have you already eaten?”
“I haven’t. At the Crib?”
She shook her head. “Another place. Nicer. Over the county line. I’ll drive.”
Puller thought about this. He had short time to divert a possible catastrophe. Did he have time for a leisurely lunch? Then his thoughts went back to what Mason had said. Trent operated that pipeline.
“What’s the occasion?”
“It’s lunchtime and I’m hungry.”
“Have you been waiting long?”
“Long enough. Guess you’ve been busy.”
“Guess I have.”
“How’s the investigation coming?”
“It’s coming.”
“You are remarkably tight-lipped.”
“It’s an Army thing.”
“No, I think it’s a cop thing. My little sister is the same way.”
“Saw your hubby was back in town. He joining us for lunch?”
Her radiant smile diminished a few watts. “No. He won’t. You ready?”
He looked at her fine clothes and then down at his own work ones.
“Fancy place? Not sure I’m dressed for the occasion.”
“You look just fine.”
She drove the country roads with an expert’s touch, hitting the turns and accelerating at just the right moment so the big Mercedes engine was at optimal rpm on the straightaways.
“You ever think of signing up for NASCAR?” he said.
She smiled and punched the gas on a particularly long stretch of road, winding the car up to eighty. “I’ve thought about a lot of things.”
“So why lunch with me, really?”
“Got some questions, hope you have some answers.”
“I doubt it. Remember the tight-lipped thing.”
“Then your opinion. How about that?”
“We’ll find out, I guess.”
Ten miles later they crossed into another county, and two miles farther down the road she pulled onto a tree-lined asphalt driveway. Around two curves the land opened up as the trees receded and Puller eyed the sprawling two-story stucco and stone building. It looked like it had been dropped, intact, from Tuscany. There were two aged fountains out front and nearby a small stream with a waterwheel slowly turning. There was an outdoor tiled eating area in an adjacent courtyard. A weathered wooden pergola strung with flowering vines provided a ceiling for this dining space.
Puller looked at the sign hanging over the front door. “Vera Felicita? True happiness?”
“You speak Italian?” she asked.
“Some. You?”
“Some. I’ve been there many times. Love it. I’m thinking of moving there one day.”
“People always say that when they visit Italy. But then they come back home and realize it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“Maybe.”
Puller looked around at the expensive cars sitting in the cobblestone parking area. Most of the outdoor tables were filled with people as nicely dressed as Jean Trent. They were drinking wine and forking and spooning into elaborate-looking dishes.
“Popular place,” he said.
“Yes, it is.”
“How’d you come to find it?”
“I own it.”