For Whom the Limo Rolls Read online

  FOR WHOM THE LIMO ROLLS

  Book #3, the Andi McConnell Mysteries

  by

  Lorena McCourtney

  BOOK INFORMATION:

  Copyright© 2015 by Lorena McCourtney

  Cover by Travis Miles, Pro Book Covers

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission from the author. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  “Need some help with that?”

  I recognized the voice, but the helpful sounding words were as unfamiliar as a hundred dollar tip. I untangled myself from the grip of the fallen branch I was trying to drag around the house and suspiciously turned to check his identity.

  “Some windstorm we had last night,” Tom Bolton said. “How about I bring an ax over and chop that into smaller pieces for you?”

  Okay, who ran off with my grumpy, nosy neighbor and left this helpful, nice-guy clone in his place? Although even his clothes looked different. Tom usually wears pants in what I think of as the McWeird clan plaid, but now he’s in ordinary blue jeans and denim jacket. He’s even dropped a few pounds in the belly, and his usual stubby gray whiskers are shaved baby-smooth.

  The Girlfriend? He’d told me a while back that he had one now. I’d never actually seen her, but I’d noticed a red Honda parked at his house a couple times. If she could pull off a makeover like this, give the lady a gold star. I’d like to meet her.

  I hesitated momentarily about this offer, however. I’d be wary of the old Tom Bolton with an ax. His grumpy glare has often suggested he wouldn’t mind taking some sharp implement to my limo, my big maple that blows leaves into his yard, or maybe even me. But the new Tom appeared to have undergone a personality transplant, so I cautiously said, “That’d be great.”

  Tom went back across the street, and I brushed twigs out of my hair. Phreddie was watching me from the living room window with his blue cat eyes, paws tucked under his semi-Siamese body. My new renter in the other side of the duplex didn’t appear to be stirring yet. I didn’t know her well, although she’d helped with fall cleanup of my daisy flowerbeds and seemed nice, if a bit, umm, unique in her choice of clothing. Phreddie, whom I considered a good judge of character, treated her with regal friendliness if they happened to be outside at the same time.

  I decided I’d invite her to church this coming Sunday. Would I dare hint she might wear something other than her usual muumuu and motorcycle boots? No. What would Jesus do? does not translate to What would Jesus wear?

  Tom returned with an ax of impressive size and efficiently whacked the limb into four pieces. He helped carry the pieces around the duplex to a burn pile I’d started near the back edge of the property.

  “Thank you very much,” I said when the job was done. Tom hadn’t even appeared to be inspecting my back yard for violations of obscure ordinances, which he’d been known to do in the past. Just to be safe, I said, “I checked, and it’s okay to burn small brush piles now.”

  He gave me a blank look, then, all in a rush, as if the words weren’t easy for him to get out, considering the attitude he’d always taken toward my limousine service, said, “I’d like to hire the limo. I want to do something special for Mary Beth’s birthday.”

  This from the guy whom I knew had once called the sheriff’s office to complain that glare off the limo in my driveway was interfering with his peaceful enjoyment of his front deck?

  “When is her birthday?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m taking her to The Log Cabin. I know it’s short notice, but I didn’t think about using a limo until this morning.”

  The Log Cabin has a rustic elegance and is one of the more expensive restaurants in Vigland. This must be some girlfriend. I didn’t know whether to picture a twenty-something with Playboy curves or a matron with money. It’s difficult to imagine what kind of woman would be interested in Tom.

  “I have to make a run over to Sea-Tac tomorrow afternoon, but I should be back by six. If that would work—?”

  “That’ll be okay. The reservations are for eight.”

  The sophisticated hour also surprised me, since Tom tended to eat his TV dinners no later than 5:30. “This is a surprise for her?”

  “She saw the limo parked in your driveway and said she’d never ridden in one and wouldn’t it be fun to do it sometime. But I didn’t think until this morning that maybe she’d like to go to her birthday dinner in it.”

  Tom was a little slow catching on to what was an obvious hint from Mary Beth, but it had finally sunk in. Although I felt an unexpected sympathy for Tom. He obviously cared a lot for this woman, but he knows as much about romancing technique as I know about building a space ship.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty?” I said.

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t you want to know how much the limo costs?”

  “I don’t care what it costs.” Surely this must be the first time those words have ever passed Tom’s lips. “I want the best for Mary Beth.”

  I gave him my hourly rate anyway. Even if he’d had this personality implant, I didn’t want his inner miser to surface with outrage at the end of the evening.

  I continued with my yard cleanup, but I didn’t get a chance to invite my new renter to church. She never did come outside. I wondered what she did in there. With those motorcycle boots and several tattoos, she looked more like a biker chick than a computer-type person, but I’d seen the van from a local store deliver one to her. Maybe she kept busy with some secret life on the Internet.

  That evening I took a six-couple group over to Olympia for a party, and the next day made two trips to the Sea-Tac airport over between Seattle and Tacoma. I got home in time to grab a sandwich for supper and change into a fresh uniform. Sometimes I take Phreddie on limo jobs with me. He’d taken to limo riding as if he’d finally arrived at the status in life to which he was rightfully entitled. But I doubted even Tom’s personality change allowed for a cat riding shotgun in the front seat, so I gave Phreddie an extra spoonful of tuna and promised he could go along tomorrow.

  I backed the limo out of the driveway, and Tom came out to meet me. I did a double-take when I saw his dark suit and silver-striped tie in the headlights. The last time I’d seen him in a suit was at his wife’s funeral several years back. He was also carrying a package wrapped in gold foil. I hoped he’d chosen an appropriate gift. The old, pre-Mary-Beth Tom might have come up with anything from a bottle of Tums to a carton of sparkplugs.

  I slid out and opened the rear door as I always do for clients. The October evening was damp, with a scent of sea air from the bay, but more misty than drizzly. “Where does Mary Beth live?”

  He named an address in an older area on the far side of Vigland, where a number of prosperous solid citizens lived. My friend Fitz keeps telling me I should get a good GPS system for the limo, but so far I’ve managed with maps and a knowledge of the area. I didn’t expect Tom to be chatty on the drive, but he surprised me by draping his elbows on the back of the seat and sticking his face through the opening in the partition.

  “I think Mary Beth is going to like this.”

  “I’m sure she will. Is she a long-time resident here, or new?”

  “She moved up from California a few months ago.”

  “Does she have family here?” I braked at the stop
light where the railroad goes through town. Misty halos surrounded the street lights.

  “I think she has a cousin or something over in Tacoma or Seattle or somewhere, but mostly she came because she wanted a smaller-town atmosphere, a place where traffic wasn’t bumper to bumper. She’s a wonderful woman. A very special person.”

  More words that sounded so strange coming from Tom. Like Phreddie speaking up to say his new cat food was utterly fabulous. I wondered what birthday Mary Beth was celebrating, but asking the direct question seemed rude, so I came at it from an angle. “Is she retired, or—?”

  “She fixes up houses to sell.”

  “You mean she remodels them?”

  “No, she makes them look nice inside. Changes the furniture around or puts in fancier stuff. Decorates.”

  “Oh, she stages houses to help them sell.” I’d read about that recently. It was a growing trend, to call in a professional to make a house look warm and inviting to potential buyers.

  “She does new houses sometimes, model houses in subdivisions. Or old places too. She can make a dump look like a palace.”

  “She must be very creative.”

  In a sudden change of subject Tom asked, “That guy you been seeing, he get a new car?”

  The question suggested Tom hadn’t totally abandoned his nosy ways. He was still watching what went on in the neighborhood, no dust collecting on his binoculars.

  “Yes, Fitz traded his old car in on a new Camry.”

  The old Tom wouldn’t have been shy about asking what Fitz paid for the new car, and did he pay cash or finance it, but the new Tom now said, “Life’s better with someone to share it with, isn’t it?”

  Not the most eloquent of words, but certainly a philosophical jump for Tom. I had to agree with his statement. Having Keegan “Fitz” Fitzpatrick, former TV detective and current crew member on his son’s charter sailboat, in my life did indeed make it better.

  Glow-in-the-dark numbers on a wrought-iron post topped by a bell identified Mary Beth’s house. It stood well back from the street, the front steps illuminated by a coach-style lantern. The yard appeared well-kept, but not as manicured as the place next door that featured shrubs pruned into geometrically precise shapes.

  I drove down the narrow asphalt driveway, lined on both sides with low-growing shrubs. Up close to the house, the driveway widened into a parking area large enough for several cars. The one-story, ranch-style house was brick, not too common in Vigland, solid and substantial looking. A life-sized iron cat in a stylishly elongated shape sat on the top step. The red Honda I’d seen at Tom’s house stood under the carport.

  I slid out to open the rear door of the limo, but Tom didn’t wait for me. He jumped out and ran up the steps to ring the bell. No one came, but Mary Beth must have called to him because he opened the door and disappeared inside.

  I peered around, checking to see if I could turn the long limo around here, or if I’d have to back down the driveway. I saw the drapes move in a side window of the house next door. Curious neighbor checking out the oddity of a limo in this driveway?

  A moment later Tom rushed out of the house.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked

  “Trafalgar is here!”

  How do you respond to an announcement like that? There’s a Trafalgar Square in London. There is also a Cape Trafalgar in Spain, which I know because my full name, Andalusia, comes from the name of an area in Spain. I didn’t see how either the Square or the Cape could have transported themselves to Mary Beth’s brick house here in Vigland.

  Tom, obviously impatient with my delaying thoughts, yelled, “Hurry up. He wants to talk to you!”

  So this Trafalgar is a person, not a place. One whose parents perhaps should have consulted a book of baby names before hanging that one on their offspring. “Why would he want to talk to me? I don’t know anyone named Trafalgar.”

  “I don’t know. He said he wants to talk to the pretty lady in the long vehicle.” His attitude suggested this was an imperial command.

  I found this all quite strange, but I figured anyone who refers to me as a “pretty lady” deserves at least a Hi, there.

  I followed Tom inside the door he’d left half open in his haste.

  Chapter Two

  Inside, a plumpish blonde sat in a peculiarly rigid position among pillows massed on a blue sofa. Her gaze was unfocused, one hand lifted, as if it had frozen in mid-motion. She didn’t seem aware of my presence.

  “Is she ill?” I whispered, alarmed.

  “Be quiet,” Tom muttered.

  “Ah, the pretty lady from the long vehicle.” The voice boomed out of the figure on the sofa, astonishingly deep and masculine sounding. “Thank you for bringing her inside, Tom.”

  I just stood there dumbfounded. Tom jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. “Talk to him.”

  “What do you mean, him?” The figure on the sofa had gone a little heavy on the goldy color with her hair, but the makeup was nicely done, and her rounded figure was definitely female.

  “It’s him. This is an honor. Say something.”

  The big voice boomed in laughter now. “I can see no one has told you about me. Let me introduce myself. I’m Trafalgar.”

  I blinked. It was like stepping into a Twilight Zone version of I Love Lucy, with King Kong bellowing out of Lucy’s mouth.

  Another jab from Tom’s elbow, and I said, “Hi. I’m, uh, Andi McConnell.” The woman’s glazed eyes hadn’t changed even as the lips moved. Like a talking doll with the wrong voice equipment installed. “Andi’s Limouzeen Service.”

  “Ah, the long vehicle. Limouzeen?”

  “Well, limousine to be technical. I just spell it with a ‘z’ because—” I stopped short. What was I doing? I did not need to explain my business to whatever this was.

  “Limousine,” he repeated. “I’ll remember that. Sometimes words in your language are quite baffling to me.”

  I peered around the room looking for some hidden male figure doing clever ventriloquism or maybe a concealed speaker. I could hear little voices, but they came from a radio in the kitchen, one of those call-in talk shows, always spouting noisy discussions of politics these days.

  The room was overfull for my taste. Sofa, loveseat, coffee table made of a glass-topped chunk of driftwood, a full-sized carousel horse, an oversupply of lamps, lots of figurines, angels and cats predominant among them. Ivy plants trailing from a half-dozen ceramic pots, a grandfather clock ticking, its pendulum moving ponderously. Too many pictures on or leaning against the walls, everything from landscapes to clowns. A row of big vases with flowered and geometrical patterns lined the hallway. Yet the effect, oddly, came off snug and cozy rather than garish, a setting for tea and home-baked goodies.

  Mary Beth herself had a couple inches of gold and silver bangles dangling on one arm, a glittery watch on the other. Several gold chains hung around her neck, one with a pendant of a ruby-covered lightning bolt. Dangly ruby earrings. Three rings on each hand, all glittery. Gold threads in a low-cut black top.

  I’d probably look like an aging hooker in all that glitter, but Mary Beth looked more like a little girl playing dress-up. Huggable. The Pillsbury doughboy with bling.

  Then the voice, at odds with the cuddly appearance, boomed again. “You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Andi?”

  A woman with a split personality or a serious larynx problem? Or maybe a strange sense of humor? Whatever, I was not comfortable with it.

  “I’ll wait outside,” I said to Tom. “You and Mary Beth come on out when you’re, uh, finished here.”

  Tom grabbed my arm. “No. Trafalgar is talking to you.”

  “That’s okay, Tom.” The voice spoke soothingly even though it was still deep and gravelly. “I’ll just tell her a little about myself.”

  Yeah, you do that, I muttered silently. Because this was going to take some big explanation. Except for the talking mouth, Mary Beth still hadn’t moved a muscle, although Tom had rushed into the kitch
en to turn off the radio.

  “As I said, I’m Trafalgar. I come from, oh, a different existence than yours, but I believe I have insights to offer you.”

  “What existence? What insights?”

  He she laughed again. “Ah, I see you’re skeptical. That’s good. I like the challenge.”

  Okay, I decided, I had no idea what this was all about, but I’d play along. Although I might later hint to Tom that he should think about acquiring a more normal girlfriend. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve told you. I’m Tra-“

  “No, I mean who. Are you a spirit? A demon? A ghost? Some alien from outer space? An entity from the past or future? Some new advertising gimmick who’ll try to sell me a skin lotion to take twenty years off my age?”

  “A demon! A ghost!” The voice rose a notch in indignation. “That’s insulting.”

  “Sorry,” I muttered. Apparently I wasn’t up on etiquette for entities.

  “And what an imagination you have, Andi McConnell! No, I don’t have a lotion to take twenty years off your age. Or ten pounds off your hips and thighs.”

  Hey, low blow! But the snarky comment gave me a jolt. How did he know these hips and jiggly thighs were the bane of my existence? Then I glanced down and decided that even in my chauffeur’s uniform they were probably no secret.

  “I did once spend time on earth in its pre-Genesis form, but I’m not really from the past or future. Although I can peer into those time frames. I exist here in what would best be called a dimension apart from your limited three-dimensional world.”

  The voice wasn’t quite so deep and gravely now. Mary Beth’s own voice squeaking through? Tom was standing there looking as awed as if his personal hero, that sheriff in Arizona who makes prisoners wear pink underwear, had just stepped out of the TV to speak to him. But I was beginning to get annoyed. If this was some weird joke, I didn’t like being the last one in on it.

  I dropped to an oversized ottoman behind me. “So what do you do over in your other dimension?” I asked conversationally. “And what’s the point of butting into this one?”