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Olin loads the box into the back of his delivery van. I’d purchased it just for this enterprise. After all, I couldn’t have the bakery goods being dropped off by someone in a fancy Porsche or even a Tesla. That would raise questions.
“Once you’re done dropping off, head back and see if Mrs. Lane has any more orders filled. If she does, hit up the fire department—”
“Already did.”
“How about the sewing shop on Third and Chestnut? It’s full of moms and grandmas this time of year. Drop some cookies off with them.”
“Fine.” He closes the back of the van, then leans against it. “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay, here’s a crazy thought—” He holds his hands up, palms toward me. “Just go with me here, all right? What if—instead of ordering all these bakery treats—you just call up Ruby and tell her you—”
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“Why not?”
“We’ve already discussed this.” I glance up at the darkening sky. “You should get going. More snow is in the forecast.”
“I just think that you could—”
“Thanks, Olin.” I turn my back on him and stride into my shop.
Greasy is sitting on top of the TransAm I work on from time to time. Mainly when I’m frustrated. It’s one of my father’s old cars. He’d gotten a wild hair back in the eighties and bought several American muscle and sports cars. The TransAm is the only one that survived.
“This is going to work.” I pet Greasy between his fuzzy ears. His black fur is shiny, almost slick. Hence his name. It also doesn’t hurt that he hangs around my garage. Plenty of grease here to make his nickname fit.
He butts his head against my knuckles, a light purr in his throat.
“She’s going to come back, and then I’ll have the chance to do what I should’ve done years ago. Easy, right?”
He gives me a love nip on the side of my wrist just as my phone starts buzzing. “I swear if this is Olin complaining again …” I glance at my screen. It’s my father calling.
“Yes?” I answer it.
“Have you seen my pipe?” he asks.
“Pipe?”
“The one with the gold lady on the round part like the figurehead on a big old whaling ship?”
I blink. Has he finally gone completely insane? “What?”
“A pipe!” he shouts. “For tobacco and whatnot. I need a smoke. A man’s smoke. Not some namby-pamby cigarette in some silly wrapper with a filter. No, aheavysmoke!”
“I have no idea. Did you ask Mr. Finley?”
“Who?”
I try to keep my patience, but he makes it so hard sometimes. “Your assistant.”
“An assistant?” He guffaws. “Abner T. Lovejoy doesn’t need an assistant!”
“Dad, when you talk about yourself in third person, it makes me worry.”
“Aw, shut it. I’ll find it myself. Need a smoke. Need it now!” He ends the call.
I stare at my phone and shake my head. He really does get crazier by the minute.
