In Sickness and in Death - By Lisa Bork Page 0,30

in her otherwise gravelly voice. Dear God, did the woman have no attractions at all? “I understand from my mechanic Cory that you’re interested in purchasing a Caterham DeDion. I’ve located two for sale.”

“Excellent. How much are they?”

“Around forty thousand.”

“Who do I make the check out to?”

I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at it. She must be nuts. No bargaining? No negotiating? I put the receiver against my ear again. “Leslie, I wanted to talk with you more about these cars. I’m not sure they’re the best value for your dollar.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“Leslie?”

She’d hung up on me.

I sat at my desk and waited for her arrival, finding myself in the awkward position of not wanting to make the sale. These Caterhams didn’t merit their asking price, and the dealers didn’t seem inclined to bargain. Hiring me to broker the deal seemed silly, especially considering the fact that Leslie could locate these guys by herself if she just got online. And, even though it wasn’t my concern, I didn’t think owning a Caterham would be the answer to her prayers. If this man she desired was so shallow that he could be won over with the purchase of a British sports car, he couldn’t be worth having in the first place.

Had I become the love police? Maybe I should just let Leslie and, for that matter, Erica, decide what was right for them.

Nah. My new mission was to help people, whether they realized they needed help or not.

When the yellow Mustang convertible pulled into the shop’s parking lot a half hour later, I knew Leslie was the woman I’d seen at The Cat’s Meow.

She entered the showroom through the front door, stamping snow off her tan work boots. I walked out to greet her, thinking Cory had described her quite well.

Leslie Flynn had thinning sunburst red hair. I would have said it was a dye job, but the abundance of freckles visible even on her tanned skin suggested it was natural, or, at least, a simulation of natural. Her teeth were not only crooked but stained, and the brown Carhartt overalls and matching jacket she wore emphasized her unfortunate weight. As Cory had said, it wasn’t pretty. And she smelled kinda funny, too.

She looked me up and down. “You’re a cute little thing, aren’t ya?”

I felt my cheeks flush. “Thank you. Please, come in and sit down in my office.”

Her work boots clunked across the floor behind me. She dropped with a whompf, expelling all the air from the seat cushion.

I wasn’t sure quite how to begin, never having tried to talk a customer out of buying a car. “That’s a nice Mustang you’re driving now.”

She straightened and beamed with pleasure. “It handles well.”

“It’s a popular car. More popular than a Caterham.”

Her head bobbed up and down. “I know, I know. But have you ever seen Gatekeepers or eX-Driver?”

“No, I’m not familiar with those.”

“They’re Japanese animated cartoons, and they feature the Caterham. The man I’m interested in loves the Caterham and those cartoons.”

“You’ve talked to him about the cars and the cartoons, then?”

“Many times.”

“So you two already have a relationship?”

Her lips parted and her eyes narrowed as she appeared to consider my words. “I sell him eggs. Fresh brown eggs.”

“I see.” I didn’t really.

Leslie must have sensed my confusion. “My brother and I run a dairy farm. We have chickens, too. We also sell flowers and planters.”

Now I recognized her perfume. Eau de Manure.

Farms covered the hills and valleys of the Finger Lakes countryside, most run by Mennonites with family names like Weaver and Hoover who spoke with German-like accents. In fact, the Finger Lakes region had received the dubious distinction of hog-farming capital of New York, dubious because the swine aromas didn’t mix well with the fine wine aromas that the dozens of surrounding vineyards preferred to promote. The Mennonite farmers were tourist attractions, however, given their farm stores that sold homemade cheeses and fresh eggs as well as quilts, jams, wooden toys, and handcrafted furniture. Their simple clothes, refusal to use electricity or phones, and use of horse and buggy transportation or bicycles, which gave them their lean muscled physiques, also intrigued visitors to our area.

With her bright yellow Mustang and her less than toned body, I didn’t figure Leslie Flynn for one of our more touristy farmers.

She went on, “The farm has been in our family for a hundred years. My brother and I still work it. We have hired help, too.”

I wondered why