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wounded she burst out laughing.
    She still laughed hours later as she scrubbed her face in Mustang Sally’s small restroom. Looking into the tarnished mirror, she pulled a stern face.
    “You are acting like an adolescent, Sally Clay. You know nothing will come of this. It’s way dumb to go out with the guy in the first place.”
    She doubled over in laughter again.
    A quick appraisal of her stained work clothes sent her home for something decent to wear. Her father wasn’t in the house when she arrived. He was probably cloistered in the old garage workshop in the rear, where he repaired lawn mowers and trimmers to earn beer money.
    She didn’t want to leave Roy alone at the garage too long, so she rushed. She’d finished a load of laundry last night and had clean clothes, but they were mostly jeans and coveralls. Digging through her closet she discovered an almost new pair of navy slacks, a Christmas present from her cousin Maggie. A pale yellow shirt and her tweed blazer, usually saved for church, completed the ensemble.
    She stole a quick glance at her reflection in the dresser mirror as she turned to leave. “You clean up fairly well, Sally.” Maybe the fashion police wouldn’t arrest her, after all.
    Sally’s giddy mood vanished when Joe Desalvo strolled into her office at six o’clock. His leather loafers and Rolex wristwatch reminded her she was in over her head. What had she been thinking, anyway? The guy just invited her to dinner, probably a one-time thing. She had no reason to be grinning like a lovesick puppy.
    As if an omen, the sky darkened, then dumped sheets of rain.

    At Mazzoni’s, Joe bit into crusty cracker breading, savoring his first rolled oyster in ten years. “Yum-m-m.”
    “As yum as you remembered?” Sally asked.
    He nodded, his mouth full from stuffing the rest of the deep-fried treat into his mouth. Sally’s gusto matched his as she indulged in her meal of rolled oysters, French fries, and coleslaw. “Thanks for letting me drive your Mustang tonight. It would’ve been even better if we could’ve lowered the top.”
    “It’s a little chilly, even if the rain stops.” Taking a sip of her soda, she shrugged. “Although, my cousin Maggie and I rode around in it with the top down in February the first time I had it running right. Of course, we had the heater on full blast.”
    Joe chuckled. “April’s not much warmer.”
    Sally swallowed another bite of rolled oyster, then lowered her fork. “We have to talk.”
    “Sounds serious.” Her troubled frown sobered him. “What is it?”
    “It’s the Darrin, Joe. It isn’t authentic. Someone’s forged the engine identification number plate.”
    All air left his lungs. He bristled at her unspoken words. “And you think Dad did it?”
    “No!” Reaching across the small table, Sally patted his arm. “Your dad was a stand-up guy. Besides, he didn’t own the Darrin long enough to do anything like that.”
    “The guy in Indiana he bought it from, then? What was the name on that bill of sale?”
    Staring at her hand on his arm, Sally plucked it back as if she’d touched a hot griddle. “Howard Steele? Maybe.”
    “But—?” Joe dragged out the word. He’d known Sally Clay all of two days, but he sensed more trouble.
    She shrugged, her eyes downcast. “Leo wouldn’t have bought that Darrin, Joe. He’d been in the business too long not to recognize the difference between an F head Willys 161 and an overhead Ford 170.”
    Say what? But he didn’t ask for a translation. “Dad did buy the Darrin, though.”
    “That’s what bugs me.” Sally picked up her fork, punching the air with it. “Why?”
    “I guess we’ll never know. Just another mystery he took to the grave with him.” He flinched at his own words.
    Sally’s uplifted fork froze. Her liquid brown eyes gazed at him with concern. “Joe, I’m sorry. You’re still getting used to the fact that your dad is gone. I hate that I’ve added to your grief.”
    Joe