Page 11 of The Woman in the Garage

Then, finally, around the time that I heard the guys heading out for the day, the garage doors grinding closed, I saw it.

There, in my columns, were glaring discrepancies.

“Am I locking you in here?” David asked, making me turn to look at him.

“How much is an oil change?” I asked.

David’s brows pinched at that. “Depends on the car. Low-end, fifty.”

“And on the high end?”

“Hundred or even more. Why?”

“Hm? Oh, no reason,” I said, giving him a smile. But not a real one; one of my customer service smiles. “But, yeah. Go ahead and lock me in. I want to get the rest of this pile done before I head out.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, turning and walking out.

If the most expensive oil change we charged was around a hundred bucks, even if you tacked on taxes or some other B.S. charges, why were there routinely charges for oil changes costing over three hundred dollars?

What the hell was going on around here?

Outside, I heard David’s car purr to life just as I found another handwritten note that had my spine straightening, that had me forgetting all about my grumbling stomach and aching head.

Sure, it was in Phil’s usual chicken scratch.

But there was one word that was painfully clear.

Grassi.

So, the new question I had to add was: who the hell was Santo Grassi… and why the hell were we paying him fifteen hundred dollars a month?

CHAPTER FOUR

Santo

“It’s short,” Luca said the next day, thumbing through the cash I’d handed him.

“Fifteen hundred, yeah.”

“Again?”

“Phil’s place was closed for a few months,” I explained.

“Why?”

“He died,” I told him.

“Oh. Shame. Is the shop being sold then?” he asked. I knew what he was actually asking: were we going to need to lean on a new owner in the near future?

“It was handed down to family,” I told him.

“That makes it easier. Why haven’t they paid yet though?”

“They just reopened. When I showed up, the new owner was trying to sort out the books. Phil didn’t exactly keep great records. I offered to come back next week.”

Luca’s brows knitted at that. But it was my brother Dante who asked the question the boss wouldn’t.

“So, how pretty was she?” he asked.

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