Page 45 of Kiss My Glass
“No time,” I say. “We’re due at our mystery man’s house at two forty-five. We can always tell him we’re twins who never got over being dressed in matching clothes.”
Frankie buckles up. “Nice car,” she says.
“It’s not something I’d usually own,” I reply, as I put it in gear and move off. “Nothing ever goes wrong with these, so there’s not much opportunity to add value. That’s why I’m excited to see what our mystery man has to offer. I’m expecting it to be a piece of junk, but there’s always the possibility of a real find.”
“And what’s your professional opinion of my car?” Frankie asks.
I know a test when I hear one. Fortunately, with this subject, I’m on solid ground.
“I could sell it today if you wanted. Convertible in mint condition, could reach forty grand, maybe more if we got a couple of strong bidders.”
“I bought it for twenty-five,” says Frankie, thoughtfully.
I flash her my best salesman’s smile. “Just say the word and I’m on it.”
The navigation on my phone tells me the destination is coming up on our left so I slow down. The road is rural and quiet, and it doesn’t look like there are many dwellings around here at all.
“Mystery man said watch out for an iron gate,” I tell Frankie. “I’m guessing the farm kind.”
“There’s a gate.” She points it out. “But it does not look like it belongs to Old Macdonald.”
I stop the car outside what is most certainly not a typical farm gate. It’s wrought iron and flanked by stone pillars. On one pillar there’s a video-com unit. As I edge the car up to the gate, it starts to swing open. We’ve been spotted.
“Do you think we’re being lured into the lair of a serial killer?” I say, only half joking.
“Should have bought your pickleball paddle before we came,” says Frankie. “So we could use it as a weapon.”
We motor slowly up a carefully swept gravel driveway formally lined with cypress trees and set among what can only be described as parkland, with mature oaks and chestnuts, and shrubs that have been trimmed into neat, curved shapes.
“They might be a serial killer,” I say. “But they have excellent taste. And a load of moolah.”
“Oh my,” says Frankie, and I let out a whistle.
Holy shit. That’s a palace. It makes my family home look like a dog kennel.
I pull up at the side of the big circular gravel area in front and cut the engine.
“Did you know this place existed?” I ask Frankie. “I’ve never even heard a whisper, and my mom and dad know everyone.”
Frankie’s smile borders on sly. “Bet you I know whose place this is,” she says.
“What?” I’m taken aback. “Who?”
A series of wide stone steps leads up to the double front door that is right now being pulled open. Out steps an elegantly dressed blond man in his thirties, who smiles in our direction.
“Who else but the ultimate mystery man of Flora Valley?” says Frankie. “Known to us mere mortals as Ted.”
ChapterTwenty-Five
FRANKIE
Ted seems like a decent human being but it’s hard to tell through the layers of well-bred British courtesy. There are all sorts of rumors about him that not even Chiara has been able to confirm or deny. Given Chiara’s powers, it seems impossible that she doesn’tknow, but Ted is her boss, and through her job at Bartons Hotel, she has access to the kind of connections she’d never make working at even the flashiest hotel in Martinburg. Chiara knows on which side her bread is buttered, as they say in Ted’s home country.
Danny asks the most frequent of the Ted FAQs. “Does Ted have a last name?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” I reply, as we shut the car doors and start to walk up.
“Because no one has before?” mutters Danny. “Or no one has lived to tell?”
