“You say this is about a claim on my Falcon?” the woman in the blue rinse asked, reading Colleen’s fictitious business card that proclaimed her to be Carol Aird, claims handler with Pacific All Risk Insurance.
Rain tumbled off the umbrella Colleen stood under on the stairs of a junior five out in the avenues. She gave an appropriately somber nod. “I’m pretty sure a mistake has been made,” she said. “I’m just doing my due diligence and following up.”
“Someone filed an accident report, you say?” the woman said.
“In Los Angeles, on the third of last month.”
“Couldn’t have been us.” The woman shook her head. There was a hint of Midwest twang in her voice. “We haven’t been to LA recently. And that car rarely leaves the garage.”
Colleen tempered her excitement. She wanted a quick look at the car.
“Just as I suspected,” she said. “It would be a huge help if I could ask you a few questions? Just so I can clear this up and move on?”
“My husband won’t be home until after work,” the woman said. “He handles these things.”
“I understand,” Colleen said. “You have my card. Please tell your husband that if you get a call from SFPD, to have them contact me if any charges are filed.” Rain pelted her umbrella.
“Wait!” The woman’s eyes rounded in shock. “Are you saying the police might file charges?”
“Well, I certainly hope not. That’s why I’m trying to clear this up before there’s an issue. It’s obviously a mix-up. You weren’t even in Los Angeles last month. There’s no way you could have been involved with a hit-and-run—is there?”
“A hit-and-run?” The woman’s mouth dropped.
“Someone claimed your car ran a stop sign and hit their car. It’s obviously a mistake.”
“You better come in and see for yourself,” she said, standing back, holding the door. “But you’ll have to take your shoes off.”
“Thank you.” Colleen entered the house onto a clear plastic floor mat, pulling off her pumps. She had gone back home to change into her business suit, in order to be more presentable when asking pushy questions. She stepped onto the blue shag carpet in her bare feet, twiddling her toes. The walls of the house were painted blue. She noticed a definite color theme.
The woman had a kindly face. From the living room the murmur of a soap opera drifted out. She clasped her hands together. “I’m dying to know what this is all about.”
Colleen extracted her folded-up greenbar DMV report from her shoulder bag, unfolded it, turned it to show the housewife the 1967 Ford Falcon Sports Coupe that was registered to her.
“That’s Binky, all right.”
“Binky?”
She gave a shy grin. “Would you like to see her?”
“Yes, please. Then I can get this cleared up.”
“Follow me.”
Colleen followed her to the hall doorway of a small junior five built in the ’40s—two bedrooms, bathroom, living room, kitchen/dining area, all on one level. Solid construction, even for a starter house; no cutting corners back then. The woman opened the door leading down to a pristine garage.
Tools hung on a pegboard, organized by size, over an immaculate workbench. The washer and dryer were perfectly aligned with each other. What was it with people who lived out in the avenues?
But the star attraction, taking up the center of the garage, was a pristine 1967 Ford Falcon Sport Coupe. It gleamed with polish. The vinyl roof was a deep rich black, unlike so many that weren’t kept up.
But the car itself was baby blue. Colleen let out a sigh.
“May I take a closer look?” she asked.
“Help yourself.”
Colleen examined the rear of the car. Twin pipes. But the paint had a deep patina of wax. Years’ worth. “It obviously hasn’t been in any recent accidents,” she said. “It looks practically new. But it’s eleven years old.”
“I hardly ever drive it. And Bob—my husband—babies it.”
“It’s a beautiful color,” Colleen said. “Did you have it repainted at some point? Many of these came in green.”
“No,” she said. “This is the original color. We test-drove a Mustang, and then I saw Binky on the lot, and I said to Bob, ‘That’s the one!’” She blushed again.
“Your husband likes to indulge you.”
“He’s a keeper. Do you still need to leave a message for him?”
“No,” Colleen said, getting a pen out of her bag, drawing a line through the car on the greenbar printout, striking it out. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you so much.”
Outside, she dashed to the Torino in the rain, the umbrella bobbing over her head. She had two ’67 Falcon Sport Coupes left. The next one on her list had been registered to a local politician at the time of Margaret Copeland’s murder. She recalled Steve saying that his father had quit because of some bigwig. This sounded promising.
She’d watch her step.