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“SO the gimmick of the magic tricks always going wrong was your idea?” Lawrence asked. “There has always been talk that it was because you couldn’t do the tricks.”
“No!” Claude insisted. “I’d been doing magic as Uncle Presto on the station’s kiddie show every afternoon for two years. It was just funnier on Terror Time to mess the tricks up. It was Ghoulini’s shtick.”
“And in the early days you had an assistant named Abby Cadaver. Is it true that you married her?”
“Justin’s grandmother,” Claude said, looking wistful. “Cancer took her in 1997. She was a good woman.”
The Cadillac’s muffler emitted a roar, and its engine purred as Myrna slammed the hood.
“We’re in business,” she grinned, motioning Justin out from behind the wheel. “It was just a loose connection to the distributor.” Bootsy barked and turned in a circle on Lawrence’s lap.
“Great,” he said. “If we fly, we can make it back before Max has a coronary.”
“Mr. Frightengale”—Justin extended his hand awkwardly to Lawrence—“thanks for not calling the cops on me. I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble. You’ve been really nice to Grandpa and me.”
“You know,” Lawrence said as he handed off the dog and slid behind the wheel of the car that had been the center of so much drama, “you really shouldn’t miss the parade.” He reached back to ease the Caddy’s rear door open invitingly. “It’s going to be quite a show.
“Claude,” he continued with a mischievous grin, “do you still have your old top hat and cape?”