MY first hour the next morning was spent on the interior on the S-Type using a portable vacuum cleaner, then rags with glass, vinyl, and leather cleaners. Thankfully, police technicians had already removed any traces of Morrison before they had “dusted” the car, though there had been a slight smell of vomit when I first opened the driver’s door. The driver’s side power window was down about an inch.
Presumably Rodney had simply pulled the business end from a hose connected to one of the exhaust pipes through the window. The inside of the window at the top was sticky all along its length. He must have used duct tape, later removed at the police garage, to seal the gap.
As a way to do yourself in, it was somewhat elaborate, but probably as good as any. Rodney had been a mercurial fellow, at times very difficult to deal with, demanding and impatient. But he was smart and thorough. You don’t get to be a Cabinet Minister’s Executive Assistant by being otherwise. While it still seemed strange that he’d kill himself, he’d obviously thought the method through.
And just as obviously, he must have learned how to drive a car in the two years or so since I’d seen him.
The deputy had mentioned erratic behaviour and alcohol on his breath, a lover’s quarrel, a note … presumably a post mortem had backed everything up.
Out of curiosity, I checked the glove compartment. Except for the owner’s manual, it was empty. Not even a package of tissues.
I went to the front of the car and checked under the hood. Levels were down everywhere, but the various hose connections were tight and dry. I jacked up the rear end, after first blocking the front wheels, to check the extensive dual-exhaust system. Using a work light, I followed the mufflers, resonators, catalytic converters, and their linking pipes each side right up to the exhaust header on the engine and could see no holes or breaks. It appeared to be all stainless steel and in excellent condition.
Checking the driver’s side chromed tail pipe, I noticed that the inside surface was shiny while the passenger side’s was sooty. Rodney had probably used something like a length of garden hose, simply inserted it in the pipe, and then stuffed rags around the hose where it entered the pipe to keep it secure. Police technicians pulling the rags away had wiped off the soot. I opened the trunk to find nothing inside except the spare wheel under its cover. No sign of hose or rags. The police must have retained them.
I let the back end down, wheeled the shop jack away, then stood back and looked at the car.
It was an impressive vehicle. The front end bodywork echoed the “face” of Jaguar Mark I and II sedans from the fifties and sixties, and indeed the entire body was reminiscent of company founder Sir William Lyons’ styling touches from that era. The rear end treatment was not as evocative, in my view, resembling some current Fords. As a model, it had proved successful for the company in terms of sales only toward the end of its run. Quality control issues had plagued the earliest models, especially the V-8s, with all kinds of electronics problems particularly.
But it sure looked luxurious and quick. And I wanted it out of my shop.
By now it was 8:30 a.m. The leftover muffin I’d found in the shop’s refrigerator was still holding me. I turned on the ignition to check the gas gauge and noted it was reading empty. This made sense. Rodney had expired from carbon monoxide fumes carried into the car through a hose attached to an exhaust pipe. The car would have kept on running. The battery was low, too, since the ignition had stayed on after the car ran itself out of gas, until it was shut off by the police.
I hooked up the battery to a charger, then found a portable four-litre plastic container and headed out on an overcast and breezy day to a gas station around the corner. By the time I returned with gasoline, Dougald had shown up and was organizing his tools to continue dismantling the engine of the lawyer’s XK150S. We chatted idly a bit, and then proceeded to our tasks.
By noon, Dougald had headed home to his garden and I had finished servicing the S-Type, basically topping up levels, and performing minor adjustments. I’d taken it out for a short high-speed road test on the Queensway, and all seemed in order. I parked the car in the back compound and locked up the shop for the rest of the weekend, after making sure Jerry’s bowls were topped up. He had made himself scarce somewhere in one of the hidden recesses of the building and hadn’t appeared at the sound of my spooning dry food into his bowls as he normally would have done. I churned the starter on the Land Rover and headed home.
The Land Rover trundled me back down the old Prescott highway through the worst of the Saturday shopping traffic. It was noisy inside the cab from engine noise and rattles, but I was used to it. Though the sky was still mainly overcast, the sun peeked out from time to time to gleam on the Rideau River as I followed it south along the western bank. The river level was high from the spring runoff, making it dangerous for kids and dogs bent on exploring, but it was great to realize the winter was finally over and I found myself humming a snatch of The Barber of Seville in time to the engine’s thrumming.
By the time I had pulled into the driveway and parked the Landy outside my garage and digs, the sun had strengthened even further. A muddy red second-generation Miata wearing its factory hardtop was parked close to Isabelle’s door. Then I remembered – this must be Isabelle’s step-niece, or whoever she was.
I went upstairs to my flat and found a voice message from Isabelle inviting me to tea Sunday afternoon. She would send “Sandy” over to collect me just before 4 p.m. I returned calls and e-mails, including messages from my siblings in Toronto to catch up on family news, sorted out some bills, and passed the evening in front of the TV watching The Third Man, which I never tire of seeing, after a slapdash dinner of sausages and beans on toast.
I was up late Sunday. It was gone 11 a.m. by the time I opened up the garage after a major cleanup of the galley kitchen, bathroom, and living area. It was a cool morning, only about five degrees Celsius, but sunny. I loaded kindling and short birch logs into the woodstove installed in the garage, lit the paper, and turned to my own car projects.
The metallic blue and white Austin Healey 3000 was just about finally finished. This had been a two-year evening and weekend project to complete. I’d driven the car for years as a rolling restoration. When I was still a government employee with a regular salary, I’d had Dougald rebuild the engine, and then a specialist body shop had redone the shell. Liz’s illness and death, moving from the bungalow, leaving government, and buying into Britfit had meant suspending work on this car for months. But as the business strengthened and stabilized, I’d worked some evenings and most Sundays on the rest of the tasks, replacing the wiring loom, re-installing the interior and the folding hood, tracking down better wire wheels, and other upgrades too numerous to count.
There remained only a few odds and ends to complete. I was now in a quandary about it. I’d had the old girl through thick and thin, had brought her back to as-new condition, and it was worth a good deal of money. It was powerful and fast, and just starting it never failed to get my pulse rate up.
But perhaps it was time to close a chapter. Liz hadn’t really liked the car because I was working on the Healey every spare moment when we weren’t renovating the bungalow. I’d have no trouble selling it, especially as another spring and impending summer beckoned any number of financially comfortable middle-aged types to look for just such a classic sports car to recapture their youth. And who could blame them?
I turned to look at another reason for my dilemma, the 1950 Riley RMD occupying the second bay of the garage. I’d bought it from a Britfit customer who was simply too daunted by what this grand old car needed to spend any more money on it. A lot of owners eventually found themselves in this bind. The 2.5-litre motor was tired and would need a complete rebuild, which was bad enough, but the coachwork situation was worse. The willow green panels were dented in places, but there wasn’t any significant corrosion anywhere.
Although the separate chassis was strong, it was the rotten wood frame structure under the bodywork that would be the major headache to replace. But the interior was a delight, all original tan leather in superb condition with all instruments and fittings accounted for. The double-duck mohair Drophead top and the beautifully chromed folding irons that make this car identifiable from miles away were brand new, sourced and fitted at enormous expense by the previous owner.
I opened the driver’s door, which sagged alarmingly on its hinges, sat behind the mottled brown steering wheel and looked down the long tapering bonnet to the shining chromed backs of the large headlights, framed by the black curves of the front fenders. The walnut dashboard was going to need some refinishing, but the beautiful art deco gauges were all in place. The smell of the leather was intoxicating.
I got out, managing to close the car’s door by lifting it slightly with the lever handle. I had made my decision. The Healey was going. I’d strip the body on the RMD myself. With the money I’d make from the Healey, I’d have the panels redone, get Dougald or Reg to rebuild the engine, and do whatever else it took. Even with a major rebuild of its engine, this car, while reasonably quick for its specification, wouldn’t burn up the roads the way the Healey could. But it was too lovely a thing to be left to rot away from the inside.
Three hours later I was cursing rhythmically at a pile of bits and pieces from the dismantled door. Exposed parts of the ash framing had simply disintegrated. I had at least two splinters visible in my right hand, and the knuckles of both my mitts were skinned and bleeding.
“Do you always use that kind of language?”
I turned around toward the open garage door.
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh. Well it looks like you’ve made a bit of a mess of that door. Your hands are bleeding. Ooooh, an Austin Healey. I love my Miata, but that’s a lovely car. Isabelle said you were very talented at what you do. And you’ve been so kind to her, I know. She’s told me a lot about you. But what are you doing with this car? What is it? Looks quite old, but lovely lines. Will it take you very long to fix it up? Sorry, I guess I’m babbling as usual. I’m Sandy.”
I hastily rubbed my right palm on my jeans, ignoring the painful splinters, and shook her outstretched hand.
“Hi.”
“Well, Conn, I’ve come to bring you over to tea. But perhaps you might want to wash your hands. Do you have any iodine? You’ve got to watch injuries to your hands. Tell you what, you wash up and come over when you’re ready. I’ll go ahead to Isabelle’s and find some iodine. Angela made some cake for us yesterday, so we can have that, too. I mean, we’ll have cake and tea, not iodine. Sorry, don’t mind me. See you soon, Conn.”
She was tall and very slim. A short crop of strawberry blonde hair simply and elegantly framed her narrow face. She moved her impossibly violet eyes away from mine to take a last look at the Riley, grinned, turned, and walked briskly off toward Isabelle’s house.
I just stood there watching her attractively jeaned back view as she covered the fifty yards to Isabelle’s front door at a rapid clip. She turned toward me and waved before entering the house. I jerked my arm up reflexively to wave back.
Tea at Isabelle’s turned into dinner, then coffee with more of Angela’s cake. I managed to enlarge on the few idiotic monosyllabic responses I’d given to Sandy’s stream of questions about the Riley, questions which continued at Isabelle’s.
In turn, I learned that Sandy was to stay with Isabelle until she found her own flat near Carleton University where she was to teach English literature beginning with evening classes two nights a week starting in May, adding full-time summer semesters to her load in July. She had completed her doctorate in this field of study in the UK over a year ago, spending the time since then travelling in Europe, mostly in Italy. She was forty-two, divorced six years, with a seven-year-old daughter. The daughter was rejoining her tomorrow to live with her in an alternating custody arrangement with the father, who was in London, Ontario.
All this came out over the course of the evening in response to my questions and prompts from Isabelle.
Isabelle finally ran out of gas around 10:30 p.m. I was still very much wide awake, and fumblingly proposed to Sandy that she have a quick nightcap over at my thankfully tidied flat. We were still talking there at 2 a.m. when my phone rang. My business was on fire, the voice said.