Eleanor had borrowed a fake brick wall from the local theatre and the plan was to back the detective’s Dodge Challenger on an angle into the garage and create the illusion of a grimy alleyway with a couple of garbage cans and some moody lighting. Serrano would stand partway behind the open driver’s door, pointing his gun at an imaginary assailant.
“Now, aren’t you glad we talked you into joining the Historical Society?” Eleanor said, as we maneuvered the wall into place.
“Yes,” I answered dutifully, grunting as I pushed.
“Well, it was about time you joined, seeing as you were a history teacher after all,” Martha said, peering at us over her clipboard.
Okay, Tom Sawyer.
“You know, it’s been quite a week so far,” Martha continued. “Starting with the cute little barber. Even though he was the first to take his clothes off, you didn’t have to ask him twice.”
“The man’s an exhibitionist,” Eleanor sniffed.
The Millbury barber had had a crush on Eleanor for years, but she’d never taken his pursuit seriously.
“I must say I’d never realized how well built he was,” Martha said. “I mean, he’s short and everything, but very nice-looking. Especially with his clothes off.”
“I suppose.” Suddenly Eleanor brightened. “Hey, remember when Angus mooned us?”
“Ew, yes!” I said. Our irrepressible auctioneer had loved every second of his fifteen minutes of fame.
The powerful sound of a muscle car rumbled up the driveway and we quickly opened up the first garage door. We stepped out of the way as Serrano executed a swift three-point turn and slid the gleaming black vehicle into position in one smooth move. He got out, and with a respectful nod in our direction, headed over to talk to Roos, exuding authority with every movement. I could see there would be none of the usual banter like when he stopped by my store in the mornings for coffee and baked goodies.
Tonight was a necessary evil he obviously wanted to get over and done with as quickly and efficiently as possible.
He was wearing a dark gray suit which complemented his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He had the perfect muscular-yet-lean physique to wear a suit, and wear it well.
Eleanor narrowed her gaze in Serrano’s direction. “God, I can’t wait to see that man with his shirt off.”
Neither, apparently, could the crowd of women waiting outside, who had rushed into the garage now and were leaning against the car, trailing their fingers over the warm hood, cooing over it, huddled together and giggling in feverish anticipation.
Serrano’s ice blue eyes surveyed the scene, taking in everything, missing nothing.
“It’s a good thing it’s cold enough to wear gloves tonight, or he’d have a heart attack at the fingerprints on that paintwork,” I murmured.
To say that Serrano was slightly anal was like saying Philly sports fans were somewhat enthusiastic about their favorite teams.
We shooed everyone out again with some difficulty and I closed the doors to a chorus of groans. While Serrano took his jacket off and laid it carefully on the backseat of the car, Alex Roos adjusted the lighting. Martha dusted the car with a sheepskin cloth and Eleanor and I pulled the garbage cans into place.
We stood back to admire our tableau.
Suddenly I spotted faces through the row of windows at the top of the garage doors. The groupies must be giving each other piggy backs to try to peek inside.
I got up on a stepladder and Martha handed me pieces of black paper that I taped carefully over the small square panes so that not a crack of light shone through.