“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.
While Eleanor and I worked, and Martha supervised, I could feel the tension building, like the pressure in the air before a summer thunderstorm. The mailman was nice enough to look at, but he was nothing compared to the main attraction.
At the sound of a powerful muscle car rumbling up the driveway, we scrambled to open the garage doors. We stepped out of the way as Serrano executed a swift three-point turn and slid the gleaming black vehicle into position. 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 that we enjoyed 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 efficiently as possible.
He was wearing a dark gray suit that complemented his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair. Serrano had the perfect physique—muscular, yet lean—to wear a suit, and wear it well.
Eleanor narrowed her gaze in his 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 and giggling in feverish anticipation.
Detective Serrano was a transplanted New Yorker, like Joe and me. He was the hottest, most exciting import into Millbury in years, and he spent as much time fending off the local females as he did catching criminals.
Somehow I’d become a bit of an amateur sleuth, thanks to my, um, inquisitive disposition, and I’d helped him solve a couple of cases, whether accidentally or on purpose.
His 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.
Suddenly there was a loud beeping outside, like someone leaning on a truck horn with both hands.
“What on earth is that terrible racket?” Martha exclaimed.
“Oh, probably Sally McIntire’s husband, here to pick up his wife,” Eleanor murmured, cocking her head toward a lithe, well-endowed blonde hanging on to the photographer. “She’s been flirting with Roos all week, and I hear her old man is mad with jealousy.”
We shooed everyone out again, including the reluctant Sally, and I closed the doors to a chorus of groans. While Serrano took his jacket off and laid it 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 popping up outside the row of windows at the top of the garage doors. The groupies must be giving one another piggybacks to try to steal a peek.
I got up on a stepladder, and Martha handed me pieces of seamless black background paper that I taped carefully over the square panes so that not a crack of light shone through.
The stage was finally set.
“Okay, ladies.” Roos clapped his hands. “I think I can handle it from here. Good night. Thanks a million for your help.”