“Welcome to Hampton Automotive,” she said. “How can I help you today?”
I glanced around. “I had an appointment with Mr. Hampton.”
“Oh.” Maya looked toward the back of the room, where cubicles offered the illusion of privacy. “He’s finishing up a sale right now. If you wanted to look at something in particular, Mr. Dane, I can help you until he’s free.”
Small town. Small, small town. “No, thanks. I’ll just putz around until he’s free. Maya, right?”
She smiled at me. “Let me know if you need anything.”
As Maya returned to her desk, I meandered—purposefully. Without making it too obvious, I let my rambling take me toward the cubicles at the back. I pretended to look at the Audi. I pretended to be impressed with the decorative hay bales. I pretended to have an obscene amount of interest in a poster on the wall explaining Hampton Auto’s lifetime alignment policy. I was inching toward a row of chairs, complete with while-you-wait pamphlets on an end table, when Maya’s voice broke through the Muzak.
“Hampton Automotive wishes you a happy Halloween,” she said. “This season, treat yourself to one of our new arrivals.”
I looked around. I was the only one in the showroom.
Maya wore a wry grin as she lowered the phone from her mouth and stage-whispered, “I have to do it every fifteen minutes.”
And, by sheer coincidence, at that moment I arrived at the chairs lined up outside Nate’s cubicle. I got a glimpse of the space inside: plaques on the walls announcing the DEAL OF THE MONTH, which apparently Nate had a track record of winning (and awarding to himself); framed print advertisements for Hampton Automotive, all of them featuring a close-up of Nate’s face; a photo of a billboard (guess whose face?); and, just for giggles, novelty foam car keys as long as a yardstick. Nate sat behind a particleboard desk, nodding enthusiastically as an older couple explained something about their finances; to judge by Nate’s face, he was from the wait-for-an-opening-to-talk school of listening. A whiff of overpowering cologne wafted out, and I hurried past the opening and dropped into a seat.
“—can’t afford it, Nathan,” the woman was saying. “We’re on a fixed income. In fact, we shouldn’t even be here—”
“Right, Mrs. Carlson,” said Nate. “Right. Right. But the way I see it, you can’t afford not to buy it. This is the deal of a lifetime. I’m practically giving you this car.”
“It’s a good deal, Betty,” the man said. “The deal of a lifetime.”
“Listen to your husband, Mrs. Carlson. You don’t want to do something stupid.”
It was refreshing, I thought, to have a front-row seat, so to speak, to somebody else sticking his foot in his mouth.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Carlson said.
“I mean—”
“Listen to me, Nathan Hampton. I swatted your bum in preschool, and you’re not too old for me to swat it again.”
“No, that’s not what I—”
“Roger, we’re leaving.”
“No, please, Mrs. Carlson—”
“And you’d better believe I’m going to be telling the gardening club about this.”
Nate’s breathing had a slightly strangled quality to it. “You can’t—no, no, wait—”
But Mrs. Carlson—who did, to be fair, look like a bit of a battleaxe—tromped out of the cubicle, with Mr. Carlson (who had a snazzy suede jacket that looked a million years old) close on her heels.
Nate let out a short, deep noise of frustration, and something slammed into the desk. A moment later, he emerged from the cubicle, his face red.
“Maya—” he barked.
“Hi, Nate,” I said.
He jumped as though I’d goosed him, but he recovered quickly. After giving me a once-over, he said, “Have we met?”
“Not officially. I saw you at the surfing competition.” Standing, I offered my hand. “Dash.”
“I know who you are.”
“Good. That makes things easier. I was wondering if you’d have a few minutes to talk.”
He made an effort, I’ll give him that: his face reassembled itself into something approaching politeness, and he even tried out a wooden smile. “Of course. Give me a minute, and I’ll be happy to show you around.”
“Oh, no. I don’t want to buy a car. In fact, I probably shouldn’t even be driving at all. More of a bike man, I think. Fewer casualties that way. Plus, the tickets.”
“Uh, right.”
“I want to talk to you about Gerry Webb’s murder.”
The flush mottling Nate’s face drained away.
In a quieter voice, I said, “Let’s sit down. I have some photos I’d like to show you.”
Nate shook his head—weakly at first, and then more forcefully. “I don’t have to—” He stopped and started again. “You need to leave. Right now.”
“That’s a bad decision, Nate. A terrible decision. Because if I leave, I’m going to talk to the sheriff, and I really don’t think you want me to talk to the sheriff.”
He wavered, and I thought I had him. Then he said, “Get out.” He pushed past me, snapped something at Maya, and pushed through a fire door; I glimpsed a more utilitarian space beyond, which I guessed was the service garage, and the door swung shut.
