The Yellow Packard Read Online Free PDF Page A

much stock in that either. We own a black cat, and I named him Lucky. But that car is something else altogether.”
    “What happened?” Janet asked. “What’s this about Aunt Abbi’s car?”
    “It was nothing,” Johns quickly answered. “It was just an accident.”
    “You can call it an accident,” Atkins barked, “but those that were there know it is something more.”
    “What do you mean?” the woman demanded.
    “Well,” Johns explained, “the car came in from the factory by rail. When they brought it out of the boxcar, the guy backing it out didn’t see one of the other men who was working for the Illinois Central. The driver accidentally drove into him, knocking him off the dock and onto the rails. He hit his head and died. But it was nothing more than an accident.”
    “Maybe,” Atkins chimed in, “but how do you explain what happened at the dealership?”
    Janet looked from the sheriff to the attorney. Even in the darkness she could sense the man’s impatience.
    “Just another freak accident,” Johns said. “That’s all it was!”
    “What happened?” Janet again demanded.
    “The car body was being lowered onto the frame,” an exasperated Johns sighed, “and the lift’s hydraulic failed. Everything suddenly came down on top of the mechanic.”
    “In the span of three days,” Atkins chimed in, “that car killed two people! And the man who ordered it refused to buy it after that, even though he paid a deposit to have it painted that hideous color.”
    For the next few seconds no one spoke, and the warm air grew even thicker. It was Johns who finally tried to bring some logic back into the discussion.
    “Jed, you sound like some crazy child. Cars aren’t cursed. It was nothing more than just bad luck.”
    “You can believe that,” the sheriff muttered, “but you and Abigale were the only ones who did. No one would buy that car. The dealer kept discounting it and discounting it. Six months after it arrived in Danville, old Abigale paid less for that fancy Packard than she would have a Ford. And now she’s dead. That just proves it to me. That car should be destroyed!”
    “You can’t blame a car for that,” Johns argued. “It’s not like she died in it.”
    “I can,” Atkins firmly answered, “and you watch that sale tomorrow. There aren’t going to be any locals who will buy the Packard. No sir! Anyone who knows that car’s history won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. Gives me the spooks talking about it.” The sheriff wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he stood. After taking a deep breath, he glanced over to the other two. “I’m heading out. Mabel’s been waiting long enough. I’ll see you at the sale tomorrow. I want to look pretty closely at everyone who’s there; I might just spot a killer. I also want to know who buys that car. Mark my words, whoever it is will be dead by Christmas.”
    “‘Night, Jed,” Johns muttered as the sheriff climbed off the steps and strolled resolutely toward the street.
    “Thanks, Sheriff Atkins, for your help,” a still rattled Janet added.
    The law officer didn’t look back, just raised his right arm in a halfhearted wave. Folding himself into his Ford coupe, he hit the starter, pushed the sedan into first gear, and eased down Elm Street and out of sight.
    “It’s eating him up,” Johns announced.
    “What is?” Janet asked. “The story of the cursed car?”
    “No, though he might just come to blame the car for her death. What’s eating on him is that this crime is too perfect. He doesn’t have a suspect or even a ruling of suspicious death. All he has is a motive. And as we don’t know how much money she had left from the hundred thousand she withdrew, he doesn’t even know how he is actually going to prove a crime happened. Even if he finds someone spreading around hundred-dollar bills, he likely couldn’t tie them to your aunt. So he’s going to blame the yellow Packard. He has got to blame