Freshly fallen snow covered the vehicles lined up for sale on the lot. White Christmas played over the intercom and blanketed the scene with Norman Rockwell sentiment. 

Most of our inventory was out. Camrys, Tacomas, a half dozen Corollas, an Avalon, an Echo, five Tundras, three RAV4’s, the last 4Runner of the year, and an MR2 Spyder. Set against a backdrop of shimmering glass and newly minted signage: Pierce Toyota— adorned with a garland of white metallic yarn. 

Simple. Direct. 

We’d decided to leave all but three of the vehicles layered with Nature’s icing, Montana winter style. I’d hired a couple of responsible teens to sweep the vehicles clear for interested customers. They stood grinning and ready in the wings.

I’d parked three shining new 2001 models, recently arrived from the factory, as center stage showstoppers. The Avalon, Tundra, and 4Runner were part of a promotional push, on loan from Toyota. 

No sign of the Lexus I’d tried to sell Johnny. I figured Renée had taken it out yesterday and left it in the garage at home to keep it clean. No way I was going to give her grief about that on her first day back to work.

Excitement radiated from the small crowd wandering the lot. Eyes were lit with desire for the gleaming cars coated in thick, white blankets of holiday promise. Hands clutched brochures like lifelines. The air hummed with whispered comparisons, dreams taking shape in the form of horsepower and design details. Customers awaited time with a sales rep, wiping nervous palms against their pants. 

My heart buzzed. 

Renée had spent the early morning clickety-clacking numbers on the adding machine behind the wall of glass. The smear of bitters across my tongue had gone. I still felt the soft touch of Mother’s reunion hug from the night before, melting me like a snowflake on a warm palm. 

A vengeful heart had fostered Vicky Peale’s deadly delusion and led to patricide. Not to mention leo-cide. Though the LEO in this case probably needed erased. Her resentment turned her mad, while I’d let bitterness toward Mother distort my perspective so drastically I’d nearly lost the sister I’d sworn to protect. 

Grudges kill. An epiphany that came a little late for me. But you take what you can get.

I eagerly greeted each customer with a lightness of step, sharing highlights of each vehicle. Crisp air carried the scent of winter wonder and exhaust fumes. Freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries wafted across the sales lot from a table near the building, manned by Nansi and the kids. 

I waved, then turned to a young couple pushing matching strollers, diaper bags slung over their shoulders. They stopped to admire a sporty MR2. 

“How about something snazzy but size-appropriate to fit a growing family of four?” I asked. The ploy caught their attention, and we chatted about the lost opportunities of new parents. I steered toward an economical and utilitarian RAV4 with a stick shift. “This beauty will last until the kids are in high school.”

As I talked, I wondered how much time I’d spend selling cars after the first of the year. Since my return, three people had asked me to investigate spousal infidelity. Not the kind of news I wanted to deliver for Christmas. A young woman wanted me to look into the disappearance of an heirloom saddle. After the fiasco with the two cowboys, Dirk and Smitty, I was a bit gun shy around horse-related investigations. 

Between the stirring interest in my detecting skills and the slippery traction of the dealership lot, my future as a Private Dick was as uncertain as my chances at Toyota Salesman of the Year. 

Nanci, on the other hand, was more open-minded. She preferred the less dangerous profession of dealing cars, but was willing to give me rein. I figured the conversation could wait for the New Year. Our reunion had been delightful and I wanted to keep that fire burning through Christmas.

An elderly woman who resembled Mother stopped me in the middle of a sale to ask about gas mileage for a 2001 Camry. Her sudden appearance spurred foreboding about the surprise visit Renée said to expect from our mother. I stuttered over an answer, before the woman puttered toward the pastry table. 

The potential buyer of the new year’s 4Runner stared expectantly, waiting for the list of dazzling features. 

Words blended like white noise inside my head. Beneath the salesman chit-chat, doubts gnawed at me. Mother’s historic criticisms might eradicate her recent change of heart. The great Dixon Pierce was probably looking down with disappointment. 

Trivial minutia and puzzle solving skills had helped me win sales. But they might not be enough to sell the right number of cars. 

A little girl ran past toward the snack table. She grabbed my daughter Penny with a hug and they squealed. 

I smiled. The Peale case was behind me. Time to make amends at home. I’d lost Johnny Horton Martin’s influence in the community. A hard pill to swallow, but Dixon always kept a pint of Johnny Walker in one of the shop drawers and a holiday toast with Akira lubricated the indigestion. 

I laid the confounding nerves on the workbench of my mind. With the math of probability on an unexpected visit from our mother set aside, she promptly rolled up in that LS430. 

With the words in my mouth ready to pitch a fit over it being out for a test drive, the windshield glare cleared so I could see inside.

“Like my new car?” Mother asked with the window down. Her grin stretched her face into a youthful memory of a woman I hadn’t seen since childhood. “Best I ever drove!”

My mouth hung open, eyes wide and unblinking. Crisp and clean winter air tinged with a hint of exhaust swirled about, visible in the puffs of breath that escaped my mouth and floated towards the open window. I tried words, but cold air seeped into my gaping maw to coat my feeble tongue, leaving it dry and stiff.

“Well? You seem at a loss for words, son. What do you think?”

 My mouth was a desert, my throat a frozen river, unable to form a single word.

“Never mind,” she said, admiring the dashboard with a long lost gleam in her eye. “It drives so nice, I can’t believe I waited so long to give it a whirl.” 

Stupefaction gave way to wonder, and I was able to croak out a few words. “You really like it?” 

She beamed at me. “It’s wonderful!”

“What in the world prompted… this?” A wave of my hand indicated the vehicle I’d tried so hard to encourage Johnny Horton Martin to purchase for his wife. If I’d succeeded in that, it was sure to lock our deal for six brand new Tundras.

“A plan occurred to me,” Mother said with a devious smile and conniving nod. “If you want a man to stop and listen, you need something flashy to catch his eye.”

Before I could ask, she held up an index finger.

“Paid that Johnny Martin a visit. When he saw me roll up in this car, it shut his mouth tight.”

“You did what?” The absence of moisture in my mouth created a metallic tang.

She scowled. “That man needed a clarifying word.” Her eyes were ablaze with feistiness, a state usually reserved for critical assessment of me or Renée. She clapped her gloved hands together, the leather-on-leather slap echoing in the winter air. “Stomped right up the steps to his mini-mansion.” A slight chuckle danced behind her words. “Rapped on that massive front door. His wife answered.” Her face softened. “I haven’t seen Irene in an age, bless her poor, easily fooled heart. But it suited me. I asked for Johnny.”

A knot formed in my throat. It took some effort to swallow it, and then the twisted mess stuck near my solar plexus. An image of Mother in her shiny new car, the one he refused to buy from me, lodged in his front drive, was as incredulous as it was alarming. 

“And he... talked to you?”

“Of course he did!” she exclaimed, slapping the steering wheel in delight. “What’s he gonna do with the likes of Lucille Pierce standing there like a doorstop.” There was a certain smugness about her retelling that set my brow in a furrow, mind reeling. “Read him the riot act about kicking that Tundra deal over your scuffle with them two cowboys.”

“What are you talking about, Mother?” I scanned the length of the LS, touched it to validate the experience.

She gave me a sidewise grin full of mischief. “Might be I reminded him of that scandal between George and Henrietta Brooks.”

It took a second to register the sordid report. A story only three months old by Christmas. 

Henrietta,  Johnny’s financial manager, a young divorcée with looks to keep a man’s mind off the sermon. And George.

“Johnny insisted it was all unsubstantiated scuttlebutt, his face as red as an October sunset. And that I knew good and well it had all turned out to be nothing when the dust cleared. I told him, ‘Yessiree. Until you buy a bunch of work trucks from George. That’ll stir some dust, don’t you think?’”

A story so outlandish, coming from my generally sanctimonious Mother, I had no choice but to believe it. 

“So you bought the Lexus to make your point?” I asked, still dumbstruck that she’d put her American money into a Foreign car.

“Johnny might have challenged me for driving the Chrysler while my son had a first-class Lexus for sale. I might have taken that challenge, made a deal to change my ways if he’d consider the same. I think I got the better end of that deal. Absolutely worth the trade. Never would have given up the New Yorker on any other bet, so I owe him a debt of thanks.”

My eyes rolled. I tipped my head and shook it in dismay.

“Your father wasn’t the only visionary in the family. It was me gave him the $500 to take that trip to California and buy that Datsun 240Z you pine over. Money I’d been saving for college.”

Before I could clamp my jaw back together for a response, Johnny rolled up in that beat up F250 of his.

“Here’s your chance,“ Mother declared. “Don’t blow the deal.”