Terror Flower (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 5) by Thomas Hollyday Page A

to Strake’s, Jimmy,” said the sheriff. “I think those seaport drivers have finally put one of the eighteen wheeler container trucks into the old bridge framework. I’ll meet you.”
    He and Smiley took the wrecker out of the lot in the back of the garage land. The truck was an old General Motors machine, with a vacuum shift rear axle and plenty of low gears. “Jimmy,” she reminded him, especially at those times he needed the machine and he was more than angry at the old rig for not starting, for having a low battery and for all the other plagues of old vehicles, “You got to remember you passed his test. He told me you were the only one he figured would never sell the old GMC. He died happy because of you, I think.”
    He’d answer her, “I suspect he knew I was either too young to know any better or just plain too damn dumb to do anything about it.”
    The biggest problem with the old truck was because of its low range of gears, was it was slow. The most speed running up the road toward the wreck averaged fifty miles per hour with the engine winding pretty high.
    Years ago, Katy, when her father wasn’t watching, had painted large black flowers with yellow petals on each door. “Black-eyed Susan, the state flower of Maryland,” Katy had explained. She had danced about, paintbrush in hand, singing,
    “Clap your hand, Black Eye Susan,
    Black Eye Susan, Clap your hand.”
    They pulled the truck from the weeds which had grown around it in the last month. Tench stretched back on his part of the bench seat as Smiley worked the gears. He had a knack for driving the truck.
    A winding country road to the north and west of River Sunday led to Strake’s estate. The only way to get to that road was to come off the main highway and to drive through River Sunday itself. Tench and the rest of the inhabitants of River Sunday observed every truck that went up to the Strake farm. It got to be a subject of conversation as the big trucks with containers full of antique cars came through, the smoke from their diesels dirtying the air of the town, the noise not appreciated by the hordes of tourists who came to this once pristine small town to get away from that kind of pollution.
    After leaving River Sunday, the road was macadam most of the way but turned into a dirt and oil road about halfway. The farm and its museum were on the west side of Allingham Island, the “Island,” which was reached by a narrow bridge off the dirt road. This was the place where Tench had supposed for some time that one of the big trucks might have an accident. The bridge itself was derelict, having been almost replaced by another large landowner on the Island but then, at his untimely demise several years ago, was left to continue to rust and collapse. Strake however had no intention or so it seemed to repair this entry bridge to his holdings, probably again thinking of security for his cars. Stagmatter, with his customary brusqueness, ordered these city truckers to go fast, to haul the containers over the weak structure regardless of danger to them or their trucks.
    The drivers, for their own part, didn’t take any care either. The drivers were brusque types, most wanting only to deliver the cars and make an immediate return to Baltimore. As a matter of fact, they tended to run their trucks at high speed. They blared their truck horns as loud as possible with no interference by Sheriff Satter as they scared local drivers out of their way.
    After they had driven out of River Sunday, Smiley spoke. “We make any money out of working these jobs for the sheriff?” he said.
    “Figuring it’s Strake’s truck, we’ll get paid good,” said Tench. “If it had belonged to the town, forget it. If we got paid at all, we’d have to wait a few months.”
    “I thought the Mayor was your aunt.”
    “I love my aunt, but I can tell you I pay when we go out to dinner.”
    Smiley was quiet for a while as he worked the gears. They had to be shifted constantly