Free Secret Combinations by Gordon Cope

out his hand. “Strand, here. I’ll show you Lydia’s car.” He escorted the agent around to the garage beside the showroom.
    Inside the garage, the whine of pneumatic tools filled the air as several mechanics in overalls bent over partially dismantled cars. Spare tires, car fenders, and tailpipes littered the floor. An automobile rested to one side of the workshop under a canvas tarpaulin. Strand walked over and pulled off the cover.
    Once upon a time, Kenyon imagined, it had been a beautiful car. The body was indigo, and the interior was upholstered in red leather. Now, however, the front wheel wells and hood were bent and scraped. The windshield had been crushed flat, and the interior was spattered with leaves, dried dirt and gravel. Kenyon noted, almost clinically, that there was no evidence of blood or other human remains.
    â€œIf you want me to repair it, I can do the job for five thousand pounds.” said Strand.
    Kenyon was amazed. “Is that all? It looks like a total write-off.”
    â€œWe build the Morgans tough, and we build them smart,” replied Strand. “The engine and chassis are still intact. Most of the damage is cosmetic. We just need to replace the body parts, and she’ll be good as new.”
    Kenyon rubbed his chin. He pictured himself flying up the Pacific Coast Highway, the winding, two-lane blacktop that bordered the Pacific Ocean. “Is it a good car to drive?”
    Strand smiled. “That it is. It’s very quick, going from 0 to 60 in under six seconds. It has excellent handling abilities on curves, and a top speed of one hundred and thirty miles per hour. We rent them by the day, if you’d care to try one out.”
    â€œMaybe I will,” said Kenyon. “You know, it sounds like a lot of car for Lydia to handle.”
    â€œShe’d have boxed your ears for that, lad,” replied Strand. “Miss Kenyon qualified for her competitive driving license ten years ago. She placed fifth at the time trials at Silverstone racecourse just last summer.”
    Kenyon whistled. “I didn’t realize she was such a good driver.”
    â€œThat’s the odd part,” said Strand, his glance returning to the car. “She’s the last person I imagine would lose control and kill herself.”
    Kenyon stared silently at the wreck. Every time he thought he had a handle on Lydia, someone turned it upside down. He glanced over at one of the gleaming models, and made up his mind. “I’d love to fix it,” he said. “Is any of the cost covered by insurance?”
    Strand frowned. “I thought that was already settled.” He pointed at the car. “Didn’t you send it here?”
    â€œNo. I just got to London yesterday.”
    â€œThat’s odd,” replied the manager. “We had an assessor from the insurance company in last week after it arrived from the police compound.”
    Kenyon scratched his head. “Lydia’s lawyer must have had it released. Listen, I’d like to get the ball rolling. Mind if I use your phone?”
    â€œCertainly. Let me take you to my office.”
    Strand’s office was a little cubbyhole just big enough for a desk and chair. Kenyon pulled out Tanya O’Neill’s business card and dialed her number.
    The solicitor was glad to hear his voice. “How was your first night at Lydia’s?”
    â€œYou want to know the truth? It was spooky. I kind of expected her ghost to come up the stairwell at midnight.”
    O’Neill was sympathetic. “It can be unsettling sleeping all alone in a big house like that,” she replied.
    Kenyon liked the direction their conversation was taking. Before he got sidetracked, however, he wanted to get the information he needed to start the garage working on the car. “What’s the name of Lydia’s car insurance company?” he asked.
    â€œI have no idea,” replied O’Neill. “Why do