Classic Mistake by Amy Myers Read Free Book Online Page A

immediately of any developments her end and undertook to investigate the story of the floozie, while my best – my only – course of action was to pursue the contacts that Carlos had had here in his previous life.
    He had last come here (as far as my current information went) in the late 1980s for some years and had left when he ran off with Eva in 1991. Carlos and the Charros had been formed locally and presumably from local musicians, but where were they now? He was unlikely to have made any new contacts in Kent during his absence, so as Eva had said he was contacting former band members, I should do the same (even though this might have been one of her inventions). I’d forget about other lines of enquiry. Not that I could think of any, in fact.
    Further Internet research on the Charros brought painfully meagre results, as did local newspaper archives. A few fuzzy photos and a few more places where they had held gigs. I was getting nowhere.
    I heard nothing from Daisy for a day or two, for which I was grateful, although on that score I had one not very helpful nugget to follow up which had been thrown at me by Dave. Otherwise progress on Melody had been non-existent. That was odd in itself as her colour alone would help her stand out. I had taken the number plate in to Dave and been duly laughed all the way out again. He told me there had been no reports of any abandoned Minors, let alone pinky-grey ones, only this nugget of a sighting. Not a situation to get excited about: a thought that failed to cheer.
    Just as I was nerving myself up to set off on Saturday morning on a carefully planned casual call on Eva, Zoe came over to the farmhouse. By grace and favour she and Len sometimes devote Saturday mornings to jobs that particularly interest them. Zoe wanted to know whether I was aware that Len was chatting about Morris Minors with a gorgeous blonde and could I please do something about it as she needed to consult him about a warped cylinder head and gorgeous blondes were my province not hers.
    I groaned and accompanied Zoe to the Pits, where Daisy greeted me with her usual sunny smile and my clouds lifted a little. ‘No firm news yet,’ I said brightly, ‘but lines to follow up.’ I tried to give the impression that I had been working non-stop on Melody.
    She looked somewhat bleak at this as she interrupted: ‘Gran might help.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t want her to know Melody is missing?’
    ‘No, but I had to tell her. She was incandescent, but she’s—’
    But then another gorgeous blonde arrived – although perhaps the hair had had a little help in this case. Gran was here in person.
    I’d had a vague stereotyped image of a decrepit white-haired old lady forced to give up her beloved Morris Minor because she wasn’t safe to drive any longer and had had to move into sheltered accommodation through declining health. What roared into the Frogs Hill forecourt was a stylish slim lady in a huge classic red Thunderbird convertible, which when it first came out was Ford’s answer to the Chevrolet Corvette. This Thunderbird, however, was a two-door 1958 model, bigger and fatter than the original and made for large empty roads, of which America had plenty and the UK most certainly did not.
    It churned up the gravel and drew up with a flourish. Out stepped Gran, looking in her forties, rather than the sixty-or even seventy-year-old she must be. She was clad in tight jeans, an elegant jacket, and a sporty hat and was clutching designer sunglasses.
    ‘So there you are, darling,’ she said briskly to Daisy, after a friendly wave to the rest of us and a disdainful look at the battered Volvo. ‘What’s the news about Melody?’
    ‘Jack’s a firm line on her,’ Daisy lied unblushingly. ‘He’s a car detective. I’ve borrowed Justie’s dad’s wheels.’
    Gran marched round the offending object. ‘Justin’s father, Daisy, has no style. One should always drive cars with which one feels an affinity, don’t