Sour Grapes

his opinions, using his hemorrhoid medication applicator for convenience.
    But long ago, she had observed that, if you actually found what you were looking for, it was always in the last place you looked. Another one of those cosmic rules. And she reminded herself of that profound truism anytime she was searching for anything, be it her keys, a pair of parity hose without a run, that package of Little Debbie cinnamon rolls she had hidden in the back of the pantry, or a detail shop that had recently processed a BMW owned by a guy who looked like Anthony Villa.
    As she pulled into Rory’s Car Wash, she saw the Irishman standing next to a purple Corvette, his sleeves rolled up to show off the biceps that he had earned buffing cars from dawn to dusk. His hands were the same shade of purple as the car, which was covered with some sort of chalky compound. Purple dust had landed in the reddish blond curls that hung down to his collar. He was polishing, muscles rippling, and Savannah didn’t mind at all stopping for a chat and a look-see.
    “Ah, Savannah, me darlin’!” he called out in his delightful Irish brogue as she approached. “‘Tis a sight for these sore eyes, ye are, love.”
    Ah... that accent of his. She swore the man could have simply “talked” her into an orgasm if she listened long enough. And he wouldn’t even have to say anything dirty. With a voice like that, he could read the weather report and she would swoon.
    “You’re a cheerful sight yourself, lad,” she replied, giving him her best Southern sashay as she walked up to him.
    “Don’t tell me you’ve brought that little red car of yours about for my attentions. She’s still looking fine from the last buffin’ I gave her.”
    “She is, Rory. She is, indeed. So, that’s not why I’m here.”
    His eyes, greener than ol’ Ireland, sparkled as he glanced appreciatively up and down her figure. He had informed her long ago that he considered her a “well-balanced lass.” No anorexic models for this red-blooded son of old Erin.
    “Could it be that Lady Luck herself has smiled upon me,” he said, shoving a rag, stained as purple as his hands, into the back pocket of his jeans. “Is it me own handsome self ye’ve come to see?”
    “It is... and I’d like to ask you if you’ve seen this car lately.” She shoved the snapshot under his nose. “Or this fellow.” She handed him the clipping.
    His face fell, but only a little. Rory was an optimistic chap, if nothing else.
    “Ah, ‘tis information she’s after,” he said with a cluck of his tongue. “She wants me for me brain and not me body. What a bitter disappointment, but I’ll bear up.” He took the pictures from her and looked from one to the other. “And why is it you’re askin’, lass? Did this fellow do a wrong deed by you? If he did, you give your friend Rory his address, and I’ll be settlin’ that score straightaway.” “ Thank you for your chivalry, but it’s nothing like that. I just need to know if you’ve cleaned his car recently.”
    “I did. Let’s see... only a couple of days ago, I believe. He tipped me handsomely, told me to do an extra good job for him. I told him I always do a fine job... but I took the tip anyway. No point in insultin’ the lad.”
    “Exactly.” She savored the thrill of victory for a second, then said, Tell me, Rory. Did you notice anything... unusual about the car?”
    “Anything out of the ordinary, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “Like what?”
    “I’d rather not say. Just think back if you would.”
    He gazed into the distance and rubbed his nose, leaving a purple streak across his face. “Let me see now. I recall thinkin’ two things, I did. First, I thought the car wasn’t that dirty. Didn’t really need a deep cleaning. Asked me to shampoo the trunk twice, the fella did. And second, I thought the trunk smelled a bit strange. Like some sort of chemical... like ant poison or some class of medicine... had been spilled in there. But I saw no stain on the carpet. Maybe that smell was why he wanted it shampooed a second time.”
    “Maybe.” Savannah had to control herself to keep from doing an Irish jig right then and there. “One more thing, Rory... you vacuum thoroughly before you shampoo a carpet, don’t you?”
    “I do, indeed.”
    “And that big commercial vacuum of yours... how often do you clean out the bag?”
    “Bag? Oh, it has no bag. The refuse goes into a big metal drum, and I don’t have to empty it