It's a sunny Sunday afternoon (I think; it might not actually be Sunday) and I'm sitting on the floor between the ballroom and the foyer.  Nikki and Molly aren't back yet.  It smells of ammonia; I've just finished scrubbing the last vestiges of Range Rover-driving spy out of my floor, per Eddie's instructions.  KMFDM has made this task a tolerable one.

The door opens, and Glen lets himself in.  He sees me and smiles.

"I haven't seen any of my favorite TV shows this week," I confide, and then thank him for not going home.

"Wouldn't have missed it for the world," he says.  "Although my editor is sort of ticked off that I've been stuck here for so long.  Been doing some cleaning, I presume?"

"More than you'd believe."  I stand up and peel off my rubber gloves, which are dirty enough to require biohazard stickers.  "I've just put most of my food into the garbage disposal.  Tonight we'll cook what's left."

"Is that your blood?"  Oh, right, there's quite a bit of it on my head still, matted with a dusting of flour in my hair.

"Oh, yes indeed.  Don't worry though, I've got more.  Today I'm giving people chores," I say, leading the way to the kitchen," so if you don't want one, run away now.  Otherwise, if you stay I'll tell you that I need help finishing Ren's car."

My kitchen looks like a crime scene, and I suppose it is.  The refrigerator's standing open (Eddie helped me get it vertical again)  and empty, and Amy-Ann is in it, sniffing the sniffs.  Flour, oil, and broken plates still litter the floor.  The counters are covered with carefully stacked food. 

"What happened?"

"I think I broke the fridge.  That's why we have to eat everything.  Where's Sir William?"

"On his way.  He drove himself, and said not to wait because he drives slowly and wanted to go by town first.  So how can I help you with the car?"

I sigh, not even wanting to think about what needs doing.  I just want it done.  "It's already been too long a project.  I got distractioned by other stuff.  I need to take everything to Detroit, where the bodies in white are.  Then I can finish it.  And after that," I sigh again, deeply, looking around the kitchen.  "After that maybe I'll look into getting on with my life.  Will you help me?"

"With pleasure," Glen says.

"Firstly I need transport, and since we're talking about an engine among other things, that 911 you brought won't help much."

"What about Sir William's truck?"

I feel myself make a face.  "That's an awfully long trip for a '52 International.  I don't care how well-cared for it is.  I almost wish I hadn't smashed up the station wagon and Town Car."

"I was wondering how that happened," Glen says with a smile.  "Although to be honest, I had a good idea.  Nice work."

"I get creative when I'm enraged."  I look at the ceiling and take a mental inventory of what I have to work with.  Sure, I have a queen-size canopy bed and a claw-foot bathtub and a Dremel tool, three armoires, a plush toy lobster and two racquetball rackets, but what I need are cars.  What did Ian not sell off?  The angry-snake twitches at the thought of him, but I put the fledgeling outburst between my teeth and bite down.  I have the Packard in the garage, and the LaSalle and Cord stuck underground, but none of them is likely to run or be much good with cargo anyway.  Sir William's trucks are too old.  But there's another something,  flirting around the edges of my memory, and suddenly I think of Bert, so strongly I can almost see him.  "Grizzle!" I yell.

Glen jumps.  "What?"

"Grizzle!  My dad's truck!"  My hands are waving, excited.  "It's with the bodies in white, so Ian couldn't have sold it.  And it's a good thing, too, I'd have had to kill him.  My dad left that truck to me when he died, and he bought it new the year after I was born.  We can use Grizzle!"  I grab Glen in a hug.  Eddie comes into the kitchen then, making notes on a legal pad as he walks, and I pounce on him and hug him too.  "I have a running car!"

"I hate to be a wet blanket," Glen says, "but it won't do us much good if it's in Detroit right now."

"It's not Detroit, it's Westland--dammit!  Curse you and your voice of reason!"  I shake my fist at him and smile so he knows I'm not angry for real.

"What are we trying to do?" Eddie asks. 

"Shift Lexi's partially-built car--"

"It's Ren's," I correct him. 

"--Ren's partially built car down to the Detroit area, so it can be finished."

I look around the food on the counter, see the jar of maraschino cherries, and get one for myself.  I offer the rest to Glen, who declines.

"I see two choices," Eddie says.  "Rent a truck, or borrow the truck Molly showed up in."

"She brought a truck?"  For some reason I had assumed she'd drive her Saab, but that's silly, it's in Boston and there's no way she'd drive here from Boston.

"Some kind of SUV."

"That bitch!  She rented a Tahoe and didn't tell me?"

"How could she have known?" Eddie says.

"How do you know it's a Tahoe?" Glen asks.

I don't answer either of them.  "That's no excuse!  But that's okay, I love her for it and it's settled, I'll commandeer her truck.  Cherry for you," I say, and offer the jar to Eddie.  He plucks one out.  "And if you're willing to give her a ride in that 911, Glen, I'll bet Molly won't even mind me taking her truck."

Eddie rolls his eyes.  "I feel your pain," he says to Glen.

"Why?  What's wrong with her?"

"Other than the fact that she used to be a Girl Scout--on purpose--nothing," I say, and can't help giving Eddie a mean look for insulting my friend.  "As soon as they're back, we can start loading."

That is my edict, and that is what happens.  Molly does indeed have a Tahoe (I took a wild guess, based on how paranoid she is about driving in snow) and with the help of Eddie and Glen I am able to get all of Ren's car parts in the back.  I can't see out the back window, of course, but it's all in there and ready to be attached to the big part.  Good.  Nikki squeezes in with me, maneuvering her leg brace, and Glen and Molly slide into the Porsche.  We're on the road just as the daylight begins to fail.