Overheated (Shelby)

Shelby yawned as she walked out from under the Seabring convertible mounted on the riser above her head. No wonder its owner had slammed the front end into the back of a minivan. The brake line was a mess. It had holes all through it and all the brake fluid had drained out. It could have been wear, but more than likely it had been something deliberate. Of course, explaining how she knew that for sure would be a tap dance. Telling the woman she'd caught psychic glimpses of her most recent ex-boyfriend poking at her brake lines would not have earned her any gratitude. She could tell her father. Pat Weir was so used to her mom's hunches he'd more than likely believe her.

Wiping her hands on a rag, Shelby headed for the office. A fresh brewed pot of coffee was waiting on the counter in what they called the break corner. They didn't have a break room. Just a small corner of the office with a microwave, a toaster, a Mr. Coffee, and a small sink. Her father sat behind the desk on the phone, talking to somebody about an exhaust and a muffler. She grabbed a paper cup and poured herself some coffee. Her father hung up the phone, muttering about the 'smartass punk' he'd been dealing with. He smiled at Shelby as she turned around, sipping hot coffee and leaning against the counter.

"Hey, Shel. How's the Seabring coming?"

She sighed, staring into her coffee, thinking.

"Well, the front end's a mess," she said. "Frame's all bent out of shape. I don't know if that's even salvageable."

Nobody ever thought about the frame of a car. Everyone knew to worry about the fuel, the oil, the engine, the brakes. The truth was almost everything could be replaced. The frame was the core of the car. Without that to hold it all together, you just had a bunch of parts and fluids. Shelby took a long sip of her coffee.

"Anything else?" Pat probed.

Shelby tapped the toe of her work boot against the concrete floor.

"I got a hunch about the brakes," she said quietly.

Her father raised his eyebrows.

"Oh yeah?"

She shrugged, not wanting to get into a detailed explanation of the how and why.

"I got under there and took a look. The brake lines must've been leaking fluid like a son of a bitch. They're bone dry."

Her father frowned.

"That explains the accident," he muttered.

Shelby wanted to say more, to tell him that she didn't think the whole thing had been accidental, but this wasn't the time. There were too many people around to overhear. Shelby sat up straight, taking a long sip of coffee.

"Anyway, I should get back out there. Good luck with the muffler punk."

She heard him chuckling as she headed back out to the garage. There was a young woman wandering around looking a bit lost and annoyed. Setting her coffee on a work bench, Shelby headed over. Normally a woman stood out like a rose among weeds in this place. However, Shelby was an exception. She wore a gray t-shirt with the Weir Auto logo on the breast, faded grease-covered and paint-splattered jeans, and heavy black steel-toed work boots. Her blonde hair was relatively short. Her hands were permanently grease-stained. She offered the other woman a smile.

"Can I help you with something?"