Read from the bottom up to enjoy these episodes as written.
The Griggbys were so surprised I was still taking the case — after their “stolen Lamborghini” turned out to be their 6-year-old’s electric ride-on vehicle — that they couldn’t seem to process my next question.
“Suspects,” I repeated. “Do you have any *suspects* in mind?”
“Oh, suspects!” Mrs. Griggby crimped her brow. “We actually do have a few persons in mind — persons who would’ve been in the vicinity. Of course, we abhor the idea of judging our neighbors.”
“Of course,” I said, pen poised at my notepad.
The Griggbys, settling in knee-to-knee on their couch, rattled off three possible ride-on-toy thieves.
The first was Don the junker, who cruised the neighborhood during Heavy Item Pickup in his muffler-less pickup truck, peering up your yard with a hairy elbow wagging out the window.
The second was Marigold Rowe, who lived around the corner and zipped over the neighborhood’s sideways, curbs, and pachysandra on a hoverboard.
“If she has a hoverboard,” I cut in, “what would she want with an electric ride-on? Hoverboards are more fun for big kids.”
“True, but she has a little brother who tries keeping up with her on an old rusty bike with training wheels. Aidan says he’s jealous of Marigold. I don’t know what sort of parents set up that sort of dynamic — one gets a hoverboard while the other suffers.”
The third suspect was the Ingersoll family. Superficially, they shouldn’t be. They were perfect neighbors, always mowed the lawn and watered their hanging baskets. Walked their golden retriever nightly after dinner, chatting and laughing with each other. Pete Ingersoll had all the right gear. Mrs. Griggby thought that baby carrier of theirs was CoolMax.
But they just felt off. A little too perfect.
I finished jotting the names and my impressions, and closed my notebook. It was almost 4:00. I needed to get home or else Granny might start dinner. Some days I didn’t mind, but tonight all I had in the fridge was salmon. I couldn’t bear the thought of #Eunice applying her universal 45-minutes-at-450-degrees method on that nice juicy (for now) piece of fish.
I gathered my purse. “Looks like I’ve got my marching orders. I’ll do some digging and let you know what turns up.”
The Griggbys thanked me profusely and assured me that if Aidan had been there — he did tennis Tuesday afternoons — he would’ve thanked me too.
Mr. Griggby walked me out.
At the porch he said discreetly, “I should mention that we, uh — well, that my wife is very sensitive about that issue of judgment. Of judging people.” He bent lower, and I smelled salami on his breath. “I realize your time is valuable, though. You don’t need to be wasting time due to niceties.”
“No,” I agreed. “I have a mess of problems to deal with at my own house.”
He peeked back to be sure his wife couldn’t hear, then said, “Don the junker took it. Bet the ranch on it.”
#StolenLambo
The Griggbys’ revelation that their stolen Lamborghini was actually an electric ride-on infuriated me. And I don’t infuriate easily.
“Mr. and Mrs. Griggby,” I said, standing with my notebook. “With respect, I saved the world from anarchy earlier this year. McGill Investigators does not track down missing toys.”
“It’s not just a toy!” Mr. Griggby said, taking the hand of his wife.
“That’s right,” she agreed. “Aiden has been pleading for the Lambo for *two years,* ever since he saw it in that Magic Cabin Special Edition Summer-rama catalog.”
They explained the electric ride-on vehicle was the centerpiece of their Covid quarantine strategy. They’d coasted for two weeks after the governor’s stay-at-home order on existing toys/dolls/action figures, and just when everybody was at the end of their rope with everybody else — Aiden’s big sister declared, “I’m done with the daily reflection, Dad, DONE!” — the Lambo showed up. It came in a box as big as Alaska and took them three hours to assemble.
“For forty-five minutes,” Mr. Griggby said, “I was sure they’d left out the hex-nuts for attaching the steering wheel.”
His face was a mishmash of nostalgic, hard-won joy and remembered exasperation.
Mrs. Griggby sweetly raised her hand. “I found them.”
“You did.” Her husband smiled. “Behind the bike pump — you sure did.”
Together they were happy for a moment, then sad in the next as they seemed to remember why I was in their living room.
Mrs. Griggby said, “The Lambo changed everything. Aiden always wore his sunglasses when he rode in it. He liked to drive by Mr. Barnacle’s and honk the little horn. He was so grateful. He ate every bite of his veggies — three dinners in a row!”
I was still standing, but my anger at being brought here under false pretenses had faded. I understood exactly how they felt. After my second divorce, that mini-roller coaster from Step2 had sustained Karen, Zach, and I for a solid month. Sometimes one reliably fun activity can be the difference between getting by and wanting to yank your own hair out by the roots.
“Alright,” I said, sitting. “Tell me more. When *exactly* did you last see the Lambo?”
#StolenLambo
When the Griggbys contacted me through www.thirdchancestories.com about their stolen Lamborghini, I was skeptical. Their stated location — Cedar Knolls — is just up the road from me, and I’ve never noticed a fire-engine red Italian sportscar with doors that fold up instead of out in the neighborhood.
“We just got it,” Mrs. Griggby explained. “And the *only* times it’s been out of the garage is when we’ve been …”
Her husband finished, “Cruising with the kids.”
“Your children like the car?” I asked.
“They absolutely adore it,” Mrs. Griggby said.
“And how old?”
“Max, our son, is six. And little Ruthie’s four.”
*Not the typical profile of high-end sportscar owners*, I thought.
Next I asked where the police stood on the matter. The Griggbys said they had no leads and seemed generally uninterested in the case.
“Uninterested?” I repeated.
I deal with detectives frequently in my work with McGill Investigators. They tend to be gearheads.
Mrs. Griggby’s expression turned queasy. “We—we were disappointed as well.”
She took her husband’s hand. He gave it a squeeze.
Something wasn’t adding up.
I closed the notebook I’d been jotting in, letting the cover flop. Then I said, “Is there something the two of you aren’t telling me?”
Mrs. Griggby flinched like she’d just noticed she was in school with no clothes on.
Mr. Griggby inhaled at length and said, “The Lambo isn’t a, uh, proper Lamborghini.”
I felt the corners of my mouth turning down. “And what exactly is *im*proper about it?”
He leaned forward and laced his fingers together over his knees. “It’s our son’s electric ride-on.”
#StolenLambo