The Hugh-dini Con

Bill O’Shea entered the ski-lodge style restaurant and scanned the barstools and tables for an old friend. Wayne Slater sat in a booth next to the side window. The two men exchanged greetings and ordered pint-size draft beers from a server.

Wayne gazed out the window. A stiff breeze rustled oak and hickory trees on a hillside in the beautiful mountain resort of Wintergreen, Virginia. Condo buildings stood high on a ridge, and chairlift cables bellied down the mountain toward the Rockfish Valley.

Wayne said, “You picked a beautiful place to retire, Bill.”

“It’s working so far. I haven’t seen a winter yet. They say it gets cold.”

“But real nice in the summer, right? Not sticky like Columbia.”

“The summer weather is awesome.”

Bill had worked as a police officer in Columbia, South Carolina, for three decades and had known Wayne a long time. Wayne was younger than Bill but had risen higher in the department, mainly because Bill never wanted the hassles of management. Bill wondered when Wayne would get around to the point. Wayne had always enjoyed warming up his audience before delivering the big ask.

“Kathryn and I are starting to search for retirement communities,” said Wayne. “I knew you’d moved up here somewhere, so I asked around the department to get the right place.”

“Is Kathryn with you?”

Wayne’s eyes darted back to the window. “No, she couldn’t make it this time. I’m on an advance scouting trip.”

“Sounds good.”

“Hey, this place reminds me of a joke. So, this Irish pub burns to the ground. It’s a terrible thing, but fortunately, everyone gets out safely. The firefighters are interviewing patrons on the street to find out what happened. They approach this Irishman—who is half in the tank—and ask him what caused the fire. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘The place was already burning when I ordered my first drink.’”

Wayne burst out laughing at his joke. Bill joined in the laughter despite having heard the joke many times. With a last name like O’Shea, you heard them all sooner or later.

When Wayne stopped laughing, Bill said, “So, Wayne, why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here?”

After an early morning walk the next day, Bill showered, ate breakfast, and sat down with a second cup of coffee and his laptop. Bill was of the mind to shop online for a car. After a few minutes on Craigslist, he found what he sought. A 1965 Ford Mustang convertible. Red. 63,000 miles. Manual transmission. Original 260 cubic inch V8. Black leather interior. FM/AM radio. $29,000. Cash deal preferred.

Bill found the last detail interesting. Did the seller mean cash as in paper currency, a paper check, or perhaps a cashier’s check? Bill sent the seller a note and his phone number to indicate his interest.

“Bill O’Shea,” he answered when an unknown number called him ten minutes later.

“Hi, Bill. This is Hugh Bonanno. I’m the owner of the Ford Mustang.”

Hugh spoke in a smooth tenor voice. Bill asked him a series of questions concerning the car’s history, all of which Hugh answered forthrightly. Hugh had owned the car for eight years and hated to give it up, but he had recently adopted a minimalist lifestyle to cut costs, and a second vehicle didn’t fit the new budget.

“You referenced a cash deal,” said Bill. “Can you be more specific?”

“There’s a lot of uncertainty in the world these days, Bill. I prefer portable wealth.”

It was a reasonable explanation. With the political environment in the US becoming more polarized and authoritarian rule on the move the world over, more people had begun talking about running for the hills. Bill did not count himself in that camp. He was an optimist by nature and not easily persuaded by cable news hysteria.

“So, you mean paper currency,” he said.

“Yes. In denominations no larger than one-hundred-dollar bills. I’d be willing to offer a discount.”

“How much of a discount?”

“Say, ten percent?”

A ten percent discount brought the price down to twenty-six thousand and change. Bill was willing to bet Hugh would settle for twenty-five. Bill told Hugh it would take some time to raise the cash. Hugh said he hoped it wouldn’t take too long because he had a prospective cash buyer coming for a test drive the next morning.

Bill let silence linger on the phone and then said, “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I can get there this afternoon. Where are you?”

Hugh lived in the Belmont neighborhood of Charlottesville—an hour’s drive from Wintergreen. They penciled in a time to meet that afternoon and ended the call.

Bill stepped onto his balcony to give his heart a chance to settle. It was a stunning view. Ski runs cut through forested hillsides. In the distance, puffy clouds hovered over the rounded tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Despite the beauty, Bill’s mind lingered on the red Mustang convertible.

Hugh Bonanno sat on the deck of a garage apartment in Belmont and watched a midsize Mazda SUV pull into the alley. The Mazda parked in Hugh’s driveway next to the Mustang, and a man and a woman got out. She was a redhead and had good posture and a shapely figure. Hugh’s heart skipped a beat. He guessed she was in her late thirties. The man was considerably older, maybe sixty, of medium height, and had curly brown hair flecked with gray.

Hugh hurried down the steps and introduced himself. Bill O’Shea had brought along a friend, Krista, who purportedly loved antique sports cars. Hugh had put the top down to create the best first impression. Krista ran a finger along the Mustang’s fender.

“She’s a beauty,” said Krista.

You’re a beauty, thought Hugh. I haven’t seen a redhead like you in quite some time.

Bill asked to look at the engine, and Hugh complied by popping the hood. It was spotless, of course. Bill was practically salivating. Some guys had a thing for Ford Mustangs—fish in a barrel. Bill had probably brought Krista along hoping to impress her. From the expression on Krista’s face, the strategy was working.

When it came time for the test drive, Hugh handed Bill a single key on a chrome metal chain with a 3D pony at the end.

“Wow,” said Bill, “an honest to goodness key.”

“Back when cars were cars, eh, Bill?”

“So true. So true.”

Hugh sat in the backseat and let Bill and Krista experience the ride side-by-side. Krista wore her hair pinned up, and the air magically lifted tendrils around her head. She had a long, beautiful neck. Hugh’s chest fluttered.

Hugh directed Bill down side streets to Riverview Park. From there, they made their way to Pantops, took US 250 to I-64, rode on the interstate a few miles to the Fifth Street exit, and returned to Belmont. Bill smoothly shifted the gears. He’d obviously driven a manual transmission earlier in life.

Back at the apartment, Bill commenced the negotiation.

“Why did you need cash again?” he said.

“I didn’t want to get into it on the phone,” said Hugh. “But the taxman has his hooks in me, so I favor a transaction that’s not easily traceable. Of course, the DMV will know I sold the car, but the IRS isn’t nearly as good at tracking DMV records as they are at monitoring bank accounts.”

Bill nodded. Everyone loved to make life hard for the IRS.

“Perfectly understandable,” said Bill. “But given how hard I worked to round up the cash on short notice, I think a fifteen percent discount makes sense.”

“What’s that?” said Hugh. “Twenty-four thousand six hundred?”

“About that.”

“Let’s call it twenty-five even.”

And they were done. Two hundred and fifty bills. Hugh took a few minutes to count it. He scanned the serial numbers to make sure they were not in sequence. For appearance’s sake, he held a few up to the sunlight as if to verify their authenticity, but he knew they were good by feel alone.

Then they got to the tricky part. From the glove box, Hugh produced a Virginia title that certified him as the owner. After entering his name and address, Hugh asked Bill to do the same. Finally, Hugh took pictures of both sides of the title and congratulated Bill on the purchase.

Bill asked if he could use Hugh’s bathroom. Sure. Earlier, Hugh had placed a few personal knickknacks inside the apartment. After showing Bill the way, Hugh returned to wait outside.

In a sleeveless top, form-fitting jeans, and flat sandals, Krista leaned against the Mustang and played with her phone. She had strong arms and a pretty face.

“Have you known Bill a long time?” Hugh asked.

Krista put her phone into her back pocket. “Not really. A few months. He’s a good guy.”

Hugh couldn’t tell whether she meant good guy as in boyfriend or just friend. Despite the impracticality of making a play, the smile on Krista’s face suggested to Hugh that he had a shot. Ten years earlier, another redhead—Sandi—had taken Hugh’s heart for a ride. They had lived together in Melbourne, Florida, for nine months. Beach days. Fishing in the Indian River. The whole works. Back then, he was particularly good at picking locks, a handy skill for bypassing security systems of winter homes. He did tricks for Sandi, and she loved it. She called him her Hugh-dini. He took an honest W2 job and mentioned to Sandi that he could see settling down in Melbourne. Wrong-headed thinking, in retrospect, for she was gone a week later.

“Do you live in Charlottesville?” said Hugh.

“I’m forty minutes away in a little town called Orange. You know it?”

Hugh’s hands tingled. He shook his head. “I’m still learning my way around. I’ve only lived here a few months.”

“It’s too bad you have to sell the Mustang.” Krista’s fingers skimmed the chrome door handle. “This would be a great car for a picnic.” She lifted her hand toward the cloudless sky. “Day like today, sunny, warm. Take a ride in the horse country.”

“I’d like that,” said Hugh. He glanced up at his apartment door. No sign of Bill yet. “I don’t know your situation with Bill, but if you’re just friends, maybe you and I could grab some dinner later. You can show me Orange.”

Hugh didn’t have another car, but he could put his hands on one quickly. He had in mind another convertible he’d seen on the lot—the 1961 Lincoln Continental in classic white.

With her eyes on the apartment door, Krista nibbled on the corner of her lip in a way that made Hugh feel lightheaded.

“We’re not like a thing yet,” she said. “Bill wants us to be, but I’m not sure.”

Hugh let his offer hang in the air. His heart was jackhammering, but his hands were steady.

Then Krista reached for her phone, asked for his number, and called him so he would have hers.

“I’m busy tonight,” she said. “But maybe another time.”

Hugh nodded, but his hopes were dashed. He had travel plans for the next day.

Bill kept the top down and took Main Street to the University of Virginia’s grounds. Krista followed him in the Mazda. The bright red color certainly attracted its share of attention. Men waved. Women smiled. Bill drove west on US 250 past rolling hills and celebrity farms. Rust-colored cattle dotted grassy meadows. Bill wore sunglasses, and the wind pushed his hair around.

West of Crozet, they turned left on Route 151 and drove to Krista’s house in Nellysford. Her two boys—Ashton and Trevor—ran outside to inspect the Mustang. They clamored for a ride, and Bill suggested they all go for ice cream at the Black Bear Creamery on the other side of town. The boys finished their cones in two minutes and began chasing each other around the parking lot. Bill and Krista sat at a picnic table.

“How did you make out when I was in the bathroom?” said Bill. “Did he go for it?”

Krista smiled. “Maybe. I got his number.”

Back at his condo in Wintergreen, Bill got a soft rag and lovingly rubbed down the Mustang from bumper to bumper. After dinner, he took it for a long ride around the mountain. Bill parked at the summit overlook and grabbed a few selfies with his phone. Later that night, he admired the convertible in the parking lot from his bedroom window.

The next day, Bill got dressed for his morning exercise and stepped outside.

Darn it.

Bill loved that car. He called Wayne Slater.

“You were right,” he said when Wayne picked up. “It’s gone.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not all. We lost him.”

“What?”

“The GPS tracker you left in the car worked fine. We don’t know how he got to Wintergreen, but he picked up the car at one in the morning and drove it to Charlottesville. The FBI was on it, no problem. Then the signal stopped on business 250. Get this. He dropped the car off at an exotic rental agency and disappeared.”

“You’re kidding. That’s where he got the car?”

When they met at the restaurant, Wayne had explained that Bonnano burned three prior victims using the same scheme. Antique cars for sale on Craigslist. Cash deals. Two in South Carolina. Bonnano may have run the con many times in other states. No way to know. Law enforcement had never found the cars because the auto titles were counterfeit.

“What about the apartment?” said Bill.

“It’s not an apartment. It’s a short-term rental.”

“Oh, jeez.”

“We’ve cast a wide net in Charlottesville with FBI and local police, but I’m not confident. This guy’s smooth.”

Bill rubbed his chin. Krista Jackson was a communications officer for the Wintergreen Police Department. Krista was gung ho but had never done this kind of work. Bill had brought her along on the meet to throw Hugh off his stride, and it had worked. But now?

“We’re toast,” said Wayne. “I’m bound for Columbia, and the FBI guys will go back to searching Craigslist.”

“Wait. We have one thing Bonnano wants.”

Hugh lingered over French toast and coffee in a cute restaurant on Main Street. His train north would depart from the nearby Charlottesville station in an hour. Then, once in Washington, he would catch a bus headed to the Midwest. A medium-size backpack rested against his chair. Hugh always traveled light.

The adrenaline had long since left him, and he felt weary. He had taken an expensive one-way ride to Wintergreen the previous night, then lingered around the main lodge until midnight. With online research, he had found a trail through the woods to a spot near Bill O’Shea’s address. He hadn’t counted on the path’s steep incline. Oh well, that sort of work came with the territory. At least there was no traffic.

The prepaid phone he had purchased for the project buzzed. It was a text from Krista.

He should have tossed the phone already. Why had he kept it? An image of Krista’s smile flashed in his mind. He knew why he’d kept the phone, but it was sloppy practice. Bill would have discovered his car was stolen by now. How long would it take law enforcement to trace this number? Probably a day or longer. Certainly not this fast.

Krista’s text read simply Good Morning.

Did she know the car was stolen? Hugh replied.

Hey, what’s up?

Bill and I got into a huge fight last night after he bought the car.

Hmm. Bill needed coaching on how not to screw up a good thing.

Sorry to hear that.

He made me follow him in the Mazda all the way to Wintergreen, then drove me back to Orange in the Mazda. He’s in Culpeper on business.

That was interesting. Bill may have spent the night in Culpeper, in which case, he would not yet know his Mustang was gone. This warranted a live conversation. Hugh called Krista, and she picked up right away. It sounded like she was in a moving car. After pleasantries, he said, “Where are you?”

“I’m on my way to Lynchburg for an appointment this morning.”

“How does Bill like the car?”

“Oh, he loves it. He didn’t want to take it to Culpeper because he was afraid someone would steal it from the parking lot of his cheap motel.”

“Smart thinking.”

“Anyway, I’m passing right by my favorite winery this afternoon and thought maybe you could meet me for a glass of wine.”

Hugh glanced at the nearby wall clock. Fifty minutes.

The smart move was to tell Krista he’d love to meet her, toss the phone into the trash can outside, and catch that train. But the risky move upside was significant. He recalled an afternoon he and Sandi had spent at a hotel pool overlooking the ocean. After swimming, Sandi had taken a nap in the lounge chair beside him. Water beads clung to her skin. He wondered if he could convince Krista to take an impromptu vacation to the Outer Banks. All expenses paid.

They agreed to meet at the Seven Hills Winery off of Route 29 at three o’clock.

After the call, Hugh signaled for the check.

He didn’t have a car but had noticed earlier that the Lincoln Continental was still available.

Hugh had changed into his nicer outfit, black jeans, a light sweater, and loafers with no socks. He parked the Lincoln away from other cars in the half-empty lot and stepped out to absorb the view. With neat rows of vines, a powder blue sky, and bales of hay on high mountain fields, it was easy to see why Krista liked the Seven Hills Winery. He found her sitting at a table for two in the lawn section with a glass of white wine. She saw him coming and stood to shake hands, but after a moment’s hesitation, she kissed his cheek. She wore a casual blue dress with short sleeves. Her red hair hung tantalizingly about her shoulders.

“Sorry I’m overdressed,” she said. “I’m a decorator, and my clients expect me to look professional.”

“Your clients are lucky to have you. You look fantastic.”

It was a bold compliment, and Krista blushed a little. Hugh warned himself not to come on too strong. But he didn’t have a lot of time. He imagined strolling on the beach in bare feet with Krista.

“What are you drinking?” he said.

“The Viognier is delightful.”

He ordered a bottle of the Viognier and a charcuterie board. They spent time getting acquainted. Hugh rolled out one of his well-rehearsed backstories, regional sales manager for a plumbing supply distributor. The company had relocated him to Charlottesville, and he was still settling in.

Krista was a single mom with two boys in middle school. This was Krista’s week without the kids, which suggested to Hugh that a beach getaway proposition might still have a chance. But while a fling with a carefree single redhead was alluring, the same affair with a mother promised downstream guilt for him. What would be the point? He couldn’t steal a car in town one week and set up permanent residence the next. He imagined Krista drinking coffee alone in her kitchen after he had disappeared.

Maybe he should keep going west this time. He’d never been to California. San Diego was supposed to have nice weather year-round, and Hugh wasn’t too old to start a W2 career. No doubt many redheads lived out there, and San Diego certainly had nice beaches.

Hugh and Krista spent the next hour sharing wine, food, and conversation. The Viognier paired exceptionally well with the mild cheddar.

After her second glass of wine, Krista excused herself to visit the restroom. Hugh leaned back and took a deep breath. Pippin Hill was beautiful, but they had many wineries in California. He ate another cracker with cheddar cheese, sipped his wine, and enjoyed the moment.

Then Bill O’Shea sat down.

Bill eyed the empty glass across the table from Hugh, then smiled.

“Krista’s here, isn’t she?”

Hugh’s heart thumped. What the heck? He cautioned himself to stay calm. Never declare defeat before you have all the intel in hand. Darn it. He should have ditched the phone and caught the train.

“She’s in the ladies’ room,” said Hugh.

Bill shook his head. “I messed up badly yesterday. Did she tell you? Sometimes, I can be an ass, and now she won’t answer my texts. So on the way back from Culpeper, I thought I’d stop here at Seven Hills to see if I could catch her. Krista loves this place. She comes two or three times a week if she doesn’t have the kids.” Bill glanced at the bottle, which was a third full. “Can I have a splash of the Viognier?”

“Be my guest.”

The fine hairs on the nape of Hugh’s neck tingled. Bill didn’t know his car was stolen and had now stumbled upon Hugh and Krista sharing an afternoon. A coincidence? Stranger things had happened in Hugh’s life, but not often. Time to leave. When Krista returned, Hugh would say he needed to visit the restroom and then hustle to the parking lot.

Bill fetched a clean glass from a preset table and poured himself a few ounces.

Hugh couldn’t resist. “You’re too old for her, Bill.”

Bill waved a dismissive hand. “Take her. With the Mustang, I don’t think I’ll have much trouble.” Then Bill smiled mischievously. “I knew you were here when I drove into the parking lot. Want to know how? The Lincoln Continental. I saw that beautiful white convertible with the top down and knew it had to be yours. What is that? 1962?”

“Sixty-one.”

Bill leeringly raised his eyebrows. “Let’s go take a peek. I want to sit inside that machine.”

It was an opening. Hugh would have preferred to see Krista again, but he’d taken enough risks for one day. Once in the parking lot, he could ditch Bill and be off.

“Absolutely,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Hugh’s senses absorbed every detail on the way out. Hints of yellow and orange in the rolling hills. Patrons’ laughter. The lawn’s scent. No sign of Krista.

In the parking lot, a large man stood at his SUV’s open hatchback a few spaces from the Lincoln. No other cars were nearby. When they were twenty feet from the convertible, Bill touched Hugh’s arm and paused to savor the view.

“That is one beautiful car,” Bill said.

Then Hugh noticed the large man from the SUV approached. Hugh turned toward him and said, “Can I help you?”

“Hugh,” said Bill, “I want you to meet my friend Wayne Slater. He’s with the police department in Columbia, South Carolina.”

Hugh’s shoulders sagged.

Other people approached, two men and a woman. They were younger than Wayne.

“And these folks are with the FBI,” said Bill. “I don’t know all of their names.”

Hugh turned to Bill. “So, that’s how it is, huh?”

Bill shrugged.

“Pretty slick,” said Hugh.

The woman prepared to handcuff Hugh, and Hugh asked her, “Can I take the car keys out of my pocket? You’ll need them to return it.”

“Yes,” she said, “but go easy.”

“And my bag is in the trunk.”

“All right,” she said. “We’ll get it.”

Then Krista walked up.

Hugh was glad she had come. He tried to sear the sight of her into his long-term memory. It would have to last him a long time.

“Sorry, Hugh,” she said. “It’s the job.”

“Don’t sweat it, Krista. We’ll always have Seven Hills.”

Bill and Krista stood together in the lot and watched. After the FBI vehicles left and Bill’s heart began to settle, Wayne came over to give them the keys to the Lincoln. He wore a huge smile on his face.

“Classy guy, huh? Did you hear the movie reference? We’ll always have Seven Hills. It’s Casablanca.”

Bill said, “Yeah, Wayne, we got it.”

Wayne handed over the keys and then said, “Hey, here’s a joke for you. What did the chicken say before she crossed the road?”

Bill glanced at Krista. Krista shrugged.

“Cluck. Cluck.” Wayne hooted with laughter on the way back to his SUV.

Bill and Krista took the Lincoln for a spin on country roads. They passed old barns and a tiny church and cow pastures. Although a practical man by nature, Bill promised himself he would peruse antique convertible websites soon. After the ride, they returned to Seven Hills for Krista’s car. Bill pulled the Lincoln to a stop, and his cell phone buzzed. Wayne Slater.

He listened for a minute, then said, “You’re joking.” He listened a bit longer, held the phone to his side, and turned to Krista. “It’s Wayne. Hugh escaped.”

“What?”

“The FBI car came upon an accident with multiple life-threatening injuries. One agent got out and then summoned the second. Hugh was cuffed and locked in the back seat. The agents were away from the car for only a couple of minutes, but when they returned, Hugh and his bag were gone. He got the money and everything.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Wayne wants to know if you’ll call Hugh again.”

“Oh, no. He won’t fall for that twice.”

THE END

Thank you for reading “The Hugh-dini Con.”

If you enjoyed meeting retired detective Bill O'Shea and police officer Krista Jackson, you can experience their adventures by reading the Wintergreen Mysteries, which are available on ebooks at Amazon and other online bookstores. Paperbacks are available on Amazon only.

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Thank you for reading the Wintergreen Crime Story Collection. If you enjoyed Bill’s adventures, you’re in for a real treat when you read The Wintergreen Mystery Series.

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This is a work of fiction. Some of the locations, restaurants, and other places referenced in the novel are real; however, the names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or events at a particular locale or to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.