In the middle of this messy workshop, hunched over a table cluttered with guitar pieces, was Uncle Carl. With a pink shirt, dark tie, and maroon suspenders, his white hair gave him an air of authority. No wonder he dressed as Santa each year when I was a kid. All he needed was a herd of reindeer.

Carl never budged from his worktable when I was young, so it was comforting to see him still there. I started to say something, but Bea called out first. “Carl! Look who’s here.”

“Hold on a minute,” he barked. “Be right with you.” He didn’t even look up from his work.

But Bea wouldn’t give him, or anyone else, a minute. She pushed her way through the clutter and made it to the table. “Oh, for God sakes,” Carl muttered as he set down his screwdriver. “I said I’d only. . .”

When his eyes landed on me, he immediately halted. Slowly, he pulled off his wire-rimmed glasses and blinked a few times. “My God, it’s you, Dee!”

“Hi, Uncle Carl.” I ran around the table to give him a big hug. “Good to see you.”

“What brought you out of hiding? Wait, let me guess. . .” He pulled away and stared at us for a few seconds. “You’re helping Bea with her guitar swindle.” He leaned back in his chair with the barest of smiles. “Looks like we’ll get to work together. So what can I do for you ladies? You said you needed a guitar, but you didn’t say anything else. Who are you selling it to?”

Bea stood straight, proud of her cleverness. “Alejandro.”

Carl whistled as he slowly shook his head. “Big collector. And he’s hard to fool. Uses one of the best authentication specialists.”

Bea waved away his concerns. “How much and how quick?”

Carl shrugged. “That depends on what you want. Alejandro tends to favor guitars that were owned by famous rockers. They say that his manager, George Rawson, collects stolen guitars, but I don’t know if I believe it. Rawson’s collection’s never been seen.”

“Screw Rawson.” Bea got right to the point. “We’re targeting Alejandro. What do you recommend?”

Carl leaned back and stroked his chin. “Stevie Ray Vaughan had an old ’65 Fender Stratocaster that nobody’s seen since he died in the 90s. I’ve studied that guitar quite a bit, and I even made one a few years back, just for kicks.” He got up and rummaged through a pile in the corner, finally pulling out a guitar case and setting it on the table. Inside was a dark wood electric guitar with the letters “SRV” on it, big and sparkling. “I’ve heard people offering six hundred grand for this particular guitar.” He paused and laughed. “Well, for the real one, that is. Anyway, you should be able to get a half million for this, once you get it past his expert. Just don’t let him take it away for more advanced tests, because then he’ll notice the flaws.”




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