The mayor glanced up at him after several seconds of silence. “Don’t we have a budget for that sort of thing?”
“Um …” Martins words failed him. Not only did they not have a budget for that sort of thing, but they didn’t have a budget, period. The town was going broke, and by the numbers he’d crunched last night, it looked as though salaries would have to be the next thing to go.
“For crying out loud, Martin, it doesn’t have to look like the Rose Bowl parade. Just a few flowers for some color. How expensive can flowers be? See to it, will you?”
“Sure. Of course.” He backed out of the mayor’s office, his stomach in knots. Besides the budget crisis, there was also that tiny problem of the mayor going insane. Martin Blarty had to find this little town’s purpose and find it quick.
He decided he needed to get some air, but just as he opened the front door to the building, he heard a bloodcurdling scream coming from outside. He ran out, his limbs trembling with fear. He’d never heard a scream like that. He scanned the area but saw nothing. The town was quiet now. Small flurries of snowflakes fell softly to the ground. He stood there for several more minutes, but there was only silence.
“Did you hear that?” Ainsley said, excusing herself from the makeup chair.
“What?” Alfred asked, checking his watch. Maude the Makeup Queen worked by the hour, and he was paying her a bunch of money to come make Ainsley Parker look delicate, winsome, strong, and smart. It amazed him what the right color blush could do.
Ainsley was at the front door. “That scream. Someone screamed.”
Alfred shrugged. After living in New York for so many years, he guessed he had tuned out screaming a long time ago. “Ainsley, dear, let’s get back to the task at hand.”
Ainsley shut the front door, her brow furrowed. “I hope everyone’s okay.”
“Darling, you’ve only got one eye done, and I don’t think you want to look like Boy George,” Maude snapped.
“Who is Boy George?” Ainsley asked Alfred as she climbed back into the chair.
“Nobody you need to know about. Now listen, as soon as Maude is done here, were just going to take a few pictures of you in your kitchen, doing various things. Just sort of your natural everyday life.”
“For the portfolio, right?”
“Right. We want to put together a portfolio that will show your talent, your look, your ‘brand.’”
“Brand of what? It depends on what I’m cooking.”
“No, sweetheart. Your brand. It’s how we’re going to define you. You see, Martha already has a brand. We’ve got to make your brand similar enough that you appeal to Martha’s followers, yet different enough so that you become your own product. Do you see?”
“I think so.”
“I’m done,” Maude announced, snapping her makeup case closed. She eyed Ainsley for a little bit. “So you’re Wolfe Boone’s lady, huh?”
Ainsley nodded. “Fiancée.”
“I did Wolfe’s makeup for a photo shoot for Vanity Fair years ago. Nice guy. You’re lucky.”
“Thanks.”
Maude turned to Alfred. “You want me to stick around for touch-ups, or am I outta here?”
“Darling, at your rates, I’m going to have to send you packing. But good job with the makeup. She’ll glow in the camera.”
Maude winked. “But not shine. See ya.”
Ainsley looked at Alfred. “We could’ve asked my friend Marlee to come over, you know. She does Mary Kay. It’s not the way I’d wear makeup, but everyone else seems to like it.”
Alfred drew her hands into his. “My sweet Ainsley. This is the big time now. You have to start thinking like that. Sure, we’re just starting out. But if you don’t think you’re worthy of having your makeup done for a photo shoot, then the world may not think you’re worthy of showing them how to bake manicotti.”
“I have the best recipe this side of Lake Michigan.”
He grinned. “Good girl. Now let’s get in the kitchen and see what we’ve got. Philippe? Philippe?”
The photographer, a wisp of a guy in a black turdeneck and tortoise-shell eyeglasses, capered around the corner. “Are we ready?” he said in a French accent with a touch of Mississippi. Without the accent and trendy glasses, Philippe could have just as easily been Phil from down south.
“Ainsley, meet Philippe. He is one of the best photographers in New York.”
“Did you ever take Wolfe’s picture?” she asked, shaking his hand.
“I never had the pleasure. But my friend, Eric Boneham, have you heard of him?” She shook her head. “He is the one who took the portrait of Wolfe that’s now on all the back covers of his books.”
“Oh. Well, pleasure to meet you.”
“All right, Ainsley, let’s step around here, into your kitchen. Philippe, do you have all the lights set?”
“Heavenly,” Philippe said, kissing his fingers and throwing them into the air.
“Okay, now, Ainsley, what I want you to do is take that pie on the counter, put it over here, so the camera can see you, and then we’re going to get a shot of you cutting the pie.”
“Okay.” She took the pie, put it on the counter facing the camera, and cut the crust.
“No!”
Ainsley gasped, looking up at Alfred.
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to shout. Don’t really cut the pie. Just pretend to cut the pie. I need you to look up at the camera, give that world-famous smile of yours, and pretend to cut.”
“One should never cut something while looking elsewhere,” she said.
“Martha can.”
Determination sparked in her bright eyes. “Well, I guess since I’m not really cutting.” She looked into the camera, smiled, and pointed the large knife to the center of the pie.
“Perfect!” Alfred clapped.
But Philippe said, “I’m not sure about the hair. Tied back like that?”
“Maude spent twenty minutes putting it in a sophisticated bun,” Alfred said.
“I know, but it makes her look rigid. Don’t we want more of an enchanting allure? The sprite of the kitchen, no?”
Alfred thought about this and then agreed. “Ainsley, let’s take your hair down.” They loosened a few pins, and her hair fell around her shoulders.
“Very nice,” Philippe said with a smile.
Alfred sighed. “But the apron. It’s hideous!”
“It was my Aunt Gert’s,” she said, looking down at it. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Besides the fact it leapt out of 1965? Do you have anything else?”
She frowned. “A plain white one I got a few Christmases ago.”
Let’s try it.
She removed the first apron and put on the second one. But it was much too big, hanging off her like a bed sheet. “No. Won’t work. Too big. It doesn’t show off your figure.”
“What does my figure have to do with anything?”
“We like to give the image that you eat all day but still look like a model,” Alfred grinned.
“Why would we want to give off that image?” she scowled.
“Because, Ainsley, we’re creating an illusion. Just like Martha. I mean, we’d all like to live in Martha’s world, but the truth of the matter is that it’s impossible to create.”
She crossed her arms. “I did it.”
Alfred smiled. “And that, my dear, is why you will be the next person to encourage the world to tie up their linens with satin bows.”
“What is going on here?”
Ainsley and Alfred turned around to find the sheriff standing there with his hands on his hips.
“Daddy! Hi! You’re up from your nap.”
“What’s all this?” he said, gesturing toward the kitchen and eying Philippe.
“It’s a photo shoot, Daddy. Isn’t it wonderful? Alfred is putting together a portfolio for me. He thinks I can make it big.”
The sheriff looked at his daughter, a small, sweet smile peeking from beneath
his bushy moustache. “I know you can make it big too. You’re the best cook I know.”
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“But sweetheart, we’re going to have to be sensitive here.”
“Sensitive?”
“All these flashing bulbs. This racket. It’s not going to encourage Thief to come down and eat. And you know, he hardly eats anymore.” The sheriff’s sad tone quieted the room.
Philippe leaned to Alfred. “Thief?”
“The cat that practically used to run this town. Snippety-snip, though, and life’s over for the poor guy,” Alfred whispered.
“Daddy, give him time. He’ll be okay. We’ll be finished up here shortly, okay?”
“Okay,” the sheriff sighed. “I gotta go in to work.”
“Daddy, that reminds me. I heard someone scream earlier.”
“Hmm. I’ll check into it. Keep an eye on Thief, will you?”
“Sure, Dad.”
The sheriff left, and Alfred pulled her back into the kitchen. “Now, let’s get a shot of you whisking.”
“It’s called the Road to the Sale,” Oliver said proudly, as his long metal pointer hit the poster standing on the easel. They were in the small conference room, Wolfe sitting in a chair in front of the presentation, while Oliver looked like he was ready to lecture a crowd of five hundred. “There are ten steps, and I’ve outlined them all for you. Let’s get started, because I want to leave time for questions. Step One is called Meet ’n Greet. And it’s no joke, my friend, a car is sold in the first twenty seconds. It’s at this point you have to analyze everything about the customer. What are their push buttons? Are they here for a family car, a sports car, a utility vehicle? Once you figure out what they want, that’s the last time they tell you what they want. From then on, you tell them what they want.” Oliver gave a quick, definitive nod.
“Okay.”
“Now, Step Two is The Walk-Around. This is where you walk the customer around the car and explain all the features. If it’s a family, point out safety features. If it’s a young guy concerned about his image, point out the sports features. Explain the feature. Illustrate the feature. Sell the feature.” Oliver repeated this four more times until Wolfe finally nodded.
“Got it.”
“Step Three is the Test Drive. Never ask if they want to go for a drive. You say, ‘I’m going to go get the keys, and we’re going to take this baby for a spin.’ Or if it’s a family, something like, ‘We’re going to take this car for nice, quiet drive.’ And here, my friend, here is one of the most important tips: Once they’re in the car, shut up.”
“Shut up?”
“Don’t speak until spoken to.”
“Why?”
“Because here is where the customer becomes emotionally attached to the car. They feel it. They see it in their driveway. They can hear their kids talking in the back. Understand? Don’t ruin the moment for them.”
As Oliver was explaining Steps Four, Five, and Six, Wolfe realized there was quite an art to selling cars. Earlier, Oliver had told him that if you are going to come out and play it cool, and try not to act like a car salesman, you’ll never sell a car. People want the show. They want the whole package. It’s a love-hate relationship, but in the end, the salesman shtick works. “Trust me,” he’d said. “I’ve tried the other way. I didn’t sell a car for a month.”
Now Oliver was rattling off facts. “There are 966 different makes and models of cars out there. Seventy-five percent of customers who say they will return after thinking about it, don’t. You take up four hours of their time, and at the end they think, I don’t ever want to do this again. I’ll just take this car.”
Oliver was continuing to give tips as Wolfe shook off his distracting thoughts and tuned back in to him. “When you’re filling out the work sheet, always ask ‘Whose name are we going to put this car under?’ Why?”
Wolfe shrugged.
“Gives them ownership. Makes them feel like it’s theirs already. You haven’t even begun to close the deal yet. In fact, you haven’t even talked price. You haven’t even run a credit check! But already they’re seeing their name on the papers.”
“Interesting.”
“Now, here’s another important point. As you’re filling out all the paperwork in order to start negotiating price, start naming off, out loud, all the features of the car. Why? Because right now they’re thinking price. They’re starting to get worried. You’ve got to get them emotional again. Remind them of the DVD player. The second-generation air bags that will save their lives if, God forbid, they were in an accident. The leather seats. The seat warmers.”
Wolfe realized this was much more complex than he had anticipated. He was under the impression you went out there, greeted the customer, figured out what they wanted in a car, and helped them pick it out. This was practically an art form. Maybe he should be taking notes. He looked around for a pen and paper, but there was nothing.
“Now,” Oliver continued, “when it’s time to start the negotiations, never ever say the price of the car in hundreds or thousands. That completely freaks people out. Instead of saying, ‘twenty-two thousand, five hundred,’ say, ‘twenty-two five.’ You don’t want people to realize they’re getting ready to go into major debt.”
“I see.”
“And now, my friend, I am going to give you the most important piece of information yet on selling a car. It is something that is tried and true and can make or break any deal you are attempting to close. It is the number one rule in the car-selling industry, and if you don’t know this, you will never, ever be a success.”
Wolfe moved to the edge of his seat.
Oliver glanced at his watch. “Oh my goodness! It’s lunchtime! C’mon, let’s go eat, and well finish up later.”
CHAPTER 13
WOLFE AND AINSLEY had bundled themselves up to take the dogs for a walk. Goose and Bunny frolicked ahead of them where a few patches of snow remained. They’d been theorizing over who might have taken the Wise Men, and why they hadn’t brought them back. Ainsley sighed. “I hate this time of year, when all the Christmas lights come down and it’s just plain cold.”
Wolfe squeezed her hand as they walked. “Yes, but that just means February is around the corner.”
“I know!” she squealed. “That’s going to be the best day of my whole life.”
“Me too. Hey, how’d the wedding shopping go today? Weren’t you going to go pick out your bridesmaids’ dresses?”
“Yeah. I didn’t get to go, though.”
“Why?”
“Well, the photo shoot took a lot longer than expected. The makeup lady put my hair back in a bun, then the photographer thought it looked better down, and so we did all these pictures until my hair fell into the soup I was stirring, so then they decided I’d better wear my hair back. That took fifteen more minutes, and then we had to reshoot everything. I’ll go tomorrow, though. How was your day? Did you get to talk to any customers?”
“No, but Oliver walked me through the Road to the Sale. Pretty intense stuff. I didn’t realize there was so much to know just to sell a car. I’m not sure I can do it.”
“Sure you can! You’re a smart guy. You’ll figure it out.”
“Well, thank you. I do know the secret to closing all sales now.” He grinned.
“Really, what is it?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
Ainsley laughed. “C’mon. Tell me!”
“It’s actually pretty interesting. Once you have the customer in the office, and the customer tells you what they’re willing to spend, and then you write down the figure that you’re willing to sell the car for, which of course is always higher, you slide that piece of paper across the desk, and then you don’t say a word. Oliver said the first person who speaks loses.”
“Really?”
“He’s says it’s about ninety percent effective. He said one time he sat there for fifteen minutes while the man looked at the paper. Fi
nally the man spoke. And he left driving a brand-new Cadillac.”
“Wow.”
“I just don’t know if I’m going to be able to do the whole salesman persona. That’s not really me.”
“You’ll do fine, honey.”
“Maybe. I just hope a Folder doesn’t come in.”
“What’s a Folder?”
“It’s a customer who has done his or her research. They walk onto the lot, carrying a folder full of information on invoice price, features, and so on. Basically, they know what they want, everything they want in it, and how much we bought the car for. Oliver says they are the absolute worst customers because you never make any money off them.”
“Huh. What kinds of customers does he like?”
“The couple who’s driving around on a Saturday afternoon and decides to go look at cars, just for fun. He says seventy-five percent of the time he can get them to take a car home.”
“Wow. Dad gave me my car ten years ago when I turned twenty. I don’t guess I’ve ever had to buy a car.”
“Mine was a gift from the publishing house.”
Ainsley looked up at him. “Are you okay … not writing?”
He shrugged. “I guess I am right now. I miss it, though. Not the fame, and not the stories I wrote. But the process. That was the most fun for me.”
“Trust God,” she said, hugging him around the waist. “He will lead you in the right direction.”
He squeezed her shoulders. “He’s got a pretty good helper. You’re doing a great job of taking care of me. I wish I’d met you ten years ago.”
“Me too,” she sighed. “But God’s timing is perfect.”
“Speaking of God, have you heard from the reverend lately? Seems like since Christmas he’s been really busy or something. And for the past two Sundays, he hasn’t stayed around to greet.”
“I noticed that too. Maybe we should go by and see him later.”
“Let’s think about doing that,” he said. “But right now I want you all to myself.”
She giggled as he tickled her ribs.
“Ainsley! Hey! Wolfe! Ainsley!”
They turned around to find Alfred running toward them from across the street, his breath clouding in front of him.