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What a JamWe raced to the kitchen and bumped into Beatrice who, astonishingly, was careening around a corner like an Impreza WRX STI rally car. Then we knocked over Hubert, who was lurching toward us, wild-eyed and wild-haired (apparently hair, no matter how sparse, did stand up on end when its owner was frightened out of his or her wits). Percival and Adwin both hooked an arm through the butler’s and, like an assortment of Mexican jumping beans, we stumbled and bumbled our way through the walkway to the attached six-car garage.
On the far side of the large, tidy structure stood my rented Sebring, Thomas’ two-tone ’58 Bentley, and Reginald’s prized pearl-black Bentley S3 Continental. Oil stains on the far side of the Bentley, before Linda’s Accord, indicated where two additional cars
