I pulled the rental into the parking lot of Able's Plumbing in Alexandria and spotted Jeremiah standing behind a small, white cargo van.

If I was wondering why he'd called twenty minutes earlier and told me to meet him here, this answered none of my questions. Thankfully, experience had taught me that asking Jeremiah for information he wasn't ready to provide usually resulted in less information, not more, so I'd made the drive without asking.

I parked a few spaces away, shut off the engine, and got out.

"What did you want to show me?"

He nodded toward the van.

"With the hunt for your next vehicle, I wanted to make sure you were presented with all your options."

I looked from him to the small white Nissan, and then back to my sole employee.

"Able's Plumbing?"

"Ignore that," he said as he walked toward the side door.

I knew Able's Plumbing. More specifically, I knew Ted Able, its owner. Our paths had crossed a while back when an elderly woman on Ojibwe Street accused him of stealing a bracelet while he was fixing a leak beneath her kitchen sink. Ted hadn't taken it, but that hadn't stopped me from spending the better part of a day proving it.

Apparently the plumbing business had been good to him. The white Nissan was fairly new and, from the outside at least, appeared to have been taken care of.

It was also a work van. A plumber's work van, and not exactly what I'd pictured when I'd started thinking about replacing my truck.

Jeremiah grabbed the handle and slid open the side door. "Take a look."

I peered inside. I wasn't sure what I'd expected the interior of a used plumbing van to look like. Whatever it was, this wasn't it. It was surprisingly clean. Sure, there were signs that it had worked for a living. Scratches crossed the cargo floor, and the walls had their share of scuffs and dings. Metal shelving ran along both sides, with various compartments and dividers that had once held whatever assortment of fittings, tools and other things a plumber needed to get through the day. Ted had emptied most of it, but the shelving itself remained. For a vehicle that had spent its life hauling plumbing supplies, I was pleasantly surprised that nothing inside made me afraid to touch it.

Jeremiah climbed in.

"You see these?"

"The shelves?"

"No, DeLucca. The invisible dancing girls."

I leaned against the opening. "Yes. I see the shelves."

"They'd need some work."

"So your argument in favor of this vehicle begins with a list of things we'd have to fix?"

"Retrofit. We change the dividers. Add something across the front here." He tapped one of the shelves. "Keep things from sliding around."

"What things?"

He looked at me. "Records."

"We're not turning it into a mobile record store."

"Didn't say we were, but hear me out. We buy a collection of records. What do we do now?"

"Put it in the truck."

"Until it rains."

"I have a tarp."

He stared at me, and I looked inside again.

The shelves would work. Not exactly as they were, but Jeremiah was right about that too. A few modifications and they could hold smaller boxes, supplies, maybe even forty-fives. The larger record crates could ride on the floor between them.

There was considerably more room than I'd expected. I stepped away and walked toward the front of the van, taking another look at it.

The Silverado had looked like something I'd want to drive.

The old Ford looked like something Brenda thought I should drive.

This looked like something you'd call when your toilet backed up, I thought, only half joking.

Jeremiah joined me.

"We'd have to do something about the lettering," He said.

I stared at the enormous ABLE'S PLUMBING stretched across the white panel.

"B-Sharp Vintage Records," Jeremiah said, sweeping an open palm across the side of the van as if the new lettering were already there.

I could see it.

I didn't particularly want to admit that I could see it, but I could. I walked around toward the driver's side and looked through the window. It wasn't fancy. Two seats. A reasonably modern dash. Cup holders. Air conditioning. Everything I actually needed and very little I didn't.

It wasn't a Silverado. It definitely wasn't a 1970 Ford. But I could picture a Saturday morning estate sale somewhere outside town. Jeremiah and me loading crates into the back without worrying about rain. Transporting a collection to the shop without stacking half of it on the passenger seat. Taking B-Sharp somewhere beyond the four walls of the store.

I looked at Jeremiah.

"You really like this thing."

"It's practical."

"That's not the same as liking it."

"Practical's better."

Of course he thought so. I slid the side door closed and stepped back.

The Able's Plumbing lettering stared back at me, but that wasn't what I saw anymore. Jeremiah had left me a lot to think about.