After His Death, They Opened Frank Fritz’s Garage and Found a Car That Shouldn’t Exist

Frank Fritz first appeared on our screens as the beloved co-host of American Pickers, the hit show that combined Americana nostalgia with the thrill of treasure hunting. While his partner Mike Wolfe often grabbed the spotlight, Frank played a different game—quiet, deliberate, and deeply passionate. He wasn’t chasing fame. He was chasing stories. Stories wrapped in steel, chrome, rust, and time.

To the casual viewer, Frank was the trivia guy—the one who could instantly identify a 1932 gas station sign or tell the model year of a rusted Indian motorcycle by the shape of its brake pedal. But true fans knew that when Frank’s eyes lit up at the sight of a muscle car buried in weeds, something deeper was happening. He wasn’t just a collector. He was a rescuer of forgotten beauty.

His personal collection wasn’t about flashy displays or massive quantities. It was about precision. His Iowa garage wasn’t a showroom; it was sacred ground. A time capsule locked tight, shared with no one. Inside were marvels of motoring history: a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air with those iconic fins, a 1967 Ford Fairlane GT 390 that he personally restored after paying $7,000 for it—then another $4,000 to bring it back to life. There was a 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood dripping in chrome elegance, co-owned with Mike Wolfe. Two rare 1954 Nash-Healey sports cars worth $46,000 combined. A bizarre 1914 Metz cyclecar, and his crown jewel—a 1947 Cisitalia Nuvolari Spider, a post-war Italian racing dream valued at over half a million dollars.

But Frank never showed these treasures off. No museum tours. No velvet ropes. No Instagram bragging. His garage was his cathedral, and the cars were his saints.

As American Pickers soared in popularity, Frank’s presence began to fade. By 2020, he quietly exited the show. Officially, it was due to back surgery. But those close to him suspected there was more—declining health, deepening isolation, and maybe, just maybe, an obsession that had grown beyond the cameras. His Facebook posts—once filled with restoration updates—stopped. Friends who used to drop by found the doors locked. Yet cars were still arriving, some through middlemen, others bought sight unseen. Always, there was purpose.

One day, a neighbor spotted Frank wheeling a strange, low-slung vehicle into the garage. No badges, no shine—just an odd shell of a car. When asked, Frank simply said: “It’s older than you think.” Then, as always, the garage door shut.

Frank was always cryptic. He’d say things like: “There’s something in that garage that’ll outlive all of us.” Or more chillingly: “If they ever open that garage without me, tell them I left everything behind.” At the time, friends laughed it off as his usual poetic flair. But when Frank passed away—quietly, privately—those words suddenly carried weight. No big media storm, just a silent death surrounded by old parts and untold stories. And that garage, untouched, became the focus of legal probate.

Then everything changed.

It was a gray morning when lawyers and officers gathered to open the garage. The roll-up door creaked, and dust billowed like smoke from a time machine. Inside were eight vehicles—some under tarps, some exposed. The Bel Air, the Fairlane, the Fleetwood—all expected. But in the far corner, under a stained tarp, was something else.

A shape not listed on any inventory.

When the tarp came off, silence fell. It was a Corvette—but not like any they had seen before. The body screamed 1963 Grand Sport—a model so rare that Chevrolet only made five. All five are accounted for, guarded by museums and billionaire collectors. Yet here was a sixth. Hand-built fiberglass. No VIN where it should be. Instead, a brass tag riveted to the firewall, marked with cryptic numbers and the words: “Experimental Use Only.”

The craftsmanship was flawless—too perfect to be a backyard build. But GM had never admitted another one existed. Then, above Frank’s workbench, they found a yellowed note in his handwriting:

“I left behind everything there. —Frank.”

Suddenly, that line wasn’t poetic. It was chilling.

The news leaked. Corvette forums exploded. Was this the lost sixth Grand Sport, hidden after the program was shut down? A test mule never meant for public eyes? Or a one-off build by retired engineers using original factory molds? Experts couldn’t agree. Some believed Frank bought it from a retired GM insider in the early 2000s. Others swore he found it through a secret estate sale in Flint, Michigan—deep in GM territory.

Frank never told anyone. Not fans. Not friends. Not even on American Pickers. He took the truth to his grave.

General Motors refused to comment. But off the record, whispers circulated. Rumors of “ghost cars”—Grand Sports built in secret, then buried. And now, one had resurfaced—not in a museum, not at an auction, but in a dusty Iowa garage, hidden by a man who never chased fame—only truth.

Chaos followed. Private buyers offered blank checks. Museums begged. One international collector reportedly said: “Name your price.” But the estate froze everything. No one could agree on what the car was. No provenance. No paperwork. Just mystery.

And maybe that’s the point.

Frank Fritz never collected for headlines or hashtags. He collected for the story—the mystery. And this Corvette, whether a lost prototype or the world’s most convincing replica, was the ultimate expression of that.

Frank’s final secret wasn’t meant for the spotlight. It was meant to endure—just like the man who kept it hidden.

What do you think Frank found? Was it real? Was it a message? Or just one last treasure from a man who lived for history’s forgotten pieces?