“Well, guys—and Kate.” Jack studied all of us. “Do your best. Exceed everyone’s expectations.” I responded with more conviction than anyone else in the room. Jack stood and checked his watch. “1:20 now. Practice at 3:00. Car into pit at 2:50, after the Star Mazda race is over. So be back here in an hour to suit up. Thanks.”
As I rose with everyone else to leave the office, a fresh wave of butterflies hit my stomach. I waved the guys on to the sandwiches Aunt Tee had set out. It was time to look for Jolley.
But I moved instead to the 28 car. My car. One of the crew was sitting cross-legged on the ground at the front left wheel—at least, what remained of it, as it was stripped down to the brake assembly. Alex, the brake whiz, flashed a grin at me and at the fans aiming cameras at us from the edge of the garage.
“I’m going to hop in for a minute, Alex. That won’t bother you, right?” I paused with my hand on the Corvette’s roof.
“Nah. Just don’t start ‘er up and roll out of here.”
“Little chance of that.” I climbed into the car and immediately stuck my head back out. “Alex, can I put the wheel on?”
“Oh, yah, sure. They’re blocked.”
“Thanks.” I’d wanted to be sure that the spindles were blocked—that the front suspension was held in place and wouldn’t turn in response to me touching the steering column and interfere with his work. I lifted the steering wheel from the hook in the middle of the ceiling, slipped it on the column, and clicked it into place. Then I closed my eyes and breathed deeply three times, mentally shedding everything but the car. I visualized the cockpit, thinking through every switch. I opened my eyes, and my mental vision matched reality.
Once again I thought my way around the Lime Rock track, imagining every upshift, downshift, and braking maneuver. I was in a zone where I no longer heard the clank of tools in the garage, noticed the tripping shutters of passing fans, or cared what was happening outside of my bubble. A calm settled over me. I hadn’t yet driven the car, but I felt familiar with it, a part of it. Finally. The word rippled through my mind as my keyed-up nerves relaxed.
I scooted out of the car a different person than I’d been going in. My feet were under me now. I knew there’d be plenty to adapt to—the grip of the brakes, the downforce in the turns, the slickness of the track—but at last I knew the tool I’d use to crush the competition. I felt a satisfied smile develop as I gave the car a final pat and moved away. “Thanks, Alex. See you.”
“You betcha, Kate.” He waggled a wrench at me.
Instead of walking across to the motorhome and my teammates, I left the garage, stepping around the pole holding the rope barrier. Careful not to meet the gaze of anyone walking by or standing in front of our setup, I turned and walked quickly toward the track, stopping at the end of the pits where I could see the straight and Big Bend. I crossed my arms and thought through my approach, acceleration, braking, and turning in the Corvette. I was as ready as I was going to get.
I exited the pits and saw Detective Jolley standing at the rear of my Jeep behind the police tape. I got his attention, and a minute later, he was standing in front of me.
“Ms. Reilly.”
I squared my shoulders. “Detective. I remembered something.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Last night, at the restaurant—The Boathouse. Wade and I had words.”
“Words?”
“Yes. He made a rude comment, and I said something equally impolite.”
“You’d forgotten this?”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I know it sounds ridiculous. But I did—until about an hour ago.”
He pulled a notebook and pen out of his jacket pocket. “Give me the details.”
“Out of the blue he came up to me and said something like, ‘You think you’re such hot shit, but you’re not going to steal my ride. I’ll fix you good first.’”
“Out of the blue? You didn’t say anything to provoke him?”
“No! Nothing. I didn’t even know he was at the restaurant—”
Jolley held up a hand. “He threatened you. And what did you say to him?”
I swallowed, remembering the shock of Wade’s threat and the embarrassment of other people hearing it. “He immediately walked away. I turned to Holly and Perry and Zeke—Perry’s with one of the sponsors and Zeke, the SPEED Channel guy—and said, ‘Yeah, but he’d have to catch me. And besides, I might just nail his ass first.’” The detective’s expression never budged, but I felt his increased interest.
“Come on, I meant on the track—racing. That I’d beat him if we raced together. You know, it was just talk.” What a cliché. Is that what Jolley heard every time? Hmm…how much murder did he encounter in the northwest corner of Connecticut?
“Had he threatened you before?”
“No. I never exchanged any words with him at all. Well, I raced with his team last year, so we talked then, and I knew him to say hi to, but nothing more.”
“Do you have any idea why he threatened you?”
I shook my head.
“Do you know what he meant?”
“He implied I was trying to replace him, but that’s absurd.”
“Why?”
“He’s driven with that team for years and years. He’s their senior driver—he practically is that team. They’re not going to get rid of him—weren’t.”
“But he wasn’t fast lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“If he’d have to catch you, you imply he’s slower. Is that true?”
Jolley was quick. “He’s—he was a great driver. But recently he wasn’t running—er, driving—as fast. I wondered if he was slipping for some reason.”
“Did you discuss that with anyone else?”
“No! No one.” He looked skeptical, and I kept explaining. “I keep track of a lot of data about different courses and different drivers. But I don’t share it—or volunteer my opinion.”
He nodded and made another note.
A thought struck me, and I blurted out, “Oh God, Wade was right.”
Jolley came alive. “About what, Ms. Reilly?”
“Well, not right, exactly. What he said last night. I wasn’t trying to, but I’ve ended up in his place.”
“Yes, it occurred to me. Anything else you’ve suddenly remembered, Ms. Reilly?”
“That’s it.”
He flipped his notebook closed, nodded, and walked back behind the caution tape.
I was on my way back to the Sandham Swift paddock, feeling less burdened, when I passed Stuart, no doubt heading to check up on his minions who were taking VIP guests on laps around the track. He held up a hand, whether to greet me or order a halt, I wasn’t sure. I thought of Tom’s belief in Stuart’s good intentions and gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Hi, Stuart. How’s it going?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Fine, thank you, Kate. Are you settled in?”
“I’m as ready as I’m going to get before practice, yes. Thanks for asking.”
“Tom sent me a press release, and I’ve returned it with some modifications for your approval. I’d appreciate your input before your practice session. I have a long list of media to send it to.”
“I’ll take a look. But that’s all about Wade, right? I mean, they’re not that interested in me.”
He tipped his head to the side and gave a small shrug. “Most. Most are about Wade. And you as a byproduct of that story.” He saw me wince. “Just you replacing him as a driver. I didn’t go into…the rest.”
“Good.”
“But there are a couple of media outlets who want your story for you. Since you’re a woman driver.”
I had to stifle a snort. I’d noticed.
“And maybe you’ll be full-t
ime this season.”
“With any luck.”
“I wish you that luck.” I could have sworn I heard his heels click together.
“Thanks, Stuart. See you later. I’ll review the release with Tom.” I walked on in shock. Détente. Who’d have thought?
Chapter Twelve
I approached the team motorhome with trepidation. Susanah Purley, drama queen, could still be in there. However, so was my gear. In I went.
Aunt Tee was at the far end of the main room, wiping down the kitchenette’s counters. Mrs. Purley was draped across one of the two tan leather couches that lined the walls. She lifted her hand from her brow and said a weak hello.
Aunt Tee bobbed her head at each of us. “Kate, please meet Mrs. Susanah Purley. Susanah, this is Kate Reilly. She’ll be…filling in for Wade.”
Susanah sat up with a burst of energy. “A female racecar driver?”
“You got it. Nice to meet you.” I moved past her to sit at the mini kitchen table.
Her voice grew faint again. “A female racecar driver. How Wade would have liked that.” She blinked back tears. “He was so supportive of an individual’s talent, in any arena. He was so kind, so nurturing.”
Aunt Tee and I exchanged glances as Susanah leaned her head back and closed her eyes. I saw tears trickling down her face.
“Just so sad.” Susanah gave a delicate sniff. “Such a waste of life and talent.”
I made a polite noise of agreement and caught Aunt Tee rolling her eyes. But Susanah wanted more. “You knew him, didn’t you? Wouldn’t you agree?”
I replied with care. “I only knew him slightly. I raced with the team once last year. Anyone who follows sportscar racing knows of Wade. But I didn’t know him. He was extremely talented.” Once, I thought.
Aunt Tee handed me a bottle of water with a smile. “A snack, Kate?” She gestured toward a bunch of grapes.
“Sure, thanks.” I watched her add some cheese slices to a plate with the fruit.
Susanah allowed this small diversion before returning to her topic. “Well, then, you wouldn’t really know the extent of how interesting Wade was. How diverse his interests, how multi-dimensional he was.”
“No, I guess not.” My reluctant response was all the invitation she needed.
Susanah sat up straighter, tucking her feet under her and leaning her elbows on the wide arm of the sofa. “Just think about where he came from. His mother grew up on a cotton farm in Alabama. His father was from New York City. ‘The farm girl and the city boy,’ he used to call them. By the time he was ten, Wade was spending half the year with each remarried parent—in radically different environments. Small wonder he was so adept socially.”
I nodded thanks to Aunt Tee as she handed me a napkin. Susanah was going on about Wade’s equal comfort with the executive sponsor types—those with the money and power, I translated—and with the crew—those at the bottom. During an anecdote, Aunt Tee managed to ask silently if I wanted Mrs. Purley out of there. I shook my head. It was entertainment while I ate—and the distraction was probably good, to clear my head of race anxiety.
“And of course, you know that Wade went to college too,” Susanah continued.
“Mmm.”
“Here and there, while he was racing. But he did get a degree—in literature and philosophy, if you can imagine that.”
I couldn’t imagine it. “Really?”
Susanah had an “I told you so” look on her face. “Oh, yes. Every once in a while he’d explain something about Aristotle and race strategy—I mean, philosophy? I didn’t understand a thing.”
I wasn’t sure if that made Wade smart or Susanah dumb.
“I guess there was family pressure to go into law or finance, or even the academic world. But he loved racing. And of course, there was his skill on the track.”
“Mmm, hmmm.” I was finishing a bottle of water, on my way to another. I always tried to over-hydrate before getting into the car, since I could lose as much as five pounds in a race stint, primarily through sweat. I was also thinking about getting into my race suit.
“You’d know about that.”
“Uh, yeah.” I focused on her. “Wade’s skill. Championships in three or four different series. Won the 24 Hours of Le Mans, the 12 Hours of Sebring, ran a couple NASCAR races, tested for Formula One at one point. He was all over the racing world.”
I’d gotten Susanah misty again. “‘One of the sportscar greats’—that’s what the TV announcers said about him at the last race.”
“Excuse me, but I’ve got to change.”
“Oh, sure.” But she kept talking to Aunt Tee as I walked to the back of the motorhome, stopped in the bathroom, then shut the door of the small bedroom where Aunt Tee had spread my gear out on the bed. I tucked my street clothes and shoes into my now-empty duffle bag, putting on cotton underwear and a cotton sports bra, then a layer of Nomex fire-retardant long-underwear. Once I added the Nomex socks, I was covered from neck to wrist to toe in fire-retardant fibers.
In any other racecar, I’d have put on a “cool suit,” a Nomex shirt with a tiny hose sewn to it in a looping pattern through which cold water would be pumped. But the C6.R had a better and lighter system: an air conditioner that plugged directly into my helmet and kept my head—and the air I breathed—cooled.
The last step in the process was the race suit itself: a thick, quilted, fire-retardant jumpsuit, black on the bottom with a white top littered with sponsor logos. I was sweating already, from the close air in the motorhome, air conditioned though it was, and the layers of Nomex. By the end of the day—by the end of only twenty minutes of practice—I’d have sweated through every stitch I had on. That was the norm. I unzipped my suit and climbed in, poking my feet through the elasticized cuffs and shimmying the suit up over my hips. I zipped from mid-thigh halfway up. I wouldn’t put the top half on until I left the motorhome.
I could still hear Susanah talking. I slung my earplugs—custom fitted, on a long set of audio wires that would plug into the car’s radio system—around my neck again. Then I took a deep breath, grabbed my race shoes, and went back out front.
Aunt Tee gave me another bottle of water and a long-suffering look. I dropped my shoes near the sofa and pulled a couple items out of my bag under the kitchen table. A pen, a small spiral-bound notebook, and some chapstick. I set them all on a sofa cushion and sat down opposite Susanah.
She’d been quiet, watching me. “You’re starting to get in the zone, aren’t you?”
I nodded, surprised.
“That’s what Wade used to say, that putting on all the gear, pulling out the special tools—that was part of getting mentally ready.”
“He was right.”
She cocked her head to the side. “He was so smart. And yet—he could be so funny.”
“Funny?” I repeated, then cursed myself for encouraging her.
“So insecure. Needy. Wanting reassurance.”
“Well, we all sometimes—”
“Like he’d call me because he thought he was being passed over by the top teams at the big races—the 24 Hours of Daytona or Le Mans. I’d reassure him that he wasn’t being disrespected, he’d find another team to race for. Or he called me to rant about how he wasn’t sent to some ALMS press conference. You know, when the Series needs drivers to talk to the press? For years, he was always the one to go. He was angry. He kept saying, ‘They’re idiots. I’m one of the best drivers in the ALMS. You know that.’ He’d wait for me to agree. What else could I do but agree?”
The question was obviously rhetorical, because Susanah pressed on. Aunt Tee handed me a plastic bag with a deliberately blank expression.
“And really, he was right. So I’d tell him he was right, he was a champion, the Series wasn’t smart about who they had as representatives—I mean, Wade
was a natural salesman. I used to laugh about how he’d answer a question on camera with every sponsor’s name, series name, track name, and his own upbeat response.” She raised a hand to her mouth as her giggles turned to sniffles.
I stowed my earrings, necklace, and watch in the bag and handed it back to Aunt Tee, nodding at Susanah. “He was really good at that.” I didn’t add that self- and sponsor-promotion were skills as necessary to racecar drivers as the ability to turn a wheel. I’d always thought Wade’s sales job overdone. But there was no doubt he’d been popular with the Series and sponsors. Or had he been, at the end?
“Mrs. Purley, when was that conversation? When he wasn’t sent to the press conference?”
“I think it was back in March, or maybe it was the end of last season. I’m not sure—wait, last October, but he brought it up again in March. Or maybe it happened again in March?” She wrinkled her forehead.
“I see.” I paused. “Is your husband going to be here today? I’d like to meet him.”
“Not today. Charlie’s coming in late tonight, so he’ll be here for the race on Monday. I spoke with him this morning, and he’s terribly upset too.”
“Did he know Wade well?”
“Oh yes, he liked Wade a lot. Thought he was a great guy.”
I didn’t know how to ask the question I really wanted answered—didn’t he mind that you and Wade were such good “friends?”
The knock and shout came together. “Kate! You in there? You suited up?” Mike opened the door and popped his head in. “Let’s talk for a couple minutes.”
“Just give me a second, Mike. I’ll be right out.” He was in his suit too, and I figured the other three drivers had changed in the trailer office. Usually the four of us would hang out together in the motorhome, but they were avoiding Mrs. Purley.
“Got to go,” I announced to Susanah and Aunt Tee, and tried to stay calm as I pulled up the top half of my race suit, put my shoes on, and tied the laces firmly.
Dead Man’s Switch Page 6
