I wasn’t sure. “OK. But why won’t you miss Wade?”
“Well, and I’ll tell you. He’d as soon run you over as look at you on the track.”
“Odd,” drawled Heinrich, a dry, laconic German who drove one of the fastest cars in the ALMS. “I never had that problem.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Eddie rolled his eyes. “But try being in his way sometime. Marco knows what I mean, don’t you? He punted you off on more than one occasion.”
Marco, a dark-haired, expressive Italian driver of the Saleen in our own class, wasn’t saying much. Just scowling.
“Everyone bumps each other now and then,” I said. “Did Wade do more than anyone else?”
“The problem was with his attitude after the race.” This was from Dave, a short, slight Indiana-boy with white-blond hair and a serious demeanor. “Sure, we all bang wheels, but we laugh it off afterwards. Even when we get pissed at each other—” He nodded to Eddie, with whom he’d had a running argument over three or four races last season. “We get over it. But not Wade. That man held a grudge.”
Eddie jumped back in. “And not even for something reasonable, like you bumping him. He’d hate you forever if he bumped you. Right, it was my fault I was in his way! Mad.”
“He confused fear with respect,” noted Heinrich.
Eddie nodded. “Exactly. He changed—it’s like he thought he could intimidate us so no one pushed him around on the track.”
Marco suddenly burst out, “He—he was not right in the head.”
I turned to look at Marco walking behind me. “Really?”
Torsten, a Swedish driver of one of the factory Corvettes, put a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Now, Marco. You’re just angry because Wade told everyone about your wife and your girlfriend. And your other girlfriend. And your—how many is it, three?—children that aren’t your wife’s.” His broad face creased into his habitual smile, revealing large white teeth.
Marco glowered at him. “And I should pay him? Not Marco!”
“Blackmail?” I couldn’t tell if he was serious.
Marco didn’t respond and the other drivers either shrugged or looked blank.
Torsten chuckled as he patted Marco’s shoulder again. “I guess that’s why he told everyone your secrets then. It’s a good thing you can prove where you were last night and this morning. No, Wade wasn’t crazy. But he had his own way of looking at the world. I think there was only one thing important to him: winning. Winning the race and maybe everything else too. Just that one thing.” His smile disappeared. “And he’d do whatever it took to get it.”
“Reckless.” Eddie dropped the word. “That’s what he was, reckless. And the public may think we’re all nutters, but reckless, we’re not.”
I’d known, of course, that Wade had been aggressive, but I’d never heard of behavior outside the norm. “Reckless,” I repeated, remembering Holly saying the same. “You mean on the track?”
I saw nods. Torsten looked thoughtful. “Yes, unpredictable, especially lately. Maybe Wade realized he was starting to lose his speed.”
“Was he?”
No one was going to point the finger. “Maybe,” Eddie finally admitted. “Maybe he wanted to make sure we all paid attention to him, even if he was no longer the fastest guy on track. I mean, we all slow down sometime. I just hope to do it gracefully.”
“Not Wade, though,” piped up Dave, the Indianan. “He’d have fought it tooth and nail.”
“Maybe he did,” I mused. Then I remembered something Zeke said. “Guys? Have you heard of something weird going on in the Series?”
“Like cars that can’t maintain grip?” Dave Hacker frowned. He’d been at the wheel of the Racing Systems Panoz at a previous race when it broke loose in a turn and spun into the tires, ending his day.
“I still say it is the tires!” Marco took every opportunity to disparage tires that weren’t Pirellis.
“No.” Torsten shook his head. “I’ve heard it’s the Delray ECU customers who should be worried. But what do you mean, ‘something weird,’ Kate?”
“I’m not sure. Just a rumor that Wade had been involved in something…dark. Maybe he knew something about the current problems.”
The group was silent. I couldn’t tell if no one knew anything or no one wanted to say.
Heinrich had the last word as the group split up in the paddock crossroads. “Anything is possible. Of course, based on the evidence, it might be dangerous to know anything at all.”
Was that why Wade died, because he knew too much about something bad going on? I wondered, as I drove north to my cheap motel just over the Massachusetts state line. Deeds so terrible that murder would be done to cover them up seemed unbelievable. But Wade had been killed for some reason.
I thought of other questions I should have asked the drivers, questions about Wade, who—besides Marco—didn’t like him, and the whispers floating around about me. I also thought about what Dave Hacker had doubled back to tell me, after everyone else walked away: that Wade had threatened him with “fixing it so he couldn’t race again” if Dave didn’t stay out of his way. I’d been too stunned to ask questions before he ran off to his team.
You must get better at investigating, Kate. Think faster. At least Holly always had her ear to the ground. She’d tell me what she’d heard when we met for a drink at six.
I stopped the car in front of my motel and slumped in the seat. The day had been busy enough for five lifetimes. Oops, just not Wade’s lifetime. My cell phone rang.
“Kate Reilly.”
“Ms. Reilly, Detective Jolley here.”
I was glad I was sitting down. “Yes?”
“Ms. Reilly, I’d like to talk with you again tomorrow. Could you meet me at the track at nine in the morning?”
“I’ve told you everything I can think of.”
“I’d like to walk with you through your actions of this morning, to see what else you might remember.”
“Certainly, Detective. I’d be happy to help. Does this mean you have other suspects?”
The line was quiet. “You’re not at the top of the list, Ms. Reilly, but you’re still on it.”
“You have a list? Who—how—I mean, wha—”
“I’m not going to talk about this with you. Please meet me at the Series trailer at nine tomorrow. You’ll be at your hotel in Massachusetts tonight?”
“Oh, no. Jack—Mr. Sandham booked me into the White Hart Inn with the rest of the team. I’ll be there. But you can reach me at this number anywhere.”
“Thank you, Ms. Reilly. See you tomorrow morning.”
I disconnected and leaned my head against the steering wheel. I’d yearned for the day I got a full-paying gig so hard it had been a physical ache…but I’d never expected anything quite like this.
I was back in the car, headed south to the White Hart, when my cell phone rang again. I fumbled to answer it.
“Katie!” My grandfather’s voice boomed out.
“Gramps!” I smiled down the phone line.
“What’s this I’ve been hearing? Are you in a bit of a pickle?”
My grandfather, who’d started out as a small-town mechanic, had developed the best network of informants I’d ever heard of within the racing world. He often knew the news at home in New Mexico before I knew it at the track. “What have you heard, Gramps?”
“Well, now, I’ve been told my girl found two things today: a ride and a dead man. Only not in that order. Either of those true?”
I sighed. “Both, Gramps. Both.”
“Well.” He paused. “I won’t waste your money talking about something you can’t fix—since I know you didn’t kill the man.”
“No, but he did happen to be the guy whose ride I’m taking. So I’ve been talking with the
police. They think that’s quite a coincidence.”
“Tricky. You just remember what I always told you.”
I nodded, though he couldn’t see me, and repeated his mantra with him. “‘Concentrate on your driving, and everything else will take care of itself.’ I will, Gramps. And how’s Grandmother?”
“Fine. She’s cooking dinner.”
“Saturday. That must mean it’s roast chicken.”
“Likely to be.” We both knew few things in life were as predictable as my Grandmother’s menus.
“You hiding out in your shop?” I could picture him there, sitting in his favorite chair of worn, cracked, brown leather, hitched up close to his workbench, dozens of multicolored spools of wire within easy reach. As he’d built a chain of car repair shops in Albuquerque, my grandfather had discovered an affinity for the electrical systems of racecars—and at seventy-nine, racing teams from across the country still came to him for handcrafted wiring harnesses. In his small workshop in the backyard he put together assemblies of the highest quality and best luck—teams he supplied won more often than not, and his customers called him their good luck charm.
“Yessiree,” he crowed. “Putting together a harness for a sweet little car out in Charlotte, North Carolina.” The sweet little car was as likely to be a snarling NASCAR creation as it was a low-power club racer. No snobbery there—Gramps would make gear for everyone.
“Give my best to Grandmother—oh! Gramps, something else today. I forgot.”
I paused long enough that he prompted me. “Yes, Katie?”
“My father. My father showed up. He’s involved with the ALMS. He’s here.”
He was quiet, and then he started muttering. I made out a few phrases: “…think he is…won’t be telling your grandmother that…what the hell he wants.” He raised the volume. “Katie, what did you think?”
“I don’t know. Not interested, mostly. He said he wanted to talk to me. I told him I didn’t have time.”
“Well, Katie, love, I can’t say as I blame you. And you’ll do as you need to. Ignore the man if that’s what feels right to you.”
“For the moment. I’ve got too much else to think about.”
“That you do. Drive the wheels off that car now, you hear? I’ll be watching!”
“Great. I love you, Gramps.”
Chapter Seventeen
I’d admired the White Hart Inn in the tiny town of Salisbury, Connecticut, on past visits to the Lime Rock track, but hadn’t ever stayed there. The best feature of the main building, a two-story, white clapboard structure built in the early 1800s, was the deep porch that ran the width of the inn. I hefted my bags up onto it, eyeing the padded wicker chairs covetously, and swung open the door, headed for the reception desk. What I found first was my father.
He was standing at the small desk tucked into the right front corner of the lobby—its origins as a living room were obvious—talking with the one and only desk clerk. I veered left and set my bags down next to a dark, floral-patterned easy chair. I tried to be inconspicuous, staring at a painting with my back to the desk, noting the entrance to the tap room and restaurant on the right and a doorway to a lounge on the left. He finished his conversation a minute later, and my childish efforts at avoidance didn’t work.
“Katherine.” I heard surprise in his voice.
I turned, nodded, and started to move to the desk to check in.
“Katherine.” He stood his ground and reached out as if to touch my arm. I stopped and regarded him with what I hoped was a lack of interest.
He cleared his throat. “I’d like a few minutes to talk with you. Please.”
“I’m currently late, I’m afraid.”
“Just a couple minutes. Tomorrow maybe? I have something for you from your grandfather.”
Gramps? I thought. What could he mean?
He must have seen my confusion. “My father, that is. He passed away a few months ago.”
Another family member I hadn’t known. I couldn’t feel grief for his death or sorrow for the absence of him in my life. My day had been too long, too overwhelming—too already filled with death—to take this on as well. “I’m sorry for your loss. But you’ll have to excuse me now.” I moved away.
“Another time,” he murmured behind me.
I found my room—around the back, in a one-story wing added in the 1950s—and had just enough time to shower and drop into a chair on the front porch before Holly arrived.
“Hello, sugar, what’re you drinkin’?” She looked fresh and clean, clad for once in non-team wear: loose, slinky black pants and a blush-pink linen blouse that didn’t even clash with her red hair.
“Holly, how on God’s green earth do you manage linen with all this traveling?” She was someone whose clothes never wrinkled, whose hair never wilted, and whose shoes never scuffed. I didn’t get it.
She winked. “That’s one of life’s great mysteries. No racing tomorrow, so you’ll have wine with me tonight, yes?” At my nod, she patted me on the shoulder and went inside, reappearing shortly with two generous glasses of something red.
“So.” Holly crossed one knee over the other and bobbed her foot up and down in its low-heeled black sandal.
“So.”
“How was your day, Miss Kate?”
I looked at her blankly. “This stuff doesn’t happen to normal people.”
“What does that make you?”
“Lucky? Unlucky? I don’t even know.”
She eyed me over the rim of her wineglass. “Does that cute little Tom Albright tickle your fancy?”
“Where did that come from?”
“I’m just sayin’. He’s cute.”
“And the original nice guy.” I spoke without thinking.
“Ha!”
“Oh, please.”
“The grapevine tells me you two spent a lot of time together today.”
“The grapevine?! That’s all I need. Besides, hello? We both work for the team. At least for this race.”
“Hmmm. You also saw a lot of Stuart today.”
I almost choked on my wine. “Stop. That man thinks I’m an idiot.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I’ve seen him watching you…in a way that made my heart flutter.” She flapped a hand at her chest.
“Now you’re hallucinating. I promise you: he thinks I’m an idiot. End of story. Pigs would fly first.”
She shook her head, a smile on her lips. “We’ll just see. Besides, I wouldn’t be a girlfriend if I didn’t rib you about a man now and then, would I?”
“I guess not.” I drank more wine. “What else is the grapevine saying? And who is it?”
“Sugar, I never reveal my sources. And really, you don’t want to know the details.”
“Holly.”
She put her glass down and leaned forward. She was more serious than I’d seen her all day. “Kate, trust me on this one. They’re the same stupid—and untrue—rumors we hear every week. You know, someone’s bangin’ someone else’s someone. Driver X is about to quit or be run out of town. Can you believe driver Y is so down on his luck that he’s paying for a ride? And so on. Plus a few about Wade and you.”
“Together?”
“No, nothing like that—unless I haven’t heard it yet. Just your…connections.”
“Well, the police—and even Benny Stephens—think it’s pretty convenient that I got his ride, so why should I be surprised the rumor mill’s saying the same thing? That’s it, right?”
She nodded.
“Unbelievable. The best and the worst day of my life, all in one.”
“It’s memorable.”
“I know I need to put my head down and drive. But I’m also starting to think I need to clear my name.”
“Sure. But they don’t have the vested interest I do in putting the grapevine’s rumors to rest. Or the contacts.”
Holly lifted her glass in a toast. “Here’s to Miss Marple in a race helmet.”
Chapter Eighteen
Fifteen minutes later, Tom himself showed up. “Hey, Kate. How’re you doing, Holly?”
“Good. What are you doing this fine evening?” Holly’s drawl was thick.
“Ah, the sounds of the South.”
“Sugar, you a Southern boy?”
“Nope, a poor kid from a Colorado ranch—the wild West, ma’am.”
As they chatted and flirted, I thought about Holly’s question. I tilted my head, narrowed my eyes, and tried to envision Tom romantically. A nice guy. Cute.
“Kate?” Holly’s voice was sharp. “You thinking about your last root canal?”
I opened my eyes wide. Tom was looking at me strangely. Oops. No romantic vibe there. “Sorry.”
“Tom, join us, would you?” Holly gestured to a chair.
“Sure, if I’m not interrupting.”
I leaned forward as he sat down. “No. In fact, I have to tell you both something. Mr. Purley is in town.”
“What?” Tom shook his head. “That can’t be right. He was clear he was coming in tomorrow.”
“It was definitely Mrs. Purley’s husband.” I described the scene I’d overheard in the motorhome, complete with undercurrents of manipulation and violence. “That’s one messed up relationship.”
“Disturbing.” Holly tapped her lips with her index finger.
Tom agreed. “I wonder what’s really going on—what you heard, I mean. Aunt Tee didn’t see him at the paddock today. Heck, Susanah was adamant that he wasn’t going to be here. You didn’t see him, right? It could be someone else.” He saw my raised eyebrows. “No, I guess not. But it doesn’t sound like who I’ve met. ‘Fixed things?’ I don’t like the sound of that.”
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