“Me either.” I recalled the menace I’d heard and shivered. “But Tom, maybe you can ask around. See if Jack or the crew knows anything about Mr. Purley.”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can find out.”
Holly looked at me. I could read her silent message. Be careful.
I ignored her. “And another thing. Some of the other drivers had interesting things to say. Apparently Wade held on to his mad and nursed it between races. One of the drivers told me Wade threatened him at a race last year.”
“It makes no sense!” Tom burst out. “I mean, if a driver had died, I might think Wade had killed him. But the reverse?”
“Kate.” Holly was atypically serious. “Who?”
I’d been told in confidence, but I couldn’t get myself out from under suspicion, or the rumor mill, if I didn’t share what I knew. “Dave Hacker. One of the drivers of the Panoz cars—the little guy from Indiana? But he also told me that Wade let it go at the beginning of this season.”
Tom groaned. “Geez, maybe it isn’t such a surprise it’s Wade that’s dead. I had no idea.”
“That Wade was sure a peach.” Holly raised her glass in a mock toast and drained the last of her wine.
Tom ran his hands over his face. “Do you know who the others were?”
“No. I don’t think Dave did either. And don’t say anything to Dave. I wasn’t supposed to tell.”
“But you’re going to tell the police.” Holly issued a command, not a question.
“I guess I’ve got to. I’ll tell Detective Jolley in the morning—I’m meeting him at the track at nine.”
I answered Holly’s look. “A reenactment.”
Her lips curved. “Delightful.”
“Stuart!” Tom waved at the man climbing the steps to the porch.
Doubly delightful. Stuart was shaking Tom’s hand and smiling—that was new—at Holly before leaning down to kiss her cheek. He turned to me, and I planted a pleasant expression on my face. “Hi, Stuart.”
“Kate.” Maybe I only imagined the hesitation before he extended his hand, but I preferred the collegial handshake to the decorative female treatment Holly’d gotten.
“Sit down, Stuart.” Tom waved a hand to an empty chair.
Holly shot me a glance. I could read that one too. Behave, it said. And be nice. I sighed again. It was time for that. Time to start playing the race-weekend game for the sponsors, media, and team members.
“Stuart,” I began. “Are you staying at the Inn, or are you here for the restaurant?”
“I’m staying just down the road.”
“He’s here for our dinner, Kate,” Tom noted.
I aimed for no inflection at all. “That’s nice.”
Tom turned to Stuart. “Kate was just telling us she’s meeting Detective Jolley tomorrow morning at the track for a reenactment.”
Stuart looked at me without saying anything.
“‘Reenactment’ might be stretching it,” I amended. “He said he wanted me to walk through my actions again.”
“Maybe you should have someone there with you,” put in Holly.
Stuart nodded. “When are you meeting him?”
“Nine, at the Series trailer.”
“Then I’ll see you there at that time.”
“But…OK. Thank you.” Holly hid her amusement behind her wineglass as I cleared my throat. “All Jolley would tell me is I wasn’t at the top of his list.”
Tom leaned forward. “I wonder why?”
Stuart spoke. “Probably because Wade had been dead some eight to ten hours before Kate found him.”
We were all silent, absorbing that news. I shook my head. “Why am I so relieved to hear something definite? Have you heard anything else, Stuart?”
“Yes. The cause of death was subdural hematoma. Bleeding inside the lining of the brain.”
I tried to reconcile the verdict with the glimpse of the body I’d had. “But there was no blood or obvious injury.”
“No, there’s often no visible sign. It’s what the coroner found.”
“But, how?” Tom asked.
Stuart shrugged. “They’re not sure, exactly. He was hit on the side of the head, from above. With what object, they don’t know, though it was heavy, but smooth, as there was no skin broken.”
“Heavy and smooth,” I repeated. “What could that have been?”
“Plenty of stuff around a racetrack,” Holly commented.
“A mallet?” Tom suggested.
I shook my head. “Wouldn’t a mallet break skin? How about one of those sandbags they hold equipment down with?”
“Ooh, yeah!” Tom was getting into this. “Or a helmet? Or a fire extinguisher?”
Holly was thinking about her kind of tools. “Or a serving bowl—even a bag of ice.”
I looked at her. “Ice?”
“It’s heavy.”
Stuart listened, but didn’t participate. I turned to him. “You have any ideas?”
He shook his head with a frown. “I haven’t had the urge to speculate.”
I wanted desperately to roll my eyes.
He unbent a little. “However, based on what the detective told me, any of those objects are possible. But, as you know, Kate, they didn’t find anything near Wade’s body to tell them for sure.”
“So,” Holly mused, “someone actually hit Wade upside the head.”
“More like over the head,” Stuart corrected.
I eyed him. “Should you really be telling us this?”
He raised tented fingers to his lips. “Perhaps not. But I’m confident you didn’t kill Wade. And I understand you’re determined to prove it.”
I swiveled my eyes to Tom, who looked sheepish. I nodded to Stuart. “That’s right.”
“I’d like to help clear this up as well, for the sake of the Series, Jack’s team, and even you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Holly kicked my foot under the coffee table.
“I’m sorry,” I went on. “I’m grateful for the help—and the belief.”
Holly turned to Stuart. “I guess you’re working on more than one mystery now.”
Stuart raised an eyebrow at her.
Holly laughed. “Come on, the whole paddock knows you’re working on ‘The Case of the Spinning Racecar.’”
“Yeah, how’s that going?” I asked. “Rumors are flying. Any idea what’s really happening?”
Stuart turned to me with the same look. “No comment.”
At that moment, the main door to the inn swung open and Jack Sandham exited, radiating geniality and power. He and Tom both wore black versions of the white team shirt I had on, and Jack’s, combined with black trousers, accentuated his lean height. I looked a long way up to see his face.
“Good evening.” He gestured to all of us with his cocktail.
“We’re not late, are we?” Tom sounded anxious.
Jack took a sip of what looked like Scotch on the rocks. “Not at all. How is everyone this evening? How’re things in your neck of the woods, Holly?”
She held out a tiny hand to be enveloped in his and twinkled at him. “Fine and dandy, sugar. Nothing eventful.”
“Ha,” Jack barked, sipping again. “Wouldn’t uneventful be nice.”
“Do what you can with what you’ve got, right?”
“Indeed.” He spoke with feeling.
With a nod to me, Holly broke the burgeoning somber mood. “But Jack, are you sure you ought to take this one on? She’ll be trouble, you know.”
Another sip. “I’ll take my chances. Nowhere to go but up from where we were. And it’s not like she was a snap decision either. I’d been thinking along those lines. I’ll take my chances.”
He
delivered the welcome endorsement offhand, while scanning passing cars. He must have seen the arrival he was waiting for, because he took his leave. “See you inside in five—Holly, join us if you’d like.” Then he took off in the direction of the parking lot.
Tom smiled. “What do you think, Holly, want to stay?”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a date with some bubble bath and a romance novel.”
“But, sugar,” I mimicked her, “how can you stand to miss all the fun?”
She stood up and brushed nonexistent wrinkles out of her pants. “I’ll live with the disappointment. You behave.” She directed that to me, then nodded at Stuart and Tom. “Boys. I’ll see y’all tomorrow or Monday.”
“Have a good evening, Holly.” Stuart stood when she did and kissed her cheek again.
“Bye, Holly. Thanks.” I jumped up to give her a hug and walked her partway to her car.
She had two more parting instructions for me: be good, and go kick some butt.
Chapter Nineteen
Tom, Stuart, and I walked into the back room of the White Hart’s restaurant to find a large square table set for twelve and a handful of people standing around. Mike was across the room talking with the SPEED Channel announcers. He lifted a hand in greeting, prompting Benny and Ian to turn around and do the same. All three held cocktails, which explained their expressions of delight. Benny and Ian lived life with gusto, whether that was scouting for gossip—“color”—to add to their broadcasts, telling tall tales of races past, or consuming free drinks and gourmet food provided by a team owner looking for air time. They’d be in their element tonight, doing all three at once while being flattered for the kind of coverage they’d probably give us on-air anyway. It was part of the game we all played.
I wasn’t ready to take the plunge of sucking up to sponsors I’d never met before, so I joined Mike. Tom and Stuart had abandoned me the instant we entered the room, Tom heading for Jack, and Stuart talking to a slightly pudgy, balding guy wearing glasses and a rumpled navy suit.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Mike, Benny, Ian, and I were all dressed alike, in the racing fraternity’s second uniform: jeans or khakis and a button-down shirt embroidered with logos of the team and sponsor—or television network, in Benny and Ian’s case.
“So, Kate.” Ian’s Scottish burr was softened by years of living in the States. “You can tell us....” He paused, and I braced myself. “Your day was a wee bit boring, wasn’t it? Tell us the truth, now.” Ian kept a straight face, but Benny was hooting with laughter.
I pretended to think the question over carefully, pursing my lips and nodding. “Just ho-hum.” I caught Mike smirking into his glass.
Ian put an arm across my shoulders. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
“Having you two around keeps it in fine shape.”
“Seriously, Kate.” Benny looked somber. “Has anyone figured out what happened?”
“I don’t know anything, except that I’m still a suspect.”
Ian was shaking his head. “It’s so strange. I wouldn’t have put it past Wade to be mixed up in a murder, but I wouldn’t have pegged him for the corpse.”
“You seriously thought he could have killed someone? People just don’t do that sort of thing.”
“He had a streak of mean in him. I sometimes watched him driving and dealing with people and thought if he ever lost control, who knew what would happen.”
“But, Ian,” Benny put in, “he was nothing compared to old Devin Carroll—remember twenty-some years ago? He was a terror.”
I lost track of their conversation about racing maniacs of days gone by because I was watching two people who’d just entered the room: a big, beefy, forty-something man who looked like a former NFL player—the classic ex-jock—and Susanah Purley. The happy couple.
I turned back to the three men. “So, who would get Wade close to the edge?”
They just looked at each other.
“Who?” Benny repeated. “Everybody.”
“Come on, guys, names.”
Ian looked thoughtful. “Marco in the Saleen. Sean—that Canadian guy who drove a Porsche last year, remember? Dave Hacker, our farm boy. Vincent Bradley. Paul Yaeger. John Newton. The list goes on. Jack. Mike, here. That’s not even mentioning the sponsors, Series people, media.”
“Wait. Mike?” I looked at him with concern.
Mike, my brawny co-driver—who, if I didn’t trust with my life, I trusted with the same machinery I trusted my life to—held up a hand. “Wait now. They’ll tell you: Wade fought with everyone. He’d get pissed at me, saying I threw away a race or did something else he thought I shouldn’t have done.” He looked embarrassed and rubbed his neck with his hand. “I didn’t always manage to keep my cool, that’s all. I tried, I know what he’s like. But get into the heat of the race—or have him get in my face yelling that I’d done something wrong when I hadn’t? Once in a while I’d shout back. Who doesn’t?”
Benny’s laugh boomed out. “Kate, don’t you see? He argued with everyone. All the sponsors—heck, everyone in this room!” He waved a hand.
Ian shook his index finger. “Except us, Ben.”
“That’s right. He knew better than to mess with us.”
I wasn’t sure I saw the distinction between messing with the television commentators and messing with the wife of a sponsor who paid your bills. Granted, Benny and Ian could give your career a hand up or a slap down by talking about you or ignoring you. For that reason, they were courted by teams, sponsors, and drivers—though it was clear they could see through the crap and fakery in a heartbeat. I liked that about them.
Tom and Stuart joined us at that point, bringing with them the guy Stuart had been talking to, the one who looked like an accountant. As our small group nodded at the newcomers and ended our conversation, I kept an eye on Susanah and her husband across the room. I still had to face that intro.
“Kate,” Tom spoke, his hand on the accountant’s shoulder. “I’d like to introduce you to one of our sponsors—our best sponsor. Charles, this is Kate Reilly, our new driver. Kate, Mr. Charles Purley.”
Chapter Twenty
Tom was looking at me with concern. I swallowed hard and got a grip. “Mr. Purley.” I shook his hand.
“Call me Charles, please.” His voice lacked menace.
“Charles, then. I met your wife earlier today.”
He smiled, a cozy smile that went with his thinning hair and desk-sitter’s physique. I began to think I’d hallucinated the afternoon’s episode.
Mike started the conversation, asking questions about the Purley business—Racegear.com, an online store for all things race-related—and I tried to behave as if I didn’t suspect this unlikely looking man of murder. I was relieved when Jack waved us to the table.
I made sure I didn’t sit next to Mr. Purley, ending up in the middle of one side with Tom on my right and the jock on my left. The jock turned out to be a former professional hockey player from near Montreal, Canada. He’d grown up going to the racetrack at Mont Tremblant, and though he’d acquired only modest fame in the NHL, he’d accrued a bank account large enough to start a sportswear company called Active-Fit, which in turn made a lot more money and funded our race team. Canadian Mr. Active-Fit was big, beefy, and as polite as they come. His wife was with him, looking like a mid-thirties, fit, and wealthy former cheerleader—which she probably was. She was nice, too.
On the other side of Tom was a young, short, tan guy—and I mean everything about him was a light, golden brown: his skin, his clothes, his shoes, his hair—everything. He must have rented a champagne-colored car. He was a marketing rep for another sponsor, Leninger’s Enduro Shine, a car wax manufacturer looking to go national. Sponsoring our car was a means of getting its name out to car and race fans. We shook hands across Tom’s water glas
s.
Our group of mostly men in casual dress, talking about cars and engines, struck an incongruous note against the décor of the room: English-cottage floral, complete with fake ivy winding up white lattice attached to two of the walls. The wall I faced was entirely windows, and while everyone else tasted the wine on the table and read the menu, I watched the fading daylight cast a pinkish glow on the 19th-century buildings across the road.
“Kate.” Jack’s irritated voice cut through my daydreaming. I’d been staring out the window over his head, directly opposite me. “Stay with us.”
Just then the waiter intervened. “Wine, miss?”
I responded to him instead of Jack and threw myself into conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Active-Fit, determined to make a good showing of schmoozing with the sponsors. We’d all placed orders, and I was chatting with them about starting their business when Benny’s voice broke through the multiple conversations taking place around the table. He and Ian were laughing at Mike, who was seated on the left side of the table, next to Mr. Purley.
Benny shook a finger at Mike. “You were wound up that time!”
Mike flushed. “It was the heat of the moment—a misunderstanding.”
“The best part was you went after him with your helmet still on, and we had it all on tape!” Benny chuckled. He referred to an incident during a race last year when an inexperienced Porsche driver had spun off-track, collecting Mike and sending him into a wall, hard. Mike had pulled himself from the Corvette, stormed over to the Porsche, and pounded on its roof at the driver, while still in full helmet and gear. Keeping the helmet on had made it an aggressive move—with it, he, or any other driver, was armed against trouble or retaliation. And SPEED Channel had broadcast it all live.
Mike looked more ashamed. “I just hadn’t pulled the helmet off yet. I wasn’t going to hit him—I was only wishing his car’d been as badly damaged as mine. I backed off immediately when I realized he was afraid to get out.” Mike noticed the whole table listening to him. He shrugged. “Kate’ll back me up. We drivers hate to lose. Hell, we hate to not finish a race. And watch out if it’s someone else’s fault that we can’t finish or win. Then we’ll get in their face about it.”
Dead Man’s Switch Page 10
