Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  Before I went inside, a savvy fan caught me. He was a small man with ears that stuck straight out from his head—a serious collector almost weighed down by the thick accordion file he held for me to sign on.

  “Signature on two items.” He wasn’t asking.

  On top was a flyer from the Frame Savings celebration happening that day. Underneath it was a photo of my car.

  He gestured with his chin. “Date it three days ago, write ‘Fastest’?”

  “Did you take it that day?” I studied the photo. It was definitely this year’s car, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the first day of practice or not.

  “Of course.”

  His abrupt tone amused me, and I wrote what he requested and moved on. No selfies with the driver for this guy. He was all business.

  I entered through the staff door of the bank, a five-story, historic brick structure topped with classical moldings, and found my father waiting.

  “Amelia and the kids send their love,” he said, after I’d hugged him. “They’ll be here for the race—and in a month, Lara will be here permanently. She’s looking forward to spending time with you.”

  “She got the aerodynamics job?” I knew it had been my half sister’s goal, after receiving a math degree with top honors, but I hadn’t heard the final result.

  My father nodded. “Now we’ll have two children in one city—assuming you’re staying in Indianapolis.”

  “For a while.” Six months prior, when I’d been sure IndyCar would be my focus for the next couple years, I’d moved here to be closer to series and team activities.

  “Good. As for this, you’ll speak after me for about fifteen minutes, and then we’ll have you cut the cake, take photos, and get out of here.”

  “Works for me.”

  “But first I have to introduce you to your biggest fan on our executive team—besides myself, of course.” He waved over a fireplug of a woman in her fifties, who sported a sprayed-stiff helmet of poofy, blond hair and a ready, genuine smile. “Meet Charlene Menfis, one of our new regional VPs, and a rising star in the bank.”

  She pumped my hand. “So excited to meet you. I’m a huge fan of the Indy 500—I grew up in town and come every year with my family—and I’m all about the female drivers. Meeting you is the highlight of my weekend.” She beamed at me like I was Santa Claus and she was three years old.

  My father excused himself to check the stage, and I smiled at Charlene. “Thanks for the support. You’ve probably seen a lot of us over the years. How long have you been coming?”

  “This will be my forty-third year here. I was eleven when my dad brought me for the first time as a birthday present—hell, that dates me! I had such a good time that first year, I begged him to buy us tickets for my birthday the next year, and the year after, and so on. It’s my birthday tradition.”

  “You’ll be in the Frame Savings suite?”

  “Every chance I get.” She gestured at her navy blue pantsuit. “Race weekend, I’ll be head to toe pink or black and white checkers—most of it Kate Reilly gear.”

  “I appreciate it.” Something clicked for me. “You would have been here the year PJ Rodriguez died.”

  She grimaced. “I’d been particularly excited about her, since she was close to my age and might have been only the second woman to run the race, if she’d qualified.”

  “What was the race like then? And what did people think of PJ?”

  “It was grittier, more male. Less international. More open access, wilder, somehow.” She thought back. “PJ wasn’t mentioned much on race day—a minute of silence during the pre-race ceremonies—something along the line of ‘a driver we lost this year.’ But there was plenty of talk in the crowd about her.”

  That couldn’t be good. “What did people say?”

  “Some of it I’ll never forget. The nice ones called her uppity, no-talent, and a token. The rude ones called her a whore, a slut who slept her way into a car, the C-word.” She shook her head. “We’ve come a long way, baby, but as I’m sure you know, we haven’t come as far as we need to.”

  “Sing it, Sister.” I sighed.

  Charlene smiled. “What shocked me wasn’t hearing that from the public, but hearing it from the racing community. That year I had paddock access—they’d just built the new, concrete-block garages. I stuck my head into a lot of them, watching the crews work. Listening to people talk.”

  “You must have been pretty rare even as a fan in the paddock.”

  “There were women around, but not as many as these days. It was an education.” She took a deep breath. “People from other teams said death was what she deserved, because even her physical assets couldn’t make up for her lack of talent. That servicing men was all she was good for, and she never deserved to set foot in a car in the first place. That the only money she made people was by dying.”

  I felt pain in my chest. “That’s awful. And cruel, to talk about money.”

  She nodded. “That’s why I remembered it. My impression was lots of people had managed to profit from her death.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Not a chance.” She laughed. “All I remember was her team owner and an insurance payout, because he was the most obvious person and that was the most surprising means. I’d never heard of insurance in racing before then, but people were impressed with how much money he’d gotten.”

  That’s not much of a legacy for poor PJ.

  A few minutes later, I stood with my father in the bank’s soaring atrium, facing a couple hundred excited faces. He welcomed everyone and congratulated them on their milestone before introducing me. I talked about the car and the race, thanked them for their support, and explained our efforts to raise awareness and funds for breast cancer organizations. Hands waved, so I took questions, telling them what I thought our chances were—a top-fifteen finish would be a “win” for us—and what it’s like to go wheel-to-wheel at more than 200 mph—exciting as all hell.

  The third question, from a woman in the front row, threw me. “Everyone says you’ll freak out like PJ Rodriguez. How will you make sure you make it to the race?”

  I went blank for a moment, then cleared my throat. “No one should have any concerns about me making it to the race. I will be there.”

  “That’s what she said,” called a voice from the crowd.

  What the hell?

  Another voice agreed, “Are you sure you won’t lose your nerve like her?”

  “I’m not her. I’m me. I qualified for the race last year and finished seventeenth. I’m thrilled to be here again this year and happy with the car and team.” I paused, feeling like I offered nothing better than “because I said so.”

  The audience stirred, and I could see concern on some of the faces close to me. Before my father could step closer and move us to the next activity, I spoke again.

  “This is the chance I’ve always wanted. It’s who I am and what I live for, and I can’t thank you enough for helping me go after it. I guarantee you, I’ll be in the race representing Frame Savings proudly—and I’ll do everything I can to be in the hunt.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Present Day

  I thought about the exchange as I drove to the Speedway for practice.

  How do you convince someone you won’t lose your nerve? There’s no argument against “But what if you get scared?” except time proving the questioner wrong.

  I slammed the steering wheel with an open palm. “Besides,” I shouted to my empty car, “it’s sexist to ask me if I’ll follow in her footsteps simply because we’re both women. Are they asking men if they’ll ‘do a PJ?’ Dammit, I hate that crap.”

  I breathed deeply, feeling marginally better and glad to have time alone in my car to vent all the things I’d never say in public. It infuriated me that people expected me to act a certain way because another
woman had, but what made it worse was their underlying assumption—the proof PJ lost her nerve was that she killed herself.

  But what if she didn’t? What if the only thing people remembered about her was totally wrong? What if you went down in history as a coward, not a fighter?

  I felt sick at the thought. I knew I wouldn’t lose my nerve or stop wanting to push the limit in a racecar. Though I hadn’t known PJ, from everything I’d learned about her, she couldn’t have gone from total commitment to total defeat either.

  You think she was murdered. Does that mean you’re investigating?

  I wasn’t ready to admit it, and I spent the rest of the drive singing along with the radio to distract myself. As I parked, I saw a familiar figure locking his car door a few spaces away. I caught up to him before he’d gotten very far.

  “Chuck?” I held out a hand. “I’m Kate. I’m not sure we’ve met yet.

  “I don’t think so.” His green eyes twinkled at me as we shook hands. “I’m enjoying the hospitality of your garage.”

  “I’m glad. You’ve been in the racing business for a long time?”

  “Decades, my dear. Gaffey Insurance, founded in 1979.” His grin took ten years off his face. I pegged him as somewhere in his seventies, and still fit, for all his white hair and stiff walk. He winked at me. “You a customer?”

  “I am, indeed.”

  I heard someone nearby call out, but I was lost in thought about what to ask Chuck about PJ. Then the guy called again. “Hey, PJ, don’t wreck again today.”

  I heard male and female laughter and had to force myself not to react.

  Chuck had no such hesitation. “Is that directed at you?”

  I nodded, keeping my gaze straight ahead. “You’ve heard the talk?”

  “Some. But I don’t see why they would call you by her name, much less question your ability.”

  “It’s become a thing to assume I’ll imitate her in most respects.” I flinched as I heard another man, closer in.

  “It’s PJ Junior, right? Can I get your signature?”

  Though it went against every ingrained behavior, I ignored him and kept walking.

  “Don’t be rude!” The man jogged ahead of me, clutching his backpack to his chest. “I asked for your signature.”

  “No, you asked for someone else’s. My name is Kate.”

  He smirked. “I think PJ Junior’s fun.”

  “I don’t.” I stepped around him and continued walking.

  “What a bitch,” I heard behind me.

  “Young man!” Chuck turned around before I could stop him. “There is no excuse for that kind of language or behavior. How would you like it if someone called you a rude and insulting name and then was angry you didn’t approve?”

  The man looked ashamed, but still defensive. “Can’t she take a joke?”

  “It isn’t funny to make light of someone dying,” Chuck replied. “Would you find it funny to be compared to someone who committed suicide?”

  The man worried the hem of his vintage Indy 500 tee-shirt. “I guess not. Sorry.”

  I nodded and started to turn away.

  “But can I have your signature? Kate?”

  I kept the sigh internal and signed the photo he had of me in my car the previous year. Then a man walked up with his daughter, a twelve-year-old who’d been racing quarter midgets—small, purpose-built cars raced on oval tracks—for five years and already had a half-dozen wins to her name.

  “I’m so glad you’re out there,” she told me, as I signed the back of her Team Kate shirt. “I’ll be there one day, too.”

  I believed her.

  Chuck had waited for me, and as we got moving again, I thanked him for the support.

  “You handled even the rude fans with grace, Kate,” he said as we walked. “I hope things don’t become as intolerable for you as they did for poor PJ.”

  “You knew her?”

  “I’ve always been close to Ron, and the community was smaller then—felt like it, anyway. I saw some of what she went through.” He shook his head. “Actually, I almost got out after we lost her.”

  That surprised me. “She affected you that much? Did you work with her—did she have insurance?”

  “No. Ron had coverage, of course, and I like to think it helped him after PJ…in the scramble with sponsorships and drivers.” He shrugged. “Insurance wouldn’t have helped PJ. Seems like nothing could have. Such a senseless waste of human life.”

  “Her suicide made sense to you?”

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “If you’d seen what she went through in the paddock—then to soar so high on the track, only to sink as low as can be?” He nodded. “It made terrible, awful sense. Don’t you think?”

  I played it safe. “How can I know? I have a hard time understanding how someone like me could choose that, when I never, ever could.”

  “You’re a different person, my dear, thank goodness.” He paused. “It was difficult to see the pain everyone went through. I found myself seriously considering if I wanted to remain involved in racing at all—knowing we could lose a team player without warning, on the track or off.”

  “Can’t rule it out. We know it happens.”

  “I’ve come to understand it’s the central heartbreak of racing.”

  “But you didn’t get out,” I said. “You stayed involved.”

  “I thought long and hard about a line of work where I could make a difference ahead of time, instead of picking up the pieces afterwards.”

  “Everyone needs support in those moments, as well.”

  “Hey, look, it’s PJ!” another voice in the crowd called.

  I grimaced. “Sure, we’re different people.”

  “Trust me, you are,” Chuck said, as he gestured for me to precede him into the garage. “Regardless of what small-minded people think, it’s not all right to smear your name—and someone else’s, too.”

  I appreciated his words, but people in the paddock didn’t agree, because I heard a half-dozen references to PJ every time I stepped foot outside the garage. I was glad to get in the car for a reprieve.

  We spent the hot, muggy practice session improving the car, millimeter by millimeter. We weren’t anywhere near the top of the charts, but by the halfway point of the six-hour session, we’d jumped from thirtieth of thirty-four cars to twenty-first. That gave us a boost of confidence as we inched closer to qualifying weekend, everyone aware that with only thirty-three starting positions on offer, one team wouldn’t make the show.

  During one pit stop, Alexa radioed with a different message than usual. “Holly says to tell you your secret weapon is here.”

  I peered into the pit box—a tall, metal toolbox on wheels, with bench seating, desks for six people, and a canvas canopy. Sure enough, there was Gramps, fresh from being picked up at the airport by Holly. I waved and saw an answering grin on his face.

  His smile was still there hours later after the practice session was over. I got out of the car and had a few minutes of conversation with Nolan and Alexa, who were as pleased as I was with the improvements we’d made. As we wound down, I thanked them for letting Gramps stay on the pit box in the shade.

  “We’re keeping him!” Nolan burst out. “The big gains we made happened after he got here.” He turned and waved Gramps over. “He’s our walking four-leaf clover.”

  I laughed, watching Gramps pick his way over hoses. With his short height, bowed legs, and merry expression, Gramps was the image of a leprechaun. But he was as Irish as strudel—of mostly German heritage, by way of New Mexico.

  “Whatever works,” I said to Nolan, then threw my arms around my grandfather.

  “Ah, Katie, there you are,” Gramps murmured, patting my back.

  My throat got thick, and I didn’t trust myself to speak. It was a rare race that Gramps atte
nded these days—after taking me to every single one in my first decade and a half of racing—but he’d wanted to be with me for this go-round at Indy. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed him until I laid eyes on him. I squeezed him tight.

  A few minutes later, we all went back to the garage, and Alexa and Nolan wrapped things up quickly for the night while I changed and grabbed my tote from my locker. I was digging through it for my keys when I discovered a folded piece of lined, yellow notepaper. I opened it and read the words.

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

  Holly poked her head around the lockers. “What is it now?”

  I flapped the page at her. “Anonymous note. Threatening me. It says, ‘Learn from PJ, or you’ll be next.’”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I have no idea. That I’ll commit suicide? That I’ll die?” I shook my head and crumpled the note, looking for the nearest trash can. “I can’t take it seriously when it’s a page ripped from a yellow pad. And I’m not dealing with crackpot racing fans today.”

  Holly took the paper. “Ignore it. Just like you need to ignore speculation that you might be investigating PJ’s death.”

  Where did that come from?

  It took me a minute. “The Ringer said something.”

  “Don’t do anything about it, but in case someone brings it up…” She sighed. “He’s reporting PJ’s family’s belief that she was killed and wondering if ‘Sleuth Kate’ is on the case.”

  I rolled my eyes. “He always did like his nicknames.”

  “Ignore it. Take Gramps to see his buddies. Talk later.”

  Focus on the good stuff, like Gramps being here.

  I put my arm around his waist as we walked to my car. “Don’t feel like you have to sit on our pit box all day, every day.”