We turned our attention to our dinners—chicken parmesan for the others, plain grilled chicken for me. As Holly distributed the grilled vegetables, Gramps came to a decision.
“I’m going to help you.” He nodded. “We’ll clear PJ’s name.”
Holly grinned at him. “I’m in, too, sugar.” She retrieved a pen and a pad of paper from her bag on the couch. “Let’s bring the first meeting of Special Team Kate to order.”
“That’s got a nice ring to it.” Gramps turned to me. “What do we do?”
Talk about the blind leading the blind. Am I really doing this? Are they helping me? I had promised PJ’s family to try. Try, Kate, that’s all you have to do.
I sat up straight. “What we need is information. To know more about who PJ was and what went on back then—especially in the ten days between first practice and when she died. And who benefitted from her death.”
“When we find that person, we find who did it?” Gramps asked.
“We’ll probably find multiple people who benefitted,” I replied and watched him frown.
“Tell us who you’ve talked to already.” Holly held her pen at the ready.
I walked them through what I’d learned about PJ, in the same order I’d learned it: starting with Uncle Stan, then talking with Diane Wittmeier—Alexa’s mom—and the woman from the Timing and Scoring group, Vallorie Westleton. I told them how Paul Lauth, her former boyfriend, had interpreted PJ’s emotions and actions, and how the reporter, Lyla Thomas, described team reactions on the day PJ died. Plus what Ron had said about PJ.
“And Ron, who’s been hanging out in the Beermeier garage, is really Arvie, PJ’s former team owner, Alexa’s father, and an ex-con,” I added.
“What?” Holly’s eyes got big, as Gramps filled her in on that part of the story.
Holly had written individual names on her notepad as I’d discussed each of them. She titled the list “Sources,” then held it out so we could all study it. “Who else were you thinking of talking to, Kate?”
“I want to ask Ron more questions—I got started today, but ran out of time. He’d know how the team changed after PJ’s death.”
“To figure that out,” Gramps put in, “we need to know who Arvie—Ron—replaced PJ with and how the new driver did in the race that year.”
Holly chewed on the end of her pen. “Let’s take tomorrow and talk to everyone we can. Gather basic information about who was there that year, who heard stories, and so forth—including who could be leaving you notes.”
Gramps nodded. “Cast a wide net and see what we drag in—then we can plan who to talk to in more depth.”
“We’ll need to be careful.” I told both of them. “We have no idea if PJ’s killer is still around. Don’t assume everyone’s innocent.”
“The racing paddock?” Gramps hooted. “There’s hardly anyone innocent at all.”
“We’re talking about murder, Gramps,” I said. “It’s more extreme than cheating.”
“Murder, drug smuggling, embezzlement, you name it.” He shrugged. “In my experience, everyone’s hiding something. And we never know how far someone will go to protect their secrets.”
“We’ve got this,” Holly assured me. “He’s—sorry, Gramps—an old-timer, and they can get away with talking about anything to anyone.”
“True statement.” Gramps winked at Holly.
She went on. “You’re naturally involved with PJ, so it’s logical you’d be curious and asking about her.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Me?” She tossed her hair over her shoulders. “I’m a gossip professional, sugar. This is in the bag.”
I felt better. But only a little.
Chapter Twenty-one
Before Gramps took off the next morning at the track to find and question friends about the old days, he hugged me. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on the car. I’ll see you before you go out.”
He was off with a jaunty wave, his bowed legs carrying him rapidly through the growing crowd. Watching him, I finally understood the concerns Gramps and others had in the past over my own sleuthing efforts. I shook my head and finished my journey to the garage, ignoring at least three people calling me PJ.
Once again, time accelerated as we got closer to when I’d run my laps. It was a phenomenon I experienced at every race: days started out measured and calm, moving at a normal pace. But as we progressed, everything sped up—time, activity, tension, and pulse rates. To be sure, my heart was beating at race pace by the time I rolled down pit lane.
My crew again fired the car when the driver before me started his last timed lap. I closed my eyes for a minute, feeling the rumble, taking in the sensation. Becoming part of the car. A few seconds later, I pulled away.
My out lap was smooth. The warm-up lap was almost a catastrophe.
Going into Turn 2 for the second time, I felt an unexpected gust of wind from the left, as the front end suddenly stopped turning. I turned the wheel more, only to have the front end feel like it was snapping over on itself. The car twitched violently, back end coming around to the right. I worked my hands frantically on the wheel, correcting, counter-correcting, and correcting again to stay pointed down the track.
Not the wall. I will not get into the wall. Keep it straight!
I let the car travel up the track as much as it needed—as much as I dared. I lifted, but as little as I dared, not wanting to ruin my momentum as I headed to the green flag. I didn’t breathe.
Somehow, I kept it straight. Stayed out of the wall, got my speed back up. On the back straight, I took a breath and softened the front anti-roll bar to help the car turn more from my inputs and moved the weight jacker three clicks to the right to make it turn less on its own. I held my breath again going through Turn 3, but the adjustment had settled the car. Barely. I took a breath on the short chute between 3 and 4. Held on in Turn 4.
Alexa called to me. “Good use of tools. Pull it together. Green flag.”
I pointed the car down the center of the track and swept under the green. My timed laps had begun, and I had a fight on my hands.
In the end, nothing bad happened during my four qualifying laps, though I adjusted the roll bars and jacker a dozen times a lap and made scores of tiny steering inputs. I gave it all I had and did everything I knew how to do.
Alexa stayed quiet on the radio, except to say “Two more” or “One more.” As I took the checkered flag, she radioed again. “Coming in this lap, Kate. Great effort with the car. Average of 227.832, for P5 now, with fourteen left to qualify.”
I was disappointed, but reminded myself I’d have started thirty-third if I’d gotten into the wall. Of the fourteen cars still to post a time, the top nine—or Fast Nine, as IndyCar called them—were guaranteed positions one through nine. The other five could qualify ahead of me or behind me, though chances were, they’d be ahead. The best I could start would be fourteenth, the worst, nineteenth. Still better than thirtieth last year. Row six or seven is a hell of a lot better than row ten.
I radioed back to Alexa as I rounded Turn 4 low on the track and lined myself up with pit lane. “Thanks to everyone for the effort. Sorry it wasn’t a higher spot, but the track was tough today.”
Alexa waited to respond until I pulled diagonally into our cramped, temporary pit space at the top of pit lane and got out of the car. “No apologies,” she said. “You did everything you could—and the save you made on the warm-up lap was incredible.”
“I wish I could have bettered yesterday.” Shake it off, Kate, and don’t bring the team down. I made myself smile. “But it’s an improvement over last year, starting in the middle of the pack. I’m happy.”
She patted my shoulder. “You’ve got good hands and instincts. This will be a solid race, I’ve got a feeling about it.”
“I like the sound of that.” I turned at the appr
oach of journalists wanting my reaction to my qualifying effort.
When the press had gone, Holly and I gathered my gear and made tracks back to our garage. Halfway there, I saw PJ’s former boyfriend walking toward us, and I sent Holly ahead with my gear.
“Hell of a save, Kate,” Paul said, with a shake of his head.
“Thanks. Twitchy today.” I shrugged. “I wanted to ask you something else. Was there anyone you remember who especially had it in for PJ?”
“That’s a strange question. Why do you ask?”
I’d prepared for this. “I’ve gotten some weird communications—stranger than normal. These are threatening, and reference PJ also, like the sender will make sure I end up how PJ did. I wondered if it’s someone who was around then. Someone who might have threatened PJ also and added to her stress.”
“Helped drive her to suicide?” Paul asked.
Something like that. “Can you think of any messages that stood out?”
He sighed heavily. “She got death threats.”
“I’d be surprised if she hadn’t. I do.” His eyes got big, and I smiled. “Some people still don’t like women racing. But I also have loyal fans. I brush the bad stuff off.”
“I wish PJ’d had more supportive fans. It makes a difference.” He was silent, looking down Gasoline Alley. “There was one letter-writer who was creepy, and I told the cops about him. The rest were of the ‘we hope you die’ variety, but one guy said he would make it his personal crusade to ensure she couldn’t damage the reputation of the race.” He shook his head. “I’ve never understood that attitude.”
“You and me both. Did PJ hear from that guy a lot?”
“Two letters. I’ve always thought he was partially responsible for PJ doing what she did. That, if he hadn’t been so cruel, she might not have felt everyone was against her.” He frowned. “She might not have abandoned everyone else in her life.”
I saw how he’d been hurt by his belief that PJ had chosen to give up on him. Maybe finding her killer would help Paul, too. “Were there specific people in the paddock against her?”
“Some of the old-timers who’re mostly gone now. Bill James, who ran JKT Racing, was awful. He constantly put her down.”
I recognized the name. “I’ve heard he had it in for any female driver.”
“His crew was just as bad—especially the head mechanic, Jimmy, who’d been on PJ’s team. He and Bill both got quoted for the ‘women can’t handle it’ opinion in a bunch of articles.” He shook his head. “They’ve sure proven to be on the losing side of history.”
Back in the garage, I sat down with Nolan, my engineer, for the same discussion we had after every on-track session—how did the car handle, what went well in qualifying, what went poorly, how could we do better, and how could we go faster. When I left him, he was staring at data on his laptop, one hand tugging at his hair.
I’d said my goodbyes to the crew when I spotted Ron digging in the cooler that contained the ice cream bars. I walked over as he sat on his stool and unwrapped a drumstick.
“After all the comparisons the press has been making,” I began, “I’m curious about PJ.”
He shook his head, his mouth full of sugar cone and vanilla ice cream. He swallowed, then spoke. “Still makes me sad—so many things I wish were different about those days. Things I wish I could change.”
“Given the similarities, I wondered what it was like for her as a woman then.” I paused and sent silent apologies to PJ and her family. “I identify with her, and I keep trying to imagine what could make her give up like that. Do you have any idea why she did?”
Ron ran a hand over his brush-cut white hair, and a frown further creased his lined face. “She didn’t have—I think she didn’t feel she had a choice. PJ had it rough. I thought I was supporting her, but I clearly didn’t understand how bad it was.”
He paused and looked intently at me. “This is a different time, but still, don’t let anyone get you down. Live your own life—like PJ never got the chance to.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Holly and Gramps had left the track together earlier Sunday afternoon, so they had dinner waiting when I arrived home. I celebrated qualifying for the race by adding a tiny scoop of mashed potatoes to my grilled salmon and steamed vegetables—ignoring the delicious mountain of starch on Gramps’ plate—and afterwards, I filled them in on what Ron Arvin and Paul Lauth had told me.
Holly started a new list titled “Suspects” and wrote two names down. I agreed with Jimmy but protested Ron Arvin. I wasn’t sure how to articulate why I didn’t think he’d killed PJ.
The sorrow I’d seen on his face. The regret. But what would he look like if he had killed her?
Holly laughed. “Sugar, you’re having the whole argument in your head.”
“I don’t want to believe it, but I agree it’s possible.” I sighed. “Ron did say he should have done more—though that could mean anything.”
Holly turned to Gramps and raised her eyebrows.
“Like Kate, I’m not sure I believe it,” he responded. “The Arvie I knew of was more gentle than that.”
“He was still a drug dealer, right?” I asked.
Gramps shrugged. “It was the eighties. You had to be there. We knew drugs funded racing, but we didn’t know specifics. We learned not to look closely.”
How did my straight-laced, conservative grandfather ignore drug evidence?
He saw me and flushed. “It’s not that I condoned it. I didn’t think about it.”
“Head in the sand,” Holly put in. “Everyone in the paddock was the same. That’s what I learned today.” She described what the old-timer reporter she’d talked to had said, which was more about background and environment than about PJ in particular. Except it was essentially known that PJ’s father had been Arvie’s contact and supplier.
I processed it all. “But that’s—I can’t believe I’m saying ‘only’—drug running. It’s not killing someone you claim to like and jeopardizing your team.”
Holly nodded. “But I heard the publicity generated by PJ’s stunning practice run and her surprising death launched Arvin Racing into the big leagues of racing teams. Before that year, they’d run partial seasons and hadn’t had a win. After PJ, they pulled in a recently retired, top-tier driver for that race and others.”
Gramps chuckled. “Another guy who retires and immediately regrets it?”
“Exactly. For the next couple years—until Arvie was busted by the Feds—his team had big sponsor backing, ran two cars for full seasons, won lots of races, and was seen as one of the teams to beat.” She frowned. “I like him, too. But he benefitted in a major way from PJ’s death.”
My boss and mentor’s father, that’s who I’m looking at for murder. Now I remember why investigating is painful.
Next, Holly and Gramps reported what they’d learned that day—which wasn’t much. “No one liked her,” Holly said. “But no one hated her. They didn’t know her.”
“It’s hard to come up with a motive for her murder.” I thought back over the killers I’d helped unmask. “In my limited experience, murder is the result of a strong emotion.”
“Except for the proverb.” When we stared at him, confused, Gramps elaborated. “‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Sometimes things happen after hot blood cools.”
“Did anyone want revenge on PJ for anything?” Holly asked.
“I suppose there could be cold-blooded reasons for killing.” I heard what I’d said and grimaced. “Theoretically.”
“We’re back to who benefitted from her death,” Holly concluded. “You said Lyla mentioned other people benefitting—merch and memorabilia guys, insurance guy, other reporters. One of my contacts, a long-time PR guy, also mentioned a sports psychologist who got real popular right after PJ’s time.”
“That would have to
be Tom Barclay,” Gramps put in. “He was the first and the best. Even Kate’s worked with him.”
“With the woman on his team years ago,” I said. “I didn’t realize he started back in PJ’s time.”
“I didn’t either, but I looked him up online.” Holly handed us a couple printouts. “He doesn’t name her, but PJ is a pivotal part of his history. Her death was ‘the spark that illuminated the path he would take in life,’” she quoted.
We read for a minute, then I set the pages down. “Without PJ’s death, he might never have found his life’s work—or if he had, he wouldn’t have had such a great example of the value of working with a sports psychologist.”
Gramps frowned. “I always thought the guy was slick.”
“You never objected to me working with them.”
“The woman you saw—Dr. Shields?—seemed fine.” He shrugged. “No good reason to stop you, regardless. And it helped.”
Holly made a note. “I’ll figure out a way to ask him about his background.”
Gramps piped up. “I’ll look into the memorabilia guy. I don’t know much about that stuff, but I’ll find out.”
I stood to clear our dishes. “I’ll try to finish my conversation with Ron.”
Gramps snapped his fingers, his eyes wide with excitement. “The Speedway historian. He’ll know details. I’ll find him tomorrow. Plus I’ll find the evil Jimmy. Better me than either of you.”
“I’ll also ask around about whoever the insurance guy was,” Holly said. “I wonder if it’s Gaffey Insurance.”
Gramps stood and stretched. “They’re who you think of. But I don’t know a lot about them.”
“I’ve met Chuck—the owner and founder—before, but mostly I know his son, Josh,” Holly said.
“I talked with Chuck. Nice guy.” I explained how he’d almost gotten out of racing over the idea of losing team members. “Maybe he’ll have other ideas about PJ.”
Holly studied her lists. “Didn’t Paul mention anonymous letters?”
Kiss the Bricks Page 11
