Kiss the Bricks

by Tammy Kaehler

  Mick Porier and Kenny O’Toole, the other two Beermeier Racing drivers, were already there, half stripped down. I nodded a greeting while keeping my eyes on my own locker. As I pulled open the door, I immediately spotted a familiar yellow, folded note. I unfolded it with shaking fingers.

  “Avenge PJ, before it’s too late,” it read.

  We were right. He wants me to find PJ’s murderer, but he’s not threatening me. Why won’t he say this publicly?

  “Excellent job today, Kate.” Mick broke into my reverie.

  “Thanks. You both, too.” I tucked the note into my bag.

  Kenny snorted. “It’s bloody nice of the speed princess to notice the peons.”

  I smirked as I pulled off my racing shoes and socks. “I prefer speed queen.”

  “I’m abjectly sorry, your highness.” Kenny spoiled his words by throwing a dirty sock at me.

  They cleared out as I finished changing, and we all wished each other safe travels the next day. Mick was headed to Toronto and Kenny to Texas, and we agreed to text with the most ridiculous local scenery we could find. After a short chat with my race engineer on my way back through the office, I reentered the main area to find it mostly empty. I grabbed a bottle of orange juice from the cooler and crossed to Uncle Stan, who was cleaning a small metal part with a toothbrush at one of the benches.

  “Where’d everyone go, Uncle Stan?”

  “Plenty of time the next couple days to work on the car. Sent everyone off early today—probably the last day they’ll get the time with family this week.” He peered over his reading glasses at me. “How’re you doing?”

  “Car was okay, but I wish we had more time.” I caught sight of Gramps down at the far end of the long garage, talking with another mechanic. “I’ve been talking to people about PJ, and I don’t see how she could make the choice people say she made.”

  “Understandable.” He set down the part and the brush and slipped his glasses into his shirt pocket.

  “Her parents think she didn’t do it.” I studied his face. The years had etched lines into it, but his eyes still conveyed compassion and kindness. “And you’re not surprised.”

  “Seen so much, hardly anything surprises me anymore.”

  “More than one person suggested someone deliberately made PJ’s car run badly after that first practice session. Is that possible?”

  Uncle Stan opened his mouth, then closed it, looking around the garage. I got the feeling he wasn’t seeing the present so much as the past.

  “I want to say no, because who’d do that? It goes against the whole purpose of a team.” He scratched his head. “But if I think about the car’s behavior, it’s possible. The question is who was involved—how many and how far up the chain?”

  “If the whole crew colluded, it’d be easy.” My mouth went dry at the thought. “I wouldn’t know any different if Alexa told me one thing and the crew did another.”

  “I can’t believe Arvie would have gone along with it. He was upset those weeks as they fought with the car—and devastated by PJ’s death.”

  “What if it was a single mechanic, or maybe two?”

  He slowly nodded his head. “Could be done, depending on specific jobs. But to do that to your own team?”

  “Who’d have been in a position to do it?”

  “I’ll find my old notes about who on the crew worked on which bits.” He sighed.

  “Sorry to bring it all up.”

  Uncle Stan managed a smile as he patted my shoulder. “Wasn’t your doing, Kate. Wasn’t PJ’s either. But now I wonder if it was someone else’s.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  During dinner that night, Holly, Gramps, and I compared notes again. Holly volunteered to research Kevin Hagan’s journalism career, and Gramps zeroed in on Donny’s accusation that Dean Herrera, the memorabilia guy, might be selling forged autographs.

  “Be careful when you go to his shop tomorrow,” Holly told him. “You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

  Gramps looked miffed. “You both act like I can’t take care of myself, but I’ve been doing it for seventy-two years.”

  “Gramps.” I put a hand on his. “We love you. Humor us and be careful.”

  The fight drained out of him. “The same to you two.”

  I cleared our empty dishes, waving Holly back to her seat when she would have helped. “What did you learn today, besides the sponsors on PJ’s car?”

  “I ran into Tom Barclay and introduced myself—I used you for that, Kate.” I waved a hand, and she went on. “I told him you’d been thinking about working with someone again—I laid it on thick about stepping up to a bigger racing stage, more attention, and your interest in the similarities between you and PJ. I asked for his advice, and we set up appointment on Wednesday, when I’ll pump him for how he ties into PJ.”

  I set out a bowl of grapes for dessert, ignoring the look of disappointment on Gramps’ face.

  “No ice cream?” His voice was plaintive.

  “Help yourself. You know where it is.” I rolled my eyes as he jumped up.

  “I also learned there’s been no one unusual in the team’s office area or near your driver lockers,” Holly continued. “Whoever left the notes for you is someone we know.”

  We digested that tidbit in silence, then Holly went on. “I saw Josh Gaffey, of Gaffey Insurance, and chatted with him.”

  I noted a gleam in her eye. “A good friend of yours?”

  “We dated, years ago—when we were young and clueless.” She smiled. “He’s worked for his dad’s company since before he went to college, and his dad retired a couple years ago. Josh runs things now.”

  “Did he give you insight on their business and PJ?” I asked as Gramps sat down with a heaping bowl of vanilla ice cream smothered in chocolate sauce.

  “A bit. His dad started the company long before PJ—in the sixties. Josh did say the company took off in the late eighties, but he didn’t know if there was a specific reason for that boom.”

  “Timing is interesting,” Gramps said, around a mouthful of ice cream.

  “I couldn’t push for more without being too obvious. But I thought of a way to get more information on him and others.” Holly paused. “I bet Racing’s Ringer would help, with the promise of stories later.”

  I let my anger and annoyance play out before acknowledging it was a good idea. “He owes me.”

  Gramps was wide-eyed. “You know the Ringer?”

  “I figured out who he was a couple years ago, and I haven’t exposed him yet.” I raised an eyebrow at Holly. “I’m still not sure why.”

  “Banking favors for times like this.”

  “I guess so.” I turned back to Gramps. “Before Holly and I have to set our alarms to wake up stupid-early tomorrow, tell us about meeting with the Speedway historian.”

  “Before I get to that,” he said. “I found Jimmy the crew member.”

  “Who’s he working for?” Holly asked.

  “R-9 Racing. They’ve only got one car, but it’s a family-run team that’s been around Indy forever. Usually turn in a respectable performance.”

  My stomach fell. “Is Jimmy tall, with a scrunched-up face and leathery skin?”

  “I thought you didn’t know him?”

  “I don’t. But he’s made his opinions clear.”

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.” Gramps frowned. “On the surface, he’s a nice guy—salt of the earth, I’d have said, if I hadn’t heard the stories. I told him I thought he worked on a car in the late eighties I’d done a wiring harness for. He hadn’t—I knew that going in—but he knew someone who did, which led to a conversation about ‘the good old days’ over at least four cigarettes. The man smokes like a chimney.”

  Holly smiled. “I know you managed to bring up PJ.”

  �
�Piece of cake.” Gramps winked at her. “I mentioned things being simpler back in that era—you could say what you meant and not worry about being politically correct.” He sighed. “That seemed to be code for ‘I’m a bigot,’ because it opened the floodgates. He’s no fan of female drivers or owners—doesn’t mind if they’re ‘facilitating racing,’ working hospitality or something.”

  “Holding umbrellas, no doubt.” Holly said.

  “He didn’t say it directly, but he thinks the problem with racing today is women and foreigners taking over. It was hard to listen to.”

  I could imagine. “Did he talk about PJ specifically?”

  “He praised her, if you can believe it, but only for realizing she couldn’t cut it and ‘doing the right thing’ by killing herself.” Gramps harumphed. “I needed a shower after the conversation.”

  “Any idea if he could have sabotaged the car? Or killed PJ?” Holly asked.

  “He worked on suspension that year, and given who the lead mechanic was, it would have been tough for Jimmy to have messed anything up on his own. Maybe not impossible, but hard.” Gramps shook his head. “Plus I didn’t get that sense from him. He was sly enough when he talked about making PJ feel unwanted—he didn’t keep his mouth shut to the media or the paddock. But he was righteous about her inability to manage the car. He even said she reaped what she sowed, like it was God’s opinion she didn’t belong in a racecar.”

  “If Uncle Stan confirms Jimmy’s role, we can probably rule out sabotage,” I said. “Not that it had much to do with murder anyway.”

  “And we know Jimmy was at the track when PJ was killed,” Holly added.

  I nodded. “But it was good to check. Thanks for doing it, Gramps.”

  “At least the Speedway historian was fun.” Gramps perked up. “The stuff that guy knows! Everything about any car or team in the history of the 500. Amazing.”

  Holly hid a smile. “What about PJ’s car and team? After she died?”

  He cleared his throat. “Two days after PJ’s death, the team announced they were hiring a former series champion who’d retired the year before: Sidney Wells. Sid’s passed on now, but as the historian tells it, he was happy to come out of retirement for one last crack at the race he never managed to win in a long career.”

  “He didn’t win it that year either, did he?” Holly asked.

  “He came close. Ran third near the end before something on the car broke. Limped it home in twentieth.” Gramps shook his head. “He did a couple more races with the team that year. No huge success, and after that, he stayed retired, so not a suspect.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. “Did the historian have any perspective on team and sponsor fortunes with PJ out of the picture?”

  “He volunteered it without my having to ask, which surprised me—do sources often do that when you question them, Kate?”

  Am I the expert? In this room, probably so.

  “Sometimes. Usually it means they’ve had the same idea we’re fishing for.”

  “He called the Standish-Conroy hotel chain a textbook case of how companies can benefit from motorsports sponsorship. From return on investment—that’s the money, right?—to intangibles like public perception and brand sympathy.” Gramps pronounced the unfamiliar marketing terms with care.

  “Sounds like we need more information on Standish and Conroy,” Holly said.

  Gramps nodded. “The historian also said he’d never seen a team’s fortunes on such a roller-coaster ride as Arvin Racing’s that year. From the top in the first practice to the bottom in subsequent days, culminating in PJ ‘opting out,’ as he put it. Then back to the top with the publicity and the former champion’s performance in the race. Arvin Racing was the toast of the celebration banquet and the darling of the press.”

  “The good news kept coming over the next couple years, didn’t it?” Holly asked.

  “They were one of the top teams until Arvie was busted,” Gramps said.

  I still found it hard to picture Arvie—or Ron—as a stone-cold killer, out for profit.

  Then again, he ran drugs to pay for racing. You never know about people at all.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Holly and I were up at what she called “dark-thirty” Tuesday morning, and we left our apartment to pitch-black skies. Even the birds weren’t chirping yet.

  We landed in Phoenix before seven local time, and within thirty minutes, I was in a makeup chair. By eight, I was on the set of a Phoenix station’s morning show with two anchors and a sports reporter. By nine-thirty, we’d zipped over to one of Phoenix’s top radio stations to record a quick interview and some promos. And by eleven, we were suited up at a local go-kart track with two sports reporters—a man and a woman—for the local affiliate of the network that would broadcast the Indy 500. We pre-taped a segment to air during the evening news, during which I’d be on set.

  As Holly and I left the go-kart track and walked to our car, my stomach growled loudly.

  Holly laughed. “We’ve got an hour, and I scoped out a local taco shack.”

  “I’ll drive if you direct. Any word from Gramps?”

  “He texted while we were in the karts to say he’s off to the memorabilia shop, and yes, he’ll be careful.”

  “I really hope he is.” I tried to put the worry aside and focus on my own jobs for the day. The delicious tacos made it easier.

  The Standish Hotel was our next stop after we ate. As we pulled into the resort’s large, circular driveway in Paradise Valley, one of the ritziest towns in the greater Phoenix metropolis, we saw a slim woman in a navy power suit—an outfit that seemed unusual for the casual flavor of Phoenix in general—pacing in front of the entrance.

  Holly popped out as soon as I stopped the car. “Shawna? Are we late?”

  Our contact, Shawna Wilkes, glanced at her watch and started to nod before changing the motion to a shake of her head. “You’re not. I’m anxious. Welcome.”

  As she ushered us into the hotel, waving at the valet to deal with our car, she explained her nerves. “The plan has changed for your visit, and we’ll have quite a few more press here as a result.”

  Holly and I exchanged a glance. “If IndyCar is fine with the change, we’re at your disposal,” Holly said.

  Shawna nodded vigorously. “IndyCar was great with it. In addition to our local executives, you’ll meet with our founder, Nathan Standish, a long-time IndyCar partner.”

  Holly and I looked at each other again, our eyes going wide at the same time.

  I found my voice first. “I’ll be pleased to meet him and thank him myself for his consistent and generous support.”

  Plus ask a couple questions.

  Holly spoke up. “I understand he had a business partner in the Standish-Conroy Group, is that right?”

  Shawna bobbed her head. I wondered if it was a nervous tic. “Libby Conroy co-founded the organization with Mr. Standish. Her expertise was spa services, and that’s why her name is on the day-spa portion of the business.”

  “Does she live here also?” I asked.

  A head bob, curtailed. “She retired a few years before Mr. Standish and primarily lives in Hawaii near her children. She wasn’t ever as involved in the day-to-day as Mr. Standish, but she provided some of the start-up capital at the beginning and the overall direction for the spas through the years. She’s very clever about how to create a luxurious and pampering atmosphere for our guests.” Shawna started nodding again.

  A long walk through the resort ended in a corner room with two walls made entirely of glass, looking out over a lush golf course on the gentle upslope of what I learned was Mummy Mountain. We were so caught by the vision of the landscape that at first we didn’t register the presence of a man standing at one end of the room.

  “Here we are,” Shawna chirped with nods. “Mr. Standish, this is Kate Reilly and
her assistant, Holly Wilson.”

  He was tall, with uncompromising posture, a thinning head of white hair, and a face set in stern lines. He strode forward, extending a hand. “Kate, I’m pleased to meet you. And Holly,” he added, turning to her. “Call me Nathan.”

  “I’ll leave you all to it,” Shawna said, bobbing her head as she left the room.

  I turned to Nathan with a questioning look, which he answered. “I’ll give you ladies a tour of the resort, then we’ll join our local executives and press for a chat over dessert—created by our award-winning pastry chef. Then we’ll talk with the journalists for a few minutes.” He glanced at his watch. “I appreciate you’ve got a schedule to keep, and we’ll maintain it, never fear. But I want you to understand the depth and breadth of what it means to be a Standish property.” He turned humorless eyes to me. “It’s important you fully understand as you go forward representing IndyCar and us as an integral partner.”

  “I’m delighted to learn more.” I grimaced at Holly as Nathan moved to a door in one of the walls of windows.

  Asking him questions wouldn’t be as easy as I thought.

  Fortunately, his austere expression softened as he drove a golf cart through the grounds of the resort and pointed out private villas set among a variety of trees and shrubs. When I admired some beautiful orange and purple flowers, he spoke at length about the different varieties of sage (the purple blooms) and bird of paradise plants (the orange) before he caught himself.

  He smiled at me as I sat next to him in the front seat of the cart. “You’ve stumbled upon my retirement hobby, Kate.”