Braking Points

by Tammy Kaehler

  “I can differentiate between business and friendship, Kate.” Her voice and posture were stiff.

  I touched her arm. “I’m sorry. They think I could have been the intended victim.”

  Hurt changed to sympathy on her face. “But that’s awful. Who’d want to kill you?”

  “Beats me. A Miles Hanson fan?”

  Holly changed the subject, asking Juliana about her new job with SGTV. “Everyone in broadcasting wants a network job in a top market, right? But you gave one up to move to SGTV. I figure you had a reason.”

  Juliana laughed. “You’re right. I voted myself off the network news island. I realized I wasn’t happy, and I missed racing.” She turned to me. “As Kate knows, I lost part of my sponsorship, and then she got the job we both tried for.”

  “I’ve always felt terrible it made you leave racing,” I put in.

  “It was the right time. I’d juggled racing and pageants and school, and I knew I’d have to choose. I had some health issues, and the choice was clear. My mother—I was an only child, and she’d always been very involved in my careers,” she explained for Holly’s benefit. “She told me I’d go farther in pageants anyway. She humored my desire to race, using it to teach me lessons about always trying to improve. ‘Be the best!’ she’d tell me.” She blinked back tears.

  Holly handed Juliana a bar napkin to use as a tissue. “A major event like losing a parent can make you rethink where you are in your life.”

  “Exactly. I realized my life was mine to direct. So I came back to racing, because it’s where my heart’s always been. And I’ll still honor my mother by being the best wherever I am.”

  We toasted that sentiment with our coffee cups.

  A few minutes later we were upstairs in a large suite, microphones attached and cameras rolling. After addressing Ellie’s death, Juliana gave me an opening for other topics. “I understand that was merely the last event in an already tough day for you?”

  “Yes. I was terribly upset to have played a role in wrecking myself, not to mention another driver and team. On top of that to lose someone I’d only just reconnected with—I was devastated. I must have appeared unfeeling, and I want to apologize to anyone who felt slighted by my actions.”

  Juliana nodded sympathetically for the camera filming her over my shoulder. “It sounds like a difficult time emotionally. But you had good news coming up, right?”

  “It was a weekend of ups and downs. It’s hard to celebrate after such sadness, but I know Ellie would be happy for me and tell me to get on with business. I’m honored and excited to be part of Beauté’s campaign supporting the Breast Cancer Research Foundation—and especially to promote the idea that every woman is beautiful.”

  Our interview ended shortly thereafter, and an assistant who’d been helping with lights went out into the hallway. Seconds later, Felix Simon, the pit reporter Juliana had worked with at Road America, walked in, nodding to the crew packing up the cameras.

  “How’d the little tea party go, Juliana?” His voice was light, but patronizing.

  She rolled her eyes at me. “It was fine, Felix. Kate, I’m so sorry, but I have a follow-up phone interview in two minutes. Will you forgive me if I run?”

  “Sure, Jules.” We hugged each other, and she slipped from the room.

  Meanwhile Felix settled himself on the arm of the sofa I’d been sitting on. “How touching. Her first little solo job for the network. How’d you perform for her, ‘Kate Violent?’” He raised an eyebrow at me and crossed his arms over his chest.

  My fingers froze on the mic I’d been unfastening from my collar. I looked up, feeling a flush rising in my face. I noticed Holly getting to her feet at the other side of the room where she’d been a silent observer.

  He went on, his face hard. “Did our Jules ask you any hard-hitting questions about your pattern of aggression?”

  “What is your problem?” I clenched my hands into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking.

  He shrugged, smiled. “I’m just doing a journalist’s job, asking you questions. I don’t have a problem. Maybe you do, if you can’t handle the real world. Are you like all the other girls I’ve seen who try to call themselves racers? You can’t take what you’re trying to dish out?”

  “How do you know what I can take? Why would you judge me based on other people?”

  “So far you’re exactly like the rest. Looking for attention with whatever underhanded means you can find. I hate to break it to you, hot stuff, but tits and ass only get you so far in the racing world.” He shook his head. “But I forgot, you’re better than that. You should have taken that meal ticket to NASCAR when Sam Remington offered. You’ll wash out of racing soon enough—and like all the others, you’ll blame everyone else for the fact that you can’t hack it, instead of accepting you’re no damn good.”

  I vaguely heard Holly’s voice saying, “Hey, now” through the buzzing in my head, and I felt her hand on my arm, trying to calm me.

  I shook her off, stepping close to Felix and looking him in the eye. “Why would you attack me personally? What code of professional ethics or personal honor says that’s all right? Or are you afraid, Felix? Are you like some other men I’ve met, so threatened by a girl you have to lash out, keep me down? Does it make you less of a man because women are racecar drivers? If that’s how fragile your manhood is, I pity you.”

  I ripped the mic off my shirt, yanked the receiver from my waistband, and threw them on the couch next to him. “I’m out of here.” I whirled to leave and saw a camera on someone’s shoulder. The red “recording” light was on.

  Not again.

  Holly tugged me sideways, and we left the room.

  The elevator doors closed behind us and I sagged against the wall. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Holly began.

  “I flew off the handle on camera again,” I moaned. “I never do that, Holly. What’s wrong with me?”

  “He provoked you. That was way out of line.”

  “He works for the network, they’ll edit that out. And the Ringer blog will get it…” My breath caught in my chest.

  Holly held up her phone and tapped the screen. Felix’s voice spilled out, “…tea party go?”

  “You recorded it?” My tears dried up.

  “Lily Diaz told me to watch the interview and record anything touchy. When Felix came in and got all smirky at you, I hit record again.”

  “Have I mentioned lately you’re my best friend in the entire world?”

  “You can thank me by buying me dinner.”

  “Done.”

  I took calming breaths as Holly dragged me into the hotel’s gift shop—she couldn’t pass one without going in. After trying on dozens of rings, she finally settled on one with tiny crystals in the shape of a ladybug, and once she paid for it, we exited the hotel to walk to the corner. While we waited to cross, I admired the moody, twilight skies and watched pedestrians.

  “It’s like Felix wasn’t even talking to me, but to other women from the past. That’s some deep-seated resentment there.”

  “He certainly expects female drivers to behave only one way.” Holly stood to my right, head down, studying her new ring.

  Traffic sounds changed, and I looked up to see the light was green for us to cross. I stepped into the crosswalk, turning to tell Holly to get moving. Too quickly for my feet to respond, I realized the noise was wrong. Half a step later, there was a yank on my purse, slung across my body over my left shoulder.

  I staggered backward, falling, unable to get my feet under me. I thought, “Thief!” at the same instant I understood the strange noise: a car was bearing down on me. Ten yards away, nine—accelerating? Eight, seven. Every cell in my body screamed to get out of the way, fast.

  I was pulled backward again, by the back of my shirt this time.
I fell hard onto my butt in the gutter, my lower back slamming into the curb. I curled my knees to my face. Pulled my feet in. Threw myself back, as far from the street as possible. The car swept by, still accelerating, missing me by inches. I tasted exhaust.

  A clamor of voices. “Are you OK?”

  “He was aiming at you!”

  “Let’s get you up.”

  “No, leave her a minute.” That was Holly, who crouched next to me, murmuring, “You all right?”

  I nodded, face buried in my knees, tailbone smarting. I tried to catch my breath from the kidney-punch against the curb. Tried to grab a coherent thought when my brain and body were jacked up on adrenaline and terror. “That you who pulled me back, Holly?”

  “Yeah. Anything hurt?”

  “I’m OK. Thanks.”

  “Then let’s get you out of the gutter. It’s unbecoming.”

  I laughed weakly as she helped me up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I sat on the sidewalk for five minutes until the Atlanta police arrived, called by a helpful pedestrian. Unfortunately, no one could identify the car, let alone the driver. Four-door, black or dark gray. One person said a Ford, one said a Honda. The driver was alone, but shadowed. No one caught a license plate.

  The officer took down notes about the death threats I’d received in e-mail—promising to contact the Sheboygan County Sheriff for more information and start an investigation into them. But he wasn’t hopeful about finding the car and driver from this attempt. “At least we’ve got it on record if anything else happens,” he said.

  “Good Lord, let’s hope not.” Holly batted her eyelashes at the dimpled, muscled detective who smiled back at her.

  I hated to break up the blooming love connection, but my adrenaline rush had worn off, and I felt cold and shaky. Holly and I walked slowly—and carefully—back to our hotel. Instead of the planned dinner out, she ordered room service while I took a hot shower. She ate on the couch, her chicken parmesan on the low table in front of her. I sat cross-legged on the bed with my food tray.

  “Holly? I might be paranoid, but was that an accident?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why is someone trying to kill me? It’s bizarre to even say it. This doesn’t happen in real life.” I held up my hands, reading her look and remembering my narrow escape from a killer the previous year in Connecticut. “The guy last year was crazy.”

  “He’s not the only crazy person in this big ole world—obviously, since someone killed Ellie.”

  “But who? Why? A fan because Miles got hurt? A redneck because I used the word as an insult? A runner-up spokeswoman because I got the Beauté sponsorship?”

  “Someone angry at your success in racing?”

  “Felix.”

  “I don’t know.”

  I shook my head. “I still can’t wrap my mind around the idea.”

  “Someone tried to kill you tonight. I’d say that makes it pretty clear Ellie died because someone doesn’t like you. Stop with the denial and figure it out.”

  I opened my mouth, but she went on before I could speak. “And don’t get wrapped up in guilt. It’s not your fault, it’s the killer’s fault. The only thing you can do is make sure he’s caught.”

  I shut my mouth and nodded. Accepted a few truths, straightened out my emotions. Holly ate her dinner while I worked it out.

  “So we know someone’s out to get me. One? Or more?”

  “Good question.” She put her knife and fork down on the plate. “On one hand, of course they’re related, because how many people are out to kill you? On the other, you did piss off seventy-five million NASCAR fans by taking out Miles, so they could be different perpetrators.”

  “Not every NASCAR fan is a Miles Hanson fan.” She looked at me and I sighed. “Right, only seventy-four million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand are. No idea if we’re talking one person or two. I’m going to assume one person, because the thought of multiple homicidal maniacs after me is terrifying. Which means it’s someone who was at Siebkens last Sunday night and in downtown Atlanta tonight.”

  She picked up her tray of empty dishes and headed to the door to set it in the hallway. “I didn’t do it.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I followed her with my tray.

  “We need a list of names of people at both places, then we cross-reference them.”

  “You’ll help?”

  “Of course.” She handed me the hotel-provided notepad and pen. “Start writing.”

  Ten minutes later we’d come up with about fifty people we remembered seeing at Siebkens. We’d debated adding friends or people we only knew to have been outside the Tavern, not inside. In the end, we wrote every name down, including Stuart and Holly—at her insistence.

  Then I started a new list for tonight in Atlanta, which was also long. I bunched pillows up against the headboard of my bed and settled back on them. “The problem is half of the ALMS paddock is already here for tomorrow’s Series event. Everyone else could show up at any time to network.”

  Holly lay across her bed on her stomach, propped up on her elbows. “Plus, half of US racing is based between Atlanta and Charlotte. We need to include the Series people who live here. They’re only forty minutes away.”

  I looked at the names and felt discouraged.

  “Buck up, sugar,” Holly said. “This is still easier than asking everyone if they hate you enough to kill you.”

  “I wish I could ask everyone in Miles’ fan clubs.”

  “Or the Ringer.”

  “I’m staying away from him. I wonder—no, I’m not looking.”

  “I checked while you were in the shower.” She shook her head at my hopeful expression. “He’s got a transcript of your rant at Felix this evening.”

  “What kind of sources does this guy have? He’s got to be someone in racing.”

  “That’s the beauty of his process. It’s all anonymous tips. Anyone can send anything in and maybe he’ll cross-check with other tips or sources, or maybe he’ll post it as unconfirmed rumor. Usually he’s careful not to state it as fact, but as hearsay. Or he won’t name the target specifically, but will describe him or her in a way that makes it clear who he’s referring to.”

  “How do I make him stop?”

  “Prove him wrong. I sent the audio file of Felix provoking you—which wasn’t on the Ringer’s blog—to your PR team. They’ll counter his nonsense.”

  “Then what do I do with the people on both of these lists?” I looked at them side-by-side.

  “Figure out who would benefit with you out of the way.”

  “Some driver who might take my seat at Sandham Swift. Some woman who might take my spot as a Beauté spokeswoman.”

  “Hmmm, those lovely, free products.”

  “Easy, killer. Someone who…wants to date Stuart? Who thinks I get too much attention in the paddock?”

  “Money? They always say follow the money.”

  “No, I—oh. Something my father told me Monday.” I’d shared the secret of my father with only Holly, Zeke, and Stuart. “I’m in the family will, and some members of the family aren’t happy. Plus they’ll all be at a private party sponsored by the bank on Friday. He wants me to meet everyone.”

  “That ought to be a hoot. How much money?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “Maybe some evil relation wants to rub you out so they get more inheritance? Is the money being distributed soon?”

  “Not until my father dies, I think. It seems farfetched.”

  “Depends on the amount of money or the need. Maybe you should find out who isn’t happy about you and where they’ve been the last week.”

  I looked at the clock: 7:30. Before I lost my nerve, I dialed my father, who had five minutes to spare before leaving for an engagement. He was initially angr
y I’d be suspicious of family members I’d never met, but when I explained the attempts on my life, he named two cousins, William Reilly-Stinson and Holden Sherain—also offering to verify their whereabouts on the two evenings in question. As an afterthought, I asked him the value of my supposed inheritance.

  Holly raised her eyebrows when I told her. “That’d buy you a few racecars.”

  “I want to earn the racecars, not buy them. And talk about money with strings attached. Maybe I’ll give it to the BCRF.”

  She shot me a look that very clearly said, “Are you nuts?”

  “Topic over. I need a break. Let’s watch a movie.”

  “Sure.” She picked up the guide. “Perfect. We’ll watch Die Hard now, and then you’ll get up in the morning and go play with guns.”

  “Yippee kai yay.”

  Road Atlanta

  Braselton, Georgia

  Chapter Eighteen

  For our hunting trip the next morning, Mike, Jack, and I drove an hour out of Atlanta to meet six BW Goods executives, three winners of a “top hunter” contest the superstore sponsored, and two men with cameras. We walked around the woods of a private preserve for two hours, the hunters shooting at doves and me shooting at a tree stump, since I’d never fired a shotgun before and didn’t have a hunting permit. Then we posed for photos with the wild boar the hunters bagged before we arrived. I tried not to dwell on how Benny the boar turned into my delicious bacon.

  After a quick turnaround at my Atlanta hotel, where I showered the outdoors off, Holly and I headed north to the suburb of Suwanee, Holly driving while I checked in with the world. Racing’s Ringer was at it again, beside himself with indignation over my doing what he’d berated me for lack of—stepping up, being a role model, and working for a greater cause. The hypocrite.

  “The headline is ‘Convenient News From Kate Violent,’” I told Holly. “He says I’m doing this only for the money, suggests I cooked this up to combat his challenges, and congratulates himself on prompting my ‘better behavior.’ Then he contradicts himself, claiming it’s not better behavior because I can’t truly be committed to the cause if I didn’t do anything before now. Calls me ‘self-aggrandizing’ to be ‘pulling this convenient stunt now when her public image is so tarnished, so in need of redemption.’ He ends by concluding I have no class to be grandstanding this way. Me?”