Braking Points Page 19

  I fumbled for my cell phone. Was the Ringer dead too? My hopes were dashed by a five-minute-old post about cops in the ALMS paddock—wondering what “Kate Violent” had done now.

  “Ten minutes to the press conference. I’ll go with you.”

  I dashed into the motorhome and changed into street clothes, leaving my sodden racewear spread across the bed for Aunt Tee. I used the walk down the paddock and over the bridge to the media center to stuff shock, worry, and fear into a corner of my mind. To focus on happiness over my first pole and anticipation for tomorrow’s race.

  Only two reporters departed from the standard press conference script of “How was your pole run and how do you feel about your chances in the race tomorrow?” by asking about the recent public backlash I’d faced and if I thought this achievement would answer some of the critics.

  It was easy to smile for that one. “Absolutely. All of the attention has been really upsetting. I understand not everyone will like me, but the questions about my ability to drive are especially disappointing. Call this my rebuttal.” Some reporters and the other drivers on the panel laughed with me.

  The Series media officer had to step in once, when a journalist asked why I’d spoken with police right after qualifying, to explain there would be a briefing as soon as possible. The media reps exchanged glances with each other, a few of them regarding me with suspicion. There goes my reputation again.

  Jack and I were back on the other side of the track, halfway down the paddock to our garage, when I saw Juliana, walking alone, crying. I sent Jack ahead and went to her.

  “Jules.” I put my arm around her waist.

  “Kate, did you hear? Isn’t it awful?”

  “Are you all right?”

  She sniffled and dabbed at the corners of her red-rimmed eyes with a tissue. I was impressed with the staying power of her makeup, which hadn’t run. “I was so mad at him this morning. Wondered if he was in that car yesterday. But knowing he was lying there dead—” her breath hiccoughed.

  We’d reached Sandham Swift. “Come in and sit down?”

  She shook her head and took a deep breath. Pulled her shoulders back and lifted her head. “Thank you, but I need to keep on with work. There’s even more to do now.”

  “They’ll give you someone to help cover the pits, right?” Typically two pit reporters split coverage of teams on pit lane between them, for the sake of logistics, if nothing else, so the physical area they had to cover was smaller.

  “I assume so, but I have no idea yet.” She gave me a hug. “Thank you, Kate. And congratulations on pole. You guys were hiding a little something in all those practice sessions, weren’t you?”

  “No comment.” I smiled.

  Another squeeze, and she was gone.

  I had half an hour back at the paddock, during which I thanked every last member of the crew for making the Corvette so fast and balanced. Tom took photos of everyone standing together, and we posed for passing fans and media, as well. Every car was a potential winner before the race, but having demonstrated our speed, we could be rightly judged one of the favorites.

  I’d said all the correct words in the press conference, including, “Qualifying position doesn’t matter as much for a long race as it does for the sprint races.” The sentiment was true. But deep down, I burned with hope. We had a damn fast car, and I was ready to race. I wasn’t sure how I’d sleep for the anticipation.

  Of course, there was work to do yet. First was the American Le Mans Series drivers meeting conducted by the race director who called the shots from race control. Everyone trooped over to the Administrative building across the track, up the hill from the media center, some walking the shortcut over the bridge, some taking golf carts the long way around. We crowded into a room that was too small for the number of drivers present, leaving half of us standing at the back and around the edges, eyeing those seated with joking threats.

  After the opening prayer from the Motorsports Ministries pastor, the longtime Series race director, Guy Dinman, started with thank yous and compliments from the last race. He specifically mentioned thanks from the safety crew for drivers giving them room to work on the big accident in the Kink.

  I flushed, realizing that was mine.

  An amused voice rose out of the murmur of the room. “There are easier ways to meet Miles Hanson, Kate. I could’ve hooked you up.” Andy, the jokester from the LinkTime Corvette team.

  Everyone else in the room laughed while I cringed. Too soon, Andy. Not funny yet.

  “Stay classy, people.” Guy surveyed us. There were traces of humor in his voice, but we all felt the steel underneath. “Just a reminder. In this room and on that track, you treat each other with respect. It’s your job to race and my job to deal with anyone who does something wrong. Keep it clean and polite, and you won’t hear from me.”

  I ordered myself to relax as Guy continued with reminders about full-course-caution processes: where the pace car would pick up the race leader, where cars should slow (where the yellow flags are being waved, not only displayed), and where they should speed up (other areas, to collect in one pack). Guy went on with procedures for the race start and subsequent restarts, as well as reminders about pit lane speed and where the pit lane began on the downhill entry at this track.

  I was still smarting with shame when Guy delivered a warning that applied to a different incident of mine. “I want to talk specifically about Turn 4 and the Esses. Prototypes get through there easy, don’t need all the track. But the GTs, they’re using every inch of the road—especially on the exit of the right-hander. Prototype drivers, you’ve got to be aware of that. Don’t think you can slip past them there with no problem—we’ve seen more than one incident of that in practice already. Be aware, if I see a GT and a prototype tangle there and someone goes off? I won’t even review the tape, I’ll hand the prototype driver a penalty. So watch yourselves in that area, and everywhere else.”

  He wrapped up with a warning about trips into the gravel—telling us he’d be in no hurry to retrieve multiple offenders. Then he closed his notebook and leaned forward on the podium, his eyes sweeping the room again. “Bottom line, with all due respect, try to keep your car on the track, and we’ll be fine. Have a great race.”

  The meeting broke up with a few people clapping and others chuckling. The buzz of conversation was high, and as I turned to follow Leon out the door, I finally made out the words being whispered around the room: Felix Simon dead.

  Outside, I was surprised to see Dominic Lascuola standing near two other Benchmark Racing drivers in a golf cart.

  “Kate.” He stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Sorry about this morning. I’m not used to the track.”

  I shook, wary. “Sure. No harm done, in the end.”

  “I’m glad your car’s all right. Good job on pole.” He smiled, looking very like his sister, only with short blond hair instead of her ponytail. But while I thought of Colby as open, straightforward, and honest, her brother seemed closed in. Calculating.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Good luck in the race.”

  “You, too. I’ll be sure to leave you the track space you need.”

  Was that a threat, a taunt, or a simple statement? I didn’t know, but I’d keep my distance, on track or off.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Zeke knew more about Felix when I saw him in the paddock after the meeting.

  “It’s so odd.” He ran a hand over his face and shook his head as if to clear his mind. “We weren’t close mates, but I knew him, and he’s…gone. I understand now how you feel about Ellie.”

  “Shocked, upset, angry, afraid for yourself. Guilty for not being nicer, friendlier, more something?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What happened?”

  “He didn’t show up here, didn’t answer his phone, and didn’t answer the door at the hotel, so the
y got management to open it and there he was on the couch.”

  “Do they know how? Did he have a bad heart or a blood pressure problem?” Who are you trying to fool, Kate? Detectives don’t come out if the man had a heart attack.

  “Don’t think he had a heart problem, since he told me how his life improved with his magic pills for—” he looked around, then leaned closer and whispered, framing the words with finger quotes “—erectile dysfunction.”

  I waved my hands in front of my face, trying to dispel the idea of Felix and sex. “Don’t put images like that in my head.”

  “Sorry.” He looked the opposite. “All I know is he was on the couch, not a mark on him. Looked peaceful.”

  “Sounds like Ellie.” I spoke without thinking.

  “You think they’re connected?”

  Did I? “If whoever killed Ellie was aiming at me, there would have to be a connection between me and Felix.”

  “Can’t imagine what that would be.”

  We were interrupted by Tom walking toward us, from the direction of the Sandham Swift paddock. “It’s six-thirty. Time for the auction.”

  Zeke greeted Tom, then spoke to me. “You donated something?”

  “A ticket to the banquet as my guest—the team’s guest. It was a better idea a month ago when they asked.” I looked at Tom. “Maybe not a great idea now that I’m the most suspicious character around.”

  Zeke shook his head. “You may be the flavor of the month, but the shadiest guy is the olive oil king down the paddock.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” He was a gentleman racer who supplied the team he ran with the best equipment and most opulent paddock setup.

  “Money laundering is what I hear,” Tom answered. “I don’t ask.”

  Good plan. Zeke gave me a hug goodbye, and Tom and I headed to the Winner’s Circle.

  “@katereilly28: Hoping to raise money for a good cause in Andy Padden’s charity auction. Come out and bid on a ticket to the #ALMS championship banquet.”

  The event benefitted a Georgia-based foundation for juvenile diabetes that Andy started sponsoring after his nephew nearly died from the disease. Savvy fans knew this was where to score unique collectors’ items, as Andy stipulated everything up for bid was used by drivers in races or would provide a one-of-a-kind experience. Though the audience was small—fifty or sixty bidders—their pockets were deep.

  Tom and I were there because Sandham Swift donated something unusual: a ticket to the American Le Mans Series Night of Champions banquet on Sunday night. The plan was Tom would talk logistics with the winning bidder, and I would remind everyone they’d get a rare inside look at the racing world, plus rub elbows with drivers and media stars.

  Andy, as auctioneer, had gotten the bid to $600 when he called me to the stage. He slung an arm around my shoulders and bellowed, “Who wants to sit with our Kate at the banquet? Who wants to be her date for the evening?”

  I tried to keep the panic I felt off my face. I elbowed him.

  “What’s that?” He looked at me and spoke into the microphone.

  “Sorry, no date. But a seat at our table, yes.”

  He turned to the crowd. “A seat at the table, couple photos, conversation—close enough to a date for me! What am I bid to see Kate prettied up—you going to wear a dress, Kate?” The last bit was to me, of course.

  I nodded, looking to Tom for help. He looked as alarmed as I felt.

  “Photos with Kate in a dress! What am I bid?”

  Is this tailor-made for a stalker or what? How the hell do I stop it?

  Easier to stop a freight train. Andy released me and moved to the front of the stage, looking back and forth between two bidders. He drove the total to $1,200, where it got harder and harder to get more out of either man. They both looked familiar, though neither looked scary. Tom stepped to the stage and called Andy over.

  Andy conferred with Tom, then turned to the audience. “Unbelievable! A question for our two bidders. What if I could get one ticket for each of you? Would you each agree to pay twelve hundred dollars. Remember, it all goes to a worthy cause, and you get a once-in-a-lifetime experience of the ALMS championship banquet with Kate and the rest of the Sandham Swift team.”

  Both men nodded, and Andy crowed, “Thanks to the generosity of Sandham Swift, I have two tickets. Sold! To two lucky gentlemen. Please see my assistant and Tom for payment and ticket information. Thank you to Sandham Swift and Kate Reilly!”

  I hustled off the stage and grabbed Tom’s arm, hissing in his ear. “Get their e-mail addresses.”

  When I followed him over to congratulate the two men, I recognized them both from the mall event the weekend before: George Ryan and—I had to sneak a peek at Tom’s notes—Jeff Morgan. Nice, normal guys? Stalkers? At least George was familiar.

  “Congratulations.” I shook hands with each of them as Tom related details of where to be on Sunday and how to dress. I glanced at Tom’s notes again. Neither e-mail address was anything I recognized.

  “I’m so excited, this will be so cool. And I’ll get to sit with my favorite team,” Jeff said.

  George Ryan laughed, a nervous, awkward sound. “I guess you’ll have two dates, Kate. I hope we don’t have to fight each other for you.”

  Tom took charge as my skin crawled. “If it’s a date at all, it’s one with the whole Sandham Swift team, and there are plenty of us to go around. Thanks again for your donation to the cause, and we’ll see you Sunday evening. Look for me, and I’ll have seats saved for you.”

  As we walked away from the Winner’s Circle, Tom finished his sentence, for my ears only, “… as far away from Kate as possible.”

  I shuddered. “That was creepy. What was Andy thinking? A bachelorette auction with me as the only prize? It’s flattering, maybe? But no thanks.”

  “Can’t argue with the outcome. Twenty-four hundred dollars is a nice donation for his charity.”

  “You have to stick by my side all night.”

  He cocked his head. “Won’t that be Stuart’s role?”

  I sighed. Tom was one of the few people who knew about my relationship with Stuart. “First, I’m sure he’ll be busy at the banquet. Second, not ready to go public.”

  “OK, I’ll be next to you.”

  “I’m not getting in the way of you bringing a date, am I, Tom?”

  “You’re the only woman I will ever love, Kate.” He clutched his hands over his heart and fluttered his eyelashes dramatically at me.

  “Cut the crap, Romeo. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

  He laughed, and we parted ways for the night.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Over dinner with Holly at a bar and grill along Old Winder Highway, I finally had a chance to talk about Felix. “Two questions. Why would someone kill him? And do we think his death is connected to Ellie’s?”

  “He was a jerk to you.” She waved a french fry to stop my protests. “You didn’t kill him, but maybe someone did—like your stalker.”

  “Can we not say ‘my stalker?’ We don’t know I have one. Anyway, being mean to me isn’t much of a reason. Do we think Felix and Ellie’s deaths are connected? Maybe it’s a coincidence?”

  “On one hand, deaths at two successive race weekends can’t be coincidence—thank goodness this is the end of the season, because I’d hate to see what happened at the next race. On the other hand, I can’t think what you and Felix have in common to make someone that angry at you both.”

  “And Juliana. Someone’s after her, too.”

  “I know, maybe Felix killed Ellie and tried to run you and Juliana down, and someone killed him for revenge.”

  “But who? Me? Juliana? Ellie’s husband who’s at home dealing with twins? None of it makes any sense.” I took a bite of my blackened salmon and thought about Felix. “I remember Felix say
ing he wasn’t the only one after me. Plus he was acting secretive this week—but that’s third-hand news. Maybe he knew something about Ellie’s death—or who’s after females at the track—and he was killed to keep him quiet.”

  “That big watch was new this week.”

  “Was it? A race-winner’s watch. Did he ever win one?” The biggest Series sponsor, Kreisel Timepieces, was a luxury watch maker that handed out special watches to all race winners—a design that couldn’t be purchased, only won.

  “The company’s only been giving them out for seven years. Felix hasn’t raced in that time, so he couldn’t have won it. To be fair, I’ve seen those watches in fundraising auctions before, donated by a driver. Or he could have been given one by the company.”

  I set down my fork. “Or he could have blackmailed someone for it.”

  “Maybe he saw something at the Tavern that night.” Holly paused, handing her empty plate over to the waiter. “I think the manager of the team next to ours was friends with Felix. I’ll see if he knows anything.”

  “Thanks. Did you find out anything about Colby and her brother?”

  She nodded. “They were in Elkhart Lake that weekend, and even at Siebkens, but outside on the lawn eating ice cream. No one remembers seeing them inside the Tavern, which doesn’t prove anything. You have to consider them.”

  “She seemed so nice.”

  “Everyone says she is. But her brother’s a real hothead—loses his temper in and out of the car. Very protective of his baby sister.”

  “By now, I shouldn’t be surprised people who don’t know me don’t like me.” I looked at the time. “Now to meet some more.”

  My final obligation that night was my father’s bank party, and I’d roped Holly into joining me. I was going because I was curious about my father’s life. His family. But I wished I could observe anonymously.

  “Only the two cousins dislike you, right? Maybe they won’t be there. Besides, you already decided to do this. Let’s get it over with.”

  We drove down the highway to the Chateau Élan Winery, where a couple hundred people filled its main room. Most wore suits or dresses—or all black, like Holly. I stood out in my khakis and white team polo shirt, though I recognized three other drivers in the crowd dressed as I was.