Braking Points Page 7
“You ain’t kidding.”
We rode in silence another couple miles. One minute I felt like crying, the next I felt like yelling, and the next I thought I could laugh and ignore the whole mess.
“Turn off the brain,” Holly suggested, breaking off another piece of chocolate and handing it to me. She popped Garth Brooks into the CD player and for two hours, we sang our heads off and pretended the world of murdered friends, frightening fans, and angry bloggers didn’t exist.
Wednesday at her house in Nashville represented an island of calm. We slept late, then I went for a long run, joined Holly for a healthy, home-cooked breakfast, and worked out for more than an hour with the weights I carried in the back of my Jeep. We left the house only for me to purchase a new smartphone—the last person in the world to get one, Holly declared—and for both of us to take a yoga class at a local studio. By the end of the day, I felt great. I’d worked out all the kinks and stiff muscles from the accident, stress, and long drive. My wrist felt fine. My body felt normal again. We did lots of laundry and thoroughly ignored media, e-mail, and blogs. No one even called us.
Thursday I woke up rejuvenated. That’s when the peaceful feeling ended.
Lieutenant Young from the Sheboygan County Sheriff called to tell me they had a preliminary determination in the cause of Ellie’s death.
“I appreciate the information, Lieutenant, but why are you telling me?”
“Because we believe what caused her death was nitroglycerin located in the orange juice identified as her drink.”
“Nitroglycerin—the stuff for hearts? That can kill someone? In Ellie’s—but I gave the juice to her. I mean, Stuart gave it to me and he brought it from the bar. He wouldn’t put anything in it. I didn’t.”
“We don’t think you did, Ms. Reilly.”
“There were a hundred people in that room, anyone could have…but why would they want to hurt Ellie?”
“We’re not sure yet, but we also can’t rule out the possibility that you were the intended victim.”
“Oh my God.” My knees turned to jelly, and I crumpled onto Holly’s sofa.
He offered tips for protecting myself in case I was still a target, but I couldn’t concentrate on his words. Dangerous physical situations I could handle, but the way I lived life on the road made it difficult to guarantee my food and drink weren’t tampered with. Maybe a logistical impossibility.
I hung up and pulled myself together, relating the information to Holly, who was alarmed to find me motionless and dazed in her living room. Then I called Matt and Lily for a scheduled planning session, upsetting them with the news.
“The randomness of life on the road might be your best defense,” Matt said.
“At least until I’m having team meals during the next racing weekend.”
Lily made me promise to stay alive, then offered to hook me up with her favorite service that would ship poison-free meals from Los Angeles. I hoped it didn’t come to that.
Then we got to work discussing the media campaign they’d planned, which, they vowed, would improve public perception of me. We walked through the press releases they’d send out, via an e-mail media blast and by reaching out to key contacts personally. Then they drilled me on clear statements about the events of the prior weekend, including specific phrases they wanted me to use in reference to Miles, my “redneck” comment, and Ellie. I paced through Holly’s house, gesturing with a free hand, emphasizing different words each time until the cadence felt natural. In the end, the rehearsed lines rolled fluidly off my tongue.
“I want to apologize to anyone who took offense at the language I used while my emotions were high. My intent was not to disparage anyone.”
“I have reached out to Miles Hanson and the LinkTime Corvette team…”
“An unfortunate racing incident…”
“I am very sad about the death of Helen Prescott, who I raced with years ago and considered a friend. It was too difficult to speak about her before this time.”
As we talked, Matt and Lily sent copies of schedules, releases, and talking points in e-mail, and I promised to alert them to any new development—though I didn’t know how things could get worse. I hung up feeling relief as a lightness in my body. Bringing them in to fix my image and reputation was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. I owed Stuart for that.
After one last call—to Tom to update him and Jack on threats, my PR team’s activities, and my location and health—Holly and I left Nashville mid-afternoon and rolled in to the Westin Peachtree Plaza hotel in downtown Atlanta around nine that night. My hotel room was being paid for by the new sponsor I’d be meeting with on Friday, so Holly shared with me. She was a night owl, and I was nervous about the coming meetings, so we were up late.
“I don’t see why you’re worried.” She pulled open the drapes of our room on the forty-seventh floor to see the lights of downtown Atlanta.
“Number one, new sponsor, new people, and my reputation isn’t the best these days. That’s enough. But number two, it’s a beauty company.”
Chapter Twelve
I’d landed the kind of deal every young, unknown athlete dreams of, one that would bring me sponsorship money, national exposure, and the chance to be tied to a great cause. Beauté was a hundred-year-old cosmetic company selling a full line of products in low- to high-end department stores. Though the name was French for “beauty,” Beauté was an American corporation founded in and still run from Atlanta, with a long tradition of supporting women’s health efforts and non-profits.
They were launching a new line of products—“Glorieux,” pronounced “glor-i-oo,” meaning “glorious” in French—tied to a new initiative: promoting breast cancer awareness and research through a partnership with the Breast Cancer Research Foundation or BCRF. To support the campaign slogan of “Active, Healthy, Beautiful,” Beauté chose six young, up-and-coming female athletes from a variety of sports as models. One was me.
In return for Beauté sponsoring me for the next two years in whatever car I drove, I’d participate in their advertising campaigns, make appearances for the company, and get involved with fundraising and awareness efforts for BCRF.
Holly sat cross-legged on her double bed, filing her nails. “You’re beautiful, Kate.”
“I feel like a fraud.” I poked at my left wrist, noticing the bruises were mostly yellow now. “Plus the company, the campaign—they’re so damn pink. So girly. I’m not the most feminine woman around, you know.”
She raised an eyebrow at me. “This is the real problem.”
“I’ll feel out of place. Who am I to represent beauty? I’m waiting for them to decide they’ve made a mistake.”
“Maybe Jack made a mistake too and will fire your behind.”
“What? Hell no, driving’s what I do.”
Holly slid off the bed and stood in front of me, hands on hips, her temper making a rare appearance. “Being female is also what you do. Women come in all shapes, sizes, and degrees of femininity. Maybe they picked you because you weren’t girly and feminine. Because you’re a tomboy. Because you’re a female who kicks some ass. Dammit, Kate. Own. Who. You. Are.” She jabbed her index finger at me with each word.
“Even if I’m hated enough that someone tried to…” I couldn’t say the words.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you racing? Why is this your career?”
“Because I love it, and I’m good at it.”
She nodded. “What’s your goal?”
“To win races. To drive every kind of racecar and every racetrack I can. What’s your point? You know this stuff.”
She threw her hands in the air. “You didn’t tell me you’re doing this to be popular. If Jack wants you to drive, do you care what Nash Rawlings thinks?” When I shook my head, she went on. “Then you don’t care what hundreds of Nash Rawlingses think.”
Her voice was like steel. “Don’t let sexist, ignorant fools win because they made you doubt yourself.”
I sighed. “No pity party?”
“Say it. Mean it.”
“Hang on.” I shook out my arms, rolled my shoulders twice, and sat up straight. Took a deep breath. “If people pay me to drive, I don’t care what all the Nash Rawlingses out there think. Or if they hate me. I’m female, and I’m a racecar driver.”
Holly watched to be sure I meant it, then softened. “Shoot, you respond pretty good to a smack upside the head.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s that again? I can’t hear you.” She sat back down on the other bed.
“I’m sorry I’m being an idiot.”
“I’m used to it.”
I threw a pillow at her.
Entering Beauté’s corporate headquarters the next day, I held on to Holly’s words. Nancy, the head of their public relations staff, met me in the lobby and immediately dispelled my lingering fear Beauté would cancel my contract.
She escorted me to the meeting room, explaining that since we’d talked earlier in the week—when I called to explain the situation and how I was dealing with it—she’d been in communication with Matt and Lily, Tom from Sandham Swift Racing, and even the Elkhart Lake Police. While Beauté wouldn’t make its own statement, they were ready to respond with complete support if the question should arise.
Nancy squeezed my shoulder as we paused outside the meeting room. “We’re behind you one hundred percent, and we want you as part of this campaign. Let me know if there’s anything you need from me.” She pressed a card in my hand before handing me off to a marketing representative.
I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve this company and this deal, but I wouldn’t let anything ruin it. I put on my best “meet the public” face and prepared to be the best tomboy corporate representative they’d ever seen.
Besides me, there were eight corporate staff members in the room and three other female athletes—spokeswomen—a rower, a soccer player, and a jockey. The basketball player and the marathon runner wouldn’t arrive until the next day, for the official press event. Once introductions were done, Beauté product experts spent an hour covering the beauty lines the company sold, specifically the new line we’d be representing.
The “Glorieux” products were meant for active women, meaning they were waterproof, sweat-proof, and guaranteed not to run. One of the first rules of our contract was to only use Beauté products, to be supplied by the company. They loaded us up with facial cleanser, toner, moisturizer, foundation with SPF, concealer, blush, lip stain, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, eyebrow gel, and powder in the right shades for our complexions. And stuff to remove it all. They assured us professionals would demonstrate how to use everything.
“We also encourage you to experiment,” chirped the vice president of product development, a stylish, flawless woman in her fifties.
After that onslaught of information we got a break, and as we helped ourselves to coffee, I learned the jockey, Tina Burleigh—finally someone shorter than me—felt as out of place as I did. A fellow tomboy in a sea of femininity.
I leaned close to her. “Did you know we needed eyebrow gel? That it existed?”
“If it’s not mascara or lip balm, it might as well be from another planet. You know, I’m still not seeing myself as the embodiment of beauty.”
“I said the same thing to my best friend yesterday. She told me to shut up and get over myself.”
Tina almost choked on her coffee. “She’s got to meet my brother. He said the same thing.”
We continued chuckling as we settled back into our seats around the long, oval table. Next up, the marketing team explained where ads would be used, how the partnership with BCRF worked, and what phrases we should know and spout at every opportunity. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about seeing my face on a billboard, but I was eager to attend BCRF fundraising events as a Beauté rep—starting with a 5K and half-marathon in downtown Atlanta next Sunday.
Over a leisurely buffet lunch, the Beauté staff asked each spokeswoman to talk about the challenges of being a professional female athlete in our fields. Tina and I had different experiences than the others, given we both used “equipment” to do the work, and we competed on the same playing field as men. But we all had experience being discounted because of our gender, and we quickly found common ground. It dawned on me I’d receive more than sponsorship and free makeup out of this contract—I’d also gain a ready-made network of colleagues for support and friendship.
To end the day, makeup artists sat us down and put eighteen products on our faces. The corporate team handed me a logoed duffel containing a six-month supply of more cosmetics than I knew what to do with, as well as corporate-branded polo shirts, scarves, a windbreaker, and a knit hat.
I staggered back to our hotel room a mere eight hours after I’d left and collapsed face-up on my bed. My head was bursting from the corporate information and new talking points I’d stuffed into it.
Holly leaned over me, inspecting my face. She grinned. “Sugar, you look downright female.”
Chapter Thirteen
I finally thought to check voicemail on my new smartphone after thirty minutes of sitting on the edge of the bathtub watching Holly play with the products I’d been given. My new outgoing greeting referred all media inquiries to Matt and Lily Diaz, so I had only five messages to listen to.
The first one nearly made me drop the phone, Miles Hanson, telling me he was fine, agreeing about shared blame, and hoping we’d meet again in better circumstances. “You stay out of the walls, now, hear?” was how he signed off. I felt giddy.
I returned Stuart’s call first, only to be shocked by the news he had for me. He hadn’t left Elkhart Lake on Tuesday because he’d returned to the police station to answer more questions, including some about his prior relationship with Ellie.
“Your what?”
“We were engaged a number of years ago.”
“Engaged?” My voice went up as my stomach fell. “Why didn’t you—”
He broke in. “What? Get married? Tell you?” He paused, and I could picture him running a hand through his hair. “We were together a year, and engaged for two months. You know what she was like. Once in a while she’d make a last-minute decision—a complete reversal of what she wanted the day before. And never budge. Our engagement was like that. One day, she didn’t love me enough and she was gone.”
I was silent, remembering the occasions I’d watched Ellie change her mind like that—about the paint scheme on her helmet, about her decision to go to college instead of going racing. I was surprised she’d done so over an engagement. Over Stuart. She knew him well. First. Better than I know him now.
“I never saw it coming. Turns out, I missed a lot about her.” He sounded tired. “Why didn’t I tell you? It never came up.”
I wondered what else I didn’t know about him. Would I have gone to him if I’d known about Ellie? Was he really over her? Did he kill her because she’d betrayed him? My breaths were shallow, and I realized I was becoming hysterical.
“Kate, the police know I had no reason to kill her—and less reason to kill you.”
“You heard about that?”
“Yes, and I’m worried about you.”
That was more than I could handle from my new lover who admitted being dumped by a good friend of mine—who’d died from poison intended for me. My head hurt. I don’t remember what I said, but I got off the phone.
Holly leaned in the bathroom doorway. “You all right?”
“I’m not sure.” I filled her in. “I know the idea is crazy, but…could he have killed her?”
“I thought you were the target?”
“They d
on’t know for sure. Could Stuart kill someone? How can I even ask that? I slept with him, I like him.”
She shrugged. “Anyone could kill if they had to, but I don’t think he had a reason to kill her—or try to kill you.”
“Because she betrayed him? Because he still loved her? To keep me from finding out about their history?”
“You writing for telenovelas now? Take a breath, sugar.”
I took three and felt my heart rate slow. “It has to come back to motive. Dozens of people in that Tavern had the opportunity to put something in the juice, but there’s got to be a reason.”
“We don’t know why anyone would want her dead, but we sure know people who want you dead.”
“I can’t face the idea that Ellie died for me because I pissed off a bunch of Miles Hanson fans.” I dropped my head in my hands.
“It’s the obvious explanation, for now. But it’s no one’s fault but the person who killed her, remember?”
I nodded.
She spoke again. “Enough of this. Focus on one thing at a time. Deal with the rest later.”
I wiped thoughts of Stuart and Ellie from my brain and called Grandmother and Gramps to check in. My conversation with Grandmother was brief, both of us avoiding topics that might lead to my father. Gramps wanted to hear how my “girly day” (his words) had gone.
The other two messages were from Lily Diaz, reviewing various media requests, and from Juliana, officially requesting an on-camera interview. I called Lily first and confirmed I should say yes to Juliana, plus do phone interviews Lily set up with three print reporters. I called Jules to set up the on-camera for the next afternoon, suggesting coffee beforehand.
At that point, Holly forced me to sit at my laptop for a Twitter tutorial. I created my account as @katereilly28, because my name alone was taken.
“What if you aren’t driving for Jack?” she cautioned. “The car number won’t mean anything.”
“My mother and Gramps were both born on the twenty-eighth of different months.”