In High Gear

by Gina Wilkins

  He was beginning to wonder if any relationships were meant to last a lifetime.

  TANYA WAS AT ANOTHER party Thursday night, but she wasn’t a guest at this one. This was work.

  The young engaged couple who’d recently been to her studio for photos had requested her services at a big engagement party being thrown by the groom’s indulgent parents. They were the kind of couple who wanted every detail of their engagement, and later their wedding, commemorated in photographs and DVDs. Tanya wouldn’t have been overly surprised if they had asked her to accompany them on the honeymoon, to record their adventures there for posterity, she thought facetiously.

  They wanted candids. Lots of them. Michelle, the bride-to-be, had requested that Tanya try to make sure to include every guest in a picture. “We don’t want to forget one moment of this magical journey,” she had breathed, gazing soulfully at her rather gawky young fiancé.

  Managing not to make a face, Tanya had agreed to try to capture everyone.

  They also wanted some posed shots. Photos of them with her parents. With his. With their best friends. With the members of the wedding party who were in attendance. With the caterer, for crying out loud, Tanya thought with a slight shake of her head, pressing the shutter release.

  Letting the caterer get back to work, Michelle and Darren descended on Tanya. “I can’t wait to get all the prints,” Michelle gushed, giggling. “I’m going to make scrapbooks of everything. I bought the cutest little scrapbook decorations and fancy papers.”

  Thinking of her photographs cut into cutesy little shapes with pinking-sheared edges, Tanya smiled weakly. “I’m sure that will be just adorable.”

  “Listen, Tanya.” Darren was obviously not at all interested in scrapbook plans. “Thanks again for the signed cap from Kent. That was really nice of both of you.”

  “You’re welcome, Darren. I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it?” Michelle rolled her eyes. “He loves it. He has it on a shrine at home, with some more Kent Grosso memorabilia that he’s collected. We’re going to have to have a room dedicated just to his NASCAR obsession so it doesn’t creep into the rest of our house.”

  “So, um…are you going to California this weekend?” Darren asked Tanya.

  Something about his tone raised her mental antennae. Was he going to ask her to bring him another souvenir—or was there some other issue buried in his seemingly innocent question? Though she still hadn’t completely committed to going to California, especially after the awkward way she and Kent had last parted. She nodded, curious about where this was leading. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “Really? ’Cause I heard…well, never mind.”

  Tanya’s eyes narrowed. “What did you hear, Darren?”

  Smiling sheepishly, he shook his head. “Forget it. Just some fan gossip. Should have known it was all a bunch of bull—probably started by some jealous Grosso groupies.”

  “You heard that Kent and I were broken up?”

  He shrugged. “I also heard that Bart and Will Branch were going to quit racing and join a monastery in Tibet. You know how crazy celebrity gossip can be.”

  Forcing a laugh, Tanya nodded. “That is crazy. The monastery’s really in Mongolia.”

  Darren laughed, and was then towed away by Michelle to pose for another picture, this time with her sixth-grade English teacher.

  Even as she directed them on the way to stand, Tanya fretted about what Darren had said. Obviously, he’d rather enjoyed revealing the gossip to her, in a way that hadn’t exactly been gentlemanly. But just as obviously, he’d heard something that had given him the idea.

  Her thoughts flashed to the vicious e-mail Kent had received. Someone wanted him unsettled. Nervous. Was that same someone spreading rumors elsewhere? And if so, who? And why?

  She thought of his theory: the Murphys had something to do with all of this. While she supposed it wasn’t entirely out of the question, she found it hard to believe that Justin or Hugo, as focused as they were on their own season, would take time to torment Kent with anonymous rumors. But there were other Murphys. Other competitors who would love to see Kent perform badly.

  One way or another, she and Kent needed to get to the bottom of this.

  TANYA ARRIVED IN CALIFORNIA late Saturday morning. Kent was on the track when she arrived, participating in final practice. Stopping only to greet a few people, she went straight to the motor home to freshen up after the long trip.

  She didn’t really want to talk to anyone else before she saw Kent. She was nervous enough about that, for some reason. Maybe because he had sounded so odd when they’d talked on the phone the night before, confirming her travel plans for this morning.

  Was he as wary as she was about the next couple of days together—or had there been more to his odd behavior last night? She was finding it hard to even guess these days what he was thinking.

  The vase of cheery sunflowers on the table made her smile a little as she passed. She was glad Jesse didn’t mind driving to California. Kent much preferred having his motor home close by rather than having to stay in even the nicest hotel suite, and she agreed. It was nice to be surrounded by familiar things, to have a private place to retreat to from the madness surrounding the tracks.

  The next race would be held in Las Vegas in two weeks. Rather than return to North Carolina and then come all the way back west, Jesse would stay in California for a few days and then head for Las Vegas, where he’d have a week or so of vacation for himself, staying in the motor home until Kent arrived. Jesse claimed to have no regrets about that; he would be in Vegas, he said with a grin. Who could complain?

  One of Kent’s shirts was thrown across the foot of the big bed. She picked it up and smoothed the soft fabric, lifting it to her cheek for one brief, atypically sentimental moment. And then she hung it in the closet next to the garments she kept on hand here for herself.

  She put away her things, then wandered back into the galley to pull a cold soft drink from the fridge. Her gaze fell on Kent’s laptop, which sat open on the built-in desk. He’d said he hadn’t been able to trace the disturbing e-mail; she wondered if she would have any more luck at it, though she wasn’t particularly skilled at that sort of thing.

  Too bad her friend Lucy wasn’t here. Lucy was a computer whiz. But Lucy wouldn’t be at the track this week, Tanya thought with a wave of sadness for her friend. Lucy had finally called Tanya to admit that she and Justin had called it quits. “For good this time,” Lucy had added, sounding more disappointed and chagrined than heartbroken.

  If Sophia Grosso had had anything to do with the breakup, Lucy hadn’t said. Maybe because she just didn’t want to talk about it. Or perhaps because of Tanya’s connection with Kent and Sophia. The bottom line was that Lucy and Justin were done, and now Lucy had no reason to come to the tracks, where she would be seen as an outsider. A hanger-on.

  The way Tanya would feel at the tracks if she and Kent ever parted ways, she thought with a sinking feeling.

  Sitting at the desk, she pulled the laptop in front of her and keyed in Kent’s password. She was sure he’d kept the offending message, and she didn’t think he would care if she looked at it. After all, he’d shown it to her once before. If she could find any clue at all of who had sent it, maybe they could figure out what to do about it, if anything.

  But it wasn’t that e-mail that made her freeze when she opened his e-mail account. There was another e-mail in the file this time, with an even more disturbing header.

  U Know Who Killed Troy.

  The e-mail had been opened, so Kent had been unable to resist looking at it, she realized. She noted that it had arrived last night.

  He hadn’t mentioned it when she’d talked to him, but now she knew why he’d sounded so strained.

  Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She hadn’t been concerned about re-reading the e-mail about his college expulsion because he knew she had already seen that one. She doubted that he’d mind if she looked at it again,
especially once she explained to him that she was trying to help him figure out who had sent it.

  This one, however, was different. She never read any of his e-mails without his permission—not on purpose, anyway. He had given her his password so she could use his computer any time she wanted, and she had never given him reason to regret doing so. Jealousy was not a part of her makeup, so she had never felt the need to check up on him. As for the rest of his personal correspondence, she simply hadn’t had any urge to pry into his business.

  She hadn’t considered herself prying this time, either. She had just wanted to help. But now she wanted to know what was in this ominous-sounding e-mail and whether it was in any way connected to the former one.

  She should wait for Kent to show her what this said. But the heading kept drawing her eyes, making her heart thud heavily in her chest. Whatever this was, it was no joke.

  Why hadn’t Kent said anything about it last night? What was he keeping from her this time?

  The door to the motor home whooshed open and Kent came in, looking tired and rubbing the back of his neck. He froze when he saw her at his computer. “What the hell—? You’re looking at my e-mail again?”

  “You didn’t tell me there had been another e-mail from the same person,” she said, hearing the odd tone to her own voice. “Why?”

  He looked from her face to the computer and back again. “You were checking up on me?”

  She didn’t like that question at all. “I wasn’t checking up on you. Have I ever done anything like that? I was just going to see if I could trace the last e-mail, the only one I knew about. You’re the one who gave me your password, remember?”

  He moved closer, still watching her face, his own expression inscrutable. “I remember. We trusted each other then.”

  She hated his use of the past tense. Hated that she was suddenly feeling defensive. “I wanted to look at that first e-mail again. I wanted to try again to figure out who sent it. I wanted to help you. But then I saw this other one.”

  “And?” he asked coolly.

  “And—I haven’t opened it,” she snapped. “I wanted to, but I waited, because I figured it was ultimately up to you whether you want me to see it or not.”

  “You haven’t looked at it?”

  She stood and faced him squarely, her hands on her hips, her face hard. “I told you I haven’t. Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  His tensely held shoulders seemed to relax, just marginally. “I believe you.”

  It broke her heart that she’d even had to ask. And that there had been the slightest hesitation before he had answered.

  “Well, that’s something I guess,” she said with just a touch of bitterness.

  His face changed then, what might have been regret creasing the corners of his mouth. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’ve…had a rough day.”

  “Is this e-mail from the same person that sent the last one?”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Do you want to tell me what it says?”

  He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Do I want to? No. But I intended to all along. I just didn’t want to tell you over the telephone last night.”

  She nodded slowly. “What does it say?”

  “I, uh, guess you’d better look at it yourself.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Tanya.” He sounded bone-tired now, and suddenly she could see the effects of what must have been a near-sleepless night on his face. “Just look at it.”

  Nodding silently, she sank back down into the chair and reached for the wireless mouse with a trembling hand.

  A moment later, a strangled sound escaped her. “This is outrageous.”

  “It’s insane.”

  She stared incomprehensively at the grainy photograph displayed on the screen. “It’s probably doctored. I don’t believe this for a minute.”

  “Neither do I,” he said, though without the fire she might have expected.

  “Kent.” She turned in the chair to look at him, then rose to her feet to clutch his arm. “I don’t care what so-called evidence this blackmailer claims to possess. There is no way your mother killed Troy Murphy.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HIS FACE SET IN HARD LINES, Kent gave a hard nod. “I know my mother had nothing to do with Murphy’s death. This photo is total garbage.”

  Giving his forearm another bracing squeeze, Tanya sat at the computer again to study the sickening message more closely.

  The anonymous e-mailer had claimed to find proof that Patsy Grosso had killed Troy Murphy in the hit-and-run accident almost thirty years ago. He accused the Grosso family of knowing exactly what had happened, but covering up the crime all these years. Tanya didn’t know for certain whether it was a man or a woman who had sent these threats, of course, but for some reason, she felt as though it were a man.

  Whoever it was, the lowlife had attached a photograph that he said was only a part of the evidence in his possession. He wanted a hundred-thousand dollars in exchange for his silence. The money was to be wired to an offshore account by five o’clock Monday afternoon or the photo and other alleged proof would be sent to every news organization in the country.

  Tanya looked at the picture again. It had been taken from a distance, apparently snapped just as darkness was falling. Dimly lighted, it showed a pickup truck on a rural road. Ahead of the truck sat a rather shabby tavern with only a few vehicles in its gravel parking lot. Someone was exiting the tavern, but the shadows were so deep around the doorway that it was impossible to tell anything about the figure except that it was a male.

  In one corner of the screen, the blackmailer had inserted a box with an enlargement of the face of the driver of the pickup. Patsy Grosso was at the wheel, her younger, but still quite recognizable face set in a very serious expression.

  “Is this the bar where Troy Murphy died?” Tanya asked, though she was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

  “Yes. The place doesn’t even exist anymore. It was torn down years ago, but I’ve heard the name. But my mother had nothing to do with his death. No matter how much she disliked him, she would never have run a man down in cold blood and left him to die.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t. This photo is a fake. That shouldn’t be so hard to prove. We’ll call the police and let them—”

  “No.” He spoke quickly and forcefully, making it clear he had already made up his mind. “We’re not calling the police. Not yet.”

  She stared up at him. “Surely you aren’t considering paying this blackmailer.”

  “I’m not paying him,” he agreed, though, again, his answer lacked the conviction she would have liked to hear from him. “I just need to think about it some more before I call the police.”

  “What is there to think about? Blackmail is a felony, Kent. And blackmailers don’t just go quietly away if you go along with their demands.”

  “I know that,” he said, almost snapping now. “I give in now, and he’s very likely to ask for more. Money. Favors. Hell, he could even demand that I throw a race. He probably thinks I would do anything to protect my mother.”

  “And you would,” she said gently.

  His mouth twitched. “Yeah. I would. Which is why I’m not calling the police now. This guy said he would send out the photo—and whatever else he claims to have—if we tell anyone about this. We know it’s all fabricated crap, but what’s everyone else going to think? You know how fast the rumors get started again. It took years for them to die down the first time, though it was my dad and Milo they implicated, not my mom. This would be entirely too juicy to go away soon.”

  She nodded slowly, though she pointed out, “No one who knows your mother would believe she’d do anything like this.”

  He half turned away. “I don’t want people talking about her.”

  Tanya frowned. There was something in his voice….

  Surely Kent didn’t think there was any truth to this allegation? He couldn’t possibly beli
eve that Patsy had deliberately—or even accidentally—run down Troy Murphy and then left him to die without telling anyone.

  Of course, Patsy was fiercely protective of her family. And Troy Murphy had hurt Dean very badly by sabotaging him and having him stripped of that big win and a championship as a result. With the way the Murphys had probably gloated afterward, all of the Grossos must have been infuriated and humiliated.

  No. She shook her head in response to her own mental debate. There was no way. Not Patsy. It would take a lot more than a faked photograph to convince Tanya that Kent’s mother would go to that extreme.

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked Kent.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I assumed you tried replying to the e-mail?”

  “Yeah. He’s got it rigged so I couldn’t. He says he doesn’t want to hear from me, just wants the money.”

  “Could you come up with the money on such short notice?”

  “Yeah. You’ll notice that he made the deadline Monday afternoon so the banks and wire services would be open.”

  “So whoever sent this must know enough about you to figure out that you’d have that much liquid cash available.”

  He dropped into a chair, squeezing the back of his neck again. “It’s no secret that drivers are well-paid.”

  “No. But still, it’s someone who knows your family history pretty well. Someone probably affiliated with racing.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  She studied his face. “You still think Justin has something to do with this?”

  “Justin—or one of the other Murphys, maybe. I figure it has to be one of the younger ones, because I don’t think Hugo knows enough about computers to pull this off. Doesn’t really seem like his style anyway. He’s always been open in his accusations. He doesn’t sneak around anonymously.”

  “So that leaves—who? Justin? His older sister, what’s her name?”

  “Rachel. She’s an engine specialist. She knows her way around computers and machinery.”