“Fueled by ‘unidentified sources.’” He stabbed finger quotes in the air. “But it gets worse. Read on.”
She skimmed the top of the story. It was all there. Mick, the wager he made on the sports cruise, the firing of Kenny Holt, the fight in the hauler. “God, Ernie, they even know he used traction control. And it sounds like you condoned it.”
Ernie swore softly. “Looks like the whole team is going to hell in a handbasket.”
“But that tells you something,” she said, glancing at the rest of the article. “The leak isn’t Kenny Holt. He wouldn’t want other teams to know he did that.”
“It don’t read like he’s guilty of anything. Just that we’re all splintered and on the edge of falling out of NASCAR NEXTEL Cup racing altogether.”
She looked up at him. “Have the sponsors seen this?”
“Hell, yeah. The CEO of Country called and so did Thomas Kincaid. Along with some of the other smaller companies we been countin’ on. Some are threatening to pull out. That new restaurant chain says we look ‘Mickey Mouse.’ This sure as shootin’ wasn’t how I wanted to handle the announcement.”
Shelby tried to read, but the words swam on the page. “Who would do this? Who on our team? Have you talked to the guys? Or Mick?”
He shook his head. “As far as I know, no one has seen this. It just came out in Raleigh this morning, and they been focused on the backup car. And not that many people are in the garage today, thank God. But by tomorrow it could be in every newspaper in the country and we’ll be the talk of Daytona.”
“Is DiLorenzi here? Maybe…” She hated to say it, but it was true. “Maybe Mick can talk to him.”
“I left messages on his office voice mail, but he hasn’t called me back. I haven’t told Mick ’cause, frankly, we were talking about other stuff.” Ernie closed his eyes and let out a sigh. “I guess yesterday wasn’t my last crisis after all.”
“Oh, Ernie.” She slid around the table and put her arm around him. He suddenly looked and sounded so old. “I’m so busy thinking about me and my problems, I haven’t even considered how hard this is on you.”
After a minute Ernie said, “You mad at me? For not tellin’ you about his bet?”
She threw him a look. “What do you think?”
“You mad at Mick?”
“Who cares?”
Ernie’s thick finger pointed to the last paragraph of the article. “Did you get this part, too?”
She read the words.
The relationship between Thunder Racing’s current and future owners is colored and complicated by what inside sources call a “budding romance” between famously single Mick Churchill and the daughter of the late Thunder Jackson, Shelby Jackson.
“Don’t you think we have enough problems without you getting your pants in a bunch about rumors like this, Ernie?”
“Nothin’in this whole damn story is a rumor, and you know it.” Ernie looked hard at her. “Anyway, Mick told me everything.”
Everything?
“And he swore he wouldn’t hurt you.”
Against her will, a smile tugged at her lips. “Might be too late for that. He hurt me when he lied—even if it was a lie of omission.”
“What I want to know,” he said, swallowing hard, “is whether or not this is a casual thing. Like a fling or an affair.”
“I don’t know.” That was the truth.
“And what do you want it to be, Shel?”
“I don’t—”
Someone knocked twice on the door, then opened it. “This was just dropped off for you.” Big Byrd handed Shelby a manila envelope with the name of a law firm in the corner.
“Oh boy.” She took it, then dropped it on the table as if it had burned her. “The way things are going, it makes me nervous.” Shelby tore the back flap and pulled out the long legal documents. “It’s Tamara’s offer.”
She flipped a few pages and got to the numbers. And blew out a breath. “I think this beats Mick’s offer.”
Ernie squinted at the bottom line. “Holy—yes, it does.” He looked over the rims of his glasses, a question in his eyes. “Now what?”
“I’d say she wants the team pretty damn bad.”
“Maybe too much.”
She fluttered the newspaper article. “I’m going to talk to her.”
HOURS LATER, SHELBY’S sixth sense—the one that sniffed out trouble and change and debris in the roadway of life—was waving a bright yellow caution flag in front of her eyes.
Literally.
Tamara Norton crossed the hotel lobby clicking her stilettos in time with the jangle of an armful of clunky gold bracelets, a fitted lemon-yellow jersey dress clinging to her curves. She stopped dead in front of Shelby, raked her with one look and rolled her eyes.
“Rain-soaked work boots, Shelby?”
“I’m not going dancing. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to another restaurant, hotel, club or flippin’ gas station only to have you call and tell me you’re somewhere else. I’ve been looking for you for hours. The scavenger hunt is over, Tamara, and my cell phone battery is dead. Sit down.”
Tamara didn’t move. “Chill out. We’re safer here.”
“Than where?” Shelby glared at her. “Since when are we not safe?”
As Tamara glanced nervously over her shoulder, a few tiny hairs rose on the back of Shelby’s neck. “Who are you looking for?”
“It’s not who I’m looking for,” she said quietly. “It’s who’s looking for me.”
“You better explain.”
“Not here. I’ve changed my mind. Let’s go somewhere where there’s a crowd. Somewhere we can be in the open but still protected.” She looked down at Shelby’s shoes again. “I guess that rules out a decent club.”
“I don’t want to go clubbing, Tamara.”
“We have to hide in plain sight.”
The rest of those hairs stood up. “Why?”
“Because if my husband sees me talking to you—” She inched the yellow collar to the side, revealing an angry purple-and-brown bruise in the obvious shape of a violent, powerful man’s hand. “He’ll hurt us both.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE HAMMERING AT Mick’s motor coach door was far too heavy and insistent to be Shelby. And since he didn’t want to talk to anyone else, he pulled the pillow over his head, but it just smelled too much like her.
“Mick. Lemme in.”
Ernie. At eleven o’clock?
“It’s not locked,” he called as he pushed open the door without bothering to put a shirt on over his boxers. “What’s the matter?”
“I can’t find Shelby.”
“Much as it pains me to admit this, she’s not here.”
“I know.” Ernie pushed right past him and stepped into the salon. “She left hours ago to find that Norton woman and she’s not back yet.”
Mick ran a palm over his beard stubble, then stabbed his fingers into his hair. “She’s not a child, Ernie,” he said gently. “I’m sure she’s okay. It isn’t like Tamara is a serial killer.”
Ernie’s look said he didn’t agree. “She went to talk business with the woman. At six o’clock. I just want to know where she is.”
Mick wanted to know, too, but for a wholly different reason. He missed her.
“Why didn’t she wait until tomorrow?”
Ernie shrugged and averted his eyes. “I think she thought Norton had something to do with that article that was in the Raleigh paper today. The one I showed you?”
“You know, I barely looked at it.” He’d spent the last few hours figuring out what he wanted to do with his life, not reading bad press. “But why would Tamara be involved with that? If she wants to buy the team, what good would it do to make Thunder Racing look bad?”
“You still have it? The article?”
Mick picked up some papers and books from the kitchen counter. “Somewhere.”
Ernie grabbed the top book. “NASCAR for Dummies?”
“
Shelby says I’m the target audience.”
Ernie laughed. “Yep. She likes you all right. She only insults the ones she likes.”
Then why wasn’t she here? Why hadn’t she called him? The need for her ground his stomach like a fist.
“Here it is.” Mick flattened the sports section on the counter and glanced at the headline again, then at the pictures in the sidebar.
Ernie picked up another book, a collection of biographies of racers. “Thunder’s in here, I bet.”
“Yes, he is. On page seventeen.”
Ernie flipped open to the well-worn page. “So you been readin’ about my son, eh?”
“He was quite a guy.”
“That he was.” Ernie’s voice was wistful as he fluttered the pages. “And here’s Gil Brady. Good man, Gil. Died too young. Jeez, how’d that idiot Bobbie Norton get in here?”
Mick glanced at the book, barely looking. “I’ve only read about Thunder so far.” He returned to the newspaper, but the words suddenly danced in front of him.
“Wait a second. Give me that.” He seized the book from Ernie. “That guy? That fat guy? That’s Bobbie Norton?”
“He’s stocky, big for a racer. But more muscle than fat, I’ll tell you.”
“I’ve seen him.”
“He was on that cruise,” Ernie said.
“No, I’ve seen him more recently.” Mick squinted at the picture, trying to retrieve the memory of where he’d seen that blond hair, those round jowls. “Here. At the track. Today.”
“The SOB’s not supposed to be anywhere near a NASCAR track.”
“He was.” Mick slammed the book shut and leveled a gaze at Ernie. “I saw him riding around in a golf cart today—”
“No kidding?”
“With Kenny Holt.”
“What?”
They stared at each other, and pieces snapped into place in Mick’s head. “Could he be the second man Kenny would have needed to operate that traction-control device?” he asked.
“He’s certainly qualified to cheat.”
“And could he be the person who leaked all this to the newspaper?”
Ernie looked unsure. “He has no grudge with me. I haven’t seen the guy in years.”
“But his ex-wife is trying to buy the team. Wouldn’t all this—” he flicked the edge of the paper “—successfully drive the price lower for her or send the competitors running away? And he was on the cruise.”
Understanding suddenly dawned in Ernie’s brown eyes. “Mick, I told him I was thinking about retiring. I mean, he was there when I told a coupla guys. Just a day, maybe two, before the whole thing happened in the bar with your brother.”
“Was he in the bar that night?”
“Smack in the middle of it.” Ernie tapped his head as if it all made sense. “He was egging your brother on, Mick. He was the first one to mention NASCAR. He was the one who suggested owning a team. He even said ‘co-owning’ a team. God, Mick, he set this whole thing up.”
Mick spun on one bare foot and headed toward the back. “I’m gonna find her.”
When he came out of his bedroom dressed, Ernie was perched anxiously on the sofa, bouncing the van keys from hand to hand.
“Any chance that set includes a key to her motor coach?” Mick asked.
Ernie held up a key. “Right here.”
“Let’s go see if she left any clues to where she went.”
A few minutes later they were looking through papers and notes on Shelby’s dinette table, but nothing that gave any indication where she’d gone to find Tamara. Mick grabbed a Daytona phone book and started flipping pages to hotels.
He shoved the book at Ernie. “You start calling every hotel in this book and ask if Tamara or Bobbie Norton is registered.”
“And what are you going to do?”
He scooped up the keys Ernie had set on the table. “Where’d you park the van?”
“No way,” Ernie said, closing the phone book. “I’m coming with you.”
“Not a chance.”
Ernie shot up. “She’s my granddaughter. I’ll ride shotgun.” As if that was a big concession.
Mick gave his head a vehement shake. “You call hotels. That’s what we need. And call around to everyone to see if they’ve seen her. And wait right here in case she comes back.”
“I’m going with you.”
That was the last thing either one of them needed. “It’s eleven-thirty and I’m going to go search Daytona Beach in the rain. Stay here. Please, Ernie.” He took a deep breath and put his hands on Ernie’s shoulders and squeezed. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”
Ernie frowned. “You don’t love her as much as I do.”
“Not yet,” he said quietly. “But I could get there.”
Ernie’s whole expression changed. His weary, wrinkled face morphed into one of pure amazement. “I can’t believe it. He was right.”
“Who?”
“Thunder.”
“About what?”
A glitter lit his brown eyes. “About you and Shelby.”
Mick took a half step backward. Had Ernie lost it? “What are you talking about?”
“He was on the cruise.”
The stress had gotten to him. The race, the worry and now Shelby. “You mean Bobbie. Yes, I know he was there.”
“No, I mean Thunder.”
Mick put a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m going to go find her now, Ernest.”
Ernie laughed knowingly. “I’m not off my rocker, son. Sometimes I hear his voice. Sort of.”
“Don’t tell me. He was in the empty chair next to you at the bar that night my brother was betting for me.”
“No.” Ernie smiled. “You don’t remember the first night? When you stopped by my table to talk to Woody Maxwell, Garrett Langley’s car owner. Do you?”
He stifled a sigh of exasperation. “Sort of.” Not really.
“Notice the chair next to me?”
Mick shook his head. “I honestly don’t remember.”
“Well, we had been talking about Shelby, and after you stopped by, Woody said what a nice young man you are and how you were just what Shelby needed and—”
Mick held up his hands. “Don’t tell me. The empty chair squeaked.”
Ernie chuckled. “It yelped when the waitress walked by. Then, after I heard your brother make that bet, I had this idea. Crazy, I know. But I thought if you owned the team and you were part of the family, then it would still be a family-owned team. See?”
He’d set them up? On purpose? “But all you did was warn me to stay away. What was that, reverse psychology?”
“Worked, didn’t it?” Ernie reached for the phone book. “Now gimme that. I’ll find where that Norton broad is registered. And I’ll call you. Now go bring our little girl home.”
Mick gave the older man’s shoulder one last thump of confidence. She wasn’t anybody’s little girl, but now probably wasn’t the time to tell Grandpa. Anyway, the sofa might squeak in disagreement.
THEY TOOK A CAB TO DayGlo, and Tamara refused to talk until they were inside the noisy club. It wasn’t as crowded on a rainy Monday night, but still at least one or two deep at the bar and only a smattering of empty booths and tables.
“Bobbie hates clubs,” Tamara said as they slipped into opposite sides of a pink leather booth, separated by a marble tabletop. “So I think we’re okay here.”
The music was loud enough that they had to lean forward to hear each other. “I thought you were divorced.”
Tamara took a deep breath and looked around. “I need something to drink.”
Shelby seized her by the wrist, speaking through teeth clenched by frustration. “I need some answers. Now.”
“Okay, stop.” She rubbed her wrist. “I’ve been manhandled enough lately.”
Shelby leaned back and fought the urge to suggest that maybe Tamara just brought out the worst in people. “Are you or are you not divorced from Bobbie Norton?”
“The pap
ers are filed.” She waved to a waitress. “That bitch just ignored me. Do you think I should go up to the bar?” At Shelby’s lethal look, Tamara gave up the search for a drink. “All right. We keep getting back together and breaking up and getting back together. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Where in the cycle are you right now?”
“Let’s see…what time is it?” Her eyes glimmered with humor and Shelby ignored it. “We were doing really great,” Tamara said. “When we had the whole idea to…” She looked down, then up. “Have me buy a team for him.”
Shelby lunged forward. “You wanted to buy the team for him?”
“He really wants back in racing,” she said, her voice surprisingly sympathetic. She absently rubbed the bruise on her neck. “And he was much nicer when he was in the sport.”
“Why would you stay with a man who would lay a hand on you? Don’t you have any self-respect? Leave him.”
“Easy, Dr. Phil. Don’t pass judgment until you’ve walked in my high heels. It’s not that simple.”
Shelby exhaled in disgust. “Yes, it is.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about my pathetic on-again off-again marriage.”
“Good,” Shelby said. “’Cause I frankly don’t care about it. I don’t even know why I came here.” Because Tamara looked scared and alone and on the run. But that made Shelby as much of a sucker as Tamara was for staying with her rotten husband.
But none of it mattered anymore. Except that Shelby wanted to find out where the leak to the media was. And Tamara knew. She had to.
“How’d you get the interview with DiLorenzi?”
Tamara smiled. “I’d love to just walk right into that for you, sweetie, but I won’t. I never talked to the guy. Sorry.”
“Bobbie?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Where did he get all that information?”
A waitress approached the table, and Tamara practically yanked the poor woman into her lap. “A dry Beefeater martini, straight up.” She looked at Shelby. “Make it two?”
“No. A soda, anything. Just not diet.” When the waitress left, Shelby leaned even closer to Tamara, still unable to process what she’d learned. “Who, besides you, is working with Bobbie?”
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