In contrast to everyone else, Marco was delighted to tell me about his activities. “But of course, bella. I was here with a very nice fan in a Ferrari. She asks me what a racecar driver’s life is like, and I show her! I could show you also, but maybe you know.” He winked with an expression that stopped just short of smarmy.
“I’m good, thanks, Marco. Have a good race.” I felt dirty. I liked Marco—and the other drivers with similar attitudes and proclivities—and I respected them as peers, but I found their personal lives repugnant.
I returned to the paddock. Paul and Marcus Trimble had joined Stuart, and I sat down with them.
Marcus spoke first. “Are you ready for the race, Kate?”
I didn’t stutter or drool, but it was close. “As ready as I’ll get. How are you both?”
Marcus did the taking-off-sunglasses-and-peering-intently thing he did so effectively. “Just fine, thank you.”
Paul Trimble seemed more relaxed than the day before. “Yes, just fine.”
I dragged my eyes and thoughts away from Marcus and turned to Paul. “How do you think your car will do today?” Stuart glanced from Marcus to me with disapproval. That was the Stuart I was used to.
“Barring the unforeseen, we could expect a podium.” Paul looked satisfied.
The LMP2 class, to which the True Color Paint car belonged, usually had five to seven entries at any given race. The car Paul sponsored was one of the better built, better driven, and more consistent smaller prototypes. The True Color team usually took a podium result in their class, if not the top spot.
I smiled at Paul’s confidence as he continued. “With any luck, we’ll see you on the podium for your own class.”
My mouth went dry. The race. “I—thanks. I’ll settle for decent lap times and just finishing.”
They laughed at my nerves, and I tried not to mind.
Tom joined us in the plastic chairs under the awning. After discussing rival cars in the race, the conversation turned to the next few races on the schedule, particularly the race at the Road America track in Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin. Tom, it turned out, was obsessed with finding the best food available at every track.
“I can taste them now,” he rhapsodized, eyes closed. “The bratwurst there! The best on the circuit.”
Paul chuckled. “The racing’s pretty good, too.”
Marcus smiled and shook his head. “I don’t know, are the bratwurst in Wisconsin better than the seafood in Monterey? I’d vote for the food in California.”
Stuart looked up from his pocket schedule. “Mexican food in Salt Lake City or California.”
Many cities, restaurants, and specialties later, I interjected a question for the group. “What about this track? Any restaurants you particularly look forward to? Any places I’ve missed so far?” I wanted the answer to a specific question, but after Jack’s tongue-lashing, I’d be cautious.
“The food’s all pretty good here, which you can’t say for every track, but there’s nothing that stands out,” Tom offered, to general agreement.
“I love the atmosphere at The Boathouse.” I got one step closer.
“True,” Tom returned, “you have to get there at least once, don’t you?”
“Twice for me, this time.” I took the last step. “Marcus, Paul, have you made the pilgrimage yet?”
Paul answered, looking from Stuart and Marcus to me. “Not yet. Last night we were at the Interlaken Inn, where we’re all staying. In fact, I had dinner with Stuart Friday night there, too. But Marcus had the car—wasn’t The Boathouse where you went?”
I couldn’t think of a way to interrupt and ask what kind of car he had, but I forgot the question as Marcus responded with a smile that made me lightheaded. “I went to The Boathouse for a beer, but I ate at the China Inn Restaurant, right next to The Boathouse. I wanted chow mein.”
Paul nodded. “Saturday night we changed it up, going to the White Hart with some franchise owners and suppliers.”
Tom laughed. “That’s where we’re staying, and where we ate the night before. Tell me, are franchisees your usual guests at the races, Paul?”
“Yes, we bring out franchise owners and staff and a handful of suppliers. Some for just the race, some for a big dinner the night before and an overnight stay for the race.”
Tom questioned him further about marketing efforts. I wasn’t paying attention anymore, because I’d gotten my answer: Paul Trimble couldn’t have killed Wade.
In the next lull, Stuart excused the Trimbles and himself, saying Paul had wanted to talk with Charles Purley.
While Tom and I were alone, I remembered to ask about his presence in Wade’s notebook. “He wasn’t blackmailing you or anything, right?”
He looked confused. “Why would you think that?”
“Your name was in his notebook with question marks.”
He started to deny it, then stopped, looking embarrassed. “Now I remember. He came to me once asking about a phone conversation he’d overheard where I said I didn’t want people to know something. He made weird references to my secret getting out and wouldn’t that be a shame. I ignored him.”
“Really? He couldn’t have figured it out and held it over your head? He seemed to make a habit of digging those things up.”
He shrugged. “He might have figured it out, but it wouldn’t matter. It’s an inheritance from an uncle—a nice enough chunk of change that I can travel in the off-season instead of having to pick up extra work. I didn’t want to have to explain it to everyone. But it’s disturbing I made his blackmail list.”
“No kidding.”
Tom looked at his watch. “Hey, it’s that time.”
My co-drivers were nowhere to be found, and I checked the time myself. Time to change for the race.
The race! Bells went off in my head and every inch of me went on alert. I hurried into the motorhome, my heart beating so loudly I was sure everyone else could hear it.
Chapter Forty-two
By the time I exited the coach ten minutes later, one of the crew had already driven the 28 car to the pits. It was two in the afternoon, a little more than an hour to race start. We were about to begin the most carefully scheduled portion of the weekend. Series staff carried detailed “minute-by-minute” plans for the pre-race, on-track activities. And by God, those minute-by-minutes worked, and these races started on time. They had to, for SPEED Channel to broadcast live.
In the first twenty-five minutes of the hour, ALMS cars were moved to pit lane, usually by crew members who idled them from the paddock to the pit stall. Then drivers got in the cars to do a reconnaissance lap of the track, ending on the “grid” of the front straight. Mike would do that drive for us, since he’d be starting the race. My responsibility was to be on the grid with the rest of my team for the pre-race activities. And to get my head prepared. My emotions alternated between panic that I hadn’t reviewed the racetrack nonstop for the past two hours and calm anticipation. I tried to keep all thoughts of Wade, murder, and alibis away. It was time to focus solely on the driving I had to do.
Our paddock and garage area had cleared out, everyone trailing off after the car, to the grid, pits, or a hospitality tent. I took advantage of the quiet to do some basic stretches and to stand still, eyes closed. For about a minute, I listened to my breathing.
After that, eyes still shut, I thought my way around the track twice, reminding myself of all the quick-braking, hard-turning, no-cone-hitting maneuvers I had to make. I felt comfortable. I remembered it all. Once I was racing, something would come up—gravel on track, traffic, or, God forbid, rain—but I had the basics down. I thought my way through driver changes. First, Mike out and me in, then me out and Mike in. I was ready. I opened my eyes, grabbed my helmet and gloves, and headed to the pits.
The first person I saw in the paddock lane w
as Detective Jolley. So much for concentrating on the job.
“Hello, Detective.”
“Kate.” Today’s outfit was a navy sportcoat, with light khaki pants and no tie. “You have some things to tell me?”
“Did you figure out the first part of the notebook yet?”
“No.”
I grinned. “Well, I did.”
He just stood there looking at me.
“Don’t you want to know?”
“Yes, I do. But first I want to know how you figured it out. You’d given me the notebook.”
“I kept a copy.”
He was angry. “You were supposed to hand over the evidence immediately and not keep anything.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “Look, what time is it?”
He looked confused, but checked his watch and told me: 2:12.
“I’ve got three minutes to get to the grid. We can argue about this, or I can tell you what the stinking notebook means.”
“Fine.”
I didn’t have time to care that I’d been rude. “The initials in the first column weren’t all drivers. Some were team members, Series staff, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, we figured that out right away.”
“But I think I figured out the other initials—abbreviations, really.” I told him what I thought they meant and about the specific incidents I’d cross-referenced, especially those, like Dave Hacker’s, that had involved retribution.
“That is useful information. Thank you, Kate.” He sounded grudging.
“I also discovered some information about Mr. and Mrs. Purley and Paul Trimble on Friday night.”
I thought his eyes would pop out of his head. “You’ve been questioning people?”
“Just chatting. But there were interesting points in their stories.”
“Kate. I appreciate the inside information you’ve been able to give us. But you’ve put yourself in danger by keeping copies of evidence and asking questions. Don’t do that anymore. We can’t keep you safe, do you understand?”
If he was mad at me, at least he wasn’t yelling. “Don’t you want to know what—”
“I’ve interviewed them myself. Leave it to me. Just drive the car.”
He looked at his watch and showed it to me. 2:17. I was late.
He stopped me from running. “Be careful. Do you have your cell phone?”
“No, I can’t carry it here—and you won’t hear anything while the race is on anyway. I’ll be fine.”
I dashed into pit lane, stowed my helmet in my pit locker, and jumped over the wall.
Jack was looking for me as I ran the last few feet to the wall separating pit lane from the Main Straight and hopped over it.
“You’re late, Reilly.”
“Sorry, Jack. I got held up by Detective Jolley.”
“What can he possibly have to talk to you about? And why now? You need to concentrate on the race.”
“I’ve been preparing. I’m ready.”
He studied my face, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nervous?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re nervous. Good. Use it.”
I didn’t respond, but stood next to him, looking down the track at the solid wall of people. After the racecars took their recon laps, they parked on the Main Straight in order of qualification. Drivers, owners, and pit crews came out to stand next to their cars on the pre-race grid. Then the unusual part: the grid was opened to fans. For about half an hour, thousands of people walked onto the track and got right up next to the cars and teams. Drivers answered the occasional question, but mostly kept to the background, leaning against the wall at the side of the racetrack and chatting with each other, with family and friends, or with sponsors. And we talked to the media: SPEED Channel, ALMS radio, and the track announcer were all on the scene. There was a lot going on in that thirty minutes of open-grid.
Holly swam up out of the crowd. “Got a sec, sugar?”
I let Jack know I’d just be a few steps away and followed her to a spot between our car and the Saleen in second position. We spoke quietly.
“Do I have news for you, Holly.”
“Yeah? I’ve got some, too. But you talk first.”
I outlined for her the meaning of Wade’s notebook, as well as the alibis for Paul Trimble and Charles Purley.
“That leaves Susanah Purley and Marcus Trimble.”
“Like they had reason to want him dead? Even though Paul Trimble has an alibi, he’s got a hell of a motive, if he thought Wade was corrupting his son. They fought about it. And Charles Purley, he’s just creepy. I still think one of them should have done it.”
Holly tipped her sunglasses down on her nose with a red-polished fingernail and peered at me over them. “What on God’s green earth do you mean by ‘should’ have done it? You think they hired out? Somehow those alibis are bogus?”
“It’d be simpler if it was one of them.”
“Who else you got? The word’s out you’ve been digging around.”
“Great. Not much. Paul and Charles seemed the most likely. Otherwise, there’s Dave Hacker. Wade got into it with him over bumping on the track. But I don’t know why Dave would do it, except to get Wade to quit bothering him—and he said Wade stopped the threats this year.”
“And murder would be extreme.”
“There’s Jim Siddons, who’s just mean. At least to me. I—I know more, but I promised not to say anything. The ECU problems should be over, though. Cross your fingers. And maybe that solution will solve Wade’s murder. Or not. I’m not sure.”
“Must be serious.” She eyed me for a minute. “OK, you keep those lips zipped. What other initials were in there a lot with the other letters, meaning they’d done something to Wade?”
“Me. Mike. Dave. Lots of other drivers—like Marco, Eddie—but no one else more than once. Stuart. Jack. Paul Trimble. Benny Stephens. Walt, the crew chief of the 29 car. Alex Hanley, our brake guy—I know the story on him. He and Wade argued all the time, and Wade talked about getting rid of Alex.”
“He’s possible.”
“I guess. But he’s been so open, and crew jump from team to team all the time. I told Detective Jolley about him, so he’ll have checked. Marco and Eddie were also on Wade’s blackmail list, and Marco was at the track—but I can’t imagine he exposes willing fans to anything besides himself. Certainly not murder.”
Holly shook her head. “I found out Eddie was part of a big dinner with the fuel supplier—lasted until eleven that night. Benny and Ian were there, too. They’re all clear. But how about some of the other people? Mike, Walt, Jack, Stuart. Pick one.”
My head spun. I didn’t mind considering people I wasn’t close to, but members of my own team? “Stuart, he’s a cold enough fish, but—”
“Come on, Kate, aren’t you over that yet?”
“I was going to say I can’t think of a reason he’d do it. No motive. He’s so straight-laced, he wouldn’t do something illegal to fix a problem. Besides, he was with Paul Trimble all night. And yes, I have gotten over that. Mostly.”
“Moving on.”
“Walt.” I thought hard. “I don’t think they had enough interaction for it to be possible.”
“Not the sister car’s crew. What about Jack?”
“I wouldn’t know why. He commented that he’s glad it’s me driving and not Wade, so maybe he was tired of Wade’s attitude. And Wade was starting to slow down. Maybe Jack wanted to get rid of him. But murder’s drastic when you could fire someone.”
“Could he fire him? Wade started when the team did, right? Maybe Jack couldn’t get rid of him.”
“Do you know something I don’t?”
“Maybe. What about Mike?”
&
nbsp; “From everything I hear—and saw, that one race—Mike and Wade had a fine relationship. Mike doesn’t get worked up about anything. Wade had some ‘MM’ entries in his notebook, but I haven’t heard of any big problems between them.”
“Hold on to your hat.”
“What?” I felt butterflies that had nothing to do with the imminent race.
“I heard just the briefest whispers today that boil down to this. One, Sandham Swift was headed for a major shake-up that the team might not survive. Two, Wade said he was going to get rid of Mike. And three, there was trouble in the mentor-mentee relationship between Wade and the delicious Marcus.”
“What?!”
“That’s all I know. Someone saw Marcus looking angry and upset on Friday afternoon. Someone else heard Wade mumbling under his breath about kicking Mike to the curb. That’s all the grapevine’s got.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Makes you think, don’t it?”
“The first thing it makes me think is this could be what Wade meant when he told Dave Hacker he had bigger targets in mind.” I didn’t have time to work through all the implications—as it was, we both should have been standing with our teams on the grid.
“Thanks, Holly. I’ll keep an eye out for any undercurrents.”
“Don’t be too obvious about that, Kate. No sense in getting your own head bashed in. Now, we’d better get back.”
I gave her a hug and scooted back to join my team.
Chapter Forty-three
Nonstop activity continued on the track and over the airwaves, including the musical montage of drivers’ national anthems. Right after I stepped back into the middle of our team gathering, we got a walk-by from a SPEED Channel camera, led by Zeke.
To start the broadcast of every race, roving pit reporters, cameraman in tow, would review the top three qualifiers in each class—often walking past them on the grid and usually interviewing the driver on pole. I watched Zeke ask a question of the GT1 pole sitter—Andy in the factory Corvette—and then walk backwards, talking to the camera and gesturing to the Saleen that out-qualified us. He kept walking, and the camera kept scanning, stopping on our car. Zeke continued speaking into his microphone while the cameraman swooped his camera up and down the hood and sides of our racecar, giving viewers a dizzying close-up of wheels, vents, and the interior of the cockpit. Then the camera was pointed at the team, standing together at the back of the car. I knew Zeke would be talking about Wade’s absence and my presence. I was glad to be wearing dark sunglasses.
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