by Lisa Bork
“Did Danny talk to him?”
“He did.” Ray tossed the knife he’d been using to slice a cucumber onto the counter. He turned to face me, folding his arms across his chest. “Did you know they met up at the vintage festival?”
Surprised, I dropped onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “No, when?”
The moment I asked, I knew the answer. Danny never bugged me to go back and buy the 1:43 scale car model he’d asked for when he came out of the store. If he’d really wanted it, he would have. His father had been in the store. I should have known he wouldn’t miss a moment of the parade laps for anything as insignificant as a miniature car.
“That’s what I want to know. I didn’t see his dad. Did you?”
“No, but Danny went in the store to use their bathroom. He didn’t want me to go with him.” Now I wondered if he’d known his father was inside or if it had been a delightful surprise. Last week, I had overheard him tell his father we were going to the festival, but it didn’t seem like they’d made any plans to meet up.
Ray stared at me, his good-cop, bad-cop, whatever-you-need-me-to-be-cop expression in place. God, I hated that expression, completely unreadable and oh so frustrating!
He turned back around and started slicing the cucumber again.
I sidled over next to him. “Ray, does it bother you that Danny saw his father?”
“The man’s a wanted felon.”
“He’s also Danny’s father.”
Ray stopped slicing. “I know.” He sighed. “I know.”
“It’s important for Danny to know his father loves him, as important as it is for you and I to both love him and provide a good example.”
Ray slid his arms around me and buried his face in my hair. “You are the only mother figure in Danny’s life. You don’t feel the constant tug of war.”
I understood. Ray needed reassurance and, since he’d probably been stewing about this issue for hours, a diversion. “Remember Mr. Phillips gave us Danny because he thought we’d be best for him, and you’re doing a great job. Danny’s got a wicked spiral. I saw him outside playing with the boys.”
Ray chuckled. “I know. He’s awesome. I can’t wait to see the game.” He pulled me a little closer. “Hey, we’re alone here.” His lips ran up and down my neck, sending shivers up my spine. “We could take advantage of this opportunity.”
I slid my fingers underneath the back of his shirt. “We could.”
His lips slid to mine. My heart started beating faster. I pressed closer.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. The front door f lew open. “What’s for dinner?”
Danny’s steps pounded across the living room. His bedroom door crashed into the wall. “I need a second to change for dinner then I’ll be right there.”
Ray sucked on my bottom lip and pulled away, a rueful expression on his face. “I need more than one second.”
I smiled. “Yes, you’re always very thorough.”
He resumed slicing the cucumber. “The other call was from your sister.”
“What did she want?” I went to the cupboard to get plates for the table.
“She wanted you to know your mother thinks canoeing is a really bad idea.” The sardonic tone of Ray’s voice let me know what he thought, too. “Your mother said if your sister was meant to float, she’d be a hippopotamus.”
Although our mother died more than twenty-five years ago, Erica claimed the two of them still were in communication. I didn’t know quite how that worked, nor did I want to. However, often when Erica got an idea in her head, she attributed it to Mom. “So she’s not going canoeing?”
“On the contrary, she and Maury are going first thing in the morning on Saturday. She just wanted to let you know.”
Strange, but then we were talking about Erica. “Am I supposed to call her?”
“No, she said she’d call you afterward.”
Oh, I couldn’t wait for that conversation.
_____
After dinner, Ray went outside to mow the lawn. Danny sat at the dining table to do his math and social studies homework. I spread out the newspaper I’d picked up in Watkins Glen and perused it from cover to cover. I found one tiny article about James Gleason’s death, accompanied by an equally tiny snapshot of a woman and a man. The man had his arm around the woman. Both had their heads bent, obscuring their faces.
According to the article, Gleason had been buried in Albany on Wednesday morning, following an autopsy performed by the county medical examiner for the Watkins Glen area. The photo was a shot of Gleason’s estranged wife and his son, leaving the medical examiner’s office on Tuesday with a bag probably containing the personal items found in his pockets. I could tell from the photograph that the wife was dark-haired, his son blondish. Her name was Suzanne Gleason, the son’s Matthew, both of Albany. The article also said Brennan remained in the county jail, pending his ability to make bail. That was old news.
I refolded the paper and went out to the garage to toss it in the recycling bin, wondering if Cory and I should pay a condolence call on Gleason’s wife and son to see what more information we could ferret out about Gleason’s anger at Brennan. It would be tricky to make such a call. We’d have to admit to being at the scene and perhaps knowing Brennan, which meant they might not speak to us. We might also agitate them during their time of grief, which would be cruel, perhaps even unnecessary. Now that Brennan had made bail, he might be more forthcoming with information. Our investigation might be over. Cory had certainly planned to ask him about all the news reports of Monica Gleason’s death.
Assuming nothing, I entered the house and fired up the computer in our office to search for pictures from the Watkins Glen festival. Hundreds of photos were available and for sale, the majority featuring cars on the actual racetrack. After forty minutes of clicking through photographs, I began to despair. No one had been standing on the opposite side of the street from us. I couldn’t find a single shot of the cars coming around the Franklin Street corner where we’d been standing.
Then I found the YouTube video.
Granted, it was fuzzy and a little bit shaky. The parade of cars passing by was clearly visible, though. The crowd beyond on the other side of the road had featureless faces but their clothing, hair, and forms were easy to make out. I spotted my own yellow raincoat, jeans, and brown hair, curled from the humidity. The corner where Brennan and Gleason argued was outside the frame.
The accompanying audiotape included the roar of the race cars engines as the parade passed by the photographer, overridden by a child pestering over and over, “Dad, can I have money for a brownie?” His father, the cameraman, kept saying, “In a minute. Look at the cars.”
I watched as Brennan entered the frame from the right and as I tried to get his attention. As he passed me by. His stopping. His head turn. His wave to acknowledge me. His approach toward me. The redheaded man in the royal windbreaker—two beacons in a sea of darker colors—entering the frame from the right, his wife’s pink raincoat nowhere in sight. My search for Danny, my face looking into the camera as I swung around to look for Brennan again. Howard Pint leaning low to take his shots of the oncoming cars. A surge of the crowd. Brennan and Gleason shifting toward the camera, converging on a collision course, now side-by-side.
The BMW 2002 took the corner, brakes squealing.
I leaned forward, trying to magnify my view.
The Cobra rounded the bend, seconds before the incident.
I held my breath, hoping to have all my questions answered.
A child screamed, “I want a brownie, Dad. I want a brownie right NOW.”
The YouTube video ended.
Tears welled in my eyes. So close. Still, I couldn’t really blame the kid. Those brownies had looked good.
I replayed the video ten times, trying to spot Wayne Engle in the mass. Two men with light hair had passed behind Brennan and Gleason, along with a dozen others. One might have been wearing a gray sweatshirt. The angle an
d definition on the video made it impossible to tell for sure. The dark-haired woman who fingered Brennan arrived seconds before the BMW came into the frame. I recognized her hairstyle, although, honestly, I couldn’t remember her face. No wonder Ray didn’t think much of me as a witness.
The dark-haired woman was closest to Brennan and Gleason. I supposed she had had the best view of the two of them. All the other spectators’ heads were turned toward the disappearing BMW or toward the oncoming Cobra. She seemed to be looking at the street directly in front of her, perhaps trying to figure where to stand to get an unobstructed view. Brennan and Gleason blocked her view and appeared to be speaking to one another. No arms were raised. Not yet, at least. But a crowd surged past them. At any second a different person passed behind them, even some blond men, one of whom seemed to hover in the background right before the video ended. Could that have been Wayne Engle?
I picked up the phone to dial Cory’s cell. He answered on the fifth ring. “Are you with Brennan?”
“I’m home. We had an argument.”
“He noticed his stuff was missing?”
“No. We had dinner together. I managed to put it all back when he was outside grilling. Everything was fine until I asked him about Monica and James Gleason. He clammed up. Wouldn’t say a word. Refused to tell me anything we didn’t already know. Wouldn’t tell me anything about the reunion, the accident, or his high school friends. I got mad. He got mad. I told him if he didn’t trust me enough to confide in me, we were through.”
“How did he respond to that?”
“He didn’t say anything. So I left.”
“Oh, Cory, I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure we’re on the right track, Jo. He’s hiding something. I know it.”
Only problem, Brennan might be hiding something to save himself from prison. He and Cory would definitely be through if that was the case, especially if Cory helped put him there, which remained possible.
I filled Cory in on the article from the newspaper and the YouTube video. I emailed him the URL. He watched it a couple times while I waited on the line. He didn’t spot anything new. The video confirmed nothing—but it would make a great advertisement for brownies.
“The only people involved that we didn’t talk to are Suzanne and Matthew Gleason. I’d love to hear firsthand what her husband and Brennan argued about, wouldn’t you, Jo?”
“It might give us a clue as to why Brennan is being so secretive.”
“Can we afford another day off?”
I’d checked the messages on the shop’s answering machine before our family sat down to dinner. Only five calls all day, three for oil changes before winter, two for inspections. Cory could get them done early in the day. “Maybe an afternoon.”
“Can you stand another drive to Albany so we can visit the Gleasons?”
“I’ll bake them some chocolate chip cookies.”
FOURTEEN
FRIDAY MORNING I MADE Danny and Ray instant oatmeal for breakfast, while the cookies browned in the oven. Ray appeared in the kitchen first, dressed in his gray uniform and looking hot. I love a man in uniform, especially this man.
He didn’t notice me staring. He was too intent on inhaling his oatmeal. “Who are the cookies for?”
“Some are for us, but I’m taking a couple dozen to James Gleason’s family.”
He stopped chewing. “When did you decide to go see them?”
“Last night.”
“I was home last night.”
Meaning, why didn’t you tell me then? I didn’t mention it because I didn’t want him to try to dissuade us. I had enough doubts and concerns without his adding to them. “I know. I just didn’t want to hear again about how Ken would investigate. Brennan’s home and he still won’t talk to Cory about the car crash.”
Ray spoke slowly. “Maybe he thinks it’s none of Cory’s business.” His patronizing tone implied it was none of my business either.
“You’re right, but now inquiring minds want to know.”
“Brennan isn’t going to appreciate your interference any more than Ken.” He carried his dish to the dishwasher and inserted it. “Now that he’s out of jail, it may get back to him that the two of you are snooping around.”
“I think Cory’s willing to risk it to keep him out of prison.”
Ray ran his hand over his face. “Okay, have it your way. But don’t call me when you two get arrested for impeding an investigation.”
“Do you even know for sure your friend Ken is investigating ties to the crash?
“No.” Ray’s response was curt. He hated to acknowledge even the possibility that the sheriff’s department in any county would leave the smallest stone unturned.
I raised my face to his. “We may be a little late. Can you pick Danny up from football practice?”
“Done.” Ray’s lips brushed over mine. “Be careful.”
After Ray left, I checked the clock and panicked. “Danny, you’re going to miss the bus.”
He appeared from around the corner. “Is Ray gone?”
“Yes, but he’s picking you up from practice tonight. Cory and I are going to Albany again.”
“Oh.” Danny climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar. He didn’t pick up his spoon.
“What’s the matter? You don’t want oatmeal?”
His gaze remained fixed on the bowl. “I want it.”
He made no move to eat.
I leaned against the bar. “Is something wrong?”
“My dad called last night.”
“Ray told me. How is your dad?”
“Good. I saw him at the vintage festival. I didn’t know he was coming. He followed me into the store when I went to use the bathroom.” Danny glanced up at me from underneath the hair hanging in this face.
“That was a nice surprise, I bet.”
He sat up eagerly, a huge smile on his face. “Yeah. He’s been to Washington, D.C. and Boston. He saw a Red Sox game.”
“Cool.” I wondered if Mr. Phillips had stolen a few cars while he was there, too. Frankly, I was surprised he hadn’t made off with any from the vintage festival, a Mecca for car fans. Maybe he’d been assessing future possibilities.
“My dad never takes cars people love.”
For a minute, I thought I’d spoken my thoughts aloud. “What?”
“Ray asked me if my dad was at the festival to steal a car.”
“He did?” I couldn’t believe it. Well, I could, but I didn’t want to. It was one thing to think it and quite another to say it out loud. Deliberately undermining Danny’s image of his father was unacceptable.
“He wasn’t. He came to see me.”
“I’m sure you were glad to see him.”
Danny nodded. “I know stealing any car is wrong, like Ray said, but my dad would never take one of those cars, ever.”
“Why not?”
“Because those cars are loved.”
“What?”
“All those cars. The people spend tons of time and money fixing them up to take to races and car shows. They love their cars. My dad would never take their cars. He only takes cars from people who drive them for show, or from the dealerships. They don’t care. They don’t love their cars.”
I thought about the black Porsche 944 S2 my dad had restored and presented to me as a graduation present. I loved that car. My sister had it now. She didn’t love it. She didn’t even appreciate it, but I couldn’t take it back from her. Maybe someday, but not now.
“How can your dad tell who loves their cars?”
Danny picked up his spoon. “I don’t know, but he can. Ray doesn’t understand.” He started eating, apparently content to have gotten that information off his chest.
And right onto mine.
_____
Cory and I arrived in the suburbs of Albany around four o’clock, planning to stay late, if necessary, to find Suzanne Gleason and Elizabeth Potter at home. We sure didn’t want to have to drive back here again. If we couldn’t
unearth any new information this time, Cory planned to confess to Brennan about searching his home and to demand to know where the five thousand dollar a month payments went. Brennan hadn’t called since their fight Wednesday night, Cory felt like he had nothing more to lose. I wasn’t so sure.
Suzanne Gleason lived in a modest colonial dwarfed by two enormous pines in the front yard, the kind of evergreens that said White House or Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. The garage door stood open.
Cory spotted a navy car inside. “Hey, that’s a 1972 Gran Torino. I had one of those in high school.” He headed toward the garage.
I grabbed his shirt at the shoulder and tugged him toward the front door. “Focus.”
We rang the doorbell. A blond young man opened the door, the same handsome boy with the startling blue eyes in the photograph on Wayne Engle’s credenza—only aged a couple years. Shocked, I gaped at him, then glanced at Cory, trying to determine if he recognized him, too.
“Can I help you?” He smiled, revealing adorable dimples.
I recovered first. “We’re looking for Suzanne and Matthew Gleason.”
“I’m Matthew.” He looked from me to Cory and back again, waiting.
Cory stood with his head tipped to one side, studying Matthew. I waited for Cory to jump into the conversation, but he didn’t.
I thrust the tin of cookies forward. “We’re so sorry about your father. I brought you some chocolate chip cookies.”
Matthew accepted the tin. “Thank you. Did you know my dad?”
Cory came out of his reverie. “No, we didn’t, but we were at the vintage festival on Friday night. I was actually in the parade of racecars. Jolene was at the corner where your father was …” He stopped, obviously uncertain as to what to say next.