Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  Ten

  Rebecca elbowed Evans in the rib, grinned as she smacked Tom a high five. What a difference a day makes. The team had eked out another few horsepower. Ian’s last practice run had broken the field record for historic racers. Clouds were building off to the west and moving in fast. Once they arrived, the track would cool and speeds improve. Ian had the next-to-last qualifying slot and a solid shot at taking the pole. The team could smell victory the way a shark smells blood.

  She made the final adjustments to the carburetors per Ian’s input, straightened, stepped away from the car. Now it was up to him.

  As Ian pulled the Lotus onto the track, she allowed herself to think of something other than the components of an internal combustion engine for the first time in hours. She wondered if Hagan was still hanging around. She hadn’t seen him since she’d caught him pilfering tools. He’d thought she was too engrossed in her phone call to notice. Her annoyance had been mostly an act. She was curious if any of her compatriots had criminal pasts, which might explain what was going on, and glad that Hagan had the resources to lift fingerprints and have them run through law-enforcement data banks. Assuming Hagan still had access to those resources.

  Two months ago, when she got into trouble over the death of an exotic dancer, Hagan had disobeyed orders. And had been a tad trigger-happy. For those infractions, he’d been put on two months’ administrative leave. Instead of vacationing in Cancun or painting his mother’s shutters, he was taking a busman’s holiday—assisting Zimmer, the Blue Marsh County sheriff. That placed him a stone’s throw away from her home and business. Much too close for comfort.

  Or not close enough?

  Strands of feelings for Hagan intertwined with her more rational thoughts. They either knotted up or slipped through her fingers. Never stayed smooth and straight enough to weave into whole fabric. There was intense sexual attraction between them. If she could shut down her brain, erase her memory bank, she had no doubt what their relationship would become—in a throbbing heartbeat. But the synapses kept firing: The old memories remained vivid, the potential with Jo beckoned.

  Emotions had never carried her away. Even as a teenager, with Bobby Lamont feverishly pawing at her in the backseat of his brother’s Pontiac, her eyes were wide open, alive to the folly of the act and questioning the attraction. It wouldn’t be like that with Hagan. There would be no time to heed her father’s warnings of trading a few minutes of pleasure for years of regret. No time to think, no breath to protest with. That scared her. It was another reason she’d jumped at the chance to get out of town fast.

  Then he’d followed not far behind. And tonight—

  “Moore.” The team owner tugged at her elbow with warm, moist fingers. “Rebecca. Didn’t you hear? Look.”

  He pointed at the mammoth scorekeeping tower. She squinted up, grin widening as the Lotus’s amber number three appeared at the top, next to the white number-one position. The remaining car numbers shifted downward. Peyton drawled with as much urgency as the Southerner can that Ian had done it. He’d taken the pole.

  Peyton didn’t praise her—she would have been suspicious if he had—but at least his smile looked genuine. That was something positive. On the negative side, he continued to stroke the skin on the inside of her forearm below her rolled-up sleeve. It was an almost unconscious motion: slow, sinuous, wrist to elbow. His touch made her cringe. He was attractive, single and reputedly wealthy, but too smug about all three to be appealing.

  She collected her tools while the rest of the crew welcomed Ian back to the pits, slapping his back and repeating his time over and over. As a teenager, she’d felt the same pang of exclusion standing back from the wharf as the family welcomed her twin brothers home after they’d won the Nantucket Regatta. She was an expected participant in the event, but not a part of it.

  Had she really been excluded then? Was she now? Or did she prefer to stand on the fringes, watching?

  She wiped the last wrench and stowed it. They had tomorrow off while the Formula One cars qualified. Before Hagan showed up, she’d planned to spend the day at the track. Her uncle had introduced her to F1 the first summer she’d lived with him in Head Tide. Sunday mornings at seven they’d munch doughnuts in front of the television as the cars competed on courses like Monza, Hockenheim, Silverstone. Walt had rooted for top teams—Ferrari, Benetton, McLaren, Williams—as they battled for the constructor’s cup. She’d worshiped the greats: Prost, Lauda, Damon Hill, Villenueve, Mansell as they whipped at 200 mph through hairpins bearing the names of the dead. When Ayrton Senna hit the wall at Imola, she’d frozen cross-legged in front of the screen, disbelieving, inconsolable. Like fans around the world, she wailed in anguish for the fallen hero. The kid in her still couldn’t believe she was just yards away from the most sophisticated racing machines in the world and the men whose names were legends.

  She helped push the Lotus into the tent. A corner of the duct tape had peeled off the windshield, revealing a spiderweb of cracks—reminders of the gunshot. Ian claimed he didn’t mind the tape. Said it was a good-luck talisman, a badge of survival.

  The crew were closing up the paddock, giddy over their driver’s success. Tom yelled over, “Join us for a pitcher, Rebecca?”

  “Can’t. But thanks.”

  She might have enjoyed partying with them tonight, a little bonding to soothe her wounded ego. Regrettably, she had a command performance elsewhere, which she’d neglected to tell Hagan about.

  Before calling him, however, she wanted a word or two with her lawyer. She plopped on a low concrete wall, sprawled her legs along the top, pulled out her cell phone and dialed Jo’s number. She understood he was worried about her—and maybe that accounted for his agitation—but sending Hagan to baby-sit was out of character. Why had he done it?

  She wasn’t going to find out anytime soon.

  His secretary, Edna, said her boss was in a meeting across town with a client and wasn’t expected to return to the office. She knew he’d be sorry to have missed her call.

  Maybe.

  She pushed the end button then dialed the house on Patricia Street. Six rings, no answer. Hagan had to have returned to the house; where else would he have gone?

  Ten rings.

  Why wasn’t he answering? He was much too nosy not to answer a phone in someone else’s home. Especially hers. She frowned, waited for the answering machine message to kick in, unsure how to phrase her message.

  Before the recorded voice could ask her to leave a number, Hagan growled into the phone, out of breath, or angry. “Moore? Was this monkey suit your idea? What the hell are you thinking?”

  She paused, wondering what Hagan was thinking. What did he imagine the tuxedo was for? “Does it fit? I had to guess at your in-seam.” She had to guess at all his measurements. The clerk who took the call at Mr. Tux giggled at her approximations. Apparently they’d delivered it on schedule.

  Hagan snorted. “Yes, it fits. You going to tell me what it’s for?”

  “Tonight’s champagne reception. Peyton and several other team owners are hosting it to thank the sponsors. It’s an excuse to invite the media, get some face time, which could translate into future backing. Nothing like glitter, good food and top-shelf brands to seduce unsuspecting race fans into opening their wallets.”

  The black-tie affair was being held at St. Elmo Steakhouse in downtown Indianapolis. They’d rented the bottom floor, complete with wine cellar and tasting room. Ian and Rebecca had been ordered to be there, center stage, looking glamorous. Peyton was convinced that the sight of a lovely female mechanic coupled with the dashing race driver would prove a photo op no paper would pass up.

  That morning she’d tried to beg off, using Hagan’s arrival as an excuse.

  Peyton had wagged his hand. “Nonsense, Rebecca, bring him. Doll him up, persuade him to say little and keep him in the background, out of the photographs. All will be well.”

  Rebecca did not repeat his comments to Hagan. Hagan hadn’t
liked Peyton on instinct. Peyton didn’t like anyone but himself. Already they were like two alpha dogs circling.

  “The party’s at seven. I have an errand to run. Ian’s letting me use the car. He’ll ride over with Peyton. I’ll swing by the house around six and pick you up.”

  “You’ll come now. I’m going with you.”

  “No you’re not. The errand is personal. Female.”

  “Yeah, well so’s your photographer.”

  “What? My photographer, what—”

  “Stuff it, Moore. It’s a waste of time trying to protect you. If you want to know what I’ve learned, you come get me now.”

  She was tempted to suggest that if he felt he was wasting his time maybe he should leave town. “I’ll be back before six, I promise. You can fill me in then. And I’ll bring champagne. Ian qualified on the pole.”

  “Whoopee.”

  Rebecca stuck out her tongue at the phone, then flushed at her childishness.

  The errand was none of Hagan’s business, although it was his fault. With him on the scene, the faded black knit dress she’d shoved in the suitcase at the last minute seemed inadequate. It would have done when she was going as one of the crew. Now that she had a date, she wanted something more, more what? More flattering, more provocative?

  She should have her head examined. She loathed herself for doing it, but she was heading to Nordstrom’s to buy a dress to impress the man she had fled town to avoid.

  Eleven

  Rebecca answered the phone before Jo heard it ring. He nearly dropped it. Could she feel him thinking about her? Or are cell phones telepathic? The sales rep hadn’t mentioned that.

  He’d left work early and was sitting on Rebecca’s patio. The air was warm and still, a few streaks of cloud broke the monotony. Her uncle’s cat, Maurice, leaned his black bulk against Jo’s ankle, licking his belly. The new kitten pawed at a cricket already minus a back leg. The cricket lunged for the grass at the edge of the flagstones. The kitten bounded after. It was so tranquil Jo had felt calm enough to call Rebecca and apologize for being churlish. Or leave a message. He didn’t imagine she would answer. “Expecting an important call?”

  “Yours. Did Edna give you my message?” Before he could respond, she flung the real question at him. “Why did you send Hagan to keep an eye on me?”

  Rebecca: direct and to the point. Jo understood her annoyance. He marveled at himself for encouraging Mick Hagan to travel to Indiana and move in with Rebecca at a time when, admit it or not, she must be feeling vulnerable. It was not in his best interests, but it couldn’t be helped. “Let it go, Rebecca. It’s done. He’ll keep you safe until after the race and you return home.”

  She started to argue, then did what he asked and dropped the discussion.

  Flipping through a Road & Track magazine, he half-listened as she told him about Ian’s qualifying on the pole, explained more than he cared to know about the difficulty of passing on road courses. He’d take her word for it. He was searching for a catchy race driver name.

  Rebecca was calling the black-and-white kitten Mike. She liked the way the cats’ names went together—Mike and Maurice; Mo and Mike. Jo and Frank thought it sounded too much like Mick, so they were competing to come up with an acceptable replacement. They didn’t think Rebecca would change the cat’s name, but they were amusing themselves researching a new one. So far they had rejected Panis (sounded too wimpy), Andretti (too Italian, the cat would crave pasta), Carpentier (he’d have to join the woodworkers’ union). While Rebecca nattered, he scanned a profile of Paul Tracy, a Canadian driver in the CHAMP car series, who began his career as a wild man behind the wheel, crashing four cars in his first season. Fondly known as P.T.

  As Rebecca ran out of race chatter, Jo noticed a catch in her voice. “Something else I should know about?”

  He envisioned her shaking her head, setting the waves dancing, hair still moving as she responded. “My imagination’s working overtime, Jo. That’s all. Too much on my mind.”

  If it concerned Hagan, he didn’t want to know about it, so he accepted her dismissal. He slipped a creased letter to mark his place in the magazine and turned the conversation to the banal happenings in Head Tide. He told her that Cyrus Borden had died and it looked bad for his middle son, Elton, the one most recently disinherited. Rebecca would remember Cyrus. She’d first heard of him when hiding out in the law office while the sheriff tore her shop apart, searching for evidence to explain the murders of a local husband and wife. Sheriff Zimmer had been salivating in anticipation of arresting either Rebecca or her head mechanic, Frank Lewes. Frank had lost that round.

  For the past seven years Cyrus had regularly cut one or more of his sons out of the will. He didn’t mean much by it, it was his form of recreation. He enjoyed ranting, even if he had to pay for the lawyer’s undivided attention. Jo suspected that Elton was Mr. Borden’s favorite. He admired the boy’s stubbornness, his willingness to be different and develop his artistic streak.

  “I’ve requested a meeting with all three sons prior to the reading of the will to discuss a more equitable settlement. It shouldn’t be a problem, the boys get along.”

  Jo omitted the second chapter in Cyrus’s story. That one was guaranteed to give Rebecca a migraine. It would not be easily settled. He hoped it could wait until she returned home. Until he could explain it to her face, soften the blow.

  He switched to gossip, benign chatter to keep her on the line. “Flo is up in arms. A bagel shop from Waldorf has bought Carole’s Beauty Shop on First Avenue. Flo’s convinced that her breakfast customers will desert her diner for a trendy new place.”

  “What? And pass up on their daily infusion of artery-hardening cholesterol?”

  “Unlikely, isn’t it? Frank needs you to call him. Someone dropped off a car, simply parked it in the driveway last night after closing. ‘Like those folk think we got nothing else to work on but their precious car.’ He wanted to check with you before he calls the owner and threatens to have it towed away.”

  “What kind of a car?”

  “One that’s spelled like a hat?”

  “Derby Bentley. Cute, two-seater with large headlamps?”

  Jo said he thought so. Cars tended to look alike to him, a product of growing up on an island where few people drove. Certainly, no one drove anything resembling a classic.

  “Despite his grumbling, Frank hopes the car needs lots of work. It would make a good winter project. Of course, Frank’s assuming the shop will remain open. You’re planning to return, aren’t you?”

  Rebecca sighed.

  Yes, he was needling her. He didn’t have the time or inclination to cajole her. She was running away with no regard for those she left behind. Selfishly, he needed her to face it, come home and mend bridges.

  And do it soon. “I spoke with Dorothea Wetherly earlier this week. Have you called her?”

  Rebecca said nothing.

  He continued. “Or your parents? Have you at least phoned them?”

  Again, dead air. He let it hang, gave Rebecca enough time to count to ten. It didn’t dissipate the annoyance in her voice. “Don’t bully me, Jo. They’ve had thirty-seven years to discuss the situation with me, but they haven’t. I’ll call when I’m ready.”

  Rebecca felt betrayed by her family, but she was letting one deceit overshadow all the good that had come from it. She’d lost nothing. She’d gained an additional grandmother. Few people were as lucky as she was when it came to family. Why couldn’t she accept her good fortune? At the moment, she wasn’t interested in his advice. She was curt when they said good-bye.

  Jo held onto the phone. Staring into space, he saw her face: green eyes flashing, the left corner of her mouth twisted down into a stubborn frown. Gradually, the face softened, faded to be replaced by a playful temptress from his youth, twisting long dark hair into a clip, winking over her shoulder at him. Angelica. His first love. She’d been haunting him a lot lately. Why not? Because of him, she’d died much
too young.

  He crossed to the back door to herd Mo inside. The kitten followed, running full-tilt into the leg of a chair. He bounced back and blinked his eyes at the affront. Jo scooped him up and massaged his tiny face until he purred. He set the cat on the counter and smiled as he penned “P.T.?” on a yellow Post-it note. The kitten pawed at the pen as he wrote. A good sign. He affixed the note to the front of the refrigerator along with the other suggestions.

  Before shutting the back door, he gazed across the fields. They’d been recently mowed. Rounded mounds of hay dotted the landscape. At the edge of the woods the shadows inched forward, swallowing up the sunlight in their path. Peering into the darkness, his mind conjured up Rebecca’s white body floating as still as death, another nightmare he could not shake.

  He turned away, snatched up the car magazine and retrieved his letter. Held it tucked under his chin while he bolted the lock. He didn’t know why he was still carrying it; every line had been committed to memory. A cousin, the child of his mother’s youngest sister, had written in an upright hand on lined paper that Thomas Levy was in the cancer ward where she helped out. He was in a bad way, asking could anyone find Jo Delacroix?

  I didn’t tell that I knows where you is. Mama kept your address. She say you want to see Mister Levy is your business. None of our affair. She guessed we had to tell you. No one else would.

  So true. No one would. No one other than a bitter aunt and her immediate family.

  He dropped the door key in an ashtray on the counter, crushed the letter into his pocket.

  Twelve

  Mick would admit to being marginally competitive, though not in the macho way expected of cops. He could care less if the new rookie scored higher on the firearm quals, ran a faster mile or sank more free throws than he did. But he liked to be in the know. Have more information than the yokel in the next seat, or the woman sharing a candlelight dinner with him.

  Ergo, he’d been unsympathetic when Moore told him about the old man inspiring her in the library on a snowy day. She rarely offered vignettes of her life as a youngster, so he should have been flattered. He should have been more encouraging. He would have been, if Moore hadn’t crept too close to his personal territory. Libraries were his secret weapon.