She hugged her arms as they exited the garage and crossed the street to St. Elmo. According to the blurb in the tourist’s guide the steak house was a fixture in Indianapolis, the must place to eat. It had been around since the early nineteen hundreds, located in the same red brick building on South Illinois Street.
A throng of would-be diners spilled out of the restaurant and clogged the sidewalk. Some looked irked, like they’d been waiting through the decades. Several turned, nudged one another as they approached. He wondered who the gawkers thought they were. Celebrities for sure. Moore reinforced that image when she greeted a liveried driver having a smoke next to a late-model fern green Rolls-Royce.
Soto voce, she told him that the Silver Spirit belonged to Peyton Madison.
Naturally.
Fifteen
The stares turned hostile when Moore led the way past those who had been waiting in line for hours. Mick reached for her arm as they were escorted inside. Not to protect her. He didn’t want to lose her in the crowd. A self-satisfied maitre d’ preceded them through the dining room, where Moore got sidelong glances from observant men and their envious dates. She didn’t seem to notice. She was taking in the decorations on the wall and listening to the general chatter floating toward the high tin ceilings. She twirled around the bannister and headed downstairs.
The cellar was low, long and narrow, packed with about forty people. Small linen-clad tables had been moved against the outer wall to allow room for milling about. From his vantage on the stairs, Mick absorbed the spectacle and nodded in approval. His most promising suspects had been dressed up and were captive in one room. An investigator’s dream. Let them drink liberally and talking to them could be enlightening.
Peyton greeted them as they reached the bottom step. Though they’d met briefly at the track, he waited to be reminded who Mick was. He intended it to be annoying. It was. Like every other guy in the place, Peyton licked his lips as he ogled Moore. He probably regretted letting her bring anyone as her escort.
Or maybe not. The team owner struck him as a man more enthralled by power than swept away by passion. Sex might be an amusing diversion, but it would never overshadow business or replace a sure bet.
Halfway along the narrow room Evans’s bulk caused a logjam. His formal wear was shiny in back, snug around the middle. On his arm was a frizzy blonde who, likewise, had packed too much body in too little dress. The halter top showed more cleavage than was desirable given the leathery nature of the skin. The slit in the skirt gave a pretty good indication that the lady sunbathed au natural. The crew chief’s color was high, like he’d stopped at a local watering hole on the way over to the restaurant.
Evans didn’t acknowledge Moore as they wiggled past. His gaze was locked on Peyton Madison, who was having a cozy conversation with Whitten. It was a toss-up whether Evans was irked at his boss for hobnobbing with the enemy, or worried that Whitten would mention their meeting during the lunch break. The Brabham team owner studiously ignored Evans, though he had to be conscious of the stare. Then again, maybe he was used to it. Whitten dressed as if he expected people to stare and to like what they saw.
A waiter sashayed past. Mick relieved him of two flutes of champagne. When he turned to hand one to Moore, she was missing.
He spotted her inside the wine cellar, posing with Browning—driver extraordinaire and race pole sitter. That made him sound like a mugwump. He looked about as decisive as one. He had pale skin, red hair and refined, symmetrical, features. The gangling kid had developed into a good-looking WASP who would have been irritating even if his arm wasn’t encircling Moore’s waist. As predicted, the media was salivating over the pair. A chatty photographer urged Moore’s arm around Browning’s waist as well. Too cute. Mick probed the driver’s face and posture, trying to find the defeated teen who’d escorted his sister to the party that killed her. He wasn’t there.
Mick drained the first flute and deposited it on the closest table.
“Next time, bring me a full one.” The sultry voice was pitched low, aimed in his direction.
He ducked down to locate the owner. She was half hidden in the shadows where the glow from the table lamp barely reach. A bit old, but stunning in brilliant blue. “I’m an interloper. You feel like a fifth wheel. We’re a natural pair.” She flashed him a 100-watt grin.
It took him a second to place her. When it clicked, he returned the grin. The voyeur from the track. He signaled to the waiter and slid behind the table to join her. “I didn’t recognize you without the field glasses. I’m Michael Hagan.”
“Elise Carlson. Did you catch your daughter? She’s very quick.”
“Too quick.”
“Really? And you a police officer. I would think you could keep a small child in your sights.”
The waiter off-loaded two flutes. Mick kept his expression neutral as Carlson accepted a glass, smirked at him over the rim. He was surprised that she knew he was a cop. Wondered why she cared. He was even more curious about which of the nomads at the track today had filled her in. Had the news of Moore’s cop bodyguard been passed like a relay baton from Browning to his crew chief, from the crew chief to Whitten, from Whitten to the guy in the gray suit and on to this woman? Why?
He was tempted to let it drop, to enjoy the evening, be amused by her company. Forget that he was a cop. He just couldn’t. “Too bad you didn’t stop the kid for me. You seemed to be keeping close tabs on her.”
“Not at all. I was bored watching cars, became intrigued by what she found so fascinating in the infield. When you gave chase, my curiosity increased. I should learn to keep it under control.”
Mick sipped. It was plausible. He asked if she’d really crashed the party.
“Not really. I’ve been away from racing for some years now. It was time to come back. As I have money to invest, it was easy to get invited.”
She reached for a cigarette, pointed it toward the photo shoot being staged in the wine cellar. “Is that your wife, or girlfriend? Probably not the little girl’s mother. Still, you three must make a colorful household. Yes?” Mick shrugged, sipped. She prattled on as if she hadn’t expected a response. “I’d prefer it if you were single and moonlighted with an escort service. If so, may I have the agency’s number?”
That made him laugh. “Trust me, Mrs. Carlson. That woman is not my wife. And if you’re between husbands, you may have all my phone numbers.”
Creases of mirth etched her face. She was easy to look at. Sensuous in a worldly European way. Still, his focus kept drifting past her shoulder to where Moore, the race driver and the owner were playing coy for the media.
After several attempts to talk racing, Carlson swatted him lightly on the wrist, shifted her chair to join him in watching Moore. “I met your friend today at Nordstrom’s. Did she tell you? It was obvious she was dressing for someone special.”
“For this. She knew she’d be in the limelight.”
“Nonsense, the fabric’s too subtle to photograph well. I suspect she has a more tactile activity in mind. Unless you’re really in town for the racing, despite your feigned indifference?”
“Not feigned. No interest.”
“Pity. Perhaps you’d care more if you had a small wager on the outcome? I assure you, it makes the race weekend more exciting.”
She shifted again. Her knee pressed against his. She mentioned a Calcutta. He asked if he needed his passport. She smiled briefly, unamused. The Calcutta wasn’t a side trip to India. It was some kind of betting nonsense taking place in the wine-tasting room.
According to Carlson, Calcuttas were traditional in Indianapolis before a major race. They’d begun with a group of movers and shakers making friendly wagers on the cars entered in the Indy 500. Her late husband had been a devotee. When Formula One came to the town, the idea spread to that venue as well, though the rules had to be modified to accommodate the dominance of certain car manufacturers. Fans banded together to form cartels for the purpose of betting on the outc
ome. Your driver didn’t have to win. In fact, you could put money on a driver to lose.
Many of those betting didn’t follow racing and lacked basic knowledge of the series. They just liked being part of the festivities, enjoyed it more thinking they could go home richer. Carlson had missed the rush of gambling since her husband died. She’d been told that Peyton Madison shared her passion. “But, as you can see, he’s busy and you’re available. Shall we?”
“Inviting, but I can’t afford to lose so I don’t bet.” He pushed back from the table. “If you want to meet Peyton, I’ll introduce you.”
“You know him well?”
“I know his type.”
Carlson reached for her purse as she rose. In heels she matched his height. She waited for him to offer his arm.
It was an irritating, short walk. Even though the photographers’ lust had shifted to food and liquor, Browning still had his arm around Moore’s waist. Peyton was whispering in her ear, effeminate fingers playing with the softness on the inside of her elbow. The tableau was enough to turn Mick’s stomach, but he couldn’t take his eyes off them. He stopped a yard away, jaws clenched tight enough to produce an instant headache.
Carlson’s introduction was preempted by the entrance of Whitten carrying two glasses that were probably single malt Scotch. It was that kind of restaurant, and Whitten looked to be that kind of imbiber. He raised an eyebrow at Peyton and lifted a glass in challenge. Peyton nodded and reached for the drink.
Before relinquishing his hold on the glass, Whitten turned his chin in Carlson’s direction. He stretched his mouth to approximate a smile. “Forgive me for barging past you, lovely lady. It didn’t occur to me you would want to speak with Peyton. Unless of course, it’s a business matter and that would be a pity. If you have money to invest, call me, please. Peyton’s not a safe bet.”
Carlson raised one eyebrow. “Really? Why is that?”
Whitten let Peyton take the highball as he insinuated himself between them, still flirting with Carlson. “You haven’t heard that the team is jinxed? Or are you so fearless that you’d rush in, while most backers are buying thermal socks for their icy toes?”
Peyton pushed past Whitten, knocking him into the table, sloshing the drinks. Since the move necessitated he drop Moore’s arm, Mick smiled. Peyton took it the wrong way, snarled in his direction though his remarks clearly were intended for Carlson. “Whitten is a practical joker with an effete sense of humor. You’ll have to forgive and forget him. I’m Peyton Madison and you are…?”
Carlson stood demurely, allowing Mick to do the honors before offering her hand. As Peyton clutched it, his eyes lit with a predatory glow and his drawl got broader. “Mrs. Carlson, I’m honored to meet you at last. But have I erred? I was expecting you tomorrow. You should have contacted my assistant and informed me you were here. I am distraught.” He finished the sentence with the hint of a pout.
Carlson waved it away as the nonsense it was. “I’d joined a small party for boar hunting in Argentina. Do you hunt boar? No. Well, having bagged what I went for, I flew back early.”
“I am so flattered that you’re here. How I wish though you’d been with me at the track today. My Lotus is on the pole.”
She flickered an eyelash in Mick’s direction. It could have been an appeal to say nothing. Or a check to make sure Mick was listening. Peyton missed the exchange. He tucked her hand under his arm, reeling her in. “Now that we’ve met, you must allow me to look after you. I will tend to your every wish.”
“How paternalistic. At least, I imagine you speak like a father. I never knew mine.”
“Mine I know too well. Boring compared with you—someone I would like to know better.”
Mick sipped his drink to keep from snorting. He was willing to bet that Southern charm was bouncing off Carlson’s hide and running down to pool on the floor. She had too much savoir faire to swallow that malarkey. Browning, likewise, was having trouble stomaching it. He rolled his eyes and relinquished his hold on Moore. With Peyton distracted, he sidled off to talk shop with another driver.
Moore glided over to his side. “Having fun yet?”
He didn’t answer. As long as he pretended the event was part of an investigation, he didn’t need to be amused. Unless she was the amusement.
Hand on her arm, he edged her in the direction of the bar. Peyton and Carlson were nose-to-nose in conversation, talking about their fathers and growing up rich. He had; she hadn’t. If they wanted a drink, they could send someone else to fetch it. He was getting his own.
Or would have, but a bald man blocked his way. The guy looked familiar, maybe everyone was starting to. He was in his mid-fifties, prosperous with a small paunch, dressed in a simple suit, sky-blue striped tie with a grease spot on the tail. His left thumb rubbed back and forth across his fingers, reminiscent of Bogart as Queeg fretting with his marbles. It was the worried look that placed him at the track, where Mick had seen him in serious conversation with Whitten, just before he met up with Carlson. His eyes were locked on Carlson now, slinking through the crowd toward the tasting room with Peyton salivating close behind, one hand on her bare back.
Moore tapped on his arm, did the social thing and extended a hand along with a smile. The harried man wrenched his gaze away from Carlson. His eyes flicked in Mick’s direction and widened in panic. Moore soothed him, gave her name. He nodded quickly a few times, said he was Brian Franks. She asked if he was affiliated with one of the teams? He shook his head so hard a strand of hair combed over the top flopped to one side. “Investment consultant. This is not what was planned. I shouldn’t be here.”
Moore bit. “At the party or at the race?”
He flapped his pate from side to side. Set down his drink.
“The gambling make you nervous, Franks?” Tired of waiting, Mick slipped by him, sidled up to the bar.
Franks thought about it, blinked a few times then mumbled, “In a manner of speaking. Yes, it does. Excuse me.” He pushed past them.
Moore leaned against the bar. “Was it something we said or someone he saw?”
They turned, shoulders touching.
Franks was worming his way past the food tables, ignoring platters of petit filets mignons on toast points and iced dishes of St. Elmo’s signature shrimp cocktail with horseradish potent enough to peel paint. A man of willpower, or lacking an appetite. His eyes kept skittering toward the tasting room as he moved away from it in an arc, skirting Carlson like a negatively charged filing being repelled by a magnet. Until, at the apex of the arc, he broke loose, set down his untouched drink and headed up the stairs.
Moore shrugged, pushed a lock of hair back from her face. “Think Carlson is his investment client?’
Mick shrugged. “Logical guess.”
“Then he has good reason to be worried. Peyton’s eyeing her money like a gator sighting a wounded duck.”
Sixteen
The tasting room was only a tad larger than the wine cellar. It bulged with more than a dozen guests who had squeezed in then separated into clusters of three and four. Stepping across the threshold, Rebecca could feel the tension, see the strain on the bettors’ faces. The intensity united them into a herd with a common affliction. She was very glad she didn’t gamble.
Peyton was hunched over a corner table conferring with Evans and the svelte Elise Carlson. She’d lit a thin European cigarette and was exhaling the smoke through a grin. She was the only one in that group who seemed to be enjoying herself. From the body language it was obvious that she was encouraging the men to do something they were uncomfortable with. Predicably, the male egos were responding to her taunts even though their hands itched to clutch their wallets shut.
Derek Whitten was holding court at the next table.
Jacket unbuttoned, one leg crossed over the other, just the proper amount of gartered stocking showing, he projected confidence and élan. Either he had insider knowledge, could afford to lose more, or was a natural thespian. Maybe all three.<
br />
One of his fellow bettors opined that a Brazilian rookie driver was too reckless, crashed too often to be worth a bet. Whitten wagged off the criticism. “Au contraire. It’s Darwin at work, eliminating those who are unfit. We bet on him to fail. Put him down as the first DNF.”
Elise stubbed out her cigarette as if it had inexplicably turned rancid. Massaging her left wrist, she rose to greet them. “Rebecca, how lovely you look. Explain DNF to me. Then tell me what you think about this South American youngster. Will he finish in the points at ten-to-one?”
“DNF: Did not finish—catchall for engine failures, crashes, blown tires and the like. The Brazilian is a long shot. Unless it rains and his gearbox holds. Then he could be a factor.”
“Intriguing. They’re predicting rain by afternoon on Sunday. As a mechanic, can you pray for the gearbox?” Not expecting an answer, she rested both hands on the back of Peyton’s chair, spoke just above his ear. “So it’s a long shot, but not impossible.” She winked at Rebecca. “Taking risks adds such spice. Perhaps you can persuade him. He’s immune to my charms.”
Peyton cut off his conversation with Evans. Raising his head put him eye level with the drape of Carlson’s bodice. He looked like a man who sensed the ice was getting thin, but was too macho to backtrack to shore.
He maneuvered the chair sideways and stood. Elise had him dangling where she wanted him.
Whitten, who was blatantly eavesdropping, poked him with his foot. “Go ahead, Peyton, bet. Your abysmal luck is bound to change sometime.”
Peyton swatted his leg. “What are you implying? There’s nothing wrong with my luck, or my skill.”
“Really? Have I been misinformed about the, ah, mishaps plaguing your pit? Rumors fly around the track. Guess they can’t all be true.”
Splotches of red appeared on Peyton’s cheeks. He was about to, what—deny the incidents, explain them away?
Elise forestalled his response. “Don’t worry, Peyton. I’m sure this will be a lucky bet. If it isn’t?” She shrugged and twisted to face him nose-to-nose, her hipbones skimming his. “You undoubtedly have valuables? Gems or art that would amuse me? I shall buy them, hold them as collateral. That way you will be indebted to me. It could be the beginning of a most interesting collaboration.”
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