Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  Rebecca nodded, wondering where Jasmine was hiding. Elise waited, obviously expecting her to say where she’d been.

  There was no reason not to mention the destroyed picture. As the team’s new owner, she had a right to know about the earlier trouble. She listened and was mildly amused at Jasmine’s photographic exploits, but was no more concerned about the shooter than Peyton or Evans had been.

  Rebecca dropped the plate on the coffee table. Why am I the only one worrying? “I’m not doing this for my amusement, Elise. If the photograph can be salvaged, it may give the police a lead in the shooting.”

  “Police?” She poked through her purse for another cigarette. “Isn’t that a bit extreme? He died from natural causes. There’s no need to involve the authorities.”

  “But there is. Lawyers for the hospital will insist that Peyton’s heart attack was caused by the injuries he sustained at the track, not by anything the hospital did. That claim will make it manslaughter, a police matter. Negative publicity or not, we’ll have to tell them about Thursday’s shooting. It’s too coincidental to think that one mystery sniper took a potshot at the team, and a second assailant tortured the team’s owner.”

  Elise’s considered the unlit cigarette. “I see your point. How fortunate that you have access to the original. Are you taking it to a professional photographer? I know someone excellent in the city.”

  Rebecca assured her that the photographer was well-recommended. She didn’t say that the recommendation came from a seven-year old.

  Elise shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll do. You’ll provide me with a copy of the photographs?”

  Without waiting for Rebecca to agree, she retrieved her purse and crossed to the front door. She stood for a moment, holding it ajar, and looked across the lawn. Her eyes were unfocused, clearly not seeing the parked cars, the stingy overgrown lots or the single-story houses in need of siding. “Poor Peyton. It’s still inconceivable that he died like that. Last evening, he assured me that being half-owner of a race team would be glamorous fun. Apparently, the sport has a darker side.”

  Thirty

  In May, Rebecca had considered adopting a dog. That was right after two brutal murders and the ransacking of her house. Billy Lee, an aging mechanic for a rival restoration shop, had attempted to rescue his employer’s widow from her burning house. When he was carted off to the hospital suffering from smoke inhalation, Rebecca had taken custody of his Doberman, Wonder. The dog had remained at her side all night, licking her nose when she needed support, snuggling against her until Jo arrived.

  Prior to that, she’d maintained that both dogs and children should be well-behaved and belong to strangers living out of state. Jasmine, like the Doberman, might be an exception. Plopped at the dining table, the girl amused herself with pen and paper, alternately humming or giggling without need to explain her mirth. Occasionally, she’d jump up and run outside to chat with Fred, with whom she did seem to have special rapport. Rebecca always thought she’d been independent as a child. Nearly as happy as Jasmine, though not as outgoing. She didn’t remember being on a first-name basis with squirrels.

  Jasmine’s self-absorption allowed Rebecca to go through Hayes’s articles one more time. It was busywork, something to do. The news of Peyton’s death, coupled with her anger at being thrown off the crew, was nearly debilitating. Elise thought delivering the messages in person would soften their sting. It hadn’t. Her sympathy over Peyton bordered on perfunctory. She hadn’t even pretended to be sorry that Rebecca was leaving. Perhaps Hagan was right and Carlson was one of those successful women who are comfortable only when surrounded by fawning men. By dismissing her, Elise would have the team to herself.

  Nothing new leapt out as she scanned the pages from the computer. Madison senior was still a successful businessman. Peyton was still something of a wastrel. No mention of his having an ex-spouse or children, so she assumed that Peyton had died without heirs. Unless his seventy-nine-year-old father had saved up some sperm, the family line was about to go extinct.

  Why did she think that progeny would matter to him? She’d faced Madison senior for fewer than five minutes. Yet without hesitation she would have described him as dynastically driven. A patriarch to whom family was everything, while individual family members counted only as his assurance of immortality. She leaned back, stretched out a kink in her shoulders. The irony of that attitude was that often those most obsessed with carrying on their genetic line liked their children least.

  According to the alarm clock it was five-thirty. Ian had been moved to the Canterbury Hotel, into the room vacated by Peyton. By calling now, she might be able to reach him before he left for dinner.

  He was there, but she barely recognized his voice. It was high-pitched, tense, whining. A combination of pre-race jitters and too many questions from the police. “They’re swarming all over the hotel, Rebecca. They don’t believe that I went to the motor home, knocked and left again immediately. You’ve got to vouch for me. They’re hounding me. I don’t need this now.”

  Rebecca promised to back up his story, silently hoping that Hagan would remember what time Ian had interrupted them the previous night. She didn’t.

  Ian ranted on. “They’ve barely talked to Evans. He could have snuck back to the track after dropping me off. His ditzy date was so drunk she wouldn’t have known. And Whitten. He’s boasting that he doesn’t have an alibi. Says he doesn’t need one. Claims Peyton had been threatening him, not the other way around. I’m not involved, Rebecca. I can’t deal with all this crap. I have to race tomorrow.”

  He paused for breath. She jumped in. “Ian, I’m so sorry about Peyton. I know you didn’t do anything to bring on the heart attack.”

  Ian screamed into the phone. “And that’s another thing. Who knew the smarmy bastard had a heart? It wasn’t weak from overuse. No more than his father’s. He’s not bothered by his son’s death, not one bit. Believe me. I grew up swimming in a sea of sangfroid. That man’s got dry ice in his veins.” He blew out a breath, sucked in. “He and Carlson have bonded like flipping Siamese twins. They plan to stop by the pits tomorrow to strap me in, then go off to watch the race together. She’ll try to wow him with the thrill of historic Grand Prix racing. Encourage him to remain a partner. One cold-blooded vulture cooing at another.”

  Rebecca slid her knees to her chest and hugged them. She shared Ian’s outrage. Elise’s obsession with business was tolerable only because she was a stranger who barely knew Peyton. How could Madison calmly enjoy the race with his son lying in the morgue? “Oh hell, maybe he’s in shock.”

  Ian snorted. “It’s like Peyton’s already forgotten. Oh, there’ll be a memorial service so we can pay respects before we pack up and head off to the next race. Then he’ll cremate him and FedEx the ashes south. Stash him in the mausoleum. Team be damned, Rebecca, Peyton was his only child. A pretentious little shit maybe, but still he was his son.”

  The anguish in Ian’s voice made her wonder if Madison’s paternal indifference was hitting too close to home. She asked him to call her with the time and place of the service if they didn’t connect at the track. He sounded genuinely sorry that she wouldn’t be in the pits keeping an eye on him.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you in spirit on every turn.”

  “Right. You and that cop of yours.” Ian punched off.

  She dropped the phone on the bed. Just thinking about the race tomorrow deepened her depression. Going to the track would be like walking back into the Post building after she’d been fired. Face red, eyes downcast, sure that everyone from the mail room clerk to the president considered her unfit to walk through the door.

  In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face, stared in the mirror, tried on an effete smile for the sake of the bubbly kid in the other room. She’d collect Jasmine and go pick up the photograph. Chances were it would reveal nothing definitive, but it was important that the girl see it for herself. Maybe they’d go to McDonald’s. Hot French fries coa
ted with salt would lift her spirits.

  Jasmine wasn’t in the living room. Rebecca called her name as she headed for the patio.

  She wasn’t chatting with the squirrel on the redwood table.

  Nor was she playing in the backyard, or sprawled in the grass out front encouraging a rabbit as it scissored the heads off fading mums.

  Not in the kitchen, bathroom, or any of the bedrooms.

  Rebecca rushed outside. “Jasmine? Jasmine, where are you?”

  Her bike was gone.

  Grabbing up the keys, she tore to the car. The tires spit gravel as she accelerated away from the curb. She spun the car around one-eighty in the middle of the road. Screw the one-way streets.

  She wasn’t sure why her adrenaline had kicked in, but she didn’t like the idea that Jasmine was missing, that she’d left without telling her. Probably, the girl had snuck out to retrieve the picture. Or, maybe she realized it was late and had gone home to dinner. Rebecca prayed she hadn’t left the house for an unknown destination. Or with some unknown character.

  She dropped down to Thirtieth Street and turned north onto Georgetown, barely clearing the intersection. Just past the Thirty-fourth Street intersection, traffic gridlocked, clogging too far back from the intersection to blame the red light.

  She swerved the car toward the center lane as the cars ahead of her inched forward, leaned out of the window trying to see what was causing the traffic snarl. No construction equipment. No blue lights signaling an accident or a speeder pulled over to the side of the road. No signs of a parade, just the black-and-white-checkered banners advertising Budweiser and welcoming race fans.

  What was the holdup? Too many visitors all heading for the same location? Maybe Steak ’n Shake was giving away free burgers. Or better yet, Auto Zone was matching every case of oil with a case of beer. Lots of things could cause a Saturday night tie-up on a major highway during a race weekend. Things she couldn’t imagine.

  Things like a fire.

  Like the billowing black clouds of smoke rising up above the buildings about three blocks down on the right. In the same block as the photography shop.

  Cars already at the intersection were shoving through to get past the fire before traffic froze. Those in front of her didn’t have a chance; they slowed down to gawk. She hoped one of them was calling it in. She didn’t hear sirens.

  Traffic crept forward. She spotted an alley a hundred yards before the burning block. She cut the wheel hard to the right, clung to the gutter, gunned the engine, drove up the wheelchair access and onto the sidewalk. She shut it down twenty feet from a hydrant, left the keys in the ignition in case it had to be moved. Slammed the door and began jogging.

  The thickest column of smoke curled out of the alley on the right. She ran down it, dodging trash cans, puddles and a discarded quart of St. Ives. A block from the photographer’s, the smoke was blinding. It stank of something pungent, metallic. Heat like a wall sprang up in front of her. It addled her brain as she tried to remember what chemicals were used to develop film and whether or not they were likely to explode.

  Half a block later, her question was answered.

  The south wall of the camera shop burst outward, tumbling concrete blocks and sending shards of shrapnel flying seconds before she heard the explosion. The blast knocked her sideways. She went down on one knee and her elbow. A child’s black bike flew over her, landed on a trash can and fell to earth, front wheel spinning.

  She was choking, scrabbling frantically to get to her feet, panicking, certain the bike was Jasmine’s. People were screaming, fleeing from the stalled cars, weaving through lanes of traffic to get to the far side of the road. To safety.

  The sudden rush of oxygen fanned the fire. Fumes and smoke escaped through the gaping hole. Her eyes were tearing, blinding her. She stumbled forward, calling Jasmine’s name. She doused the tail of her blouse in a puddle. Held it over her mouth as she staggered into the crumbled building.

  She nearly tripped over the girl before she heard her. “Help me. It’s heavy.”

  She dropped her shirttail and felt for the child, wanting to clutch her and run. Jasmine gripped her hands, directed them forward until her fingers bumped into something solid.

  “Hurry.”

  She fumbled for purchase, smacked into metal, painfully hot.

  Jasmine squealed in her ear. “The chair’s stuck. He mustn’t die.”

  Chair? “Wheelchair?”

  “Yes. Help me.”

  Rebecca went down on her knees, felt for the wheels. She found the spokes of the left one and stretched across for the right, reaching the rim. The rubber was melting under her grip, fusing with her palm. She struggled to her feet, grasped the highest point of the wheels, yelled at Jasmine to stand back. She yanked at the chair. It bounced against something immovable and fell back a few inches. She heaved again. The chair barely budged.

  A man’s voice materialized out of the smoke. “Leave me. Save the girl.” It was a command, not a plea.

  Rebecca felt tears of anger wash her eyes as she flexed her thighs, lowered her grip on the chair. And pulled. This time, the chair would move.

  The paramedics found the three of them huddled in an alley, watching Samuel Groën’s photography business turn to ash. The hair salon next door was a total loss as well. A clerk from the minimart across the street had brought them water and damp paper towels. She’d tried to wash soot from Jasmine’s face, but the girl skittered away to hide behind Rebecca.

  Groën had inhaled too much smoke and was coughing up black phlegm. Other than raw skin on her palms and bruises from wrestling with the wheelchair, Rebecca was whole. The medics strongly advised that they both go to the hospital. They refused.

  Jasmine had a burn on her arm that needed to be treated and bandaged. She’d run back into the building to hunt for the xD card that contained her pictures. She was devastated to think that she would never be able to show Rebecca the photograph of the shooter. Jasmine pouted as if she would burst into tears. Mr. Groën told her not to worry.

  As the medic applied gauze squares over the burn, Rebecca promised she would urge Jasmine’s mother to take the girl to a doctor to have the burn looked at and the dressing changed. She would—if she ever met Jasmine’s mother. If Jasmine had a mother, a father, sisters, brothers, somebody. The child seemed to have imprinted to her like an orphan duckling. Rebecca refused to believe that such a loving child had no one at home nurturing her.

  But here she was, clinging to her waist and moaning over and over that Sammy had no business and nowhere to live. Finally the message penetrated—the ell of the building that extended into the parking lot had been the photographer’s home.

  “Less than a home,” Groën said. “Merely a place to rest. Don’t fret, I belong to a nomadic tribe.”

  The medic agreed to give Groën a ride in the ambulance as far as the house where Rebecca was staying. With Hagan in jail and Ian at the Canterbury, there was plenty of room. Jasmine approved of the arrangement and announced she would go with them, too. Rebecca didn’t have the heart to send the tyke away, even if she knew where to send her. She would have to wring that information out of her later. Or maybe Groën knew. The girl gripped her hand as they walked to the nearest cop and told him where they could be found when he was ready to take their statements.

  Thirty-one

  Rebecca agreed to call Groën by his given name. Samuel suited his dignity. Sammy didn’t. The summer she was six, she’d had a pet salamander named Sammy that had lost its tail to a determined cat.

  Groën thanked her. “I wish I could convince the child to drop the diminutive. Easier to change the path of a tornado.” He laughed so hard his belly wobbled. It was obvious that whatever Jasmine wanted to call him was fine.

  Jasmine insisted the girls bathe at the same time. She splashed in the tub with her arm encased in a plastic bag. Rebecca kept an eye on her through the transparent vinyl shower curtain. The first day at the house, she’d removed the
floral outer curtain to let in the light. She didn’t expect anyone to sneak up on her in the shower. But she was having trouble with closed-in spaces, which made no sense. Her last scare involved the wide-open river.

  They emerged from their ablutions smelling of every toiletry in her kit. Jasmine was shrouded in one of Hagan’s T-shirts. It hung down past her knees and was wide enough to have fit two of her. She christened it her transformation robe and flew into the kitchen for crayon and paper to illustrate a tale worthy of her raiments.

  Samuel requested Rebecca’s help getting into the bathroom, then out of the chair. He had little strength in his legs, no mobility. On a good day, he could stand without help. Today was not such a good day. “It could be a worse ailment. My sister insists I enjoy being lazy. Maybe. And the chair, well, it isn’t so bad for business. Few people take advantage of someone they perceive as being worse off than themselves.”

  She smiled at the rascal and got him settled for a sponge bath. Trespassing in Ian’s room, she flicked through the coat hangers of clothes he’d left behind, looking for a robe. A striped velour wraparound had fallen to the floor of the closet. It was dusty, but smelled clean. She passed it around the edge of the door, asking for Samuel’s sooty clothes in return.

  When he called her, she resettled him in the chair. He coughed, wheezing as he told her to close the bathroom door. “Sit, please. I am a cranky old man right now, so I ask that you do not judge me harshly.” He tugged at the robe of many colors not quite covering his legs. “I demand to hear what puts Jasmine in danger. I have lost my business. That is an ample price to pay for the knowledge, don’t you think? I do not blame you for endangering the girl, I simply want to know what evil we face.”

  Rebecca sank to the edge of the tub. “I wish I knew.”