Driven to Murder

by Judith Skillings

  He placed his foot on the bench in front. Clasping his hands, he leaned on his knee. His palms were sweating. “It was a murder of opportunity. Not premeditated revenge. Come on, Elise, if you’d set out to kill Peyton, you wouldn’t have been sloppy. You wouldn’t have left anything to chance. You’d have done it right.”

  “Don’t flatter me, Lieutenant.” She spit. “Do you think I’m so gullible? You’re making up the story to save your friends. After I submit, the medical examiner will contradict you, say it was the torture that caused his impaired heart to give out. And I’ll be found guilty of manslaughter, at the least.”

  Mick scowled. “A bad heart? No. The coroner said the liver was a bit shaky, evidence of cirrhosis, but no mention of heart problems. Where’d you hear that?”

  Forty-seven

  If it had been a film, the screen would have dimmed, the sound track would have muted, action slowed, every nuance of expression captured in stark relief on camera.

  What weak heart? Confusion flickered across Hagan’s face. He thought he was the bearer of exculpatory news, that Peyton had been smothered. That his death had nothing to do with Carlson’s assault.

  Carlson was peeved, convinced that Hagan was lying about the asphyxiation. She knew she’d assaulted Peyton. Assumed he’d later died because of a heart condition.

  Did Peyton have a weak heart?

  His father said so. But not the police. It was possible that the medical examiner had noted it, but hadn’t mentioned it to Patten because it wasn’t the primary cause of death.

  Ian, on the other hand, had raced for Peyton for six years. He knew of no heart ailment other than stinginess.

  Rebecca caught Carlson’s eye. In unison, they turned toward Madison. There was a light sheen of perspiration on his face, a tic jumped next to his nose. He’d shuffled another few inches along the railing, but was still precariously near the edge. When he spoke his voice wavered. “Tell me the police are coming. Please. Take me away from this lunatic.”

  “Lunatic?” Carlson grabbed Jasmine’s shirt, slid her across the metal bleacher on her belly. Dragged her like a sack of laundry as she advanced on Madison. “Lunatic is a man who would kill his own son. You did, didn’t you? Didn’t you? I should have expected it. But it is too heinous. How could you do it? Even my mother refrained.”

  Her voice was shrill, dissolving as the cars screamed into the turn, their roar sweeping over the empty stands. Madison crouched slightly, eyes darted to Hagan in mute appeal.

  Bile rose in Rebecca’s throat; one knee quivered. Had he killed his son?

  The notion bounced like echoes in her brain, too horrific to take root. He’d been patently annoyed when he burst into the hospital room. His anger was directed at her, but his focus had been on Peyton, quaking in the bed. Peyton had been telling her about the voices on the tape. Recounting a harangue in German. He’d mentioned art, the Corot.

  Had the old man become so enraged by what he heard that he killed his own son? Her grandmother’s picture of the Kauffman family had not been flattering. The mother was a dominating Nazi supporter. The father stole from his Jewish neighbors, then fled the country. The ambitious Madison, once engaged to Sophie Franks, later married two other women apparently as window dressing. Ruthlessness ran in the family.

  But murdering your own child?

  A clang reached her, a vibration below, moving swiftly, coming nearer. Someone stumbled on the steps. She continued to face front, watching Madison. Hagan glanced laterally and expelled a breath. The person climbing up must be a cop, probably Patten. She hoped he would listen before acting. There was a thread-fine line here between victim and villain.

  Ignoring the newcomer, Carlson moved in, totally focused on Madison. Hagan followed, tightening the circle. Like the tableau in a morality play, they waited for direction. Carlson and Madison stood center stage: the principal players, good and evil. Hagan, in the wings, was retribution. Jasmine the sacrificial lamb. That made her the chorus. The observer tasked with enlightening and advancing the action. As in any well-acted tragedy, the tension emanating from them was palpable.

  In the silence, Rebecca again heard Carlson’s dictum: I want you to tell my story. She swallowed. What was the full story? There were so many questions. Could she stomach the answers? How much time did she have before Patten acted?

  Rebecca stepped forward. “Madison, what happened to your mother, Hilde?” Her voice cracked, startlingly loud even in her own ears.

  His head jerked up. “Mein Mutter? Mother?” He snorted. “She was a nationalistic zealot. She stayed behind.”

  “Really? She allowed her husband, son, daughter-in-law and grandson to emigrate to Argentina with the wealth, while she remained in Germany?”

  He shrugged. “You could say that. It was for the best.”

  His casual dismissal caused her blood to chill. She had no doubt that Hilde had stayed behind in Germany. Not because she chose to, but because she was dead. Murdered by someone in the family. Rebecca wanted to scream, to reach out and throttle the insensitive bastard. Instead she laced her fingers. Forced her hands to remain calm.

  “I see. Did your father kill her? Smother her in her sleep, perhaps, then leave her outside in the rubble? Is that where you learned the technique, at your father’s side? Then Peyton wasn’t the first Kauffman sacrificed to—”

  “Shut up. It was necessary.”

  At last, an outburst. Confirmation.

  Carlson whipped her head around, a glint of approval in her eyes, grateful that another person had stepped across the line and was standing on her side. Not just the dead Sophie. A living person, a near-stranger, who comprehended the magnitude of the Kauffmans’ villainy. It was validation that she hadn’t been wrong in avenging her family. She expelled a long breath, let her shoulders droop. She looked spent, tired of it all, but strangely at peace. “Thank you, Rebecca.”

  Carlson removed the rod from across Jasmine’s neck, lowered it to her side. Laid her hand lightly on the girl’s shoulder.

  Jasmine squirmed, eyes full of worry and confusion. Rebecca tried to smile. Encouraged by Carlson’s softening, she stepped closer to join them.

  Hagan stiffened. His hand jerked out, then held.

  She stopped, wished like hell she had eyes in the back of her head. Had the cop drawn his gun and was she now standing in the line of fire? Was that what Hagan was signaling about?

  She thought she heard more footsteps lower down, but couldn’t be sure. Her heart was beating loudly enough to drown out any sound that wasn’t obliterated by the race cars. Roughly one minute, twenty seconds a lap to circle the 2.065-mile course. If she’d been paying attention, she could have computed how long they had been standing in the sun bargaining for Jasmine’s life, Carlson’s soul. It seemed an eternity.

  No one moved. No one spoke. Each was waiting for another player to act.

  The tension was unnerving.

  Rebecca moistened her lips. Uncertain of her role, she did what came naturally, what she’d been trained to do. She faced a man she found abhorrent and calmly questioned him. “Did you kill Peyton because he sold the painting?”

  Madison threw back his shoulders. He’d been waiting for this cue. “The painting was mine. They are all mine. I smuggled them out of Germany. My father wanted to turn them over to the authorities. Start fresh, he said. How, with no money? Blithering fool. Without mother he had no backbone. Everything this family has was my doing.”

  “But Peyton didn’t thank you, did he? He took the wealth for granted. When he got in trouble, he stole one of your paintings.”

  “Yes, my son was a thief. The day I turned my company over to him, I showed him the treasures that made it possible. The spineless coward stole from me and denied it. But I knew. My Corot.” A palsied hand shot out toward her. “Then I hear him tell you, a stranger. Plead for your help. Who are you that he should do that?”

  A wad of spittle clung to his lip. The tic below his eye twitched out of control.
Patches of red flared on his cheeks. He wobbled in place, the venom making him unsteady. “He told you about my paintings. What else would he have revealed? Any more babbling, you would have owned us. Didn’t he realize that? He was handing you the power to destroy us. You never give away your power. How could he do that?”

  Carlson seemed to have tuned out Madison’s tirade. She was bent down to Jasmine’s level, holding the child by one arm. Sorrow etched her face; she spoke just loud enough for Rebecca to hear. “I wronged you, child. I discounted you as a person and used you as a tool. I’m sorry if I hurt you, it was not my intent. Can you forgive me?”

  Jasmine blinked frantically. Rebecca’s pulse quickened. What was Elise up to? Was she ready to let her go? She desperately wanted the child away from danger. Hoping she read Elise correctly, she nodded at Jasmine and smiled, yes. The girl, in turn, bobbed her head at her captor.

  Carlson patted the corn rows then pivoted her away. Jasmine bolted, scurrying along the foot well. She hit Rebecca at a jerky run, nearly knocking her over, welding her arms around her thighs. Elise straightened and regarded the two of them. She shrugged. “Why am I fighting it?” Unburdened, she strode to Madison, stopped less than a yard away.

  The old man held his ground. Hagan fidgeted, exchanging tense glances with the reinforcements in the background.

  Carlson smiled. “You realize, Kauffman, our families are similar. I’m an embittered woman who refused to have children, fearing I would hate them as my mother hated me. Having allowed herself to be used by the guards, she couldn’t forget them when she looked at me. You willingly interbred with an Hispanic and loathed your son as a result, a wastrel who never established the dynasty you craved.

  “Or did you want him to? He wasn’t Aryan. That was his real crime, wasn’t it? Hitler had fought the world and lost your homeland to keep the Aryan race pure. And your son wasn’t. Had you always thought him a lesser individual? Did you view killing him as a form of euthanasia? Was his death your Endlösung, your final solution?”

  The taunt was well-calculated. Whether Carlson believed what she was saying or not, it inflamed Madison. He launched himself at her, pushed off from the railing, arms outstretched, fingers splayed, talons seeking flesh.

  She raised the rod and slashed at him, caught him on the forearm as she circled left. Stepped down level with him. He growled, yanked his arm back and folded it to his chest. Bent over, he charged again, roaring like the bull he resembled.

  Carlson was laughing now, circling slowly.

  Too late those watching realized what was about to happen.

  Hagan lunged. Patten scurried forward. He didn’t have a shot even if he’d been certain which one to shoot. Rebecca cradled Jasmine against her, forcing her face between her legs to shield her from seeing.

  She would like to have been shielded herself, to close her eyes and pretend it wasn’t happening. Rewind the film and choose an ending other than this one. She couldn’t, she could only watch as Elise Carlson flung out the baton like a matador’s sword, opening her arms wide to Madison as he charged, her face erupting into a grin of triumph.

  Almost in slow motion, she whipped the rod behind his neck and caught the other end. With his head locked to her chest, Carlson relaxed her body and let his momentum propel them over the railing and off the edge of the stands.

  Forty-eight

  “There are no heroes. Still, a tale worth telling.”

  Those were the last words Elise Carlson spoke as she lay twisted, her body broken on the tarmac. Rebecca was the first to reach her after foisting Jasmine into Hagan’s arms and racing, tripping down the stands. Several hours later she learned that Carlson had sustained massive-force trauma hitting the pavement. She died from internal hemorrhaging.

  Madison’s neck had been broken in the fall. Or before it.

  Most of the fans enjoyed the race in ignorance. Spectators around the world listening to Bob Varsha’s coverage for Speed Channel never knew. Monday’s Indianapolis Star carried a small mention of the tragic deaths of two spectators in the southeast vista. Very small. Schumacher won the F1 race, followed by his teammate Barrichello. Another one-two sweep for Ferrari.

  The Historic Grand Prix got five inches of coverage in a side bar. Ian Browning, piloting the Lotus 49C once driven by Austrian legend, Jochen Rindt, snatched the victory when Derek Manning’s Brabham spun out on the final lap. Browning was credited with breaking the curse that had hovered over the late Peyton Madison’s team during the weeks leading up to the race. Fans were quoted saying that watching the old cars was more exciting than the F1 race—more competitive, more mishaps. The promoters were negotiating to bring it back the following year.

  Rebecca was pleased for Ian, proud of the small part she’d played in preparing the car. Glad she’d had the experience of working on the cars and being a part of the races at Indy. Next year she would be content to watch them on television. Or maybe not.

  One day she would write Elise Carlson’s story. It was worth telling; a lesson worth heeding. The tragedy of Sophie, the concentration camp survivor; Lisa Frankel; and three generations of Heinrich Kauffmans would stay with her for a long, long time. She didn’t know in what format or when, but someday she would put the words down. Sprinkled throughout it would be Jasmine’s energy and level-headed optimism as a counterpoint to the rigid doctrine that says we must all be alike, that those who are different must be feared. She was willing to bet that Elise had been similar to Jasmine as a child: bright, dauntless, self-contained. Before she was poisoned with unmanageable hatred.

  Hagan blamed himself for Carlson’s death. Berated himself for not acting more swiftly. Felt that he and Patten should have been able to control the situation. He thought Rebecca had gotten through to Carlson. He wouldn’t accept that her suicide was the ending Elise wanted, the one she’d choreographed. That she’d sought a punishment worthy of the guilt that had been saddled on her. If Hagan had reached her, she would have fought him and gone over anyway. She might have taken him with her. Her final struggle would not have been a feeble attempt like her mother’s.

  He nodded as she spoke the words, but Rebecca could tell he wasn’t buying it. For one thing he was unnaturally compliant, agreeing to reschedule his flight so she had time to say good-bye. He didn’t carp even when she explained that she would be flying to Boston instead of accompanying him to Maryland.

  At eleven o’clock they were attending the memorial service for Peyton Madison. It would give her the chance to congratulate Ian on his victory and wish him luck with the team. Already there were rumors that he would be taking over—assuming that one or both of the cars could be had for a reasonable sum. No doubt Ian would negotiate finances with the family attorney who was flying up to escort the bodies of father and son to South Carolina.

  After school, she was taking Jasmine apple picking. She wanted to meet her foster mother, see where the girl lived, assure herself that the girl’s spirit would not be eroded by her surroundings. She sighed, flipping the cover of her phone open and shut. Jo often chided her that she couldn’t take in every stray that crossed her path. Selfishly, this little one would be so easy to hold on to.

  When she told Jasmine that Elise Carlson was dead, the girl had nodded. “I know. She made me stronger.”

  Rebecca was willing to accept the cryptic statement, but the girl tugged on her arm, wanting to explain. “When a person dies, the energy goes into people close by. Or people they’re close to. You don’t get it all, just part. That’s how kids get to grow and know more. Did you get some, too?”

  She hugged her tight. “I hope so.”

  During the car trip to Dayton, she would call her parents and tell them she was on her way.

  Then phone her grandmother with the news of Heinrich Kauffman’s death. Dorothea would be intrigued, horrified and energized all at once. Brian Franks was Elise’s executor. He promised to deliver Sophie’s tape to the U.S. Customs Art Squad in hopes it could be used to reclaim the famil
y’s paintings. No doubt Rebecca’s grandmother would involve herself in redressing the wrong. Meddling was a family trait.

  Her third call would be to Jo. Again. She had to talk to him soon or she’d bite her lip raw from fretting. She needed to apologize for things she’d said or hadn’t said. More than that, she needed to know what was bothering him. If she waited until she was on the plane for Boston, Hagan wouldn’t be around to listen in if she did reach Jo. Or to gloat silently if she didn’t.

  Perhaps Jo was taking time off and was at the farm installing bookcases. They’d have a normal, warm conversation. He’d be proud of her decision to face her parents. Amused over the relationship she was forging with her grandmother. Relieved that she was returning to Head Tide.

  Perhaps. But it was doubtful.

  Frank had found a letter stuffed between the seats of a customer’s car. It was addressed simply, Rebecca. He recognized Jo’s handwriting. No way was he opening it. He’d save it until she returned.

  The letter had been curious but not distressing. Panic didn’t set in until she called Jo’s office, planning to quiz Edna.

  Click. “You have reached the law office of Jo Delacroix. The office will be closed until further notice. Legal matters will be handled by Lea Johansson at 202-555-1200. Messages left on this recording will not be returned.”

  Click.

  Author’s Note

  In September 2002, twenty-five historic racers took to the track at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway as part of the festivities preceding the Formula One race. The cars belonged to Historic Grand Prix, a group of more than fifty owner-drivers of authentic Formula One cars that raced from 1966 to 1983. The group stresses historically correct presentation and on-track performance. While they did not race that day in Indiana, these spectacular vintage racers can be seen competing each season on tracks throughout Europe.