Braking Points

by Tammy Kaehler

  I slowly got to my feet. My head spun as I stood upright, and I braced myself on the wall until I felt steady.

  She kept talking. “You have no talent or style. I will always be better than you. Prettier than you.”

  I sighed and looked down at my one-time friend. “Give it up, Jules. It’s over.”

  I got past her and wobbled out into the hallway, sinking into a chair across from the bathroom just as Holly and a hotel worker brandishing a large bunch of keys rounded the corner. Three men from hotel security were only steps behind, and I waved them into the bathroom to take charge of Juliana. They also called the cops. I sat with my head in my hands until the police arrived.

  As an officer asked me questions to fill in the gaps of my story, Juliana was escorted out of the bathroom, hands cuffed behind her back.

  “You might think you’ve won,” she called to me. “But I’ll be back.”

  I marveled at how well she’d hidden her twisted nature under surface charm. “Get some help, Juliana.”

  “I should have slipped some revenge in your orange juice, too. Maybe next time.” She was led away down the hall.

  Holly sighed. “She still walks like a pageant queen.”

  “Thanks for riding to the rescue.”

  “Not that you needed it, Supergirl. You saved your own skin just fine.”

  “I guess I did.”

  Holly raised an eyebrow. “Hairspray, not just for updos anymore?”

  I felt a chuckle bubble through the grief and shock. It felt good.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I ended up back at the Sandham Swift table in the banquet area. Before I left the hallway, Holly found the Chief Medical Officer for the Series and had him check out my injuries. The doctor confirmed what the paramedics suggested and I knew. I was possibly concussed and definitely banged up, but otherwise fine. I refused all invitations to go to the hospital, and no one insisted.

  I was astonished to find, even after spending half an hour with the police—giving them a statement and promising to go to the station to sign it in the morning—I’d only been away from the party forty-five minutes. Our episode in the bathroom lasted a lifetime to me, but only four or five minutes to the rest of the world.

  More than one well-meaning person, Stuart included, suggested I might prefer to go home and rest in peace and quiet after the trauma. I told them all the same thing: “I’ll be damned if she’s going to wreck my celebration.” Besides, while I might physically crash from adrenaline, my mind was wired. Sleep wouldn’t come soon due to the near-death experience playing on repeat in my head. I might as well be with friends.

  I had one other reason for sticking around. I knew the story would sweep through the party and the racing world like wildfire, and I wanted everyone to see I was the last man standing. That was good for public perception of me. It also meant nails in Juliana’s coffin. Petty? Probably. But that meant I won.

  Fortunately the dining area was subdued. We heard music from the dance floor, as well as the hoots and hollers of the dancers, but it wasn’t overwhelming. I held court at our table, an icepack on my head, telling the story over and over.

  Zeke must have been in the far reaches of the dance floor, because I’d been sitting there fifteen minutes before he came tearing around the stage.

  “You’re all right! The story that’s making the rounds in there—”

  “Believe it,” Jack said, as Tom and Leon nodded.

  Vicki waved Zeke to an empty chair. “You’re going to want wine for this.” She nodded at Steve, who poured some and handed it to him.

  Zeke sat with a thump, looking from me to Stuart and Mike on either side of me. “It’s true? Juliana?”

  “Sugar, I’m not sure exactly what you heard.” Holly took a slug of wine. “But it would be hard to make something up that would sound more crazy.”

  “What in hell happened?”

  “I have an idea Tom will like,” I said. “Zeke, how about an exclusive interview with Juliana’s latest—and last—victim? On record, right now.”

  Tom nodded. “Get your version out first.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned this last two weeks, it’s to control the message. Which reminds me I’ll need to call my PR team tomorrow about this.”

  Zeke was ready with a mini tape recorder. “You talk, Katie-Q, and I’ll strike anything you don’t want later—you all didn’t hear that from a reporter, mind you.”

  I saw Scott Brooklyn approach and stop two tables away. I stood up. “Hang on, sorry. I owe someone an apology.”

  I walked over to him. “Are you OK?”

  He nodded, his face grim. “I had no idea. She was bossy and demanding, but…”

  “But who knew she was psycho? I sure didn’t. What were you arguing about?”

  “She’d promised to talk to the SGTV producers for me. But she reneged. Laughed at me. I was angry.” He raised eyes to mine. “I thought we had a future.”

  I shook my head. “I need to apologize to you. I thought you were up to no good with her, were trying to use her to get a job. Turns out I had that backward.”

  He came up with a smile and offered a hand. “How about a truce?”

  “A truce.” I shook. “Apology accepted?”

  “Sure thing. We’ll wipe the slate clean, make a fresh start from here.”

  “You going to be all right?”

  He stood and put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for asking. I’ll see you around, Kate.”

  I went back to my seat at the table. “I wanted to apologize for thinking he was behind it all. But we’ve called a truce.”

  “Good thing, too,” Mike said. “Given how our pit reporters are dropping like flies, he might be their senior guy.”

  “Tell the story, Kate,” Zeke prompted.

  “After the awards, I headed over to the entry hallway—”

  Holly interrupted me. “Shouldn’t it start with Ellie two weeks ago?”

  “Honestly,” I said, “it should start with Juliana’s awful mother who drilled into her head she had to win at all costs. To be better than everyone else. That if you didn’t win, you hadn’t wanted it enough or worked hard enough.”

  “I’ve met that mother,” Vicki put in, “or her clone, on the pageant circuit.”

  “There we were, the three of us racing against each other seven years ago, and at the end of the year Juliana and I were up for the same seat. I got it, and she left racing for pageants. I found out tonight that Juliana experienced health issues that year—which turned out to be epilepsy—and Ellie found out and told the team owner.”

  “Naturally, he gave you the job,” Stuart commented.

  “Right, but Juliana never knew Ellie told him. Neither did I. But then Ellie found Juliana a couple weeks ago—Zeke, don’t print this. Apparently Ellie was an alcoholic for a lot of years, maybe even back to our racing days, I don’t know. As part of her recovery, she went to Juliana to apologize for, as Juliana put it, betraying her to the team owner.”

  I set the icepack down on the table. “I think that tipped Juliana over the edge. She had nitroglycerin from her mother’s illness and she spiked Ellie’s juice—not mine—at the Tavern.”

  “She did still try to run you down in Atlanta,” Holly reminded me.

  “That was a diversion, along with the helmet strap, firesuit, press at the hospital—she must have borrowed Felix’s phone for that call. All to make everyone think I was the target, not Ellie.”

  Zeke looked up from a notepad he’d started scribbling on. “Because there was no ‘why kill Kate’ that pointed to her.”

  “Just to other people. But who tried to run her down?” Holly asked.

  I shook my head. “No one. She faked that.”

  Tom spoke. “You can’t blame all the stress of the past tw
o weeks on her. I mean, the Ringer, NASCAR fans, that Nash Rawlings guy. Right?”

  “She said something about ‘stories in the right bloggers’ ears,’ so I wouldn’t be surprised if she planted stories of my early days in racing. But you’re right, Tom, I brought most of that on myself.”

  “Only some,” Jack put in. “You brought some on yourself—and learned a damned good lesson. The rest of it was rabid fans and stupid blogs. Everything gets spun out of control too quickly these days.”

  “It’s not hard for someone in the media to drop a word in the right ear, you know.” Zeke tapped his pencil on his notebook. “It’d be an easy way for her to try to discredit you—fan those flames.”

  “Pretty sure she did that. She wasn’t after me—not before the end, anyway—in the same way she was after Ellie and Felix, but I don’t think she was happy with me achieving more than she did.”

  “So what about Felix?” Steve Royal spoke for the first time. “I liked that guy.”

  Vicki punched his arm, and he turned to her. “What? I did.”

  I laughed. “He didn’t like women, Steve. He hated me in particular.”

  “I didn’t know that. Um, what a jerk.”

  Holly, Vicki, and I burst out laughing.

  “He’s a keeper,” Holly declared. “And so are you.” The latter was to Leon, who was refilling her glass of wine.

  I went on. “Felix was blackmailing her. Plus, he was in her way. He’d never let her get anywhere, because he didn’t think women belonged anywhere in racing—except maybe wearing spandex and holding an umbrella.”

  “You figured all of this out, how?” Stuart asked.

  “I wish I could claim because I’m brilliant. I thought about Juliana…I mean, Felix’s father had made him so bitter and I heard other stories of other children warped by their parents’ beliefs. But Jules seemed normal, even though stories of her mother were awful. So I wondered—but it was hard to believe she was a killer. I suspected Felix or those bank guys or Scott more than her.”

  I sighed. “I asked Juliana what Ellie wanted to talk to her about, and learned about the betrayal and the epilepsy—which got Juliana upset. While she ranted, she knocked her purse off the counter, and I picked up a box with a race-winner’s watch in it. Everything clicked. She was on the spot, had a watch—from a boyfriend, she said—and she’d just told me about a motive for Ellie. She admitted it all when I asked. Then she locked the door and tried to kill me.”

  Holly put her hand on my shoulder. “I’d gone looking for Kate, and I could hear her voice, but the bathroom door was locked. I was on the way with keys and help when we found Kate had saved herself with hairspray.”

  Zeke looked up from his notes. “Hairspray? Are you kidding me?”

  “Haven’t you taken any self-defense classes, Zeke?” I smiled. “Cops will tell you it’s as effective as pepper spray, but legal. I had it with me on purpose.”

  “A question for the victim then,” Zeke said. “How are you feeling?”

  I smiled at him. “I’m glad to be alive and glad we all know the truth.”

  He turned the recorder off with a snap and got up to give me a gentle hug. “I’m glad you’re all right, Katie-Q. Take care of yourself, would you?”

  “Working on it. Where’s Rosalie, anyway?”

  He frowned. “Back in our room here. I’ll talk to you next week sometime.”

  “Oy,” Leon shouted. “The Ringer. Kate, look.”

  Five of us pulled out smartphones and called up the site to see a minutes-old post titled “New Beginnings,” with a photo of me receiving the Most Popular Driver award.

  Tom read it aloud for the rest of the table:

  “It’s been a crazy night, Readers. I’ll pass along details as they become available the next few days, but the bottom line is our assumptions have been turned upside down. Up is down, right is left, and the Ringer is pretty confused. But one thing is clear, we owe Kate Reilly an apology for the harsh things we’ve said about her in recent weeks. Sure, she’s young and still learning, but it’s time to admit she’s never acted maliciously. Time to admit maybe the Ringer’s been a bit of a bully where she’s concerned.

  “So here’s my public apology to Kate—just Kate, not Calamity or Violent—congratulations on your awards and success this year, and good luck in the next season. I hope you’re willing to let bygones be bygones with the Ringer, and wipe the slate clean, make a fresh start from here. Signed, the Ringer. P.S. Your dress was fabulous.”

  Everyone at the table made astonished and gratified noises. I looked across the room and smiled. I’d met the Ringer.

  More from this Author

  For other books, upcoming author events, or more information please go to:

  www.poisonedpenpress.com/Tammy-Kaehler

  Contact Us

  To receive a free catalog of Poisoned Pen Press titles,

  please contact us in one of the following ways:

  Phone: 1-800-421-3976

  Facsimile: 1-480-949-1707

  Email: info@poisonedpenpress.com

  Website: www.poisonedpenpress.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave. Ste 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251