BM03 - Crazy Little Thing Called Dead (10 page)

“You alright?” I asked him between mouthfuls.

He grimaced. “Let’s leave it ‘till later, Bree. I don’t want to ruin dinner.”

I glanced at Meg who shrugged and then at Hambecker who steadfastly refused to meet my eyes. “No,” I said. “Let’s not.”

“Come on, Bree. Richard made us an excellent dinner and I don’t want to ruin it with shop talk.” Tom smiled at me. “Please.”

I thought of all the years I’d known him. The way he and JW watched my back. How he’d never turned his back on me, even sided with me against Meg at times. All that history bore down on me and I wanted to play nice, I really did. But I couldn’t back down.

I put down my fork and looked down at my plate. “No.”

“No, what?” Meg asked.

“No, I’m not going to stop investigating this case.”

“Damn it,” Tom cursed under his breath, but I heard it and so did Jeremy, who looked at his dad in surprise.

“Tom,” Meg said.

“Bree, you don’t have any idea how dangerous these people are,” Hambecker said. “They’d kill you as soon as look at you.”

“Why don’t you guys tell me who they are and then I won’t have to figure it out by myself?” I was mad that they were holding out on me. I didn’t care if their jobs required it. I was mad anyway.

“Because I’m afraid if you write about this they’ll target you. I’d rather you left it alone.” Tom sounded sad, which somehow made me even angrier. I could take care of myself, damn it. He didn’t need to get all
sad
on me.

“Bree, the paper is not worth getting yourself killed over. Please.” Meg made big eyes at me, which I thought meant we could talk about it later, but I was too far gone.

“I’m not leaving it alone. And damn
yes
, I’m going to write about it. People want to know about this stuff. According to you, there are dangerous criminals murdering people in our town. We deserve to know who it is.” I stood up, dropping my napkin on the table. “I have to go,” I said. I looked at Meg. “Sorry to eat and run.”

I stomped across the door yard to my truck and wrenched the door open.

“Bree! Wait.” Meg jogged over. “This is my fault. I should have warned you.”

“Duh.”

“Listen, I know you’re doing this for the paper. But it’s not worth it. Tom and Richard are concerned. They think you could be in real trouble.” She had her hand on my arm.

“Would Lucy give up? I don’t think so. The paper needs this.
I
need this.”

Meg dropped her hand from my arm. “Bree, I know I’ve been kind of bitchy lately, but if it comes down to a choice, I’d rather have you than the paper. I can always find another job. I can’t find another you.”

“I still can’t let this go, Meg. I just can’t. I want this story. For me.”

I got in the truck and watched her walk back into the house.

***

Jim was wearing form-fitting jeans and a blazer over a tight white T-shirt when he came to get me Sunday morning. I reminded myself that he couldn’t be counted on when things got tough, and got in the car. It wasn’t a bad thing to be hanging out with a handsome and attentive guy, but I needed to remember why I was there and not lose my head in a flood of memories. If I wasn’t careful I’d remember what a jerk he been and pop him one.

“So,” I said as we took the on ramp to I-89 South, “how have things been?” Could I get any lamer?

“Pretty good. I had some stuff hanging over me, but that’s all tied up now. I’m free to enjoy the day. I’m glad you decided to come with me. I miss having someone to go to the races with.”

“I thought Lucy liked going to the races.”

“Lucy was after only one thing, and it wasn’t sex. When I refused to give her information about my cases, she moved on. We were never really together.”

There was no telling what Lucy’s opinion was about that. She was not my favorite person, and I thought she’d probably been using Jim for the twin purposes of getting back at me and furthering her career. I doubted she’d ever had real feelings for Jim. In fact I doubted she’d ever had any feelings at all.

“What kind of things did you have hanging over your head?” I asked, hoping I sounded conversational and not like I was giving him the third degree.

“Every once in a while I get a client that I also know personally. Mixing my private life and business makes me extremely uncomfortable.”

Don’t I know it,
I thought.

“I finally got the details worked out and the case off my desk, so the tension hasn’t got me all ratcheted up anymore. That’s always a good thing.”

I should have known he wouldn’t give up any details; he wasn’t a partner in his firm for nothing.

“Can we stop at Panera on the way?” I asked. “I want a chocolate croissant.”

We listened to alternative rock the rest of the way to Loudon. He knew better than to try and impress me with classical. Not that I’m an anti-classical snob, it’s just that Jim’s taste in music tends to make me sleep. I like to sing when I’m in the car.

Jim used his connections and got us a parking spot in the VIP lot. We ambled past tailgaters grilling burgers and hot dogs. He held my hand as we bypassed the entrance gate and wandered into the parking area reserved for booths, games, advertisers and other forms of entertainment. A band of rockers from the eighties were playing their oldies hits to a crowd of race fans. The army recruiters had an obstacle course set up and one of the cadets dared me to test my strength. I passed. No way was I going to make a fool of myself out there in front of everybody and their mother.

The music made it hard to talk to Jim, and I couldn’t walk five feet without someone trying to get me to sign up for some gimmick or other, so I was relieved when he led me back to the gates to the track. We had seats up high in the stands, just beneath the indoor suites on the first turn. Not the most expensive seats in the place, but the ones with the best view, in my opinion anyway.

Jim’s sleeve brushed against my shoulder on our way up the stairs. My body tingled with awareness and I was intimately reminded of how much I used to like to touch him, damn it.
Get your head together. This guy could be a murderer
. But he didn’t feel like a murderer. He felt warm and solid and very
there
. I could feel myself morphing into the
I don’t care what rotten thing you did to me, I’m going to sleep with you anyway
Bree. But the fact he was good in bed was not a good enough reason to compromise my principals. I just had to keep reminding myself of that.

The racecars were lined up down pit row, according to starting position. The drivers had headed down to the podium where they would be announced and then be ferried around the track in a pick up while waving to the fans.

I stood up.

“I’ll be right back.”

I trotted down the steps and made my way to the ladies’ room where I did what I needed to do and held my wrists under the cold water. I filled my hands. The water stung when I splashed it on my face. I leaned on the counter and watched the water drip off my face in the mirror. It was far too hot.

I saw movement behind me and turned to see a blond in cut-offs and a midriff baring tank staring at me. “It’s no wonder you’re hot,” she said. “You’ve got too many clothes on.” She swung her backside into the far stall and I looked back at my reflection but I didn’t have any words of wisdom for myself. Apparently having a red face with water dripping from it leaves you open to comments from strangers.

“Shit,” I said, “I am over dressed,” and made my way back to the stands.

There was a skinny, thin-faced guy sitting in my seat talking earnestly to Jim when I got back up the stands. I stood on the steps and wondered if I should give them space or demand my seat back. An excited voice announced the start of the race over the PA system, so I started past the fans to my seat, but Jim and Mr. Weasel Face stood up and came toward me so half way there I had to turn around.

“Make up your mind, lady.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

I noticed that neither Jim nor the guy he was with bothered to say anything. Why is it only women who feel the need to apologize for their actions?

The loudspeaker roared “Start Your Engines,” and everyone in the stands stood up. I didn’t know what the guy wanted, but whatever it was, we were going to miss the start of the race.

The growl of engines made it impossible to communicate so Jim motioned me to follow and we made our way down the stands and back out into the parking lot. The guy was almost a foot shorter than me and when Jim started to go the wrong way he had to tug on Jim’s arm to get his attention. It was like following Sheldon and Leonard.

We made our way to a motorhome on the hill behind the track reserved for camping. The guy opened the door and ushered us inside. The race noise was considerably muted inside and I thought the rig must have special noise-reducing walls. I could even hear the hum of the air conditioning. It was dark and cool and the air smelled of old beer. Clearly a guy’s RV. I almost didn’t see Grant Fraser in a grungy t-shirt sitting slouched in the dinette.

“Oh, hi,” I said.

The weasel said something to Jim that sounded like “girl plant steak, pervert Guinness,” which I translated to mean, “Girl can’t stay, private business.” I headed toward the door.

“Bree. You can stay.” Jim caught me by the arm.

Weasel Man’s face turned red, “But…”

“She stays until I deem it prudent for her to leave.” He had my hand tight in his now.

“But…” Weasel guy was sputtering.

“Believe me; she’ll get in far worse trouble out there than in here.” He was moving me toward the table.

“Jim!” I hated it when he insinuated I would get myself in trouble if not watched.

“Listen, Willard, she’s with me. If she goes, I go. Do you need my advice or not?” He stopped and when Willard didn’t immediately respond he turned for the door.

“Fuck. Fine.”

Jim motioned me to sit and slid in next to me. Willard the weasel sat next to Grant, who seemed as if he might be hung over. Maybe he partied with someone else last night. But then I thought about it and couldn’t remember him drinking a single beer or mixed drink.

“Hey Bree,” he said to me. “Seems like yesterday.” He managed a feeble grin.

“Grant, this is James Fisk,” Willard the weasel cut in. “He’s a lawyer.”

“Grant Fraser.” He stuck his hand out for Jim to shake across the table.

“Tell me Grant, why am I in a beer-soaked RV instead of sitting with my date at the races?”

He deflated, sinking back into the brown upholstered cushions. “Some kind of trouble. I got a phone call telling me to throw the big cup race next weekend.”

“Who told you to throw the race?” Jim asked.

“I’m not sure. There was this woman. French I think. Margaret something.”

French
. My heart pounded faster. There were too many coincidences.

“Willard,” He nodded to the weasel. “Is my business manager, he said I should tell you what happened. I don’t know if I should take it seriously or not.”

“When did this happen?”

“For God’s sake, what does that matter?” Willard was wild eyed and agitated.

“Let him answer my questions.” Jim laid his hand on Willard’s arm and Willard jumped. “Take it easy.”

“After the race in Kentucky.” Grant said. “I got a call on my cell.”

“What did she say?” Jim asked. I could feel him tapping his foot under the table.

“If I throw the race she’ll pay me $50,000. As if! I told her no way in hell.” Grant’s voice was low and angry. If you’d have asked me at the bar I would have said he never lost his temper.

“That’s it. She offered to bribe you?” Jim had taken out a pocket notebook and was scribbling in it.

“No. When I told I don’t take bribes, she showed up at the RV.”

That sounded like a predator to me. Separate your prey from the pack.

“I told her no again, and she said fine, I’d just saved her fifty thou, but if I don’t throw the race, she’ll kill me.”

“Why don’t you just withdraw? Get the flu. Or contact the race authorities?”

“I had some, uh, incidents last year. If I screw up, I’ll lose my job. And the crew, man, they are so excited. We could win this race.”

“So what? Find another job,” Jim said.

I looked at Jim.
What the hell
? More pressure on my foot. Apparently he thought he knew what he was doing.

“This team is my last hope. The owner took a huge chance on me. I throw this race I might as well kill myself.” Grant ran his hand through his hair.

“Better dead than alive but not racing?” Jim asked.

“Pretty much.” Grant said. “I mean it’s hokey, but racing is my life.”

Jeez, talk about screwed up priorities.

“Hey, now, Grant. That’s no way to be talking. We can sort this out.” Willard the weasel rubbed Grant’s shoulder and for a second it reminded me of Gollum with Frodo, kind of creepy.

“No, we can’t, Willard. She knew who to target. I’m dead.”

“That’s why I got Jim here. He’s a lawyer, he can help.”

Jim looked at me. “Maybe this would be good time for you to get some fresh air. There could be confidentiality issues.” Jim slid out of the booth. I followed. I searched for something encouraging and appropriate to say but nothing surfaced from the recesses of my brain so I just let myself out.

I sat on the steps and strained my ears. Couldn’t hear a thing from inside the RV. “Damn!”

I wandered toward the track hoping to see some of the race. There was an old sap bucket with a rusty rim next to the steps of the RV closest to Grant’s. I walked past it, looking to see a beer can floating in ten inches of water; the leftovers from last night’s ice bucket. Across the tarmac the race leaders flew around turn two and the growl made me wince. I pulled earplugs from my pocket and shoved them in my ears. I love racecars, but they are freaking loud when you aren’t the one driving.

A hand on my shoulder made me jump and I spun to see Jim at my side. He slid an arm around my shoulder and steered me back down the hill.

“What’s up?” I asked behind the stands, where at least you could hear yourself think.
“Did you solve his problem?”