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Chapter Thirty-four

I pulled myself together and finished my visits, looping back to wish Janel well and tell Erin I'd see her on Saturday. I drove toward Los Angeles International Airport in a daze. I was at least an hour early to pick Holly up, but I needed a quiet place and some air. I found a surprisingly lonely stretch of beach and walked it, hands in my jacket pockets, bare feet in the sand, mind in turmoil.

Anger. It's anger I have in common with Erin and Janel. I'm so angry at my father and his family, I sometimes can't think straight.
Mostly at my father.

I had to evaluate it logically, as Erin had, and ask myself if my anger helped anyone.
It helped me feel good, righteous.
Until I felt like a fool or a brat. Or felt weak.

My being angry didn't help my father or my relationship with him. Didn't make a difference in how anyone else in the family treated me. Though it might hurt my sponsorship.

Did feeling angry help
me
? I pondered that question as I watched seagulls and even pelicans swoop over the sand and waves in front of me. I turned to the north and saw the Santa Monica pier with its Ferris wheel. I quit stalling and looked inside myself again.

I might think being angry makes me feel good, but it doesn't last. What lasts is my frustration and my…petulance? Am I acting like a child?
I'd been participating in a cycle of behavior with my father and his family: engage, take offense, get mad, and sulk when they didn't agree with me. Repeat, over and over.
Sounds like a child to me.

I walked down to the edge of the water and kicked at the cold foam that swept over my feet. Now I was angry at myself. And at my family for making me this way.

I laughed out loud. “Way to go. Keep pushing the blame away.”

I'd never liked how I reacted to my father and his family. I'd never felt in control of my reactions, which were based in fear and vulnerability. Based in my own insecurities.

I'm afraid they'll reject me. Again. Afraid they won't like me. But I know most of them don't like me no matter what. Why expect anything different?

I stared at the waves for a while, coming to terms with my faulty expectations. Trying to readjust them. I sighed.

“Fix this, Kate. First, stop reacting. Don't let them control you. Only
you
control you.” I said it out loud, even though only the seagulls could hear me.

In racing, we talked about running our own race and not responding to what our competitors were doing—we'd change tires on
our
schedule, not because another team took new rubber. I hoped I could function like that with my father and his family. Stick to my own agenda and ignore anything they tried to lure me into. Especially bad behavior.

“Second, decide who you will allow into your emotions. The rest of them become business.” I usually knew better than to allow my emotions to interfere with business. Or to let them intrude while behind the wheel. But my father and his family blurred the line. I had to draw and enforce the line myself.

Should I cut them all off? Should I drop the sponsorship?
As much as the idea of losing my ticket to the Indy 500 pained me, I considered it. I'd have to scramble more for money and rides, though I still had the possibility of Beauté's sponsorship. I'd have to cancel meetings and contracts, disappoint my father, and possibly damage my career by stopping what had been set in motion. But it could be done. If I needed to.

I shoved my career-panic aside and really thought about my life with and without Frame Savings' backing. My future looked bleak without it and horrible with it, if I kept going down the road I'd been on. But I thought I could stick to the third option: change my approach.

Relief flooded my system, and I felt cold thanks to the freezing ocean water. I backed up to the softer sand that still held some warmth from the sunny day, seeing a fog bank well out to sea, headed landward.

I decided to set my own rules for interacting with the staff of Frame Savings, regardless of whether they were related to me or not. All business, no emotion. I also decided, without examining it head-on, I didn't want to cut my father off. Or his wife and kids, my half siblings.

But they were the only ones I'd let in. The others would jeopardize my career and my reputation. I lifted my head to take deep breaths of the ocean air. I felt like an adult again.

As I leaned against my rental car wiping the sand off my feet, my phone buzzed with a text message. Holly had arrived in Los Angeles at last.

It took a while to collect her and her bags, make our way north, find parking, and wait to be seated for a late lunch. But finally we were seated at a table under the red-and-white-striped awning of the Sidewalk Café, in the center of the Venice Beach boardwalk. We ordered food and iced teas and settled back to enjoy the view.

Many of the people we saw were tourists, but there were obvious locals, including roller-skating women in cutoff jeans shorts and bikini tops, zipping through the crowd sporting big headphones and deep tans. There were also beefy men heading to the famous Muscle Beach, an area of the boardwalk where serious athletes pumped enormous piles of iron on an outdoor patio. Plus the street performers, sidewalk vendors, and homeless. The view was colorful and entertaining, even without the spectacular scenery of grass, sand, palm trees, coastline, and ocean.

After we'd watched for a while, and Holly had sucked down a first glass of iced tea and gotten a refill, I broke the companionable silence. “I saw Miles finished fifth, which he seemed happy about. How did the weekend go?”

“The whole team was thrilled with fifth after struggling all weekend. One of those cars that came off the truck unhappy. And Bristol! What a place.”

“I want to see it someday.”

“Come back with me to the night race later in the season. You know the saying that it's like flying a jet plane in a toilet bowl? They're not kidding. Nuts.”

“How was being The Girlfriend?”

She laughed. “Sugar, that was an
experience
. I haven't been so thoroughly wished to hell by so many people in my life.”

“By the team?”

“The team was great. Everyone working with Miles basically knew about us already, so it wasn't a big deal. No, it was the women hanging around trying to bang drivers.”

The racing world sometimes called them “pit lizards” or “pit ponies,” but Holly and I hated the terms. Of course, we didn't think much of the women either, whose sole mission was to have sex with any racecar driver they could, married or not.

Holly sipped her tea. “There were also women involved in the Series—broadcasters or suppliers—who seemed unhappy I was there. Plus others who were…let's say, suspicious. Like Miles' fan club president.”

I groaned. Miles' fan club president hated me for wrecking Miles, as he saw it, two years ago in a race.

Holly shrugged. “He's protective. Thinks no one's good enough for his idol. Certainly not little, old, nobody me.”

“Don't say that. You're not nobody.”

“In his eyes. Not in mine or Miles', and that's what matters.” She smiled. “Miles was great. So happy to have me there.”

“You going to go with him more often?”

“When you're not racing, and if I can stand the death wishes. At least if someone does me in for love of Miles, you'll investigate and avenge my murder.”

“We've been over this. I look into things, I don't investigate.”

“Semantics, sugar.” Holly replied. “Speaking of looking into things, tell me about Billy.”

I'd been happier avoiding the subject.

Chapter Thirty-five

Over a shared platter of nachos and matching Cobb salads, I filled Holly in on the state of my so-called investigation. I didn't feel much like an investigator, didn't feel like I was getting anywhere. And I was still angry about the whole thing. That reminded me of my beach epiphany, and I fell silent.

“What's in that brain?” Holly asked.

“Right before I picked you up, I figured a few things out…about myself and how I deal with my father and his family. Now I realize they apply to the Billy situation also. Basically, I'm in charge, I don't react or let someone else control me. I keep emotion out of the equation.”

She toasted me with a loaded nacho chip. “Outstanding resolutions for both scenarios. What does that mean day-to-day?”

“Mostly it's me turning off the guilt and anger.”

“Can you do it?”

“You always ask the tough questions.” I stared at the ocean. “I think so. More easily with Nikki and Don than with Coleman and my father. But I'll try, and I'll start by establishing boundaries with my father. Dinner with him and his wife and kids is fine. The family reunion this summer is out. Way out.”

“Understandable. Back to Billy, it seems to me you're making progress.”

“You think?” I took another bite of my salad.

“You're looking for who has motive and opportunity. Don Kessberg has both.” She stopped me before I could speak. “I know he asked you to investigate. That could be a blind. Same goes for Nikki. She was there, she was annoyed with him.”

“Does ‘annoyed' translate to murder?”

“Does anything make sense about that woman? I haven't met her, but from everything you've told me, she's never what you expect.”

“All right.” I agreed. “Don and Nikki. I don't want to think Tara did it, but she could have, and she was angry enough.”

“Then there's Coleman.”

“Turns out he had opportunity. I think. But did he have motive? He'd have to be a reprehensible human being to kill his own nephew.”

The busboy arriving to clear our plates overheard my last sentence but didn't bat an eye. I smiled at him, and he responded with a grin.

Holly dimpled up at him. “You look awfully familiar. Have I seen you in something?”

He deployed the smile again. “My new commercial aired last week for holiday-themed marshmallows. Maybe you saw that?”

To her credit, Holly only reacted with delight. “It must be. Congratulations.”

He beamed at both of us and whisked our plates away.

“What's next?” Holly asked.

“I keep asking questions. See who else is doing bad deeds Billy might have known about. See if there's anyone else who didn't like him.”

“What's next today?”

“Walk along the beach?”

“I want to talk about the elephant in the room.”

“The what?”

She clicked her tongue. “Are you going to tell me you haven't looked at e-mail or social media once today?”

“I was giving myself a break. Plus I was out late last night, up early for the hospital visits.” I paused, hopeful. “Good news first?”

“The awesome news is lots of publicity already and more requests. Minor items in the national news. Bigger items in motorsports press. Bad news is it's not all positive publicity… though it's not catastrophic. Some of it's funny.”

I made a “gimme” motion with my fingers.

“A national outlet has a story, sort of a ‘who is she?' piece that picks up on the Ringer's post from Friday.”

“The post that says I'm not worth the chaos I attract?”

“Right. This doesn't go into detail about what the chaos has been, and it does talk about the challenges facing female drivers in the racing world, but unfortunately, it expands on the whole ‘Kate Reilly is high-maintenance' story. They've even got a quote from some old codger team owner saying he'd never hire you.”

My career flashed in front of my eyes. “Who?”

“Winston Carmichael over in IndyCar. But I know him, and he's really an old coot. He's the most old-school, conservative owner there is. He never wants anything to change, bitches constantly about the Series, and hates everyone. All of racing knows it. You'd never drive for him if he begged you to, so ignore him.”

“But people are hearing him.” I slumped over, trying to push the hurt away.
All I'm trying to do is chase my dream, and now I'm ruining things for other women. Fantastic.

“You can't worry about what people think. Shoot, some people call dial-a-psychic for advice. You going to worry what
they
think about you?”

I shrugged, but sat up straighter.
Meet this head-on. Business, not emotion, remember?

“There's only that one article nationally,” Holly continued. “But we're getting lots of interview requests. Remember, that's a good thing.”

I saw the expression on her face and stiffened my spine. “Tell me the rest.”

“I want you angry about this, not wounded, Kate. Can you do that? You don't cause chaos, you're not high maintenance, and you're where you are because you're a damn good driver. Do you believe those things?”

Whatever was coming has to be bad
. I knew she was right. I smiled and worked on relaxing my shoulders. “I believe them. I also believe I have the best manager, agent, and friend in the world.” I took a breath. “What else?”

“It's that son-of-a-bitch Racing's Ringer. He's figured out about your new sponsor.”

Oddly, I almost felt relief at her words. “Daddy's buying me rides?”

“Asshole.”

I laughed. “Holly, we knew this would come out.”

“He didn't have to pile on now. All that bull-pucky about how you only got the oval test and sponsorship because your father owns the bank. It's not true!” She shredded a paper napkin.

“At least I was prepared for that story.” Her anger made me feel less awful.

“All right, we'll deal with it, but you should read what he says before you drop blanket forgiveness on him.” She pulled out her phone and called up the Ringer's site. Her face lost all color, and my gut churned as she handed me her phone.

“Paddock Questions Female Drivers' Sexuality,” blared the headline.

My jaw dropped. Though I didn't want to see it at all, I read the opening paragraph aloud. “While it's undeniably sexist to say women have to act a certain way in the racing paddock, it's true that professional racing women—drivers, engineers, or other roles—who ignore or downplay their gender are often the subjects of questioning glances. More than one paddock insider this blogger has talked to wonders out loud why ‘gals want to be on a pit crew and act like men. Do they want to be men?'”

I had to give the Ringer some credit, as he hadn't singled out me or even female drivers as a group, and he never agreed with the misogynist attitude. But the fact that he presented it, side-by-side with a reasonable person's attitude—“Let women do whatever jobs they're qualified for” and “I don't care what's under the firesuit”—implied the sexist view was valid. I started laughing at the absurdity.

“I suppose we should have expected this, too,” Holly said. “But I'm blindsided, sugar.”

“I can't figure out if the Ringer and others think I'm a lesbian or think I should walk around the paddock in a bikini.” I laughed harder at the thought. Then I sobered. “It's like Alexa told me. We're always going to be the outsiders in racing. No matter what. Not because I've found dead bodies and caught crooks. Because I'm female.”

“That's flat out depressing. And wrong.”

“My options are give up or fight the idiots.”

“So keep fighting.” Holly paused. “About the bikini idea…”

“You can't be serious.”

“I said there was a funny bit. One of the media requests we got was an offer for you to pose naked. To ‘show your feminine side,' they said. It's the biggest men's entertainment magazine, if that helps. And a lot of money.”

I can't believe this is my life.