Braking Points (26 page)

Chapter Fifty-one

I had to admit, it was fun watching our two guests, Jeff Morgan and George Ryan, having such a good time at the banquet. Andy Padden presented the duo with badges proclaiming them super-donors to his charity, which meant everyone treated them well. Many a team owner had raced and won championships in their day, and Jeff and George were in heaven getting insider access to a part of the racing world few fans penetrate. Their enthusiasm was infectious.

Sandham Swift had three tables right next to each other. Our crew chiefs, chief engineer, and their wives—including Aunt Tee—shared the other two with sponsors and the 29 car drivers, Seth and Lars, plus their spouses. Joining me, Mike, and Tom at our table were our two fan guests, Steve and Vicki, Leon, and the head of BW Goods and his wife.

I finished my dinner and slipped away to the bathroom in the hallway behind the stage. It was quiet back there, with only two other women in the bathroom touching up lipstick, and I was glad for the break from the buzz of so many people in one large room. I stepped out of the women's lounge to find Stuart loitering in the empty hallway.

He had his race face on: stern and businesslike. So I was surprised when he hauled me to him for a whopper of a kiss. He stopped abruptly and stepped back, leaning a hand on the wall next to us.

“I hardly remember who I am after that, Stuart.” I wiped remnants of my pale pink lipstick from his mouth.

“Then we're even, because I lose my breath when I look at you tonight.”

It wasn't lust—or not only—but raw emotion behind those words. I touched his cheek. “Am I still welcome to stay with you?”

He turned his face into my hand and kissed my palm, closing his eyes. It was almost unbearably sweet.

I heard voices coming down the hall from the banquet area, and I moved back. He straightened. “Yes. I'm glad we'll have some time. Tomorrow, then.” He started to move away, then turned back with a wicked smile. “Bring those shoes.”

I fanned myself on the way back to the ballroom.

As I walked around the edge of the stage, Juliana got the room's attention, announcing ten minutes to show time and directing everyone to make their trips to the restroom or call their bookies now.

To laughter from the room, she stepped down from the stage near where I'd paused. She smiled widely. “Holly was right, you did bring the fabulous.”

“We can't hold a candle to you—wow!” She wore a floor-length, flame-red, strapless mermaid gown with a wide, black ribbon tied at the waist and trailing the ground. She looked old Hollywood glamour, with smooth, curled hair, red lips, and curves to die for. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

She laughed, and what must have been diamonds shot fire from her wrist as she pulled her hair over her left shoulder. “We have to give the crowd their money's worth, you know.”

“Better you than me. I'm already tired of the double-takes at my chest.”

“Don't joke.” She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I'm trussed up so tight in here, laughing might split something.”

Scott appeared behind her, from the tables in the center of the room, sliding a hand around her waist. “Hello, gorgeous,” he said to Jules. Then he turned to me and his eyes widened. “Well, hello, gorgeous to you, too.”

I wanted to roll my eyes. “Thanks, Scott. Lookin' good yourself. And great job yesterday. Any chance they'll hire you full time next year?”

“Nothing's settled, but we're talking. Thanks for asking.”

“You'd make a good-looking pair in the pits. Put the rest of us to shame.”

“I can't compare to this goddess of the airwaves, that's for sure.” Scott beamed. Why shouldn't he? Job prospects looking up, most beautiful woman in the room on his arm. What was there to be unhappy about? But something didn't sit right with me.

“Follow my lead and you'll do fine.” Juliana looked fondly at Scott. “The first step is being a sweetheart and getting me another glass of champagne while I freshen up before the show starts.”

He departed, and I took my cue. “Knock 'em dead, Jules.”

“I intend to.” A quick hug, and she slipped around behind the stage.

Half the members of the audience were standing, whether stretching their legs, getting another drink, or moving to another table to shake someone's hand. Making deals. Racers were the biggest bunch of wheelers and dealers I'd ever seen, and ninety percent of the business of racing happened at the races. The rest of the year happened in slow motion compared to what got settled at a race weekend. Tonight would be more about starting conversations than closing deals, but I imagined plenty of ventures would be conceived in the free-flowing alcohol here.

I saw Zeke and Rosalie a few tables away and went to say hello. They both got up to hug me, and I wondered if Rosalie would be mad at Zeke for doing so. I tried not to feel awkward with her.

“Are you having a good time?” I asked.

Zeke nodded. “Good so far.” He looked to Rosalie, who shrugged.

“I spoke with Ethan today,” I said. “He seems to be doing all right. I'm sorry for your family's loss, Rosalie.”

“Right, thanks.” She saw Zeke's expression. “What? I'm not going to pretend we were friends. We didn't like each other. I thought my brother could do better. And the drama she put him through…” She sat back down.

“I heard about that,” I murmured.

“She was your friend, right?” Rosalie asked.

“Years ago. I didn't know her recently.”

“Trust me, she had issues. I always knew he'd come to grief with her.” She looked disgusted. “You'd think after I practically raised him, he'd listen to me, but no.”

Zeke sat down and put a hand on her knee. “Rosalie was Ethan's caretaker for most of his childhood while their parents worked. Ellie was a sore point with them.”

Rosalie snorted. “She's why he wouldn't talk to me all these years.”

“That's too bad,” I said.

Zeke looked at her with concern. “At least you're talking now.”

Rosalie reached for her wine glass and took a big sip. She looked down at my shoes. “You even have glittery feet, Kate. You're so dolled up, I hardly recognize you.”

What did that mean?
“You guys look great also,” I returned. True for Zeke, but not Rosalie, who looked sloppy, uncaring in her shapeless black dress.

She took offense at something she saw on my face—sympathy? pity? concern?—and turned sharp. “This has been great, Kate. Hope it won't be so long the next time.”

Clearly dismissed, I made my excuses, shooting a confused look at Zeke. I saw an apology in his eyes and hurt for him, wondering where his vibrant, engaging partner had gone. I'd always admired her take-no-prisoners attitude, but she had a harsh edge tonight.

I detoured to the bar for champagne to improve my mood, and ran into Colby Lascuola on the same errand. She was at a table near ours with her brother and his team, and when she pointed him out, he returned my polite wave with a similar lack of enthusiasm. I looked forward to keeping in touch with Colby. Dominic, I still didn't trust.

Before I could sit back down, our fan guests insisted on full-length photos with me. With Tom acting as our photographer, they posed with me separately, then together, each with an arm around my waist. The single camera bred more cameras, and before I knew it, Andy Padden was there taking a shot for his charity site, and a multitude of others held up phones for photos.

“It's like they're paparazzi,” said Jeff. “We're famous because of you, Kate.” He hugged me a little, leaning in.

That was too familiar, at least while I felt unlike myself in this dress and heels. In a firesuit in the paddock, I might feel better about it. But my physical and psychological space was under attack.

I popped out of their grasp and grabbed Mike's arm. “Mike should be in this.”

He got the message from my death grip and inserted himself beside me for the next round of photos.

Before he sat back down, Jeff pulled a pen and a business card from his pocket. “Could you sign and date on the blank side of it—and put ‘ALMS Night of Champions' also? I'll frame this with our photo.”

“Sure.” I flipped the card over and read “GMR, Geoff Morgan, Owner.” I blinked. “I thought your name was with a ‘J.' What's GMR, anyway?” A warning bell went off in my head. My potential stalker's e-mail address included “gmr.” I wondered if that was Geoff. Wondered about George's middle name. I struggled to keep a smile on my face.

“That's my company: Geoff Morgan Restoration. I restore antique furniture and household goods.”

I signed and handed the card back to him. When Geoff returned to his seat, I thanked Mike for stepping in.

He chuckled, a rumble low in his throat. “You looked wild-eyed.”

“It's different if these guys want to be ‘best buds' with me than with you. There are different personal space issues because I'm female—men get more comfortable and touchy with a girl than with another guy.”

“I never thought about that. Makes it tough, doesn't it.”

“To have boundaries without being offensive? Yeah.”

Just as the room hushed, because Juliana and Benny Stephens, the booth announcer who'd emcee with her, stepped forward to the mic on stage, Geoff blurted out, “Oh Em Gee!”

Everyone laughed, and Geoff turned beet red, waving a hand and apologizing.

Benny welcomed everyone and introduced himself and Juliana, outlining the program for the rest of the evening. I was distracted by Geoff excitedly pointing at something being passed to me. It was his phone, displaying a photo of the three of us.

I didn't understand until I saw the eyeballs-in-a-car graphic sitting in the corner of the image that we were featured on the Racing's Ringer blog.

That son of a bitch is here tonight
.

 

Chapter Fifty-two

After two minutes of craning my neck, pretending I'd recognize the Ringer by the audacity radiating from him, I gave up. I passed Geoff's phone back and paid attention to the speeches, which were legion. Despite my best intentions—and the organizers' best efforts to speed things along—I found my mind wandering.

I wondered if we'd ever know who killed Ellie and Felix or who tried to kill me and Juliana. I wondered if those were the same person. I was ready to hang up my magnifying glass, because I had no ideas. Felix was a good suspect—it was easy to imagine him lashing out at women threatening his domain. But him turning up dead blew that theory.

Scott also seemed like a good suspect—at least to me, though I couldn't pinpoint why. I wondered about Rosalie, who seemed strangely angry.
Could she have killed Ellie? Could I believe that of her? I knew her.
At least, I thought I knew her—but I also thought I'd known Ellie.

I applauded with the rest of the audience as, up on stage, the president of the American Le Mans Series gave way to the president of Kreisel Timepieces.

A few sentences later, I went back to my reverie. Maybe I should be looking at Nash Rawlings or the cousins. Were they the types to commit murder? Who was I kidding? How did I know what “the type” was?
Nice theories, Kate. Maybe you can buy a tin star and play sheriff, too.

I might not know what a killer personality was, but I knew the people on my short list weren't all sunshine and light. There was also more than meets the eye with our two fans. I couldn't tell if they were happy super-fans or creepy stalker wannabes.

Tomorrow, the racing world and fans would disperse to the far corners of the country, if not the globe. I hoped the off-season would take care of inappropriate attachments, lingering resentments, and homicidal tendencies aimed my way—if they hadn't been dispelled already with Felix's death and Miles Hanson's royal visitation. Tomorrow I'd call the different law enforcement agencies to ask about progress. Otherwise, I decided, it was time to stop worrying.

I felt lighter. My life was turning around. With any luck, Jack would have me back, and I'd pick up a ride for the Daytona 24 in January. Step-by-step, I'd make my mark on the racing world. Second place in the ALMS championship this season was a good start, and we'd get better next year.

With another round of applause, Benny and Jules stepped forward to start the awards process. They went from the lowest, slowest class to the fastest, which meant we started with the GT Challenge class, calling third, second, and finally first place drivers and teams to the podium for their trophies.

Then it was time for our class. Mike and I headed to the stage amid applause from the room and foot-stomping from our three tables. Juliana broke her routine by giving me a big hug before handing over my trophy. Mike and I turned to the audience and raised our linked hands and trophies high above our heads. It felt great. I knew it wasn't first in category, but we'd worked hard and done well. I had the best job in the whole world.

“@katereilly28: So proud to share second place in #ALMS GT honors with Mike Munroe and the Sandham Swift team. Thanks for letting me be part of the fun.”

The LinkTime Corvette team accepted first place trophies with short speeches, and then Jack accepted the Founders Cup for the top non-factory-supported entry. I was shocked to see my normally gruff and taciturn boss wipe tears from his eyes as he spoke to the crowd. “I can't tell you what this means to me—then again, you've been through it with me the last couple years. We've had our setbacks.” There were a few chuckles around the room, as we all remembered the declining fortunes of the driver I replaced, Wade Becker, before he was killed.

“But I couldn't be prouder of this group of people.” He looked to our tables. “The way you came together this year and became a team. You're everything I've hoped for, every one of you. Thank you. Let's do it again next year.” Then he pointed to the LinkTime tables in the center of the room. “Except we're gunning for that top spot, so watch out.”

Jack returned to the table and passed his trophy around, pausing to lean over Mike and me, a hand on each of our shoulders, and thank us for the effort.

“Did you mean that, Jack?” I asked, looking up at him. “Same again next year?”

“Unless you try to skin me on a new contract, I do. You thought otherwise?”

“I heard a rumor you were looking at other options.”

“Fat chance. You two gave this team its best finish in almost a decade.”

The relief that swept through me was more potent than the champagne. I felt weightless, giddy.

He gripped my shoulder tighter. “I'm serious about a run at the top spot next year. I think we can do it, too.”

“Aye, aye, captain.” Mike saluted, making the others at the table laugh.

The rest of the awards passed in a blur, until Mike elbowed me right before the LMP1 class honors.

“And now for the second award voted on by the fans, the Most Popular Driver this year…” Benny fumbled for the right piece of paper.

I felt a quick flutter of excitement, which I quenched, saying to Mike, “No chance at all, with my bad luck lately.”

“Kate Reilly!”

Sound receded, and I was frozen in a bubble of shock.
What just happened?

I looked at Mike, who was clapping, mouthing, “Go! Go!”

I stood up slowly, pausing to be sure my shaking knees would support me. That's when my hearing returned, and the sound of hundreds of people applauding crashed down around my ears.

Walking to the stage, I started to laugh from the absurdity of it all. From delight.

By the time Benny handed me my trophy—a Momo racing wheel on a wood stand, with a nameplate reading “Most Popular Driver” and “Kate Reilly”—I'd gotten my giggles under control. I stared at my name as I moved to the microphone, and for five seconds more as I stood there. I looked up at the quiet room.

“If you Google ‘unbelievable' tomorrow, this photo will be the first hit.” I paused for laughter. “I'm stunned and honored. Also so proud to be part of such a talented group of drivers and teams. My dream growing up was to drive a great car against tough competition. What I understand now is how important and
fun
it is to have passionate, knowledgeable, supportive fans with us at every turn. Thank you to the fans for this award and for making what I do more enjoyable every single day.”

I went back to my seat in a daze, cradling my trophy.

“@katereilly28: In shock still at receiving #ALMS Most Popular Driver award from the fans! Thank you all!”

After the show concluded, the ballroom behind the stage was opened for dancing, and the music trickled out into the banquet area. Champagne and other drinks flowed freely, and people wandered from table to table chatting with friends.

I was hesitant to leave my trophies, but Jack waved a hand and said there'd be someone at the table for a while. “We're not going to tote all this hardware around. We'll keep an eye on it. Go have fun.”

I slung my evening purse over my shoulder and headed to Holly's table, stopping to shake hands and accept or give congratulations every few steps. I found Holly just as she left the table for the dance floor.

“Join us, Kate,” she urged.

“I will soon. I want to sit in a quiet place for a minute. I thought I'd go look at the displays, go outside for some air. Maybe call Gramps with the news.”

“I saw Scott and Juliana heading that way. But sure, you go find your second wind, sugar, then come dance the night away with us. You're the rock star tonight—time to celebrate!” She put her hands in the air and wiggled her butt.

I laughed, promising to see her soon, and headed down the hallway.