Braking Points (4 page)

Chapter Six

“What do you mean, ‘What did I do?'” Stuart demanded. “How could you say that?”

“You're here—it slipped out.” I tried to swallow past the lump in my throat. “Are you sure she's…”

I reached for Ellie's arm, but Stuart stopped me.

“She's gone, Kate.” His voice broke in a rare show of emotion. “I've been doing CPR for five minutes, but I can't get a pulse.”

“Shouldn't we keep trying? Call paramedics?”

“I called nine-one-one.” He slumped, hands on his knees. “She's been gone from the Tavern almost as long as you have.”

My brain felt numb. “She—but—what are you doing out here?”

Stuart put a hand on my shoulder, to support us both, I suspected, and rubbed the other over his face. “Andy, one of the Michelin tire reps, joined us right after you left. Ellie started looking pale, nauseous maybe. She said she wanted some air, she'd be right back. When Andy left a few minutes later, I realized she was still gone, so I came outside to see if she was OK. I thought maybe she was in her car.”

I couldn't stop looking at her. Willing her to breathe. But her lively green eyes, which had recently beamed with pride and happiness, were dull. The vibrant friend I'd spoken with only a few minutes ago was gone. I heard sirens in the distance, and I felt tears roll down my face. The only other dead person I'd ever seen was Wade Becker last year. This was harder. This was a friend.

“Kate.”

I saw tears in Stuart's eyes also. He stood and helped me to my feet, folding me into his arms. I sagged against him, my breath hitching in my chest.

The sirens got louder. I stepped away and took a deep breath, smelling the moist, earthy air laced with the stink of the trash in the bins behind me.
Things shouldn't seem so normal if a friend is dead.
I focused on the details, avoiding the grief. Ellie lay on her back on a mixture of grass and gravel in an area the size of a parking space between the building and a dark sedan at the curb. Beyond her head was a rolling mini-dumpster with a large, white van parked on the other side of it, nose up to the Inn.

Except for her lack of movement and the hint of anguish I imagined in her expression, she looked the same as in the Tavern. I felt the lump rising in my throat again, and I concentrated on her clothing. Her mint-green silk blouse was tucked into her gray trousers and secured by a thin black belt. Both black flats were on her feet, though the shoe had popped off her right heel and hung twisted on the toes of that foot. Something was off, but I couldn't place what. I saw no wounds, no blood. No sign of life.

I stifled a sob. “Ellie, I'm so sorry. You were loved.” I turned around as the sirens grew deafening, then quieted. Two police cars and an ambulance turned the corner.

The following minutes blurred together in a whirl of flashing lights and questions from men in different uniforms. The paramedics arrived and went away again. Police secured the area. The low murmur of a crowd gathered in the fire lane penetrated my daze, and I watched one of the cops move to keep spectators away. Stuart and I were separated to speak to different officers while the police chief and coroner were summoned.

Officer Michaels was tall, blond, handsome, and not above using his considerable charms to get answers to his questions. He expressed his sympathies as he took my statement about the events I'd been part of and witnessed. Though I had nothing to hide, I felt nervous talking to him. I'd been blameless the last time a dead body was concerned, and I ended up chewed up and spit out by the rumor mill.
Get hold of yourself, Kate. There's no blame here, just a sad loss
.

My eyes filled again. Officer Handsome whipped a pack of tissues from his back pocket and seemed to read my mind. “You've had a busy day, haven't you, Ms. Reilly?”

I blinked up at him. He was most of a foot taller than me, though he was doing his best to slump, ducking his head to be less intimidating.

He smiled. “I saw you had an accident today, and then a…verbal altercation with someone?”

And now I'd found a friend dead. A friend who was one of the good people on the planet, whose generous spirit hadn't changed over the years we hadn't seen each other. I remembered photos she'd shown us of her husband and children, and my heart broke. I couldn't stop the tears.

With an arm around my shoulders, the officer guided me to a folding chair at the corner of the building. We were far enough from the line of caution tape strung across the end of the fire lane that the dozen people gathered there couldn't hear us. As I tried to stop crying and breathe, I noticed Tom was part of that group, keeping an eye on me. I blew my nose.

“What else do you need to know, Officer? Yes, it's been a rough day.” I rubbed my sore wrist.

He glanced at his colleague—a shorter, rounder, balding man, talking with Stuart on the other side of the police cruiser in the street—then squatted in front of me, elbows on knees. He looked at his notebook. “What is your relationship to Mr. Telarday?”

I hated answering that question under normal circumstances. “We're dating. I drive in the ALMS. He works for the Series.”

“ALMS, American Le Mans Series?”

I nodded.

“Is that a conflict of interest?”

“He doesn't make race decisions, and he stays out of decisions about marketing that would involve me—what does this have to do with Ellie?”

“You never know what might be relevant.”

“How did she die?”

He shook his head before I finished the question. “We don't know. Did she have any medical conditions or allergies?”

“She didn't seven years ago.” I swallowed hard and looked around at tall trees to stop thoughts of Ellie's dying moments.

“You were with her in the Tavern. Did she have a purse with her? A cell phone?”

That's what was missing, her handbag. “A small, black, leather satchel. I think she'd hooked it over her chair—at a table against the far wall, near the bar. A phone in a green case. She showed us photos of her kids.” The thought of them sent me reaching for tissue again.

He gestured to an officer standing nearby and explained what to look for inside the Tavern.

“Did you see her eat or drink anything?”

“No, but I left a few minutes earlier to get some headache medicine. Stuart bought a juice for me that I gave to her, but I don't know if she drank it.”

After a few more questions, Officer Michaels was done with me, except for asking when I planned to leave town.

“Tomorrow afternoon, after a brunch meeting.”

“Please check in with us after your meeting in case we need to have you talk to someone else.”

“Someone else?” I held up a hand to stop him from responding, as logic finally broke through the fog in my brain. “You think this is murder?”

He didn't comment, only verified he had my cell number correct and released me to Tom, who was ready with a hug. Stuart's face showed relief as he looked my direction.

Tom and I cut through the dozen people standing at the perimeter of the scene watching the police activity—a mix of teams and fans who'd spilled out of the Tavern—and I ignored questions directed my way. We went down the lane and around the corner to the tavern green and had settled at a table when a man I didn't recognize approached.

Tom moved to intercept him. “I'm sorry, we're not talking to press right now.”

Of course, the media. I was surprised there weren't video cameras recording the activity, though thinking back, not all the bright lights and camera flashes had come from police devices.

“I'm not press, just a fan of Kate's. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I'm not sure when I'll have the chance. I wanted to ask her to sign something.”

“This isn't a good time. If you'll send—”

“Tom, it's OK.” I stood up and stepped around him, addressing the fan, a skinny guy with pasty white skin, a prominent Adam's apple, and dark blond hair in a close-cropped Caesar cut—the style George Clooney revived in the nineties. “I'll sign it if you'll excuse us after that. What is it you have?” I didn't see a book or a card in his hand, but he did have a canvas bag.

“Thanks. It's so great to meet you.” He shoved a hand at me, which I shook. “It's a piece of your car's bodywork I picked up in the Kink today.”

Tom carefully kept any reaction from his face as he pulled two permanent markers out of his pocket and handed me the silver one.

“Always prepared, Tom, thanks.” I murmured. Then to the fan. “Where should I sign, and do you want me to sign it to you?”

He swallowed audibly. “Yes, please, to George. That's me, George Ryan. Anywhere is fine.”

He helped me steady the one-foot-by-two-foot chunk of carbon-fiber—given the strip of metal along one finished edge, it came from a wheelwell. I signed “To George, stay out of the walls! Kate Reilly” and thought this had been the strangest day of my life.

George left, with head-bobbing gratitude, assurances he was my biggest fan, and apologies again for interrupting us. Tom and I sat down at the picnic table, and I put my head in my hands.

“That was weird,” Tom said.

I laughed, quick huffs of breath that became gasps as I started crying again. I got myself under control quickly this time. “Will this day ever end?”

“And here's the real cavalry—I mean, the media.” Tom pointed to a van disgorging camera crew and reporters on the main street in front of the Tavern.

“I can't face that now, Tom. Can't do it.”

“It might be easier now than—” he saw my face. “Later. No worries.”

“Thanks.”

“What's your schedule tomorrow?”

I had to concentrate. “I have brunch with—a distant relation.” The meal and meeting was with my father, but Tom didn't know the full story and I didn't feel like explaining I had met my father, James Hightower Reilly III, for the first time two years ago and had only been willing to talk with him for more than a minute during the past six months. Brunch the next day was a milestone in our relationship. I didn't feel equal to the task, but I'd rescheduled twice already and I couldn't do so again.

I went on. “The cops told me to check in before leaving town. Holly and I are driving to her place in Nashville for a couple days before heading to Atlanta.”

“Can we talk tomorrow? I'm driving home then also, but it might be good to have a statement ready about this. I can write it up for you tonight.” As the media, PR, and computer guy for Sandham Swift Racing, Tom didn't specifically work for me, but he'd send out any releases I needed.

“I'll call you after I check in with the police. At this rate, I'll be lucky to get out of here by next weekend.”

I looked up and saw Stuart headed my way, past reporters surging toward him and shouting questions.

Tom looked from me to Stuart to the reporters. “I'll head them off so you guys can get out of here. Call me in the morning.”

“I owe you one.”

As Stuart reached me, I grabbed his hand. “Let's go, Tom will buy us time.” We made it to my room on the first floor of the Inn overlooking the pool, and I broke down. He held me for many hours while I grieved.

Chapter Seven

I went for a short, easy run the next morning to loosen stiff muscles from the accident and to clear my head, which felt achy and thick from my crying bout the night before. I was still sad, but the jog through town and around the lake buoyed my spirits. Until I checked my e-mail.

The account I used for correspondence with the public, fed by a contact form on my website, had 897 unread messages. I assumed the number was due to spam, until I read subject lines and opened messages at random to find them full of vitriol about wrecking Miles and insulting his fans. One called me “lesbian devil-spawn,” and another, a “NASCAR-hating Nazi.” I stopped reading, sick to my stomach.

In the account I used for personal correspondence I found an e-mail from Tom telling me the police questioned everyone at the Tavern the night before, collected every container of food or drink from four different tables, and took copies of digital photos from any phone or camera they could find. Tom attached the photos he'd taken of Juliana, Ellie, and me, but I couldn't face opening them.

Another e-mail from Tom contained a press release about Ellie, and I responded by thanking him, but asking him to hold it, since the media hadn't mentioned me yet in that story. I also sent a note to Holly explaining what happened the night before and how Ellie's death, plus my needing to talk to the police, might affect our plan to hit the road that afternoon.

I left my hotel room to meet my father for our first meal together, hoping I was done with surprises for the day. For the month. I walked down the fire lane to the edge of Siebkens that faced Elkhart Lake feeling a familiar mix of curiosity, pleasure, and dread as I thought about James Hightower Reilly III.

After my mother died in the hospital two days after my birth, my maternal grandparents raised me to believe my father's family had “washed their hands of me,” to quote my grandmother. My father proved my understanding wrong last year, which made my grandparents' house less a sanctuary and more a battleground. Grandmother still refused to discuss the topic, leaving me unsettled.

My father had overcome my initial desire to keep him at arm's length with persistence and understanding. I wasn't ready to fall into his embrace, but I liked the man, maybe cared about him. Something about him tugged at me.

I walked into Otto's Restaurant at the Osthoff Resort, a large complex adjacent to Siebkens, and once again experienced a shock of recognition. I'd gotten my coloring from my father, quintessential “black Irish,” along with his average height and nose.

“Katherine—Kate.” He approached, hand outstretched, and leaned in to kiss my cheek. That was new.

“Good morning, James.” Using his first name was as far as I'd gotten. I wasn't ready for “Father,” and “Dad” wouldn't ever happen.

“You're feeling no ill effects from the accident?”

“Some stiffness. Nothing major.”

He spoke again after we were seated and perusing the menus. “I understand there was some excitement at the Tavern last night as well?”

“It wasn't exciting. I was there.”

“I'm sorry.” His face fell, and he leaned forward. “I didn't hear what happened, only that police were called.”

I outlined the events in as few words as possible, and he exhaled through pursed lips. “I apologize for sounding insensitive. I had no idea. And I'm so sorry for you, Kate.” His hand fluttered in the air before patting mine on the table.

Smooth corporate executive that James was, he turned the conversation to other topics, including my plans for the coming off-season and next year. I could only tell him I'd have big news in a week.

He raised his eyebrows, but didn't press the issue. “You'll go home to New Mexico for a time? Do you have many close family members on your mother's side?”

“Not really.” I paused as the waiter delivered our meals. “It's strange you don't know this.”

“Your mother and I fell in love at university and married in the courthouse, thousands of miles from her family. I knew the basics about her—she was an only child—but not a lot of details. We never had a chance for me to meet her family.”

I held up a hand to stop his story, my emotions too raw from Ellie's death to risk a discussion about my mother. “There are distant cousins, grandchildren of my grandmother's siblings, out in California. But we're not close.”

“The lack of other family will become difficult, as your grandparents get older.”

“Yes.” I dug into my ham and Wisconsin-cheese omelet.

“You do have other family. Mine.”

I set my fork down. “I should make our situation clear. My grandparents and I don't have other blood relations around Albuquerque. But we're part of a strong community. When I was a kid, my grandparents joined the local Unitarian church, and that's been our family for twenty years. Members of the church check in on my grandparents a couple times a week while I'm gone, and I have friends my age as well as surrogate parents I'm in contact with. I have a different kind of family.”

“Understood.” He took a bite of his pancakes. “You have other blood relations. Maybe some day you will consider them family.”

I started to speak, but he shook his head. “Maybe you won't ever see us as family. We'll take it as it comes.”

We let the topic lie for a minute while we ate. Then I sighed, admitting curiosity. “Tell me about them.”

“My wife is Amelia. I met her after I finished college—I'd returned to Boston University for my final year after your mother.” He cleared his throat. “She's a lawyer.”

“In a big Boston firm?”

“No. She worked part time while our kids were young, but she's been in the non-profit world, primarily representing abused women and children, often donating her time. It's her crusade.”

Damn it, I didn't want to like the woman.
“And you have children?”

“Two, a boy and a girl. Eddie is the oldest—four years younger than you. He just turned twenty-one, and he's in his last year at Boston University. Lara is nineteen and in her second year at Swarthmore College.”

“You didn't make Eddie ‘James Hightower Reilly the Fourth'?”

He smiled. “Three was enough. I felt he should find his own identity, though in every other way he's a carbon copy of us—a bank and finance man already. When he was five, he announced he'd run the family business, and he's never wavered.”

Half-siblings. Family with generations of heritage and stories. Foreign concepts. Better to change the subject. “Tell me about the banking business.”

As the waiter cleared empty plates and topped off our coffee, my father explained how his ancestor three or four “greats” back founded a bank in Massachusetts, which survived market ups and downs, expanded nationally, and prospered. It was no longer privately owned, but my father still sat on the board and held an executive role. It was a fluke that another board member, entranced by the number of “eyeballs on racing,” proposed corporate sponsorship of automobile racing eight years prior—leading to my father's path crossing mine.

My father was paying the check, at his insistence, when he dropped a bomb that had “family” written all over it. “The bank will be hosting an invitation-only party the night before Petit Le Mans, and I hope you'll attend. All of the owners and corporate representatives will be there, as well as Series staff, many drivers, VIPs.”

I made a non-committal noise as he lit the fuse. “As well as my wife and children. Plus other family members who work for the bank, uncles and cousins and such.”

Jitters hit my stomach. “Do they even know about me?”

“They know about you. Amelia and the kids are eager to meet you.”

My heart pounded.
This is ridiculous
.
I don't need this extra stress in my life
.

He looked hesitant. “I need to make you aware of something beforehand. It's not entirely relevant, but I don't want you to misunderstand or be caught unaware.”

I stiffened, sure I didn't want to hear what he had to say.

“Even if it pushes you away again.” He sighed. “My father put you in the family trust, which no one knew until his death early last year. There is some…consternation in other branches of the family about you—do you have a legitimate claim, who are you, and so on.” For a moment he looked angry. “They're blowing hot air. Legally, it was my father's choice, and they can't change the trust. None of us can. I hope the family will have more class than to engage you directly about it, but I felt you should know.”

“I'm in the will? I have an inheritance?” When he nodded, I continued. “I don't want it, so take me out. Problem solved.”

He rubbed his chin and waved away the waiter offering more coffee. “That's not how it works. You can keep the money or give it away, but you can't remove yourself from the trust.”

“Then tell whoever's cranky about it I don't want it. I'll give it back.”

“Kate, I hope someday you might feel part of the family. That you might…” He paused and watched me.

I focused on refolding my napkin and aligning my coffee cup and water glass on the table, trying to mask my panic.

He wasn't fooled. “Never mind. The question will only come up after I'm gone—which will be many years, God willing. If anyone mentions it, you can explain your stance. But know I only have hopes of you, not expectations. Please.”

I gave him a grudging nod, annoyed with myself for acting like a surly child, but uncomfortable with what he offered.
My head tells me to push him away. But my gut feels a connection. I'm fighting my upbringing. Fighting my grandparents.

He put away the reading glasses he'd used for the bill. “I'd appreciate it if you'd attend the party. I know it might be stressful, but a brief social situation could be an easier environment for a first meeting. Please consider it?”

I nodded again. As we left the restaurant, I tried to explain. “I know I must seem ungrateful, but I'm used to my life. This is a big change. I don't know if I can give you what you want from me, and I won't insult you by pretending to feel something I don't.”

I didn't add I wanted to run screaming from the thought of his established, extended family, because he wouldn't understand why. I wasn't sure I understood, myself.