Driven to Murder Read online

  JUDITH SKILLINGS

  DRIVEN TO MURDER

  This book is dedicated to

  J. R. Frawley

  For thirty-one years and too many reasons to count.

  Some of them have to do with racing.

  Contents

  Thursday—Practice

  One

  It could have been a perfect New England autumn day.

  Two

  “Jo, I yelled like a demented fishwife. Knocked one of…

  Three

  Rebecca hung up and stashed the cell phone in her…

  Four

  They circled the block twice before Ian found a space…

  Five

  “Son of a bit—”

  Friday—Qualifying

  Six

  The night had gone downhill fast from there. Rebecca couldn’t…

  Seven

  Mick turned his back to the crew, lowered his voice.

  Eight

  Since he couldn’t spy on Moore, Mick moved the glasses…

  Nine

  With the prints shipped to Zimmer, Mick walked back to…

  Ten

  Rebecca elbowed Evans in the rib, grinned as she smacked…

  Eleven

  Rebecca answered the phone before Jo heard it ring. He…

  Twelve

  Mick would admit to being marginally competitive, though not in…

  Thirteen

  Rebecca fumed all the way to the city, south down…

  Fourteen

  When Moore emerged from the bathroom smelling of gardenias and…

  Fifteen

  The stares turned hostile when Moore led the way past…

  Sixteen

  The tasting room was only a tad larger than the…

  Seventeen

  Rebecca swayed to a halt after exiting the elevator. Hagan…

  Saturday—Standing Start

  Eighteen

  Rebecca was conscious before the birds. She listened as they…

  Nineteen

  By ten o’clock, Mick was pacing. Moore hadn’t returned from…

  Twenty

  With his nose pressed against the scratched window, Jo watched…

  Twenty-one

  After two and a half hours of unrelieved boredom, Mick…

  Twenty-two

  Rebecca walked back to the house with Hagan. They were…

  Twenty-three

  The Methodist Hospital of Indiana was a stone’s throw from…

  Twenty-four

  Mick borrowed the yellow pages from the talkative codger at…

  Twenty-five

  Rebecca called for a cab from the front desk of…

  Twenty-six

  Jo slammed the door of his car and leaned against…

  Twenty-seven

  The black square, Jasmine explained with much eye rolling, was…

  Twenty-eight

  Rebecca felt like walking. She asked the cabby to leave…

  Twenty-nine

  Once back on Patricia Street, they had to search for…

  Thirty

  In May, Rebecca had considered adopting a dog. That was…

  Thirty-one

  Rebecca agreed to call Groën by his given name. Samuel…

  Thirty-two

  The phone rang twenty-one times before Jo freed it from…

  Thirty-three

  Rebecca sagged against the gate and stared at the phone.

  Sunday—Final Lap

  Thirty-four

  Rebecca opened the drapes a crack. The pale gray sky…

  Thirty-five

  The phone rang just before seven. Groën was calculating the…

  Thirty-six

  “Rebecca?”

  Thirty-seven

  Mick took the phone call at the deputy’s desk.

  Thirty-eight

  Jo skipped his Sunday-morning ritual of ham and eggs at…

  Thirty-nine

  Rebecca slammed on the brakes inches from the bumper of…

  Forty

  Mick blinked a few times as Patten’s new accusation settled…

  Forty-one

  Rebecca glanced left as she trotted for the mouth of…

  Forty-two

  Mick tugged on his seatbelt and sat back, hoping to…

  Forty-three

  Carlson had underestimated her strength, or the senior’s fitness program.

  Forty-four

  Mick’s breathing was ragged; he had a stitch in his…

  Forty-five

  Rebecca froze, her pulse pounding with fear for Jasmine, anger…

  Forty-six

  Mick had chewed on that question on the ride over.

  Forty-seven

  If it had been a film, the screen would have…

  Forty-eight

  “There are no heroes. Still, a tale worth telling.”

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Judith Skillings

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Thursday—Practice

  One

  It could have been a perfect New England autumn day. A childhood memory of Indian summer painted in primary colors. Blazing red sugar maples. Titian blue skies. Puffy white clouds pushed along by a breeze tinged with the hint of frost. The day her mother—Pauline—had taken the three kids for an outing to the Brookfield Orchards. Rebecca closed her eyes, raised her face to the warmth of the sun. She imagined she could smell the tang of fallen apples, hear the hum of yellow jackets lured by putrefying pulp. Imagined that if she stretched out her arms, her fingertips would brush the branches of gnarled trees laid out in rows by eighteenth-century settlers.

  Ridiculous. The flashbacks were becoming a nuisance.

  It was the twenty-first century. She was standing on fresh blacktop opposite turn twelve of the road course at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Gasoline fumes and the stench of burning brakes hung in the air. The pervasive whine came not from insects, but from 3-Litre engines accelerating hard onto the front straight at the most famous racetrack in the world. She was playing mechanic, twisting wrenches to improve the performance of a rich man’s toy.

  Admittedly, it was a teenage fantasy come to life. The chance to be a part of Indy, to brush shoulders with the most famous names in open-wheel racing, had enticed her away from home and business. Her crush on racing was sophomoric and not easily explained to her pragmatic friends, so she hadn’t tried. When she’d been offered the three-week stint, she’d waved off their objections, packed her tools and flown west.

  Behind her someone called out, “Rebecca. Moore.” She sighed, opened her eyes and turned. The car’s owner, Peyton Madison III, wagged his fingers for her to come closer.

  Ian Browning, their driver, was straightening the shoulder harness before sliding into the cockpit of the Lotus 49C, touted by race pundits as the most exquisitely designed race car ever. Peyton murmured last-minute encouragements. Ian avoided eye contact. He was focused on the race course, as if he were already strapped in, moving the car through the gears, gliding around the turns. They barely had time for two more practice laps before the track was turned over to the Formula One cars.

  The kid on the crew picked up a canister of gas to top off the tank. When he grinned, acne scars formed a half moon on his cheek. Rebecca watched him uncap the gas, then turned and braced Ian’s arm as he raised his leg over the flexible housing and settled in. She lifted the Plexiglas windshield into place and began tightening the bolts on her side.

  Uncomfortably close, Peyton pressed his thigh against hers, picked at the corner of a Shell decal with his thumbnail. He offered her a Southern smile, charming and as short-lived a
s a firefly passing through. Then reminded her that he was counting on a lap under a minute, twenty. Fast enough to put the Lotus on the front row during tomorrow’s qualifying session. If it happened, she would be a hero. If not—

  Peyton touched her arm. “Clouds are building.”

  Her mouth twitched into a demi-smile as she explained that clouds were good. They ensured cooler track temperatures. Peyton nodded as if he understood. He didn’t. He knew less about racing than she did. At least she’d arrived with a firm grasp of auto mechanics as they applied to vintage cars. The variables of racing—track conditions, down force, tire adhesion, driver fatigue—were challenges she enjoyed mastering.

  Reaching into the cockpit she forced Peyton to step back, out of her way. She tugged on the catch of the six-point safety harness. It kept the driver securely in place, released with one flick in case of fire. She waited bent over for the engine to light off. It rumbled. Seconds later it smoothed. She gave Ian a thumbs-up and patted the cowling.

  Halfway to standing, she heard the gunshot.

  Heard the high-pitched whine. The crack as Plexiglas shattered. A thunk as the bullet impacted the asphalt.

  The crew kid shrieked as the gas can flew from his grip, landing upright a few feet away. Her head jerked in response. She saw the small round hole where the bullet entered the gas can, scattering flecks of macadam where it bit into the tar after exiting. Twin streams of gasoline spurted like cheap wine from a fountain on an Italian buffet.

  She felt her own scream—a low animal howl—begin deep inside her belly, swell and explode.

  Two

  “Jo, I yelled like a demented fishwife. Knocked one of the crew into a tool chest. Kicked the gas can as if it were a soccer ball headed for goal. They thought I’d lost my mind. Most hadn’t heard the shot. Had no idea what was going on. The owner gripped my shoulders. Glared down his nose, offended like I was an hysterical Southern belle who forgot the manners her nanny taught. He ordered me to leave the track. He’ll probably fire me.”

  Jo Delacroix cradled the phone, directed his energy through the line. It was the first time he’d heard from Rebecca in nearly two weeks. She should have sounded relaxed, full of trivial news. Instead, notes of panic rippled along like a tidal undercurrent beneath the surface of her ranting. She’d been strung too tight when he’d put her on the plane for Indianapolis. He hoped the time away would calm her, that she would get some rest. Not be shot at. “Rebecca, last May you watched a man burn to death when a bullet ignited gasoline fumes—they are a deadly combination. Of course you reacted.”

  “How could I have been so unprofessional?”

  “Don’t worry about the job. If Peyton Madison fires you, I’ll sue him.”

  No response. The receiver echoed with the scrunch of her boots on loose gravel. Jo assumed she was trudging away from the track, jostling the cell phone with each step. He imagined her turning tight circles on the shoulder of the road, slender legs giving vent to her frustration, occasionally kicking a stone into the gutter. His favorite client was an expressive pacer, her body unable to stand still when her mind was racing.

  Racing. That was what had taken her away.

  Jo sat back and folded the Last Will and Testament of Cyrus Borden. He slid it into the center drawer then extracted a newspaper guide to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway that Rebecca had mailed him. Historic cars was written in black marker in the margin. An arrow pointed to the infield near the Hall of Fame Museum. Before leaving, she’d patiently explained that she would be prepping an actual Formula One car that had raced in the seventies and eighties. Many of the competing cars had been driven by world champions. Technology had changed, but not the thrill of seeing these cars navigate a road course.

  Her enthusiasm was wasted on him. It did nothing to soften his disapproval of her being in Indianapolis. Still, he recognized that Rebecca had to try. She needed to be accepted by people she let get close. Her aloofness was simply a shield against rejection. Today, she’d lost her composure in front of a group of men who held her in begrudging respect and she couldn’t stop kicking herself. Concern about the gunshot was secondary.

  Jo stretched forward and lifted a pen from its holder. Whether the bullet had been intended for her or not, she could have been killed. “Rebecca, why would—”

  “It was idiotic, Jo. As a reporter, I met informants under deserted overpasses. Tracked them through ghettos where no one spoke English and everyone was armed. On a sunny day in Indiana, I lose it over a stray gunshot that did no damage. It doesn’t matter that I had cause.”

  “Doesn’t matter?” He slapped the pen on the desk; momentum carried it off the edge. “Of course it matters. You’re human like the rest of us.”

  Did she think it would just go away? That she could erase it and start again with a clean sheet of paper? She’d been wounded when a killer fired a gun at her, burned when she tried to smother the flames to save him. Jo had witnessed the aftermath. Inhaled the stench of charred flesh, seen the burnt bones denuded of skin. Smoothed ointment on her blistered hands. Brushed waves of hair from her cheek, come away with the strands stuck to his fingers.

  He couldn’t forget. How could she? The horror of the event might have faded like a sepia print, but he was certain it still kept her company during sleepless nights, a ghost rocking in the corner. He ached to eradicate her pain. But at this minute, his fear for her safety was inching toward anger. “Maybe you’re refusing to accept the obvious: You attract dangerous miscreants. Why not a homicidal mechanic?”

  The boots stopped scattering gravel. She breathed into the phone line, but didn’t respond, biting back a retort. He should have kept quiet as well. She didn’t need to be reminded that she was a magnet for lunatics.

  He’d known her less than a year. Already, Rebecca had survived close calls with fire and water. In mythological terms, there were only two more elements she had to battle. Two more confrontations he had to guard her against. More and more, he felt like a member of some ancient tribe, who having saved her life, was responsible for her forever.

  Not an unpleasant task, if she would stay within reach. Which she wouldn’t.

  For much of September, Jo had tried to discourage her from taking the job at Indy. He insisted that she knew nothing about race cars. Predicted that by leaving her automotive restoration business in Head Tide unsupervised, she was inviting financial ruin. Vintage & Classics had been close to bankruptcy when she’d inherited it from her uncle. It could go there again, if she wasn’t careful.

  She’d tossed a quart of oil to Frank, then turned on Jo. “Nonsense, they don’t need me. Ask them. It’s the end of the touring season, so the workload’s easing up. The shop will be fine. Besides, I consider mingling at the Brickyard a strategic business move. The race crowd is worth cultivating. They’re often as besotted by classic cars as they are by their racers.”

  She’d been less articulate dismissing her obligations to family and friends. Reminded him that her tattered relationships were none of his business. Maybe they weren’t. Or maybe she was simply over whelmed by the number of loose ends suddenly needing attention.

  Or, maybe Rebecca was running away again.

  Jo pushed back the chair and retrieved the fountain pen, pulled the newspaper section closer. He consciously softened his voice. “Where did the shot come from?”

  After a second, she answered. “From the stands across the track. The bullet clipped the edge of the tent, splintered the windshield of the car, then pierced the gas can on a downward trajectory. I’m guessing the southeast vista near the VIP suites.”

  He smoothed the map. The pits for the F1 cars were shown along the front straight. The historic cars’ paddock was relegated to the tarred infield, sharing space with the vendors selling official team merchandise and souvenirs. Twelve teams were housed under four long tents lashed together. Rebecca had drawn lines representing the tents, doodled a flag on a center pole and placed an “X” to mark her slot.

 
Behind the stands at turn twelve, Jo added a stick figure with a rifle aimed at the tent. The pen tore through the newsprint, gouging the blotter beneath. He lifted the pen tip from the paper and set it down. “How could someone smuggle a rifle into the track? Isn’t there security?”

  She was walking again, rustling dry leaves. “During the pre-race week only a few gates are open, manned by hired security. The guards do cursory checks. Look for someone or something that blatantly doesn’t belong. Mostly they collect autographs and try to make dates with race groupies.”

  “Sounds all-American.”

  “That’s all that’s American. The spectators, like the race drivers, are mostly European, Asian or South American. So the guards tread softly. If FedEx delivers a cardboard box long enough to contain a rifle, and it’s labeled as a replacement axle shaft, the guards are willing to believe it’s an axle shaft.”

  “You’re saying minimal security. Could the shooting have been an accident? Kids playing in the stands, targeting birds, perhaps?”

  “Like Little Cock Robin? I doubt it. The shot nearly clipped the three of us—driver, mechanic, owner. Ian was in the Lotus. Peyton and I were huddled next to it.”

  “Sitting ducks. But all he hit was the windshield and a gas can?”

  “The bullet grazed Johnny Evans who was holding the can. Minor scratch. He blanched when he realized what had happened. Then turned macho and refused to have it bandaged. Ian Browning, the driver, joined me in having hysterics. Certain he was the intended target, that a rival team was trying to throw him off his stride. Peyton pulled Ian aside and calmed him down.