Death at the Wheel (27 page)

"Sure thing, darlin'," he said, giving me another wide, loopy grin. "As many times as you want."

I did it a couple more times. "This is fun."

"I don't know what it is about skidding, but women just seem to love it. We had us a little more time, I'd show you how to spin 'er completely around."

"With you driving, you mean?" He nodded. I brought the car to a stop. "Then show me."

We traded places and Nick gave me a driving demo that rivaled any Tilt-a-Whirl I've ever been on. Through it all, he kept up a calm, steady explanation of what he was doing. When he braked, when he accelerated, how to steer through the curves. Not oversteering, not understeering. Terms like upshifting and downshifting and apexes tripped like Shakespeare off his tongue.

By the time I was back on planet earth again, I understood what Ellen had meant. It was exhilarating and more than a little terrifying. I came back flushed with adrenaline, a little shaky about the limbs, and grinning like a fool, still caught up in the rush.

George stood waiting like a proud poppa. "Like it?"

"Of course she liked it," Ellen said. "Look at her! Flushed with power. She looks gorgeous. Who needs Elizabeth Arden when you can race cars?"

"Don't get carried away, Ellen," her husband said, but I could tell from Andre's face that I did look different.

I leaned against the car and gave Andre my helmet, shaking out my hair. "Careful out there, mister. This stuff could get addictive."

"Yes," he said. "It could." He wasn't talking about racing, either. Then he grabbed the helmet and got in the car. I watched with my heart in my throat as he roared around the curves a lot faster than I'd dare go, and knew exactly how he felt when he and Nick, both laughing, climbed out of the car. He had exhilaration all over his face. When we were done, George and Ellen drove and then we joined Tony Piretti and an instructor who had worked with Calvin Bass for lunch.

I felt like a wet blanket, asking about a death at the track after the wonderful experience we'd just had, but that's what we'd come for. Not just for fun. Although I could see where having fun might be addictive. Sometimes I wonder if I have my priorities straight.

"I'm sorry," I began, going against all the advice which says to begin interviews on a positive note, "I know this is hard for you, but could we talk about the accident?"

"It was no accident," Piretti growled. "Someone deliberately tampered with that car. And with my business! You can bet we keep those cars under lock and key these days." He stabbed his salad for emphasis, sending a mass of spinach over the side.

"Not that we were ever careless." He cast a quick glance at George. "Were we, counselor?"

"Nope," George said with a decisive waggle of his head. "Always kept 'em inside a fence, and with security guards."

"Even at night?" I asked.

"Especially at night," Piretti said. "That's when we're most like to get some asshole—pardon my French—with a snoot full who decides he's Mario Andretti, climbing over the fence and trying to get a car."

"Hey," Billy interjected, "what about that guy Bass was arguing with on Saturday?"

Piretti scratched his head. "Guess I didn't hear about that."

"Security practically had to pry them apart."

"What did he look like?" I asked.

Billy shrugged. "I didn't see it. I only heard about it from one of the security guys. I asked him where he got his shiner and he said trying to pull Paul Bunyan off one of the paying guests. Didn't say anything about a blue ox, though."

"What, exactly, was done to the car?" Andre interrupted.

"You want to know exactly?" Piretti said. "I'll give you exactly." He launched into an explanation that was way over my head and, from her glazed look, over Ellen's, but Andre and George and the instructor leaned forward raptly as he discoursed on suspensions and undercarriages and tension and torque and adhesion, on understeering and oversteering and overconfidence and assholes and walls and firewalls and explosions. He ground to a halt with a shake of his head, paused for breath. So much for the Connecticut cops wanting to keep things under wraps.

Still wound up, Piretti sputtered on. "How he ever got out on that track without a firesuit... would have protected him from some of the burns... any of you ever handled someone with bad burns?" His eyes lit on Andre. "Detective?" Andre nodded. He's seen a lot of nasty things. He doesn't like to discuss them. "The smell," Piretti went on. "You never get it out of your head completely. We don't barbecue any more."

Ellen looked like she was going to throw up. George leapt to her defense. "Did you have some questions you wanted to ask, Thea?"

"What about his cousin?" I said. "How did he react?"

"Like you'd expect," the instructor, whose name was Billy, said. "He was in shock. Horrified. He was white as a sheet and he kept saying 'Oh my God! Oh my God! It could have been me. It could have been me, Calvin.'" His head bobbed, embarrassed. "It's not as bad as it sounds. See, they'd flipped a coin to see who would go first... so it could as easily have been him. They seemed to be pretty good friends. You could hardly tell one from the other, especially once they were suited up and had their helmets on. The way I told 'em apart was that Calvin—the one who got killed—he had a real bossy way of talking, while Jon was quieter and sort of spacey."

"What about the mustache?"

Billy shook his head. "Neither of 'em had a mustache."

"What happened to the cousin... Jon, was it?... after the accident?"

Billy shrugged. He was younger than Nick but had that same cocky arrogance, though he was doing his best to rein it in. The guys who teach you sailing, skiing, rock climbing, river rafting, they're a lot alike. Overgrown camp counselors, perpetual Peter Pans, omnicompetent, great with people, showing just the tip of that edgy superiority. He had a fabulous shock of wheat-colored hair that hung over half his face. I wondered how he could see to drive.

"When he left here, he went in the ambulance to the hospital. I guess the cops talked to him there... no offense, sir," he said, with a glance at Andre. "And then I guess he just drove away. He didn't come back here. I suppose he could have finished the day, but I don't guess he felt like driving after that. We never saw him again."

"That's not quite right," Piretti interrupted. "He went in the ambulance with his cousin and then the police gave him a ride back here to get his car."

"Oh yeah," Billy said. "I forgot about that. I saw him out in the parking lot. I asked how his cousin was doing and he gave me this odd look and said he didn't make it. He seemed to be in a big hurry to get away."

Acting on a sudden, chilling hunch, I got the pictures of Cal and Jon Bass from my purse and laid them on the table. "Are these the two guys we're discussing?" Piretti and Billy said yes. "Which one of them got killed?"

They bent over the photos, passing them back and forth a few times, discussing details. Jon's mustache confused them. Finally Billy stabbed Jon Bass's picture with a decisive finger.

"This one," he said. "The one with the scar by his eye. Calvin."

Andre's eyes met mine across the table. "Time to go talk to the cops," he said.

"Hey. Wait a minute. What's going on?" Piretti said.

"You pointed to wrong Bass," Andre said. "That's Jon."

They stared at us with troubled faces. "This one is Calvin Bass," I said, "and you think he's the guy who walked away?"

Billy picked up the photos again and studied them with a troubled face. After a minute he set them down again. "I don't know," he said. "This is too weird. I'm sure the guy who wasn't in the car called the guy we pulled out Calvin. I'd swear to it. But..." He brushed back the wayward shock of hair and stared at us with very troubled eyes. "The guy in the parking lot didn't have a scar."

"And Jon Bass's live-in girlfriend says he never came home," I said.

In the silence, Ellen drew a sharp, shocked breath. "What do you mean?"

We told them about Karen Osgood and the missing boyfriend. Piretti struck himself in the forehead, a half-mocking gesture, and groaned. "This is all I need." He picked up the other pictures I'd left on the table. "Got any more surprises in here?"

"I hope not," I said, as he looked at them.

"Who's this?" he asked, holding out a picture of Dr. Durren getting an award.

"Thomas Durren," I said. "Emergency room doctor at our local hospital. Why?"

"Looks like a guy I used to race with years ago. Skinny, longhaired kid with nerves of steel. A real wildman. If you told him something couldn't be done, he'd do it just to prove you wrong. I think his name was Durren." He scratched his head and thought about it. "Yeah, it was. Chuck Durren. Is your guy a wildman?"

I choked back, "When pigs fly," deeming it unsuitable. Even behind the wheel of a Porsche, Durren was prissy. "Farthest thing from it. A control freak. Shy, quiet, and so cold he makes ice cubes nervous."

Piretti shook his head. "Can't be the same guy, then. People don't outgrow Chuck's kind of crazy. Not in my experience." He handed back the pictures. Although he continued to be polite, it was clear Andre and I had worn out our welcome.

I was coming back from the ladies' room when I heard Ellen's voice around the corner, sharp and argumentative. "But I don't understand. She keeps putting herself in danger. Why on earth does she do it?"

I paused, curious, to see who would respond. It was Andre. "You know she's lost two people in the last few years... two people that she loved."

"Of course I know that," Ellen said, "but I should think that would make her more careful."

"So when it happens to someone else, Thea knows how it feels. She understands their pain... their confusion... their sense of loss. She tries to help them make sense of it."

"But to get involved like this?"

"That's who she is," Andre said. "The oldest child. The responsible one. The fixer. Thea believes it's her job to make things right—to put order back in the world, especially for people who seem helpless or friendless or needy."

"You make her sound like a saint," Ellen said. "The Thea I know is no saint. A good person, but no saint. And doesn't it worry you? I mean, all those risks she takes. Why don't you make her stop?"

I could hear the smile in Andre's voice. "Can anyone stop the women in that family when they set their minds on something?"

"But surely, if she loves you, she'll do what you want... do it for you," Ellen insisted.

"I'm afraid she sometimes has to answer to a higher authority... her conscience," Andre said.

"I guess," Ellen said doubtfully. "I know George would just put his foot down and—"

"Oh, I've put my foot down," Andre said. "She stomped all over it."

"Hi, guys," I said, coming around the corner. "Ready to go?"

We rode in a somewhat subdued silence back to the Bradleys' house. After agreeing we'd meet again for dinner, we picked up my car and drove off in search of the police station.

 

 

 

Chapter 20

 

The Connecticut police weren't happy with the news that Andre and I had to share, especially since Calvin Bass's body had been cremated. Identification, they said, hadn't seemed to be an issue, since the cousin was there and identified the body and everyone at the track agreed. We got to tell our story to the local cops and again to a couple of state cops, all of whom were initially irritable and supercilious until they learned that Andre was one of them.

I was on my best behavior. I didn't once complain that they treated me like Andre's decorative appendage, even though I was the one who'd figured things out. I just sat politely with my legs crossed at the ankles, not the knees, and spoke when spoken to. I could tell Andre was proud of me. He didn't once give me the kick under the table, our secret code for "put a cork in it, Thea."

Partly I behaved because I was tired of the whole nasty business and eager to drop it into their laps; relieved that someone else would have to contact Karen Osgood with the bad news. Partly I behaved because of the conversation I'd overheard between Andre and Ellen. I felt so lucky to have someone like Andre, who understood and supported me even when he didn't like what I was doing. And partly because the conversation had shifted to a discussion of whether Calvin Bass had tampered with the car himself. I was sick and discouraged at the idea that Bass might have killed his cousin and then just walked away, leaving his wife accused of the crime, his children fatherless, and Karen Osgood desperately waiting for the man who never came back.

The big Connecticut detective who'd been asking questions leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his expansive gut. "Why would Bass want to disappear?" he said. He looked at Andre for an answer.

"Because he was in trouble at the bank?" I suggested. "Because his personal finances were in disarray and this was a perfect opportunity to start over with a clean slate? Because he thought he had nothing to lose? Maybe to run away with his mistress?" I threw this last in as an afterthought, though I couldn't imagine Nan Devereaux running away with anyone.