Red Flags (16 page)

Chapter Thirty

The endorphins from my Sunday morning workout didn't diminish my ability to go from self-pity to anger very quickly. I texted the Ringer, thanking him for the one-sided smear campaign on my reputation.

His reply came back promptly, apologizing but claiming he had to report the sentiment, as he'd heard it from too many directions. He did promise to write a follow-up any time I wanted to give him an official interview. I threw my phone on the bed in disgust.

I made more coffee, then reviewed the rest of my e-mail and social media notifications. I called Holly for a strategy session on how to handle it all.

She picked up immediately. “If it isn't my favorite femme fatale.”

“Funny.” I told her about the Ringer's response to my message.

“That's all right, Kate, don't you worry. That boy's going to owe us one.”

“Which doesn't help me now.” I filled her in on the blowout with my father. “I went to bed wondering if I'd lose my sponsor. But hey, I wake up wondering if anyone will ever put me in a car again, so maybe it'll all work out.”

“Overreact much? Sugar, get a grip. It's good press, and you'll ride out the negative aspects. Ignore the posts. If you can't, refer to Ryan as a friend with his first name only, and talk about the money the gala raised for breast cancer research.”

“Give them my message, don't respond to theirs.” I started to return to my senses.

“I'll be there tomorrow. Try to make it one more day without finding anyone dead.”

“You're hilarious. Did you find someone to give us costs for racing in NASCAR?”

“Two sets of data coming later this week.”

“Great. I'm going to e-mail Alexa this morning to start getting IndyCar numbers.”

We disconnected after confirming Holly's arrival time the next day. In a calmer frame of mind, I composed and sent a message to Alexa Wittmeier, asking for Beermeier Racing's costs for a full-season IndyCar effort, as well as an Indy 500-only package. I also included a link to the national entertainment magazine article featuring her and her car.

She called me within fifteen minutes, in top spirits. “I'm happy to hear your sponsors are coming through.” She chuckled. “I expect it wouldn't ever be dull with you on the team.”

I gathered my courage. “I was concerned I'd already added to the team's workload, dealing with this nonsense. It's not a problem?”

“Exposure always takes effort. The team liked working with you.”

A variety of emotions flooded my system, warming me. Relief was paramount, followed closely by pride and a trickle of excitement. “I'm so glad.”

“If you don't mind some advice, ignore the crap.”

“Which crap?”

“The horseshit about people thinking you don't belong in the paddock. Ignore it. Trust me when I tell you it's a bunch of small-minded assholes feeling threatened. All they know to do is lash out at anyone who doesn't fit their idea of normal.”

“I appreciate that. You know who's saying it?”

“No idea.”

I clued in. “You got the same thing when you raced?”

“Got, am getting, will continue to get. I wish I could tell you it stops when you climb out of the driver's seat for good, but it doesn't. We're still partially outsiders.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“Brace yourself, and ignore it.” She laughed again. “That's a contradiction. Be prepared to hear questions about taking a man's job, deserving something less, and being a problem because you're different. That way you're not blindsided when an ignorant idiot spouts off. But ignore them. Have a small group of close, trusted associates you go to for reality checks. Ignore everything else.”

I spent a moment coming to terms with the idea I would never feel like I fully belonged. That I'd always be different.
You're used to it now, aren't you?
“I appreciate the advice. It's hard knowing who to listen to.”

“Kate, if you drive for me, I'll always be straight with you. No politics, at least between us, and no B.S. I know our operation isn't the same scale as the big boys in IndyCar”—she referred to the three best-funded and biggest teams in the series—“but we've got smart, good people, and we're on the cusp of bigger things. Plus, I can promise you, we'll never treat you like you don't belong. Or like you're less than any male driver.”

I thought about her words after we'd gotten off the call. What surprised me was Alexa selling me on Beermeier Racing. With funding from one sponsor in hand, and money from a second under discussion, I would have options. I might even be courted by teams. The idea was heady, and I let myself daydream about driving for the mythic names in open-wheel racing, piloting the best available equipment to poles and podiums. And then I thought about having a real connection to my team. A mentor, like Alexa. I'd have to find the right balance.

As I spun a fantasy about drinking the iconic milk in the winner's circle of the Indy 500, my phone signaled a text message. Tara Raffield brought me back to earth with two women's names: Lucille Tremmel and Rachel Krimmer. Both were former Frame Savings employees, Tara reported, and both had affairs with Coleman Sherain. But she didn't know if either had stuck with him for the long term.

I thought of Coleman in unflattering terms as I texted Ryan, asking if he'd looked up the house information. He, too, called instead of replying.

“I had a good time with you last night, Kate. Thanks for including me.”

The evening's events flashed through my mind, from mediocre chicken to Ryan winning the auction, from my meltdown over family to his sizzling kisses. “It was memorable.”

He laughed. “I have to admit, I've never had a date so well-documented and publicized.”

I sucked in a breath. “Is that a problem for you at work?”

“Only for the teasing.” He paused. “The photo was great. You looked radiant.”

It was an old-fashioned word, a compliment I'd only ever heard my grandfather use. I liked it. “You looked pretty good yourself.” I refocused. “About the owners of that house.”

“I suppose I can't distract you.”

“Did you look it up?”

“I did. And as I said, it's a matter of public record.”

“Tell me if it's Lucille Tremmel or Rachel Krimmer.”

He sighed. “I don't want to know how you have those names, do I?”

I jumped up, feeling a surge of triumph, and started to pace. “I knew it! Is it Lucille?”

“Yes. You're going to stay away from her and that house, right?”

“I promised you I would. Nothing active or dangerous. Careful questions only.”

I heard him exhale. “I'll hold you to that.”

A few minutes later, I got another text. This time it was Lucas reminding me to ignore the tabloid press and telling me he missed me. I sat down for a minute, flustered. I should be over the movie-star freakout reaction.
But he'd played romantic comedy leads, action heroes, and Mr. Darcy. And he
misses
you!
I reminded myself he wasn't his screen roles, that I didn't really know him. Yet. Until our date the next night.

I pushed those nerves away and collected my gear. Time to meet the other movie star in my life, but on my turf.

Chapter Thirty-one

I saw Penny as soon as I walked into the K1 Speed karting center in Torrance shortly before noon. Maddie's assistant stood near the registration desk, head bent to her phone, as always.

I went to her before checking in. “Everything all right? Is Maddie here?”

She slipped her phone in a pocket. “We're checked in, and we've paid for you. You need to set up your account. Maddie's tucked in a back corner.”

I created my username, “Kate28,” to display on the screens with my session times, and I joined Maddie, Penny, and two young women I didn't recognize. Penny introduced them as her cousins, Ellie and Andrea Iwen. They were twins: eighteen, tall, slim, and gorgeous. Every male eye in the place was on them, while they seemed totally unaffected.

“They're my diversionary tactic. No one notices me next to them.” Maddie smiled at me. “I'm only going to throw a diva meltdown if they beat me on the track.”

I glanced at the two girls. “Any go-karting experience?”

“Never been in one,” one of them replied.

I turned to Maddie. “Piece of cake. Let's go.”

The fourteen-turn, slick, indoor track wasn't much like the Long Beach street circuit, except that both were flat, with little banking in the turns. An electric go-kart also wasn't anything like the Toyota Scion Maddie would race next weekend, but seat time was seat time. The more minutes Maddie spent in a vehicle thinking about how to maximize speed and make every turn more efficient, the better a driver she'd be.

We did two on-track sessions, took a break for water and track talk, and went back for two more sessions behind the wheel. After that, Penny produced deli sandwiches, fruit, and chips from a tote bag, and Maddie and I sat at a booth to eat lunch.

While we ate, I asked how the movie shoot was going. Maddie's eyes shone with pleasure. “The shoot itself is fine. Long hours. But I'm having so much fun with the transformation my character undergoes.”

“Lucas told me you play an investigator.”

“A real by-the-book, stick-up-her-ass type. But what's great is how she changes. See, she starts as prim and proper, but she falls for Lucas' character and gets sucked into his world.”

“He's a bad guy?”

She wiggled her free hand. “It's not black and white. He did a bad thing. He's done a lot to make up for it in his life, done good for a lot of people, but he can only run so far. That's what he learns: karma will find you. Whereas I learn to have more understanding for what people are going through. To let go of requiring perfection of other people. Of myself. And to work with what life hands you without complaining it should be something else.” She took a drink of her diet soda. “Basically, I get to solve a crime and show the character maturing into a more reasonable human being. And that's fun.”

“Do your characters end up together?”

“Come see the completed film.” She grinned. “I'll get you tickets for the premiere.”

“As long as it's not a race weekend, I'll be here.”

Maddie had done nothing but eat, sleep, and shoot the film for the five days since she'd been in the car on the Long Beach track, and she wanted to know all the details of my L.A. adventure. I told her about the good bits: my oval test, potential sponsor news, shopping on Rodeo, and my delight in the Beverly Hills Hotel's luxury.

“What about your cousin's death? How's that going? Do you have suspects?”

I blew out a breath and gave her the bare-bones outline of who I'd talked to and what I'd seen, including Jenny Shelton's attempted suicide.

Maddie grew somber. “That poor woman. What terrible things drove her to feeling so hopeless?”

“From what I understand, she's been dealing with a mix of personal, professional, and health problems. I've been talking with her sister, Tara.” I hesitated, then plunged in. “Tara works for the bank, and she's mad enough—at how her sister was treated while she worked there—to spill a bunch of family secrets. Those might help me investigate Billy's death.”

Maddie watched me, but I got the feeling she wasn't exactly seeing me. “I'd like to meet Tara.” She noticed my confused expression and bit her lip. “I know how she feels. My brother committed suicide when we were teenagers, and I've been active in the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention for many years. I'd like to help if I can.”

I promised to connect them, not sure what an Oscar-winner could do to help a bank teller. Then again, if I'd learned anything during my brief association with Maddie, it was she didn't fit any stereotype I'd ever heard of.

She folded up her empty sandwich wrapper. “Enough sadness. We've paid for two more sessions. Let's go beat these other yahoos.”

Back in my rental car later, I fielded a call from a hated relative's personality-challenged girlfriend. Who was growing on me.
That'll teach me to judge without getting to know someone.

“Hi, Elizabeth.”

“Hi, Kate.” I heard rustling sounds and a door closing. “I felt you should know something I didn't bring up yesterday.”

“About what?”

“Billy.” She sighed. “We spent so much time bashing him, but I wanted you to know he wasn't all that bad.”

If her standard was Holden, I didn't trust her judgment. “Mmmm, 'kay.”

“I know he was terrible to you. But—oh God, it sounds like a cliché—he really had a thing for animals. Dogs, mostly. He wanted to save them from all those kill shelters. He bought land and opened his own doggie retirement community, out east toward the desert somewhere. He wanted to save every dog he could. Even used to go around to the L.A. shelters and find homes for the dogs about to be put down.”

I tried to reconcile the self-centered, entitled jerk I'd met with that generosity.

She kept talking. “He'd train any dogs he could get young enough to be service dogs. Probably trained three or four in the time I knew him.”

I remembered the trio of non-purebreds at Nikki's house. “How many dogs did he have?”

“Three. A big, old chocolate Lab, a black-and-white Terrier mutt, and a puppy that was his latest service dog trainee.”

“Nikki has his dogs now.”

“She does, but I'm going to take the puppy. Nikki doesn't want to do the training, and besides, it was my idea Billy acted on. I've always wanted to raise guide dogs.” She sighed. “It's the least I can do to make something positive out of this for Holden.”

“This is a surprise.” I didn't want to feel sympathy for Billy. Still less did I want to feel any admiration. “I hope someone will keep his shelter running.”

“Holden will, for now.” She paused. “I know it's out of character, Kate. But Billy had a good side also. There are people, and plenty of sweet dogs, who will miss him a lot.”

Even if I won't
. “Do you have any idea why he did all that?”

“He mentioned once making sure no dog ever felt unwanted, which was funny, since he grew up with his own family all around. It's not like
he
ever went into a shelter or foster care or something. Another time he talked about only being able to count on a dog's love.”

“You sound like you didn't believe him.”

“I believed him,” she assured me. “But I didn't understand how he could feel like no one cared for him when he had family. When he had so many advantages in life.”

I'd wondered something similar: How he could feel entitled to more when he had so much? “I suppose we can't predict how someone will turn out, based on their environment.”

“True.”

I couldn't say that her information had changed my mind about Billy. But I'd softened. I felt a smidgen of sympathy, instead of none at all.