To Love and to Perish

ELEVEN


A TINY CAPE COD on a rabid thoroughfare housed Wayne Engle Insurance. The road had one of those irritating meridians dividing the eastbound and westbound lanes, and Cory had to make a U-turn at a busy four-way intersection in order to swoop back around to the company’s driveway entrance. Four other cars occupied the lot: a Civic, an Accord, and a Geo—all popular economy cars—and a brand spanking new Mercedes convertible.

I offered to bet Cory that the Mercedes belonged to Wayne. He passed.

Inside the office, the phone lines rang incessantly as two women tried to keep pace with the volume of incoming calls. Both women wore heavy makeup, short skirts, high heels, and less than adequate tops revealing plenty of cleavage. It was impossible to determine their age, but quite obvious what they were selling. Two other desks sat empty, but leftover coffee cups with bright red and pink lipstick indicated women had occupied the desks earlier in the day. Each desk had a name placard. Pam and Missy answered the phones; Beth and Silvia were missing, perhaps still at lunch?

Cory and I waited for a couple minutes while the women dealt with their callers. Finally, Pam placed her call on hold to greet us. “Can I help you?”

“We’d like to speak to Wayne Engle, if he’s available.” Cory flashed his pearly whites, turning on the charm.

Pam glanced at the closed office door. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m sorry, we don’t. We’ll only need a minute of his time.”

Her lacquered fingernail pressed a button on her phone. “What can I tell Mr. Engle it’s regarding?”

Cory glanced at me.

I shrugged. “Go for it.”

“Brennan Rowe.”

_____


Wayne Engle opened the door of his office five minutes later. Dressed in a navy business suit, a white shirt, red tie, and wingtips, he looked spiffy enough to be running for president. His handshake was firm, but his eyes wary as he ushered us inside the office, which held an oak desk, multiple chairs, a credenza, bookshelves, and a conference table. A single photograph of a teenaged boy with blond hair and blue eyes adorned the top of the credenza. Diplomas, certificates, licenses, and registrations covered one wall. I spotted a S.U.N.Y. Binghamton business administration diploma among them, which explained his connection to this city.

He offered us a seat at the round oak table and sat, legs crossed, with his profile to us.

Something about his face seemed familiar. Maybe it was because I’d seen his yearbook photo, although his face had aged and his hairline receded. His hair color seemed a bit sandier. Maybe Wayne colored it now to hide some gray. No, I’d definitely seen him somewhere more recently than that. I wondered if we’d sold a car to him or if he frequented our tourist town.

He got the conversation rolling. “You’re friends of Brennan’s?”

Now that we’d made it into the inner sanctum, Cory didn’t seem inclined to engage. Wayne looked between us, politely waiting.

I took the lead this time. “Mr. Engle—”

“Please, call me Wayne.”

“Thank you, Wayne. Cory and I are friends of Brennan Rowe’s, and we’re very concerned about him. Have you spoken to him recently?”

“Not for years.”

I decided to charge ahead.

“Did you know Brennan is in jail?”

Wayne’s head jerked ever so slightly. “No. Since when?”

“Friday. He’s accused of pushing a man in front of a car.”

Wayne licked his lips. “What man?”

“James Gleason.”

Wayne shot forward, shifting to face us. “What?”

“On Friday night, we all attended the Vintage Grand Prix in Watkins Glen. Are you familiar with it?”

“Quite.”

“Brennan and James ran into each other there. They argued over Monica Gleason. Apparently James thought Brennan was responsible for the crash and her subsequent death. When the two stopped arguing, they separated, but a few minutes later, Gleason was killed on impact by one of the cars as they raced through town. A witness says Brennan pushed Gleason in front of the car. Obviously, we think the witness was mistaken, but the news reports say the two men had a long history with James angry and threatening Brennan over his sister’s death. We’re wondering what, if anything, you remember about the crash.”

Wayne rubbed his forehead. “Did Brennan send you?”

“No.” I looked at Cory, who wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Brennan is in jail and unable to make bail. We thought because you two were best friends in high school, you might be able to help us.”

Wayne leaned back in his chair again. “In what way?”

“The news reports have had a couple of your fellow alumni on camera, stating everyone was drinking at the reunion and implying Brennan might have been driving drunk. Do you know if he drank at the reunion?”

“He had a beer or two over the course of several hours. He was not drunk.”

A sound exploded from Cory’s mouth, like a cutoff sob. Wayne gave him the once over and narrowed his eyes.

I tried not to lose momentum. “Did you tell the police that at the time of the crash?”

“No one asked me.”

Surprised, it took me a second to recover. “At the time, you must have known the police were investigating the crash. They thought he was driving under the influence. You didn’t tell them differently?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Cory’s anger showed in his tone of voice.

Wayne hesitated ever so slightly before answering. “Brennan and I had an argument the night of the reunion. We said a lot of things we could never take back. We weren’t ever going to be friends again, but I would have come forward if he got charged.”

“Brennan says he doesn’t remember what happened that night.”

“That’s what I read in the papers at the time.”

“Did you believe it?”

“Yes.”

“He doesn’t remember anything about that night, so he wouldn’t recall your argument either.”

“Probably not.”

I didn’t know what to say next. What could have happened between them to ruin their friendship, especially after losing Monica and almost Elizabeth, too?

“You, Brennan, Monica, and Elizabeth were quite close, weren’t you?”

A hint of a smile touched his lips. “We were the four Musketeers in high school.”

“What about afterward?”

“We got together on school breaks. Over time, we didn’t see each other as much. It happens naturally.” He looked between us as though waiting for us to agree.

My closest friend in high school was Ray. No comparison. “Did you all ride to the reunion together?”

“No, we wanted to, but I had to work. I met them there a little late.” A flicker of something like regret or guilt crossed his face.

“Was Elizabeth ever able to provide any insights into what caused the crash?”

“Not really. The police thought she might have been asleep in the back seat.”

“Are you still close to Elizabeth?”

Something else flickered across Wayne’s face. This time I thought it was anger. “No.”

Wayne’s response matched the information Ray had gathered from the detective. I felt as though we were at a dead end. Still, Wayne’s attitude toward Brennan made me uncomfortable—and curious. What had they argued about?

I decided to go for broke and ask.

“Wayne, if you don’t mind my asking, what did you and Brennan argue about that cost your friendship?”

Wayne stood up. “I’m sorry. I have another appointment. If the police need a statement now that Brennan was not drunk the night of the accident, I’ll give them one.”

I didn’t know if that would be helpful at all. The police had long ago ruled out alcohol as a cause of the accident.

Cory and I rose. As we walked to the door, I glanced at the pictures on Wayne’s credenza again. “Handsome boy. Your son?”

“Godson. He’s a great kid.” Wayne opened his office door. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.”

I doubted he was sorry at all. “Just one more question, Wayne.”

“Yes, Jolene?”

He said “Jolene” like Ray did when he was mad at me. Annoyed, I managed to smile in an effort to keep things friendly. “Do you think Brennan would push James Gleason in front of a car?”

Wayne’s response was immediate. “No. Brennan wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone.”

He emphasized the word “intentionally,” leaving unspoken thoughts hanging in the air.

Brennan had hurt people, Wayne included. And apparently they hadn’t forgiven him.