To Love and to Perish

FOUR


I DIDN’T SHARE THE news story with Cory and Ray when we left the restaurant. The whole story had felt a little more Inside Edition than CNN, in line with the disturbing news trend toward sensationalism rather than fact. I hoped in the days ahead more information might come to light that would paint a different picture. This information wouldn’t help Cory get through the night alone.

The news story hadn’t said Brennan ever served time for Monica Gleason’s death. In fact, the newscast said Brennan was not charged with Monica Gleason’s death. Apparently, the crash occurred on country roads, was not discovered for several hours, and, by the time investigators requested tests of Brennan’s alcohol levels, results inconclusive. But the news reporter allowed two of Brennan’s fellow reunion goers—although certainly not his friends—to appear on screen. The men hinted the district attorney’s reluctance to charge Brennan at the time might have had something to do with the significant campaign contributions Brennan’s wealthy father had made throughout the years, and they did their best to refuel the rumors Brennan may have been drinking that night. The whole report implied the court of popular opinion had convicted him long ago. Perhaps this story was what had fueled all the jokes in Wachobe for all these years.

But somehow I doubted it. Brennan wasn’t from Wachobe; he grew up in Albany, the state’s capital, five hours southeast. Until today, I hadn’t even known his father had money—or anything about his father at all. Granted, I didn’t follow the news much and the local grapevine even less, but I would have heard this story about the car accident before now if it had made it to Wachobe. No, Brennan had arrived in our town ten years ago to start his contracting business untainted. The rumors that traveled the vine these days had to be linked to some other event. Perhaps now was the time to find out what it was. I could only hope it didn’t paint Brennan in an even worse light.

After dinner, Ray had to drop us at the motel and head home for work, so I never got another word alone with him. He did tell Danny to stick close to me at the track the next day, a complete turnaround from earlier today. I wondered if that was for my protection or Danny’s—or just Ray’s theory of safety in numbers. Surely he didn’t think we were at risk of being run down ourselves?

_____


The next morning, Cory met Danny and me in the parking lot promptly at eight. His eyes appeared sunken into his head with dark circles highlighting his lack of sleep. He wore the same shirt and pants as last night, now creased and wrinkled after he apparently slept in them. I didn’t remark on it, but for Cory, a failure to attend to his appearance was a major indication of just how understandably rattled he was. I hadn’t slept all that well myself—visions of my loved ones being pushed in front of cars and crushed to death kept waking me. Danny, however, slept like a rock and needed to be prodded to awaken and get dressed.

“Let’s grab some breakfast.” I pointed to the motel office, where we’d been assured a continental breakfast would be available each morning.

Danny took off at a fast clip; Cory shuffled along three paces behind me.

The motel owner looked up with a frown when we entered the office. “Good morning. Are you in room nine?”

Cory glanced at his key fob and lifted his eyebrows. “Yes.”

Her frown deepened. “These messages are for you. The press has been calling on and off all night. My husband and I didn’t sleep a wink.”

I peeked at the pink message slips over Cory’s shoulder. The messages were addressed to Brennan Rowe, asking for interviews.

The manager fussed with some papers on the desk. “I don’t know why they’re calling here. It’s clear from the news this morning that your friend has been arrested and will be arraigned Monday morning. But once I made the mistake of saying he was registered here, they wouldn’t stop phoning.”

A stricken look crossed Cory’s face. He crumpled the messages in his hand. “I’m sorry you and your husband were disturbed. We’ll be checking out this morning.” He laid his key on the counter and turned to me, waiting.

I set my key down next to his, demonstrating my solidarity. “Can we have our bills please?”

Danny looked up from the table draped in a floral plastic tablecloth and covered with an assortment of juice boxes and packaged cheese and apple pastries that apparently passed for continental breakfast. “Aren’t we staying for the races?”

Obviously Danny was more interested in the race than concerned about Brennan and Cory. I hated to do it, but this time their needs had to take priority over Danny’s. “We’ll get to see some racing this morning, but then we need to head out.”

I hoped the disappointment on Danny’s face wouldn’t add to Cory’s torment. He was too busy pulling his credit card from his wallet for me to read his emotions.

The motel manager laid our bills on the counter. They reflected a two-night stay.

I picked up my bill. “I’m sorry; we’ve only been here one night.”

Her look was dismissive. “We only book for two-night stays on race weekends, when demand is so high. We charge for two nights whether you stay or not.”

I forked over my credit card and sent a reassuring smile toward Cory. He didn’t meet my eyes. I’d been his friend long enough to know that this whole situation was boring a hole in his heart and clouding his every thought. I trusted he knew that he had no need to feel any shame or embarrassment. And that I believed in Brennan just as much as he did. Trouble was, at this point, I wasn’t certain how much Cory did believe in Brennan.

We made the drive up the hill to the track in silence. Cory had turned on the radio news, which confirmed the motel manager’s statement. Brennan had in fact been charged in James Gleason’s death and would be arraigned first thing Monday morning. I wanted to call Ray to see if he could learn more inside information from his friend Ken but decided to wait until later in the day when Ray’s shift ended and we could talk freely The radio news didn’t mention the connection to Monica Gleason’s death. Perhaps that was old news already, even though I had yet to share it with Cory.

None of the other racers in the garage at the race track took much interest in us as we loaded the Mini into the trailer along with the easy-up tents, toolboxes, spare tires, racing slicks, jack stands, jacks, gasoline cans, and all the other paraphernalia associated with racing. The other drivers were all too busy and hyped for their own race to worry about or be interested in anyone else. Cars were already on the track, and the roar of their engines vibrated in the air, making my eardrums throb.

Danny may have been more affected by the whole situation than I thought. He didn’t pay any attention to the other race cars nearby, even though some of them were premium. And more than once, as we loaded the truck, I turned around to find him right on my tail. In fact, he stepped on the heel of my sneaker twice, the second time stripping it from my foot.

“Danny!”

“Sorry, Jolene.”

Yesterday, I’d been unable to keep him in sight. Now I couldn’t keep him off me. I sat on a tire to put my sneaker back on my foot. “You’re crowding me a little here, bud. What’s the problem?”

“Ray said to stay close.”

“Yes, he did. But that’s too close.”

Danny nodded and moved a few feet away, still glancing my way every few seconds. Again, I wondered who was keeping an eye on whom.

Cory worked in silence, not bothering to inform any race officials that they were withdrawing from the race. At this late date, no one would offer a refund on the few thousand he and Brennan had paid in registration and licensing fees to enter, and when the Mini Cooper failed to appear on track at the designated starting time, it would simply be marked “DNS”—Did Not Start—and they would be out the money, cash even a wealthy man like Brennan might need if he was now looking at a trial and attorney’s fees.

When we finished packing, Cory wanted to leave for home immediately, although he acknowledged all he could do there was sit and wait for word from Brennan. Danny wanted to check out the racing. I preferred to stay until after the vintage auction, which had my 1957 MG MGA roadster in it. I hoped to make at least five grand off the sale. I also needed to know for sure if the MG sold, because if it didn’t, Cory and I were going to have to come back to the track again to trailer it home.

Since the auction was at ten, only a half hour away, Cory reluctantly offered to take Danny around the track while I checked in with the auctioneers.

I reminded Danny to stay close to Cory. I watched them walk away.

As they reached the grandstand, Danny stepped on Cory’s heel. Cory didn’t seem to notice. Maybe we all should have just gone home.

I shook off my doubts and headed in the other direction toward where things were humming at the auction tent. After the rain last night, sellers were busy polishing their vehicles while the bidders registered.

Martin Feeder, the auctioneer, spotted me and waved.

I shook his hand. “Can you get me $18,000 for my MG?”

“I’ll sure try. What’s your reserve?”

“$13,000.” I wouldn’t make a profit if the car sold for anything less than that.

“Are you going to hang around for the auction?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” This sale could make or break my month.

The auction area consisted of a large white tent with a podium and a strip of green carpet over the grass to form a runway for the cars to roll down. Dozens of people roamed the auction area including a few photographers, who were always prevalent at race events. The majority of photographers took pictures on spec, emailing the car owners pictures of their cars on and off the track after the event in hopes they might want to purchase some of the more spectacular shots to commemorate the race.

I spotted the white-haired photographer who had snapped the shot of Brennan’s arm yesterday, the damning photo that got him arrested. The photographer caught me staring at him. Recognition crossed his face.

“You’re Jolene Asdale.”

“Yes.”

“Howard Pint.”

“Nice to meet you.” I shook his cool, fleshy hand.

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

I assumed he was referring to Brennan. “Thanks. He’s in trouble, especially after the deputy sheriffs saw your photograph. Would you mind telling me exactly what you witnessed yesterday?”

Howard capped his camera, let it drop on his chest, and ran his fingers over the stubble on his chin. “Honestly, like you, I didn’t really see anything. I was shooting the cars as they made the turn onto Franklin and came toward me, front end shots more than anything. When I heard the brakes squealing, I swung around and took a shot. The picture only caught that instant. I don’t know if your friend was withdrawing his arm after pushing the guy or if he really was reaching out to save him, although that woman was adamant. The crowd was thick there, and they surged toward the road every time a car came around the bend. Gleason just could have been bumped off the sidewalk and fallen.”

“The sheriff’s department apparently doesn’t think so.”

“Well, the news reports have been feeding the flames, haven’t they?”

“I’m afraid so. Did you take any other pictures that might be helpful?

Howard shrugged. “The sheriff’s department took my memory card. The only other photos on the card were close-ups of cars. They asked about crowd shots, but I don’t sell crowd shots. I sell car pictures.”

I thanked Howard for the information then stepped closer to the podium to listen to the auctioneer start the bidding on a beautiful Lotus Super Seven. Normally, I’d be making notes on the level of interest in all the different types of cars and the final sale values for future reference in making my own purchase decisions as to which pre-owned but pristine cars I wanted to offer for sale through my dealership. But today, all I could think of was James Gleason and Brennan Rowe … and the news about them I had yet to share with Cory.

Yesterday James Gleason’s life had ended in a split second. Either he’d been accidently bumped off the sidewalk or someone had pushed him. Hard to believe the crime could have been premeditated. How would anyone know he’d be on that corner in just the right position and at just the right time to shove him off the curb? I didn’t see how Brennan could have known it, nor had Brennan ever struck me as one to act on impulse. Of course, I didn’t know what the two of them had been arguing so hot and heavy about either. Maybe Brennan had been angrier than he appeared. Only the two of them would know—and maybe the woman in the hot pink raincoat. Perhaps she could provide answers. Maybe she’d seen something.

Then again, maybe she’d taken off in the other direction and, like me, witnessed absolutely nothing.

The one thing I did know was Brennan had been walking away from Gleason, not toward him, the last time I saw. I just didn’t know if Gleason had chased after Brennan, enraging him or threatening him to the point where he’d decided to give Gleason a little shove. Could Brennan have killed Gleason by accident? Again, I liked to believe not, but I supposed Cory might be able to shed some light on whether Brennan had any sort of temper or not. He and I would have a long talk later at home.

The auctioneer’s assistants rolled my MG in front of the podium. I started to edge closer, not wanting to miss a moment of the bidding.

My cell phone rang.

Annoyed at the interruption, I snapped it open, my thoughts and eyes on the auctioneer.

“I saw the news. What’s going on with Brennan?”

It took me a second to recognize the voice of my close friend and college roommate, Isabelle Branch. Isabelle lived in the city an hour from Wachobe, where her husband, Jack, ran a jewelry store and she operated an advertising agency. She had created my sports car boutique’s advertising campaign and even done some ads for Brennan recently. Her daughter, Cassidy, was my godchild.

“Nothing good.” I sidled to the edge of the crowd and covered my other ear so I could hear her better. “What have you seen on TV?”

She recounted the contents of both broadcasts I had viewed. “They’re saying a third person was injured in the accident that killed Monica Gleason.”

“Really? Who?”

“Some woman who didn’t want to be identified at the time.”

“Interesting. I wonder if the press will out her now.”

“No doubt if they can, they will. How’s Cory holding up?”

“Not well. Brennan didn’t want to see him or have him involved in any way. He wouldn’t even let Cory get an attorney for him.”

“Oh, he’s got an attorney. I thought you guys called her.”

“Who?”

“Catherine Thomas.”

A sick feeling welled in my stomach. The beautiful Catherine Thomas was a highly respected defense attorney in New York State. She was also the woman Ray took up with during the last year of our three-year separation, attracted to her as he was to me because of our resemblance to his favorite actress, Valerie Bertinelli. She even had Valerie’s same long hairstyle, while I had bobbed mine years ago. Although Catherine had been extremely helpful and supportive to us in the past, the thought of having her around again made me queasy. No one likes to be confronted with a woman her husband once slept with, especially a woman like Catherine, who I had to admit had it all goin’ on, unlike me, who more often had it all goin’ south.

“Wonderful.”

“Sorry, thought you knew.”

“I didn’t.” But now that I did, it was one more thing to worry about that was completely out of my control.

“Well, join the club. You’re not the only one in the dark.”

Martin Feeder chose that moment to slam his auction mallet down on the block. I jumped three inches in the air then frantically listened for the MG’s final sale price. Naturally, he didn’t repeat it. I’d have to wait until I hung up to find out. Besides, Isabelle’s words had sounded bitter, quite unlike her usual personality. My antennae went up.

“What do you mean? Who else is in the dark?”

Silence.

I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the screen to make sure we were still connected.

“Isabelle? Is everything all right? How are Jack and Cassidy?”

At the other end of the line, I heard Isabelle burst into tears.