To Love and to Perish (3 page)

Three

I had reserved a
ro
om for us at the same motel—a family-owned, twelve-cabin basic close to the track—where Brennan and Cory were staying. Ray dropped Danny and me off, intending to meet Cory at the track and make a plan to obtain a lawyer for Brennan. I wanted to go with Ray to tell him about the redheaded man and
to help Cory and Brennan, but at the same time, I didn't want Danny too involved in this whole mess. From the moment he joined our family, we'd treated the evening news and the details of Ray's job as X-rated. Danny didn't need to know more about the poor redheaded man's violent demise, and Ray was far better suited to deal with Brennan's arrest.

Trouble was, the motel room was dark and tiny—maybe thirteen by thirteen with most of that space taken up by two double beds—and had no television to keep Danny entertained with his beloved SpongeBob. The room didn't have a phone either. After one trip into the claustrophobic five by seven bathroom, I decided to take him across the street to the ice cream parlor, a popular spot in the town for many years.

When the vanilla scent of fresh-made waffle cones hit my nose, I thought I'd made a wise decision. The thirty-plus homemade ice cream flavors as well as a dozen fresh fudge choices were all enticing. An older couple in line ahead of us seemed to have difficulty choosing what to order. They taste tested a handful of flavors before ordering, giving Danny and me plenty of time to decide. I settled on a sugar cone of Southern Pecan Praline while Danny chose a double scoop waffle cone of Cake Batter and Triple Brownie.

Unfortunately, the deadly incident was bound to be the talk of the town, not to mention the flat-screen television mounted above the ice cream counter where we stood.

As pictures of the ambulance leaving the scene flashed, a newscaster's voice announced, “We have new details in today's tragic death in Watkins Glen. The Sheriff's Department has a prominent contractor from Wachobe, New York, Brennan Rowe” —Brennan's picture from his construction company's web site appeared on screen—“in custody at this time. According to the Sheriff's Department, Mr. Rowe is not under arrest, although an unidentified witness at the scene claims Mr. Rowe pushed the victim in front of the Cobra automobile that struck and killed him on impact in front of hundreds of race fans attending the Vintage Grand Prix Festival on the main street in Watkins Glen this evening. The name of the victim is not being released pending notification of his next of kin. When asked if the Sheriff's Department suspected foul play, the department declined further comment at this time.”

As the newscast moved on to the day's next top story, Danny and I took seats at the table farthest from the television, next to the table where the couple had sat. I licked my cone with little enthusiasm and watched them enjoy theirs.

The man shook his head. “I'm not surprised. The way the two of them were going at it, I could tell there was going to be trouble.”

“Did you tell the sheriff's deputy that the dead guy kept saying, ‘You killed her, you bastard'?”

“I told him, Gladys.”

“And that he said, ‘You should have died, not her'?”

“Yes, Gladys.”

“And that the woman with him said, ‘Leave him be, Jimmy; it won't bring Monica back?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Well, I guess that's all we can do. Sure looks like that Rowe killed him, though.”

Danny ate his cone with gusto, seemingly oblivious to the discussion going on behind him. I tried to keep my eyes averted, but my gaze returned to the man's face over and over, hoping he'd say more.

I should have been relieved not to be the only witness to Brennan's and the redhead's argument on the street. Apparently this couple not only witnessed the scene but got an earful and had let the Sheriff's Department know. Instead, I feared evidence was mounting against Brennan, who I still believed incapable of murder. I did wonder what happened to the woman in the pink raincoat, who had been hanging from the redhead's arm, apparently pleading with him to leave Brennan be. She never appeared at the scene. Where could she have gone?

The man crunched up the last of his cone and wiped his lips.

“Are you ready to go, Gladys?”

She rose. “Yes, we have a long drive ahead of us.”

The man hitched up his pants. “I can't say I'm all that eager to get behind the wheel. I keep seeing that man lying there on the road, when just minutes before he was so animated. I wonder how them fellas knew each other.”

Gladys put her hand through the crook of his arm. “I'm sure it's all going to come out. We may not hear about it at home, though. This is local news.”

I pondered the woman's statement as the bell on the ice cream shop door announced their departure. Was this going to be just local, small-town news? If the tragedy was deemed an accident by investigators, then probably so. But if investigators ruled this death a homicide, would the story get widespread press? I supposed it depended on other breaking stories and perhaps on how sensational this story might become. For Brennan Rowe's and Cory's sakes, I hoped it would all be cleared as an accident, but after hear
ing what appeared to be the couple's eyewitness account of the
argument on the street and learning of the photographer's shot of Brennan's arm reaching out into the street near the fallen man, even I wondered about Brennan's involvement. Worse, I knew the residents in Wachobe had joked forever about what Brennan might have hidden in the poured cement basements of the homes and office buildings he erected there. After all these years, might the jokes have been more than that? Did Brennan really have something to hide? If so, had he hidden it from Cory as well?

Cory, I knew for a fact, did not appreciate having his partners hide things from him. He preferred honesty, even brutal honesty, perhaps the reason he and I were such close friends. Would this tragedy be the end of his relationship with Brennan, not to mention Brennan's days as a free man? And what about Cory's already existing fears that Brennan was having an affair?

My cell phone chirped. I flipped it open.

“Darlin', Cory and I are on our way to pick you up. He hasn't eaten and I think he should. I called the lodge. They can seat us at nine thirty.”

I heard Cory say he wasn't hungry.

My ice cream cone stuck in my throat. Poor Cory. He was undoubtedly devastated, but Ray believed in “the show must go on” as did I. Most days Cory would have agreed with us. Today I wasn't so sure.

The local lodge Ray had referred to was known as the official racers' hangout. On its walls could be found the photographs and autographs of many of the greats, especially the race winners of year's past. The five of us would normally look forward to rubbing elbows there with this year's best drivers. Tonight it seemed like it could be a strain.

“What about Brennan?”

“He declined our assistance.”

“What?”

“Let's talk about it later.” Ray's tone implied he didn't want to talk now while Cory was sitting next to him in the car. “Meet us at the motel. We need to wash up.”

Danny had finished his cone and was eyeing the remains of mine. He could eat more; he could always eat more.

I swallowed the last of my cone and my fears for Brennan. After all, now was the time to rally around Cory in support. No way did I want to be the one to suggest Brennan was anything other than innocent.

_____

“It doesn't look good for Brennan.”

Ray's voice was muffled as he pulled a clean polo shirt over his head and the fine hairs on his broad chest. At his suggestion, Danny sat outside on a woven lawn chair, listening to his iPod that he had retrieved from my Lexus. Cory had disappeared into the room next door without a word to anyone. I wasn't positive he would come out again.

Perched on the edge of the bed, I fiddled with the bedspread fringe. “Because of the photograph?”

“That and the eyewitness reports. A woman swears she saw Brennan shove this James Gleason into the road. A couple other people said they witnessed the two of them arguing near Milliken's Corner just prior, and some other woman was with Gleason at the time. They're looking for her, and the Department's interrogating Brennan now.” Ray finished tucking his shirt into his jeans and started to re-buckle his belt.

“I saw them arguing. And I saw the woman.”

Ray stopped buckling his belt. “What did she look like?”

“She had on a hot pink raincoat. I didn't see her face, just the raincoat. She was tugging on Gleason's arm. It looked like she was trying to pull him away from Brennan.”

Ray resumed buckling. “The department knows all that. They need to identify her.”

His tone said I made a disappointing witness, but how could I have known the woman was important at the time? “Doesn't Brennan know who she was?”

“No.”

Well, he definitely knew the man with her. “What did you mean earlier when you said Brennan declined your help?”

“Cory and I drove over to the sheriff's office. I found Ken, and he went in and told Brennan we would arrange for an attorney for him. Brennan said ‘Thanks, but no thanks. Tell them I'll take care of everything myself and to stay completely out of this.'”

“That's it?”

“Yep.”

“What did Cory say?”

“He asked to see Brennan. Then he demanded. He got pretty worked up. I had to drag him out of there.”

“Why couldn't he see Brennan?”

Ray eased onto the bed next to me, his weight pulling me against his side. “Brennan's in custody. The department doesn't want him talking to anybody, not to mention Brennan had already refused our help. We had no choice but to leave. I'm lucky they told me anything at all.”

“Is Brennan under arrest?”

“I don't know if they've read him his rights yet, but I doubt he's walking out of there any time soon.”

“Does Cory know about the witnesses?”

“I told him. I didn't see any reason not to. It'll be on the news soon enough.”

“What did he say?”

Ray rubbed his hand over his chin, making his five o'clock shadow rasp. “He clammed up. I can't tell if he's pissed or scared shitless.”

If I knew Cory, probably a little of both. Or maybe a lot. Brennan had gotten himself into a pretty big mess.

When we knocked on Cory's door a few minutes later for dinner, he appeared in his usual casual dress: a clean striped dress shirt, untucked of course, and khakis. He climbed into the car without comment.

The drive to the lodge was short and silent. Danny still had his headphones on and made no effort to remove them until Ray insisted he leave his iPod in the car.

Inside the log cabin lodge, the smell of prime rib and baked potatoes wafted over to greet us at the entryway. Dozens of men surrounded the bar in the center of the room, many of them still wearing their flat-soled leather racing shoes. Although the place was packed, our table was ready, and the hostess seated us immediately. The din of chatter was incredible, and the flat screens in the restaurant corners provided closed captioning. Danny and I took the seats facing the television while Cory and Ray had their backs to it.

Ordering proved difficult because we had to shout at the waitress, who asked us to repeat ourselves more than once. Conversation was impossible. Danny seemed engrossed by all the photos on the walls. I entertained myself by watching all the people, having seen all the photographs at least a dozen times before. Ray appeared to be enjoying his beer. Cory's gaze never left his placemat. I hated seeing him like this, so unlike his usual carefree, light-hearted self.

Just as the waitress delivered our sampling of appetizers—the only thing we could get Cory to agree to consider sharing—a breaking news story flashed onto the flat screen. Brennan's photo appeared again, followed by photos of a car wreck, a young woman, and what appeared to be Brennan's high school graduation picture. The closed captioning took longer than the live announcer and bled into the next story's pictures. I had no trouble following the gist of the newscast.

Thirteen years ago, Brennan Rowe had been driving a car that veered off the road into a tree, killing a passenger and leaving him in a coma. The two had just left their five-year high school reunion. The young woman who died in the crash was named Monica Gleason, sister of James Gleason, victim of today's tragedy. Worse, thirteen years ago, investigators believed Brennan Rowe had been driving drunk.

The gist: Brennan Rowe was already a convicted killer.

Four

I didn't share the
news story with Cory and Ray when we left t
he 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 appar
ently 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.