To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork Page 0,12

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