“You really cross-your-heart will?”
“Yes,” I hissed.
Behind me, I heard Bogan ask, “You on some sort of personal crusade?”
“Nothing like that,” Galimore said. “I just always felt we left that investigation a little too soon.”
Outside the glass, the pond looked flat and gray, a pewter disk compressed by the afternoon’s oppressive heat and humidity.
“Say it,” Summer whined.
“Yes.”
“Say you promise.”
“I promise.”
“I’ve completely given up on Petey. I don’t like passing judgment on other people’s taste. But if you take my meaning—”
“I have to go.”
I was turning back to the others when something velvety brushed my elbow.
A tarantula image replaced the flamingo.
My instincts acted without clearance from my higher centers.
My hand flew up.
The mobile shot skyward, then augured into the gravel at Galimore’s feet.
“I’ll get it. I’m already covered with cow flop.”
Before I could respond, Bogan scooped up the iPhone, stepped to a sideboard, and wiped each surface with a rag. “Good as new.” Handing it back.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Daytona’s manners need improving.”
At my confused look, Bogan pointed to a straight-back wooden chair beside the door. On it, a black cat sat grooming itself, one leg shooting the air like a Ziegfeld girl’s.
“It’s sticky in here,” Bogan said. “Let’s go to my den.”
We walked single-file, Bogan, then Galimore, then I. Daytona abandoned his toilette to bring up the rear.
The house’s interior was dim. And at least a zillion degrees cooler than the greenhouse.
The front door opened into a small foyer. Beyond, on the right, stairs rose to a second floor. Nothing fancy. No carved spindles or sweeping handrail. Just treads and banisters screwed into the walls.
Through the ceiling came muted thuds I assumed were footfalls on a treadmill. I had to credit Reta. She was booking.
Bogan led us down a central hall past amateur watercolors hung in cheap plastic frames. A landscape. A bowl of fruit. A gaudy bouquet.
In a few short steps we reached a kitchen, and the hall made a ninety-degree turn.
“I’ll get some sodas.” A skinny finger pointed to an open door. “Y’all go in there.”
Galimore and I went left as directed and entered what had to be Bogan’s den.
I could only stare in amazement.
THE ROOM HELD A SCRUFFY LEATHER COUCH AND MATCHING chair, a battered oak coffee table, and a flat-screen TV the size of a highway billboard. The rest of the room was a testimonial to NASCAR.
Display cases and shelving lined the walls, all crammed to overflowing. Above the cases hung framed posters, photos, and memorabilia. Freestanding items filled every unoccupied inch of floor space.
It was doubtful the Hall of Fame had more on exhibit.
My eyes roved the assemblage.
A hunk of asphalt carved into the numeral 3 and labeled as coming from turn one at Daytona. A life-size cutout of Denny Hamlin. A hunk of red sheet metal with some driver’s name incised into the surrounding plastic casing. Autographed trading cards. Commemorative coins in velvet boxes. Flags. Sweatshirts. Caps. Die-cast models of hundreds of cars.
I guessed some of the items could be valuable. A black-and-white print that looked at least fifty years old. Team suits that seemed way out of date. A car door with the number 24 painted on the outside.
“Can you believe all this shit?” Galimore was equally stunned.
“The man is a fan,” I said.
“More like a fanatic.”
I crossed to look at some of the poster-size photos. Jimmie Johnson, kissing the ground after winning the 2007 Brickyard. Jeff Gordon, making a pit stop. Tony Stewart, raising an index finger at Watkins Glen.
I checked the old picture. It showed a man wearing goggles and high boots straddling an old-fashioned
