The secondary headliner was the weather. Periodic strong winds, thunder and lightning, and all-day rain were predicted for Saturday, so the Nationwide Series race had been moved up to Friday night. Unprecedented, but a necessary precaution to avoid cancellation and complicated rescheduling.
The new tertiary headliner was a big-ass crater.
As Speedway management was scrambling to make the accelerated timetable work, they learned that, overnight, a sinkhole had opened on the edge of the dirt track. Measuring forty feet long and thirty-five feet deep, the thing was a monster. Fortunately, no one had been injured.
The sinkhole’s location made it unlikely that the evening’s Nationwide Series event would be affected. Safety inspectors were on site. Officials had yet to announce if the race would begin at the newly designated time.
As I filled my mug, an officious expert presented this postmortem. The Charlotte Motor Speedway was built over an abandoned landfill, and thirty-five feet below the surface, an old drainpipe had deteriorated. In his opinion, the cave-in was the result of recent heavy rains, the burst pipe, and instability of the landfill substrate.
In awed tones, an anchorwoman explained that such incidents are not without precedent. Backed by footage of packed grandstands, she described a pothole that had delayed a Daytona 500 for hours.
Birdie strolled into the kitchen as I was pouring my second cup of coffee.
At seven, I finished my third.
Wired on caffeine, I dialed.
“Slidell.” Gruff.
“Did I wake you?”
“Nah. I’m waiting for room service.”
“Where are you?”
“Grabbing some java. I’ve been working Winge for over an hour.”
“Is he talking?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What’s he saying?”
“Call my pastor. You’re gonna love this. The Reverend Honor Grace.”
“Did you call him?”
“I’m not in the mood for a gospel lesson.”
“Did you ever locate Maddy Padgett?”
“Cindi Gamble’s high school pal.”
“Yes.”
“Hang on.”
I heard Slidell’s chair squeak, a drawer open, more squeaking.
“Madelyn Frederica Padgett. Guess Padgett wasn’t as crafty as Nolan at bagging Mr. Right.”
“She’s still single?”
“Eeyuh. Works as second engineer for Joe Gibbs Racing. Not sure what team. Maybe Joey Logano.” He read off a Charlotte address.
“Do you have a phone number?”
“Just a landline.”
I jotted it down.
“I’m going to squeeze Winge till he caves. Even if it takes all day and all night.”
“You know what troubles me?” I said.
“What’s that?”
“How could Winge get abrin to spike Wayne Gamble’s coffee?” I pictured the holes in the back of the skulls dug from the nature-preserve grave. “And why would he do that? Cindi and Cale were both shot execution-style.”
“Shrewd questions. For which I intend to get answers.”
Maddy Padgett had a voice like my grandma Daessee, smooth and Southern as fatback gravy.
I apologized for the early hour, then gave my name and reason for calling. “I’d like to talk to you about Cindi Gamble.”
“How did you get this number?”
“From a Charlotte PD homicide detective.”
“Homicide?”
“Yes.”
“Finally.”
