Racing to a Dead Stop: A Kurt Maxxon Mystery

By Jim Overturf

When Kurt Maxxon arrives at the Masonville Oval Racetrack, he discovers the body of Maxine Willowby in the garage of race driver Lawrence Bates. Kurt starts investigating the murder. Applying his unique logic and reasoning ability, Kurt follows many leads, most to dead ends. All the while he is trying to get ready for Sunday's race. Plus, Kurt is helping a homeless veteran, aka Lucky, get back on track and deal with his family problems. Lucky's sister is dying from stage 4 cancer, leaving two teenage children without care. Lucky's ex-wife if stabbed to death in a barroom brawl, and Lucky must move quickly to take custody of his teenage daughter living in another state.

When Kurt gets too close, Maxine's killer moves to scare Kurt off, putting Kurt's wife Christina in peril. As Kurt moves to rescue Christina he puts his own life in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Overturf
• Release date: Dec 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9780983911777

Jim Overturf

Jim is a retired engineering/project manager who, after traveling around the world a couple of times, took up writing fiction to keep busy. He is an avid auto racing fan and mystery reader. Jim is a member of the Nebraska Writers Guild and Sisters in Crime. He lives with his wife Karen, and dog Molly, in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Book preview

Racing to A

Dead Stop

Also by Jim Overturf

The Kurt Maxxon Series

Masonville

Kings Rapids

Carpentier Falls

Gunning for the Finish

The Alisa Sharpe Series

Dead Man Talking

Racing to a

Dead Stop

A Kurt Maxxon Mystery

Jim Overturf

Three Cords Publishing

Lincoln, Nebraska

Racing to a Dead Stop

A Kurt Maxxon Mystery

Copyright (c) 2015 by Jim Overturf

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any Information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9839117-8-4 (Print)

ISBN 978-0-9839117-7-7 (SmashWords)

Library of Congress Control Number 2015917337

Three Cords Publishing, Inc.

5100 N. 27th St., Ste. A-2, PMB-306

Lincoln, Nebraska 68521

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to Karen Lee, my editor, my friend,

my wife, with all the love I can share!

PROLOGUE

Thursday Night—May 22

Maxine parked her Cadillac in her reserved space next to the office door and switched off the engine. A squall line of rain arrived at the same time, so she waited for it to pass. A late-Spring cold front had swept across the Swift River Valley, causing the prolonged storm with tornadic winds, hail, and heavy rains.

She’d decided to come to the racetrack after the storm front had passed through; hoping against hope that the damage would not be overwhelming. Sunday’s race would be the season opener for the Masonville Oval and she’d have to move fast to repair any damage to the track and fan seating areas before then. Over the last ten years it seemed like every storm did a little more damage than the last one.

She’d entered the racetrack area through the concessionaire’s gate and tunnel and made two laps around the track to assess any damage she could see with the security lights. No major damage was clearly visible to the grandstand and the bleachers. Thank You, Lord, she whispered to the wind. I’ll check more thoroughly in the morning.

This would be Maxine’s tenth year as general manager of the racetrack. And she was proud that the business had gone from marginally to comfortably profitable during that time. Staying out in front of every problem had been one major reason why.

An added benefit for inspecting the garage area and admin building tonight was the chance she might catch Larry in his garage, where he practically lived with his number 17 Chevy Monte Carlo. While she waited for the rain to let up, Maxine clicked the key back into the accessories position and the radio blared to life.

With God’s help, the radio announcer said, We’ll get through tonight without anyone being killed. So far we have no reports of injuries or deaths in the Masonville area. The DJ’s gravelly voice was a source of comfort, since the radio station was still broadcasting. The rain let up and the security lights brightened the inside of the car.

Through the rain streaked windshield, Maxine glimpsed the rear quarter of Larry’s blue Corvette parked around the corner of the driver’s lounge at the other end of the admin building. He is here!

Of all the men she had shared over the years with their wives or girlfriends, she pondered why Larry Bates was so special to her. She’d debated that question more frequently since the day, two weeks ago, when Larry asked her to help him raise money to organize and build a NASCAR race car and racing team. Maxine knew she had what Larry needed: connections and money in copious quantities—and she could also satisfy his voracious sexual appetite.

There were times, like this morning, when Larry had run by her house to pay his annual track garage rent. Very quickly they had wound up in her bed, where she’d spent an hour and a half in the orbits only Larry could send her into. In the afterglow she always felt so contented, so satisfied. If Larry had brought the subject up this morning he might have found himself leaving with a check for the two and a half million he needed to launch his NASCAR dream.

All he had to do was ask.

Other times, however, when Larry failed to show for a promised rendezvous, Maxine jealously imagined him off entertaining another—younger—woman. How many of her previous fiery affairs with younger drivers had ended when younger women became the focus of their attention? When those younger women wanted to be the only one in the picture, most of the men left Maxine with a very cold and lonely bed.

Each time Larry stood her up, she’d plot a scene where she would confront him: You’ll never get another dime out of me, she envisioned herself saying, hands on her hips, angrily cutting Larry off.

What do you do to me, Larry? Maxine asked just above a whisper. For God’s sake, you’re the same age as—

Through the misty rain Maxine saw Larry run out of the driver’s lounge and dash to his car. She vaguely heard him yell something about … being back in a couple of hours, and hop into his blue Corvette. The engine roared to life and squealed rubber as he took off.

Maxine quickly opened her door and got out to wave at Larry. Too late. He roared away and drove toward the highway a half mile away. She ducked back into the car to keep from getting drenched. She only sat a minute or two before she decided that since she was already wet, she might as well go into the office.

Maxine let herself into the admin office, walked to her office door, stopped and looked at the access door to the driver’s lounge. Who was Larry talking to? Maxine walked past her office door to the driver’s lounge door. She paused as she gripped the doorknob, took a deep breath and then pushed through the door as she reached to turn on the light.

As the bright overhead fluorescent lights chased the hazy red light from the Coke Cola machine light in the corner, she detected motion. In the bright glare of the lights, she saw a woman, wearing nothing but a pair of bikini panties, leaning on the pool table lining up a shot. The pool table turned vivid green. The woman’s black hair flowed around her face making it difficult for Maxine to realize who she was. The woman remained bent over, her dark eyes wide, blinded by the sudden light. She looked toward Maxine over the cue stick she held. Her long black hair barely covered her ample bosom.

The black haired woman stood up, still cradling the cue stick in her thumb and circled index finger as if to finish the shot. She eyed Maxine cautiously. Maxine stood with her arms crossed and a look of disgust on her face.

As their eyes adjusted to the bright light, recognition struck both women. You! I, uh, I can’t believe it’s you, Maxine said using all the air in her lungs. She gulped air. What the hell are you doing here? Maxine shrieked as she realized what the naked woman had been doing with Larry Bates.

The black haired woman’s eyes darted to the door out of the lounge and then to the door behind Maxine leading to the main office section of the building. She swept her hair aside with her left hand. Well, Maxine, I—

What were you doing with Larry Bates? Maxine shrieked.

Well I—I, as a matter of fact, the woman said slowly. Then her voice gained bravado. I just finished balling your boy toy, Maxine. Yeah. I just finished mating with Larry Bates. Hah, how about that? And, you know what; I think he likes me better than you. I’m sure I’m a whole lot better at sex than an old woman like you.

Why you double-dealing slut— Maxine’s face was as red as if painfully sunburned and she was gasping for air. Her voice was shrill. "You double-dealing, two-bit whore." She fought for breath, sucked in a small amount, wanting to spew out more words.

You’re a whore! Maxine yelled as she moved toward the woman, Wait until I tell—

Maxine never saw the cue stick. I’m not a whore! the woman screamed as she swung the cue stick that crunched into Maxine’s temple. "Damn you, Maxine, I’m not a whore! The woman recoiled and swung again. The second blow missed because Maxine was crumpling toward the floor. I’m not a whore," the woman shrieked, continuing to swing the cue as if she was chopping logs lying on the floor until her arms gave out. She stopped. Fought for air. Struggled to calm herself. She swept the hair out of her face with her left hand. She was suffocating. She was shivering. She staggered back against the pool table. She held herself there, breathing rapidly. Then she bolted out through the door toward the garage area where she had left her car.

After a few steps toward her car in the chill air, she realized she still had the cue stick in her hand. She stopped, threw the cue stick as hard as she could, not caring as it scraped and clattered against metal roofing, then rattled to the asphalt on the other side of the building. As she staggered toward her car, the woman shivered and realized she only wore the skimpy panties her girlfriend had given her. You’ve got to go back and get your clothes. She hesitated, not wanting to face Maxine again. She braced herself. Slowly, she retraced her steps into the lounge.

The first thing she saw as she entered the lounge was Maxine’s misshaped head, and a very small pool of blood on the mat under the body. The woman felt queasy and turned away. She quickly swung into her bra and blouse and wiggled into her blue jeans. She started to run out the door a second time. You can’t leave Maxine there. She looked toward Larry’s garage across the tarmac from the driver’s lounge. Is it still open? She ran out the door and toward Larry’s garage. It was unlocked. She opened the garage door.

Larry will find Maxine as soon as he comes back. He’ll see her. She went back into the lounge. Maxine was lying on a large floor mat beside the pool table. The woman leaned against the pool table and swept her hair aside. Her stomach lurched slightly again. Slowly, she started to realize that her well-planned scheme to find Phoebe’s diaries had only taken a few minutes to self-destruct. No, they hadn’t self-destructed. Maxine had destroyed them.

Over the next several minutes the woman struggled, using every ounce of strength she could muster, to drag Maxine’s body across the tarmac to Larry Bates’ garage on the floor mat. Larry’s coming back. He’ll find her. She won’t go too long without being taken care of.

After she had the body in the garage, she used the last of her strength to roll the body off the mat and then she drug the mat to her car. As she opened the trunk lid, she thought of another diversion. She ran back to the garage where she spotted a long-handled tool lying on top of a toolbox on the workbench across the front of the garage. Using a greasy shop rag from the bench, she gripped the tool and went back to Maxine’s body. She carefully slammed the tool’s knurled handle into the wounds on Maxine’s head and shoulders. Then she dropped the tool near the body. She ran back to her car, and stuffed the rag into the end of the rolled doormat. She picked up the mat, and threw it into the trunk. She swung into the seat and started the engine.

Larry wasn’t here. He’ll have an alibi. Since his garage door was open, it would be easy for anyone to grab one of his tools and kill Maxine.

Larry hadn’t known who she was at first and she’d told him her real name since she needed his help; determined to enlist his help at any cost. Would he remember her name? She didn’t need his help now. So if Larry didn’t mention her name, no one would ever know she had been here. But she couldn’t be sure Larry wouldn’t name her.

Tears blinded her as she drove toward the highway. She wobbled like a drunk on the road so she pulled off onto the shoulder to dry her eyes. I just want to get home, take a nice hot bath, and shampoo my hair. She thought about the night with Larry, first in the Corvette seat then on the pool table. Wow! It had been a long time. I needed that, she told herself. Maxine’s body swept into her mind. She felt sweaty. Dirty. Weak.

The plan to locate Phoebe’s diaries she had so carefully developed had been totally destroyed by Maxine Willowby. She didn’t feel bad about Maxine being dead, if she was dead. Maybe Maxine isn’t dead. I didn’t check, did I? If she is dead, I just wish I hadn’t killed her.

As she drove home, her eyes welled up again, making it difficult to see the road. Her plan had been destroyed. She needed a new plan. Early tomorrow morning she’d have to rethink the whole mess. She’d have to come up with a plausible excuse for being at the track if Larry remembered her name. For now, she just wanted to get home. Clean up. Get some sleep. Forget everything that had happened tonight.

In the morning I’ll think up a new plan for finding the diaries, she whispered to herself. No matter what it takes, she promised, I am going to find Phoebe’s diaries. I’m the one who is going to get rich from those diaries. And, I’m going to be the only one.

CHAPTER ONE

Late Thursday Night—May 24

Kurt Maxxon

After forty odd years in death-defying professions, I should have been able to shrug off the storms raging around me tonight and just keep right on trucking. The normal three-hour drive from Albertstown to Masonville was already into its fourth hour, and I was less than halfway. My progress had been at a crawl most of the time. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d glanced in the side mirror to verify the car transporter still trailed behind my pickup truck after being rocked by a violent side winds. There were times when I wished I had heeded the weather warnings and waited until tomorrow morning to make the trip.

After a very brief lull, the rain squalls started again with blinding downpours, frightening displays of lightening and strong gusting winds. The rain blew sideways across the windshield. The wipers lifted off the glass leaving watery streaks that I could barely see through. If there had been a pull off, I couldn’t see it, and so I kept moving forward slowly. After several nerve- wracking minutes, I drove into a small town and felt the easing of the wind amid the buildings and trees. The wipers resumed their normal operation, and I pulled into a small city park about five blocks into town.

As my headlights swept across the lawn, I saw a man in a shelter sitting on top of a picnic table. I stopped my rig opposite him.

I waited so I could climb into the camper and use the potty. In about ten minutes the pounding of rain on the truck roof let up, and I ventured out. When I eased myself back out of the camper, I noticed the man had walked to the edge of the shelter and was looking at me.

Hello, the shelter, I yelled against the wind.

Hey, Colonel.

I instantly decided the man was a friend after hearing my nickname. After I retired from the U.S. Marine Corps as a Lt. Colonel and took up racing, I was dubbed with the nickname The Colonel. Friends and fans call me that all the time.

I walked fast toward the shelter and ducked into it. The man stuck out his hand. Tops O’Rourke, Colonel, he said. I noticed his large stuffed duffle bag sitting on the picnic table seat.

Military!

Kurt Maxxon, I said, shaking his hand.

I know, the man said. I’ve followed the SRVSCRA since I was a teenager. If you don’t mind, I’ll just call you Colonel and you can call me Lucky.

Lucky? I laughed. If either one of us had any luck at all, we wouldn’t be out on a night like this.

Lucky laughed. You’re probably right. But, I need to get to Masonville as soon as possible. My sister is bad sick and needs my help.

Lucky was the same height as me although fifty pounds lighter; probably in his mid-thirties, he had curly, black hair that covered his ears. His eyes were brown and sat under heavy eye lashes.

Well your luck is a lady tonight, I said. Masonville is where I’m headed and you’re welcome to join me. A couple of hours from now we should be there.

That’s great, Lucky said.

You just out of the service? I asked.

Yes, sir. Mustered out at Campbell about six months ago.

You were airborne?

Yes, sir. The one sixty S-O-A-R. Lucky’s voice took on the requisite pride of a former serviceperson.

That’s one I’ve not heard of.

We were the Night Stalkers, Lucky said. The one-hundred sixtieth Special Operations Aviation Regiment. We actually were the chopper support unit.

Okay. You a chopper pilot?

Lucky quickly wagged his head. No sir. I was a chopper mechanic. Gearboxes mainly.

Now, that’s something I can relate to, I said and grinned. But I’m betting your gear boxes are a whole lot bigger than the ones I deal with.

And you’d be right. But they work the same way.

The rain drummed heavier on the metal roof of the picnic shelter. Lucky and I sat down on the picnic table facing my truck. A couple of times I swore I couldn’t see the truck. In the lightning flashes, I saw the stylized painting of Nikki on the side of the trailer. Nikki is my racecar. A blue gradient Ford Fusion, she’s embellished in the flames engulfing the front end. It seems to be popular with younger drivers these days.

Over that painting in red letters is KURT MAXXON RACING.

I’m Nikki’s owner. I’m closer to sixty-something than I care to admit, five-foot-eleven inches tall and seven pounds over my recommended weight. If you round my height up and my weight down, my BMI is only a little high.

During one of the brightest flashes, I noticed that Lucky’s clothes were thoroughly soaked.

When the rain let up a little, I said, I’ve got dry clothes in my camper if you need them. Just climb the ladder, go through the door, and on your right will be a small, and I do mean small, closet. They’re hanging in there.

I’ve got dry clothes in my bag there," Lucky said, pointing with his chin toward his stuffed duffle bag.

That bag won’t go through the camper door, I said. Just throw it on the back seat of the truck, get what you need, and go change.

In a few minutes the rain let up. While Lucky was in the camper changing, the rain stopped completely.

I walked out to the edge of the street and looked around. It looked like there was a convenience store up ahead on the way out of town. Fresh coffee and a donut consumed my mind. Lucky came down the ladder from the camper.

It feels good to be dry again, he said.

It started to rain again.

Let’s roll, I said and walked around to the driver’s side of the truck and climbed into the cab.

Lucky climbed into the passenger’s side. Wow. These four-fifties are roomy. He stretched his legs out.

That seat will recline to flat, I said. In case you want to doze off.

I slept some while waiting in the shelter here.

We stopped at the convenience store at the edge of town to get coffee and donuts. As I pulled out onto the highway, Lucky crossed his legs and savored the coffee. At one point he made me jerk to look at him when he said, In the subject of getting to know each other, I have a huge advantage over you. I know you inside and out and you don’t know me from Adam.

I tensed a little but was sure Lucky hadn’t noticed. What he just described was a situation I lived with all the time, people knew me from newspaper pictures and stories while I didn’t know them. I’m used to that, I said.

Do you remember giving a safety program at Valley Vo-Tech in the spring of 1998?

I rummaged through my mind, recalling the many safety programs I presented to schools and colleges around the valley. I remember the program, but not the individual presentations.

I was in my second year of auto mechanics technology, Lucky said, wistfully. You really impressed me during that program.

I smiled. That’s wonderful. You graduated with a certificate in auto mechanics technology?

No, I didn’t.

I swung to look at Lucky again.

For the first twenty years of my life, Lucky’s voice trailed off. The first twenty years I had a knack for screwing up royally whenever it could hurt me the most.

I hoped this wasn’t confession time, feared that it was, and decided that no matter what Lucky told me, I was not going to take my eyes off the road ahead. Okay, I said, hoping not to influence what Lucky was about to say.

The summer after you impressed me I got busted for drugs, then armed robbery, since I needed to raise money to feed my habit. They gave me the choice of jail or join the Army.

And you were smart enough to choose the Army?

Yes, sir.

I felt the tension in my body relax. You’ve been in the Army all the time in between then and now?

Yes, sir. I’ve been out of the Army for a few months.

You did, what, fourteen years?

Yes, sir. Two fours and the last contract was for six years. During all that time, I followed the SRVSCRA—and you in particular. There were times when that proved to be difficult. But the last ten years or so, it’s easy with the internet.

What have you been doing since you separated?

Nothing productive, unfortunately.

You’re headed for Masonville? I asked.

Yes, sir. My sister, Darby lives there. She’s got stomach cancer. She asked me to come help her.

What kind of help?

Moral support, I suppose. That’s about all I can offer her. I don’t have any money left.

So far, Lucky had impressed me as being pretty much in charge of his life. But, you never know. One nagging question was why was he hitch hiking? That usually was associated with irresponsibility. What happened to your separation pay?

Lucky looked at me, then returned to staring out the windshield. I gave it to my family.

To your family?

Yes, sir. I split it into four piles. The first pile I sent to my parents, who live down in Ringgold County—one of the poorest counties in the valley. The second pile I sent to my sister in Masonville. The third pile I gave to Bobby Joe for Ollie Maye. The fourth pile I kept for myself.

You only kept one-fourth to live the rest of your life on?

Nobody has ever accused me of being the smartest guy on earth, Lucky said. Bobby Joe and I married after she got pregnant with Ollie Maye. We divorced seven years later, and they eventually wound up living in Mississippi. Ollie Maye is eleven now. I tracked them down and went to visit with them after I separated.

You were hoping to renew the flame?

I don’t know. I suppose so. Until I saw Bobby Joe face to face again. She’s become a total mess. She’s doing moonshine. Starts drinking at ten in the morning and sucks on it all day. The only good part about the situation is that her brother took her in, and he and his wife look after Ollie Maye.

You need to get custody of Ollie Maye, I said and sensed I had struck a chord from the grunt Lucky belched.

Lucky swung to look at my profile. You think that’s possible?

I know it’s possible.

* * *

Lucky became introspective for a while, letting long periods of time pass without talk.

How’d you decide on the number twenty-seven for your car? he eventually asked.

"I didn’t actually. The car numbers are essentially owned by the SRVSCRA. It was the number they offered me when I joined