Kiss the Bricks

By Tammy Kaehler

"As usual, Kaehler combines a credible group of suspects with some detailed racing lore. Even readers who don't care about cars may well be hooked by the feminist angle." —Kirkus Reviews

At the end of the first practice session for the iconic Indianapolis 500 race, Kate Reilly is stunned to discover she was the fastest driver on the track. She's even more surprised to learn she wasn't the first woman to top the speed charts in the race's 106-year history. That feat was accomplished in 1987 by PJ Rodriguez—steady, dedicated, immensely promising—who shocked the racing world and the wider one by committing suicide ten days later.

When the press, bloggers, and social media go crazy over the connection between PJ and Kate, Kate begins to lose her identity—suddenly everyone's comparing Kate and PJ, calling Kate PJ, and wondering if Kate will kill herself, too. Under siege from various trolls live and digital, Kate feel PJ's story deeply. So she's impelled to listen to PJ's family—which claims PJ did not jump, but was murdered. And she agrees to help them find PJ's killer and restore her reputation...30 years after the fact.

PJ's death was a great tragedy; Kate feels it in her bones and believes she is the best person, perhaps the only person, to investigate PJ's story. What evidence is there? She can interview people at the track who were there in 1987. She can consult the press coverage. And she can marshal up help from "Special Team Kate." They work in an atmosphere of prejudice and chauvinism, the same that surrounded PJ.

But Kate is at the Indy to run the biggest race of her career. To prepare she fills her days with driving on the track for practice, fulfilling sponsor obligations, promoting the IndyCar Series and as ever, playing peacemaker between the warring sides of her maternal and paternal families.

Before long one suspect in PJ's death turns up dead, all but confirming PJ was killed. So as Kate prepares to run the biggest race of her life she must narrow down the clues to not one but two murders, all while fighting for her own voice and identity through the storm of media attention. Will the past stay buried? Or will history repeat itself and leave Kate dead?

Kiss the Bricks is the 5th Kate Reilly mystery and takes its title from the Indy winner's tradition of kissing the track's Yard of Bricks in tribute to its legendary history.

Kate Reilly Mysteries:

Dead Man's Switch (Book 1)

Braking Points (Book 2)

Avoidable Contact (Book 3)

Red Flags (Book 4)

Kiss the Bricks (Book 5)

Praise for the Kate Reilly Mysteries:

"Read this book—but buckle in first. Believe me, you're in for a bumpy ride." —WILLIAM KENT KRUEGER, New York Times bestselling author for Braking Points

"This series always leaves me wanting more, so I cannot wait to keep reading and see what's next on the horizon for my fellow female racing driver!" —PIPPA MANN, IndyCar driver for Avoidable Contact

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781464207327

Tammy Kaehler

When Tammy Kaehler discovered the racing world, she was hooked by the contrast between its top-dollar, high-drama competition, and friendly, family atmosphere. Mystery fans and racing insiders alike have praised her award-winning Kate Reilly Mystery Series (Dead Man's Switch, Braking Points, Avoidable Contact, and Red Flags), and Tammy takes readers back behind the wheel in her fifth entry, Kiss the Bricks. She works as a freelance writer in Southern California, where she lives with her husband and many cars.

Book preview

Kiss the Bricks

A Kate Reilly Mystery

Tammy Kaehler

Poisoned Pen Press

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Copyright

Copyright © 2017 by Tammy Kaehler

First E-book Edition 2017

ISBN: 9781464207327 ebook

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

Poisoned Pen Press

6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

Scottsdale, AZ 85251

www.poisonedpenpress.com

[e-mail]

Contents

Kiss the Bricks

Copyright

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Indianapolis Motor Speedway

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

More from this Author

Contact Us

Dedication

To all the women who have been part of

(and who love) the Indy 500, especially the nine women who have taken the green flag.

Most of all, to Pippa Mann

for her inspiration on and off the track.

Acknowledgments

At no time have I asked readers to suspend disbelief more than in this book where I ask you to believe an Indy 500 driver has time to solve a mystery in the month of May—trust me, they’re too busy! That aside, the rest of the description of a driver’s life during that time is as accurate as I can make it, thanks to a group of generous souls who I think of as my Indy people (whether or not you live there). Thank you to Meesh Beer, Tony DiZinno, Patti Edwards, Carolyn Meier, Jon Paulette, and Liz Wittich. Extra special thanks to Steve Wittich and Patsy White who got me better inside access and information than I ever dreamed of.

One woman stands alone in the I couldn’t have done it without you category: Pippa Mann, five-time starter at the Indy 500, fierce competitor, crusader for breast cancer awareness, avid reader, and wonderful human being. She’s my primary source for what it’s like to be a participant in The Greatest Spectacle in Racing, and, I’m honored to say, she’s my friend. Thank you, Pippa, for your time and support. Any errors are mine!

Thank you to those who let me use your names, particularly those who made donations to worthy causes for the purpose: Beth Thomas (for Lead-Foot Lyla Thomas), John Dale (for Vallorie Westleton), Rick Hunt (for Maria Febbo), Rick Ollie (for himself), and Carolyn Meier (for Diane Wittmeier). Special thanks to Barb and Mary’s real Uncle Stan for your stories and inspiration.

For helping me tune a rough-running manuscript, thank you to my beta readers Christine Harvey, Carolyn Meier, Rochelle Staab, and Bill Zahren. For unwavering support and early feedback, thank you to my agent, Lucienne Diver of the Knight Agency. For always pinpointing exactly what can be improved (and also telling me what works), thank you to my incredible, incomparable Poisoned Pen Press editors, Barbara Peters and Annette Rogers. Also at Poisoned Pen Press, thank you to Rob, Raj, Diane, Beth, and everyone else who takes such good care of me.

Finally, thank you to my family for understanding when I do and don’t want to talk about it, for letting me go AWOL for a few months last year while panic-writing, and for never failing to cheer me on. I love you guys. And to Chet, thank you for our life. Here’s to the fun that’s ahead of us.

Indianapolis Motor Speedway

Indianapolis, Indiana

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Chapter One

Present Day

Bald John looked giddy, which confused me as I pulled into the pits after our first practice for the Indy 500. He didn’t speak, but helped me out of the car with a wide, goofy grin and unusually fumbling fingers.

Also confusing was my best friend, manager, and PR person, Holly Wilson, climbing over the low pit wall with a towel and a bottle of water—normally a crew member’s job. I saw the stern look on her face and fear clenched my insides.

I shouted to be heard through my helmet. What’s wrong?

She shook her head. Everyone’s fine. No one’s hurt. I have good news and bad news. Bad news first.

Do we have to do this again? Now?

I yanked off my gloves, helmet, balaclava, and earplugs. I wiped my face with the cold, wet towel she’d brought and looked up and down the Indianapolis Motor Speedway’s pit lane, seeing thirty-three other drivers talking with their engineers.

Why am I not doing the same?

I drank down half the water. As a babble of voices erupted from my Beermeier Racing team pit box, Holly glanced over her shoulder, worried.

My sense of unease increased. Tell me.

The bad news. She hesitated. This is only the first practice. Where you are in the finishing order doesn’t matter, because teams are playing with car setup. Position doesn’t mean anything.

I get it. I was last in this practice last year, but finished seventeenth in the race. I relived the overwhelmed feeling I’d had the year before, my first time driving at IMS and my first time attempting to qualify for one of the biggest races in the world. I’d nearly stopped breathing during the rookie test, when I proved I could handle speeds over 220 mph around the two-and-a-half-mile oval. The first full practice had been equally stunning, as I learned to deal with other cars on the massive track. In contrast, the practice a year later had felt good. I’d felt relatively comfortable with a car on the edge. I’d had fun.

What’s the problem? I asked.

Keep the bad news in mind.

I waved Holly on, bored of whatever this was. I wanted to talk to my engineer, though I saw he was busy with a small crowd of people—press?

Holly put a hand on my shoulder. The good news. She broke into a smile. Kate, you were the fastest in that session.

Her words didn’t register. What?

She pointed at the scoring pylon, the tall, electronic tower that soared over the track displaying the running or finishing order. Sure enough, my number was at the top.

I blinked twice, but the digits didn’t change. I sank down on the pit wall, unable to feel my legs. Holy shit, I whispered.

It’s a damn good start. She laughed, then sobered. But don’t let it go to your head. Stay calm when you talk with the media.

I glanced at the group in the pits again and finally understood what was happening.

You can be pleased, she went on, but don’t get cocky. The other teams—

I grinned at her. It doesn’t mean anything for qualifying or the race. But it’s sure as hell a better way to start than last place.

I turned back to the scoring pylon and the start/finish line of the legendary track. Position one: the number 82 car. Me.

Maybe this will be my year at the 500…

I had ten seconds to fantasize about drinking the traditional milk in the victory lane before my crew descended on me with back-slaps and hugs. After a few minutes of answering questions for the reporters going live on the PA or radio, I spent time talking with Nolan Oshiro, the genius engineer who made decisions about race strategy and technical details for me. But before we were done, a rep for the IndyCar Series, which I was driving in full-time that year, arrived to take me to the media center to talk with the press.

I hadn’t ever been called to the ground-floor interview room of the media building—a shorter, longer structure next to the Speedway’s famous pagoda tower—so I hadn’t known the drill. As a result, the other top finishers had come and gone, and I faced a couple dozen journalists alone.

The bottle of cold water I clutched—my second—helped me rehydrate after losing about five pounds in sweat over the course of the practice session, but it didn’t help me feel warm. Though I’d been overheated in the car, I already felt clammy from wearing a soaking-wet firesuit in the air-conditioned room. Plus I felt anxious, nervous.

The price of success.

At first, reporters asked the normal questions about how the car felt, if we had what it would take to win this year, and if I’d known I was that fast.

Then a voice spoke from my left. I have two questions. What does this mean for you? And do you think it’ll make more people take you seriously?

Is someone not taking me seriously? My name’s on the car. What’s not serious about that?

The male reporter dug himself deeper. There haven’t been many women running the 500, and none of them have come close to winning.

Third isn’t close to winning? I shot back.

Be nice, Kate. Educate, I reminded myself.

I tried again. People take me seriously. Will this get me more exposure in the rest of the world? I hope so. I’d love to bring more attention to this great race, to the Beermeier Racing team, and to my sponsors, Frame Savings and Beauté.

And to women drivers? he persisted.

Absolutely. Women can be fast and win anywhere men can.

A different man spoke. Were you thinking about beating the other woman in the field today? And how’s your relationship with Sofia Montalvo?

Don’t say she’s a bitch. Don’t say she’s a bitch.

Sofia and I are friendly, but I wasn’t thinking of her or anyone else. I was trying to get the most out of the car.

The other female reporter wagged a finger in the air and winked. You weren’t out there focused on the statement you were making for women?

I barely caught my snort of amusement. "I was thinking about hanging on, making adjustments with the anti-roll bars and weight jacker, and giving my team feedback to make the car better. That’s all I should think about at more than two-twenty."

The questions returned to more standard lines—what did my speed today mean for the race and what would my team change on the car before the next session. Then someone suggested I was the first woman in the 106-year history of the Indy 500 to ever top the speed charts.

Am I? Some of you know more race history than I do.

The reporters debated the question and the volume in the room escalated until one voice broke through.

No, she wasn’t, drawled a small, wiry man in his early fifties. He leaned against the doorframe, holding what looked like a change of clothes for me.

Everyone turned to him, and some reporters looked a question at me.

Uncle—er, Stan Wright, from Beermeier Racing. Expert mechanic. I wasn’t sure why he was there, but I’d found that Stan—who everyone on the team called Uncle Stan, regardless of age or relation—always turned up exactly when he was most needed.

Uncle Stan smiled. Just plain mechanic and sometime errand boy—checking up on you for Alexa. The last was directed at me, referencing Alexa Wittmeier, co-owner of Beermeier Racing, the team I drove for.

You said Kate wasn’t the first? one of the youngest reporters asked.

Uncle Stan nodded. Couple decades ago, PJ Rodriguez was the first.

Chapter Two

May 1987

The checkered flag flew to mark the end of the first practice for the 1987 Indianapolis 500, and the number 23 car’s crew slapped each other’s backs in disbelief. Noise from the small crowd on hand was drowned out by the roar of thirty-seven snarling V-6 and V-8 engines entering pit lane—but not before the crew heard boos mixed in with cheering.

At the front of the pit space, a crew member waved his arm up and down, and PJ pulled the car in. As she shut down the engine, the crew member approached, but PJ waved him off. He turned back to the pits, relief evident in the slump of his shoulders.

PJ unbuckled her belts and muscled herself out, perching on the rim of the cockpit, her feet on the seat. She pulled her helmet and balaclava off, shaking out thick, black hair, and wiped her forehead with a sleeve.

In contrast to other pit spaces, where crew members clustered around each car and driver, PJ sat alone. Her lips tightened briefly and she squared her shoulders before climbing the rest of the way out of the car, helmet in hand. Only then did she turn to look at the scoring pylon, frowning as she searched for her car number at the bottom of the list. Her first practice that year, only her second time attempting to make the race…she knew she’d be at the bottom of the speed chart. She looked again. Nothing.

Finally understanding, she looked higher on the pylon, her mouth dropping open as she followed the list of numbers all the way to the top.

Position 1: 23.

She froze, shocked. Certain there’d been some mistake. After a long minute, she turned her head and met the eyes of her race engineer, Jerry Watson. Really? How?

He shrugged and stepped closer to the pit wall, gesturing for a crew member to take PJ’s helmet. A fluke. He looked sternly at the joy spreading over PJ’s face. You did good—your fastest lap was 210.772 miles per hour. But don’t get ahead of yourself. We’ve got three weeks of on-track sessions before the race itself. Anything can happen. Some of the favorites didn’t even get out there today.

PJ waved an arm at the pylon, her enthusiasm undimmed. But they cannot say I can’t drive if I did this.

They’re gonna say whatever they want, kid. But you keep on believing. He glanced over his shoulder. And brace yourself, because here comes the press.

Within seconds, PJ was surrounded. Men with notebooks in hand tumbled over the pit wall and swarmed the pit space, pressing in on her.

PJ, did you know you were fastest while you were out there?

How did the car feel?

Did you really think a girl could go that fast?

Do you think you can do it again?

She heard a guffaw, and a low voice. Of course she can’t. She’ll probably collapse from the strain of this session.

Do you think people will say you’re too masculine if you go too fast?

As the men invaded her personal space and their questions continued to rain down, PJ felt her breaths grow more shallow and panicky. She let the sound wash over her and focused on slow, smooth breathing. A moment later, she threw up her hands, bumping three notebooks out of the way.

Enough, she shouted.

In the brief, shocked silence that followed, she spoke again. One at a time. No, I did not know my speed while I was in the car. Still, I don’t believe it. The car felt touchy and not so great in a couple of corners. Of course I thought I could go that fast. Being a girl—a woman—it has nothing to do with driving a racecar.

Now you’re getting all feminist on us—you one of those women’s libbers, PJ? one reporter asked.

If you mean do I think women can do anything they want to do? Then yes. But that does not mean I don’t appreciate men or want to—what is it? Burn my bra. Not that.

Another reporter eyed her chest. I’ll say. It looks plenty good where it is.

PJ crossed her arms and flicked a glance at the man’s crotch before giving him a pitying look.

Aren’t you afraid of being seen as too manly? That was from a different voice, on her other side.

She turned to face him. You tell me, am I ever going to look like a man?

He inspected her curves and grinned. No, ma’am, but behavior ain’t looks.

I do not understand why, if I am a good, fast driver, anyone else is less of a man. She shrugged. Maybe they need their manhood checked.

Some of the men muttered disapproving responses, but didn’t say anything loud enough for her to hear.

A woman in the back spoke up for the first time. "Lyla Thomas for Autoweek. Can I get some background? Where you’re from, racing history, that sort of thing?"

PJ was surprised at a woman being part of the macho press corps. I am twenty-six, my father is Mexican and my mother is American. I was brought up in the United States, Colombia, and Mexico City. I started racing go-karts at the age of eight, and then I moved into sportscars, then to formula cars. This is my second year trying to qualify here at Indy, because I didn’t pass the rookie test last year. She glanced at the scoring pylon. But I am clearly capable this year, no?

Some of the men laughed, grudgingly, she thought.

Lyla Thomas looked up from her notebook. What does PJ stand for?

PJ rolled her Rs. Patricia Julieta Rosamaria Rivera Rodriguez.

The reporter quirked the side of her mouth up. I see why you go by PJ.

PJ nodded at her as the questions started up again.

Do you think the other drivers on track stayed out of your way?

Why would they do that? PJ studied the man’s feeble attempts at a comb-over.

So you wouldn’t get hurt, he replied. Could that explain you being fastest?

Another man slapped his notebook with the back of his free hand. You’re onto something. That’s gotta be what it is. He turned to PJ. What if they won’t race you wheel-to-wheel?

PJ couldn’t help herself. Then they are weak.

You’re talking about champions! The men were indignant.

She shrugged. If they are afraid to race me…

A different reporter spoke up. Kevin Hagan, Associated Press. What do you have to say to the fans who think you shouldn’t be on the track? Who think you’re taking a seat a man should have?

"I say this is nineteen eighty-seven, and it is time for this conversation to be over. Women play sports. We race cars. Billie Jean King won the tennis match fourteen years ago, por Dios. If there’s a man who’s better than me, maybe he’d be standing here. Except that I was faster than your men today. Look at the list." She pointed to the pylon.

She heard a sharply indrawn breath and saw heads shake. Heard one man mutter, Not going to get you more fans.

PJ met the eyes of anyone who’d look at her. No one stayed out of my way today. I was faster. Maybe tomorrow I will not be—or maybe I will. But either way, I succeed because I work hard, not because someone gives me a gift.

She saw a young crew member signaling to her from the pit box. You must now excuse me and move so they can take the car to the garage. Thank you for your time. She walked away, the young crew member scurrying after her.

The reporters shifted out of the way of the crew, except for Kevin Hagan, who lagged behind and sidled up to the mechanic climbing in the car for the tow to the garage. How’s she to work with?

The crew member settled himself down in the seat. You know.

I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking. What’s she like?

The guy in the car glanced around and shook his head. There’s some as make it easy, and some that make you regret not knowing who the driver is before you sign a contract with a team. I’ll let you guess.

She don’t make it easy?

The crew member rolled his eyes. Off the charts. He grabbed Hagan’s arm. And off the record.

The reporter nodded. Anonymous source.

Meet me in an hour behind the garage for a cigarette, and I’ll tell you more.

Done. Hagan smirked as the car was towed away.

Chapter Three

Present Day

As I changed into the dry clothes Uncle Stan brought me, my thoughts ping-ponged between my own achievement and that of PJ Rodriguez.

I still can’t believe we were fastest today. That another woman was fastest decades ago—when there were hardly any women around. How much harder must it have been for her? And can I do it again?

Good job today, Uncle Stan said, as I emerged from the bathroom, once again dry. You figured the car out quick.

I only hope we can do it again. You know what the secret sauce was?

He chuckled. Good driver’s part of it. Other part’s Indy magic. Sometimes it hits. But you can’t ever count on it.

I didn’t know what had gone so right with the car either. Our team, like all of them, had unloaded the car and taken a stab in the dark at setup. I knew the others would find speed in the coming days, and some of us would lose what we’d found—or at least not make the same gains. But I’d had this day.

Before Uncle Stan and I exited the building, another driver came through the doors. The Spanish-born Sofia Montalvo stopped, a patronizing look on her beautiful face. I suppose I am to congratulate you?

Sofia and I had first encountered each other two years prior, when I’d subbed for one of Beermeier Racing’s drivers in the Indy Lights race at Long Beach. She’d been the only woman there at the time, and she hadn’t welcomed me. In general, that was fine. I didn’t expect to be friends or even friendly with every other driver I raced against. But few, male or female, greeted me with such disdain.

Women can tear each other down in ways men can’t even approach.

Now we were both in the IndyCar Series, I often regretted we didn’t have a mutually respectful and supportive relationship. But I couldn’t do it alone, and I’d long since realized it wasn’t worth the effort of swallowing her insults to make it happen.

I never expect anything, Sofia. But I hope you ran well today.

As if you care. She sniffed. Enjoy this attention. It is the last you will receive. Your little team with its pitiful budget, and you, with your inexperience, soon will falter. And the cream will rise to the top of the milk, you see?

You think that’ll be you? I snapped.

Perhaps. I have yet to peak, unlike you. She smiled and swept out of the room.

I made an aggravated noise. I shouldn’t let her get to me.

But she works so hard at it, Uncle Stan commented.

I shook my head and pushed open the door to the plaza, where we discovered fifteen or twenty fans waiting. As I did every time I was nearby, I looked up at the iconic pagoda, a tiered steel-and-glass tower that soared over the start/finish line and symbolized the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. I worked my way through the crowd, answering questions, signing autographs, giving quotes, or receiving hugs. I was enjoying the interactions until one over-beered fan shouted from a few feet away.

How much did you pay the other drivers to let you be fastest?

A passing crew member from another team—which one, I couldn’t see, due to the equipment slung over his back—nodded at the man who’d spoken. Girls don’t belong here. It’s a sport for men, not for girls pretending to be men.

The rude fan toasted the crew member, sloshing beer out of his cup. Exactly—I mean, are you a dyke or what? Because it’s fishy that a chick who qualified thirtieth last year is suddenly fastest today. Like there was a conspiracy to get the princess and her team more attention.

Am I a lesbian or a princess? I murmured, signaling Uncle Stan to ignore the taunts.

The fans around me shouted at the blowhard to shut up and argued with him about my talent and speed.

Do other drivers worry about racing you, he yelled at me, raising his head and voice to be heard, because they don’t want to wreck a girl?

What century is this guy from?

I shook my head. "Drivers are worried about beating each other—male or female—not about wrecking each other. Plus, the idea of a conspiracy is absurd. No one’s willing to sacrifice their team. We’re all trying to do our best. Ask

Reviews for Kiss the Bricks

[daniexj · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Heh. The Acknowldgements were cool. And for the most part so was the rest of the novel as well.Kate is racing at the Indy 500 again. Of course, it's not as easy peasy as that, or it would be a boring book.What happens is that Kate is the fastest car in the very first practice for Indy that year and suddenly she's being compared to another woman, PJ, who did that feat as well, but then ten days later PJ killed herself.Except, PJ's family doesn't believe that PJ committed suicide. Instead they think it was murder. And of course they've heard about what Kate has done at other races, solving crimes, and so they want her to investigate too.As the readers we get three things. We get a story at the Indy 500 in 1989 with PJ in it, and we also get the present day story with Kate preparing for her Indy 500. And of course, the third part of the story is Kate trying in her own way to investigate whether PJ dying was a suicide or murder.The racing stuff (both in the present and the past) was awesome as usual, and I even liked the tiny bit of romantic subplot that was in the book too.It was a very 'settled' book. For once the mystery didn't directly involve Kate and the drama with her family wasn't at the center of everything for this book either which was very nice. (From stuff in this book I have no doubt that they'll be back in the next book). But, for this book it was a nice, regular sort of mystery. Awesome!I got this ARC through Netgalley on behalf of Poisoned Pen Press.