“Been a NASCAR superstar. She had … ” Padgett curled her fingers, seeking the right word. “Flash!”

“That’s a racing term?”

“My term.” She smiled ruefully. “Cindi could make love to a car, could sweet-talk all that horsepower into doing whatever she wanted. And she was developing style. Yeah, she had flash. The fans would have worshipped her.”

“Cale’s father disagrees.”

“Craig Bogan.” Padgett snorted derisively. “There’s a piece of work.”

“You don’t care for him?”

“I haven’t seen that jackwagon in over a decade. Thank the Lord.” Padgett tilted her head, throwing shadow from the cap’s brim across her features. “Bogan hated me.”

“Why was that?”

Padgett hesitated. Then gave me the full force of her big brown eyes.

“Sin of sins. I slept with his precious son.”

Chapter 32

“YOU WERE CINDI’S FRIEND.”

“Yes. I was.”

“Yet you betrayed her by sleeping with her boyfriend.” I struggled to sound nonjudgmental.

“Awesome, huh?” “More than once?”

She nodded.

Thunder rumbled, long and low.

“Lord almighty, I hope this weather won’t cause a delay.”

“How did that play?” I asked.

“It wasn’t grand romance, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What was it?”

She sighed. “The usual. I was sixteen. Cale was older, seemed worldly and sophisticated. We were both horny as hounds in heat.”

“Did Cindi know?”

“I don’t think so. She was a trusting person. Very sweet.”

“But not putting out.” Despite my resolve, disgust filtered through.

“You’re right. I was a world-class bitch.”

Rain was drumming the plastic canopy now. Padgett poked her head out, looked up at the sky, then at her watch.

“Bogan learned that you and Cale were cheating on Cindi,” I guessed.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Does that really matter?”

Probably not.

“He resented you because he cared for her.”

Padgett looked at me as if I’d said warthogs could fly. “How much effort have y’all put into this investigation?”

“I’m new to the case.”

Padgett assessed me for a long moment. “Craig Bogan hated Cindi Gamble as much as he hated me. Maybe more.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

She spread her arms. “What do you see?”

“Ms. Padgett—”

“Seriously.” She held the pose.

Though the jumpsuit was far from slimming, I could tell Padgett’s body was fit and trim. She wore a string of red beads around her neck, probably coral. The subtle touch of femininity showed a flair for fashion that I’ve always admired but never possessed.

Padgett’s makeup was understated and skillfully applied. And completely unnecessary.

“You’re a beautiful woman—” I began, slightly embarrassed.

“Black woman.” She dropped her arms to her sides. “A beautiful black woman.”

“You’re saying Craig Bogan is a racist?”

“The man is a Neanderthal.”

As I’d suspected.

“And Cale wasn’t?”