Skating Around The Law (15 page)

I motioned for them to come into the booth. They grinned like fools and made a dash for the door. Diane and Brittany needed to get out more. A visit to the roller rink sound booth shouldn't be the highlight of any teenager's day.

The two girls piled into the cramped space. I scooted my chair back to accommodate the extra bodies.

Diane looked around the tiny booth with wide eyes. “Wow, I've never been in here before. This is cool.” Imagine what she'd say about seeing a building over three stories tall. Maybe she should try out Des Moines before making the move to Chicago.

I smiled at the two of them. “Would you guys like to pick out the next CD?”

They gave me another “I can't believe my luck” look, then dove into the rink's music library. Both wore triumphant expressions as they came up with a CD by a band I'd never heard of. Mom must have been hipper than I was to have bought it.

I let Brittany put the CD in the changer. Turning to Diane, I said, “I missed you at the diner today. There was a big crowd after Mack's funeral.”

Diane shot Brittany a look, then said, “I know. I was supposed to work this afternoon, but Sammy and Mabel closed the diner for tonight. The place was a mess. When I showed up there was food and broken plates everywhere. Were you there when all that happened?”

“I left after the first french fries went flying,” I said. “I'm still making payments on my leather blazer. Mashed potatoes stain.”

Brittany's lip started to tremble, and her chin lifted as she said, “The whole thing was my fault.” I thought the pride in Brittany's voice was a nice touch.

I shook my head. “Unless you cut school and were hiding under a table with a fistful of spaghetti, you can't claim responsibility. Trust me. You can't control your grandparent.” I understood this better than anyone. Grandparents had sex and threw food no matter how much you wanted them to behave.

Diane put her arm around Brittany. “Rebecca's right. You didn't tell your grandmother to trash the diner. She did it all on her own.”

Brittany shook Diane's arm off her shoulder. “My mother told me it was my fault. My grandma's friends told her that I ruined a statue at the church. Only I didn't. I swear I don't know what they're talking about.”

Brittany wouldn't be my first choice for town vandal. Pop would. “Why do they think you did it?” I asked. “Do they have any proof you did something?”

“Of course not.” Brittany straightened her shoulders. Her trembling lip ruined the defiant pose.

“Then what?”

Diane blurted out, “It's the hair. Ever since she dyed her hair everyone thinks Brittany's out to cause trouble. I said she should dye it back to blond. She won't do it.”

“I shouldn't have to.” Brittany glared at her friend. “Just because I have black hair doesn't mean I stole a piece of the church statue. I shouldn't have to change my hair to prove it.” I nodded in agreement. Encouraged, Brittany said, “Rebecca, you're a detective. If you took my case you could find the real person who ruined the statue and clear my name.”

“Wait a minute,” I protested. “I'm a mortgage broker, not a detective. I'm only looking into Mack's murder because I feel guilty that he died in my rink.” I'd used that excuse so many times I was almost starting to believe it.

Neither of the girls seemed to care. “You're good at asking questions,” Diane said firmly.

Brittany nodded. “Besides, you're on my side. I know you can prove I didn't do it.”

I studied the two wide-eyed teenagers. They looked so hopeful. Their eyes sparkled with faith—in me. My resolve caved. At least this case didn't involve a dead body.

“Okay,” I agreed, blowing a curl off my forehead. “Tell me what they say you did. I'll ask around and see what I can find out.”

Brittany launched herself at me. I found myself the recipient of a grateful hug. “You're the best,” she said with a happy smile.

I was a pushover.

Brittany gave me a rundown of her problem, with alternative music playing in the background. “I went to church with my family this Sunday at St. Mark's. After mass a bunch of us hung around the back of the sanctuary waiting for our families to leave. The next day a part of the Jesus statue was missing. The pastor ‘remembered' I was standing near it the day before.” Brittany made quotation marks in the air to emphasize her point. “I guess that's why everyone thinks I had something to do with it, but I didn't.”

I promised Brittany I'd do my best to clear her name, and the two girls raced off to the concession stand. They needed sodas. Good for me, since I needed to ponder Brittany's problem without contracting a case of claustrophobia. With the girls gone, the booth felt downright roomy.

I tried to picture the Jesus statue from this morning, but all I remembered was the casket and the flowers. No statue. I was going to have to visit the scene of the crime. That was the only way I could understand exactly what happened.

I left George in charge of changing the music and slipped out the side door of the rink. The early May evening was warm and inviting. The smell of lilacs filled the spring air. I decided to enjoy it by walking.

The St. Mark's sanctuary was deserted when I walked through the double doors. I spotted what might be Brittany's statue on the right-hand side in the back of the church. The thing stood about six feet tall and was a modern styling of Jesus hanging on the cross. The artist had used a combination of copper and silver. Both were extremely tarnished, and while I'd studied the Crucifixion in catechism class, never once did our teacher mention Jesus looked like Herman Munster with a bad perm. No offense to Jesus, but this statue was ugly. It also had a gaping hole in the center of Jesus's feet. The statue was missing a nail.

I glanced at both hands. Both had their nails. Curious, I stood on my tiptoes. I reached for the stake in Jesus's right hand and gave it a tug. The piece of metal slid out of the statue, accompanied by a soft scraping sound. It looked like…Wait a minute.

I rummaged through my purse, and my fingers touched metal. I pulled out the thing I'd found sticking out of my tire. It was an exact match of the nail in Jesus's hand.

I swallowed hard. Someone had tried to crucify my car.

“Hello, can I help you?”

I turned to see the skittish woman from Annette's salon. Her eyes grew wide as she looked down at the nails in my hand.
Great,
I thought. She already acted like I was an axe murderer. Now she'd add church vandal to the list.

“Hi.” I gave her a bubbly smile. “I heard about the problem the church was having with this statue. Do you mind me taking a quick look?”

The woman took a step back and offered me a stilted shake of her head. “No. Why do you think I would mind?”

The tremor in her voice belied her words. This woman was scared to death—of me. Trying to put her mind at ease, I said, “I don't think we've officially met. I'm Rebecca Robbins.” I held out my hand. She glanced at it, but her own hand didn't move.

“I know,” she said in a clipped voice. I raised an eyebrow, and the woman quickly added, “I'm Danielle Martinez.”

Of course, I thought. Annette had told me that. “Do I know you?” I asked, giving her a closer assessment. Curly brown hair, dark eyes, large chest. I couldn't place where I'd met her before.

Danielle held a hand up to her face. Her breath coming faster, she backed away from me. “I don't think so. I moved here less than a year ago.”

I shrugged, thinking I must be wrong, then noticed a tiny butterfly tattoo on Danielle's hand. I knew that tattoo from somewhere. Memories of my boss's birthday party last summer sprang to mind. Or maybe it was Christmas. The office parties were all alike, annoying.

“Have you ever lived in Chicago?” I asked.

All color drained out of Danielle's face. She took several steps backward, almost tripping over a pew in the process. “I really have to go,” she stammered. “The pastor is in the back if you need anything else.”

I watched the back of her disappear down the aisle. The woman was strange, I thought. Then I looked down at my right hand, which was clutching two of the statue's nails.

Oops. I shoved my tire's nail back into my purse and slid the other one into Jesus's hand with a grimace. I know he was made of metal, but it still looked like it hurt.

I almost skipped back to the rink. I now knew I could prove Brittany's innocence. My car's tire was punctured yesterday around twelve. There was even an official report to prove it. My report combined with a copy of the high school's attendance record would clear Brittany's name. Not bad detective work for a mortgage broker.

Back at the rink I searched the dimly lit interior for my favorite goth teen. She and Diane were flirting with a couple of guys in the concessions area. I stepped out of the way of a young girl racing out of the bathroom on her skates and crossed to them.

“Brittany, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Brittany's dyed hair swished as she looked up at me. “Sure, Rebecca.” She gave a cutesy finger wave to the guys before following me back to my mom's office.

I closed the door behind us. Turning, I asked, “Were you in school yesterday?”

Brittany cocked her head to one side. “Yeah, why?”

“Then you're cleared.” I smiled with triumph. I explained to her about my tire and how the timing of it all added up to one conclusion—someone else did the deed.

Brittany's eyes lit up. She gave me a quick hug. “I gotta tell my grandma. She'll make sure everyone knows I didn't do it.” Brittany took three steps toward the door before stopping. “Rebecca, who took the nail out of the statue and spiked your tire?”

“No idea,” I admitted, “but odds are it's someone who attends your church.” Staking out the church during Sunday services occurred to me. Only, it not being my church, I'd stick out like a sore thumb. Looking at Brittany gave me an idea. “Would you mind keeping your ears open at church this Sunday? You could let me know if you hear anything unusual.”

Brittany bobbed her head up and down. Then, with a happy little skip, she flew out of the office to tell everyone she was exonerated. If only the Mack Murphy case were as easy to solve. Hopefully the Lutheran spy network would turn up a lead this Sunday.

 

“Holy cow. Would you look at that?”

I bolted upright in my bed. The sound of my grandfather's voice rang through my bedroom. I blinked. It was pitch black in my room. The alarm clock glowing next to my bedside table read three in the morning. I groaned. Flopping back on the bed, I pulled a pillow over my head. I did not want to listen to my grandfather dancing the mattress mambo.

“Rebecca, get out here.”

I shoved the pillow to the side and sat up. My grandfather's voice sounded weird. It was more startled than excited. Leaping from the bed, I flung open the door and raced to his bedroom.

No Pop.

I turned and did a fast sprint down the hall to the stairs. My grandfather was standing in the living room looking out the big picture window. The room seemed to glow with a strange light. I walked over to stand next to my grandfather.

“Pop, what's going—” My voice deserted me as I gaped out the living room window. My heart raced with a combination of shock and fear.

There was a cross burning in our front yard.

The orange and gold flames
lit up the dark night. The fire created a strangely beautiful glow despite the creepy nature of the source.

I swallowed hard and looked at Pop, who was watching the fire with rapt fascination. I turned back toward the window. Wait a minute. That wasn't a fiery cross at all. The fiery object was Louise's scarecrow Santa.

My eyes welled up, and my lip started to tremble.

The rink had been vandalized. My car tire had been crucified. Now Santa Scarecrow was being burned at the stake for crimes against humanity. The threats were escalating.

Freaked, I ran to the kitchen and dialed the sheriff's department. No answer. I tried the fire department. It took six rings, but finally a sleepy voice answered.

“There's a fire in my grandfather's front yard,” I shouted. “Someone needs to put it out.” The word “fire” got the guy's attention. He sounded wide-awake while promising to have a truck here in no time.

“No time” took exactly eighteen minutes. Pop and I almost went for the hose ourselves, but the fire was dying a natural death, and we weren't sure if the pyromaniac was still in the vicinity. When the fire truck pulled up to the curb, two guys in dark fire-resistant pants, fire hats, and big yellow jackets jumped out of the cab to do battle with a scarecrow.

After several minutes, they figured out how to turn on the hose. By that time the flames had almost gone out. A little water and the last of the fire was history. Personally I was amazed the scarecrow had burned as long as it did. The lawn decoration wasn't that big. Louise must have used extremely durable materials.

Pop and I moved outside to stand on the lawn. Neighbors from up and down the block were walking down the street toward our house. We all stared at the charred, wet remains of Louise's arts and crafts project. My garden gnome had melted into a black pile of goo. His hat was the only thing left of him. Too bad, I thought with a sniff. I kind of liked him.

Pop shook his head. “We should have got us a bag of marshmallows. We could have roasted them before the fire department got here. I still would have lost sleep, but at least I would have gotten a late-night snack.”

Someone had played Ku Klux Klan at our house and my grandfather was thinking about campfire treats. I, however, didn't think my stomach would hold down food. My shoulders knotted as the impact of this event hit me. Pop's house could have caught on fire. Pop could have been killed. Pop might be a little sex-crazed, and he occasionally drove me nuts, but he was my family. I didn't have much of that left. I needed him. More than that, I loved him. If anything happened to Pop I…

“I'm going to talk to the Sloans.” Pop pointed to a gaggle of people congregated by the fire truck. “Wally's going to want to know what happened. He needs the facts so he can tell everyone at the Elks Club tomorrow night. They like to think they're in the know.”

My legs shook as I watched my grandfather stroll down the driveway. Slowly I sank to the ground. I wanted to control the panic coursing through me, but I couldn't. I didn't know what to do. Getting in my car and driving as far away from Indian Falls as possible seemed like a really good idea, but I couldn't. At least not yet. My mother needed me to take care of the rink until someone else could be found. I had to stay no matter how much the dripping, charred remains of the scarecrow terrified me.

“Becky?”

I looked up at a disheveled Lionel peering down at me. Before I could say a word, he leaned down and took me in his arms. He held me tight. His hands stroked my hair until my trembling subsided. Even then he continued to hold me. I felt safe, and safe wasn't a commodity I had a lot of right now.

After a few minutes of being a wimpy girl I pulled away. There was no way Lionel saw the flames from his farm ten miles away. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

Lionel shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. His mouth flashed a lopsided grin.

“I'm a volunteer fireman. The kid who got your call didn't know what to do, so he called everyone on the list.”

I looked toward the street. The two lone firemen were struggling to get the hose loaded back onto the truck. “Where is everyone else?”

“If they're smart, they're still in bed.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So what does that make you?”

“A guy who should have his head examined.” He ran a warm hand down my bare arm, causing little goose pimples to appear on my skin. “For some strange reason, I care what happens to you.”

Wow, I thought, that had to be the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. That either meant I was having a great moment or my life was completely pathetic.

“I'm going to have to find another place to stay,” I told him. “I don't want to put Pop in danger.”

“Don't you think you should let him make that choice?”

“I know what he would say.” I looked out toward the road. Pop's hands were gesturing furiously at a group of curious neighbors. He looked like a choral conductor leading a slumber-party glee club. A vise clamped around my heart and tightened as I watched him smile. “No. I can't chance it. He's all I've got. I'm not going to sit here and wait for Pop to get hurt. Tomorrow morning I'll look for a new place to live.” I gave Lionel my best stoic smile. Despite my bravado, the water pressure rose behind my eyes.

Lionel dropped my hand. He jammed his in his back pockets and stared at me for a good long time. Looking away, he muttered, “You can move in with me.”

Huh? I tried to inhale. My lungs had forgotten how to work. Did he say “Move in with me”?

His head tilted downward. “I have a guest bedroom. You need a safe place to stay. It makes sense.”

Only if I wanted to be the town Jezebel. Funny, the offer, along with the ensuing gossip, could have sounded tempting had Lionel offered to share his bedroom. Only I wasn't looking for a relationship. Something told me Lionel was the church-ceremony-and-wedding-cake type. Sex I could handle on the rare occasion I had it. Commitment was something very different, especially if the guy liked living in Indian Falls. I lived in Chicago, and despite my recent setbacks, that wasn't going to change no matter how great the guy or the sex. So why tempt myself?

“Thanks for the offer, but I don't think it's a good idea. Besides”—I swallowed hard—“I already have a place to stay.”

“You do?”

I closed my eyes and nodded. “I'm going to stay at the rink.”

 

I stood with my suitcase in the open doorway of Mom's rink apartment. Nothing had changed since I'd come in here with Doreen. The Cleaning Fairy hadn't come along with a can of furniture polish to save me the job. I'd have to dust the place myself.

If I ever got past the entryway.

I couldn't move. My feet refused to take those extra steps. Not without Mom. The back of my knees began to sweat, and my heart raced. How was I going to live here if I couldn't even make it as far as the bathroom? My life was going to get awfully messy if I couldn't figure it out.

“Hello?” Pop's voice made it up the stairs. A few moments later, he walked past me into the apartment. Pop turned with a frown. “What are you doing here, Rebecca?” He gave a pointed look at the suitcase at my feet.

Darn it. It appeared I'd underestimated my grandfather's psychic abilities.

Shuffling my feet, I answered, “You said you were going to the sheriff's office to file a report about last night.”

“Roxy isn't there.” Pop gave me a stern look. “And neither were you when I got home. Lucky for me that Harold from across the street saw your car heading downtown. Now I want to know what the heck you're doing here.”

“Moving in.” I gave him what I hoped was a chipper smile. “You're used to your privacy, and I didn't want to overstay my welcome.”

“That's a lie, and you know it.” Pop wagged his finger. “Tell the truth. You didn't want me to get killed by a scarecrow-burning murderer.” My jaw dropped. Pop grinned. “You were a terrible liar as a child. You need to work on that, because all the good detectives lie like champs.”

“I'm a mortgage broker,” I replied.

Pop shrugged off my comment and wandered around the living room. “Right now you're working on Mack's murder, and you're cutting me out of the action.”

“That's not what I'm doing,” I protested.

He shook his head. “I may be old, but I'm not stupid. Now, I appreciate you caring about my health and all, but I don't like you moving out without talking to me first. I'm your grandfather, and I deserve at least that much respect.”

“I didn't want to worry you.”

“I'm not worried, I'm pissed off.” Pop stalked around the sofa glaring at me. “You run around town asking questions. You stir up trouble and have fun. Meanwhile I'm stuck with Louise and her Santa scarecrow crap.” He sat down on the sofa, sending up a puff of dust. “I'm tired of being left out of the good stuff.”

Good stuff? “What good stuff?”

Pop huffed. “You look for clues and shake things up. You're looking for the truth about Mack. I can help you do that, but not if you're living here.”

I rolled my eyes. “This isn't Zimbabwe. Your house is four blocks away.”

“That's my point.” Pop slapped his hand against a seat cushion. Another wave of dust flew through the air. It was going to take more than a little furniture polish to get this place livable.

Pop didn't seem to notice the dust. He bounced on the couch, waving one hand in the air. “All the exciting stuff will be happening here. I'll be stuck at home doing nothing.”

Apparently, winning gold in the Bedroom Olympics had lost its luster. Pop's cheeks were flushed with emotion. His eyes were bright with hurt and resentment. Both chipped at my resolve.

“You're very important to my investigation, Pop. You got the name of the drug out of Eleanor, and you're my best source of Indian Falls gossip. I need you.”

“Then move back home.” He gave an imperious wave of his hand.

“This is my home, Pop.” The words echoed in the room. Pop gave me a sharp look. I took a deep breath and corrected, “This was my home, and moving in here makes sense. I need to clean it up and get it ready to sell, and living here will help me do that.”

I turned away from Pop and reached down for my suitcase. Before he could say another word, I forced my feet down the hall to the second door on the right. I took a deep breath and walked into my old bedroom.

When I was a kid the room was filled with posters of Chicago. Chicago Cubs, Michael Jordan, the skyline—anything that was the city and not Indian Falls. Now the tribute was gone. The walls were painted a light green, while the high ceiling was a bright white. It matched the molding around the two windows that looked out on the parking lot and a small park. Mom had redone the room a little over a year ago, along with the kitchen and the rest of the rink. I'd never had a chance to stay in it before she died. I'd never even seen it.

Standing here, I could feel my mother's touch. I bit my lip as a wave of sadness hit deep in my chest. Mom knew I was never going to live here again, but she'd made this room beautiful anyway.

I walked to the window and looked down at a framed photo sitting on the sill. I picked it up and smiled. The picture had been taken two years ago. Mom and I were smiling at the camera. Behind us was the skyline of Chicago. Mom had loved me enough to let me find my own life even if it meant her beloved rink would have to be run by someone else someday. I missed her so much, yet somehow standing here in the room she'd decorated made me feel less alone.

I dropped my suitcase and headed down the hall to the utility closet. It was time to make Mom's place clean.

I conned Pop into beating the dust out of cushions and vacuuming. For a home-cooked meal Pop would do anything. I washed the floors and got the kitchen in serviceable condition. Once the place was aired out and dust-free, I drove us both to the sheriff's. Roxy wasn't there, but Deputy Holmes was lounging against the counter. Looking at him made me chuckle. The guy was eating a doughnut.

Pop sauntered up to the counter. “Hey, Sean. We missed you at the barbecue last night.”

Deputy Sean straightened his shoulders and did his best impression of a cop. “I heard about your problem. Too bad I slept through the call.” He winked at Pop, making me cringe. I was positive I didn't need to know about Sean's sex life.

I stopped the two men from comparing sexual notes by interjecting, “My grandfather and I would like to file a report.”

Deputy Sex God shrugged and went in search of the appropriate paperwork. A few minutes later, Pop signed his name to the bottom of an incident report. Handing the clipboard back to Sean, Pop said, “Hey, any news on the Mack Murphy case?”

Sean's doughnut froze halfway to his mouth. A lazy grin spread across his face. “We're closing in on the perpetrator.”

Pop threw back his head and let out a cackle. “You don't have a clue, do you? Maybe you should think about asking my granddaughter here for some help. She's a crackerjack investigator, you know.”

Sean's eyes narrowed, and the doughnut dropped to the counter with a soft thud. Uh-oh. That was definitely our cue to leave.

I grabbed Pop by the arm. He shot me a dirty look as I dragged him out the front door.

“What do you think you were doing in there, Pop?” I demanded.

“Getting information.”

He looked so innocent I almost believed him.

Before I could respond Pop asked, “Where are we going next?”

I pointed to the car. “To the grocery store, then back to the rink.”

“What about the case?” Pop frowned. “We should be out running down clues. What about finding the bad guy?”

I'd already upset Pop once today. I didn't have the heart to upset him again, and I did have one person I needed to question. It couldn't hurt to take Pop along. Lionel could lie to me, but maybe he'd have a hard time lying to my grandfather. The vet was the respect-your-elders type, and Pop was definitely elder.