Skating Around The Law (6 page)

Right, I mused. Kind of like the lion finds it interesting to play with a rabbit just before he eats it.

Dr. Truman pulled out a chair before I could come up with a good exit strategy. That's how I found myself sitting between him and the Cubs fan. A moment later, I was equipped with a beer and a stack of chips that I had to pay twenty-five bucks for. The beer was free.

Lionel shook his head at me and shrugged. “I guess since you're staying you should meet everyone. You know Dr. Truman?”

I nodded.

“I'm Tom Owens,” said the man in the jersey. “I teach physical education at the high school and coach the varsity football team.”

I turned toward the last man, who was seated across the table from me. “And you are?”

“You probably don't remember, but we went to high school together.” He leaned back in his chair. “Zach Zettel.”

I bit my lip and let my mind do a mental flip through the year-book. “You were really into cars, right?” If I remembered right, he also hung with the crowd that thought it was cool to drink their sodas with nose straws.

He grinned. “Still am. I own the auto body shop outside of town on Magnolia. If you ever have any car problems, make sure to give me a call.”

Lionel grabbed the cards from the center of the table. “Can we play poker now?”

I turned to Doc and whispered, “What are we playing?”

“What we always play.” Doc flashed another smile. “Texas Hold 'Em.”

My game. I did my best to look confused while doing an internal dance of glee.

Lionel shuffled the deck, and the cards were dealt. Tom leaned over to ask if I needed the game explained to me. The way he looked down my blouse, I was pretty sure he was more interested in playing doctor than teacher. “Thanks,” I said, “but I know how to play.”

My comment drew condescending smiles from everyone but Doc, who gave me a considering glance. Obviously Doc wouldn't fall for the dumb woman routine. I filed that information away for the future, and the game began.

I folded the first three hands immediately in order to get a feel for the way everyone at the table played. Besides, I needed time to come up with a strategy. In the city I played Texas Hold 'Em tournaments in bars and won more than I lost, but tonight I really didn't care if I raked in the chips. I wasn't here to take these guys' money. I was here to get information on Mack Murphy. The real question was: Would throwing the game make the men feel sorry enough for me to give me the information I wanted or would I just lose my money?

The room was deadly quiet as I peeked at my next hand.

Two aces. My conscience wouldn't let me fold. It was time to play.

Six hands later, Tom was out of chips. Most of them sat in front of me. Five hands after that, Zach went out in a blaze of glory, quickly followed by Doc, who volunteered to deal until the end of the game.

Now it was just me and Lionel. Since Tom and Zach looked bored, I decided to chat them up while playing my cards. “I guess you were all good friends with Mack.”

Lionel frowned at my obvious fishing, but Doc took the bait, saying, “Mack and I played cards for fifteen years. He built my wife's porch swing for our anniversary last year and wouldn't even let me pay for it. Insisted he couldn't take money from a friend.”

Lionel grunted and threw some chips in the pot. “He never had a problem taking my money.”

Interesting.

I raised my eyebrows, but Lionel didn't look up from his cards. Peeking at my hand, I added some chips to the pot and said, “I didn't know Mack well, but it was a big shock to find him in the girls' bathroom like that. I'm finding it hard to believe someone got murdered in Indian Falls.”

“It could have been an accident.”

We all turned to look at Tom, who was now seated on the couch looking miserable while drinking what had to be his eighth beer.

“What do you mean?” I asked, wondering what he knew that I didn't.

“Mack wasn't the healthiest eater. I should know. He was my best friend.” Tom sniffled. “I tried to get him to eat anything besides take-out food, but he wouldn't. Mack liked pizza and french fries. He wouldn't exercise, either. Maybe all that saturated fat caught up with him and he had a heart attack. Makes more sense than someone murdering him.” Tom teetered to the fridge and grabbed another bottle. He popped the top and staggered back to the couch with a shake of his head. I made a mental note to feed his keys to one of the goats.

“Hate to say, but it wasn't a heart attack. Did the autopsy myself. Mack's heart was fine.” Doc's face turned gray. All of a sudden he looked like he'd aged ten years. “Nothing sadder than to be forced to cut open a friend.”

I really wanted to change the subject and get Doc to smile. Only I couldn't—not if I wanted to get the case solved and the rink sold. I asked, “What do you think killed him?”

Doc made eye contact with everyone in the room, then slammed his hand on the table in frustration. “Damn it to hell. I might as well tell you. You're all going to find out anyway. Ever since the sheriff hired Roxy there aren't any secrets in this town.” Doc looked down at the table and lowered his voice. “Mack drowned.”

I blinked, then looked around the room. Everyone looked stunned, except Tom. He just looked drunk. “Drowned?”

“Yes. He blacked out and fell headfirst into the water and drowned.”

Now I was confused. “That sounds like an accident to me.”

“Would be except for those pills.” Doc took a sip of his barely touched beer. “I spent my whole day in Rockford having tests run on them. They weren't the kind of pill Mack would take for recreation. I won't tell you what they were, but I will tell you they caused Mack's blackout. In my opinion, Mack was murdered.”

Zach looked green, Lionel clenched a fist, and a choked sobbing sound came from Tom. I didn't think any of Mack's poker player friends had anything to do with his death, Lionel included. Maybe drawing conclusions from their reactions was a naive way to go about investigating a crime, but I couldn't change how I felt.

I threw some chips in the pot to nudge the subject back to poker and to taunt Lionel with a raise. Lionel gave me the first smile I'd seen from him all evening and called me. Doc dealt some cards, Zach offered me another beer, and the game was back on with Mack's ghost seemingly banished for the night. But I couldn't stop pondering those pills. Where did they come from, and who had given them to Mack?

“You play a good game of poker.”
Lionel grabbed two empty bottles off the table and pitched them into the trash. Elwood was standing in the doorway. I fed the camel a pretzel, and he happily munched. Meanwhile, Tom performed a great buzz saw impression while passed out on the couch. Doc and Zach had left about fifteen minutes ago, leaving me to help Lionel clean up the mess. I didn't mind, since I'd come to the conclusion that Lionel hadn't killed Mack. If I was wrong, Elwood would probably protect me.

“I mean it,” Lionel said, tossing an empty chip bag into the garbage can. “You bluff like a champ.”

I grinned, but I was distracted. This morning I had been intimidated by Lionel's body and the gore covering it. Now that he was showered and in a change of clothes, I could see the man cleaned up well. The room's temperature rose ten degrees and the back of my neck started to sweat as I contemplated just how well.

“Becky, if you don't stop looking at me like that, you're going to get more tonight than just my money.”

Oops. I realized I was sucking on my bottom lip and stopped. Unlike my grandfather, I wasn't looking for some quick action. Come to think of it, when it came to the men in Indian Falls, I wasn't looking for any action at all. I had men problems enough back in the city.

I turned away from Lionel and stacked the multicolored poker chips in their case. “Sorry, I must be tired.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lionel smirk as he said, “You're something, all right, especially in that getup. I thought Tom was going to bust a gut when you walked in the door.”

I shrugged. “I thought the clothes might be a good distraction while trying to get information about your friendship with Mack.”

“You could have just asked.”

“I didn't think that would work or I would have. You weren't too forthcoming this morning when you acted like Mack was just your handyman. How about I ask you now? What else can you tell me about Mack?”

Lionel sat down. He put his hands behind his head, swung his feet up on the table, and gave me a quizzical look. “I thought you worked with mortgages. Your mother never mentioned you were a private investigator, too. Did I miss that part?”

I sat down hard on a folding chair. “You talked about me with my mother?”

His smile disappeared. “A couple of years ago, your mother found a stray dog that had been hit by a car. She brought him to me. Every day she came to visit that dog while he was recuperating. After the dog was taken in by a family, she still kept coming once a week. Kay talked about you all the time. I felt like I knew you after all the stories I heard.” He flashed his pearly whites. “Boy, was I wrong.”

I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended. Actually, I was more than a little surprised he had been such good friends with my mother. She'd never mentioned him. Or had she and I hadn't paid attention? The latter possibility made my stomach ache.

Lionel put his feet flat on the floor. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked me square in the eyes. “So what do you want to know about Mack?”

I raised an eyebrow. “I heard that a couple of months ago Mack started taking money without finishing the jobs people paid him for.”

Lionel's forehead crinkled. “Mack used to be quick at completing jobs. He started dragging his feet recently. The change confused the whole town. He had a lot of run-ins with customers over their deposits, and more than one got heated.”

“Like who?”

“Well, Sheriff Jackson hired him to make some flower boxes. He pulled Mack over several times to remind him about the work. Your mom's friend Annette threatened to stick a curling iron up his ass if he didn't finish hanging her lights. Even Tom here got into it with Mack at last week's game. Claimed Mack was backing out of an agreement they had. I don't know what Mack said in return, but Tom jumped him. If Doc hadn't stepped in, Tom might have taken Mack's head off.”

I looked over at Tom, who was snoring peacefully with drool running down his chin. Didn't look all that dangerous to me. “Did you ever ask Mack why he was taking cash without doing the work?”

“Once. When he kept stalling work on my roof. I said I thought he was in trouble. He denied it.”

“Did you believe him?”

Lionel leaned back in his chair. “At the time I did. Mack finished the roof, and I forgot about the whole thing. Looking back, I'm not so sure. The last couple of weeks Mack looked nervous. During a poker game he mentioned having some project he was working on. Said it was going to bring in big money. I asked what the project was, but Mack wouldn't say. Claimed he didn't want to jinx it. I'm guessing he was using the extra cash to finance this scheme of his.”

“And whatever that was might have gotten him killed.”

Lionel shrugged. “I don't know. Mack liked talking big, so it could have just been him blowing smoke. You never knew with Mack. Still, he was one hell of a poker player.”

Men. A guy could be a lying, cheating swindler, but as long as he could play cards, men would think the jerk was worth his weight in gold. Funny, but what I'd learned so far made me wonder who, if anyone, really knew Mack. Lionel was Mack's friend, but he didn't seem to know anything personal about him. Maybe nobody did.

I asked, “Do you know where Mack lived?” Couldn't hurt to check out the place, right? Maybe I would find something there to explain the need for all that cash.

I thought Lionel wasn't going to answer. He stared at me for a moment with a strange look on his face. Then he gave me directions to Mack's place.

“You should be careful nosing around in other people's lives,” Lionel added. “Small towns don't like when strangers start meddling in their affairs.”

“I know,” I said. “I grew up here.”

“You've been gone a long time, Becky. You've made it clear you don't want to belong here.”

This was the second time he'd called me Becky. No one called me Becky, at least not since I was seven. Speaking of which, I was the one who was from this particular small town, not him.

Turning, I headed toward the door. “I should go. See you around, Lionel.”

From behind me I could hear Lionel's deep voice saying, “God help me.”

 

Pop had already left for church when I got up the next morning, which meant I could walk to the bathroom without fear of running into one of his girlfriends or her teeth. That was something I should probably have gone to church and thanked God for, but I chose to say my thanks in the kitchen with a strong cup of coffee.

I made myself some scrambled eggs, drank two cups of coffee, and read the paper while waiting for church services to end. Once the clock hit noon, I hopped in my yellow Civic and took off for the rink.

I turned my key in the lock, hit the light switch, and watched as the fluorescent lights flickered to life. I had to admit the rink really did look good. Before she died, Mom had the rink floor sanded and refinished. Now, instead of the scarred, bumpy wood of my youth, the floor was gleaming and smooth. A definite improvement.

Lacing up my white skates, I glided onto the floor and did a few laps. Scary, but it felt good to stretch my muscles and have the wind racing against my face. I wasn't the biggest fan of working out, but skating was different. Mom had laced me into skates after I'd taken my first steps, and as much as I fought against it, skating was a part of who I was.

Enjoying myself, I did another couple of laps, this time backward. When I didn't fall on my face, I was inspired to try a spin.

Bad idea. I teetered off balance and landed flat on my backside. Again.

I struggled to my feet, rolled off the floor, and kicked my skates into the far corner of the office. Now I remembered why skating wasn't fun for me. I had to face the reality that no matter how I tried, things weren't going to be much different for me here at the age of thirty.

I sat down at the desk and typed up employee schedules and a summer class list while trying to ignore the icky feeling growing in my chest. When the rink opened and laughing kids filtered in, I couldn't ignore it any longer. Leaving George in charge, I strolled out to my car. Time to head over to the sheriff's office for a progress report.

A sign on the sheriff's door said the office was out to lunch, so I pointed my car toward the outskirts of town and followed Lionel's directions to Mack's house. Maybe, if I was lucky, the key to unlocking his death was there. I'd find it, and then the townsfolk could put the murder behind them and I could sell the rink. Everyone would be happy.

 

Mack Murphy lived about three miles outside the Indian Falls city limits. The house was a large, bright red and white ramshackle structure surrounded by a tall wooden fence. I pulled into the driveway next to a blue Ford pickup.

I walked to the truck and tried a door handle. The door opened. Whoever towed it back from the rink parking lot hadn't bothered to secure the vehicle. My luck was looking up.

I climbed inside. One thing was certain—Mack Murphy was a big slob. There were candy wrappers, petrified french fries, and a variety of fast-food bags scattered throughout the cab.

Yuck. A half-eaten Mars bar was stuck to several receipts in the center console. I pried the paper away from the gooey candy and read between the stains. Several receipts were for gas stations in Indian Falls, and two were from towns about twenty minutes to the west. Pocketing the receipts, I jumped out of the cab and walked around the back of the truck. Heaving myself up, I climbed into the truck bed.

The back of the truck didn't yield any information, either. I found some tools, a few boards, some nails, and—wait, tucked inside the toolbox was a note to Mack from Annette. She was threatening legal action if her deposit money was not returned and warning him not to tell anyone about their other arrangement—or else.

I couldn't help wondering, or else what? Annette wasn't the type to go around threatening people. At least I hadn't thought she was. Suddenly I wasn't so sure, and that made me feel queasy.

I started to pocket the note, then thought better of it. When the sheriff finally left his petunias, he would start looking for evidence. The chocolate-covered receipts didn't look all that important, but this did, and obstructing justice wasn't on my to-do list. Paying Annette another visit was. There were a few blanks she needed to fill in. I put the note back where I found it and hopped down from the truck.

Back on the ground, I followed a graveled path to the porch and tried the front door handle.

Locked. No surprise there. I peered through the front windows and wandered around the porch trying to decide what to do next. Smashing a window wasn't a viable option, and I had no idea how to break in. Northern Illinois University hadn't offered a class on picking locks.

Ooof. My foot caught on something, and I found my nose pressed up against the porch's floorboards. I pushed myself up to my knees and brushed off my pants. First the tumble at the rink, and now I tripped on the welcome mat.

I looked down wondering if Mack was the kind of guy who left a key hidden in case of an emergency. I flipped over the welcome mat. Aha! Taped to the back was a key. Magnum PI, eat your heart out.

I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked the door behind me. Yikes! I suppose the mess in Mack's truck should have prepared me for his house. Still, I guess I'm an optimist. I had hoped for the best. Too bad it was worse.

The living room was strewn with clothes, tools, and what I hoped were empty fast-food bags and pizza boxes. Buried beneath the junk was a purple sofa. The walls were covered by faded red and white gingham wallpaper. Not my idea of country charm. Doreen would have a harder time selling this place than the rink—and nobody had died here.

A good investigator would no doubt search through the cardboard clutter. I, however, just kicked some pizza cartons out of my way and walked the almost cleared path to the dining room. If Mack had a secret, it would have to be in plain sight. I wasn't brave enough to risk dislodging any guests that had taken up residence in the debris.

The mess continued into the dining room, only now it was piled on an old dining room table and six chairs. To my surprise, the kitchen was in better shape. Sure, the floor could use a good sweeping, but there weren't any dishes in the sink, and the counter was free of crap. Baffling, to say the least.

Searching the drawers netted me some silverware and other cooking utensils. No clues. Same with the cupboards. The problem was, I was searching for a needle in a haystack and wasn't even sure I'd know the needle if I saw it.

Finished in the kitchen, I followed the back staircase upstairs to a narrow hallway. The scarred floorboards screeched with every step, making me shudder. I thanked God it was still light outside. Walking around a dead man's house in the dark would have been too creepy.

The first door off the hallway opened into a bathroom. Since I didn't think soap scum and bathtub ring were going to help me, I moved to the next door. Unmade queen-sized bed, scattered clothes, overflowing hamper—must be Mack's bedroom. I rifled though his dresser drawers, trying to ignore the stained underwear and shirts. Nothing there.

I looked around the room, certain there had to be something here. His bedroom was an obvious hiding place, right? So I had to ask myself—if I were Mack, where in my room would I hide something important?

Looking at the bed, I remembered Pop telling me about people he knew using their mattresses as safe deposit boxes during the Great Depression. They shoved all sorts of savings and important documents among the feathers and springs. What were the chances that Mack had heard the same stories? He already hid a key under a welcome mat. Would he actually hide something important under his mattress? It couldn't be that easy, right?

I sent the bedding and pillows flying as I lifted the mattress up and looked underneath. Blinking twice, I grinned. Mack's lack of creativity wasn't very bright, but it was convenient. Taped to the underside of the mattress were three envelopes. I peeled one loose and let the mattress fall back onto the box springs.