Skating Over the Line (10 page)

Roxy lent me her magazine as she typed the report. I feigned interest in Mel Gibson's life while she plucked keys on the computer. Sadly, Mel wasn't interesting enough to distract my mind from exploding cars and angry thugs. So when the printer started whirring, I asked, “How's the investigation on my dad's car coming? Does Sean have any leads?”

One perfectly penciled eyebrow raised in my direction. “Deputy Holmes is working very hard to find the person responsible. I'm sure he'll catch the thief any day, especially now that you've come in and given a description. This guy will be easy to spot in Indian Falls.”

I couldn't deny that. But somewhere in my brain I wasn't sure the big guy was the thief.

Roxy handed me the report. I signed it and took my copy, all the while wondering if maybe the guy had just been a witness to the crimes and was trying to share information. He struck me as the type that would avoid cops. Then again, maybe his own car had been stolen and he wanted my help. There were too many maybes for me to swallow. Until there was some kind of evidence linking my Spanish-speaking visitor to the cars and the fire, I wasn't about to call the case closed.

As I walked toward the front doors, a question popped into my head. “Hey,” I said with my hand on the door frame. “Do they know what type of accelerant the thief used to torch Jimmy's car?”

I waited for Roxy to shoot me down with a snide remark. Instead, she took her seat behind the counter and said, “Gasoline. Jimmy's car was soaked in it. So was the mannequin. Then they were both set on fire. Make sure you take care of yourself.”

Stunned, I walked into the bright sunshine. Roxy had been nice. She was never nice, especially when I poked my nose into police business. And she never gave me useful information. Either Roxy had started taking Precious's medication or she thought my life was about to come to an end. Something told me I wasn't lucky enough for it to be medication. My day was going downhill fast.

I walked next door to the bakery and purchased a banana nut muffin and two chocolate croissants. By the time I pulled into the rink parking lot, I had polished off one croissant and was working on the other. The flaky combination of chocolate and butter restored my sense of optimism. Besides, if someone was waiting to kill me, I could bribe them with the muffin. No one would choose blood and death over one of Mrs. DiBelka's banana nut creations.

I drove around the parking lot, clutching the bakery bag and looking for mysterious figures lurking in the shadows. Thank goodness there weren't any. I would live another day and get to eat the muffin. Things were looking up.

I took a peek into the stairway leading to my apartment and let out a sigh of relief. No freaky guys in sight. With the coast clear, I ran upstairs to shower and change.

I flipped on the lights and crossed through the expansive living room to the bathroom, feeling safer with every step. Sensing my mother's presence always had that effect. After Dad left us, she and I had moved into the rink apartment and created a safe space for the two of us. Before that, we'd lived in a rambling old farmhouse with four big bedrooms and a big backyard. Come to think of it, the house was kind of like Lionel's.

Weird.

At the edge of my parent's farmhouse yard had stood a large oak tree. There I practiced for my dream job—an aerialist with the Barnum & Bailey Circus. My dream died the day Dad left and Mom and I had to move. Huh. Now that I thought about it, my father's desertion had probably helped me live through puberty.

I showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a copper tank top. Then, standing in Mom's gourmet kitchen, I tried to talk myself into going downstairs. This apartment felt safe. Anything outside of it didn't. But hiding felt like a wimpy, girl thing to do, and I hated feeling wimpy more than I liked feeling safe.

Well adjusted I wasn't.

Grabbing my purse, I went downstairs to work in the rink. While George skated around the wooden floor, I paid some bills and returned phone calls. Scheduling three birthday parties and enrolling six kids in the upcoming group skating lessons helped the rink's bottom line, but it did nothing for my deductive abilities. So I strapped on a pair of skates and joined George on the floor.

I pumped my legs from side to side, gaining momentum as I traveled the dimly lit length of the rink. Unless there was a class or a private lesson in progress, George and I kept the lights low and the music off. Without the fluorescent lights and pumping bass, the rink took on a relaxing, almost soothing atmosphere. The combination also helped keep the electricity bill down.

George executed a perfect triple-loop jump in the middle of the floor while I whizzed around the boards, taking mental inventory of what I knew about the car thefts. Both Jimmy and my father had parked their old cars in well-used parking lots. The thief either had liked the added risk of being caught or hadn't thought anyone would notice him. I liked to think that meant the guy was a local. That would narrow it down, since the guy who'd accosted me last night would stick out like a sore thumb in this town. However, Indian Falls's citizens were a trusting group as a whole. If a thief waved at them while hot-wiring a car, the citizen would probably wave back, whether they knew him or not.

Starting to sweat, I spun around and traveled the floor backward. The thief might have called Jimmy's insurance agent, he might have been in the diner two nights ago, and he might have attacked me last night. But might haves weren't helping me right now. I needed to study what I knew for certain. I knew for sure that the thief had stolen two cars and torched one of them with gasoline. A mannequin had also been set ablaze. And despite the fact the hay field had been dry, it hadn't gone up with the car or the doll. I had no idea why the thief had set a recently stolen car on fire or how he'd managed to save the field from going up in smoke, but I wanted to find out.

For that, I needed a fireman.

 

Nine

The Indian Falls Fire Department
was located five blocks from the rink, right next to Dr. Truman's office. Given this proximity, I guessed that Dr. Truman wasn't just the local doctor and coroner; he was also one of the paramedics.

The heat index was climbing as I parked across from the station. Music was pumping from a small but powerful CD player while the faded red fire engine sat parked on the long and currently wet driveway. Big Red was getting a bath.

A half-naked man with a garden hose danced around the engine, spraying water. The guy didn't see me, which was probably a good thing, since my mouth was hanging open in horror. Not that I was a prude or anything. Most of the time, twenty- or thirty-something shirtless men in shorts were the best part of summer.

This wasn't one of those times.

The fireman did a stripper impersonation with his hips while his ample gut undulated in time to the music. The man gave new meaning to the words
belly dance
. Add to that the dark curly hair crawling up his chest and down his legs like moss, and suddenly you had a picture that would never appear in any of the sexiest-firemen calendars.

When the song ended, the guy turned off his hose, scratched his hairy stomach, and yawned. Then he turned. I could tell he'd spotted me when his uncovered mouth turned from a stretched yawn into a come-hither smile.

Oh joy!

I gave him a little wave and strolled up the drive. “Hi. I hope I'm not interrupting your work.”

The guy winked. “I don't mind being interrupted by a hot chick.”

I mentally rolled my eyes and stopped next to the truck. Now that I was closer, I realized the guy was barely out of high school. I tried to decide if I'd ever seen him before. Nope. He might have been at Pop's two months ago when the scarecrow went up in flames or at Jimmy's car fire. Either event would have warranted wearing a shirt and pants. Without those, I was too distracted to say for certain.

“Hi, I'm Rebecca Robbins. Are you the only one manning the station today?” I was hoping to find a more experienced firefighter to answer my questions.

My new friend nodded. “Robbie Bellson. The other guys went to get coffee. I'm the new guy around here, which means I get to wash the truck and baby-sit the station.”

His disgruntled frown made me smile. “Not exactly the exciting job you signed on for, is it?”

“It has its moments,” he said, leaning down to tie his shoe and giving me a great view of his ample butt crack.

“Like someone setting fire to Jimmy Bakersfield's car?” I asked while feigning interest in the fire truck. Butt cracks weren't my thing.

“Yeah, that was cool. I never knew a car could light up so fast.” I braved a look at Robbie. He was standing upright, with his hands jammed in his pockets. A glee-filled smile spread across his face as he reminisced, “You should have seen those flames. They were truly excellent.”

“I saw them. I was the one who reported the fire.”

“Then you know what I'm talking about.” Robbie shifted from foot to foot, almost dancing with excitement. “The guy who started it used a lot of gasoline. I guess he didn't want to risk the fire going out.”

“If that much gasoline was used, why didn't the hay field go up in flames?” I asked. “I mean, I don't know much about setting fires, but I was wondering how the car burned so fast and the dry field was barely singed. Isn't that unusual?”

Robbie stopped dancing. “I don't know,” he said, walking over to the CD player. With a whack, he turned it off. He grabbed the red T-shirt sitting next to it and shimmied into it. Rolls of hairy fat shook from side to side, then disappeared underneath yards of material.

“Look,” he said, turning back to me with a frown. “There are lots of reasons why the field wouldn't catch fire. Only, I can't talk to you about them.”

“But I only—”

“Sorry. The guys are already giving me a hard time, my being new and all. The last thing I need is them finding out I talked to you about the fire. Besides, Deputy Stick-up-His-Ass read us the riot act about talking to anyone but him. You're hot, but you're not hot enough for me to risk pissing him off.”

Robbie trudged into the firehouse, leaving me trying to decide whether I had just been insulted.

I contemplated hanging around until the other firemen came back, then decided against it. Deputy Sean had beaten me here. None of these guys would be talking to little old me. There was only one person associated with the firehouse who would risk crossing Sean Holmes to give me information, and right now he probably had his hand up a cow's behind. I was going to have to wait for Lionel to shower before grilling him.

That in mind, I went back to the rink. I walked through the front door and stopped in my tracks. There was my father, standing on the rink's sidelines, watching a class of seven- and eight-year-olds learn how to skate on one foot.

Every muscle in my body tightened as I recalled how my father had stood in that same spot and watched my mother teach me how to skate. He'd always yelled encouragement when I fell. I fell a lot back then. I still did, only now I didn't rely on Stan's voice to help me get up. I got up all on my own.

My father turned and spotted me in the doorway. His white shorts were pressed to perfection, as was his black polo shirt. A frown creased his face as he crossed to me. “Rebecca, honey, I heard what happened to you last night. Why didn't you call us? We were worried.”

For a moment, I thought he was using the royal
we
. Then I spotted my grandfather making a beeline for me. Pop was wearing black shorts and a white shirt. Together, they looked like Yin and Yang. It was kind of creepy.

“I'm fine,” I assured the two of them.

“That's not what Roxy said.” Pop wagged his finger at me. “She said you were threatened last night right outside the rink. You should have called me.”

“You couldn't have done anything, Pop.”

Pop straightened his bony shoulders. “I could have stayed here. I still can. That man won't come back and bother you with me around.”

“Right.” My father laughed. “You have as much chance of scaring off an intruder as a teacup terrier does.”

Pop scowled. “I'll have you know I'm the Senior Center's arm-wrestling champ.” He flexed a nonexistent muscle in his bicep. “I can protect my granddaughter.”

My father's eyes narrowed as he looked down at Pop. “I'm back in town now, which means if Rebecca needs protecting, I'll be the one to do it.”

“You'd run off at the first sign of trouble,” Pop yelled, puffing out his chest. “And, yes, I might not be young anymore, but Rebecca knows I'll be around when she needs me. You can't say that.”

My father's face turned three shades of red. He took a step forward, so only inches separated him and Pop. “Are you calling me a coward?”

“It's the truth.” Pop adjusted his teeth and shot an evil grin at his adversary. Pop was having way too much fun. Stan wasn't. A vein in his neck throbbed as he cracked his knuckles. Yep, Stan looked ready to explode. It was time to step in, before someone got hurt.

“Hey,” I hollered. Two pairs of testosterone-filled eyes swung in my direction. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need either one of you to stay with me.”

Pop wasn't going down without a fight. He plopped his hands on his hips and said, “Rebecca Robbins, you need me.”

I smiled. “Of course I need you, Pop. I just don't need you to be my roommate. If I am in danger, I don't want to drag you into it. I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you.” I also couldn't live with Pop's social calendar. I'd tried that once before, with great discomfort. Walking in on my grandfather while he was having sex guaranteed therapy into the afterlife. “Please understand, Pop.”

Pop's shoulders fell. “Okay. But you have to promise to come get me if you're doing any dangerous investigation work. I make a good lookout.”