Skating Over the Line (11 page)

Pop made a terrible lookout, but I said, “Sure.”

“Good.” Pop slapped a hand on one of his scrawny legs. “Now, I got to get over to the center. They're showing
Body Heat
in the game room. Do you want to come? I can get you in.”

“No thanks,” I said quickly. Thinking about watching sexy movies with my grandfather made me want to hurl. “I have to track down someone to be rink manager.”

My grandfather shot me a bright smile. The dishwasher had done a good job polishing his teeth. “Already done. I hired a manager just after Stan and I got here.”

I looked from my grandfather to Stan. “You took the job?”

“Me?” my father stammered. “Well, you know I'd love to work with you, honey, but I already have a job. That's why I helped Arthur hire someone for you.” His eyes darted from side to side while his hands fidgeted with the buttons at the top of his shirt. “I mean, I'm in the middle of a business deal; otherwise, I'd—”

“You don't have to make excuses,” I said, finally letting him off the hook. Although watching him dangle had been kind of fun. “I wouldn't have let you take the job.”

My father stiffened. “Why not? I can do the job. Stan Robbins can run any business anywhere.”

The blood in my temples pulsated. “Sure. Fine. Now, would someone please tell me who you hired to be the manager of my business?”

“Me.”

I turned toward the sound of the sort-of-familiar voice and almost fell over. Standing there in black sandals and socks was Max Smith, the angry son of Sinbad.

“You?”

Max's curly hair bobbed as he nodded. “Your grandfather wasn't sure what paperwork you'd need me to fill out. So he said I'd have to wait to do that with you.”

“But you didn't want the job.”

“I changed my mind.”

“A boy's entitled to change his mind,” my father said. “You should give this boy a break. I like him.”

“So do I.” My grandfather clapped Max on the back. Max tilted dangerously forward, then righted himself.

“Good,” I said, feeling cornered and not liking it. “Then the two of you can hire him.”

Turning on my heel, I stalked toward my office, not sure what had me more annoyed: the fact my father thought he had a say in my business or that my grandfather agreed with him.

I flipped on the light switch and flopped into my wheeled computer chair. I rubbed my temples and leaned back, trying to decide how to go about finding a real rink manager. All normal avenues had been tapped long ago. Newspaper ads hadn't done the trick. Neither had flyers or Now Hiring signs. Everyone in town loved coming to the rink to skate. No one wanted to run the place, including me.

“Ms. Robbins, could I talk to you for a minute?”

Max hovered in the doorway. His glasses slipped down his long nose, making him look studious. He ran a hand through his curly hair and gave me a nervous smile.

I gestured to the seat on the opposite side of the desk, and Max sank into it.

Leaning my elbows on the desk, I asked, “Why are you here, Max? We both know you don't want this job.”

“But I do.” Max scooted forward in his chair. “I need a job, and this is better than working for my father. The two of us don't do well under the same roof. You might have noticed.”

“What about your film career?”

Max's eyes brightened behind his thick glasses. “Making movies is very expensive. That's why I need a job. I have this great script. We've been filming it for the past couple of weeks, but I can't finish it without more cash.”

“What's the movie about?” I couldn't help asking.

Max raised his hands. “Imagine
Die Hard
meets
Steel Magnolias.
A southern groom walks into the church on the day of his wedding, only to discover terrorists have kidnapped half the wedding party, his bride, and the minister. Now the groom has to save the bride, rescue the minister, and do it all before the guests get tired of waiting for the wedding to start. There'll be fight scenes and chases, and a big Hollywood happy ending where the bloody groom marries his almost-raped wife. Isn't it great?”

Great? No. Flop, yes. Bruce Willis and Chantilly Lace weren't going to put butts in the seats for that film. “Sounds interesting.” I pushed my forefingers against the throbbing in my temple and rubbed.

Max bounced on the edge of his chair. “When the movie is finished, I'm going to send it to some agents and producers in L.A. Once I'm offered representation, I'll move to California.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Serious directors have to live out west to get work. At least I will until people find out how skilled I am. Then I'll be able to live wherever I want.”

“What's your dad think about that?”

He stiffened. “My father refuses to believe I have any talent and says he'll only watch a movie that I made when hell freezes over.”

The pain in the kid's eyes had me softening. I understood dad issues all too well. “I don't understand. How will working here help you become a serious director?”

Max smiled. “I need a job. At least until the movie is done and I get an agent. You need a rink manager who understands a creative business like skating. The way I see it, we're a perfect fit.”

The logic made a warped kind of sense. And I had to find a manager for the sale of the rink to go through. Against my better judgment, I found myself liking Max. He had passion. Besides, no one else wanted the job.

“Okay,” I agreed. “You're hired on a trial basis. Let's see how the next week goes. If things run smoothly, the job is officially yours.”

I was desperate, not stupid.

The condition didn't deter Max's enthusiasm. He shot out of his chair with a huge grin. “You won't regret it. I learn fast.”

And he did. After he finished filling out the requisite paperwork, I took him on a tour of the rink. Max jotted down notes as he trailed behind me through the ticket booth, the rental counter, the kitchen, the snack area, and the sound booth.

And then it was time to introduce Max to George.

George had just finished his class when I waved him over. He skidded to a stop in front of us. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat as he asked, “What's up?”

“George, this is Max Smith. He's going to be our new rink manager.”

Max gave George a friendly smile.

George studied Max from the tips of his sock- and sandal-clad feet to the small coffee stain on his oversized powder blue golf shirt. Kids from George's last class sped around us, getting ready to go home, but George didn't move. My throat tensed. Normally, George watched over his students like they were his own children. Right now, he didn't appear to see or hear them.

This was a bad sign.

Without a word, George launched himself toward the middle of the rink and executed a perfect double-axel jump. Then as quickly as he'd left, he zoomed back toward us. Coming to a flawless stop, he asked Max, “Can you do that?”

“No.”

“Can you do a sit spin?”

Max's dark eyebrows rose slightly as he turned to me. “That sounds personal. Do I have to answer him?”

George's eyes narrowed into tiny slits. Max raised his chin, as if daring George to take a punch. For the second time today, I found myself in the middle of warring male hormones. Yippee.

“You don't have to be a great skater to run a roller rink,” I explained to George in my best “be reasonable” voice. “Max will run the office, and George, you will be in charge of the skating. I think the two of you will make a great team.”

Clearly this wasn't the answer George was waiting for. He shot me an injured look, let out an exaggerated sigh, and rolled toward the rental counter, where a bunch of kids from his class were waiting to exchange skates for shoes. Not exactly the most auspicious of beginnings. I hoped my would-be buyers would sign the papers before George left tread marks on Max's back.

With a sigh, I turned to Max. “George is very dedicated to this business. As soon as you show him that you can manage the place, he'll love you.”

Max gave me a thumbs-up sign while I said a small prayer that my big fat lie would by some miracle come true. Then the two of us set off for the office to do some training on the computer.

The rest of the day passed as I taught Max the ins and outs of rink management. That meant I didn't have time to find Lionel to ask him about the car fire. Still, training kept me busy, inside, and away from any psychopaths waiting to strangle me with a wire. And by the time the office clock read 5:30, Max was up to speed on skating lessons, music systems, and staff scheduling. All in all, a productive day.

Standing up, I told my trainee, “It's quitting time for you. Be back here tomorrow at nine.”

“No problem.” Max stretched his lanky arms and stood up. Halfway to the door, he snapped his fingers and turned back. “Oh, boss, you forgot to give me a key for the front door.”

I leaned back in my chair and peered up at Max's earnest face. “No, I didn't.”

“Opening in the morning is my job. I need a key.”

“In a week, it'll be your job,” I told him. “Once you prove you're ready, I'll get you a key for the front door. Until then, you'll have to wait for me or George.”

Max's eyebrows knit together. He opened his mouth, no doubt to argue with me, so I said, “Go home, Max. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Sure,” Max said with a smile that didn't quite erase the frown from his eyes. “See you.” He disappeared out the door.

I let out a sigh and dialed Doreen's number with a sense of dread. Talking to my father's bed partner wasn't in my comfort zone. I smiled with relief when Doreen's smoky voice instructed me to leave a message at the beep.

“Hi, Doreen,” I said, trying to erase the picture of my father and her from my mind. “You can tell the buyer I have a manager for the rink. Once the inspection is done, we can sign the papers and finish the sale.”

And I'd be able to go back to my life in Chicago. It was great.

So why didn't I feel like celebrating?

 

Ten

Confused and in need of distraction,
I left the rink, ready to see Lionel, then remembered I already had plans for the evening. Plans I wasn't remotely ready for.

As Danielle had reminded me yesterday, I was hosting the Indian Falls Gourmet Club, a group I'd inadvertently started while investigating the town's one and only murder. The now-thriving club met twice a month at my place.

After a quick trip to the market, I raced up the stairs to my apartment and began chopping veggies. Tonight, I was making a mushroom and asparagus risotto. The other attendees would bring the rest of the meal. I would eat well, even if I didn't make progress on solving the car thefts. Then again, several of the club members were on my list of witnesses in the diner before my father's car got stolen. In between courses, I could grill my friends.

No grass growing under my feet.

The doorbell rang at five minutes to seven. I opened the front door, and Felix and Barbara Slaughter walked into the living room, carrying large pans covered with aluminum foil. Felix was the owner of Slaughter's Market and the person I'd fibbed to about starting the gourmet club the last time I was investigating a crime.

Felix shifted his hold on the food pans. A lock of light brown hair fell over his forehead as he gave me a gap-toothed smile. “I hope you were still planning on having dinner tonight. We weren't sure after Roxy called and told Barbara what had happened to you.”

The FBI couldn't hold a candle to Roxy when it came to information gathering. She also spread it much like the local farmers spread manure—in liberal quantities and without much concern for quality.

“I wouldn't dream of canceling,” I said truthfully. Having an apartment full of people would make me less jittery about spending the night here. A thug armed with a wire wouldn't try taking down all of us.

Barbara shook her head at her tall husband. “See, I told you Rebecca wouldn't let a silly little threat ruin our night.” She turned toward me. “We should probably put these things in the oven.”

Without waiting for my reply, Barbara swept past me toward the kitchen, with her husband trailing at her heels. I sighed as they disappeared around the corner. Curvy, blond, and petite, Barbara looked cuddly and submissive. She proved the rule that looks were deceiving. Four-star generals had less command capabilities than the grocer's wife.

And less volume. Barbara's high-pitched voice traveled from the kitchen. “Felix, you're doing it all wrong. Give me the spoon and get out of the kitchen before you ruin everything.”

Not long ago, according to the local grapevine, Barbara had gone to see her lawyers. Sources in the know said she'd instructed them to bring out the big guns and aim them at Felix. So far, the guns hadn't fired. I just hoped they wouldn't start in my kitchen.

Straightening my shoulders, I turned toward the kitchen, in hopes of protecting my appliances, when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and smiled as Danielle Martinez and her boyfriend, Pastor Rich Lucas, walked in with dessert.

Danielle shoved the cake carrier into her boyfriend's hands and raced toward me. A second later, I was being squeezed so hard, I thought my eyeballs were going to pop.

“Rebecca, Rich and I heard what happened to you,” Danielle squeaked, stepping back and giving me a thorough once-over with her perfectly pencil-lined eyes. “Are you okay? Did the guy hurt you?”

“I'm fine,” I said, trying to sound more casual about the encounter than I felt. “The guy startled me, but no harm was done.”

“Right.” Danielle pursed her glossy lips together, then turned on her million-watt smile. “Rich,” she cooed. “Would you take the cake into the kitchen for me? Oh, and could you get me something to drink?”