Skating Over the Line (18 page)

If different was what he was looking for, Indian Falls had plenty of it. “So, how long have you been in town?”

“A week. That's why this place is such a mess. I bought the house after seeing pictures on the Internet. It looked like the perfect size. The inspector I hired told me about a chimney problem and some plumbing issues. I guess he just assumed I knew about the furry tenants.”

He launched into a description of how the living room looked when he arrived. Meanwhile, I was mentally doing the math. If Clayton had gotten to town a week ago, he could have stolen both cars. But I doubted it. The guy was up to his elbows in moving hell. While I questioned his sanity for coming to Indian Falls by choice, the guy didn't strike me as completely nuts. No one would go around stealing cars and blowing them up in the middle of moving.

With a sigh, I mentally crossed Clayton Zimmerman off my suspect list.

“Well,” I said, interrupting Clayton's monologue. “I should let you get back to work. It sounds like you have a lot of it to do.”

A flicker of irritation marched across Clayton's Latin good looks. The lawyer wasn't used to being interrupted. “Sure. When you have the contract for the rink's sale, let me know. I'll be happy to go over it for you. And maybe when I'm done getting the house in shape for company, you'll join me for dinner? I'd love to get to know you better.”

I knew I should just say I had a boyfriend. Using the
B
word didn't necessarily imply long-term commitment. Only, my mouth wouldn't do it. Instead, I found myself saying, “I'm not all that interesting. Besides, I'm moving back to the city.” Turning away from the disappointment that darkened his eyes, I took a step toward my car, then stopped. “Three nights ago, you were in the diner getting takeout, right?”

Clayton blinked. “Wow. You weren't kidding about the grapevine. Do you know what I ate that night?”

“The meat-loaf sandwich with extra fries. A really good choice.”

“Wow,” he said again. His face went pasty white under his tanned skin. Even his curly dark hair looked like it went a shade lighter. My Spidey sense told me the guy had a hell of a secret in his closet, along with a lot of stuffed critters. But it wasn't the secret I was looking for. Whatever the guy's reasons were for ditching the city lights, it wasn't because he yearned for small-town life. The guy was hiding. People who were hiding didn't blow up cars. Period. But they might be watching everyone around them more carefully.

Before Clayton fainted, I asked, “Did you notice anyone suspicious in the diner that night?”

“I don't think so. The place was kind of crazy, especially when the firefighters showed up. Do you have many car explosions out here?”

“Cow tipping, yes. Explosions, no. Are you sure you don't remember anyone acting strange?”

Clayton rubbed the back of his neck. “Everything was strange. Some guy was talking like a used-car salesman about needing a new car, the firefighters were bragging about how much better they were at using the hose since the last fire, and two old women were talking about my ass. I almost left before getting my order, like the guy standing next to me. If my oven didn't have stuffed ferrets stashed in it, I would have.”

Guy? What guy? “The guy who left,” I asked, trying to sound casual. “What did he look like?”

“I don't know.” Clayton shrugged while continuing to rub hard at the back of his neck. If he wasn't careful, it was going to chafe. “Shorter than me. Tan. Dark hair. Accent.”

My brain immediately conjured up the scary dude with the wire. “Would you know him again if you saw him?”

Clayton stopped rubbing his neck and studied me. “Why?”

I considered my options. I could lie. In fact, during my tenure in Indian Falls, I'd become moderately skilled at it. Still, Clayton had helped me. I decided that telling the truth was the neighborly thing to do. The guy should have the option of getting out of Indian Falls while he had the chance.

“There have been two cars stolen in the past couple of days, and I think the man you saw might have done it.”

Casting a nervous look at his garage, Clayton nodded. “I think I might remember the guy if I saw him again.” Then crossing his arms, he gave me a stern look. “You didn't come here for legal advice, did you?”

Busted.

Shrugging, I gave him what I hoped was a winsome smile. “No, but I would like a lawyer to look at the contract. Let me know when you clear out the ferrets, and I'll swing by with the paperwork.”

Heading for my Civic, I caught a glimpse of his car sitting in the open garage. A very shiny Corvette.

“Don't worry,” I said. “The guy stealing cars is taking the old and rusted ones. Yours should be safe.”

Leaving a stunned Clayton behind me, I steered my yellow Honda toward Pop's house. With any luck, Ethel had created a usable sketch of the guys who'd attacked Pop. If Clayton could identify the one who was in the diner, I'd solve the case by dinnertime.

*   *   *

I stared at the drawings laid out on the Formica kitchen table, trying to keep my jaw off the floor. Behind me, Pop, Ethel, and Max waited for my opinion of their efforts. Only I didn't have one. I was speechless.

Okay, I wasn't expecting Ethel to be the greatest artist ever. In fact, when my initial enthusiasm after talking to Clayton disappeared, I remembered that this sketch artist thing was a long shot at best. Then Pop and Ethel's proud expressions made me think I'd been wrong in my underestimation.

I wasn't.

While I wasn't sure what the guys who'd threatened Pop looked like, I was certain they weren't Bert and Ernie on a bad hair day.

“What do you think?” Pop asked from behind me. I was sure if he could see my face, he'd already know what I thought. Academy Award–winning actress I wasn't.

Forcing a smile, I turned away from the Muppet-like drawings and looked at the expectant trio. “These aren't bad.” They weren't good, either, but I didn't think that needed to be said.

Ethel gave a tinkly little laugh. Her pale skin puckered as she grinned. “I'm so glad you like them. Arthur made me do them over three times to get the faces just right.”

“That's the way police sketching works,” Pop said, puffing out his chest. “It's all in the details. Well, I should drop Max off at the rink and take Ethel back to the center. Tonight is board-game night.”

I thanked Ethel for her hard work, told Max I'd see him tomorrow morning, and watched the two of them parade out the door. Pop followed for a couple steps, then said, “You two get in the car. I have something I need to talk to Rebecca about.”

Once the door closed, Pop turned back to me with a sigh. “Sorry about the pictures.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “The pictures might be a real help.” If Big Bird and gang come to town.

Pop raised a shaggy gray eyebrow and plopped one hand on his leather-clad hip. “Don't kid me. Those things are awful. Ethel kept saying she was a true artist and that she needed to add her own creativity to her work. When I tried to explain how we needed her drawing ability, not her creativity, she started crying. By the time she emptied the tissue box and got around to drawing again, she had me so confused, I barely remembered what the guys looked like. I used to think it might be fun to date an artist, but I've changed my mind. Two artistic temperaments in the same house might not be a good idea.”

“Probably not,” I agreed. Pop and Stan were an interesting mix all on their own. Thinking about my father prompted me to ask, “Have you seen Stan?”

Pop snorted. “Upstairs. He came in grumbling about needing a loan and how he couldn't get one. After stomping around the kitchen, he asked what we were doing. I told him about getting attacked by the Spanish dudes. Stan actually looked concerned. I didn't know he had it in him. He looked at Ethel's pictures, asked if the cops were looking for the guys, and went upstairs. Didn't even mooch a slice of pizza. Guess hearing about how I fought off those two attackers made him think twice about snitching my food.”

“I bet that was it, Pop.” Pop was allowed to dream. Reminded about the presence of pizza, my stomach growled. I grabbed a slice, knowing I still had time before my dinner with Lionel.

While I appreciated the flavor of cold cheese and pepperoni, Pop stared at the drawings and snapped his fingers. “You know what I need? One of them cell phones with a camera. Next time those big guys come after me, I can just snap their picture and—
bam
—we got ‘em.”

Personally, I thought the cell phone was a pretty good idea. Not for the camera. By the time Pop figured out how to take a picture, he'd be trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Still, having 911 at the ready seemed like a smart plan.

“Gotta run.” Pop gave my arm a pat and sauntered toward the back door. “I don't want to leave Max and Ethel alone for too long. Ethel has a thing for younger men.”

Yikes.

Ignoring that visual, I considered going upstairs to talk to my father. I hadn't changed my mind about loaning him money, but he had shown concern for my grandfather. That rated pretty high in my book. And I wasn't all that keen about having him angry at me. Our relationship was historically one of mutual indifference. I was uncomfortable knowing that delicate balance had shifted to hostility.

Walking toward the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the hallway mirror and stifled a shriek. I was a mess. Streaks of sweat and bear dust meandered down my arms. A black smudge was perched on the edge of my nose, and a host of dust bunnies had taken up residence in my hair. Pop, Ethel, and Max must have noticed my strange appearance, but none of them had commented. For a minute, I wondered why, before realizing it was me. Ethel and Pop expected me to do strange things. Everyone in Indian Falls did. They probably thought I had a good reason for looking like I'd just rolled around in dirt. I did, but that wasn't the point. I was supposed to go on a date with Lionel in less than an hour, and no one had bothered to tell me I looked like something Agnes's cat had dragged in.

Turning away from an inevitably unhappy confrontation, I slipped out the back door and tooled over to the rink in search of a shower. Stan and our father/daughter problems could keep for another day. Heck, they'd been on ice since before I'd hit puberty. Waiting twenty-four hours wouldn't kill either one of us.

I'm a coward. Sue me.

I steered into the rink's parking lot and noted it was starting to fill up for the night's free skate. Growing up, I never understood how anyone wanted to exert physical energy when the weather was hot and sticky. The community pool was just a couple blocks away. Why pay to go inside and sweat when you could be in the water, laughing at the heat? Funny, but now that I was older and in charge, I almost understood the lure of the rink. There was something hypnotic about the music, the disco ball, and the round-and-round-the-floor pattern.

Smiling at the muted sounds of laughter and bass coming from inside, I climbed the stairs to my apartment and then stopped, my hand on the doorknob. A folded sheet of ripped spiral notepaper was taped to the door.

Huh. I pulled the paper off and went inside my apartment. Flipping on the light, I opened the note and felt the hair on my neck stand on end. I had no idea what the note said, but I had gotten heartburn from enough Mexican food to know it was in Spanish.

Not even I was naïve enough to believe this note wasn't connected to the guys in Ethel's
Sesame Street
sketches. Calling the cops was a must, but there was no way I would face Sean Holmes wearing a layer of taxidermy dust. Flipping the dead bolt, I headed for the kitchen.

Tacking the note under a smiley-face refrigerator magnet, I grabbed a large knife, just in case, and headed for the shower. Once the dust was washed from my body, I felt more equipped to deal with the current crisis. Under the hot water, I'd decided I needed to know what the note said before picking up the phone. Once Sean got his sticky little fingers on it, I'd never see it again. And he sure as hell wasn't interested in sharing information. The fact that the note involved me wouldn't make any difference. That meant I had to do a little Internet magic before dialing for the cavalry.

The computer booted as I blow-dried my hair and got dressed, taking extra care to look sexy and vulnerable. The combination might help when talking to Sean. If not, the flirty green sundress with a hint of cleavage might distract Lionel from the relationship talk. I wasn't ready to nail down what we had going on.

I sat down at the computer and surfed for an Internet translator, then started typing out the words on the note. Or what I thought the words were. Whoever had written this had gotten an A in intimidation but had flunked penmanship. I hit Enter and waited. A few seconds later, the English version came back.

“Running is no good. We will find you. Then…”

Then what? The translator didn't know. My best guess hadn't been good enough.

Gulp. The sense of dread that I'd been keeping at bay settled into my stomach. Not knowing what I was being threatened with was worse than knowing what was coming. At least in the latter case, I could prepare myself.

I tried a couple other guesses. None of them worked. I was stuck. So I did what I hated doing: I called the Sheriff's Department. An excited Roxy told me to wait in my apartment for a deputy to arrive. So I took a seat on my living room couch and waited, knife in hand.

Mom's crystal clock on the end table ticked off the seconds. After two whole minutes of waiting, I got up and went to the kitchen. Nothing in the fridge looked good. Possibly being threatened had killed my appetite. Grabbing a diet soda, I went back to the living room and stared at the clock some more. I had never been one to wait around for something to happen. I wasn't sure how to do it. My feet crossed and uncrossed while my hands did the nervous wringing thing. Waiting was something I needed to practice. I sucked at it.