Skating Over the Line (28 page)

“I can see how that would set you off. Lionel's a smart guy, but he doesn't have my knack for understanding the opposite sex. That comes with a lot more years of experience.”

A half century more. I wasn't willing to wait that long.

Suddenly, I got an idea. If I had to suffer through Pop's gyrations, so did Stan. It was the least he could do for making me worry. Maybe I could make him stand in line for a scarf. That would almost make the evening worthwhile.

“Let's take Stan to your gig,” I said with a smile. “He's upstairs watching reruns.”

Pop looked like he wanted to ask about Dad's new living arrangements, but he didn't. Pop was right: Years of experience made a difference.

Stan's response to attending the Indian Falls Dinner Dance wasn't enthusiastic, but he reluctantly agreed.

Pop practiced his moves in the living room while I went back to change clothes. I had never attended an Indian Falls Dinner Dance, but I was pretty sure a denim skirt and a polo shirt weren't appropriate attire. I slipped into a black halter dress with a cute flirty skirt and a pair of my highest red heels. After breaking up with Lionel, I felt the need to impress. Problem was, next to the dress, the white bandage on my hand looked conspicuous.

I glanced toward my mom's chest of drawers and took a step toward it. After she passed, Pop packed up a lot of her things and gave them to charity, but a lot remained. After moving in, I'd dusted and straightened this room, but I hadn't been able to bring myself to go through Mom's stuff.

Eureka. The drawer was filled with slips and scarves. Pawing through the silky material, I came up with a black-and-red satin scarf. A little creative wrapping and my arm looked like it was doing a Michael Jackson impersonation. Not great, but better than looking like an unraveled mummy.

In the living room, Stan had changed into his slick salesman look—gray pants, shiny silver dress shirt, and a skinny black tie. He was now giving Pop pointers on how to rotate his hips without dislocating them. Helpful, if not a little strange.

The rink was quiet as our unusual-looking group headed down the stairs and into the warm summer night—and smack into a large group of Spanish dudes.

And they didn't look happy.

 

Twenty-one

Oh crap. The big guy
in front barked something in Spanish at us. Pop looked at me. I looked at Stan. Stan blinked. We were all stumped.

Pop swaggered forward and planted himself in front of the biggest dude. He looked up at him, causing the pompadour wig to slide dangerously backward. He straightened the wig and said, “Get lost or else.”

I couldn't help but wonder, Or else what? Pop wasn't exactly dressed for street fighting.

A little guy took a step forward and waved a wooden stick in our direction. Another one took a metal ratchet out of his pocket and slapped it against his hand while circling behind us. There were seven of them and only three of us. We were outnumbered and surrounded.

I considered screaming for help, then chucked the idea. Everyone in the rink had gone home or to the dinner dance. I took a step back behind my father. Easing my cell phone out of my purse, I pushed the Sheriff Department's speed-dial number. The beep from the phone made my shoulders tighten as I waited for the men to notice and get really angry.

When they didn't, I asked, “Why do you guys keep coming to my rink?” I hoped my voice was loud enough to reach Roxy or whoever was manning the department's phone. “Please don't hurt my grandfather or Stan. I'll do whatever you want.”

At least I would until Sean got here—and that better be soon.

Pop gave me an outraged look and bellowed, “If you want to hurt Rebecca, you'll have to go through me first.”

There were seven of them, one of Pop—and he looked like a light breeze would blow him over. Not good for our side.

The Spanish-speaking guys looked at me with a variety of bewildered expressions. Strange. They talked among themselves for a moment, gestured wildly to me, then looked down the street as if worried the cops would arrive.

For the first time, I took a really good look at the group. They were wearing matching red-and-white bowling shirts. My heart rate slowed and I took a deep breath. It was hard to be completely intimidated by a renegade bowling team.

A third guy spoke very slowly, careful to enunciate every word. This time I understood something. “We do not … you … want—” The rest of the sentence required a Spanish-to-English dictionary. Too bad the library was closed.

I took a step forward and asked, “Does anyone speak English?”

All seven heads shook from side to side. No English here.

Now what?

A blaring siren rang through the warm night. Red and blue lights flashed. A Sheriff's Department cruiser raced down the street and skidded to a stop on the other side of the parking lot. Under the dim streetlight, we all watched Sean emerge from the car, pull his gun, and run toward us.

“Law-enforcement officer! Everyone put your hands behind your heads.”

Pop and Stan complied. The bowling team just blinked.

Sean's eyebrows pulled together, and his hand tightened around the gun handle. “I said—”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” A short, roundish guy sporting a familiar red-and-white shirt raced down the sidewalk, waving his hands over his head. “Don't shoot. My friends will not hurt anyone.”

The matching-shirt gang looked relieved. They smiled and hurried over to the newcomer, who was now bent over, panting. There was a shiny bald spot on the top of his head.

“English,” one of the men said, pointing to their track star.

“If you speak English,” Sean said, gun still at the ready, “tell them they are under arrest for harassment and assault.”

The panting guy turned to his friends and rattled something off. They all began talking over one another. Some barked out a few angry words while pointing at Stan.

“Wait,” I yelled, stepping in between Sean and the angry red-and-white mob. Looking at the newcomer, I said, “I've been threatened, my grandfather's been knocked over, and my father looks like he's ready to bolt. Can you tell me why?”

The short, pudgy guy sucked in a few deep breaths and nodded. “My friends did not mean to scare you. They came from Moline to find your father. Mr. Robbins said he was coming to see you, so that is where they looked.”

All eyes swung to Stan. He was in the process of creeping backward. The minute he spotted us looking at him, he froze and gave his best salesman's smile. None of us smiled back.

“Do you know these guys, Dad?”

My father shrugged. “Could be. I meet a lot of guys on the road. Can't say I remember them all.”

“You took our money.” The short, pudgy guy stomped his foot and looked ready to launch at Stan. “Now we are here to get what we paid for. If you do not give it to us, I will tell the police officer to arrest you.”

Sean lowered his gun a couple of inches and looked back and forth between the angry mob and my father.

“Is this true, Dad?” I crossed my arms.

“Sounds like something Stan would do.” Pop stepped away from Stan and aligned himself with his former intimidators. “I should have known he was a thief before my Kay married him. He has shifty eyes.”

“I do not,” Stan insisted between offended noises. “And I didn't steal their money. I just had to wait a little longer for their order to come in, and Eduardo here wasn't around to tell. The rest of them have some communication problems.”

Eduardo didn't look convinced. “You did not answer my messages. After two weeks, my friends decided to come looking for you. We need our order.”

Okay, I just had to ask. “What did you order?” Guns? Drugs? Bootlegged DVDs?

“Musical instruments.”

That would have been my next guess. “Musical instruments?” I turned to Stan. “Since when do you sell musical instruments?”

My father shrugged. “A friend of mine has a connection in China. He sends me whatever his company has too much of. This time, it was musical instruments—for their mariachi band. But he had trouble with customs, and I wasn't sure the stuff was ever coming.”

“You mean you don't have our order?” Eduardo waved his hands in the air. “We need our instruments. We have two gigs next week.”

I looked closer at the shirts. On the left shirt pocket there was a picture of maracas. The shirts must be band uniforms, I decided.

My father puffed out his chest. “Don't worry. I got a call this afternoon from my friend and he says the instruments are on their way. You should have them first thing tomorrow morning.”

Eduardo translated Stan's words for the rest of the band. The group let up a rowdy cheer and began slapping one another on the back. They were happy. I was confused.

“Wait a minute. You threatened to kill me over a delivery of instruments?”

Eduardo cocked his head to the side. “We did not threaten to kill you.”

“Yes, you did. I read the note you left.” Sean seized the opportunity to swagger forward and take charge. “You told Rebecca she couldn't run from you. That you were going to kill her.”

Eduardo shook his head. “We didn't write that.”

Sean stuck out his chest. “I saw it. Whoever wrote the note had terrible handwriting, but I clearly saw the word
muerte.
You're under arrest for threatening Rebecca with death.”

Eduardo slapped a hand to his forehead. He turned to the big guy who had threatened me with the wire and began to yell. The big guy hung his head and said something under his breath. I didn't know Spanish, but I recognized embarrassment when I saw it. The big dude looked like he wanted to climb under a rock.

“I am sorry about Miguel's handwriting.” Eduardo shot a pitying glance at the slumped-shoulder Miguel. “The word he wrote was not
muerte.
It was
muérgano.
Your father was looking into getting an organ for Miguel's mother. Miguel wanted to cancel the order.”

“I wish I would have known that earlier.” I turned toward Sean. “All this time, I thought someone was trying to kill me.”

Suddenly, Sean developed a rapt interest in his shoes. Go figure.

“Hey, look at the time.” Pop lifted his scrawny wrist to display his Timex. “I've gotta get to the center. I go on in ten minutes. You can all come with me if you'd like. It'd be nice to have fellow musicians in the audience.”

“Wait.” Sean holstered his gun and held up his hand. “There is still the matter of the assault and harassment charges.” He turned to me. “Rebecca, you can still have these men arrested.”

“No thanks.” I shrugged. They had been chasing my father for stiffing them—something I completely understood.

Eduardo smiled at me and translated for the rest of the band. They all nodded. A few said, “
Gracias.
”

“You're welcome. But there's one thing I don't understand. If Miguel wasn't threatening me, why did he have a wire in his hands?”

I looked to Eduardo for an answer, but Miguel stepped forward and carefully enunciated, “No wire. Guitar string.” Miguel pulled out the same kind of wire I had seen him with before and smiled. Eduardo added, “He carries it in his pocket.”

Some people carry keys or loose change. Miguel carted around his guitar strings. Made sense to me. It turned out the other instruments of torture were also musical accessories. Too bad the fiery car case wasn't as easy to solve. These guys were innocent of wrongdoing, but someone in Indian Falls wasn't. I really wanted to find out who.

I turned to Sean. “Guess this was all a big misunderstanding.” Sean looked disappointed he wouldn't be making a bust. So I added, “But it might not have been. Thanks for getting here so fast.”

Sean shook his head in resignation and headed to his car. We were all free to leave. Since Eduardo and his merry band had nothing better to do, they piled into their car and followed us to the Indian Falls Dinner Dance.

Dinner had already come to an end when we walked into the recreation room. Right now, it looked like a revival of
Grease.
Records dangled from the ceiling. One corner sported a soda fountain, complete with servers wearing white paper hats. The men all looked like they'd combed their hair with a pork chop, and every woman over sixty was sporting a low-cut top and a poodle skirt. I looked out of place in my black cocktail dress and killer stilettos. The mariachi band looked right at home. Go figure.

Pop ditched us at the door to get ready for his set. The band headed for the soda fountain in search of tequila milk shakes, leaving me and Dad alone in the doorway.

He looked at me and sighed. “I made a real mess out of this instrument deal, didn't I?”

“You got out of it,” I said. “You always do.”

His shoulders slumped. “I didn't intend for things to turn out like this. I meant for the instruments to arrive on time and for my customers to be happy. Things didn't go as planned.”

“They never do.” Which was how I was back in this town, selling Mom's rink and doing a poor job of solving crimes. “Once the guys get their instruments, everything will be back to normal.”

Stan squared his shoulders, took my hand, and said, “Rebecca, I'm really sor—”

“Stan! I've been looking all over for you.” A woman I didn't know came scurrying over. Or at least I was pretty sure I didn't know her. What with the poodle skirt, saddle shoes, black beehive hair, and large quantities of blue eye shadow, it was hard to tell. “The music is about to start, and you promised me the first dance.”

My father looked at fifties Barbie and back at me with one eyebrow raised. “Go ahead and dance,” I told him. We hadn't had a father-daughter chat for almost two decades. What was one more day? The beehive lady squealed and dragged Stan toward the dance floor.