Skating Over the Line (7 page)

I was so busy feeling sorry for her that I almost missed Sammy's next list of people.

“Zach was here after the garage closed, and most of the Indian Falls football team came in after they finished practice. Some of them left early, but a lot of them stayed for a couple hours.”

A bunch of rowdy guys were good suspects for car thefts and explosions. I was betting the thief had come into the diner last night during the time good old Dad blew into town. It was the only way I could think of to explain how the thief had picked Stan's car. Could someone have felt like Sammy and decided to take Stan down a peg? That didn't explain Jimmy's car, but maybe it was an angry customer playing copycat. Somehow, I found that hard to believe, but anything was possible.

“Anyone else?”

“The pastor and his secretary were here for a few minutes to pick up some sandwiches. Reginald and Bryan stopped in and talked to a few of the firemen about the car explosion. There might have been a few others, but I was doing kitchen duty. Mabel was working the front. If you want, I can ask her what she remembers.”

As if on cue, Mabel popped her head of curly gray hair out from the kitchen. “Food's getting cold.” She saw me and broke into a smile. “Hi, Rebecca. Gossip says you might be selling the rink soon and moving back to the city.”

“That's the plan.”

Mabel's smile faded. “Well, we will sure miss you. Having you living here in town is almost like having your mother back.”

Sammy scooted behind the counter and followed his wife into the kitchen. A minute later, he placed a steaming plate of meat loaf in front of me, then shuffled off to fill coffee cups and take orders for pie.

The smell of my meal was mouthwatering. Three large slabs of meat loaf sat on top of toasted bread. Next to it was a bed of creamy mashed potatoes. A generous amount of gravy covered both. Too bad Mabel's kind words had sunk to the bottom of my stomach like lead. Feeling like I was letting the town, my mother, and maybe myself down had ruined my appetite. I'd just have to take it to go.

Armed with a large take-home container of food, I snagged a promise from Mabel to call me if she thought of any other diners in attendance last night, then hit the road. First stop on my list was the local mechanic and all-around nice guy, Zach Zettle.

The minute Sammy mentioned that Zach was in the diner, my ears had pricked up. Zach was the kind of guy who looked tough but had a heart as mushy as a marshmallow. He was also a walking encyclopedia of automotive knowledge—an area in which I needed a crash course, literally.

Ten minutes later, almost time enough for the air conditioning in my Civic to take effect, I pulled into the parking lot of Zach's business. A red pickup, a shiny black Ford Taurus, and a sleek white BMW sat in the lot, waiting for Zach's attention.

I peeled the back of my shorts-clad legs from my leather seats and strolled toward the garage. A blue truck was up on the lift when I peered into the building. Garth Brooks bellowed from the radio, and Zach was nowhere in sight.

“Hello?” I yelled, competing with Garth. No one answered. Score one for Garth.

Stepping into the garage, I tiptoed around a puddle of some oily substance and crossed toward the car. “Hello,” I called again.

Nothing.

I leaned against the truck and decided to wait. Now Garth Brooks was singing all low and soft and sultry. I tapped my toe to his growly music and swayed my hips against the car, enjoying the solitude.

Something slithered against my ankle. “Hey,” I yelled. My eyes snapped downward while I said a little prayer to God that it wasn't a snake.

Five fingers were clamped around my left ankle. Unless reptiles had developed opposable thumbs, I was safe from fang bites.

Giving my ankle a yank, I took a step backward and stooped down to peer under the car. There was Zach, lying on his back under the truck. At least I thought it was Zach under all that grease. A second later, he rolled out from under the car and blinked up at me.

I waved. “Hi. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

The obvious answer was yes, but Zach didn't blow me off. He just shrugged and climbed to his feet.

His six-foot-something frame was draped in clothes worthy of a Wes Craven horror movie. Streaks of gooey black, rusty orange, and colors I'd never seen in the Crayola box decorated what probably had once been a blue coverall. Picasso would have declared Zach a work of art. I declared him a mess.

Zach ran an oily hand through his shaggy brown hair and smiled. “I'm glad you swung by. I need a break.” He walked past me to a scarred workbench. With a flip of Zach's grease-corroded fingers, Garth stopped singing. Grabbing a sparkling-clean bottle of water, he asked, “What brings you out here? Does your car need some work?”

“Nope. Car runs great.” I leaned back against the truck. Normally, I would have looked for a place to sit, but the truck was the cleanest thing in the garage. For the sake of my laundry, I'd stand. “I'm looking into the car-theft thing and thought I should ask you a few questions.”

“You think I stole Jimmy's rusted VW?” A smile twitched under the grime.

I arched an eyebrow. “I trust you have better taste in automobiles.”

Zach saluted me with the water bottle, chugged half of the liquid, and screwed the cap back on. The bottle took on the same soot color as the rest of the joint. “So, what kind of questions do you need me to answer?”

“You were in the diner last night. Do you remember who else was there?” His confused expression made me smile. “I know it sounds weird, but I have a theory. Humor me.”

He looked up at the ceiling with his mouth open. This was Zach's “I'm concentrating” look. I'd watched him use it twice a month at Lionel's poker game. Every so often, I decided to take target practice. So far, I'd managed to land three pieces of popcorn and two pretzels in his mouth. Right now I was kind of sad I'd left the popcorn at home. Zach had never given me a better target.

“Okay,” he said. “I was reading a magazine while I ate dinner, but I remember the football team being there. Agnes was there with Doc's secretary. Your dad came in next, and not too long behind him was Doreen and her band of bingo buddies. Once all the guys from the firehouse arrived, the place got a little loud. Did you really find Jimmy's car already in flames, or did you do the town a service and light it yourself?”

“Sorry to ruin your theory, but the bonfire was already going when I arrived.”

Zach looked disappointed, then shrugged. “That car wouldn't have lived much longer anyway. The transmission was shot. Jimmy should have bought a new one years ago.”

I steered the conversation back to the previous night. “Do you remember anyone else coming into the diner?”

Zach's eyes searched the ceiling again before he shook his head. “Sorry. I was up early working on Sheriff Jackson's tractor yesterday and was a little foggy by the time I got to eat last night. Speaking of food, I haven't gotten around to having lunch. Do you mind if we go to the diner and talk?”

As if on cue, Zach's stomach gave a low rumble.

“I have a better idea,” I said. I sprinted out to my car, leaving Zach gaping after me. Snagging the still-warm Styrofoam container of meat loaf, I trotted back to the garage. With a flip of the lid, I asked, “Would this do?”

The man looked as if he was going to cry. Mabel's meat loaf was known to have that effect. Zach reached for the food with his greasy hands, and I pulled the container back.

“Wash first,” I said. “Then you eat.”

Zach didn't argue. He bolted for the nearest sink and returned in a hurry with his face and hands scrubbed.

While Zach shoveled meat loaf into his mouth, I asked, “So how hard is it to boost a car?”

Zach considered the question while scooping up some mashed potatoes. “Hot-wiring a car can be tricky nowadays. Most new cars have computers and protective systems built in. Stealing a car used to be easy when we were kids. With all the new technology, boosting a car today takes a lot more skill.”

I thought about that as he chewed. “So stealing older cars like Jimmy's VW and my father's Skyhawk would be easier than lifting one of the cars in your parking lot.”

He nodded.

Okay, the thing about old cars sort of made sense to me now. But why torch the car after you'd boosted it? Didn't that defeat the purpose?

I was about ready to leave, when I had another thought. “Hey, did you overhear my father talking about anything last night?”

Zach's shoulders tensed. “Hard to miss. No offense, but your dad is loud.”

“He likes the sound of his own voice,” I explained. Or at least he used to. I wasn't exactly an expert on the subject.

“That was the impression I got. He was busy talking to the bingo ladies about his really successful business. When the firemen came in, your dad looked annoyed that he'd lost center stage. Then he got even louder, telling everyone how he needed to get a new car, only he never had time to shop for one. Too busy being successful, I guess.”

I shook my head. “That it?”

“Nope.” Zach grinned over his fork. “After someone mentioned the car on fire had been stolen, your father said he wished the thief would come and take his car. Then he'd be forced to get a new one. I guess he got his wish.”

Huh. “I guess he did.”

*   *   *

I left Zach to devour the rest of the meat-loaf special and steered my car toward town and Agnes Piraino's house. Agnes lived in a residential section of Indian Falls located three blocks from the bustle—such as it was—of downtown. I parked the car and stepped onto the porch. Four cats eyed me from their patches of sunlight. One large yellow longhaired cat got up and sauntered toward me. I leaned down and gave the cat a scratch.

“How are you doing, Precious?” I asked. The cat nuzzled my hand.

I took that as a good sign. Precious took large doses of antipsychotic meds. When the meds were taken away, Precious was kind of like a werewolf—and not the wise Harry Potter teacher kind. Precious has been known to hiss, growl, scratch, and sink her pointy teeth into an outstretched hand. Right now, Precious was flopped at my feet, with all four paws pointing to the sky. In the right situation, drugs can be a very good thing.

“Rebecca, dear. It's so good to see you.” The diminutive Agnes Piraino appeared behind the screen door. With her immaculately permed white hair, she looked the picture of the perfect grandmother. Except for the sad smile. Agnes still hadn't gotten over her nephew's betrayal. “How nice of you to come for a visit.”

“Sammy told me you and Eleanor were at the diner last night.”

Agnes's face brightened slightly. “Eleanor and I went to the movies. That Will Smith is so cute, don't you think?”

I agreed that Will Smith was very cute, then asked, “After the movie, you went to the diner?”

“Yes, we did,” Agnes said in a proud voice. “We each ordered banana splits with extra nuts. Eleanor says that all women need nuts. I didn't know that, but she's a nurse, so she should know.”

My blood curdled. I was pretty sure Eleanor hadn't been talking about the peanut butter kind of nut.

“Could you tell me who you saw at the diner last night? It might be important to the car thefts that have been going on the last couple days.”

Agnes stepped out from behind the screen, allowing two more cats to escape into the great outdoors. “Anything for you, dear.”

She took a seat on one of the porch's wicker chairs. Immediately, a cat hopped into her lap and went to sleep. “Eleanor and I got there about nine o'clock. Not too long after Doreen and all her friends came in.”

Judging by Agnes's tone, she was unhappy with my Realtor. Before she could tell me about Doreen's slight, I prompted her along. Only problem was, she didn't have anything new for me.

Finally, I thanked her and turned to leave. When I was halfway down the stairs, she called, “Oh, there was one guy I've never seen before. He was only there for a few minutes, but Eleanor noticed him right away. He was kind of tall, with dark hair, and I think he had a tan. I said I thought he had nice brown eyes, but Eleanor said he had a great butt and that's far more important.” Excitement flared in Agnes's eyes, and her voice got a little breathless. “I had no idea that a man's butt is so important, but Eleanor swears that it is. She said she's going to take me to a club next week where we can look at some really nice butts so I'll know the difference.”

Something told me hanging with Eleanor was going to teach retired librarian Agnes more than she'd ever learned from a book.

Visions of old women ogling male flesh haunted me all the way back to the rink. While it gave me hope for my later years, I had no idea how anything she'd told me was going to help identify my newest suspect. What I needed was an eyewitness who was more interested in faces than in behinds. A person with an eye for detail and the ability to size up someone in the blink of an eye.

Taking a deep breath, I did a U-turn and tried to calm the icky sensation growing in my chest. There was only one person I knew who fit that description. Like it or not, I needed a con man.

I needed my father.

*   *   *

Five minutes had passed since I'd pulled into Pop's driveway, eyes glued on the blue-and-white-trimmed house. My estranged father was inside that house. My mind told me to get out of the car and talk to the man, but my body wasn't cooperating.

My fingers started to turn the ignition key when a clang of metal and the sound of my grandfather's very angry voice jolted me into action. I bolted out of the car and raced up the walk to the side door.

Another clash of metal rang through the neighborhood as I flung open the door and ran into the kitchen. The scene that greeted me made me stop cold. Pop was standing with his back to me in the middle of the kitchen, wearing red-white-and-blue boxer shorts, a white undershirt, and black tube socks. He was waving a large metal skillet above his head with one hand and the lid of a copper pot with the other. Crouched between the red Formica kitchen table and the back wall was my father, and he was looking more than a little freaked.