Skating Over the Line Read online

  I was going to give her a lengthy answer, but I heard a man chuckle in the background. It was one of those low, husky laughs guys use when they’re interested in sex. Oh God! The guy was probably my father. Yuck!

  “Max is doing just fine. In fact, he’ll be here any minute. Gotta go.”

  I snapped the phone shut, wishing the visions in my head would disconnect, too.

  Four keys were accounted for. Once Doreen called me back, the number would be up to five. That just left Pop’s. No answer at the house or on his cell. He was probably sleeping, showering, or, like my father, otherwise occupied. I turned to give George an update. He was pale as a ghost. His bottom lip trembled like that of a four-year-old ready to have a tantrum. I should know. I’d seen a lot of kids with just that look on this very floor.

  “Are you okay, George?” When I was dealing with a toddler, this question was always followed by tears or throwing up. I was hoping George would do neither. My nerves couldn’t handle it.

  George sucked in some air and gave a brave little nod.

  “You sure?”

  Another stoic movement of the head. George was scrappy.

  “It just hit me that someone actually broke into your mother’s rink,” George said with a sniffle. “This is a place for happiness. It is hard to believe someone would think of ruining that.”

  Happiness wasn’t the first word I’d use to describe the rink.

  “Hey, guys. I brought coffee.” Max sauntered into the rink. He was sporting a three-piece suit and juggling a tray of Styrofoam cups. “And I even got here thirty minutes early just to impress you, George.”

  George didn’t look impressed. He just looked stunned. I was, too, but that only heightened my need for coffee. “Thanks, Max.” I took a swig and hoped the caffeine would jump-start my brain. Maybe then the break-in would make sense.

  “What’s wrong?” Max asked, looking from me to George and back again.

  “The rink wasn’t locked when I got here,” I said. “George swears he doubled-checked to make sure the place was closed up last night. We think someone broke in.”

  Max’s raised eyebrows, dropped jaw, and wide eyes reminded me of the pictures taken at amusement parks of the people strapped into the ride that drops two hundred feet before swooping to safety. Max was in drop mode.

  “A break-in. Wow! Although, if there were no signs of forced entry, then George could be wrong about the place being locked.” Max shifted from foot to foot, looking almost giddy to be in the middle of such intrigue. He also looked happy to be getting back at George for his bad behavior. “I mean, who would break into a roller rink?”

  George’s pale face turned bright pink. “I didn’t get it wrong, you idiot. For all we know, you broke in here to make me look bad.” He took the medium latte off Max’s tray and drew back his arm as if ready to launch.

  “Stop.” My voice bounced around the rink like a pinball. “Max, I’d trust George with my life. If he says the rink was locked, then it was locked. There’s no reason to throw accusations around.” That also applied to coffee.

  “Now, I need to go find my grandfather. George is going to be in charge of the rink for the day. Max, I need you to stop by the sheriff’s office and fill out a report about the break-in. I want to cover all the bases just in case something turns up missing.”

  And there was no way I could leave the two of them here unsupervised. It would be coffee at thirty paces.

  George glowered at Max.

  Max ignored him and buttoned his jacket. He then straightened his padded pinstriped shoulders. “I’ll call you when I finish at the station, in case you have other important details you need taken care of.”

  Chin in the air, Max strutted past us. I grabbed George’s arm just before it had a chance to fly. He stumbled at the change of momentum, shot me a wounded glare, and stomped to the side of the rink to get ready for his first lesson.

  Ignoring the huffing sounds coming from George’s general direction, I headed out into the already stifling heat on a mission to find Pop. I steered my Civic toward his house, hoping to find his Toe Stop key safe and sound.

  The minute I turned onto Pop’s street, the sound of an amped-up bass hit me square in the chest. Tooling into his driveway, I stopped the car and gaped. Pop was in the middle of the garage, strutting around with a mike. He was wearing brown leather shorts and a black T-shirt that was at least a size too small. To his right, performing a loud, ear-piercing guitar riff was Mr. O’Rourke, former high school science teacher. Behind him, a rhythm-impaired Doc Truman pounded away on the drums. Pop’s next-door neighbor, Ed, did his best impression of a bass player.

  No wonder Pop hadn’t answered his phone. There was no way he could have heard it. In fact, the lack of musical talent in the group was so shocking, I was amazed anyone on the block could even think.

  The only person present with any melodic skill was Mary Margaret on keys. Not that I could hear her playing above the din, but she’d played for my mother’s funeral and done a nice job. Currently, the elderly organist was seated demurely in the back at her keyboard. Her eyes were glued to my grandfather’s butt, which was swaying to the inconsistent beat.

  Plugging my ears, I walked up to the garage and shouted, “Pop!”

  He didn’t see me. My grandfather was busy pretending to riff along with the out-of-tune guitar.

  I walked through the mess of cords and amps. Then, braving deafness, I took a finger out of my ear and tapped Pop on the shoulder. He swung around and held up a fist. One by one, the band members stopped playing.

  Thank God.

  Pop put down his microphone and said, “Take five, everyone. We’ll try that song again after a break.”

  The musicians all said hello as they exited the garage. Mary Margaret did a little finger wave at Pop and giggled as she walked by. Oy.

  “What song were you rehearsing?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  Pop hitched up his shorts. “‘Love Me Tender.’”

  I blinked.

  “I know. They haven’t gotten the hang of it yet, but they want to learn, and they come cheap.” Pop gave me a bony shoulder shrug. “Most headliners have their own band. I thought with my career taking off, I should put one together. Mary Margaret has some talent, don’t you think?”

  I looked toward the front lawn, where Mary Margaret sat with her hand on Mr. O’Rourke’s leg. Mary Margaret had all the makings of the next Yoko Ono.

  “Don’t the neighbors mind that you’re rehearsing here?”

  “Nope.” Pop gave me a toothy grin. “Most of them are at work, and I let Ron O’Rourke be in the band. He’s the first one calling the cops if an ant farts on this street. So what’s up? If you came by to see your father, he’s not here. I don’t think he came in last night.”

  “No, I wanted to see if you had your rink key.”

  Pop’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Did something happen to the rink?”

  “I don’t know. The door was unlocked when I got there this morning. The door hadn’t been forced open. Either both Brittany and George forgot to lock up last night or someone took one of our keys. I’ve accounted for the others.”

  “George must have gotten it wrong because I have my key. It’s right here in my—” Pop’s expression went from amused to shocked horror in a second flat as he reached into his pocket. He raised his eyes to meet mine. “My key. It’s gone.”

  Sixteen

  Damn!

  “Are you sure?” I asked, though I could see a key was missing from Pop’s rabbit’s foot ring. Pop had three keys: home, car, and rink. Today there were only two. Subtraction sucks.

  Pop looked stunned. “I don’t know what could have happened. The key was here yesterday afternoon. It’s not like I leave them lying around all over the place. I keep them in my pocket.”

  These days, Pop’s pockets were so tight, lint had trouble getting in. Stealing keys out of his pocket would take serious elbow grease.

  “C
ould you have left them on a table at the center last night? It would’ve taken only a few seconds for someone to slip the key off and put the ring back.”

  Pop shook his head back and forth. “Didn’t happen at the center. I know better than that. Too many fans hanging around. If you leave your keys out, you never know who might end up naked in your trunk. I learned my lesson the first time.”

  I opened my mouth to ask and decided I was happier not knowing.

  “I guess it could have been at the diner. Mary Ellen asked me to serenade her mother, and I left my keys on the counter for a few minutes. Wait. I know!” Pop snapped his fingers. “Your father was moping around after you turned him away empty-handed. I bet he took the key when I wasn’t looking. No wonder he didn’t stay here last night. Rebecca, I hate to say this, but your father is a skunk.”

  Pop was right not only about my father’s character but about the possibility of his being the key thief. Stan was more than capable of lifting Pop’s rink key without Pop being any the wiser. Stan’s need for quick cash was a strong motive for breaking into the rink. Only, the lockbox with today’s bank deposit hadn’t been touched. Weird.

  “I’ll go find Stan and ask him,” I said with a sigh.

  “I’m going with you.” Pop shifted his weight from foot to foot like a prizefighter ready to do battle. “It was my key. I’ve earned the right to pummel him.”

  “Let me talk to him first,” I said. “If he sees you clenching your fist, he might make a run for it.”

  Pop thought about that for a minute and nodded. “You’re right. We don’t want to scare him off before he confesses to the crime. Once he does, I’ll come in and cuff him. I should probably get a pair of handcuffs before then.”

  I left Pop browsing the Yellow Pages for police supply stores. Waving good-bye to the band, I steered my Civic toward Doreen’s retirement apartment to search for my father.

  Doreen’s door loomed in front of me. Somewhere on the other side, my father and Doreen were doing something I didn’t want to imagine. I figured I could wait to talk to my dad another time, except I couldn’t. I’d put off a confrontation yesterday, and look what had happened.

  My first attempt at knocking was barely audible. Nerves. I raised my hand and rapped louder.

  “One minute,” Doreen’s voice sang from behind the door. True to her word, less than a minute later, the door swung open. Doreen stood in the doorway wearing a purple lace negligee and a black-and-purple robe. She squinted at me. Doreen was not wearing her trademark glasses. Apparently, they didn’t go with the ensemble. “Rebecca? Did we have an appointment?”

  “No appointment.” The light behind Doreen made her outfit almost see-through. Help. “I’m looking for my father. Is he here?”

  Doreen’s eyebrows knit together, and her voice went up an octave. “Uh, no. I haven’t seen your father since yesterday afternoon. He came by the office for a chat and asked me to meet him for dinner at the diner.”

  “Doreen, darling,” a deep male voice bellowed from inside the apartment. “Where’s my Realtor? I’m waiting to close the deal.”

  Doreen’s cheeks turned bright red. “I waited at the diner for an hour, but Stan never showed. He stood me up. And, well, I met someone else, and nature took its course. I’ll call you later today about the key and the closing.”

  Doreen ducked behind the door and slammed it shut.

  Ugh! I wished she hadn’t said the word closing. Not after hearing her friend inside. Well, I might not have known where Stan was, but I knew Doreen wasn’t holding him in escrow. That was something.

  I stopped by the rink to make sure everyone was in one piece. George was busy teaching classes, the pasty look of fear replaced by the rosy tint of exercise. Max was in the office, booking a birthday party. He hung up and gave me a copy of the incident report. He had shed the suit coat but still looked like he was dressed for a funeral. I filled him in on the missing key and he patted me on the back and told me everything was going to be all right. The kid was okay.

  Leaving Max looking concerned but in control, I waited on the sidelines of the rink for George to finish his class. He skated over, executed a perfect T-stop, and grabbed a towel. I gave him the same story I’d given Max. George flashed me a triumphant smile while his body quivered with the need to jump up and down and say “I told you so.” To his credit, his feet never left the floor. Probably because the skates were weighing him down.

  George’s next class arrived, and he raced back onto the floor with a giddy smile. I didn’t share his sense of glee. Some unknown person had a key to my rink. Pulling out my cell, I dialed Zack and asked for a locksmith referral. Five minutes later, I’d arranged for the guy to come by and change the locks after lunch.

  Leaving George and Max in charge, I headed back out into the heat. There was nothing more I could do about the key issue until my father surfaced. Sad but true. Time to take a trip to the firehouse and see if anyone had Guilty Pyromaniac written across his face.

  Cruising Main Street, I kept my eyes peeled for signs of Dad or the scary Spanish duo. Nada.

  I pulled into the firehouse’s parking lot and got out of the car. Middle-aged muscleman Chuck Culver was standing outside in his navy blue firefighter’s uniform, having a smoke. There was something ironic about a smoker having a job that involved putting out fires. Especially around here. Aside from Jimmy’s car explosion and Pop’s blazing scarecrow, most of the calls to the firehouse involved someone at home smoking in bed.

  Still, I was happy to see Chuck. He’d taken twenty dollars from me at Lionel’s last poker game. I figured my losing cash to him would grease the information wheels.

  I figured wrong. Chuck took one look at me, raked the hand not holding a cigarette through his shortly cropped dark hair, and frowned. Chuck was not happy to see me. Either rookie Robbie had told him about my last visit or Lionel had called. I was betting on the latter. Lionel and I were definitely going to have a chat.

  Giving Chuck a big “I don’t want anything from you” smile, I crossed the asphalt. Chuck didn’t smile back. He flicked his cigarette butt and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “You should put the cigarette out with water,” I said. “Then again, I guess if you start a fire, you have everything you need to put it out.”

  Okay, this was probably more confrontational than necessary, but I couldn’t help it. Throwing lit cigarette butts around was never a good idea, firefighter or not.

  Chuck didn’t look amused. “Lionel said you might come by.”

  Since Lionel had already blown my cover, I just nodded. “I thought it was strange the hay field didn’t catch fire along with Jimmy Bakersfield’s car. Lionel thought you guys might have some idea why.”

  “Or maybe you started thinking that one of my firefighters started the fire. Right?” Chuck glowered at me. Every muscle that I could see sticking out of his clothes bulged with not quite suppressed anger. On a normal day, I would have appreciated his body like a connoisseur appreciates a fine wine. Today, his muscles were no longer sighworthy. They were scary.

  “Look,” I said, resisting the urge to take a tiny step back. “Lionel and I find it hard to believe any of your guys would set fire to a car. But someone knew enough to keep the fire from spreading. If I put two and two together, Sean Holmes is going to.” Chuck’s muscles relaxed a tiny bit, so I pressed my case. “I need to figure out how the bad guy kept the fire contained, then nail him before Sean arrests your entire department. Sean tends to ask questions after he puts people behind bars.”

  Chuck thought about that for a minute. Finally, he unfolded his arms.

  Now that Chuck was more receptive, I asked, “What kind of fire retardant did the fireworks guys use? Would it work on hay?”

  Chuck looked up at the sky and put his hands behind his head—a modern version of Rodin’s The Thinker. “They used something called Safety Zone. They had gallons of it. Used to be harder to get your hands on the stuff, but the Internet has m
ade it easy. Stuff worked like a charm. A couple fireworks exploded on the ground and we didn’t need our hoses.”

  If Chuck was right, anyone could get their hands on the right kind of fire retardant. Which meant anyone paying attention to the fireworks setup was a suspect. My suspect list was getting longer instead of shorter.

  Chuck walked into the firehouse and returned a minute later with a jug. “After I talked to Lionel this morning, I went back to the scene and found this in the field opposite. I thought about giving it to Sean, but I figured he’d use it to point the finger at one of my guys.”

  He handed me the plastic jug, which had a black-and-red sticker that read SAFETY ZONE. The fact that the IFFD guys were all familiar with this specific retardant pointed the finger squarely inside the firehouse. I understood why Chuck was nervous.

  “I get that you’re friends with the other fighters, so you want to protect them,” I said. “But how can you be so sure they didn’t start the fire?”

  Chuck jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “There are only six of us, so we’re pretty easy to keep track of. Three of the guys were here at the firehouse eating Chinese food. I got a receipt that even says what time it was delivered. Robbie’s date canceled, so he was watching Titanic with his parents. And Kevin and I were at my house, watching the game, when the fire was called in. Everyone has an alibi.”

  I was confused. “Why not tell Sean and move on?”

  “Can’t.”

  Pithy but not helpful. “Why? Tell Sean about the alibis and give him the fire retardant. You’ll help save the day.”

  “And ruin Kevin’s marriage. He told his wife he had to work, so he didn’t have to visit his in-laws in Iowa. This is the fourth time he’s skipped making the trip, and his wife is getting angry. If she finds out he was drinking beer instead of eating her mother’s borscht, she’ll kick him to the curb.”