Skating Over the Line Read online

  Weird.

  At the edge of my parent’s farmhouse yard had stood a large oak tree. There I practiced for my dream job—an aerialist with the Barnum & Bailey Circus. My dream died the day Dad left and Mom and I had to move. Huh. Now that I thought about it, my father’s desertion had probably helped me live through puberty.

  I showered and changed into a pair of jeans and a copper tank top. Then, standing in Mom’s gourmet kitchen, I tried to talk myself into going downstairs. This apartment felt safe. Anything outside of it didn’t. But hiding felt like a wimpy, girl thing to do, and I hated feeling wimpy more than I liked feeling safe.

  Well adjusted I wasn’t.

  Grabbing my purse, I went downstairs to work in the rink. While George skated around the wooden floor, I paid some bills and returned phone calls. Scheduling three birthday parties and enrolling six kids in the upcoming group skating lessons helped the rink’s bottom line, but it did nothing for my deductive abilities. So I strapped on a pair of skates and joined George on the floor.

  I pumped my legs from side to side, gaining momentum as I traveled the dimly lit length of the rink. Unless there was a class or a private lesson in progress, George and I kept the lights low and the music off. Without the fluorescent lights and pumping bass, the rink took on a relaxing, almost soothing atmosphere. The combination also helped keep the electricity bill down.

  George executed a perfect triple-loop jump in the middle of the floor while I whizzed around the boards, taking mental inventory of what I knew about the car thefts. Both Jimmy and my father had parked their old cars in well-used parking lots. The thief either had liked the added risk of being caught or hadn’t thought anyone would notice him. I liked to think that meant the guy was a local. That would narrow it down, since the guy who’d accosted me last night would stick out like a sore thumb in this town. However, Indian Falls’s citizens were a trusting group as a whole. If a thief waved at them while hot-wiring a car, the citizen would probably wave back, whether they knew him or not.

  Starting to sweat, I spun around and traveled the floor backward. The thief might have called Jimmy’s insurance agent, he might have been in the diner two nights ago, and he might have attacked me last night. But might haves weren’t helping me right now. I needed to study what I knew for certain. I knew for sure that the thief had stolen two cars and torched one of them with gasoline. A mannequin had also been set ablaze. And despite the fact the hay field had been dry, it hadn’t gone up with the car or the doll. I had no idea why the thief had set a recently stolen car on fire or how he’d managed to save the field from going up in smoke, but I wanted to find out.

  For that, I needed a fireman.

  Nine

  The Indian Falls Fire Department was located five blocks from the rink, right next to Dr. Truman’s office. Given this proximity, I guessed that Dr. Truman wasn’t just the local doctor and coroner; he was also one of the paramedics.

  The heat index was climbing as I parked across from the station. Music was pumping from a small but powerful CD player while the faded red fire engine sat parked on the long and currently wet driveway. Big Red was getting a bath.

  A half-naked man with a garden hose danced around the engine, spraying water. The guy didn’t see me, which was probably a good thing, since my mouth was hanging open in horror. Not that I was a prude or anything. Most of the time, twenty- or thirty-something shirtless men in shorts were the best part of summer.

  This wasn’t one of those times.

  The fireman did a stripper impersonation with his hips while his ample gut undulated in time to the music. The man gave new meaning to the words belly dance. Add to that the dark curly hair crawling up his chest and down his legs like moss, and suddenly you had a picture that would never appear in any of the sexiest-firemen calendars.

  When the song ended, the guy turned off his hose, scratched his hairy stomach, and yawned. Then he turned. I could tell he’d spotted me when his uncovered mouth turned from a stretched yawn into a come-hither smile.

  Oh joy!

  I gave him a little wave and strolled up the drive. “Hi. I hope I’m not interrupting your work.”

  The guy winked. “I don’t mind being interrupted by a hot chick.”

  I mentally rolled my eyes and stopped next to the truck. Now that I was closer, I realized the guy was barely out of high school. I tried to decide if I’d ever seen him before. Nope. He might have been at Pop’s two months ago when the scarecrow went up in flames or at Jimmy’s car fire. Either event would have warranted wearing a shirt and pants. Without those, I was too distracted to say for certain.

  “Hi, I’m Rebecca Robbins. Are you the only one manning the station today?” I was hoping to find a more experienced firefighter to answer my questions.

  My new friend nodded. “Robbie Bellson. The other guys went to get coffee. I’m the new guy around here, which means I get to wash the truck and baby-sit the station.”

  His disgruntled frown made me smile. “Not exactly the exciting job you signed on for, is it?”

  “It has its moments,” he said, leaning down to tie his shoe and giving me a great view of his ample butt crack.

  “Like someone setting fire to Jimmy Bakersfield’s car?” I asked while feigning interest in the fire truck. Butt cracks weren’t my thing.

  “Yeah, that was cool. I never knew a car could light up so fast.” I braved a look at Robbie. He was standing upright, with his hands jammed in his pockets. A glee-filled smile spread across his face as he reminisced, “You should have seen those flames. They were truly excellent.”

  “I saw them. I was the one who reported the fire.”

  “Then you know what I’m talking about.” Robbie shifted from foot to foot, almost dancing with excitement. “The guy who started it used a lot of gasoline. I guess he didn’t want to risk the fire going out.”

  “If that much gasoline was used, why didn’t the hay field go up in flames?” I asked. “I mean, I don’t know much about setting fires, but I was wondering how the car burned so fast and the dry field was barely singed. Isn’t that unusual?”

  Robbie stopped dancing. “I don’t know,” he said, walking over to the CD player. With a whack, he turned it off. He grabbed the red T-shirt sitting next to it and shimmied into it. Rolls of hairy fat shook from side to side, then disappeared underneath yards of material.

  “Look,” he said, turning back to me with a frown. “There are lots of reasons why the field wouldn’t catch fire. Only, I can’t talk to you about them.”

  “But I only—”

  “Sorry. The guys are already giving me a hard time, my being new and all. The last thing I need is them finding out I talked to you about the fire. Besides, Deputy Stick-up-His-Ass read us the riot act about talking to anyone but him. You’re hot, but you’re not hot enough for me to risk pissing him off.”

  Robbie trudged into the firehouse, leaving me trying to decide whether I had just been insulted.

  I contemplated hanging around until the other firemen came back, then decided against it. Deputy Sean had beaten me here. None of these guys would be talking to little old me. There was only one person associated with the firehouse who would risk crossing Sean Holmes to give me information, and right now he probably had his hand up a cow’s behind. I was going to have to wait for Lionel to shower before grilling him.

  That in mind, I went back to the rink. I walked through the front door and stopped in my tracks. There was my father, standing on the rink’s sidelines, watching a class of seven- and eight-year-olds learn how to skate on one foot.

  Every muscle in my body tightened as I recalled how my father had stood in that same spot and watched my mother teach me how to skate. He’d always yelled encouragement when I fell. I fell a lot back then. I still did, only now I didn’t rely on Stan’s voice to help me get up. I got up all on my own.

  My father turned and spotted me in the doorway. His white shorts were pressed to perfection, as was his black polo shirt. A frow
n creased his face as he crossed to me. “Rebecca, honey, I heard what happened to you last night. Why didn’t you call us? We were worried.”

  For a moment, I thought he was using the royal we. Then I spotted my grandfather making a beeline for me. Pop was wearing black shorts and a white shirt. Together, they looked like Yin and Yang. It was kind of creepy.

  “I’m fine,” I assured the two of them.

  “That’s not what Roxy said.” Pop wagged his finger at me. “She said you were threatened last night right outside the rink. You should have called me.”

  “You couldn’t have done anything, Pop.”

  Pop straightened his bony shoulders. “I could have stayed here. I still can. That man won’t come back and bother you with me around.”

  “Right.” My father laughed. “You have as much chance of scaring off an intruder as a teacup terrier does.”

  Pop scowled. “I’ll have you know I’m the Senior Center’s arm-wrestling champ.” He flexed a nonexistent muscle in his bicep. “I can protect my granddaughter.”

  My father’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at Pop. “I’m back in town now, which means if Rebecca needs protecting, I’ll be the one to do it.”

  “You’d run off at the first sign of trouble,” Pop yelled, puffing out his chest. “And, yes, I might not be young anymore, but Rebecca knows I’ll be around when she needs me. You can’t say that.”

  My father’s face turned three shades of red. He took a step forward, so only inches separated him and Pop. “Are you calling me a coward?”

  “It’s the truth.” Pop adjusted his teeth and shot an evil grin at his adversary. Pop was having way too much fun. Stan wasn’t. A vein in his neck throbbed as he cracked his knuckles. Yep, Stan looked ready to explode. It was time to step in, before someone got hurt.

  “Hey,” I hollered. Two pairs of testosterone-filled eyes swung in my direction. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need either one of you to stay with me.”

  Pop wasn’t going down without a fight. He plopped his hands on his hips and said, “Rebecca Robbins, you need me.”

  I smiled. “Of course I need you, Pop. I just don’t need you to be my roommate. If I am in danger, I don’t want to drag you into it. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.” I also couldn’t live with Pop’s social calendar. I’d tried that once before, with great discomfort. Walking in on my grandfather while he was having sex guaranteed therapy into the afterlife. “Please understand, Pop.”

  Pop’s shoulders fell. “Okay. But you have to promise to come get me if you’re doing any dangerous investigation work. I make a good lookout.”

  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.