Skating Over the Line (20 page)

He ate several forkfuls of his meal while deep in thought. This gave me time to scarf down some more pasta, a slice of bread slathered with seasoned olive oil, and another glass of wine. If the bad guys made good on their threat tonight, I'd die with a happy stomach.

I grabbed another slice of bread while eyeing Lionel's half-eaten meal. “Are you going to eat all of that?”

Lionel cut off a piece of the eggplant and put it onto my plate. Then he said, “Every Fourth, the fireworks guys spray some kind of retardant on the grass to prevent sparks from flaring up. I don't think that kind of thing is strong enough to work on a car fire, but I can find out. If the guy who did this stopped the fire from spreading, then the thief might be one of—”

He cut himself off and slugged back the rest of his wine, then refilled the glass and drained it again.

I knew where his thought had been heading. Right to the front door of the Indian Falls firehouse. I couldn't believe one of the firefighters could be our pyromaniac car bandit. But only a person looking out for the safety of the town or maybe the welfare of the firefighters themselves would care enough to prevent the fire from spreading. Plus, all the firefighters had been in the diner the night my father blew into town.

Damn. Suddenly everyone associated with the big red truck was on my suspect list.

I pushed my almost-empty dish away. The pasta sat like a big ball of wax in my stomach. I knew all of those guys. Lately, poker night at the barn had included at least one or two members of the IFFD. I really didn't want one of them to be the car thief. From the look on Lionel's face, he didn't want that, either.

Our waitress cleared our plates and offered us dessert. Dom's tiramisu had taken first place in the Fall Festival Cook-Off three years running. It said so on the menu. Normally, I'd have considered it my duty to make sure he wasn't slipping, but not tonight.

Lionel drove me back to the rink. I hopped out of his megatruck and walked with him upstairs to my front door.

No notes. No scary guys lurking in shadows. Both good signs.

“You're going to question the guys at the firehouse, aren't you?” Lionel asked as I put my key in the lock.

I stepped into my apartment and waited for him to follow. He didn't. I sighed. “Would you rather Sean talk to them?”

“I'd rather you'd forget the whole thing.” His face was partially in shadows, but I could hear the frustration in his voice. “None of those guys would do anything to hurt people in this town.”

“Don't you think I know that?” I said, getting annoyed. “I like those guys. I liked Annette, too. She was my mother's best friend, and still I questioned her when it looked like she might have committed murder. Liking someone doesn't make the person innocent.”

I was pretty sure I was right. Expert I wasn't, but every
CSI
episode I'd watched backed me up.

Lionel tilted his head to one side, considering my logic. Finally, he leaned down and planted a kiss on me. The tension that had been building in my neck dissolved as a tingle of anticipatory pleasure built. Reaching up, I started to wind my hands around Lionel's neck. But he pulled back, taking his lips with him.

“I don't want to leave you alone tonight,” he said in a satisfyingly reluctant tone. “But I've got to go. I promised Doc I'd look in on his horse. She's ready to foal.”

I searched his face to make sure he was telling the truth. Being ditched for a pregnant horse wasn't all that flattering, but it was better than having your boyfriend leave angry. “So you're not mad at me?”

He gave me one of his sexy grins. “Becky, there's someone setting fire to cars and guys with death threats running around town. Somehow you're messed up in both. I can't even begin to describe what I'm feeling.”

He leaned down and kissed me again with a lot of emotion. None of it was angry. All of it was exciting. And then he was gone, leaving me staring at an open doorway and feeling a little wistful. Then a little scared. I was here alone. Yikes.

I closed the door and threw the dead bolt. For a moment, I contemplated scooting the end table in front of the door. It would keep the bad guys out. But it would keep me from making a quick escape if they decided to set fire to the place. I decided against redecorating and went to bed instead.

Not that I slept much. Without the security of having Lionel nearby, I tossed and turned most of the night and woke without my alarm at seven. There was sand in my eyes and a dull throb in the back of my head. On the upside, I had a plan. Hours of not sleeping had given me lots of time to think out my next move.

I got dressed in a pair of jean shorts, a stretchy blue Chicago Cubs shirt, and my best sneakers. I figured I might end up running for my life. I wasn't about to risk doing myself in over a pair of sexy heels, no matter what they might do for my legs.

Grabbing a bagel from the kitchen, I munched as I headed down the stairs to the rink. No bad guys were lurking around the front door. I grabbed the handle and froze. The rink was already open.

Huh. Maybe George was here.

I walked inside the dimly lit rink. “Hello?”

My voice echoed in the large, completely empty space.

“George?” A strange tingly sensation a lot like fear tickled the back of my neck. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

“You're up early.”

I spun around as a spandex-clad George waltzed through the front door. He smiled at me and hefted his green army backpack up on his shoulder. “Is Max coming in early, too?” The sneer in his normally perky voice spoke volumes.

I wasn't interested in his power play for king of the rink. George hadn't opened the rink this morning. So who had? Had it been open all night?

“Who locked up last night?” I asked, walking over to the sound booth and hitting the light switch. The large fluorescent lights hummed and sputtered to life. Nothing looked out of place. The CDs in the booth looked a little less than tidy, but that was to be expected.

George cocked his head to one side. “Brittany closed. Why?”

“I didn't use my key to get in. The door was already open.” I hurried back to my office, leaving a stunned George in my wake. The door was locked. I inserted my key and hit the light switch. Fine. Everything was fine. The computer was on the desk, all my knickknacks were accounted for, and the money from last night was locked in the box in the desk. Unless someone had raided the stash of Tombstone pizzas in the kitchen, everything was as it should be.

George poked his blond head into the office, frowning. “Are you sure the door wasn't locked?”

I nodded. “Brittany must have forgotten.”

“She couldn't have.” The creases on George's forehead deepened. “I came back to the rink last night to make sure things were running okay. New management—” George took one look at my face and swallowed the rest of that sentence. “Anyway, I helped Brittany close up. She locked the door, and I walked her to her car. I didn't want her to be alone in the parking lot with those Spanish guys on the loose. I even tested the knob to make sure the place was closed up tight.”

Crap. Crap. Crap. Someone had broken into the rink.

“Okay,” I said, taking several deep breaths. “Let's split up and make sure the rink is okay.”

Twenty minutes later, we reconvened on the floor of the rink. If someone had broken in, I had no idea why. Money, sound system, and pizzas were all in their places. Strange.

I debated calling the cops. The shouting match with Sean last night made me less enthusiastic than usual at the prospect. Besides, what would I tell them? The door had been unlocked, but there were no signs of forced entry—no crowbar marks, no scratches, nothing. Sure, George said he'd checked it and it was locked, but more than one person had a key to the joint. The cops weren't going to be impressed. I figured the best thing to do was make sure the keys were all accounted for. It might not solve the problem, but it would make me feel better.

There were six keys floating around in people's pockets. I had one. George showed me his. That made two. Brittany, Doreen, Pop, and a pimply yet responsible high school senior named Mike had the others.

I grabbed my cell and texted Mike and Brittany. No one under twenty ever answered the phone. They were too busy texting or instant-messaging on the computer to do anything as ordinary as talking. Moments after I'd hit Send, both kids confirmed they had keys in hand.

As did Doreen. She seemed incensed that I had the nerve to ask if she had her copy of the rink key, but after I soothed her hurt feelings, she answered the question. The key was in her desk at her office. I asked her to call me back when she verified that it was still there, and she asked, “How is your new manager working out?”

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.