Skating Over the Line (26 page)

Max lived with his parents on the east side of town, right next to the high school grounds. When reading his work application, I knew exactly which house was his. It used to belong to the family of a kid named Ralph. Because of his name, his lack of fashion sense, and his scholastic aptitude, Ralph was more often than not chased home by the dumber but more physically fit members of the wrestling team. Personally, I'd liked Ralph. In kindergarten, we'd bonded over our lack of coordination. I cheered the loudest when Ralph finished his valedictory address before heading off to Harvard on a full scholarship.

Sometime after my high school experience, Sinbad had moved into Ralph's old house and painted it a very neon yellow. I pulled into the driveway and put on a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes from the color. Astronauts on the space station could see Sinbad's house even on the cloudiest of days.

Yellow and red flowers lined the sidewalk up to the front door. I rang the bell and waited. No one answered, but there was shuffling on the other side.

“Max?” I asked in my most authoritative tone. “Are you in there?” More shuffling. “If you don't answer the door, I'm going to assume a burglar is inside and call the cops.”

That did it. The yellow-and-white door swung open. Max appeared in a rumpled long-sleeved turtleneck. He had bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, and his hair looked as if he'd spun on it while he slept. Max was a wreck.

“Are you sick?” I asked, talking a tiny step backward.

Max shook his disheveled head. “No. Maybe. I didn't sleep well last night. It all caught up with me at work, so I decided to leave before I made another mistake.”

At least Max had figured out his yelling at the derby team was uncalled for. Still, I said, “You should have called me or left a note. When you didn't answer your cell, I got worried and went to see your dad.”

Max winced. His olive skin went pasty white. “You saw my dad? Is he really mad?”

I shrugged. “He wasn't thrilled to hear you'd disappeared, but he's not likely to give you a hard time about it. He has other things on his mind. His car was just stolen.”

“His car was stolen?” Max knees sagged, and he hung on to the door frame for dear life.

“The two of us were outside the coffee shop when the thieves sped by.”

Max's skin turned a strange shade of gray. Not an improvement.

“Don't worry about the car.” I used my most confident voice but prepared to catch him if he fainted. “Deputy Holmes is working the case now.”

“Deputy Holmes? My dad talked to Deputy Holmes?”

I risked contamination and patted Max on the arm. He was shivering, despite wearing a high-necked shirt in the middle of a heat wave. He probably had a fever. “You really don't look well, Max. Maybe you should go back to bed.”

The kid looked back into the house and nodded. “You're right. I'm sorry about work today. I promise to be there on time tomorrow, and I'll even stay late if you want. My dad will be really angry if I lose my job.”

Max's issues with his dad made mine seem almost minor by comparison. Then again, he knew where his dad was at this very moment. That counted for something.

“Don't come back to work until you feel better,” I said with a smile. “We'll get by without you. Have your mom give Doc Truman a call.”

“Sure.” Max gave me a brave grin, said good-bye, and closed the door. I started to turn, then paused. Max was talking to someone inside. I couldn't make out what he was saying, but it didn't sound happy. Maybe he was telling his mother about Sinbad's car. But if Mrs. Smith was home, why was a very sick Max answering the door?

While I was vaguely worried about Max and his illness, I had bigger problems. Like my missing father. When I got back to my office, there was still no Dad and no message from Sean. Plus, the fact I was interested in hearing from both was more disturbing than I cared to admit.

Since Max wasn't going to be around for a while, I dived into the pile of work I was planning on using to train him. Ordering pizzas and popcorn oil wasn't all that exciting, but it kept my mind occupied while eating up a bunch of time and it made me feel useful—something you definitely didn't feel when waiting around for missing relatives to turn up.

I was scribbling my name onto the last payroll check when Pop stuck his head into the office. “Doc told me you were okay, but I had to come over and see for myself. You're big news at the center.”

Just what I'd always wanted.

Pop walked in and leaned on the desk. His eyes dropped to my bandaged hand. A frown puckered his already wrinkled face. “Are you really feeling okay?”

I touched his arm and smiled. Pop liked gossip as much as any Indian Falls senior citizen, but he loved me more. It was a fact of life I counted on. “I'm a little singed, but basically fine.”

“Doc said almost those exact words. He was a real attraction this morning when he stopped by to give Ethel a new prescription.” Pop's eyes twinkled with excitement. “Everyone wanted to know the scoop. Once they heard you were involved, they looked to me for information. I played it close to the vest and kept my mouth zipped.” He made a zipper motion across his mouth and pursed his lips together.

“You hadn't talked to me, so you didn't know anything,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, but the folks at the center don't know that.” He flashed his very white false teeth. My grandfather bleached daily. “I have a reputation for knowing what's going on in this town. Especially when it involves my granddaughter. How would it look if I showed surprise at hearing you'd rescued a guy from a blazing vehicle last night? I don't want people to think I'm a neglectful grandfather.”

“You are the best grandfather a girl could ever want,” I said, feeling teary. “I should have called you this morning to let you know I was okay. I wasn't thinking clearly.”

Pop held my good hand in his. “It's okay. Although I wish I could have seen the fire. Doc said your father's car went up like a torch.”

I swallowed hard. “When I saw the car and the guy inside, I thought it was Dad. I thought Dad was going to die.”

My grandfather's hand tightened on mine, and I squeezed my eyes shut in an effort to fight back the tears. I lost.

“This is stupid,” I said, opening my eyes. Reaching for a tissue, I tried to dislodge the strange daughterly feeling taking root. “Even when Stan was here, he was never much of a father. The one time he remembered to come to my school play, he sold my principal skin-care products that turned her purple. He never cared about me. So it's stupid for me to cry over him. Right?”

I waited for Pop to agree with me. To hear him call Stan every name in the book. But he didn't. In fact, he was looking sad and more than a little conflicted.

“Rebecca.” Pop perched himself on the corner of Mom's old desk. “Your father is a horse's ass. He's a cheat and a con artist. More than once I wanted to take off my belt and give his behind a lesson he'd never forget. But—”

But? What but? Pop was on a roll. I was remembering why I didn't dwell on my lack of father-daughter bonding. That was good. No buts.

“But your father loves you.” Pop's clenched jaw spoke volumes about how much it cost to admit that. And he wasn't done. “When you were born, Stan hated letting you out of his sight. He had dozens of pictures in his wallet. Even stopped traveling for months at a time so he could be home with you.”

Mom had always claimed my father loved me, but I figured her speeches had more to do with Oprah's show on improving teenage self-esteem than with Stan's true emotional state. Hearing my father's archenemy confirm it was a little surreal.

“Then what changed? He left us without a word and has been missing for most of my life. That doesn't sound like unconditional devotion to me.”

Pop shrugged. “Just because he loves you doesn't mean he can change his nature. And it's in his nature to be a wart on my hairy ass.”

Ick. Thinking about my grandfather's hairy behind was enough to scare me out of my wistful mood. Still, I had decided something. When Stan surfaced, maybe we'd talk about our past nonrelationship. Maybe we'd find a way to act like father and daughter. The combo of fear and sadness was enough to make me want to try.

I stood up and kissed my grandfather's stubbly cheek. “Thanks, Pop.”

“No problem.” Pop stood upright, grinning. “That's what grandfathers are here for. That reminds me. I do have one question I'd like you to answer before I go.”

I raised an eyebrow, wondering what piece of my parental past he wanted to delve into. My reality had gotten really skewed when Pop wanted to talk about feelings. I clasped my hands and waited.

“Did you really have a high-speed chase with the guys who stole Sinbad's car? I have it from three different sources that you did. Bingo is going to start in another hour, and I gotta have the dirt.”

*   *   *

After Pop got all the details, he bopped out of the rink, excited to spread gossip to friends and fans alike. Meanwhile, I was still feeling guilty for making him worry in the first place. I should have called.

That reminded me: If I didn't call Lionel, someone else would. A lot had happened since last night's fire. Third-person news didn't set so well with him, so I punched his number into my cell and waited to get chastised.

Voice mail.

I did a little happy dance for my luck. Normally, voice mail was frustrating. I rambled and in general felt like a complete nitwit. Today, I was willing to put aside my prejudice against technology. The details of the morning were related. A slight sniffle might have been audible at the part where I talked about Stan's disappearance, but otherwise I thought I sounded okay.

That finished, I grabbed my purse, waved to George, and hit the road. I wasn't sure if the car thefts, subsequent explosions, and my father's disappearance were linked, but I needed to explore the possibility. I motored over to the scene of last night's car fire, figuring maybe there was a clue there that would help me put both cases to rest.

The field was scorched but empty when I arrived. No police. No torched car. There were a couple of guys working the field to my left and a few guys mending a fence in the distance. None of them was close enough to chat with. Just me communing with nature.

I walked to the center of the blackened field, trying to ignore the smell of burned rubber mingling with overcooked soybeans. The odor brought back memories from last night, which I pushed away. Crying wasn't going solve my problems. Shaking my head, I did my best television-cop impression and walked the crime scene in search of clues.

Like the last car fire, this one had left all but a small area of the field untouched. Green flourished all around me, minus the sections where the firefighters had stamped down the plants beyond saving. Wait. One other spot was just as trampled, and it wasn't anywhere near where the emergency crews had operated. Weird.

Wiping my sweaty brow, I crossed the field to a spot about fifty feet away from where the car explosion had taken place. A guy working in a field across the way waved. I waved back and stared down at the decimated vegetation. Six parallel lines of smashed foliage looked up at me.

If I'd had to guess, I would have said a car or three had driven here. Rewinding my memory, I confirmed none of the emergency vehicles had been in this area. Which meant someone else had. Who?

A welcome breeze rippled across the field. I turned to face the wind, letting it cool off my face, and spotted something small and gray stuck in the vegetation. Kneeling down, I snagged the thing with my fingers and gave it a squeeze. Spongy. The thing had a hole on one end and easily fit my thumb. It was either the most boring finger puppet ever or a new dishwashing device. Neither option was very helpful in finding the pyromaniac and bringing him to justice. Still, I pocketed the gray sponge and stamped down plants, looking for more clues.

There were some burned rubber bits from the exploding tires and a few pieces of blackened fabric and plastic. Sean must have done a good job of collecting evidence, I thought. Either that or there was nothing to find.

Hoping Sean was on his way to pegging the killer, I cranked the air conditioning to high and steered back toward town. While my body returned to a nonbroiling temperature, I contemplated what I'd found. The little gray thingy wasn't high on my clue meter, but the tire tracks were. No farmer would park his car on a crop. Kids might have done it, but the damage looked recent. The squashed vegetation was still green and flattened. The activity in nearby fields made it unlikely kids would hang out there during the day. Any farmer worth his job title would run them off or call the cops.

I turned the wheel and coasted into the Sheriff's Department's parking lot. Sean and Sheriff Jackson were nowhere to be found. However, Roxy was hard at work flipping through a
Cosmopolitan
magazine. Her bare feet were propped up on the counter. Cotton balls were wedged in between each toe as she carefully applied a sparkly pink polish. Beach Boys music poured out of the radio sitting nearby.

I squashed the urge to yell “Fire.” Watching Roxy try to save both her pedicure and herself was tempting, but I needed information more.

Next time.

“Hey, Roxy. Are you busy?”

Roxy jumped. The glossy magazine careened to the floor, and her hand flew out of control. Next thing I knew, a streak of sparkly pink trailed up her leg. I smiled. Almost as good as the fire drill.

Roxy eye's narrowed as she considered her polished leg. With one perfectly manicured hand, she whacked the radio's Off switch and glared at me. “What do you want, Rebecca?”

Good question. “Do you know if Sean has any news about my father?”

Roxy's eyes softened, and I felt the kernel of hope I'd been harboring fade. When Roxy was kind, good news never followed. “Sorry, Rebecca. Deputy Sean and Sheriff Jackson have been all over town trying to find your father and the men who chased him. No luck.”