Skating Over the Line (13 page)

The sheriff shoved his hands into his tattered blue pockets and gave me a stern look. “Haven't we done this before?”

I blinked and dropped my defense attorney pose. “What do you mean?”

“This.” The sheriff took one hand out of his pocket and waved it in the air. “We've done this kind of thing before. I have someone in the slammer and you want me to set them free.”

For a second, I worried that my diatribe had knocked Sheriff Jackson off the edge of sanity. But then I remembered. “Two months ago, when Agnes Piraino was locked up.”

He nodded. “Sean arrested her, and you came out here to plead her case.” A cricket chirped as Sheriff Jackson scratched his chin. Straightening his shoulders, he added, “You were right then, and something tells me you're probably right again. Don't worry. I'll take a look at the evidence myself. If it's as flimsy as you say, I'll let your friend go.”

Sheriff Jackson's voice boomed in the night. The authority in it made me smile. For the first time, I appreciated why the town continued to vote him into office. Sheriff Jackson might not have had the sharpest memory around, but when he wanted to be, he was still a force to be reckoned with.

“Do you think you could look into it tonight?” I asked. “I know neither one of us wants an innocent man spending a night behind bars.” Or dangling off a cot, I thought.

The sheriff puffed up his chest and hooked his thumbs under the collar of his robe. “I guess I could get dressed and go down to the station. There isn't anything on TV worth watching anyway. You have a good night and don't worry. I'll make sure justice is served.”

Back straight, chin high, Sheriff Jackson marched into the house, ready to do battle for truth, justice, and the American way. Look out, world.

Smiling, I hopped back in my car and steered it into town, certain I'd upped the odds that Reginald would be sleeping in his own bed tonight. Springing Reginald was good. The downside was that Sean Holmes would have a fit when he found out, and that anger would have one target: me.

Unless I wanted to end up arrested for jaywalking and then be forced to sleep on a minimattress, I needed to find the real thief—fast.

 

Eleven

Unfortunately, since I had a real job
in addition to my family problem, solving the car case was going to take longer than I wanted. Bright and early Friday morning, I trekked downstairs to the rink, all the while scoping out the parking lot for Sean Holmes and a pair of handcuffs. If only the handcuff thing could have been chalked up to sexual fantasy, my life wouldn't have seemed so depressing.

On the upside, Reginald and Bryan had called around midnight to tell me Reginald had been sprung. The two of them had cried and laughed so much, it had been hard to make out what they'd been saying. Still, their happiness made me feel all warm and tingly. Good deeds did that to me.

Max was talking on the phone while juggling two large cups of coffee as I approached the rink's entrance.

“Sure. We need to make sure we have enough lighting for the scene. We can't afford to do stunts twice. And make sure all the actors are ready to go on time. Have Len call me after he looks at the warehouse. I'm hoping it'll be perfect for the shoot. We have only a few more days of filming, and we have to make every minute count.” Max hung up and smiled.

“Sounds like your movie is almost done,” I said, fumbling for my keys.

Max bobbed his head up and down while dancing from foot to foot. “We have a couple of big scenes to film and three or four small ones. Then we start editing, and that's where a movie really comes together.”

“It must be hard to hold down a day job while working on a movie.” I found my key and slid it into the lock.

Max's face took on a solemn expression. “Most artists have to suffer through day jobs to make ends meet. It's part of the process.”

Inside, George was rolling around the polished floor. He saw me, skidded to a stop, and began to smile. Then he saw Max and his face darkened. He shoved a blond lock of hair out of his face, then pushed off on his skates, sending himself zooming in the opposite direction.

I led Max into the office while shaking my head and praying George would get over his snit by the time the next owners signed on the dotted line. The territorial thing wouldn't play well with the new audience. It wasn't playing well with me, and I liked the guy.

Flipping on the office light, I walked to my desk and fired up the computer. Max trailed behind me, a disgruntled pout pulling at his lips.

“Why doesn't George like me?” Max asked as his eyebrows knit together.

The petulant whine in Max's voice made me arch an eyebrow. George was necessary to the running of the rink. I had to put up with his antics. But Max hadn't proved he could even do the job, which meant all bets were off. “George doesn't like change, but he'll come around. If you strapped on a pair of skates and asked him for a few pointers, he might come around faster.”

Max cocked his head to the side, thinking about that for a moment. Then his face broke into a cheerful smile. All traces of six-year-old behavior vanished. Either he had heard the warning in my words or he was bipolar. I was voting for the former. Training a Ted Bundy wannabe wasn't on my agenda.

“Got it,” he said with gusto. “Hey, I brought you something.” He sat one of the cups he'd been holding on the desk. “A nonfat cinnamon latte with whipped cream. I wasn't sure about the nonfat, and Dad wasn't around to ask. You don't look like you need to watch your calories, but the girls I know all order nonfat. So I took a chance. I hope you like it. If not, I can run back to the shop and have my dad make another. He was really excited when I told him about the job.”

Wow. Max was a brownnoser. Who would have thought it? I'd assumed filmmakers were more like me. I hated sucking up. Too many girls I'd known in high school and college got passing grades because of their brown-smudged noses, whereas I'd actually had to study.

I know. Stupid me.

I told myself I should turn it down on principle. My morals came before my chemical addiction to caffeine. My moral fiber would not be compromised. I opened my mouth to say “No thanks” but stopped as the smell of cinnamon tickled my nose. My taste buds twitched with the promise of whipped cream and smooth coffee.

I couldn't say no.

I was a schmuck.

“Thank you, Max,” I said, grabbing the cup and taking a large sip. Ah! Normally, I wasn't the nonfat kind of girl, but this wasn't bad. The whipped cream compensated for the watered-down milk. “This is good.”

I hit the on switch on the computer and took another hit of coffee as it booted up.

Max straightened the collar of his deep blue polo shirt while watching me enjoy my legal drug. “You know,” he said in a low, purring tone, which got my attention, “I could get you a latte every day on my way to work if maybe…”

“If maybe what?”

He gave me a boyish smile. “If you'd talk to my dad. Tell him that you think I'm doing a great job here at the rink.”

“That's all?” Free coffee in exchange for a two-minute conversation seemed too good to be true.

Max tugged at his shirt collar. “Maybe you could also watch a couple of the movies I made in college and tell my dad how talented you think I am. Things are a little tense at home. Hearing someone he respects say I have talent might help.”

My brain flashed back to the scene in the coffee shop, and I felt a twinge of pity for Max. Max had a passion for making films, and his father was trying to force him to give it up. That sucked. Funny, while I was growing up, I'd always wanted a dad around to help me make decisions, but I was starting to consider the possibility that I'd gotten lucky.

“I'd be happy to watch some of your movies,” I said with a smile. “And have your dad drop by. He can watch you work, and I'll tell him what a great job you're doing.”

Max's thousand-watt smile told me it was definitely okay.

“Now,” I said, swallowing a lump lodged in my throat, “let's get to work.”

After returning messages, I took Max to the rental counter to show him how to change wheels and fix toe stops. Did I know how to have fun or what? By noon, the high school help had arrived and I left them in charge of Max's training while I went in search of food. Dairy Queen, here I come.

I considered driving, in case the psycho with the wire was around, but that felt wimpy. Besides, no one had spotted the guy since. In Indian Falls, I would have heard about it if they had.

I started to walk, smiling and enjoying the sun—for about a block. Then I got hot and sticky and stopped being happy. When the big red sign came into view, I broke into a speed walk. I needed ice cream, and I needed it now.

My hand was pushing the door to air-conditioned paradise when I heard “Rebecca!”

I jumped and looked around. No one in sight. Maybe the near-Sahara temperature was making me hallucinate.

I pushed the door again, in a hurry to be inside.

“Rebecca, I've been looking for you.”

I knew that voice.

Turning, I shaded my eyes and squinted into the sunlit street. Pop's pimplike maroon Lincoln Town Car with its white soft top cruised into the restaurant's parking lot. My grandfather stuck his head out of the window and smiled. The combination of Pop's blowing gray hair and the chrome-covered car looked like a trailer for Disney's
Shaggy Dog Turns Pimp
.

Pop gave a frantic wave and yelled, “Get in.”

All thoughts of ice-cream confections left my brain. “Did they find my father's car?” I asked, trotting toward Pop.

“No, but Eleanor reported her car stolen today.”

I slid into the Town Car and pulled the door shut. “Someone stole Eleanor's car?”

“No. She just forgot where she parked it. Senior moment. But things were real exciting around the center before she figured that out. Sean Holmes even paid us a visit. He's not too happy with you right now.”

My need for ice cream increased tenfold. “I figured he'd be upset.”

Pop grinned. “
Upset
doesn't cover it.
Ballistic
is a better description. Jimmy was telling everyone in the game room how lucky the police were to have you helping, seeing as how they locked up the wrong man.”

I groaned. “Don't tell me—”

“Yep.” Pop slapped his scrawny Bermuda shorts–clad thigh. “Right then, Sean Holmes walked through the door. Must've heard every word, because he looked as though he'd bitten into a green tomato.”

“Great.”

“He told everyone that he had some questions to ask you.” Pop's smile disappeared. The wrinkles in his forehead looked more pronounced as worry filled his eyes. “I snuck out of there the minute Eleanor found her car. Thought I should let you know Sean was on the warpath.”

“Thanks, Pop.” I gave his hand a squeeze.

“I don't want my granddaughter locked up because Sean has a burr up his butt,” Pop said with a scowl. Then his eyes began to twinkle. “Now, your father is a different story. I think I might tell the cops Stan took some doodads off my dresser. A few days behind bars might do him some good. Don't you think?”

A week ago, I might have answered yes. Now that Stan was back in town and doing an impression of a father, I was conflicted.

Thank goodness Pop didn't require an answer. He just laughed and told me, “Sean is probably going to head over to the rink as soon as he's done at the center. You should steer clear until he's had a chance to cool off.”

Knowing Sean, cooling off could take until Christmas. I didn't have that long. Max was back at the rink, waiting for me to return. No telling what would happen if he and George were left without a referee for too long.

“I'd love to, but I have my new manager to train.” I'd just have to do it while hiding in the girls bathroom. Sean would never set foot in there.

Pop shook his head. “I'll train him while you go underground. Once Sean gives up and goes home, I'll give you the all clear.”

“I thought you weren't interested in running the rink.” Pop's desire to resume his retirement was what had brought me to Indian Falls in the first place.

“I'm not,” Pop said. “But I wouldn't want to miss my chance at sandbagging the fuzz. It'll be like something out of
The Sopranos.
”

Only if Tony Soprano lost two hundred pounds and started wearing plaid Bermuda shorts. Still, the idea made Pop happy. I wasn't about to say no.

After a quick turn through the drive-thru for ice cream, we swung by the rink. Sean's cruiser sat in the parking lot. The man himself was nowhere to be seen, but something told me he was just waiting for me to make a break for my car.

Pop must have had the same thought, because he said, “I think we should get you out of town for a while. Why don't we pay a visit to Lionel. I want to talk to him about putting Elwood in my Elvis act. I could get him a wig and a scarf. Women would go nuts for an Elvis-impersonator camel.”

Nuts
was a good word for it.

I was still trying to picture Elwood in sideburns when Pop pulled into Lionel's driveway and parked next to his testosterone-filled pickup. The thing looked like it should be in a monster truck rally. Black, with enormous tires and oodles of shiny chrome, the thing reeked of overcompensation. Since our relationship hadn't progressed to the mattress mambo, I couldn't wager a guess about what Lionel was compensating for.

I know. Someone should kick me.

Pop unfolded himself from the car and headed for the barn. Scrambling to collect my purse and phone, I raced after him. Elwood greeted us with a wet nuzzle and happy camel noises as we walked into the air-conditioned structure. Coming out of a horse stall was a sweaty and sexy Lionel.

“Hey, Lionel,” Pop called in a chipper voice. “I hope you don't mind if I stash my granddaughter here for a while.”