Skating Over the Line (19 page)

A knock broke the agonizing silence, sending me to the door in record speed. Knife in hand, I asked, “Who is it?”

Lionel's disgruntled voice came from the other side of the door. “Your date. Are you expecting someone else?”

I tossed the knife onto the end table behind me, flipped the lock, and opened the door. Standing in the doorway with a sexy gleam in his eye was Lionel. And wow, was he decked out. Gray fitted pants showed off his legs and a button-down green shirt matched his eyes perfectly. He even wore shoes that weren't boots or sneakers. Impressive.

So were the flowers he pulled from behind his back. Roses. Lots and lots of red roses. I was stunned. Lionel wasn't a roses kind of guy. Or maybe I wasn't a flowers kind of girl. Up till now, flowers and other romantic gifts hadn't been in our dating paradigm. I didn't know what to do.

Lionel didn't have the same problem. He leaned down, gave me a peck on the lips, and headed into the kitchen. A few moments later, he returned with the roses, which were now resting comfortably in one of Mom's vases.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling slightly light-headed. Sitting down on the arm of the couch, I added, “You didn't have to.”

“My mother taught me manners.” He gave me a lazy grin, which made my heart flutter. “Besides, I realized it's hard to take a relationship seriously if you haven't done any of the normal dating rituals. I thought some flowers and a romantic dinner might get us on the more traditional path.”

“I like nontraditional.” At least I thought I did. I wasn't sure. My success rate with relationships wasn't exactly off the charts. Still, the disappointment in Lionel's face at my lack of enthusiasm had me saying, “But dinner and flowers are a nice change of pace.”

Stepping toward me, Lionel took my hand and pulled me upright. My throat went dry. The two of us were standing so close, I could feel the perfectly pressed creases in his pants. Tilting my face upward, I succumbed to temptation and leaned in for a kiss.

Only I met air instead of lips. I opened my eyes, baffled. Lionel was leaning his head back while grinning like a fool.

“What gives?” I asked, taking a step back.

“Becky, I'd love nothing more than to kiss you, but I don't want to start something I can't finish. We have dinner reservations in a half hour. We have to leave now if we're going to get to Dixon in time.”

“I don't think you're going to make your reservation.”

Lionel and I turned toward the voice. Standing in the doorway, a scowl on his face and a gun strapped to his belt, was Deputy Sean Holmes. “Roxy said you called. Where's the note?”

Lionel looked at me with one eyebrow raised. “What note?”

Oops. “When I got home today, I found a note taped to my door. It was written in Spanish. Considering everything that has happened lately, I decided to let the cops handle it.”

Personally, I was proud of my explanation. I sounded calm and completely rational. By the red cast to his face and the clenching of his jaw, I could see Lionel was neither of these things. Fairly certain there wasn't anything I could say at this moment to change that scenario, I grabbed the note off the kitchen fridge and handed it to Sean.

His eyes narrowed. “When did you find this?”

“About forty-five minutes ago.”

Sean's eyes panned up from the note to mine. Oops again. Only fifteen minutes had passed since I'd called the station.

And Sean knew it.

I was batting a thousand with the men in the room.

Much to my surprise, Sean decided to focus on the problem instead of giving me a hard time. He went back to studying the note while asking, “When was the last time you left the apartment?”

I filled him in on my morning while watching Lionel out of the corner of my eye. He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, doing his best to look unconcerned.

“Can you read Spanish?” Sean asked.

“No. Can you?”

Sean smirked. “As a matter of fact, I can. I won the Spanish award in high school.”

Color me surprised. Back in our high school days, Sean had been known for having big biceps and a great throwing arm. No one had ever accused him of having a brain. Go figure.

“So what does it say?” I asked.

Sean's face turned serious. “It's a threat.”

Even I knew that much without being God's gift to high school Spanish. “What kind of threat?”

Deputy Sean took a step closer and put his hand on my arm. “They say you can't run from them. That they will find you and that something will happen when they do.”

“Something? What kind of something?”

Sean's skin took on a pale green cast. “Look, I wouldn't worry about it, Rebecca. The words in the last sentence are pretty hard to read. Who knows what they say.”

“But you think you know. Right?” I was trying not to freak. It had to be bad. Sean's idea of fun was tormenting me. If Sean was being nice, bad things were about to happen.

Lionel must have had the same thought. He lost his angry stance and walked over to stand next to me. “What do you think they say, Sean?” His hand rested protectively on my shoulder.

“Well,” Sean said, clutching the paper, “the words are smudged and hard to make out. But I think this word here is…” He swallowed hard. “
Muerte.
”

Good thing Lionel was holding me upright, because even I knew that word.
Muerte
means “death.”

 

Fifteen

Dead was bad. I didn't want to
be dead. In fact, while my life had some downsides, I was pretty happy to be living it and I wanted to stay that way. While Sean and I had our differences, putting them aside in order to keep me breathing seemed like a good idea.

I took a deep breath. “I think the guys who wrote this are staying at one of the motels off the highway. The desk clerks there wouldn't give me any information, but they'll probably talk to you.”

Mr. Nice Guy disappeared, leaving typical Sean in his place. “How the hell do you know that? I told you to let the real authorities handle this.”

“As far as I can see, the real authorities haven't been able to handle anything,” I shot back. “Since I reported the guy with the wire, my grandfather has been attacked and I've been threatened with death. The only person you've managed to arrest for a crime lately was innocent. I'd say the real authorities are doing a bang-up job.”

“Maybe if a certain redhead wasn't poking her nose into places it didn't belong, the sheriff wouldn't have to worry about her getting death threats.”

“This is my fault?” I marched up to Sean and poked him in the chest. “Jimmy asked me to look into finding his car because he didn't trust you to take his case seriously. If anyone in this town trusted you to do your job, I wouldn't need to be doing it for you.”

Sean's ears turned crimson. He looked like he was ready to have a heart attack. Much to my surprise, he didn't make a move for his gun. In fact, he didn't do anything for several long seconds. Then he straightened his shoulders, snapped his cop book shut, and gave a stiff nod. “I'll follow up on the hotels off the highway. Until then, try not to get into any more trouble.”

A second later, he was out the door.

Stunned, I rocked back on my heels and waited for him to reappear and start yelling again. He didn't.

“Do you think pushing a cop like that is a good idea?” Lionel asked, sounding a little shocked.

I sighed. Lionel was right. I had probably taken things a little too far. But I'm a redhead. Redheads are known for their nasty tempers. For the most part, I kept that genetic predisposition under control. Unless provoked. Sean's words had definitely provoked me. Still, I couldn't help feeling a twinge of regret at what might have been unhappiness in his eyes. Sean annoyed me, but I didn't want to hurt him.

“I know, but he pushes my buttons,” I admitted. “I couldn't help myself.”

“Like you couldn't help forgetting to tell me about the note?”

Lionel's tone sounded reasonable, but I wasn't stupid. This conversation was a potential land mine. I'd already stepped on one with Sean. I needed carbohydrates before I hopped onto another.

“I meant to tell you.” Maybe. Stranger things have happened. “The flowers took me by surprise. By the time I thought about it, Sean was already here.”

Lionel looked like he was going to argue the point. Then he shook his head and sighed. “It's too late to drive to Dixon. How about we go to Dom's and get a bottle of wine. Both of us could use a drink.”

Ten minutes later, we were seated in a back booth at Papa Dom's, Indian Falls's answer to Italian cuisine. The restaurant was located at the far end of town but never had trouble drawing a crowd. The food was great. The decor erred on the side of checkered tablecloths and melted-down candles in Chianti bottles. What else could you want?

Dom himself came over to take our drink order. He was a short man with almost Transylvanian black hair and a weathered face. Still, the expressive Italian in him made Dom appear larger than life.

“The two of you do no come in here enough,” he said, rubbing his tan, wrinkled hands together. “Young people in love are good for my business and for my heart. I will bring you wine, yes? A nice white to go with your pasta.”

He shuffled off toward the bar without waiting for us to agree with him. Dom was allowed to serve you whatever he wanted. House rule. If you didn't like it, he wouldn't charge you. That almost never happened. What the guy lacked in hairstyling taste, he made up for with his palate.

He came back with two glasses. Our waitress, a tiny blond woman I'd seen rolling along my rink floor with her kids, trailed behind him, holding a bottle of pinot grigio. After putting the glasses down and popping the cork, Dom poured the wine. “Rebecca, your mother would be happy to see you with such a nice young man. It is time to be settled and have a family.” Giving me a pat on the hand, Dom shuffled off to chat up another table.

The waitress took Dom's place tableside. She ran down the specials and asked if we were ready to order.

“Yes,” I said quickly. Food was a safe subject. “I'll have the special pasta.” I wasn't even sure what the special pasta was, but it sounded like there was a lot of it. If I had food jammed in my mouth, I couldn't be expected to hold a conversation. When it came to discussions about relationships and scary notes on my door, saying as little as possible was a good thing.

Lionel ordered the eggplant, my favorite, and then we were left alone. Before he could launch into his agenda, I started on my own. “I have some questions about Jimmy's car fire. I was hoping since you're a volunteer fire guy, you could fill in some blanks.”

I dropped the gauntlet and sucked down half a glass of wine while waiting to see if Lionel picked it up. He eyed me over the Chianti candle while fingering the stem of his glass. I could tell his naturally curious nature was warring with his need to keep to his desired conversation topic.

After several long moments, curiosity won out. “What about Jimmy's car fire?”

“The fire burned really hot,” I explained. “I could feel the heat singeing my eyebrows from a hundred feet away.”

Lionel arched an eyebrow. “So? Fire is hot. What's so strange about that?”

“The field didn't burn.” I emptied my glass and put it down with a clatter. The perfect punctuation to my Sherlock Holmes moment.

Only my Watson didn't get it. “You're upset that Alan Schmitt's field
didn't
go up in smoke?”

“No,” I said, leaning forward. “But I do think it's strange. Look, it hadn't rained for days. The field was dry. That means either God decided to keep Alan out of trouble or our arsonist did something that kept the field from catching on fire. I'm betting God doesn't have a personal stake in Alan's life.”

Lionel put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Okay, you're right. The fact that the field didn't catch on fire is strange.”

I poured myself another glass of wine. Being told I was right was something to celebrate.

Our waitress arrived at that moment with our food, and I stared in amazement at the plate in front of me. Looking at me from atop a large helping of rigatoni were several little fish heads, eyes and all. I poked at one of the fish with my fork. It wasn't moving, which was good. But I was expected to eat it, which was bad. Sampling unusual food at the gourmet club was one thing. Beady-eyed fish were something else.

Lionel smiled at me over his plate of steaming eggplant. “Problem?”

Yes. Only I wasn't going to admit it. Trying to look pleased, I pushed the fish to one side, stabbed a pasta tube, and shoveled it into my mouth—except that I couldn't chew. The fish were still looking at me.

So I did what any self-respecting person would do: I scooped up the fish with my unused spoon and put them on my bread plate. As a final gesture of respect, I covered them up with my cocktail napkin. Now they could rest and I could eat in peace.

Without my aquatic friends, I was able to taste what was in my mouth. I didn't hate it. In fact, it was pretty good. There were raisins, tomatoes, and pine nuts swimming in a zingy sauce. I took another bite and smiled for real. Dom might want to rethink the garnish, but the pasta itself was outstanding.

Now that my meal wasn't wigging me out, I could get back to business. “I'm guessing someone put something on the field to keep it from catching on fire. That baffles me. I mean, what arsonist would do something like that? I don't think an arsonist would be worried about adding a couple of extra Hail Marys to his penance.”

Lionel nodded. “It sounds weird, but I can't think of a better reason the field didn't catch fire.”

“I know you do the firefighter thing on a strictly volunteer basis, but I thought you might know what kind of fire retardant could be used in this situation.” And if he didn't, I was hoping his interest would be piqued enough for him to stop by the firehouse and find out. The guys would talk to him. Getting him to share the information after he got it might be problematic. I'd just have to hurl myself off that bridge when I got to it.