Skating Around The Law (13 page)

Clenching my fists as I considered my next move, I felt something dig into my palm. I looked down and realized I'd forgotten to leave the nail with Roxy.

I glanced back at the sheriff's front door. Nope, I didn't want to go back in there. I dropped the nail into my purse and vowed to come back when Roxy wasn't busy practicing her Halloween makeup.

I checked my watch and pulled out my cell phone. Zach had taken my car four hours ago, which meant he should have gotten the tire changed by now. My fingers dialed the number on the card Zach gave me, and my foot tapped the sidewalk as I waited for him to pick up the phone.

“Yeah.”

Eloquent. I identified myself and asked, “How's my car?”

“You can pick it up anytime.”

I looked back at his card with a sigh. The address on the card put Zach's shop near the highway. That was over a mile and a half outside of town. While the walk wasn't all that far, I didn't think strolling around town alone was a good idea. A deranged person was plunging rusty objects into things, and I didn't want to be the next target.

With no means of transportation, I did what any woman would do. I played the helpless female card. In my best phone sex voice, I filled Zach in on my dilemma. A couple of feminine sighs cinched the deal, and Zach volunteered to meet me downtown at the diner with my car. Chivalry wasn't dead after all, and this time it came in the form of a mechanic in overalls. I shoved my cell phone back in my purse and, not seeing any homicidal maniacs walking down the street, headed toward the restaurant.

The Hunger Paynes Diner was located about a block from the sheriff's office on the corner of Main and Center Street. Sammy and Mabel Pezzopayne had been running the place forever. There were grease stains on the menus at least as old as me. Still, what the place lacked in originality it more than made up for with its juicy hamburgers, enormous sandwiches, and grease-soaked fries.

I took a seat at the counter, and Sam emerged from the kitchen long enough to say hi and bring me a Diet Coke. I sipped it while I contemplated the faded menu. I decided on a turkey club and a side salad, no fries. If Mack's murderer decided to kill me next, I didn't want to be fat.

A lanky teenaged girl holding a notepad scooted behind the counter. She gave me a toothy smile, then asked me for my order. I gave it to her, and she yelled it back to Sammy. Then, cocking her head to one side, the girl gave me a puzzled frown. Her eyes widened.

“You're Rebecca Robbins, right?”

“Do I know you?” I read her name tag: Diane. I didn't remember meeting any Dianes.

Diane shook her brunette head with a grin. “No, but I've heard all about you. Brittany thinks you're really cool, and everyone is talking about how you found the dead body and how you're asking questions around town like a cop. I bet you're a homicide detective or something in the city, aren't you?”

The girl's mouth moved so fast it was a blur. On top of that, she said the word “city” as if it were “Mars.” Funny, but Diane kind of reminded me of me when I was in high school—blue eyes, excitement to spare, and a very active imagination. While I hated to squelch her enthusiasm, I had to say, “Nope. I'm a mortgage broker.”

“Oh.” Diane's face fell. She looked like I'd stepped on her puppy. After a few sad-looking seconds, though, her brilliant smile was back. “But you are trying to solve the murder, right?”

I gave a noncommittal shrug.

She acted as if my response had been an enthusiastic yes. “I knew it,” she declared. “I heard from my mom you're being threatened because of it and everything. She thinks you're crazy for making yourself a target, but I think it's very cool.”

Diane and I had different definitions of the word “cool.” “Who's your mom?” I was hoping my grandfather hadn't hit on the mystery woman.

“Roxy Moore. My name's Diane.”

The bell on the front door jangled, sending Diane flying around the counter to assist the new customers and leaving me to shake my head. I'd almost forgotten how small this town was. Everyone is related somehow to someone you know.

I sipped my soda and watched Diane whiz around the diner taking orders and chatting up the customers. The girl was fresh faced. No makeup. No hair spray. It wasn't hard to believe that I'd missed the connection between Diane and Roxy, but now that I knew it my mind started to whirl with the possibilities. What else might Roxy have told her daughter?

Diane brought me my food with a smile. Before she could zip off, I began to chatter. “It's hard to believe Roxy has a daughter old enough to work in a diner. How old are you? Are you still in school?”

“I turn seventeen next month. Today was early dismissal, so Sam let me pick up an extra shift. I'm saving my money for when I graduate in two years. Brittany and I are going to get an apartment together in the city just like you.”

My appetite disappeared. Diane had made me remember my lack of living quarters in the city. The camel ride had helped wipe away my problems for a while, but now my depression was back full force.

“Make sure you look me up when you get there. I can show you around anytime,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. Then, lowering my voice, I leaned in toward my new ally. “So you know I'm looking into Mack's death. Have you heard anything interesting here in the diner?”

Technically, I was interested in what Roxy said at home, but I thought this was a better way to go. Diane's face clouded. I added, “It's okay if you don't want to talk about it.”

“Oh, I don't mind. It's my mother. She told me not to answer any of your questions. Mom said you're causing trouble for her sheriff's department.”

“Oh.” I pushed the rabbit food around on my plate, disconcerted that Roxy was a step ahead of me.

Diane hurried to explain. “My mom is obsessed with her job. She thinks she runs the place. On top of that she's got a major crush on that stupid Sean Holmes.” Diane's nose crinkled with disgust, raising my estimation of the girl by several notches. “I think she's wrong about you causing problems. She told me the sheriff and Sean are having a hard time with the case. I don't see how you could do any worse.”

“Thanks,” I said, not sure if Diane had actually paid me a compliment. Still, I was certain the teenager had information she wanted to share. I asked again, “What do you know about Mack Murphy?”

Diane bit her lip and did a quick scan of the diner. I craned my neck to look with her. There were seven other people in the place, and only one elderly couple was within whispering earshot. Considering the way they were yelling at each other, I was betting their hearing aid batteries needed changing. No way either of them could overhear anything we were saying.

Diane must have come to the same conclusion, because she whispered, “Mack met some really big guy in here a couple of weeks ago. I waited on the two of them. They didn't like each other very much.”

“Really?” My eyes widened at the possibility of a new lead. “Did you hear anything they were saying?”

Diane's face colored a vibrant shade of pink, and she hung her head. “I was curious, so I pretended to wash the table behind them. The big guy told Mack he had to pay up or give back something.”

I leaned forward. “Did either of them say what the something was?” Maybe it was nine thousand dollars' worth of something.

Diane shook her head. “No, but Mack mentioned something about not going through normal channels. He said the guy couldn't prove he had the thing or what it was worth.”

Okay, now I was confused. What normal channels was Mack talking about? Diane's eyes darted toward a table to the left. I knew I was about to lose my informant to coffee pouring, so I quickly asked, “Could you describe the guy Mack was with?”

Four thought lines puckered Diane's forehead. “He looked like he was my mom's age, oh, and he was really tall. I remember when he got up I thought he looked like a football player.” Diane grinned. “I'm a cheerleader at Indian Falls High.”

“That's great,” I said. “Is there anything else you can tell me about the guy? I think finding him might be important.”

“Really?” Diane's eyes brightened, and she thought for a moment. “He ordered a cheeseburger.”

“Diane, table three needs you.” Sam's disembodied voice came from the kitchen. He sounded a lot like the Great and Powerful Oz. Diane must have thought so, too, because she gave me a quick, apologetic smile and scurried to the tables behind me.

Damn, I thought. Diane's vague description brought the scary Anthony Catalano to mind, but it could be someone else for all I knew.

I munched on my sandwich while mentally scrolling through the facts of the case. Nothing seemed to go together. The pills, Mack's kicking the cat, the money, Annette's threatening letter, the mysterious object, all the other angry customers—any one could be a motive for murder. I only hoped the killer left my tires inflated and my car drivable until I figured it out.

The tinkle of an entry bell
made me turn, and I watched a grease-coated Zach step into the diner. I wiggled my fingers in his direction, and he stalked toward me. My keys hit the counter with a clang.

“Your car's in the parking lot. The old tire was too far gone for patching, so I got you a new one.”

Grateful, I smiled up at him. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. What do I owe you?”

Zach grunted, making me hope he was a better mechanic than a conversationalist. I braced myself for the inevitable checkbook gouging. My car's last visit to a mechanic induced cardiac arrest—and that wasn't same-day service.

An expressionless Zach reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of pink paper. I swallowed hard, took the paper, and unfolded it. I read the amount and blinked. Maybe stress had affected my vision, because as far as I could tell the bill read thirty-four dollars and ninety-seven cents. I peered up at Zach. Maybe the guy had failed math. “That's it?”

Zach's cheeks turned pink, and his lips curled into a sheepish smile. “This isn't the city, you know.”

Why did everyone feel compelled to remind me of that?

I looked back at the bill and realized something was missing. Zach had only charged me for the new tire. I shook my head and said, “I know, but this doesn't cover your time or labor. How can you make money running your business like that?”

Zach's smile disappeared, and he jammed his grease-stained hands in his pockets and took a step toward me. I leaned back against the counter, but even then I had to crane my neck to look up at him.

“Tell you what,” Zach offered. “If you don't solve Mack's murder, I'll redo the bill. Then you can pay me for the tire and my time. If you find the guy who killed him, I'll forget the whole thing.”

My mouth dropped open. I didn't know what to say, and Zach wasn't waiting for me to regain use of my tongue. He turned on his heel and headed out the door. Grabbing my keys, I threw some money on the counter and raced out the door after him.

“Hey,” I yelled. Zach stopped walking, and I caught up to him, panting. Getting in better shape was going to have to become a priority. “Why would you give me a free tire?” I asked. Zach hadn't said much about Mack at the poker game, and I had assumed it was because he didn't know the guy very well. Something told me I was way off.

Zach ran a hand through his hair. When he was done he bore a startling resemblance to a character out of the movie
Grease
. “Mack was my friend,” he said, looking away. For a second I thought the macho mechanic was going to cry, but when he looked back his eyes were tear-free and filled with anger. “I don't have all that many friends. Knowing the person who killed him is walking around free pisses me off. I'm no good at poking my nose in people's business, and no one else in this town seems to care. You were always pretty smart in high school. So the way I see it, you're Mack's best shot at justice.”

Gee. I blinked twice. I hadn't thought about it quite like that. I sucked in air in an attempt not to hyperventilate as the enormity of my investigation hit me hard in the chest.

Nodding at Zach, I choked out, “I'll do my best.”

He gave a whisper of a smile and nodded back. “Let me know if you need any help.”

I watched him get in his tow truck and drive off as the weight of my mission pressed down on me. Zach was right. Mack deserved better than Barney Fife and company botching his murder investigation, which left little old clueless me in charge. Poor Mack.

I hopped in my yellow Civic and zipped the five blocks down to the rink. Office work is boring, but I'm good at it. I fired up the computer, checked the answering machine for messages, and returned six customer calls. Every one had called about the same thing. They informed me that the Indian Falls High School graduation ceremony was in sixteen days and the Toe Stop was a great graduation party locale in spite of the murder. I penciled the parties one by one into the rink's schedule, feeling a bit bemused. Most normal kids wanted iPods or trips to Europe for their commencement present. Indian Falls kids wanted to skate in circles. Go figure.

I called back the customers to confirm the date and assure them the place was murderer-free, then logged on to the Internet to check my e-mail. There were nine messages from Neil. I opened each of them, terrified one would contain the official death notice of my job. None of them did. Not a single e-mail mentioned his family problems, either. They were just friendly reminders that he missed me. The last mentioned he was looking forward to seeing and talking to me soon. I typed a quick hello back and let him know I was thinking of him and his family.

That message sent, I switched to a search engine and typed in the name Anthony Catalano. A list of the first twenty entries appeared, and I checked out my options. There were a guitarist, a couple of doctors, one district attorney, a couple of high school football stars, two felons, and a president of a landfill outside Moline, Illinois.

I clicked on the landfill guy. A couple of mouse clicks got me to the home page of Catalano Enterprises. A quick click on Anthony's biography told me the guy went to University of Illinois and had a master's in business. Impressive. The Web site also said he had a wife and kids, but there was no picture. I couldn't tell if this was my guy, since the address of the landfill business didn't match the one on the card he handed me and no other address was listed. I'd have to take a road trip to find out if this was my primary, and currently only, suspect.

A quick search for the guy's home info revealed that he lived in a town only thirty miles away from Indian Falls. I scribbled down the address and grabbed my purse.

I waved to George on my way out to the parking lot, then, steering the car southwest, dialed my grandfather's phone number. It took five rings before Pop's voice came on the line.

“Hey, Pop, I need to ask a favor.”

“Do you need me to help you break into another house?” I rolled my eyes at the excitement in Pop's voice. “I could borrow John Markham's gun. Should have thought of that last time, right? I would have taken down that Italian mob guy.”

More likely my grandfather would have shot his own foot. “No breaking, no entering, and no guns,” I insisted. “I need you to help out at the rink during open skate. There's an errand I've got to run. I'm not sure what time I'll be back.”

“Damn. I thought it was going to be something exciting. I already made boring plans with Louise tonight.”

Trying to cheer Pop up, I added, “Maybe Mack's killer will return to the scene of the crime. You might get a chance to nab him single-handed.”

“You think?”

I could hear Pop's eyes light up and sighed. “Anything's possible.”

The minute he agreed I said good-bye, closed the phone, and turned it off. I didn't want to give Pop a chance to change his mind.

Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the Catalano driveway. I rang the doorbell and took a step back. Running room was always a good idea when waiting for the Mafia's answer to the Incredible Hulk to come to the door. My heart raced as I waited, only nothing happened. I rapped my knuckles on the door, but still no answer. On tiptoes, I looked through the diamond-shaped window. Not a creature was stirring.

Now what?

My eyes cased the house as I tried to decide if the place looked like my Anthony Catalano lived here. It was a big white colonial with blue shutters and an impeccably groomed yard. Stunning rosebushes were flourishing all around the perimeter of the property. The place was perfection—or it would have been if not for two ugly stone garden gnomes guarding the stairs to the front stoop. “Can I help you?” A gravelly female voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and I spun around to face the street. A white-haired lady walking a dalmatian smiled.

I grinned back and waved. “Hello. I dropped by to see the Catalanos, but I must have come at a bad time.”

The dog eyed me and tugged at the leash. I was thankful the woman kept a firm grip as she checked her watch. “You'll probably find Regina at her store.”

Store? That sounded promising. The woman gave me directions to Regina's place and set off with her dalmatian to fertilize a tree. Following her instructions, I pulled up in front of a building with a large sign that read CATALANO'S CURIOS, CURIOSITIES, AND MORE.

The minute I walked through the front door, I understood the garden gnomes guarding the Catalano house. Regina's store was full of them. Medium-sized gnomes gaped at me from shelves. Little ones smiled from tabletops. Four-foot-tall ones glared at me from their seats on the floor.

Displayed between the gnomes were beautiful antique tables and a stunning silver mirror and brush set. There were also ancient metal Brady Bunch lunch boxes, Hot Wheels toy cars, Precious Moments figurines, Beanie Babies, and a collection of Barbie dolls that as an eight-year-old I would have drooled over.

“Hello, can I help you?” a tiny, birdlike woman with olive skin, dark eyes, and harsh features asked as she came out of a back room. My first thought was that she needed Annette's expert help. The woman's ink-black hair was so teased it looked pissed off. She was wearing a bright purple satin blouse that matched her vibrant eye shadow. I noticed the large diamond on her left hand winking at me. Surrounded by this junk, I figured it had to be cubic zirconia. This was a woman screaming to be arrested by the makeover police.

“Are you the owner?”

Her four-inch silver heels clicked across the room, and she held out a manicured hand. “I'm Regina Catalano. Can I help you with something?”

This woman couldn't possibly be married to my Anthony Catalano. The guy might bump people off and dump them in the Mississippi, but he had style. No way could he be married to this freaky-looking woman.

“This is a great store,” I lied through a smile.

“Thank you.” Regina's lips widened with delight. “I used to collect things in my home. Then my husband suggested getting a shop and selling them. So I did. Now I get to share my treasures with everyone.”

My eye caught sight of a rusty robot missing one arm. This woman was off her rocker, but she'd given me the opening I was looking for.

“Your husband sounds like a great guy. Does he help you run the place? It seems like a lot of work for one person.”

She nodded her ratted head. “He's president of his own company, but he comes in once in a while to help me with the books and do some inventory. It's hard to keep track of everything since each piece has its own value.”

“I can imagine.” I didn't really want to, but it sounded like the right thing to say.

The woman cocked her head to the side. “Did you come here to look for something specific or are you just looking around?”

“Definitely browsing.”

So that's what I did, although I didn't wander far into the store for fear I'd get lost amid the clutter. Regina's eyes followed me around the room as if I were going to shoplift one of her precious treasures. Far as I could tell, the trip had been a bust. Time to buy something and get out of here. I picked up an inexpensively priced garden gnome and headed for the counter.

A few moments later, I was twenty dollars poorer and the proud owner of a grumpy-looking garden gnome. It was then I noticed the locked case behind the counter. Inside were three beautiful antique china dolls wearing intricate lace dresses.

I pointed to the cases. “Those are lovely dolls.”

Regina squealed, “They're my pride and joy. Each doll is from the turn of the century. Are you a collector?” Regina's pleasure was as evident as the cash register sounds going off in her head.

They stopped when I said, “Not really. I don't think I can afford it.”

She gave me a knowing look. “I understand. My husband bought me my first doll for our tenth anniversary, and I almost fainted when I learned what he paid for it.”

I peered into the case. A tiny price tag next to one doll's foot read—eight thousand dollars? Yikes. Maybe I should have hung on to my Barbie collection. “And you have three of these?”

“Four.” She corrected. “The other is being cleaned by a professional restorer.” She drifted back behind the counter, which I took as my cue to leave. I grabbed my garden gnome and said good-bye. My hand reached for the front door's handle, and I stopped. There was a picture hanging next to the entrance. In it, Regina's smiling family stood in front of the building. The sign above the store read GRAND OPENING, and the man with his arm around Regina's shoulders was none other than my Anthony Catalano. I'd found him. Only now that I had, I wasn't sure what I was going to do with him.

The sky was turning black as my shotgun-riding garden gnome and I turned into the rink parking lot. The minute I parked, my passenger door swung open, and Pop appeared.

He put the garden gnome on the floor and hopped in, yelling, “We gotta get over to Doc Truman's office, fast.”

On reflex I asked, “Why?” The icky feeling in my stomach told me that I already knew the answer.

Pop strapped on his seat belt. “Eleanor called. She's waiting for me in the back room, and this time Doc Truman won't be surprising us. He's having a romantic dinner with his wife in Galena. That leaves us free to find out what drug killed Mack. Put the pedal to the metal, Rebecca.”

My tires squealed leaving the parking lot, and we arrived in front of Doc Truman's office in four minutes flat. I turned off the car and cringed as my grandfather popped a breath mint into his mouth.

“We gotta get this right. I don't plan on doing this again.” Pop opened the car door and turned back to me. “Now, give me a few minutes to get her distracted. Then you can snoop around. I'll make sure there's enough noise so she won't hear you.”

Yuck. I squeezed my eyes shut. This plan was even worse the second time around. “Why don't we just ask her for the name of the drug?” Honesty was a much better idea than listening to my grandfather make barnyard noises in the back room.