Skating Around The Law (2 page)

“Oh my God.”
Mack must have slipped and hit his head or something.

Swallowing down my panic, I approached the toilet. With a yank, I pulled Mack's head from the water. His lifeless eyes stared into mine, and I dropped him with a shriek.

Sploosh.

Damn. I couldn't leave him like that. I took a step back toward the body.

“Is he okay?”

I turned toward Brittany's frightened voice. I was surprised to find she'd come into the bathroom.

Swallowing hard, I shook my head. “He's not breathing.”

“Maybe you should give him mouth-to-mouth,” Doreen suggested.

Brittany's white face looked at me with hope. The three of us turned to look down at Mack.

Okay, I wanted to be heroic. Reviving Mack and saving his life would be a great thing for me to do. Only I couldn't. He was dead. I was certain of it. Besides, the man had his head in a toilet. That alone sucked all the heroic right out of me. Still, I did what I could and pulled his head back out of the water and rested it gently on the toilet seat. Now he looked more like a man who was paying for a heavy night of drinking than someone who had just gone bobbing for apples and lost.

I stepped in front of the stall door, blocking Brittany's view of Mack's plumber's crack. “I'm sorry,” I said to both Brittany and Mack's ghost, just in case he was floating nearby. “There's nothing I can do.”

Brittany's lip quivered as tears streaked down her face. That's when her entire body started to shake.

I pulled Brittany and Doreen toward the entrance of the bathroom. “I think the best thing to do is call the sheriff's office. They'll know how to handle this.”

Brittany held up her cell phone. “I'll call them.” The kid's trembling fingers dialed before I gave the go-ahead. Her voice was firm as she related the problem.

I was impressed. There was more to Brittany than teenaged angst. In fact, her current calm put me to shame. All I'd wanted to do since finding Mack was to throw up and run screaming from the bathroom. Of course, I couldn't. Mack had died in my rink. On my watch. With kids present.

Oh God, I thought. My eyes shifted to the bathroom door. What if the little kids from my class came in here?

Grabbing Doreen's arm, I said, “I need to ask everyone to leave the rink. Could you guard the bathroom door? Make sure no one else wanders in here. I don't want kids to see this.”

“You're right,” she said with a frown. “Mack's caused enough trouble in this town. Don't want him to hurt our children, too.”

I blinked. Mack was dead. He deserved a little sympathy if not respect. Then again, maybe Doreen was just in shock from seeing a dead body. I knew I was.

Doreen's agreement to play bouncer outside the bathroom door sent me racing into the rink. “Wipe Out” was being pumped through the speakers as I made my way to the sound booth.

Hauling myself into the cramped space, I hit the on button for the mike and announced that the rink was closed due to “plumbing problems.” A couple of kids shot me dirty looks. Otherwise, the mass exodus went smoothly. By the time the ancient Indian Falls sheriff waddled through the door, the rink was almost empty.

Donald Jackson had held the post of sheriff since my mother was a little girl. A favorite town game was “Guess Don's Age.” By the leathery quality of his bald head and his steel gray party-favor mustache, I would guess one hundred and four. The correct answer was probably closer to seventy.

Right now he looked bored and annoyed. Probably because I'd interrupted his afternoon nap. I hurried across the rink to meet him.

“Rebecca, some teenager called. She claimed there was a dead body here.” He snorted and started coughing.

I resisted the urge to slap him hard on the back. Instead, I pointed toward the girls' bathroom. “He's in there.”

“You mean there really is a dead body?”

The sheriff's words echoed through the almost deserted rink. The few kids remaining at the skate rental counter turned to look at us. So much for keeping the situation from them.

“Follow me.” I snagged the sheriff's arm and pulled him toward the bathroom.

Brittany and her grandmother hadn't moved from their guard post outside the bathroom door. The sheriff nodded at them as he went in, and Doreen and Brittany followed behind me. I gave Sheriff Jackson a tiny shove toward the back stall and stayed behind. Seeing the body again wasn't necessary for me. The terrible image was already etched firmly into my memory.

“Holy crap! It's Mack!”

Sheriff Jackson had summed up my exact feelings.

“I gotta ring the medical examiner,” he muttered as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

While the sheriff was occupied, I turned toward Doreen and her granddaughter. Doreen looked fine, but Brittany's face was a strange ashen green color. Brittany needed to get out of here. Now.

“Doreen,” I said, “I appreciate your help today. The sheriff is handling things now. Maybe you should take Brittany out of here. Neither one of you needs to see any more of this.”

Doreen looked liked she wanted to protest, but my meaningful glance at Brittany followed by a firm glare seemed to settle the issue. With a “tsk,” Doreen herded the frightened teen out the door. That left Sheriff Don and me alone to deal with Mack.

The sheriff hung his phone back on his belt. He gave a sad shake of his head. “Doc will be here in a minute. He should look at Mack before we move him.”

Then the two of us stood staring at each other. I had no idea what to say, so I waited for the sheriff to start asking questions. Only he didn't. He just stared at me while the faucet went drip, drip, drip in the background. At least I think he was staring at me. His eyes had a familiar glazed look. It reminded me of the one Mack was wearing when I fished him out of the toilet bowl.

I asked, “Sheriff, do I need to fill out a report or something?”

“Huh?” The sheriff noisily sucked in some air. He blinked and scratched his stomach. “Oh. Oh, sure. I guess we should go over everything before Doc gets here.” He pulled a pad of paper out of his back pocket and flipped to the first page. “Tell me what happened.”

I walked the sheriff though the events leading to my discovery of Mack's body. Talking about it made my knees weak. When I was done, the sheriff snorted and walked back to look at Mack.

“Rebecca, when you touched the body, did you move anything besides Mack's head?”

“I don't think so.” I couldn't say for certain. Not without looking again. Taking a deep breath, I joined the sheriff in the death stall.

I scanned the space, trying to ignore Mack's unblinking eyes. Mack's toolbox was against the side wall, and a plunger was to the right of the toilet. My eyes shifted to the left.

“What's that?” I asked with a frown.

Sheriff Jackson blinked. “What's what?”

“That,” I asked, pointing to the farthest corner of the stall. There, half hidden from view by Mack's inert body, was a bottle of prescription pills. “There's a pill bottle back there.”

“Sure enough.” The sheriff scratched his chin. He leaned closer. “Mack's name's on the bottle. Huh. Maybe this wasn't an accident after all. Tell you what, I think Mack committed suicide.”

Sheriff Jackson turned, his chest puffed out, proud of his deductive skills. Call me crazy, but I didn't feel excited. Mack was still dead.

I looked down at my feet, trying to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else. My eyes shifted again to Mack's toolbox, and a stack of stamped envelopes caught my eye. I raised my gaze back to the sheriff's and shook my head. “I don't think so.”

His face fell. “Why not?”

“Do suicidal people pay their bills before killing themselves?” I pointed toward the stack of envelopes. The top one was addressed to the cable company. If I were going to kill myself, the cable company was the last place I'd send money to.

The sheriff shrugged. “Could be he was getting his affairs in order. Doesn't mean he didn't commit suicide.”

“But why here?” I wondered aloud. “I'd want to do it somewhere a little more private than a roller rink. Wouldn't you?”

Sheriff Jackson straightened his shoulders. His eyes narrowed. “I wouldn't commit suicide at all. I don't appreciate you saying I might or questioning my professional judgment.”

“I didn't—” The bathroom door swung open, cutting off my halfhearted attempt at an apology. A robust, familiar-looking gray-haired gentleman strode in.

The sheriff's face broke into a smile. “Glad you're here, Doc. Would you come take a look at this? Maybe you can convince Rebecca here that this is a cut-and-dried suicide. Poor Mack didn't deserve to die this way, but it's as simple as that.”

The doctor nodded to me as I backed out of the stall to give him room. That's when it hit me. The Indian Falls medical examiner was none other than Doc Truman. The man had patched me up during my active childhood and always gave me a lollipop afterward. I remembered the doctor as being kind, gentle, and a whole lot younger. Now Doc's forehead looked like it was sliding onto his eyebrows.

“So, Doc.” The sheriff's voice echoed against the pale pink bathroom tiles. “Am I right? Did Mack commit suicide?”

The two men came out of the stall. Doc Truman was holding the bottle of pills. He flipped the bottle open and peered inside. “The bottle's almost full. That means Mack didn't take enough pills to commit suicide.” He emptied some of the round white pills into his hand and squinted at them. Frowning, he looked at the sheriff. “This isn't right.”

“What?” Sheriff Don peered down at the pills. “What's wrong?”

The doctor's eyes narrowed. “Half of these aren't Mack's pills.”

“What do you mean?” The sheriff's voice was gruff. “Those pills all look the same to me.”

“Mack's pills were for his thyroid,” Doc Truman explained. “Prescribed them myself. Half of these pills have a
C
stamped on them. The thyroid pills don't.”

The sheriff's expression turned stony. “That just means Mack was taking some other kind of drug you didn't know about. Doesn't surprise me.”

Doc Truman raised an eyebrow. “Well, it would surprise the hell out of me. Mack was allergic to a lot of medications, and he hated taking pills. It took me almost two years to convince him to take something for his thyroid problem.” Doc shook his head. “No, Mack would never have taken another pill. Not without talking to me first. I'm guessing he didn't know there were two kinds of pills in this bottle.”

“What does that mean for my case?” The sheriff blustered. “Is Mack's death a suicide or an accident?”

I held my breath as the doctor put the pills back in the bottle. He handed them to the sheriff and let out a sigh. “Can't say for sure. Still, if I were to guess, I'd say the pills contributed to Mack's death.”

The sheriff grinned at me. “So suicide, then.”

Doc shook his head. “I don't think so, Don. The two kinds of pills make me think Mack was murdered.”

 

By the time Mack's body was taken away, it was after eight o'clock. Locking up the rink, I looked around the parking lot for my car. It wasn't there. I was about to panic, then remembered that I'd walked this morning. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. The sky had been blue, the weather was mild, and I needed the exercise.

Now it was dark, and a possible murderer was on the loose. That was often the case in Chicago, but here it felt different.

I was bunking with my grandfather while trying to sell the rink, and I thought about calling him for a ride. Asking for help seemed wimpy, though, and I immediately chucked the idea. While I walked the four blocks to Pop's house, I contemplated how to break the news about Mack. Inspiration hadn't struck by the time I let myself in through the side door and walked into the kitchen.

Pop hadn't changed a thing in the house since Grandma passed fifteen years ago—same avocado-colored appliances, worn rugs, and scratched pots and pans. Pop and my grandma proved to me that occasionally love could last.

“Rebecca, is that you?”

Pop shuffled into the kitchen, bringing with him the strong smell of cologne. I blinked. Pop was still wearing his red pants, but he'd changed his top. Now he was sporting a silver shirt with the top three buttons left undone, which allowed several tufts of gray chest hair to peep out. Dangling from his neck were two very large, very shiny gold chains. Pop had even gelled his hair. One lock curled perfectly against his forehead, while the rest looked like it had been molded in plastic.

Maybe the furniture hadn't changed, but my grandfather had. Someone had morphed him into a geriatric pimp.

“Pop, what happened to you?”

My grandfather adjusted his teeth. “I got a hot date tonight. Marjorie Buckingham has been making eyes at me for weeks at bingo. So I asked her to a movie.”

I glanced at the clock over the sink. Quarter to nine. “It's a little late to go to a movie, don't you think?” Wasn't it a law that old people had to go to bed early?

“Nah.” He shuffled over to the fridge and popped open a beer. “We're going to see the late show. Nobody cares if you neck during the late show.”

For the second time today I felt like throwing up.

Pop sat down at the table and took a swig from his beer. “So I heard you found Mack in the girls' bathroom.”

My hand paused in the middle of reaching into the fridge for a drink. “How did you hear about that?”

“My phone didn't stop ringing all afternoon. This ain't the city, you know. When a guy's head is found floating in a toilet, that's big news here.”

My hand swept past the sodas and latched onto a beer. I joined my grandfather at the kitchen table and gave him a weak smile. “It was pretty big news to me, too.”