Skating Over the Line (16 page)

“Rebecca!” Danielle ran toward me in four-inch zebra-striped heels. “You'll never believe what I learned.”

“There's an Internet sale on animal-print shoes?” And maybe another on leather skirts. The combination of the two was going to send the gossips into overdrive.

Danielle looked down at her footwear with a small frown. “Rich still hasn't made a move. I'm getting desperate. If the shoes and skirt don't work, I'm going to have to break out the big guns.”

“Don't do anything drastic,” I warned. “You don't want to give the man a stroke.”

“True.” Danielle bit her lip. “Too bad there isn't a sexy parishioner around to hit on me. That might do the trick.”

“I'm sure my father would hit on you given half the chance, but he's not your type.”

Danielle's eyes narrowed with concern. “How are things going with your father? I haven't had a chance to ask.”

I shrugged. “Could be worse. We haven't had a chance to talk.”

“Don't you think that's strange? I mean, the guy disappears from your life for a decade. You'd think he'd want to make up for lost time. Why else would he have come to town?”

“Good question. I really don't know why he's in town,” I admitted.

“Have you asked?”

I clasped my hands and shrugged. Danielle gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze, causing my throat to burn and tears to well up behind my eyes. Sympathy did strange things to me.

Blinking back the flood of unhappy emotions, I asked, “So, what did you need to tell me? Is it about Rich?”

The worry in Danielle's face vanished, replaced by an anticipatory smile. “Are you still looking for the mystery guy from the diner?” I nodded, and Danielle's smile broadened. “Good, because I know who he is.”

 

Thirteen

Clayton Zimmerman. Not only did it
sound impressive, it was my mystery man's name. It turned out that Danielle had been admiring his backside while standing in line at the drugstore checkout an hour earlier. It wasn't until he hit the sidewalk that her gaze shifted to his face. Good luck for me. Better yet, my man Clayton used a credit card to purchase his bottle of aspirin, a can of shaving cream, a disposable razor, and a pack of ribbed condoms.

Ick.

Danielle had only to ask the clerk, who, conveniently, attended St. Mark's, and the name of the mystery guy was hers. And now mine. The question was what to do with it.

I thanked Danielle for her help, jumped in my car, and debated my next move. Who was Clayton Zimmerman? I needed to know, and for that I needed a computer.

Cranking my yellow Honda to life, I cruised down the street and into the rink's parking lot. As inconspicuously as possible, I dodged two kids on Rollerblades, sneaked into my office, and closed the door behind me.

Sitting at my mother's desk, I turned on the computer and logged on to the Internet. I cracked my knuckles and smiled.

I Googled sexy butt's name and waited for the search engine to spit out an answer. All 367 of them, as it turned out. Hmm. The first six entries documented the athletic prowess of a minor-league baseball player. The next entries brought up a kid's Web page from somewhere near Los Angeles, two sites for German restaurants, and a collection of impressionist art by an artist who painted with his toes. Interesting, but none of them was my guy.

I clicked to the next page of entries. That's when I saw it.

Clayton Miguel Zimmerman, Chicago lawyer. My “Spidey sense” started tingling. I clicked on the Google entry and waited for the page to load. A picture of a way-too-tan-to-be-real Clayton Zimmerman appeared on the Web site of Phillips, Parra and Powell, LLP. According to his bio, Clayton was a tax and contracts man, an associate who specialized in wills and prenups. Just reading about the job made me want to yawn. Well, while the guy's work didn't seem all that interesting, the fact that his picture matched Danielle's description was. A phone call seemed in order.

After punching in the law firm's number, I gnawed on the side of my thumbnail and waited. A perky female voice came on the line and asked how I wanted my call directed.

“I'd like to speak to Clayton Zimmerman,” I said, feeling a bubble of anticipation rise in my chest.

“Sorry, Mr. Zimmerman no longer works here.” The perky voice had popped my bubble. I rested my head against my hand in defeat. “But I would be happy to direct you to the associate who has taken over his cases.”

“That would be great,” I said, and a synthesized orchestra come on the line, playing a normally enjoyable Billy Joel tune. I drummed my fingers on the desk, waiting for the musical torture to end.

“Good afternoon. My name's Patrick Grimes. I hope that I can be of service.”

“Can you sue the company that makes hold music? I think I've been emotionally scarred.”

A fake laugh boomed through the receiver. “Right. Now, the receptionist said you were looking for Clayton. Unfortunately, Clayton is no longer with the firm.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that,” I gushed in a voice that sounded like it came right out of one of Pop's daytime dramas. I should know. Pop DVR'd shows on three different channels and watched them religiously. He said it helped give him and his dates something in common. “When did Clayton leave the firm?”

“Two weeks ago. All of his current cases have been assigned to me.”

I smiled, glad the lawyer couldn't see me. Patrick sounded so proud about inheriting Clayton's boring cases. How sad was that?

“Do you know where he went? I really need to get hold of him.” Especially if he was the suspect I was looking for.

“He moved out of the city to start his own practice in some little town.” I sat up straight. “Said he wanted to try his hand at small-town life. But I would be more than happy to do any legal work you might need.”

“Thanks. I'll think about it,” I said. I dropped the receiver back in its cradle. Clayton was definitely my guy.

Armed with a printout of Clayton's law-firm photo, I locked the office and headed for the door. If Clayton Zimmerman was living in or around town, he must have talked to a Realtor. Indian Falls didn't do a brisk real estate business. There were only so many Realtors around. Being the competitive sort, Doreen would know each and every one.

“Rebecca, honey,” a voice boomed over the loud eighties music, “I've been looking all over town for you.”

I turned toward the voice. A lead brick dropped into my stomach as I forced a smile. “Hi, Stan.”

My father's wide grin shrank. “Call me ‘Dad.' You used to, you know.”

I also used to eat dirt. Goes to show some people can learn from their mistakes.

“Why were you looking for me?” I yelled over the rink noise, choosing to ignore the parental-title discussion.

The narrowing of my father's eyes told me my omission hadn't been as subtle as I thought. “I wanted to have a heart-to-heart. You know, get to know my grown-up daughter. Is there somewhere we could go to talk, or are you too busy for your old man?”

Guilt was a powerful motivator even when it wasn't warranted. I looked down at my shoes, wishing the ground would suck me under. When that didn't happen, I looked up and nodded. “We can talk in the office.”

Once again, I found myself seated behind Mom's old desk, but now I was less happy than I had been only minutes ago. I was going to have to talk—really talk—to my father. My stomach churned. I was sure I was going to throw up.

My father sat on the wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk. Crossing his right leg, he asked, “So, pumpkin, how are things going?”

“Fine,” I replied cautiously.

“I hear you've been dating the local vet.” His eyebrows danced. “Does that mean I'll be walking you down the aisle soon?”

“Nope. No ring. No aisle walking. We're not that serious.” And even if we had been, Pop would be the one bopping with me to “Here Comes the Bride.”

My father nodded. “I hope you'll let me know when you get serious. Weddings are wonderful things.” Stan cased the office with his eyes. I could see him taking in the pictures, the computer, and the large events calendar hanging on the wall. The rink was booked solid. “Besides running this place, what else have you been doing with your time?”

“I've been trying to track down the person who stole your car.” Duh.

Stan gave me a sage nod. “I appreciate your looking into it, but it's probably too late. The car is long gone by now. Even if the cops find it, it'll be stripped, or worse.”

I rolled a pencil through my fingertips, not sure what to say. Failure left a metallic taste in my mouth.

“Anyway”—Stan leaned back in his chair with a smile—“the car situation is what I wanted to talk to you about.” He cleared his throat. “My work depends on having reliable transportation. Can't meet clients if I can't get to them, you know?”

You also can't skip town without saying good-bye, I thought.

Stan uncrossed his legs, and his eyes met mine with great sincerity. “Honey, your father needs a loan. I have a couple of big deals ready to come through, but I don't have a car or the cash to see them to fruition. All I need is a couple of thousand and I'll be flush.”

My heart did a free fall all the way to my toes.

Money.

Stan's father/daughter bonding moment was about money. I should have seen it coming, but something inside me had dared to hope he was going to explain his absence. That he was going to tell me why he'd abandoned me in the first place. That he was going to say he was sorry.

How stupid could I get?

“Honey,” my father crooned, “I know this is a lot to ask. I wouldn't if I had any other choice, but Doreen hinted at how much the rink is going to sell for. You'll have a lot of extra cash floating around. Surely you could float some my way, seeing as how I'm family.”

Family? I considered Elwood the camel a more immediate family member than my father. Elwood had taken a bullet for me, and he'd never hit me up for money.

I looked at my father's warm smile. A white-hot rage traveled through my bloodstream, making me tremble with emotion. Tears built behind my eyes while an invisible fist closed around my heart and started to squeeze. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe.

“Honey? Are you okay?”

My fingernails dug into my palms. “No.”

“What's wrong?” My father's face filled with such concern, I almost believed him. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No, I'm okay,” I said as my throat tightened. “I meant no, I won't lend you any money.”

Good old dad's concern dropped like a two-ton Acme anvil. “You don't mean that.”

“Yes, I do.” I stood up slowly, doing my best to hide the wobble in my legs. “You left Mom to run a business and raise your daughter all by herself. Never once did you call. Not on Christmas or my birthday. And now you want me to lend you money that my mother, the woman you abandoned, earned with this rink?”

My father tried to smile as he shifted in his chair. “I don't think you understand how hard things were back then. I didn't really want to leave you and your mother, but I had to.”

“Funny,” I said, yanking open the office door. “I didn't think I was going to want to throw you out of the rink without giving you a red cent. But trust me when I say I absolutely have to.”

Stan considered my words for a moment, gave me one of his boyishly winsome smiles, and waited. Something told me most women caved when faced with his charming bull. Not this chick, I thought as I met his stare with a condemning one of my own.

Our staring contest stretched out as “Don't Go Breaking My Heart” pulsated through the building. Appropriate, if not helpful.

My eyes itched with unshed tears, but I still didn't blink. I summoned every scrap of anger and stood there, waiting.

Finally, my father hung his head. Heaving a large sigh, he pushed himself out of the rickety chair. Then, with one last wounded glance, he walked out of my mother's office.

I closed the door behind him, sat at my desk, and stared at the walls as time passed.

*   *   *

When the shock of throwing my dad out had worn off, I wiped my runny nose. Then I gathered up my wounded heart and made a break for the door, determined to track down the car thief. Stan was a complete jerk and deserved his bad car karma, but that didn't mean I was going to give up. Pop's well-being hung in the balance, not to mention my pride. I'd be damned if I'd give those up because of my father.

Cell phone in hand, I hopped in my car and hit Doreen's speed-dial number.

No answer.

I left a message, asking her to give me a ring, then steered my way over to the diner, hoping that maybe someone there could confirm that my suspect, Clayton Zimmerman, had been the guy ordering takeout.

Sammy was at the counter, pouring coffee for the diner's sole customer, when I strolled through the door. I gave him a smile and took a seat at a booth with a window view of the parking lot. If Doreen passed by, I'd spot her.

Sammy came over to my booth, coffeepot still in hand. I gestured to the empty bench, and he sat down with a grateful sigh. “Been on my feet all day. The new kid we hired didn't bother to come in today, which left me and Mabel on our own. My corns are killing me.”

More information than I wanted to know.

“Do you want some coffee?” Sammy held his coffeepot at the ready.

I shook my head and unfolded my laser-printed picture. “I just came by to ask if you've seen this guy in here. He might have moved to town recently.”

Sammy set the coffeepot on the white Formica table and took the picture from me. Squinting, he stared at it for several seconds. Then he smiled. “Meat-loaf sandwich with extra fries.”

I blinked.

Sammy slapped the table and let out a sandpaper-sounding laugh. “He's been a regular take-out customer for the past couple days. At least I think it's him. His hair is longer than it is in the picture, and he's never worn that suit. Mostly slacks, jeans, and polo shirts.”