Skating Over the Line (8 page)

Stan's eyes flew to me. “Help me,” he shouted. “Your grandfather has gone over the edge.”

Pop took a step toward the kitchen table. He crashed the lid of the copper pot against the skillet, sending tremors of sound dancing through my skull.

“Pop, what are you doing?” I asked in what I hoped was a reasonable-sounding voice.

My grandfather glared at my father and waved the pot lid at him. “Ya fauh ole my eech.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“Ya fauh ole my eech! I eed my eech.”

A giggle bubbled up inside me and hiccupped out. My father glared in my direction, as if daring me to laugh. I clenched my hands at my sides and bit my tongue, but it didn't help. A glance at my tube-socked grandfather and my wild-eyed father burst the dam of hilarity.

My grandfather turned and looked at me with hurt-filled eyes. My father stood upright and crossed his arms. He shook his head and gave a loud sigh, which made me laugh even harder.

I knew I shouldn't have been laughing. My grandfather was upset. I should have been helping him. Only, I couldn't stop myself. My father was pinned against faded floral wallpaper with a geriatric version of Apollo Creed shouting nonsense while waving a pan at him. Call me crazy, but it was funny.

The two men stared at me until my stomach ached, but finally the giggles were gone.

“Okay,” I said, a little breathless from my laughing jag. “Let's sort this out before someone around here hears the noise and calls the cops.”

I could only imagine Sean Holmes's reaction to this scene. Just the thought that he might show up made any trace of amusement subside.

“Stan, tell me what you did that made Pop so upset.”

My father squared his shoulders and said, “I think you should call me ‘Dad.' ‘Stan' sounds so formal.”

He smiled.

I glared and shook my head. We were not going to discuss our lack of father-daughter understanding while my grandfather paced in his underwear. I just wasn't going to do it.

Stan gave me a forlorn look and sighed. “I didn't do anything. One minute I was unpacking my things and the next your grandfather was yelling and throwing pots at my head. Are you sure he should be living alone, Rebecca? Doreen says there are some vacant rooms at the home.”

The mention of the home sent the pot lid and the frying pan crashing together. “Cahm hur sho I cun peddle youah ash.”

“Stop it, Pop,” I yelled above the kitchen cymbals. “No one is going to paddle anyone's ass.” At least that's what I think Pop said.

Pop turned to look at me. He grinned. I winced. Pop looked like he'd lost a bet with a drunken dentist. This could mean only one thing.

“Stan,” I said, turning toward my father. “What did you do with my grandfather's teeth?”

“Nothin'…” My father's voice trailed off. His eyes widened as he asked, “Were they in that glass upstairs?”

Pop waved his pan.

I nodded.

A trail of red crept up Stan's neck. “Oh. Well, you see, I was putting my stuff in the bathroom and saw someone had left a glass up there. I wanted to be a good roommate, so I brought it downstairs to be washed.”

He gave us a smile bright enough to power Springfield.

Pop wasn't impressed. “Whe-ah ah mah eech?”

Stan looked at me for translation.

“Where are Pop's teeth?” I was becoming fluent in Gummish.

My father flipped open the dishwasher. Pop's eyes narrowed as Stan rummaged through the dishes. Several agonizing seconds later, my father stood up with Pop's dentures in his palm.

Pop dropped the pot lid on the counter, snatched the fake teeth out of Stan's hand, and stormed away, still clutching the frying pan. I wasn't sure what he planned to do with it, but then again, I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Pulling out a chair, my father dropped into it with a loud sigh. “Thanks for helping me out. I thought the old coot was going to take my head off with that pan. He always did have a temper.”

“Pop's always been nice to me.”

My father flashed me his game-show host smile. “I'll bet everyone is nice to you.” When I didn't smile back, he asked, “So what brings you to see your old man?”

It took me a minute to realize he meant himself and not Pop. “I've been asking around about your stolen car.”

My father's smile widened. “It's good to know you still care about your old man. Even if you don't want me staying with you.”

A tiny knot of guilt burrowed in my throat. I swallowed hard and continued. “Do you remember who you talked to in the diner last night? I think it might be important.”

“Well…” My father leaned back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head. “You know about Doreen. She was with a bunch of those church types. Bingo is still big excitement around these parts.” He shot me a conspiratorial wink. “I think Doreen said the pastor was there with the attractive dark-haired woman with the great … eyes.” I shook my head, knowing that Danielle's eyes were the last thing Stan was interested in.

My father didn't seem to notice my reaction. Wrapped up in his story, he continued. “I was going to introduce myself to the lady, but the firefighters came in about then. I'm sure I'll meet her around town. Other than that, there were some boys in the back throwing some napkins around, a guy in coveralls reading a magazine, and a gay couple. Funny, but I didn't expect Indian Falls to have changed quite that much. Not that I have anything against it.”

“Sure, Stan,” I said without any trace of sarcasm, which wasn't easy. The gay couple, Reginald and Bryan, were my friends. “Agnes Piraino mentioned seeing another man there who came in later and left pretty quickly.” I omitted the cute butt detail, figuring my father wasn't into male anatomy. Unless, of course, it was attached to him.

“I think I know who she was talking about.” My father stretched and stood up. “There was some guy who came in to pick up his takeout. The place was so crazy, with everyone talking about that exploding car, the poor guy had a hard time getting someone to wait on him.”

My heart skipped. This had to be Agnes's mystery guy. “Do you happen to remember what he looked like?”

“He had dark hair, was wearing a red T-shirt, and was kind of tall. Older than the high school kids. Younger than me. His back was to me most of the time, so I didn't get all that good a look.”

Disappointed, I asked, “Is there anyone who might be trying to get even with you by stealing your car?”

My father's shoulders stiffened. “Why would you ask that? Do you think I go around the country making enemies?”

“No.” I gave myself a mental kick for not phrasing my question more carefully. “I mean, when you left town all those years ago, a lot of people weren't happy about it. Maybe there's someone holding a grudge or something.”

My father shrugged. “I can't imagine anyone around here being that upset. It's not like I blew town with one of their wives or any of their money.” Stan's voice trailed off as a horn began honking outside. He glanced at his watch and smiled. “Hey, kitten, I've got to run. Big plans, you know. Let's get together tomorrow.” He gave my cheek a pat as he headed toward the door. “I've missed my little girl.”

With that, my father strolled out the door, leaving me alone. You would think I'd have been used to it.

Ignoring the tiny ache in my heart, I contemplated the information Stan had given me about my suspect.

“Where is my boneheaded bunk mate?” Pop appeared in the doorway, wearing a stretchy black T-shirt and blue jeans. The Rocky impersonation had been replaced by John Travolta from
Grease
. “My teeth taste like bubble bath.”

“Stan went out,” I said, walking to the fridge. Pulling the door open, I peered inside and grabbed a beer. Before closing the door, I grabbed another, handed it to my grandfather, and took the seat my father had recently occupied.

Pop opened his beer. He took a swig and made a face. “Beer and soap don't mix. Your father's going to be sorry he messed with my teeth.”

“It could have been an accident,” I said, trying my best to be optimistic.

“Accident my foot.” Pop stomped to the table and took a seat. “The minute your father got his luggage through my door, he started hitting me up for money. He called it ‘a short-term loan.' I called it ‘a scam.' Next thing I know, my dentures are going for a swim in Cascade.”

Pop took another swig, swished the beer in his mouth, and swallowed. “That's better,” he said, looking at the bottle. Shifting his eyes to me, he added, “If I'm lucky, your father won't come back from wherever he went.”

“He can't go very far, Pop,” I said. “Stan doesn't have a car. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah.” The glee in my grandfather's voice made me smile. “I almost forgot about that.”

“I wish I could.” I took a sip from my bottle. “I've been asking questions about the theft all day and haven't gotten very far.”

Pop shrugged. “You will. You're the best detective in Indian Falls.”

Reminding him that I wasn't a detective seemed pointless. “I'm not having much luck at the moment.”

“You already found Jimmy's car. I'd call that progress.” Pop upended his bottle and stood up. “I should get going. Scrabble night at the center. I don't want to miss any of the action. Last week, Eleanor caught Maryann cheating and started winging tiles.”

Was it wrong to think that the Scrabble tournament kind of sounded like fun?

A cloud of depression hung over me as my Honda Civic chugged back to the rink. Lack of progress on the case. My father's abrupt departure from the first one-on-one conversation we'd had since I wore pigtails. Lionel's annoyance with me and my plan to sell the rink. Any one or all of them could have been the reason for the nagging unhappiness.

Not liking the feeling, I did what any person would do: I went skating.

Several hours later, I was tired, covered with sweat, and a whole lot happier. Handing out stinky skates and cleaning up after kids who had eaten frozen pizza and skated in circles for too long usually had the opposite effect. But, to my surprise, I found myself whistling while locking up the rink for the night. With a little skip, I headed around the side of the building to the entrance to my apartment.

I opened the door, and my heart dropped into my toes.

In the dimly lit stairway stood a man. A very large man who was currently cracking his knuckles.

And looking very unhappy with me.

 

Eight

The menacing guy took a step
toward me.

My palms began to sweat as I took three steps backward onto the sidewalk and into the dim streetlight. I looked up and down the sidewalk. Not a creature was stirring. I was completely on my own.

The big guy took another step forward. Now at least I could see him a little better. All six feet and a whole lot more of him. The man was built like a freight train. He was wearing dark jeans, a green short-sleeved bowling shirt, and a cowboy hat. Not a guy I wanted to get into an arm-wrestling contest with.

I shuffled my feet backward, preparing for a running start.

Then the train spoke. “Rebecca Robbins?”

I barely recognized the name through the guy's heavy accent. The fact that this scary dude was specifically looking for me sent shivery waves of fear down my arms. Slowly, I nodded. I was too freaked to speak.

The guy rattled off a bunch of other words, none of which I understood. Partly because of the accent and partly because the guy sounded upset. Really upset. Not to mention that some of the words were clearly in Spanish.

“
No comprendo,
” I squeaked out. That was all the Spanish I knew. Now, with any luck, the guy would go away.

No such luck. Another loud, angry bout of incomprehensible words came out of his mouth as he took another step toward me. Finally, there was one syllable I understood: “Car!”

“You know something about the stolen cars?” I asked.

The guy blinked at me; then his eyes narrowed. He shoved his hand into his pocket and came out with—
gulp
—a long wire. That's when the world went into slow motion.

Slowly, Mr. Freight Train wrapped the wire around his left hand. He then pulled the rest of it taut with his right. He barked out a couple of words and extended the wire toward me.

Without waiting for my brain, my feet began to move. I was around the corner, in my car, and down the street before my mind began to function. Three thoughts flashed through my head.

My life has just been threatened.

Someone doesn't want me looking into the car case. That means I'm making progress.

I didn't look at the scary guy's butt.

I pressed my foot to the gas pedal and steered the car toward the Indian Falls city limits and Lionel's house. I figured a threat on my life took precedence over any fight currently in progress.

The porch light at Lionel's house/veterinary office was on, but the rest of the building was dark when I pulled into the drive. I decided to be optimistic and knocked anyway.

No answer.

However, this wasn't the first time I'd knocked on Lionel's door. No answer meant no one was in the house. The barn was another story.

Fingers crossed, I peered around the house. The barn was ablaze with light.

Eureka!

Legs trembling, I hurried down the path to the large white structure while shooting nervous looks over my shoulder. I was pretty sure the big scary dude hadn't followed me. Still, the crunch of the gravel beneath my gym shoes jangled my nerves.

After one last “I hope nobody is there” look back toward the house, I walked through the barn doors. The smell of hay and animals filled the air. A horse nickered from a stall.

No Lionel.

The sound of hay crunching under foot made my neck prickle. Slowly, I turned toward the sound to my right and squinted into the darkened corner of the barn, waiting for something scary to jump out at me. The minute the source of the sound came into the light, I began to laugh.