Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) (23 page)

Ha! I slammed the door behind me and leaned against the wall.

Nails scratched. Excited woofs and yaps told me the dogs would be waiting for me on my return. I just hoped the bacon I had left would be enough to get me out of this place before the dogs started snacking on me.

Pushing away from the wall, I reached for the light switch and then realized the lights were already on. Judging by the moisture, a humidifier was running, too. Weird.

I walked down the cement steps, reached the bottom, and stopped in my tracks. The entire room was filled with silver tables. Above the tables, long, white fluorescent lights illuminated row after row of plants with distinctive, spearlike, green leaves.

Holy shit. Seth and Jan Kurtz were growing pot. From the sophisticated look of the operation, I’d guess they’d been doing it for quite sometime.

A large, sturdy wooden desk stood on the far end of the room. I did a quick inventory. Phone. Scale. Zip-close bags. Bubble wrap. Packing boxes in a variety of sizes. Shipping labels and envelopes. Seth and Jan weren’t growing cannabis for long winter nights and backyard barbecues. They were selling it. Packages that hadn’t yet been sent to customers were neatly stacked and addressed. Florida. New Mexico. Wisconsin. Utah. The widespread geography of the Kurtzes’ clientele and the slick organization of the packing system suggested this wasn’t a new endeavor. If I was right, I had just found what the Thanksgiving thief would have stolen and the Kurtzes wouldn’t have reported.

Of course, now that I had the information, I had no idea what to do with it. Reporting my discovery wouldn’t capture the thief. It would only get Seth and Jan arrested. Their clients might get arrested, too.

Were they breaking the law? Sure. Even so, having two of my grandfather’s contemporaries and their mail-order friends thrown in jail made me feel icky. I’d never been a fan of sparking up a joint and getting mellow, but I wasn’t morally opposed to the people I knew who were. Laughing hysterically at bad jokes was silly, not dangerous.

To ease my conflicted conscience, I scribbled down the names and addresses of Seth and Jan’s business associates in my notebook. If I changed my mind, I could always—

Yikes. I caught a glimpse of the small clock on the Kurtzes’ desk. Pop and Stan would finish their photography routine in four minutes. I still had to get past the dogs, clean up evidence of my unauthorized presence, and get my car out of the driveway before Seth and Jan returned home. Even if I hadn’t been battered and sore, I might not have been able to make that happen. I needed more time. Good thing I knew someone who could help with that.

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, pushed Pop’s number, and hit
SEND.
The phone beeped, and I looked down at the screen.
CALL ENDED.
No bars. Crap. I wandered around the room, looking for a signal. Nope. The room might as well be covered with tinfoil, and the phone on the desk had no dial tone. This was perfect.

Clutching my bag of bacon, I made my way toward the stairs and paused to listen to the sounds from above. There wasn’t any barking or growling. Dare I hope the dogs had slipped into a bacon-induced coma?

I put one foot on the stairs and heard the sound of nails scraping against linoleum. The natives were up there. In a minute they would once again be restless.

Stealth wasn’t going to fly. The only thing that was going to save me was speed. I reached the top of the stairs, flung open the door, and threw the bag of bacon to the right. When the dogs scampered after the bag, I slammed the basement door behind me and bolted. The sounds of dogs battling for pork accompanied my flight up the stairs to the bedroom where I’d entered. I grabbed the screen, considered my likelihood of getting it back in place from the outside, and stashed it under the bed. Seth and Jan would have to put it back in place themselves. I was out of here.

Several harrowing minutes later, the window was shut and I was back on the ground, vowing never to do anything that stupid again. I stashed the ladder back in the pump house and heard a car door slam and dogs yip. A peek around the garage told me what my gut already knew. Unless I could bluff better than I did in Lionel’s weekly poker games, I was busted.

Grabbing my notebook, I flipped to a blank page and sketched the back of the house. The drawing sucked, but hey, there was a reason I didn’t play Pictionary. Thank goodness this particular ploy didn’t require the
Mona Lisa.

Studying my drawing, I walked around the side of the building while doing my best to pretend I wasn’t aware of the five pairs of eyes staring at me from the front porch. I fiddled with my pen, made a few expressions of intense concentration, and looked up as one of the dogs began to growl.

“Hi.” I waved and winced. My shoulder wasn’t happy. Smiling, I yelled, “Sorry to drop by unannounced. I wanted to get a look at the layout of the house so I could compare it to the others that have been broken into. The two of you look really great. Did you go to a spa?” Seth frowned while Jan flushed with pleasure. The dogs took a step forward, and I decided to clear out. “I should let the two of you get inside. It’s cold out here. I’ll be in touch if I have any other questions. Thanks!”

I kept a manic smile plastered to my face until the Kurtzes’ house faded from my rearview mirror. Unless the dogs sucked up every crumb of bacon, Seth and Jan were going to know someone had been inside. Guess who their first choice for home invader was going to be? However, due to the nature of their basement science project, I was pretty sure they weren’t going to report their suspicions. Too bad that was the only thing I was certain of. Though my foray into breaking and entering had given me a motive for the initial theft, I still didn’t have a clue who was behind it. I was determined to find out, though. What I needed was someone who could tell me who Jan and Seth might have shared their sideline with. I needed my grandfather.

I pulled over at the first cornfield with cell reception and dialed. No answer.

A quick drive-by of Pop’s house told me my grandfather wasn’t home but my father was. Although not for long, since he was waiting for a ride to take him to my grandfather’s gig in Des Moines. Pop and the band were performing for a Red Hat convention. Jasmine had gone along to help with setup. Apparently, she’d always wanted to be a roadie.

“It’s a big gig for the band. Your grandfather decided to drive up early. He’s going to walk the stage and take photos with the candidates for Ms. Red Chapeau. He’s hoping to get some press out of it.” Stan grabbed two beers out of the fridge, popped the tops, and took a seat across from me at the kitchen table. He slid a beer toward me and put his hand over mine. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Don’t try to lie. I can spot a fib a mile away.”

“I’m fine.”

Stan’s eyebrows rose. His grip on my hand tightened. “Really?”

The old Stan would have embraced the lie because it was easier. He wouldn’t have feigned interest, and if pressed into a conversation, he’d have come up with an excuse as to why he couldn’t talk. Stan insisting on a real answer made my heart flip.

I swallowed down some beer along with the lump in my throat and said, “I’m feeling a little bruised, especially after the morning I had.”

Stan leaned forward. “You got in?”

“With the help of a tree and some bacon.”

“Did you get into the basement?”

I nodded. I could see he was waiting for more information, but I kept my mouth shut. Stan was showing signs of turning over a new leaf. I wasn’t about to tempt him to regress with a bumper crop of marijuana.

“So now what?” he asked.

I put the bottle on the table. “I don’t know. Seeing the basement gave me an idea of why the robberies started, but not who’s behind them. The worst part is that I’m not sure I’ll be able to figure it out before the thief strikes again.” I didn’t want to fail Mrs. Johnson, the town, or myself. I was in danger of doing all three. Up until now my ability to solve crimes involved dumb luck, not any real skill. And for some strange reason, I was admitting my inadequacies to the most unreliable person I knew.

My father nodded. “You know more about the thefts after a week of investigating than the sheriff’s department learned in ten years. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He patted my hand. “But you’re right. Whoever’s behind the robberies knows this town. They know how the sheriff’s department does things, and they’ve had a lot of time to cover their tracks.”

I took a big drink. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It’s not meant to.”

Once again I was reminded of the reasons heart-to-hearts with my father weren’t a good idea. You’d have thought I would have learned.

“Well, thanks for the beer.” I pushed my chair back. “I should get going.”

“Wait.” Stan leaned forward. “What I was trying to say is the thief has been one step ahead for years. The only way to catch up is to do something unexpected.”

I scooted my chair back in. “Like what?”

My father smiled. “Most good cons who get caught do so because they get complacent. The thief has a pattern based on what’s succeeded in the past. He doesn’t expect things to change. If they do, you’ll catch him.”

Three honks came from a car outside.

“That’s my ride.” My father glanced at his watch and stood. “Oh, and I hope you don’t mind, but I invited one more for Thanksgiving. Alan’s parents aren’t going to make it home in time. I didn’t want the poor kid feeling all alone. I hope that’s okay.”

Alan was a nineteen-year-old kid whose parents bought an RV and took off to see the country, leaving their son home to tend to the family business—a motel on the outskirts of town. When my father met him, the motel looked like it belonged on the set of
Psycho.
Since then Alan’s family business had gotten a fresh coat of paint and a lot of new clients thanks to the duo’s creative marketing. I’d been jealous when Stan started devoting time and attention to the then-unknown teen. Who could blame me? Stan had never bothered to give either to me. Still, despite my version of sibling rivalry, I found myself liking Alan and admiring my father for his dedication to the kid. Especially now that their business association had ended. “Tell Alan I’d love to have him come to dinner.”

Although now that I did the mental math, I realized I no longer had enough knives, forks, and plates to serve my guests. This was a problem.

“Great.” Stan gave my arm a pat. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to run. If Eduardo is late to the gig because of me, your grandfather will short-sheet my bed for the next two months. Do you know how cold it gets upstairs? I promise I’ll be around later if you want some help. Okay?”

“Sure,” I said as emotion stormed in my chest. Stan was good at sounding sincere even when he intended to forget the promise he made. That quality made him a great salesman and a crappy father. I knew better to buy into it.

“Hey, Dad?” Stan turned with his hand on the doorknob, and I smiled. “Thanks.”

My father’s eyes met mine. Regret and hope glistened. “Any time.”

I watched Stan disappear out the door, took another sip of beer, and decided my father was right. The thief was good at this. His method of breaking into houses had succeeded for a decade. Unless he relocated or kicked the bucket, he was going to try again. Up until now, I’d been trying to uncover the thief’s identity without success. Just like the sheriff’s department. If I wanted to catch the crook before another house was hit, I had to change my methods. I had to make the thief come to me.

Seventeen

Now that I had decided to
be proactive, I had to figure out how to go about it. In order to catch the crook, I first had to know which house or houses were being targeted. Then I could be there to yell “surprise.” To do that, I needed to determine which citizens of Indian Falls were going to be out of town on Turkey Day and, of those people, who had the best stuff to boost. Since my main source of gossip was bringing the bright lights of Vegas to Des Moines, I went to the next best hub of information—the diner.

Only a couple of the red Formica tables were occupied when I walked into the Hunger Paynes Diner. Diane Moore, daughter of sheriff’s department receptionist Roxy Moore, was holding a coffeepot while laughing with the half-dozen teenagers occupying the booths in the back. She waved as I slid onto a stool at the end of the counter and grabbed a faded menu. The smell of grilling meat reminded me that I’d skipped lunch. This whole investigative thing really screwed with a person’s schedule.

I ordered a Diet Coke and a bacon burger with a side salad and waited for Diane to shout the order back to Sammy before asking, “How are things going?”

Diane beamed. “I’ve gotten two college acceptances. Mom’s hoping I go to Northern, but I’m still waiting for U of I to make a decision. Their admissions standards are tough, but I think I have a chance.”

Roxy bragged enough for me to know Diane was not only hardworking but had a 4.0 grade point average. Diane was smart, she was observant, and she had a great memory for details. Three reasons I was here today.

“Do you have a minute to talk?” I asked, looking around the diner. “I don’t want to make your customers mad.”

“I just gave everyone refills.” She handed me my soda and hurried around the counter to take the seat next to me. “Do you need help with something? My mom thinks getting run over should have taught you to leave investigating cases to Sean and the sheriff. Actually, she’s just upset Sean turned down her offer to buy him dinner.”

I stifled a surge of glee and lowered my voice. “Do you know anyone who’s leaving town on Thanksgiving?”

Diane glanced over her shoulder and then whispered. “Well, most people are staying home because of the … well … you know. Anyone leaving town used to contact the sheriff’s office so the department could send extra patrols by.”

Huh. “I didn’t know that.”

“The sheriff and Deputy Holmes try not to make a big deal about it. Most of the houses hit have been on the department’s watch list.”

Talk about a public relations nightmare. “Did your mother mention if anyone’s contacted the department this year?”