Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) (4 page)

The lights were on inside the house as I pulled into the Moores’ long gravel driveway. I checked the dashboard clock. According to the bright green numbers, I had almost a half hour before I had to be at Lionel’s.

In the dark it was hard to tell whether the rambling farmhouse was gray or blue. I climbed up the steps of the wraparound porch, rang the doorbell, and huddled into my coat as I waited for Betsy to answer.

I heard something thunk at the other end of the porch and squinted into the dark. Nothing there. Must be the wind.

Or not. Could the wind make scratching sounds? Or growl?

Yikes. Farmers had been complaining about the number of coyotes eating their chickens this year. I hadn’t heard of any of the coyotes attacking people, but there was a first time for everything. I didn’t want this to be that time. Questioning Betsy could wait until daylight.

The scratching sounds moved closer, and I edged slowly back from the door toward the steps. My heart banged against my chest as my feet prepared to run.

Just as I was about to bolt, the front door opened. Curvy Betsy Moore stood in the doorway, illuminated by the light of her living room. She took one look at me and pursed her lips. The scratching sound crept closer. Betsy cocked her head to the side to listen. I edged closer to the doorway as Betsy’s lips spread into a wide smile.

“Homer, is that you?” She flipped a switch next to the door, and the porch burst into light. “I’ve been wondering where you got off to.”

A large, fluffy raccoon stood ten feet away. The thing stood up on its hind legs, made what sounded like a purr, and waved its front paws. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the raccoon was smiling.

Betsy laughed. “It’s cold out here. You should come inside.”

I wasn’t sure whether Betsy was inviting me or the raccoon into the house. Either way, she was right. It was cold. I decided the invitation applied to me, too, and stepped past Betsy into the warm farmhouse with Homer scampering behind. The living room was decorated in silver-framed family photographs, blue gingham overstuffed furniture, and oak trim. The fireplace in the corner gave off a cheerful glow. The rocking chair next to the fireplace called my name, but I decided that might be pushing my luck.

Homer wasn’t as concerned with social niceties. His furry body ambled across the room, and a moment later he was seated on the chair I coveted, warming himself in front of the fire.

“You have a raccoon for a pet?” I asked.

Betsy lifted her chin. “I know it seems strange. Not too many people know about Homer.”

The animal in question curled himself into a ball and started to purr. My heart melted. I didn’t think Homer was strange. Homer was cute. Then again, my boyfriend had a pet camel, and every piece of my grandfather’s wardrobe was made out of Lycra. I was probably not the best judge of what was strange.

“I won’t tell anyone about him. I promise.” Betsy looked relieved. Homer just looked tired. “Do you mind if I ask how you ended up with a raccoon for a pet? I don’t think I’ve ever known someone to invite one into her house.” Raccoons were notorious for making messes.

Betsy smiled. “Technically, I didn’t invite Homer. Last spring, his mother thought my chimney was a good place to give birth. I called animal rescue to get mom and the babies out. A couple of hours after they left, I heard Homer scratching and crying. He’d been left behind. I couldn’t just leave him there, so I put on a pair of oven mitts, fished him out, and bottle-fed him some milk.”

“And you fell in love.” The two of us looked at Homer, who was purring again.

“At first I told myself it was guilt over separating him from his mother. I planned on feeding him for a few days and then calling animal rescue again. Only I never did.” Betsy walked over and stroked Homer’s head. The purring got louder. “Homer uses the dog door to go in and out of the house, but I’ve been trying to keep him inside more now that it’s hunting season on raccoons.”

I knew about deer-and duck-hunting season. Half of the male high school population came down with the “flu” at some point in the winter months in order to go hunting with their dads. Teachers feigned deafness when the guys came back bragging about the bucks they shot. Never once did I hear a guy talk about the raccoon he took down.

“Doesn’t Homer tear up your cushions?”

“He’s pretty good. So far I’ve only had to replace a couple of chairs, two or three pillows, and a comforter. Oh, and a couch.”

Homer looked up and cooed. Homer was proud of his destructive abilities.

Mentally crossing raccoon off the list of desirable pets, I said, “I stopped by because Mrs. Johnson asked me to look into the Thanksgiving Day thefts. She gave me a list of past victims to talk to, and you were on it.” I hoped I sounded less foolish than I felt. In the past, I’d just steered the conversation around to my desired topic. The direct approach was going to take some getting used to.

Betsy nodded, walked across the room, and sank down on the sofa. “Mrs. Johnson mentioned she planned on talking to you. She was hoping you might find something the cops missed.”

Since Betsy didn’t seem opposed to the idea, I sat in an armchair and forged on. “Can you tell me where you were last Thanksgiving when the thief broke in?”

“Miami. My parents insisted I come down for the holiday. I left Wednesday night. When I came home Saturday, I found the front door lock broken and stuff missing.”

“What kind of stuff?”

Betsy sighed. “My jewelry. All of the good silver my Aunt Tina left me. DVDs. My laptop. And a lot of items my parents had stored in their old bedroom. My dad’s collection of stamps and old coins was probably worth more than all of the other things combined.”

Everything taken had been small. Just like the Johnson burglary. Definitely a trend.

“Did you tell anyone you were going to visit your folks?”

“Yeah.” Betsy blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I know it seems stupid, but I had to make sure someone fed the horses.”

I sat up straight at the prospect of landing my first suspect. “Who did you tell?”

“Lionel.”

Drat. Not only was Lionel not a suspect because, well, I didn’t want him to be, but he’d moved to town a few years after the thefts began. He was in the clear.

“Anyone else?”

“Lionel could only cover Friday’s feedings, so I had to ask Mark Boggs to help out. He and his wife, Amy Jo, are pretty good friends of mine. They even know about Homer.”

I reached for my notepad to jot down the names and realized I’d left it in the car. So much for looking like a professional. Making a mental note to write down the names Mark and Amy Jo Boggs, I asked, “Did you recover any of the stolen property?”

“My father found my class ring on eBay and managed to get it back. The seller bought it at a church garage sale in Wisconsin. No one at the church knew who made the donation. They didn’t keep records, which made Deputy Holmes angry. I was just glad to get the ring back. My parents bought it for my sixteenth birthday. Out of everything stolen, it had the most sentimental value. Although it would be nice to recover the rest of it. Having your stuff taken really sucks.”

Yeah. That pretty much summed it up.

Racking my brain for something else to ask, I glanced at the clock over the mantel. Yikes. I was late. Time to clear out. “Thanks for your time. Would you mind if I contacted you again?”

“Stop by anytime. Do you want to pet Homer before you go? I think he likes you.”

The feeling was mutual. I gave Homer a pat on the head, said good-bye to Betsy, and headed back into the cold, windy night feeling like Betsy and I might have just bonded over a raccoon. Was my life strange or what?

I cranked the heater and checked my phone for messages. Lionel hadn’t called. At least, not that I could tell. The reception out in the middle of the cornfields and soybeans was unreliable at best.

Tooling down to Lionel’s place, I tried to decide if I’d ever heard the names Mark and Amy Jo Boggs before. Nope. Totally unfamiliar to me, which meant they weren’t part of Pop’s social circle and they didn’t come skating at the rink. Since they were willing to feed Betsy’s horses, I was guessing they had livestock of their own. That meant they’d need a vet. I just hoped that vet wasn’t angry with me for being late, meaning I wouldn’t get a chance to pump him for information.

I pulled into Lionel’s empty driveway and parked next to the house. Since even in the dim light Lionel’s testosterone truck was impossible to hide, I was certain I’d gotten here first.

Climbing out of my car, I looked up at Lionel’s house. The front porch light was on. It gave the green-and-white farmhouse a warm and inviting feel. Lionel had given me a key a few weeks ago—not long after my decision to pull the rink off the market and stay in Indian Falls. He said I could use the key if ever I needed a place to get away. Thus far, my key had gone unused. To use it implied a commitment level I wasn’t entirely comfortable with—even now, when using it wouldn’t imply anything other than sensibly getting out of the cold misty rain. Fortunately, I had another sensible option.

Huddled in my coat, I walked down the gravel path that led to Lionel’s barn. This was better anyway, I thought as I opened the door and stepped into the warm, musky air, since the barn was home to my favorite four-legged friend, Elwood the camel.

The light was dim in the barn, and I squinted into the shadows.
Aha.
I heard the rustle of hay underfoot as the camel in question trotted down the center aisle of the barn wearing a Pilgrim’s hat made out of black-and-white construction paper. At some point, Elwood had been part of a Blues Brothers circus act. His Jake died, and Elwood got sad. He gave up the circus for a home with Lionel, but he refused to give up the hats.

Elwood bumped my shoulder with his nose. This was a camel looking for attention, and I was more than happy to oblige. Careful not to dislodge his hat, I patted his flank, scratched under his chin, and rubbed his cheek. My ministrations were rewarded with happy camel noises.

I grinned. Life didn’t get any better than petting a happy camel.

“Your hat is looking a little worse for wear,” I said to Elwood, giving him one last pat. The construction paper was coming unglued at the top of the hat, and the brim had detached on one side. This was a problem. Elwood didn’t like being without a hat. It made him cranky. Cranky camels spit. Hunting up a spare hat seemed like a good way to avoid a large dry-cleaning bill. “Maybe we should find you an Indian headdress or something.”

“I’m saving the feather headdress for Thanksgiving Day.”

I whipped around as Lionel strode across the barn toward me. I had just enough time to appreciate his long stride and the lines of his angular face before being yanked into his arms and kissed. My toes curled as his mouth slanted over mine, and little streaks of pleasure zinged up and down my spine. Lionel was a great kisser. It made me wonder how thus far I’d resisted enthusiastically jumping into his bed.

Lionel pulled back and gave me a slow, sexy smile. “Mrs. Rittle’s first-grade class is going to be crushed to hear you don’t like the hat they made for Elwood.” Lionel walked over to a chest near the front door and rummaged through it. He pulled out an Elmer Fudd–style hunting cap and held it out to me. “Do you want to do the honors?”

Picturing flying camel saliva, I shook my head and took three steps back. Lionel laughed and with great efficiency removed the dilapidated Pilgrim chapeau, replacing it with the new one. Elwood snorted, but no spit. Success!

Pitching the paper hat into the trash, Lionel said, “Thanks for coming over. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I know I’m later than expected. Mrs. Pendley’s dog went into labor as I was packing up, so I helped get Shadow comfortable and delivered the first puppy.”

I smiled at the idea of a new, fuzzy puppy. Then I noticed a smear of something on the back of Lionel’s hand. Ick! Lionel noticed it, too, and shrugged. “Give me a minute to take a shower. Then I’ll feed you.”

Worked for me.

Hand in hand, we walked toward the back of the barn, which Lionel had renovated after he bought the property. Now it boasted a full bath, which Lionel disappeared into. There was also a recreation room complete with a leather couch, an entertainment system, and a refrigerator perpetually stocked with beer, soda, and other goodies. The room was home to a weekly poker game that I had crashed when I first blew into town. Because Danielle needed me to help stuff purple feathers and sparkly gold swirly sticks into glass bowls that would serve as centerpieces for the tables at her wedding reception, I hadn’t been able to attend last Thursday’s game. Clearly, none of the guys who did attend stuck around to clean up. Pretzel and chip bags littered the floor. An empty pizza box sat open in the middle of the poker table, as did a bunch of crumpled napkins and more than a few beer bottles.

Since the couch was filled with debris, I shelved the idea of relaxing and started one of my least favorite activities—cleaning. By the time Lionel appeared in a fresh pair of jeans and a green button-down shirt, I had filled two bags with a variety of garbage, including a truly ugly potbellied pig-shaped ashtray that I’d wanted to ditch for months. What Lionel didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“Sorry about the mess,” Lionel said, plucking a piece of pretzel off the carpet. “The game didn’t break up until after three. I meant to clean up this weekend, but things have been busier than expected.”

I’d never seen Lionel blush. Funny, but I found his embarrassment endearing.

He took a half-filled garbage bag from me and gave me a light kiss. “I really owe you for cleaning up this mess.”

“Good, because I need help with a project, and I’m not sure you’re going to like it.” Lionel’s eyes lost the flustered haze. Before he could ask about my new venture and potentially forget about going for food, I said, “Why don’t we talk about it over dinner? I’m starved.”

There were only two restaurants open on a Sunday night in Indian Falls. One was the Hunger Paynes Diner, which was known for its greasy burgers, generous helpings of meat loaf, and ice cream confections. While a burger sounded great, the diner’s acoustics encouraged eavesdropping. Since I didn’t want half the town listening in on my conversation with Lionel, we headed for option number two—Papa Dom’s Italian restaurant, which was situated on the far side of town. Papa Dom’s was known for its fabulous tiramisu and award-winning red sauce. After the day I’d had, I was planning to indulge in both.