Skating Under the Wire

by Joelle Charbonneau

  I sighed. “You shoplifted a box of sleeping pills?”

  “Technically, Mary shoplifted.” Erica smiled and patted her red-faced team captain on the shoulder. “Halle and I are accessories to the crime.”

  Mary nodded. “The kid at the counter has good eyes and excellent reflexes. She had the cops on the phone before I ever saw her move. If she can skate, I think she’d make an excellent jammer.”

  “You’re right.” Erica beamed. “Once we get out of here, we should give her a call. Rebecca, do you think you could ask the drugstore’s owner for the girl’s phone number?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather have the number for a good lawyer?”

  “Why?” The three blinked. I sighed. Leave it to my derby girls to worry more about new recruits than losing their freedom.

  “Let me talk to Sean,” I offered. “With everything going on around here, I’m betting the department isn’t concerned about one shoplifted box of sleeping pills.” The flush on Mary’s face told me there might have been more than sleep aids in her pocket. I thought about asking and decided sometimes it was best not to know.

  Promising the ladies I’d be back with news, I went in search of Indian Falls’ finest. I found him seated at his desk, frowning at the phone.

  “Yes, Mrs. Ellis. We’re doubling the patrols on Thanksgiving.” Sean’s voice was calm, but the red tint to his face told me he was about to blow. “No, the sheriff won’t sign a document that assumes liability if your house is robbed. If you are concerned about your property, the department and the mayor are recommending you stay home for the holiday or work with your neighbors to form a watch system. Both are deterrents against home invasion.”

  The squawk from the receiver told me Mrs. Ellis was less than impressed.

  “I’m sorry you had to cancel your plans.” Sean clenched his jaw. “No, the sheriff can’t reimburse you for your plane tickets, but I’ll let him know you called.”

  The phone clattered as Sean smacked it back into its cradle. Then his frustrated eyes turned to me. “Roxy’s here, but she can’t talk because she lost her voice. The sheriff is taking a personal day, and I’m up to my neck setting up interviews and fielding freaked-out phone calls.” He frowned. “I don’t have time for games, so let me guess. You want to talk about Ginny’s murder.”

  No. Although now that he mentioned it … Since the derby girls hadn’t appeared all that distressed by their current location, I decided to walk through the door Sean had opened. “I heard Ginny died from insulin overdose.”

  Sean crossed his arms over his chest. “Insulin overdose is almost impossible to detect without an autopsy. There was no reason to believe it wasn’t natural causes until Doc Truman examined her and had the cause of death determined by the medical examiner. Anyone who says different doesn’t understand what they’re talking about.”

  The snotty tone irritated me. I started to come up with a zinging retort, but then I realized the flush on his neck wasn’t from temper. Sean was embarrassed he’d ruled the wrong cause of death. I tried to imagine the guilt that came with making that mistake, and my heart melted. Sean had earned a lot of karmic kicks, but this wasn’t one of them.

  I took a step into the room and said, “The killer planned the murder to look like natural causes. The town should feel lucky that you and the sheriff work so closely with Doc Truman. It’s because of your team that we know someone took Ginny’s life and a murderer is on the loose.”

  Hmmm. When I put it that way, maybe the town wasn’t so lucky after all. People were already panicking about the Thanksgiving thief. Add a syringe-wielding maniac to the mix and mayhem was bound to ensue.

  As if the holidays weren’t stressful enough.

  Sean rolled his shoulders and gave me a small smile. “Thanks. It’s nice to know someone in this town isn’t ready to lynch me. Ginny’s family wants me removed from the investigation, and a representative from the Indian Falls Senior Center’s activities board is threatening to lead a protest against the sheriff’s department. They say the last two murders were identified as such on sight and Ginny’s death was mislabeled due to assumptions made because of her status as a senior citizen. In short, she was discriminated against because of her age.”

  The last two murders involved a roller-rink toilet and electrocution in a dunk tank. Not exactly covert. The insulin overdose, however, was sneaky. Well planned. Designed to be written off as death by natural causes just as Sean had done.

  “If an insulin overdose is almost impossible to diagnose by sight, why did Doc Truman suspect Ginny didn’t die of natural causes?” I asked.

  Sean studied me for a second and then rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I might as well tell you. You’ll end up hearing it anyway. Ginny’s pupils were dilated, and Doc spotted a hint of blood inside her nose. The combination made Doc suspicious. He looked for signs of an injection and found one on her right upper arm.”

  Huh. “Did Ginny take medication that required a syringe?” If so, the killer probably swapped the two.

  “Not that Doc prescribed. Before you ask, I checked her apartment and talked to her family. Ginny didn’t own or use syringes.”

  Which meant the killer had to administer the overdose. But how? It was pretty hard to jab someone with a needle without them feeling it. Most nurses, including Eleanor, claimed shots didn’t hurt. They lied.

  Before I could ask Sean his theory, he asked, “If you’re not here to harass me about the murder, why did you drop by?”

  “I need to spring Mary, Erica, and Halle.”

  Sean shook his head. “Can’t do it.”

  “Why?” It wasn’t like they’d killed someone. Call me crazy, but next to murder, the whole pills-in-the-pocket thing was minor.

  “The sheriff thinks letting your derby girls go without charging them sends a bad message to the community.” Sean shrugged. “With Thanksgiving coming up, he doesn’t want to be accused of condoning theft.”

  While Sheriff Jackson wasn’t as sharp as he had once been, I had a hard time faulting his logic. Still, I had to try. “The derby girls weren’t actually stealing.”

  “Mary put a bottle of pills, baby oil, and two boxes of condoms in her pockets and walked out the door without paying. What would you call it?”

  I’d call it way too much information.

  Taking a deep breath, I explained, “The girls honestly weren’t trying to shoplift. They were doing me a favor.”

  Sean’s eyebrows lifted, and the corners of his mouth twitched. I felt my face start to burn as I realized he assumed the items they pocketed were for me.

  Certain my cheeks now matched the color of my hair, I said, “The girls were helping investigate the thefts. They were supposed to research which over-the-counter sleeping pills are safe to give dogs. In their enthusiasm, they decided to take it a step further. The other items…” Sigh. “You’d have to ask them about those.”

  “Okay.” He leaned back in his chair. “I’ll bite. Why did you want to know what sleeping pills could be used on dogs?”

  Grateful he’d stopped talking about the other items on the derby girls’ shopping list, I explained my theory about the Kurtzes’ dogs.

  “So the thief was prepared to keep the dogs out of his hair for the time it took to steal whatever specifically made him select that house. Is that your theory?”

  “Yes.” I straightened my shoulders.

  “That doesn’t suck.”

  I blinked. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.” He grinned. “Still, unless the Kurtzes plan on giving us information that wasn’t in the official report, your investigation is out of luck.”

  “Pop and Stan have a theory that a clue to what they didn’t report might be located in their basement.”

  “You took your grandfather and Stan with you to question witnesses?” Amusement, disbelief, and what looked like disappointment flickered across Sean’s face. “I thought you were trying to look professional. Professionals don’t bring their f
amily members along on assignments. Especially not when their family members wear Elvis wigs and scam old people into thinking they’re going to be discovered by Hollywood.”

  I stiffened at the insults but found the shimmer of condescension in Sean’s voice strangely comforting. Too much basic human decency made me wonder whether an extraterrestrial had taken over Sean’s body.

  “You ask questions your way.” I crossed my arms. “I ask them mine. Bringing Pop and Stan instead of a badge and an attitude made the whole thing feel like a friendly visit. Without that, I doubt I would have gotten through the front door.”

  That was my story, and I was sticking to it.

  “My methods might be unusual, but they get results. Did Seth and Jan ever tell the sheriff or Deputy Murphy about the dogs feeling too tired to eat turkey?” I asked, knowing full well the answer was no. “The thief drugged Seth and Jan’s dogs in order to break into the house. I know it.”

  At least, I thought I did. Which amounted to the same thing. Right?

  Sean leaned forward. “You might be right. The sheriff’s report says all six dogs were acting normal when the Kurtzes arrived home. When I took over the investigation, I did a follow-up with Jan and Seth. They never said anything about the dogs not having an appetite.”

  The phone rang, and Sean let out a sigh. “I have to get this. Let me know if you talk your way into the basement and figure out if the thief took something that was never reported. Just don’t do anything I have to arrest you for in the process, or you’ll end up handcuffed to my spare bed. The jail is full up as is.”

  Eek! I started to hightail it out of the room and then realized I hadn’t addressed the problem that had made me come here in the first place. “Wait,” I said as he picked up the phone. “Are you going to spring Erica, Mary, and Halle?”

  “Tell you what,” he said with his hand over the receiver. “If you convince the folks at the senior center not to picket the department, I’ll get the charges dropped and set them free. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Good. Indian Falls Sheriff’s Department. How can I help you? Sheriff Jackson isn’t in the office right now, Mrs. James, but I’d be happy to address your concerns.”

  Leaving an exasperated Sean, I went back down the hall to inform the derby divas they’d be sprung soon. Then I headed out of the station, determined to follow through on my promise.

  Simple as that seemed, though, I knew that cool reason was rarely enough to combat the rallying cries of the town’s seniors when they were riled. Just last month, Zach Zettle, Indian Falls’ answer to all things automotive, complimented Roberta Stringer’s newly styled white hair. He then went on to suggest that the cracked taillight, scraped passenger door, and broken rearview mirror on her Chevy Malibu might be a sign Roberta needed to turn in her driver’s license. Instead of heeding his advice, Roberta turned the compliment on her coif into a rallying cry. The next day, the center faithful arrived at Zach’s garage sporting cardboard signs with slogans like GRAY’S THE NEW BLACK and WHITE IS BRIGHT. Even after Zach convinced them of his good intentions, it took two days for the seniors to leave. Protests and picketing were more exciting than pinochle any day. With everything else going on, two days of honking horns and snappy slogans would send Sean over the edge. To make sure that didn’t happen, I needed more than a logical argument. I needed a secret weapon. I needed my grandfather.

  *

  “What do you mean he’s not here?” I asked George as he skated off the rink. “Pop and Stan were supposed to wait here for me.”

  George wiped his sweaty, red-splotched forehead with the back of his hand. “They must have gotten tired of waiting. One minute they were sitting on the sidelines, eating jumbo pretzels with nacho cheese, and the next they were gone.”

  “Did you happen to hear what they were talking about before they left?” That might give me a clue as to where they had headed. Not only was I in need of Pop’s assistance, I was worried. It was cold outside. I didn’t want Pop coming down with the sniffles or worse.

  “Sorry.” George shook his head, sending beads of sweat flying. “I had Josie’s music playing.”

  Josie’s routine was set to a medley from Les Misérables that was both beautiful and loud.

  George waved as his next student came into the rink. He zoomed to the sound booth to cue up music, and I pulled out my phone and dialed.

  “Rebecca.” My grandfather’s voice came on the line. “Are the girls out of the clink?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Do we need to stage a jailbreak? I’ve always wanted to try baking a file into a cake. I’m not sure it would work, but at least the girls would have something to snack on until we came up with another plan.”

  The sound of a woman’s laughter on my grandfather’s side of the conversation made me wonder if I was interrupting something I didn’t want to think about. If so, Pop was going to need a doctor after being brained for answering the phone at a less than opportune moment. The laughter got louder. I cringed and considered hanging up. Instead, I conjured up an image of the girls behind steel bars and asked, “Where are you? I need your help.”

  “Is it about the case?” His voice got low and whispery. “Stan and I worked out a plan that can get you into you-know-who’s basement without the you-know-whats gnawing on your leg like it’s one of those fancy-shaped rawhides. Mary Anne O’Reily’s dog has a rawhide that looks like a mutant chicken leg. If Amy Jo and Mark Boggs could get their chickens to grow as big as that, they wouldn’t need to get a second mortgage from the bank. They’d be making a fortune selling those cluckers to Perdue.”

  “I’m not going to break into the Kurtzes’ basement, so just—” Wait. “Amy Jo and Mark Boggs are having financial trouble?”

  “Hey, don’t start without me,” Pop yelled as more laughter drifted through the receiver. “Sorry, Rebecca. Your father needs me to do a test shot with Nan. It’s my job to make her look comfortable. Jimmy Bakersfield gave us a lift to the center in his new ride. We’ll be done here in about two hours if you want to stop by and talk about our plan.”

  Click.

  Sigh.

  I put the phone in my pocket and considered Pop’s words while George and his skater glided across the rink. Amy Jo and Mark Boggs had been taking care of Betsy Moore’s horses when she was out of town and her house was robbed. If Amy Jo and Mark were having money troubles, they might have been tempted to snag a few items from their neighbors in order to keep their financial heads above water.

  Of course, for Mark and Amy Jo to qualify as suspects, they would have to have lived here long enough to commit the crimes. Since Pop was currently too busy to stop angry hordes of senior citizens from painting protest signs, I had time to track down a new lead. The time had come for me to figure out when the Boggs family had moved to town.

  Eleven

  Pop’s mention of chicken reminded me I hadn’t eaten lunch. I hit the drive-through for nuggets, a large order of fries, and a Coke as big as my head. Then, munching on a fistful of salty deep-fried potatoes, I steered my yellow Civic to the Boggses’ farm. When I pulled into the concrete driveway lined with cars, my stomach was protesting the amount of grease I’d consumed.

  Slightly nauseated, I climbed out of my toasty warm car and hurried to the door of the front porch of the Boggses’ two-story red-and-white farmhouse. I rang the bell, wrapped my arms around myself, and stamped my feet to keep warm as I waited … and waited. I rang the bell again.

  Huh. I looked at the four cars in the drive and wondered if Mark tinkered with automobiles in his spare time. If so, there was a good chance no one was home.

  I was about to leave when the door swung open, revealing a woman about my height with straight, light brown hair and sad eyes.

  “Can I help you?”

  The hitch in the woman’s voice and the tissue clutched in her hand made me think this was a really bad time for a visit. “My name is Rebecca Robbins. I’m looking for Amy Jo B
oggs. If this is a bad time, I’d be happy to—”

  “Rebecca Robbins?” The corners of her mouth turned up. Her eyes brightened. “I’m Amy Jo. Please come in. We were just talking about you.”

  We? Who was we?

  I followed Amy Jo down a hall, past a small office and a formal dining room, into a cheerfully painted orange and yellow living room filled with eight or nine not-so-cheerful people. I spotted my high school employee Kristin Chapman seated on the wood rocking chair next to a partially assembled Christmas tree and waved. She gave a weak smile and waved back. Next to Kristin was her mother. The rest of the faces were unfamiliar, but I could guess who they were. This was Ginny Chapman’s family, who had started mourning her death on Sunday and had now learned that Ginny had been murdered.

  “Rebecca, this is my husband, Mark.” A tall, gangly guy with a mop of curly blond hair stood and held out his hand. I shook it while Amy Jo introduced the other people in the room. Among the mourners were Ginny’s younger sister and her two daughters.

  “We’ve been working on arrangements,” Ginny’s sister said. Her wrinkled eyes were red from fatigue and tears. “With everything going on, they won’t let us have the wake until Sunday. Ginny would have hated to make everyone wait. She didn’t like it when people went to a lot of trouble for her.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Amy Jo sniffed and patted her great-aunt’s hand. “I’m so glad you stopped by. We were going to call and ask if you might be willing to help our family.” Amy Jo sat on the arm of a floral-patterned sofa and indicated for me to take a seat in the chair next to her. “My great-aunt Ginny was one of the nicest, most considerate people I’ve ever met. If she had just passed in her sleep as we were originally led to believe, we would still be sad, but we would understand why she was gone. But now…”

  Mark took Amy Jo’s hand. Sniffles filled the room, and my heart squeezed in sympathy. To grieve without understanding who caused the loss and why had to be unbearable. I thought about losing my mother and how that had made me feel. Great. Now I was starting to sniffle.