Skating Under the Wire

by Joelle Charbonneau

  Sean waved.

  Jasmine frowned. “I thought you were dating a guy named Lionel.”

  “I am.”

  “He must be one accepting dude to let you go on dates with other men,” Jasmine said. “Especially one this attractive.”

  “Thanks.” Sean winked.

  “Sean and I aren’t dating,” I said through clenched teeth. “We’re just…” Just … Huh. I had no idea what Sean and I were. Friends was too optimistic. Enemies was too harsh. The definition of our relationship lay somewhere in the murky waters in between. “I was hired to look into a crime. Sean is working on the case. The two of us are meeting here to compare notes.”

  “That’s not all it looked like you were comparing.” Jasmine nudged me with her elbow. Then her smile faded, and she cocked her head to the side. “Wait. When did people start hiring you to look into crimes? Did someone blow another hole in your mother’s rink?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sinbad flinch. Crap. “Could you lower your voice a little?” I asked.

  “Why?” Bafflement marched across Jasmine’s expressive face. “Everyone here has to know a psychotic bomber gave your roller rink a face-lift. That kind of thing would be big news around here.”

  That kind of thing was big news lots of places, including Moline, Rock Island, Rockford, and Peoria. The number of television crews filming the rink’s new air-conditioning was legion. Discussing that event in this establishment was a bit insensitive, though, considering the psychotic bomber was Sinbad’s son.

  Since explaining that to Jasmine would only make Sinbad even unhappier, I did the next best thing. I changed the subject. “One of my former teachers decided my involvement in the past murder cases qualifies me to look into a theft that happened to her two years ago.”

  Jasmine turned to Sean. “Does it?”

  I looked at my coffee and wished I had something stronger as Sean turned to Jasmine and said, “Tenacity and curiosity are two qualities essential to every investigator, whether part of a formal law enforcement agency or not. From what I’ve seen, Rebecca has both qualities in unfortunate abundance.”

  I tried to decide whether I was offended. Since it could have been worse, I concluded I wasn’t. Outrage took too much energy.

  I finished my coffee, pitched the cup in the trash, and said, “Sean, would you mind if we finished this consultation later? I haven’t seen Jasmine since I left Chicago. The two of us have a lot to catch up on.”

  “Sure.” The humor in Sean’s eyes disappeared. “But the minute you learn anything that affects my case, I expect you to let me know. Deal?”

  Well …

  Sean put his hand on the cuffs dangling from his belt and smiled.

  “Deal.”

  “Great.” Sean nodded to Jasmine and headed for the door. “It was nice to meet you. Any friend of Rebecca’s…”

  The door closed before I could hear the end of the sentence. I was guessing that was a good thing.

  “So, now what?” Jasmine asked. “Do you have sneaky private investigator stuff to do, or do you have time to show me the town? I want to see everything.”

  “You were here nine years ago.” I pulled on my jacket and zipped up. “Not a whole lot has changed.”

  “Indian Falls didn’t have this coffee shop nine years ago.” She tilted her cup at Sinbad, who was wiping down the counter for the twelfth time in order to have an excuse to eavesdrop. “I would have remembered coffee this good. It’s been almost a decade. Give me the grand tour. Our final stop can be the rink so I can see what changes you made after that madman rearranged the walls.”

  Before Sinbad could wing coffee beans at my friend’s head, I hustled Jasmine outside into the cold to see the sights. The Indian Falls Grand Tour lasted forty-five minutes. The first thirty-five of them were spent at the sheriff’s Department, where Jasmine argued with a sniffling Roxy about the “Welcome to Indian Falls” ticket Sean had left on her blue Ford Escape windshield. While Sean parked in front of fire hydrants, he preferred keeping that particular perk to himself.

  Seventy-five dollars and a lot of swear words later, Jasmine got her first look at the recently renovated and currently well occupied rink. “Saturday Night Fever” blared from the speakers. Skaters old and young coasted, cavorted, and cross-pulled around the shiny wood floor.

  “I can understand why you decided to come back for good,” Jasmine yelled over the music. “I couldn’t believe you let me talk you into moving to Chicago in the first place.”

  “You didn’t have to talk me into it. I wanted to go.”

  Jasmine threw back her head and laughed. “You didn’t know what you wanted to do. Coming with me to Chicago was the easiest way to pretend like you had a plan.” When I frowned, she laughed again. “Don’t be upset. As much as I harped on you to sell this place and come back to Chicago, I’m glad you made the choice to do what you wanted. You’re finally doing what’s right for you. To tell the truth, I’m jealous.”

  A kid zipped past while making farting noises with his arm. “Why would you be jealous of this?”

  Jasmine’s smile faded. “You’ve found where you belong. You’re important to the people here. I’m still looking for that. Neil wasn’t the reason I left Chicago, although he did make a pass. As if he had a chance in hell.” Jasmine sighed. “I’m approaching my midthirties, and I have nothing to show for it.”

  “Of course you do,” I said. “Not only are you the best mortgage broker I know, you’ve got dozens of friends and a great family. What more could you want?”

  “I don’t know.” Jasmine looked away and shrugged. For a second I thought I saw tears in her eyes.

  Worry streaked through me. Jasmine hated tears. She never cried. Not when a boyfriend broke up with her or when her goldfish, Shrimp, died. Jasmine believed in expressing emotions with broken crockery and glass-shattering decibels. Tears weren’t her style. That she might be feeling the need to cry now made me reach out and take her hand. “Are you okay? You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

  “I’m fine.” Jasmine turned to me with an amused smile.

  All signs of tears were gone, if they had ever been there in the first place. Maybe I’d seen a reflection of the disco ball.

  “Strike that,” she said. “I’m better than fine because I’m taking charge of my life and doing exactly what I want to do. Just like someone else I know.” The music changed. “You Can’t Hurry Love” echoed around the room, and Jasmine swayed to the music. “Do you mind if I take a couple of laps around the rink? I was in the car for hours today. It’d be nice to stretch the kinks out.”

  I got Jasmine a pair of size eights. As she joined the party, I made a beeline to the office, closed the door, and pulled out my phone. Maybe the tears were a trick of the light, but I had to make sure. If my friend needed help, it was my job to make sure she got it.

  The man who was once my boss and admirer answered on the third ring. Since Neil had a habit of showering affection on any woman who was friendly, I skipped over the typical social niceties and explained why I was calling.

  “Jasmine’s in Indian Falls?” Neil asked. “What’s she doing there? She moved back home in order to be a caregiver for her stepfather. He has cancer, you know.”

  I didn’t know. Probably because the man was second cousin to Harvey the Rabbit. Jasmine’s parents had celebrated thirty-five years of marriage last April. Jasmine must have realized Neil wasn’t going to be happy with her departure and given herself an easy out. Neil was creepy but not completely insensitive. Especially where family was concerned.

  Keeping with the story Jasmine fabricated, I said, “Jasmine’s here for a quick visit before she heads home. She swears she’s doing okay, but I thought you might be able to tell me if something other than her stepfather’s illness has been bothering her. I know some people worry about their own health and go to a lot of doctors when someone they love is diagnosed with a scary disease.”

  “Not that I k
now of. Jasmine didn’t log any recent personal time. She even canceled the vacation she was supposed to go on last month in order to be here for a particularly complicated closing. As far as I can tell, she was her normal self until she gave her notice.”

  Thanking Neil, I hung up and let out a sigh of relief. Jasmine might be mildly unhappy, but she wasn’t sick. As owner of the company and all-around nosy guy, Neil would have known if Jasmine was using her benefits or popping meds. Whatever was bothering my friend wasn’t health-related. Since Jasmine didn’t do well being badgered about her feelings, I’d just have to step back and give her space. When she was ready to talk, I’d be here.

  Since I wasn’t interested in joining the rolling dance party, I booted up my computer, pulled the notebook out of my purse, and got to work.

  The first order of business was a search on Florence D. Hemmens, the recipient of Ginny’s nine-thousand-dollar check. Apparently Florence wasn’t a popular name these days. There was a Web site for the Hemmens Theater, lots of pages documenting Florence Nightingale, and one solitary LinkedIn account for an F. D. Hemmens.

  Since I wasn’t a LinkedIn member, I couldn’t see the full profile. The little I could see said that F. D. Hemmens was a retired high school principal from Syracuse, New York, who had relocated to sunny Florida. Under “Education” she listed a PhD from New York University, and she asked people contact her for reference requests, getting back in touch, and real estate transactions.

  Huh.

  Another search gave me the name of the school Dr. F. D. Hemmens retired from ten years ago. A white pages search and a phone call confirmed her first name was Florence. Eureka! This could be my girl.

  Only now that I’d found her, I wasn’t sure what to do with her. The page I could see told me she had a company Web site. I clinked on the link and went to a page that advertized rental properties in Sarasota, Florida, and the surrounding area. From what I could see, Florence rented properties by the week, month, or year. Since the units that went for that much had multiple bedrooms, I was guessing the nine thousand dollars must have been Ginny and her friends’ get-out-of-winter card.

  Feeling sad that Ginny wouldn’t get to walk on the beach this year, I wrote down Florence’s phone number, e-mail address, and Web site so I could pass them along to her family. Maybe they’d be able to find out what Ginny’s portion of the rent was and get a refund.

  Now that the mystery of the check’s recipient was solved, I pulled the slip of paper I’d taken off of Ginny’s teapot out of my pocket. After smoothing it out, I wrote the numbers and letters from the paper into my notebook and studied them. The first had ten digits. Could it be a phone number? I plugged the numbers into the reverse number option of the online white pages and got the message “invalid area code.” Drat.

  Okay, it wasn’t a phone number. What else could it be? I stared at the numbers for several minutes, waiting for inspiration to strike.

  Nothing.

  I moved on to the five letters in the next line: WMCSA. The letters were written in the same precise block handwriting that I’d seen in Ginny’s check register. The only difference was the letters were all capitalized. In the check register, Ginny capitalized the first letters of names or companies. Unlike my check log, which had lots of scrawled, half-legible words, Ginny’s had perfect penmanship. Every i had been dotted, every t crossed. Which made me think these letters were capitalized for a reason. If only I knew what that reason might be.

  The six descending numbers written under the capitalized letters left me just as stumped. I hoped Ginny’s family would have better luck deciphering them.

  Nobody was home at the Boggses’ house, so I dialed both Amy Jo’s and Mark’s cell phones. No answer. Not a surprise. They were probably busy. Either that or they were currently in a location where they couldn’t get a signal. Our county was on the list for a cell phone tower upgrade, but since the cows outnumbered people three to one in this area, I was betting our placement on that list was dead last. Unless the bovine set became addicted to texting and Angry Birds, it was going to be a while before reception improved.

  I left Amy Jo a message to call me, scribbled down the few facts Sean had given me, and frowned. I’d managed to fill the notebook pages with a respectable amount of information. Heck, I’d even dug up information Sean didn’t have. That would normally have bolstered my confidence. Instead, not sharing the contents of Ginny’s note with him made me feel queasy. I’d kept information from Sean before, but that was when he sneered and acted like a Neanderthal. In recent weeks, the man had taken several steps up the evolutionary ladder, which left me feeling guilty and conflicted. Two emotions I should have been better at, considering my experience with them.

  Since I didn’t want to go around feeling like a schmuck, I punched number 5 on my phone and waited for Sean to answer. Voice mail. I hated voice mail. After the beep, I told Sean that I’d forgotten to pass along one other piece of information and that I’d try to stop by the sheriff’s department with it later today. Of course, with Jasmine around and my duties for Danielle’s wedding, I wasn’t sure what my schedule looked like, but …

  Eek! I was rambling. I hated when I did that.

  I said good-bye, disconnected, and contemplated whether being embarrassed was preferable to feeling guilty. As far as I could tell, it was a wash. Ignoring my humiliation, I picked up my notebook in hopes of finding a new lead. I’d yet to find one when the door swung open, letting both the dulcet tones of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” and my grandfather inside.

  “You think that would make a good song for my set?” Pop asked as he closed the door behind him. “I’m looking to add a couple modern pieces to the act for broader appeal.”

  “You might want to pick a song that doesn’t require two people.” Not to mention one that was written in the last two decades.

  My grandfather unzipped his jacket and revealed a skintight, shiny, purple shirt underneath. “I’m looking to hire a chick singer. So far I haven’t found one who has a flexible schedule and legs that look great in a short skirt.”

  “Doesn’t she also have to sing?”

  “That’s what the short skirt is for.” Pop grinned. “Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if she had good pipes. It’d be nice to share the stage with equal-caliber talent.”

  Well, that was one challenge that could be met with relative ease. Too bad the other problems I was working on weren’t as easy.

  “So, what’s the emergency?” Pop asked, easing his satin-clad butt into a wooden chair. “I would have gotten here sooner, but your father had some trouble with his camera. I never knew a flash could explode like that.”

  I wasn’t going to ask. “Pop, I need you to convince your friends at the center to call off their protest of the sheriff’s office.”

  “No can do.”

  I blinked. “Why not?” Pop was always willing to help. Especially when it involved shutting down something as illogical as picketing Sean’s office. Not to mention the fun factor of getting to throw his celebrity status around.

  “Almost every club and social group in the center has agreed to the protest. Ginny was one of the center’s most popular members. Ethel and Marjorie have contacted the local media. News crews will be here first thing tomorrow morning. They’ve put me in charge of entertainment, which is good for networking. I might even be able to get some press for the band. This could be my big break.” Pop’s eyes twinkled. “Better yet, Sean will be so distracted by the protest he won’t have time to get in the way of your investigation.”

  “He’ll also be irritated enough to keep Erica, Mary, and Halle behind bars.”

  “You don’t give yourself enough credit. You can investigate rings around…” Pop’s voice trailed off as what I’d just said hit home. “Wait. Why did Sean arrest Erica, Mary, and Halle? Did they roll over his foot or something?”

  I guess the Indian Falls gossips had been too busy contacting the media and painting protest signs to keep up with t
he day’s news. “The girls accidentally shoplifted a few things from the pharmacy. Worse, it was sort of my fault they did it.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Some sleeping pills and … I don’t remember what else.” Call me old-fashioned, but while I accepted my grandfather’s social life (okay, accepted was an overstatement, but I was working on it), I couldn’t bring myself to use the word “condom” in a conversation with him. Before my grandfather could ask more questions, I filled him in on the whole story. “Sean said he’ll spring them if I get the protest called off. If not, he’s keeping them locked behind bars.”

  “Well, crap.” Pop hiked up his pants and frowned. “I can’t have the girls rotting in jail just because I want to be on television. Now I have to find a way to convince Ethel and Marjorie to call off the hounds. That’s easier said than done.”

  “Why?” I asked. “People can’t seriously believe that Sean’s initial cause-of-death findings were inaccurate due to discrimination.”

  “No, but lots of seniors feel they haven’t gotten a fair shake from the mayor on other issues. They see picketing the sheriff as a chance to move their political agenda forward.”

  Agenda? “What agenda?”

  “Most of the folks at the center think their concerns about the environment are falling on deaf ears.”

  “Your friends are concerned about pollution and conservation?”

  “We don’t care about that stuff,” Pop said. “All of us over the age of sixty-five are going to die before the world has a chance to run out of oil. Nah, the center’s political board is concerned about the fountain that’s being built in the park. The land it’s being constructed on was originally set aside for a shuffleboard deck. Then one day, poof. The land was commandeered for the mayor’s pet project without any concern for us. He could have torn up the basketball court or the baseball field, but he chose to nix shuffleboard. Old people have the right to a sporting venue, too. Jimmy even came up with a plan to turn the deck into a curling rink during the winter months. He wants to train for the next Olympics. A gold medal would be a surefire chick magnet.”