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

by Charbonneau, Joelle

  “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.

  The restaurant was half filled with patrons when Lionel and I walked through the door. A brunette I was pretty certain I’d seen skating around the rink greeted Lionel and me at the podium and showed us to a booth in the back. Several people waved to us on the way to our table.

  Once we were seated at the red-and-white checkered table, Lionel said, “Tell me about the project I’m going to be helping you with now. Then I’ll know how much wine I need to order.”

  I probably should have been offended, but over the past couple of months I’d had more than my fair share of dangerous encounters. The potential need for copious amounts of alcohol was justified. So, instead of doing the injured female routine, I said, “Mrs. Johnson hired me to catch the Thanksgiving Day thief.”

  “And?”

  No amusement. No anger. No reaction. Since I didn’t know whether this was a good or a bad thing, I kept talking. “I stopped by Betsy Moore’s place earlier and asked her about the break-in last year. She mentioned that Mark and Amy Jo Boggs helped take care of her horses while she was gone. I don’t know them, so I thought you could fill me in on the pertinent details.”

  “Like whether I think they cleaned Betsy out?”

  “That would be a good start.” The hostess dropped off a basket of warm bread and a plate of seasoned olive oil. I tore off a hunk and dipped. “Betsy told them she was going to visit her folks in Miami over Thanksgiving.”

  “She also told me. Does that make me a suspect?”

  “The thefts have been happening for ten years. You haven’t lived here long enough. I don’t know when the Boggses moved to town.”

  The waitress arrived and took our drink orders. I really wanted wine, but I figured I should keep a clear head, seeing as how I’d once again left the damn notebook in the car. I settled for a soda and took it as a good sign when Lionel ordered the same.

  Leaning back, Lionel said, “From what I remember, Mark and Amy Jo moved here a year or two before I did. They raise pigs, grow corn, and are trying to adopt. I hope they do. Mark and Amy Jo are nice people.”

  The Boggses might be nice, but nice people had been known to do bad things. Running a farm was a healthy way of life, but rarely did it rake in the cash. Adoption was expensive.

  “I know Sean questioned them last year when the thefts happened,” Lionel added. “He questioned me, too. I wasn’t able to tell him much. I’m guessing Mark and Amy Jo couldn’t give him any leads either. You’ll probably be wasting your time talking to them again.”

  Maybe, but it was my time to waste. Besides, I had to start somewhere, and the idea of succeeding where Sean had failed was just too tempting to ignore.

  Our waitress arrived with more bread—I’d eaten it all—and to take our orders. Once she disappeared, Lionel changed the subject. We were now in the official date portion of the evening. He told me about his day and asked about the shower. I filled him in on Ginny’s departure and Danielle’s wedding blues. I decided not to tell him about my run-in with Sean. Our food had just arrived. Talking about Sean might kill my appetite, and it would be a sin to waste Dom’s eggplant Parmesan. Instead, I asked, “Have you decided what you’re doing for Thanksgiving?”

  Up until last week, Lionel had been planning on spending the holiday in the Chicago suburbs with his parents. Then his mother had a falling-out with his great-aunt Natalie over the best ingredients for the stuffing and the family dinner was called off. He’d been waiting to see whether a truce was declared and dinner reinstated.

  “I think so. Do you have room for any more guests at your table?”

  I winced at the thought of my own upcoming holiday adventure. Somehow Pop had volunteered me to cook Thanksgiving dinner. He did a song and dance about how we hadn’t had a real family dinner in years. How he missed the tradition. How he might not have many years left. I caved. What other choice did I have? Besides, I rationalized, how hard could cooking for my father and my grandfather be? Well, since I’d asked that question the list of guests had somehow grown to include my godmother, Annette; two members of Pop’s mariachi/Elvis band; and Danielle and Rich. Although I cooked a dish every month for the meeting of the Indian Falls Gourmet Club, when I was left to my own devices my typical culinary achievements were popcorn and leftover pizza. This combined with the fact that I’d never cooked a formal meal for more than two people made the likelihood that my holiday dinner would bear a strong resemblance to the one in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving pretty high.

  Since I knew Lionel had a fondness for buttered popcorn, I said, “Sure. I think I can add another chair to the table.” Maybe Lionel could help me keep the madness to a minimum.

  Lionel took my hand and caressed my palm with his thumb. Now that I had eaten, I realized I was hungry for something else. Maybe tonight would be the night. He gave me one of his lazy smiles and asked, “Could you add a couple more?”

  I blinked. “Are some of your college buddies coming to town?”

  “No.” His green eyes met mine. “My parents are.”

  Four

  The soda I’d been swallowing lodged in my throat. I coughed. I gasped. I wheezed. My eyes watered. Lionel didn’t seem fazed. He leaned over, whacked me on the back, and handed me a glass of water.

  I took a large drink, coughed one last time, and asked, “Your parents are coming here for Thanksgiving?”

  Maybe all the bread I’d consumed had caused me to go into a gluten-induced shock. A visit to the hospital and lots of invasive tests sounded far preferable to a visit from Lionel’s folks. Not that I had anything against them. I didn’t. I’d never met them—and while I was sure they were perfectly nice people, I wasn’t interested in changing that anytime in the near future. Meeting parents was a big deal. Cooking for parents, especially when I wasn’t sure of success, was even bigger. Plus, of course, spending holidays with them implied a commitment level I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit to.

  “My great-aunt threatened to disown anyone who didn’t come to her house this year for dinner. Aunt Natalie wanted Mom to bring her stuffing and allow the family to vote on which is superior. I’ve eaten my aunt’s stuffing. Trust me, she would have lost. But my parents were given a stay of familial execution if they came to visit me. So, to avoid further family discord, Mom decided she and Dad are coming here for Thanksgiving. They’re both excited to meet you.”

  Gulp. “I’m excited to meet them, too,” I said, crossing my fingers under the table. It was childish, but it made me feel better about lying.

  The waitress arrived with refills of our drinks. As she efficiently removed one glass and slid another into its place, I told myself not to panic. When the waitress disappeared, I had almost convinced myself this whole meet-the-parents thing was routine for
Lionel’s family. I mean, Lionel was in his midthirties. He’d dated lots of women over the years. This was going to be a piece of cake.

  Forking up a piece of eggplant, I said, “Your parents have probably met a lot of your girlfriends, so this isn’t all that big a deal. Right?”

  “My parents met several of the girls I was involved with in the past.” Lionel gave me one of his toe-curling smiles. I let out a sigh of relief and shoved food into my mouth, feeling pretty good about the whole thing. Then he added, “You’re the first girlfriend my family has met since I moved to Indian Falls and decided this is where I want to settle down. Up until now, no one has mattered enough. You matter.” The sexy look in his eyes was gone, replaced by one that was dead serious. I’d seen that look in Danielle’s eyes when she fell in love with Rich and was hoping he’d propose. Most girls would jump for joy over that look. I was going to hurl.

  Lucky for my clenching stomach and the other diners, Lionel changed the subject to something less nauseating if equally scary—my father. “I saw Stan earlier today. He wanted to know if I’d let him use my farm for location shoots. I didn’t know your father was interested in photography.”

  My father was interested in anything that could be turned into a profit. Fake archaeological finds. Hot Chinese musical instruments. Stan would sell anything that fell off, or looked like it had the potential to fall off, the back of a truck. When I was a kid, my father traveled around the country, peddling whatever product he’d decided was going to be the next big thing. When I was nine, Dad took one of his trips in search of fame and fortune and didn’t bother to come back. Growing up as the kid whose father had abandoned her spurred my desire to leave town and never return. Now I was back, and so was he. While much had changed, my father’s dedication to the next get-rich-quick scheme hadn’t diminished. This one involved cameras, locations, and lots of old people.

  Sighing, I said, “Stan has started up his own modeling agency.”

  Lionel gaped. “Aren’t modeling agencies typically located in or near cities?”

  If they were actually making money by booking their clients, yes. Stan preferred charging for photographs, teaching classes, and talking a good game. Since I felt disloyal saying that aloud, I opted for “Stan thinks that the modeling world doesn’t have enough interesting senior citizen faces to choose from and that the powers-that-be are willing to foot the bill for travel expenses in order to tap into a new talent pool.”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  I thought there was a better chance of the Ice Capades performing in hell. “I guess time will tell.”

  “Who knows.” Lionel laughed. “This time your dad might be onto something.”

  Oh, he was onto something, all right. I was just hoping he would leave me and my grandfather out of it.

  By the time I climbed into Lionel’s truck, my stomach was so full I could hardly breathe, let alone move. I definitely shouldn’t have had the tiramisu, but no one turned down Dom’s tiramisu. Especially not when Dom himself brought it to your table because you reminded him of his granddaughter.

  Tomorrow, I was going to have to do dozens of laps around the rink to work off the calories. Otherwise, I’d risk not fitting into my maid of honor dress. Popping seams in front of the entire town wasn’t my idea of a good time. As it was, Danielle was already obsessing over every detail of how I’d look. She’d picked out the shoes and the jewelry; she’d even booked an appointment for me tomorrow with Annette so she could see how different hairstyles would look. The woman needed Valium.

  Although, now that I thought about it, the appointment with Annette was a fortunate coincidence. I would be able to question her about the thefts while she snipped, fluffed, and teased. Multi-tasking at its finest. Now I just had to figure out what a real private investigator would ask and I’d be set.

  Hopping out of Lionel’s truck, I turned to ask him what questions he’d ask and found my words cut off by his mouth. It was a hell of a mouth, too. The temperature might have been approaching freezing, but the way he nibbled on my bottom lip made me feel downright toasty. The minute he stepped back, I started to shiver. Either it was that cold or Lionel was that warm. When he nudged me toward his front porch, I decided science required an answer to that question and followed him up the steps and into his living room.

  Since I’d come to Indian Falls almost seven months ago, Lionel and I had both danced away from acting on the chemistry between us. Me because I was planning on selling the rink and moving back to the city. Him because of my unwillingness to take the rink off the market and vow to stay put. Now that I’d decided to remain in town, Lionel was full steam ahead, and the way his hands peeled away my puffy white jacket and began exploring the body underneath made me wonder why I’d ever thought we should wait.

  The jacket hit the floor. I unzipped Lionel’s battered leather coat, and it joined mine on the ground.

  Lionel’s mouth trailed down my neck, making my body hum. His mouth was hot. His fingers slipping under my sweater, rubbing circles on the small of my back and dipping lower, were magic. We were standing here clothed, and the man couldn’t have been sexier.

  Okay. I was wrong. My fingers unbuttoned Lionel’s shirt, revealing the hard, smooth lines of his chest. His mouth captured my bottom lip and tugged on it, ripping a gasp from my throat. Then, fingers entwined with mine, he led me toward the stairs.

  This was it. If I wanted to put the brakes on, now was the time to do it. I had to make a decision. Did I want to sleep with Lionel and take the next, relationship-changing step? Or did I want to be smart and wait to sleep with him until I knew what my feelings were? I cared about Lionel. The way my body was tingling from his touch confirmed the attraction level. Lionel wanted more than affection and chemistry, though. He wanted picket fences and family. I wanted …

  Nope. I had no idea what the hell I wanted.

  Stopping in the doorway of Lionel’s bedroom, I stared at the king-sized four-poster bed. A wave of panic hit me, followed by a wave of longing as Lionel’s mouth worked its way from my neck to my lips. When his hands worked their way under my sweater, I had trouble forming a coherent thought. Which was okay, I decided, as I wrapped my arms around Lionel and held on tight. Thinking was overrated.

  *

  Wow.

  I propped my head on Lionel’s chest. His arm snaked around my shoulders and pulled me against his side. Just wow. Up until today, I’d only done the mattress machinations with two guys. Both promised to take me to the stars. Neither brought me to the promised destination before his rocket lost steam. The experiences led me to believe sex was not only overrated, it was downright boring.

  Boy, was I wrong. Lionel’s rocket not only got off the ground, it circled around the moon several times before coming in for a landing. My muscles were loose, my mind clear. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so good.

  The sound of Lionel’s heartbeat lulled me toward the haze of sleep. My fingers entwined with his. Vaguely, I wondered again why I’d waited so long to do something so fabulous with a guy this wonderful.

  “I love you, Becky.”

  That’s why.

  I jumped as if I’d been bitten in the ass. Love had a way of doing that.

  “Hmm…” I grunted and took slow breaths, hoping Lionel would think I was asleep. Asleep meant I could pretend he’d never said it. He would think I’d never heard those words. He wouldn’t expect me to tell him how I felt about them, which was good because I doubted the right response to that declaration was hyperventilation.

  To avoid the need for a paper bag, I slowly breathed in and out and worked hard to keep my expression slack. I even added some drool to the mix. When I was a kid, I did the possum routine all the time. Mom never questioned it. Maybe Lionel wouldn’t question it now.

  After several very long minutes, Lionel’s breathing slowed and deepened. The arm around me loosened its grip until, finally, I was certain Lionel slept.

  Hallelujah.
>
  Careful not to jostle him, I slipped out of bed, ducked into the master bathroom, and locked the door behind me. Wrapping a towel around my body, I sat on the edge of the bathtub and put a hand on my jittery stomach. I needed to get a grip and think. In the past, Lionel had danced around the L-word. Now that he had said it aloud, I wasn’t sure what to do about it. Chemistry was one thing. Love was something very different. I’d never been in love with a capital L. Not unless you counted the time Connor Sheppard gave me his last piece of Halloween candy when we were in the first grade. I mean, what girl could resist a snack-sized Snickers?

  This wasn’t elementary school, though. Heck, this wasn’t even a college crush on the sexy debate team guy who used his powers of persuasion to talk me out of my clothes. This was Lionel. A man who was not only a great kisser but one of my closest friends. While I didn’t want to lose the kissing benefits, I would hate to lose my friend more. Love made people do wacky things. Love created expectations. Those expectations meant people could get hurt. Badly. My ex-boss Neil proved that months ago. His belief that he was in love with me caused both emotional and physical injuries. And look at my former roommate, Jasmine. The phone call I’d received two weeks ago involved lots of tears, loud shouting, and even louder sounds of breaking glass. Jasmine didn’t cope well with breakups.

  Love, or unreturned love, could cause pain. I didn’t want to hurt Lionel. Without having ever been in love, I was totally unqualified to understand my own feelings or deal with his. This could be very, very bad.

  Of course, I thought, it could also be good. I mean, Lionel was smart. He was handsome, stable, and kind to animals. Heck, he even liked my grandfather—spandex, sequins, and all. Lionel was exactly the kind of guy I’d hoped to fall in love with. Who knows? Maybe I was in love and I just wasn’t experienced enough with relationships to know it. If so, there was no need to panic.