“Something? What kind of something?”
Sean’s skin took on a pale green cast. “Look, I wouldn’t worry about it, Rebecca. The words in the last sentence are pretty hard to read. Who knows what they say.”
“But you think you know. Right?” I was trying not to freak. It had to be bad. Sean’s idea of fun was tormenting me. If Sean was being nice, bad things were about to happen.
Lionel must have had the same thought. He lost his angry stance and walked over to stand next to me. “What do you think they say, Sean?” His hand rested protectively on my shoulder.
“Well,” Sean said, clutching the paper, “the words are smudged and hard to make out. But I think this word here is…” He swallowed hard. “Muerte.”
Good thing Lionel was holding me upright, because even I knew that word. Muerte means “death.”
Fifteen
Dead was bad. I didn’t want to be dead. In fact, while my life had some downsides, I was pretty happy to be living it and I wanted to stay that way. While Sean and I had our differences, putting them aside in order to keep me breathing seemed like a good idea.
I took a deep breath. “I think the guys who wrote this are staying at one of the motels off the highway. The desk clerks there wouldn’t give me any information, but they’ll probably talk to you.”
Mr. Nice Guy disappeared, leaving typical Sean in his place. “How the hell do you know that? I told you to let the real authorities handle this.”
“As far as I can see, the real authorities haven’t been able to handle anything,” I shot back. “Since I reported the guy with the wire, my grandfather has been attacked and I’ve been threatened with death. The only person you’ve managed to arrest for a crime lately was innocent. I’d say the real authorities are doing a bang-up job.”
“Maybe if a certain redhead wasn’t poking her nose into places it didn’t belong, the sheriff wouldn’t have to worry about her getting death threats.”
“This is my fault?” I marched up to Sean and poked him in the chest. “Jimmy asked me to look into finding his car because he didn’t trust you to take his case seriously. If anyone in this town trusted you to do your job, I wouldn’t need to be doing it for you.”
Sean’s ears turned crimson. He looked like he was ready to have a heart attack. Much to my surprise, he didn’t make a move for his gun. In fact, he didn’t do anything for several long seconds. Then he straightened his shoulders, snapped his cop book shut, and gave a stiff nod. “I’ll follow up on the hotels off the highway. Until then, try not to get into any more trouble.”
A second later, he was out the door.
Stunned, I rocked back on my heels and waited for him to reappear and start yelling again. He didn’t.
“Do you think pushing a cop like that is a good idea?” Lionel asked, sounding a little shocked.
I sighed. Lionel was right. I had probably taken things a little too far. But I’m a redhead. Redheads are known for their nasty tempers. For the most part, I kept that genetic predisposition under control. Unless provoked. Sean’s words had definitely provoked me. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret at what might have been unhappiness in his eyes. Sean annoyed me, but I didn’t want to hurt him.
“I know, but he pushes my buttons,” I admitted. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“Like you couldn’t help forgetting to tell me about the note?”
Lionel’s tone sounded reasonable, but I wasn’t stupid. This conversation was a potential land mine. I’d already stepped on one with Sean. I needed carbohydrates before I hopped onto another.
“I meant to tell you.” Maybe. Stranger things have happened. “The flowers took me by surprise. By the time I thought about it, Sean was already here.”
Lionel looked like he was going to argue the point. Then he shook his head and sighed. “It’s too late to drive to Dixon. How about we go to Dom’s and get a bottle of wine. Both of us could use a drink.”
Ten minutes later, we were seated in a back booth at Papa Dom’s, Indian Falls’s answer to Italian cuisine. The restaurant was located at the far end of town but never had trouble drawing a crowd. The food was great. The decor erred on the side of checkered tablecloths and melted-down candles in Chianti bottles. What else could you want?
Dom himself came over to take our drink order. He was a short man with almost Transylvanian black hair and a weathered face. Still, the expressive Italian in him made Dom appear larger than life.
“The two of you do no come in here enough,” he said, rubbing his tan, wrinkled hands together. “Young people in love are good for my business and for my heart. I will bring you wine, yes? A nice white to go with your pasta.”
He shuffled off toward the bar without waiting for us to agree with him. Dom was allowed to serve you whatever he wanted. House rule. If you didn’t like it, he wouldn’t charge you. That almost never happened. What the guy lacked in hairstyling taste, he made up for with his palate.
He came back with two glasses. Our waitress, a tiny blond woman I’d seen rolling along my rink floor with her kids, trailed behind him, holding a bottle of pinot grigio. After putting the glasses down and popping the cork, Dom poured the wine. “Rebecca, your mother would be happy to see you with such a nice young man. It is time to be settled and have a family.” Giving me a pat on the hand, Dom shuffled off to chat up another table.
The waitress took Dom’s place tableside. She ran down the specials and asked if we were ready to order.
“Yes,” I said quickly. Food was a safe subject. “I’ll have the special pasta.” I wasn’t even sure what the special pasta was, but it sounded like there was a lot of it. If I had food jammed in my mouth, I couldn’t be expected to hold a conversation. When it came to discussions about relationships and scary notes on my door, saying as little as possible was a good thing.
Lionel ordered the eggplant, my favorite, and then we were left alone. Before he could launch into his agenda, I started on my own. “I have some questions about Jimmy’s car fire. I was hoping since you’re a volunteer fire guy, you could fill in some blanks.”
I dropped the gauntlet and sucked down half a glass of wine while waiting to see if Lionel picked it up. He eyed me over the Chianti candle while fingering the stem of his glass. I could tell his naturally curious nature was warring with his need to keep to his desired conversation topic.
After several long moments, curiosity won out. “What about Jimmy’s car fire?”
“The fire burned really hot,” I explained. “I could feel the heat singeing my eyebrows from a hundred feet away.”
Lionel arched an eyebrow. “So? Fire is hot. What’s so strange about that?”
“The field didn’t burn.” I emptied my glass and put it down with a clatter. The perfect punctuation to my Sherlock Holmes moment.
Only my Watson didn’t get it. “You’re upset that Alan Schmitt’s field didn’t go up in smoke?”
“No,” I said, leaning forward. “But I do think it’s strange. Look, it hadn’t rained for days. The field was dry. That means either God decided to keep Alan out of trouble or our arsonist did something that kept the field from catching on fire. I’m betting God doesn’t have a personal stake in Alan’s life.”
Lionel put his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Okay, you’re right. The fact that the field didn’t catch on fire is strange.”
I poured myself another glass of wine. Being told I was right was something to celebrate.
Our waitress arrived at that moment with our food, and I stared in amazement at the plate in front of me. Looking at me from atop a large helping of rigatoni were several little fish heads, eyes and all. I poked at one of the fish with my fork. It wasn’t moving, which was good. But I was expected to eat it, which was bad. Sampling unusual food at the gourmet club was one thing. Beady-eyed fish were something else.
Lionel smiled at me over his plate of steaming eggplant. “Problem?”
Yes. Only I wasn’t going to admit i
t. Trying to look pleased, I pushed the fish to one side, stabbed a pasta tube, and shoveled it into my mouth—except that I couldn’t chew. The fish were still looking at me.
So I did what any self-respecting person would do: I scooped up the fish with my unused spoon and put them on my bread plate. As a final gesture of respect, I covered them up with my cocktail napkin. Now they could rest and I could eat in peace.
Without my aquatic friends, I was able to taste what was in my mouth. I didn’t hate it. In fact, it was pretty good. There were raisins, tomatoes, and pine nuts swimming in a zingy sauce. I took another bite and smiled for real. Dom might want to rethink the garnish, but the pasta itself was outstanding.
Now that my meal wasn’t wigging me out, I could get back to business. “I’m guessing someone put something on the field to keep it from catching on fire. That baffles me. I mean, what arsonist would do something like that? I don’t think an arsonist would be worried about adding a couple of extra Hail Marys to his penance.”
Lionel nodded. “It sounds weird, but I can’t think of a better reason the field didn’t catch fire.”
“I know you do the firefighter thing on a strictly volunteer basis, but I thought you might know what kind of fire retardant could be used in this situation.” And if he didn’t, I was hoping his interest would be piqued enough for him to stop by the firehouse and find out. The guys would talk to him. Getting him to share the information after he got it might be problematic. I’d just have to hurl myself off that bridge when I got to it.
He ate several forkfuls of his meal while deep in thought. This gave me time to scarf down some more pasta, a slice of bread slathered with seasoned olive oil, and another glass of wine. If the bad guys made good on their threat tonight, I’d die with a happy stomach.
I grabbed another slice of bread while eyeing Lionel’s half-eaten meal. “Are you going to eat all of that?”
Lionel cut off a piece of the eggplant and put it onto my plate. Then he said, “Every Fourth, the fireworks guys spray some kind of retardant on the grass to prevent sparks from flaring up. I don’t think that kind of thing is strong enough to work on a car fire, but I can find out. If the guy who did this stopped the fire from spreading, then the thief might be one of—”
He cut himself off and slugged back the rest of his wine, then refilled the glass and drained it again.
I knew where his thought had been heading. Right to the front door of the Indian Falls firehouse. I couldn’t believe one of the firefighters could be our pyromaniac car bandit. But only a person looking out for the safety of the town or maybe the welfare of the firefighters themselves would care enough to prevent the fire from spreading. Plus, all the firefighters had been in the diner the night my father blew into town.
Damn. Suddenly everyone associated with the big red truck was on my suspect list.
I pushed my almost-empty dish away. The pasta sat like a big ball of wax in my stomach. I knew all of those guys. Lately, poker night at the barn had included at least one or two members of the IFFD. I really didn’t want one of them to be the car thief. From the look on Lionel’s face, he didn’t want that, either.
Our waitress cleared our plates and offered us dessert. Dom’s tiramisu had taken first place in the Fall Festival Cook-Off three years running. It said so on the menu. Normally, I’d have considered it my duty to make sure he wasn’t slipping, but not tonight.
Lionel drove me back to the rink. I hopped out of his megatruck and walked with him upstairs to my front door.
No notes. No scary guys lurking in shadows. Both good signs.
“You’re going to question the guys at the firehouse, aren’t you?” Lionel asked as I put my key in the lock.
I stepped into my apartment and waited for him to follow. He didn’t. I sighed. “Would you rather Sean talk to them?”
“I’d rather you’d forget the whole thing.” His face was partially in shadows, but I could hear the frustration in his voice. “None of those guys would do anything to hurt people in this town.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” I said, getting annoyed. “I like those guys. I liked Annette, too. She was my mother’s best friend, and still I questioned her when it looked like she might have committed murder. Liking someone doesn’t make the person innocent.”
I was pretty sure I was right. Expert I wasn’t, but every CSI episode I’d watched backed me up.
Lionel tilted his head to one side, considering my logic. Finally, he leaned down and planted a kiss on me. The tension that had been building in my neck dissolved as a tingle of anticipatory pleasure built. Reaching up, I started to wind my hands around Lionel’s neck. But he pulled back, taking his lips with him.
“I don’t want to leave you alone tonight,” he said in a satisfyingly reluctant tone. “But I’ve got to go. I promised Doc I’d look in on his horse. She’s ready to foal.”
I searched his face to make sure he was telling the truth. Being ditched for a pregnant horse wasn’t all that flattering, but it was better than having your boyfriend leave angry. “So you’re not mad at me?”
He gave me one of his sexy grins. “Becky, there’s someone setting fire to cars and guys with death threats running around town. Somehow you’re messed up in both. I can’t even begin to describe what I’m feeling.”
He leaned down and kissed me again with a lot of emotion. None of it was angry. All of it was exciting. And then he was gone, leaving me staring at an open doorway and feeling a little wistful. Then a little scared. I was here alone. Yikes.
I closed the door and threw the dead bolt. For a moment, I contemplated scooting the end table in front of the door. It would keep the bad guys out. But it would keep me from making a quick escape if they decided to set fire to the place. I decided against redecorating and went to bed instead.
Not that I slept much. Without the security of having Lionel nearby, I tossed and turned most of the night and woke without my alarm at seven. There was sand in my eyes and a dull throb in the back of my head. On the upside, I had a plan. Hours of not sleeping had given me lots of time to think out my next move.
I got dressed in a pair of jean shorts, a stretchy blue Chicago Cubs shirt, and my best sneakers. I figured I might end up running for my life. I wasn’t about to risk doing myself in over a pair of sexy heels, no matter what they might do for my legs.
Grabbing a bagel from the kitchen, I munched as I headed down the stairs to the rink. No bad guys were lurking around the front door. I grabbed the handle and froze. The rink was already open.
Huh. Maybe George was here.
I walked inside the dimly lit rink. “Hello?”
My voice echoed in the large, completely empty space.
“George?” A strange tingly sensation a lot like fear tickled the back of my neck. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
“You’re up early.”
I spun around as a spandex-clad George waltzed through the front door. He smiled at me and hefted his green army backpack up on his shoulder. “Is Max coming in early, too?” The sneer in his normally perky voice spoke volumes.
I wasn’t interested in his power play for king of the rink. George hadn’t opened the rink this morning. So who had? Had it been open all night?
“Who locked up last night?” I asked, walking over to the sound booth and hitting the light switch. The large fluorescent lights hummed and sputtered to life. Nothing looked out of place. The CDs in the booth looked a little less than tidy, but that was to be expected.
George cocked his head to one side. “Brittany closed. Why?”
“I didn’t use my key to get in. The door was already open.” I hurried back to my office, leaving a stunned George in my wake. The door was locked. I inserted my key and hit the light switch. Fine. Everything was fine. The computer was on the desk, all my knickknacks were accounted for, and the money from last night was locked in the box in the desk. Unless someone had raided the stash of Tombstone pizzas in the kitchen, everything was as it should
be.
George poked his blond head into the office, frowning. “Are you sure the door wasn’t locked?”
I nodded. “Brittany must have forgotten.”
“She couldn’t have.” The creases on George’s forehead deepened. “I came back to the rink last night to make sure things were running okay. New management—” George took one look at my face and swallowed the rest of that sentence. “Anyway, I helped Brittany close up. She locked the door, and I walked her to her car. I didn’t want her to be alone in the parking lot with those Spanish guys on the loose. I even tested the knob to make sure the place was closed up tight.”
Crap. Crap. Crap. Someone had broken into the rink.
“Okay,” I said, taking several deep breaths. “Let’s split up and make sure the rink is okay.”
Twenty minutes later, we reconvened on the floor of the rink. If someone had broken in, I had no idea why. Money, sound system, and pizzas were all in their places. Strange.
I debated calling the cops. The shouting match with Sean last night made me less enthusiastic than usual at the prospect. Besides, what would I tell them? The door had been unlocked, but there were no signs of forced entry—no crowbar marks, no scratches, nothing. Sure, George said he’d checked it and it was locked, but more than one person had a key to the joint. The cops weren’t going to be impressed. I figured the best thing to do was make sure the keys were all accounted for. It might not solve the problem, but it would make me feel better.
There were six keys floating around in people’s pockets. I had one. George showed me his. That made two. Brittany, Doreen, Pop, and a pimply yet responsible high school senior named Mike had the others.
I grabbed my cell and texted Mike and Brittany. No one under twenty ever answered the phone. They were too busy texting or instant-messaging on the computer to do anything as ordinary as talking. Moments after I’d hit Send, both kids confirmed they had keys in hand.
As did Doreen. She seemed incensed that I had the nerve to ask if she had her copy of the rink key, but after I soothed her hurt feelings, she answered the question. The key was in her desk at her office. I asked her to call me back when she verified that it was still there, and she asked, “How is your new manager working out?”