Skating Over the Line (12 page)

Red-faced, Pastor Rich nodded with a shy smile and wandered off in search of the kitchen.

“You really should be nicer to him,” I said, perching on the arm of my pale yellow sofa.

“What do you mean?” Danielle raised a perfect eyebrow. “I'm very nice to Rich.”

“You overwhelm the poor guy on purpose so he'll do anything you want. The pastor's sheltered life never prepared him for dealing with a woman like you.”

Danielle shrugged and leaned against the wall with a pout. Even pouting, Danielle was stunning. No wonder she'd been so successful at her past profession. What red-blooded man wouldn't want to watch her dance in front of him? Heck, even in the crisp blue shorts, yellow shirt, and silver sandal heels she had on now, the woman would have men begging for her attention.

Then it hit me. Danielle was wearing heels, really sexy stilettos. And her shorts were well above the knee. I'd never seen my friend in anything that showed her knees. At least not in Indian Falls. Danielle had left those clothes in Chicago, along with stripping, in order to create a new image in a new place. Something was up.

“Hey, what's with the new look? Are you trying to give Rich a heart attack with those shoes?”

“Like he'd notice.”

“He'd have to be dead not to notice.” In my experience, any male with a pulse would have been panting over Danielle's legs, especially when she was wearing those shoes.

Danielle's shoulders slumped. “Or not interested. We've been dating for over three months and he hasn't tried to put any moves on me. I'm worried he doesn't find me attractive.”

“He's a Lutheran pastor. They have rules against premarital sex.”

“How about premarital kissing?”

I looked toward the kitchen to make sure Rich wasn't coming, then hissed, “He hasn't kissed you?”

Danielle's sexy heels traveled the beige Berber carpet. She flopped across from me on the pale blue love seat with a sigh. “Not really. He pecks me on the lips when he drops me off at home, but otherwise nothing. Every time I try to get more passionate, he claims he has a sermon to work on and runs off.”

“Maybe he does,” I offered. Danielle's skeptical look had me adding, “Rich has to give a new sermon every Sunday. That can't be easy.”

“I know it's not.” She leaned her head back against the couch and closed her eyes. “I just wish I knew what to do to get his attention. Another woman, I could handle. How the hell do I compete with Jesus?”

Apparently with high heels and short shorts.

Danielle's eyes snapped open. “No more talking about me. I want you to tell me everything that happened last night. Did some guy really threaten you at gunpoint?”

“He didn't have a gun,” I said with a laugh. This was the reason no one should depend on gossip as a major form of communication. By the time the story made it through the entire town, it would have me shot, in the hospital, and hanging on to life by a thread.

Danielle sat there, waiting for me to continue.

My voice gave a traitorous quiver as I admitted, “He had a wire stretched between his hands.”

“Oh my God!” Danielle's mouth dropped. “Do you think he was going to strangle you with it?”

“I didn't wait around long enough to find out.” I was afraid to admit that if I had waited, I might not be here at all. Worse, I had no idea why. Not knowing the reason someone wanted to hurt you really added to the creep factor.

“Ladies,” Rich's voice shattered the tension as he poked his head out of the kitchen and said, “Would you like some wine while we wait for Bryan and Reginald to arrive?”

“Bring the bottle,” I suggested.

Rich appeared a few moments later holding two stemmed glasses filled with pinot noir. “Felix and Barbara are putting together some appetizers while we wait for the others.” He gave a nervous glance toward the kitchen. “I'd recommend staying out of the kitchen until they're done. You know…”

Laughing, I took one of the wineglasses. I did know. Barbara was a little overwhelming when cooking. Especially for someone like the mild-mannered Pastor Rich. He was a lot like Clark Kent, with glasses, shirt buttoned to the neck, and neatly combed hair. For Danielle's sake, I hoped Superman lurked somewhere beneath the perfectly pressed clothes.

Rich took a seat next to his girlfriend. A small frown played across Danielle's lips and the tension in the room went up several notches. For the first time, I noticed the distance he kept between their bodies. Rich probably thought he was being respectful, but I hoped the guy would figure the boy/girl thing out before Danielle put on her Mrs. Claus outfit and took a turn around a pole. Danielle's goal was to marry Rich, not kill him.

“So,” I said, trying to put everyone at ease, “where do we think Bryan and Reginald are? They're normally the first ones here.”

“I don't know.” Rich clasped and unclasped his hands. “We ran into them at the diner. Reginald said they were bringing a great salad and a few other surprises.”

I sat up straight. “Was that the night of Jimmy's car fire?”

“It was,” Danielle said, fingering the rim of her wineglass. “All the firefighters came into the diner and were talking about it. Why?”

“My father came into town and was in the diner that night. The next morning, his car was stolen out of the retirement home's parking lot. I think the person who took Jimmy's car might have been at the diner and watched my father come in. Can you tell me who you remember seeing there?”

Danielle's eyes were bright as she listed the same names I'd gotten from Zach. Rich filled in some of the bingo women, but neither of them mentioned anyone new. Drat.

“Wait,” Danielle said as I took a sip of wine. “There was another guy there for a few minutes. I'd never seen him before.”

I put my glass down. “Do you remember what he looked like?”

Danielle tilted her head. “He was tall, had wavy black hair, and was wearing jeans and a golf shirt.”

“Age?”

She shrugged. “Thirty-five. Maybe forty.” Her lips curled into a sexy smile as she purred, “And good-looking. He reminded me of Antonio Banderas.”

Great. Danielle was trying to make her boyfriend jealous with my primary suspect. Worse yet, Pastor Rich wasn't looking green with envy. In fact, he looked pretty darn happy. Something told me that tomorrow Danielle was going to wear fishnet stockings to work. No doubt a fashion first for the Lutheran church.

“Can you remember anything else about the guy?” I asked.

Danielle shook her head, and I felt a twinge of defeat. Between Agnes's information and Danielle's, I was certain I had a real suspect, but I was never going to find him.

Just then, Rich said, “He came to the nine o'clock service on Sunday.” Danielle and I gaped at him, and he gave me a little wink. “If you need to speak to him, he might be there again this week. I'd be happy to point him out.”

My admiration for Pastor Rich went up several notches. Not only had he given me a lead; he had subtly locked me into attending church. Maybe he wasn't as innocent as Danielle assumed.

I finished my glass of wine and was about to get another, when the doorbell buzzed. Changing direction, I swung open the door.

“Hey, Bryan,” I said with a happy smile. Then I glanced behind him and my smile faded. “Where's Reginald? Is he sick?”

Bryan shook his perfectly styled blond head and wrapped his arms around his body. “Reginald isn't si—si—sick,” he stammered. “He's…”

A tear streaked down Bryan's boyishly elfin face. My heart leaped into my throat as I put a hand on Bryan's arm. “What happened? Is he hurt?”

A shudder racked Bryan's body. “He's…”

I braced myself for terrible news. Flashes of Reginald's happy face went through my mind.

“Oh God, Rebecca,” Bryan sobbed. “They think he stole that car and set it on fire. Can you believe it? The police put Reginald in jail!”

*   *   *

Long dreadlocks hid Reginald's face as I walked into the small Indian Falls jail cell. Huh. The room hadn't improved any since the last time I was here.

The walls were painted white but looked almost gray under the fluorescent lights. Stainless-steel bars divided the room into the visitors' area and two separate cells. Reginald was sitting on a cot in the cell nearest the window. His tall, beefy body made the cot look like it belonged in a child's room. I would have laughed at the absurdity of his sleeping on the tiny bed had Reginald not looked up at me. The defeat in his brown eyes sucked all the amusement out of me.

I pulled an orange plastic chair up to the cell and took a seat. “Reginald,” I said in a soft voice. “Are you okay?”

His broad shoulders lifted. “Bryan and I moved here to get away from my past. Things were supposed to be different. In the city, the cops used to lock me up all the time because I was big and black. Nothing's changed.”

My heart ached as Reginald slumped his shoulders in defeat. “I know you didn't do this. So does Bryan and everyone else in the club. They're back at my place, calling around for a lawyer. We're going to get you out of here. Now tell me why they arrested you.”

Reginald shifted, and the cot shuddered under his massive body. He was built like a Chicago Bears linebacker. Two hundred and forty pounds of dense muscle. Personally, I was surprised Deputy Sean'd had the gumption to arrest a guy as immense as Reginald. Normally, Sean wasn't into taking risks.

The man behind bars looked down at his large hands. “When I was a kid, I used to boost cars. The older guys on the block taught me. Turned out I had a knack for it.”

“And Deputy Sean found out about your gift.”

My choice of words made Reginald smile. “Yeah. He found out about my gift and arrested me. Turns out I'm the only person in this town with an arrest record for grand theft auto. It doesn't seem to matter that the whole thing happened when I was twelve. Or that I've been straight ever since. It didn't matter to the cops in Chicago, either.”

As Reginald's smile faded, a surge of anger whipped through me. “Reg, what kinds of cars did you steal when you were twelve?”

“Why?”

I put a hand on one of the metal bars. “Did you steal Jimmy's car?”

“No.”

“Did you set the car on fire?”

“No.” A spark flared in Reginald's eyes, and I felt a moment of triumph. Anger was good. It meant he would help me spring him from this joint.

I gave him my best cheesy smile. “Trust me. Now tell me what kind of cars.”

Ten minutes later, I barreled down the hallway, looking for my archnemesis. But he wasn't in his office or in reception. In fact, Deputy Holmes was nowhere to be found, and according to Roxy, he wasn't on call for the night.

“Then who is?” As far as I knew, Sean Holmes was on call 24/7 and made sure everyone knew it.

Roxy applied a coat of ruby red polish to her thumbnail. Without looking up, she said, “Why, Sheriff Jackson, of course.”

Of course.

*   *   *

The green numbers on my car's dash read 8:45 when I pulled into Sheriff Jackson's long driveway on the outskirts of town. The farmhouse was ablaze with lights, telling me Sheriff Jackson hadn't turned in yet. There was still time to get Reginald sprung before he had to sleep on the kiddie bed.

Old-fashioned lampposts illuminated the beds of colorful flowers blooming along the sidewalk leading to the front door. Sheriff Jackson had taken up gardening when his wife died. Over the years, he'd developed a real talent for it. I wish I could say the same for his investigating skills.

Shifting from foot to foot, I knocked on the door and waited. When Sheriff Jackson opened the door, he was wearing a ratty blue terry-cloth bathrobe, fuzzy white ankle socks, and an absentminded smile. “Kay, what a pleasure to see you.”

The name tugged at my soul. Gently, I said, “Kay was my mother, Sheriff. I'm her daughter, Rebecca.”

The sheriff closed his eyes for a moment, scratched his gray temple, and nodded. “Sorry, Rebecca. I know who you are. I was looking at some old pictures today and must have gotten stuck in the past.”

“No need to apologize,” I said, continuing the polite fiction that his slip was unusual. The Indian Falls populace continued to elect him sheriff out of affection, not because of his ability. For that, they relied on Sean Holmes. Strange, but true.

Sheriff Jackson grinned, pushed the screen door open, and stepped out onto the porch. “So, what brings you out here at this time of night?”

“Reginald Washington.”

The sheriff squinted in confusion.

“Deputy Holmes arrested him earlier today,” I prompted, “for stealing Jimmy Bakersfield's car and setting it on fire.”

The sheriff's eyes brightened. “Sure. Now I remember. Young Sean said that he had a history of stealing cars in the city before moving here. And according to Sean, your friend was in the diner the night your father blew back into town. That sounds like a good suspect to me.”

I couldn't fault Sean's logic when it came to Reginald's being in the diner. I just faulted his suspect.

“Is there any physical evidence?” I asked. Before the sheriff could answer, I said, “No, because Reginald didn't do it.”

I went on to explain how Reginald had given up a life of crime before entering high school. I paced the porch as if making an argument in front of a jury. “And if you look at his arrest record, you'll see he stole only new cars, then turned them over to older kids, who resold them. I'm sure the district attorney will have a hard time proving that over a decade and a half later Reginald changed his pattern and is now stealing and setting fire to rusted-out cars.”

On a roll, I pivoted on my heel and pointed at Sheriff Jackson. “The way I see it, Sheriff, you don't have a case.”