Skating Around the Law, Page 2

  Donald Jackson had held the post of sheriff since my mother was a little girl. A favorite town game was “Guess Don’s Age.” By the leathery quality of his bald head and his steel gray party-favor mustache, I would guess one hundred and four. The correct answer was probably closer to seventy.

  Right now he looked bored and annoyed. Probably because I’d interrupted his afternoon nap. I hurried across the rink to meet him.

  “Rebecca, some teenager called. She claimed there was a dead body here.” He snorted and started coughing.

  I resisted the urge to slap him hard on the back. Instead, I pointed toward the girls’ bathroom. “He’s in there.”

  “You mean there really is a dead body?”

  The sheriff’s words echoed through the almost deserted rink. The few kids remaining at the skate rental counter turned to look at us. So much for keeping the situation from them.

  “Follow me.” I snagged the sheriff’s arm and pulled him toward the bathroom.

  Brittany and her grandmother hadn’t moved from their guard post outside the bathroom door. The sheriff nodded at them as he went in, and Doreen and Brittany followed behind me. I gave Sheriff Jackson a tiny shove toward the back stall and stayed behind. Seeing the body again wasn’t necessary for me. The terrible image was already etched firmly into my memory.

  “Holy crap! It’s Mack!”

  Sheriff Jackson had summed up my exact feelings.

  “I gotta ring the medical examiner,” he muttered as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  While the sheriff was occupied, I turned toward Doreen and her granddaughter. Doreen looked fine, but Brittany’s face was a strange ashen green color. Brittany needed to get out of here. Now.

  “Doreen,” I said, “I appreciate your help today. The sheriff is handling things now. Maybe you should take Brittany out of here. Neither one of you needs to see any more of this.”

  Doreen looked liked she wanted to protest, but my meaningful glance at Brittany followed by a firm glare seemed to settle the issue. With a “tsk,” Doreen herded the frightened teen out the door. That left Sheriff Don and me alone to deal with Mack.

  The sheriff hung his phone back on his belt. He gave a sad shake of his head. “Doc will be here in a minute. He should look at Mack before we move him.”

  Then the two of us stood staring at each other. I had no idea what to say, so I waited for the sheriff to start asking questions. Only he didn’t. He just stared at me while the faucet went drip, drip, drip in the background. At least I think he was staring at me. His eyes had a familiar glazed look. It reminded me of the one Mack was wearing when I fished him out of the toilet bowl.

  I asked, “Sheriff, do I need to fill out a report or something?”

  “Huh?” The sheriff noisily sucked in some air. He blinked and scratched his stomach. “Oh. Oh, sure. I guess we should go over everything before Doc gets here.” He pulled a pad of paper out of his back pocket and flipped to the first page. “Tell me what happened.”

  I walked the sheriff though the events leading to my discovery of Mack’s body. Talking about it made my knees weak. When I was done, the sheriff snorted and walked back to look at Mack.

  “Rebecca, when you touched the body, did you move anything besides Mack’s head?”

  “I don’t think so.” I couldn’t say for certain. Not without looking again. Taking a deep breath, I joined the sheriff in the death stall.

  I scanned the space, trying to ignore Mack’s unblinking eyes. Mack’s toolbox was against the side wall, and a plunger was to the right of the toilet. My eyes shifted to the left.

  “What’s that?” I asked with a frown.

  Sheriff Jackson blinked. “What’s what?”

  “That,” I asked, pointing to the farthest corner of the stall. There, half hidden from view by Mack’s inert body, was a bottle of prescription pills. “There’s a pill bottle back there.”

  “Sure enough.” The sheriff scratched his chin. He leaned closer. “Mack’s name’s on the bottle. Huh. Maybe this wasn’t an accident after all. Tell you what, I think Mack committed suicide.”

  Sheriff Jackson turned, his chest puffed out, proud of his deductive skills. Call me crazy, but I didn’t feel excited. Mack was still dead.

  I looked down at my feet, trying to pretend I was somewhere else. Anywhere else. My eyes shifted again to Mack’s toolbox, and a stack of stamped envelopes caught my eye. I raised my gaze back to the sheriff’s and shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  His face fell. “Why not?”

  “Do suicidal people pay their bills before killing themselves?” I pointed toward the stack of envelopes. The top one was addressed to the cable company. If I were going to kill myself, the cable company was the last place I’d send money to.

  The sheriff shrugged. “Could be he was getting his affairs in order. Doesn’t mean he didn’t commit suicide.”

  “But why here?” I wondered aloud. “I’d want to do it somewhere a little more private than a roller rink. Wouldn’t you?”

  Sheriff Jackson straightened his shoulders. His eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t commit suicide at all. I don’t appreciate you saying I might or questioning my professional judgment.”

  “I didn’t—” The bathroom door swung open, cutting off my halfhearted attempt at an apology. A robust, familiar-looking gray-haired gentleman strode in.

  The sheriff’s face broke into a smile. “Glad you’re here, Doc. Would you come take a look at this? Maybe you can convince Rebecca here that this is a cut-and-dried suicide. Poor Mack didn’t deserve to die this way, but it’s as simple as that.”

  The doctor nodded to me as I backed out of the stall to give him room. That’s when it hit me. The Indian Falls medical examiner was none other than Doc Truman. The man had patched me up during my active childhood and always gave me a lollipop afterward. I remembered the doctor as being kind, gentle, and a whole lot younger. Now Doc’s forehead looked like it was sliding onto his eyebrows.

  “So, Doc.” The sheriff’s voice echoed against the pale pink bathroom tiles. “Am I right? Did Mack commit suicide?”

  The two men came out of the stall. Doc Truman was holding the bottle of pills. He flipped the bottle open and peered inside. “The bottle’s almost full. That means Mack didn’t take enough pills to commit suicide.” He emptied some of the round white pills into his hand and squinted at them. Frowning, he looked at the sheriff. “This isn’t right.”

  “What?” Sheriff Don peered down at the pills. “What’s wrong?”

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Half of these aren’t Mack’s pills.”

  “What do you mean?” The sheriff’s voice was gruff. “Those pills all look the same to me.”

  “Mack’s pills were for his thyroid,” Doc Truman explained. “Prescribed them myself. Half of these pills have a C stamped on them. The thyroid pills don’t.”

  The sheriff’s expression turned stony. “That just means Mack was taking some other kind of drug you didn’t know about. Doesn’t surprise me.”

  Doc Truman raised an eyebrow. “Well, it would surprise the hell out of me. Mack was allergic to a lot of medications, and he hated taking pills. It took me almost two years to convince him to take something for his thyroid problem.” Doc shook his head. “No, Mack would never have taken another pill. Not without talking to me first. I’m guessing he didn’t know there were two kinds of pills in this bottle.”

  “What does that mean for my case?” The sheriff blustered. “Is Mack’s death a suicide or an accident?”

  I held my breath as the doctor put the pills back in the bottle. He handed them to the sheriff and let out a sigh. “Can’t say for sure. Still, if I were to guess, I’d say the pills contributed to Mack’s death.”

  The sheriff grinned at me. “So suicide, then.”

  Doc shook his head. “I don’t think so, Don. The two kinds of pills make me think Mack was murdered.”

  By the time Mack’s body was taken away, it was aft
er eight o’clock. Locking up the rink, I looked around the parking lot for my car. It wasn’t there. I was about to panic, then remembered that I’d walked this morning. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. The sky had been blue, the weather was mild, and I needed the exercise.

  Now it was dark, and a possible murderer was on the loose. That was often the case in Chicago, but here it felt different.

  I was bunking with my grandfather while trying to sell the rink, and I thought about calling him for a ride. Asking for help seemed wimpy, though, and I immediately chucked the idea. While I walked the four blocks to Pop’s house, I contemplated how to break the news about Mack. Inspiration hadn’t struck by the time I let myself in through the side door and walked into the kitchen.

  Pop hadn’t changed a thing in the house since Grandma passed fifteen years ago—same avocado-colored appliances, worn rugs, and scratched pots and pans. Pop and my grandma proved to me that occasionally love could last.

  “Rebecca, is that you?”

  Pop shuffled into the kitchen, bringing with him the strong smell of cologne. I blinked. Pop was still wearing his red pants, but he’d changed his top. Now he was sporting a silver shirt with the top three buttons left undone, which allowed several tufts of gray chest hair to peep out. Dangling from his neck were two very large, very shiny gold chains. Pop had even gelled his hair. One lock curled perfectly against his forehead, while the rest looked like it had been molded in plastic.

  Maybe the furniture hadn’t changed, but my grandfather had. Someone had morphed him into a geriatric pimp.

  “Pop, what happened to you?”

  My grandfather adjusted his teeth. “I got a hot date tonight. Marjorie Buckingham has been making eyes at me for weeks at bingo. So I asked her to a movie.”

  I glanced at the clock over the sink. Quarter to nine. “It’s a little late to go to a movie, don’t you think?” Wasn’t it a law that old people had to go to bed early?

  “Nah.” He shuffled over to the fridge and popped open a beer. “We’re going to see the late show. Nobody cares if you neck during the late show.”

  For the second time today I felt like throwing up.

  Pop sat down at the table and took a swig from his beer. “So I heard you found Mack in the girls’ bathroom.”

  My hand paused in the middle of reaching into the fridge for a drink. “How did you hear about that?”

  “My phone didn’t stop ringing all afternoon. This ain’t the city, you know. When a guy’s head is found floating in a toilet, that’s big news here.”

  My hand swept past the sodas and latched onto a beer. I joined my grandfather at the kitchen table and gave him a weak smile. “It was pretty big news to me, too.”

  Pop frowned over his beer. “You holding up okay?”

  No. “I’m trying.”

  “Good. Mack screwed up this town enough. I’d hate to think he hurt you, too.”

  I set my beer on the table with a clunk. “What did Mack do? You and the rest of this town used to like him. What happened?”

  “Mack started taking people’s money without doing the work they paid for. That kind of thing doesn’t go over well here.”

  As if city folk didn’t mind getting ripped off.

  “I guess that explains why Doreen wasn’t upset to find Mack dead.”

  Pop shrugged. “A lot of folks won’t be unhappy hearing the news. Mack wasn’t too popular.”

  My grandfather took a swig of his beer and leaned back in his chair. “Most folks will be more concerned someone decided to off Mack in a family place like the Toe Stop. Murder is the kind of thing that gets people scared, angry, or both. I know I had to do some fast talking to get Marjorie to come out with me tonight. She was worried someone was going to attack us in the dark.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “Nope.” Pop grinned and flexed his biceps. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt Marjorie with me around.”

  I didn’t think a bad guy would be intimidated by the muscles under my grandfather’s sagging skin. Still, I wasn’t about to hurt his feelings by telling him so. Instead I asked, “So you’re not worried about a killer walking around Indian Falls?”

  “Mack upset someone enough to get himself killed. End of story. Ain’t like we got a serial killer or something. Although that might spice things up around here. This town’s been awful dull lately.”

  Dull? I took another long sip of beer. This conversation was getting weird, fast.

  I said, “The sheriff hasn’t said this is a murder. He believes Mack killed himself.”

  “Doc says otherwise.”

  I gaped at Pop. “How do you know all of this?”

  “The senior center. There was a card party going on today. They heard the sirens from the ambulance going by. The center’s women have been on the phone ever since, getting the gossip.”

  I had to ask, “Like what?”

  Pop leaned back in his chair. “Mack stuff. Guess he was seen arguing with Annette Zukowski at the bakery last week. Stiffed her on the work he was supposed to do; least that’s what the bingo crowd was saying. Although he did a good job on Lionel Franklin’s barn.”

  “Lionel Franklin? Should I know him?” Annette I knew. She and my mother had been best friends.

  Pop shrugged. “You don’t have any cows, so probably not. He took over Doc Johnson’s vet practice a while back. Everyone likes him, especially the women. He has nearly as many dates as I do.”

  I blinked and steered the conversation back to the murder. “Did your spy network have any gossip on who the sheriff thinks might have murdered Mack?”

  “Nope, but Doreen stopped by the center. She said an unsolved murder might slow down interest in the rink—was worried about the open house not drawing a crowd.” Pop leaned forward. There was a gleam in his eye. “You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you need. Could be a while.”

  Oh God, I thought. He was right. My life as I knew it had come to an end the minute poor Mack’s did.

  “The sheriff could make a quick arrest.” My protest sounded weak, even to me.

  Pop stood up with a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t count on it. The sheriff is a good man, but word around the center is he spends most of his days pretending he didn’t forget what happened the day before. Funny, but we elected him anyway. Guess it’s because the job isn’t normally that demanding. Riding on a float for parades doesn’t require a whole lot of effort. Besides, what else would he do with his time?”

  Pop adjusted his pants. “Don’t worry, Rebecca. Don still has his good days. He’ll get Mack’s murder solved even if it takes him years. Don’t wait up.”

  With a smile, Pop patted my cheek and ambled out the door for his date, leaving the strong antiseptic smell of his cologne to keep me company. Depressed, I grabbed a bag of chips and trudged upstairs to my room.

  Needing a distraction from how bad my life sucked right now, I turned on the television. A cop drama was on. Normally I skipped those shows in favor of silly sitcoms. Tonight, though, I was morbidly fascinated. I watched with interest as the TV cops talked to suspects. They sifted through the evidence. They even got help from a civilian to get the bad guy to confess. These cops were smart. They were witty. Best of all, they didn’t have a mild case of Alzheimer’s. Too bad they weren’t employed by the Indian Falls Sheriff’s Department.

  By the time the show ended, I’d finished the chips and another beer. I also knew there was only one way I could prove the roller rink wasn’t cursed and sell it.

  I either had to pray the Law & Order gang would come to Illinois, or I had to solve Mack’s murder myself.

  Three

  I padded to the bathroom the next morning with a blinding headache, no doubt caused by the beer I’d consumed. The alcohol was probably also to blame for the strange dreams I remembered having. Or maybe it was the memory of finding Mack’s body that had me hearing sounds in the dark. I’d found myself jumping at creaking and banging sounds all night long.
r />   Pop’s medicine cabinet was a mini pharmacy. I popped the lid on a bottle of aspirin and downed four of them. Looking down at the counter, I noticed two glasses sitting on the counter. They both contained a set of teeth. In the week I’d been staying with Pop, I’d almost become accustomed to seeing soaking dentures. Still, the extra glass confused me. Why would Pop…

  Oh God! I winced as the source of the middle-of-the-night creaking made sense. I hadn’t been listening to Mack’s ghost. My grandfather had gotten lucky.

  Opening the door, I peeked down the hall and hurried back to my room. I didn’t want to run into my grandfather or his date outside his bedroom.

  I got dressed and sprinted down the stairs just as my grandfather was coming up, wearing his bathrobe and balancing two steaming mugs.

  “Coffee’s ready in the kitchen. I made a full pot seeing as how I was up so late last night.” My grandfather gave me a toothless grin. “Good luck on the open house today. Let me know how it goes.”

  Seeing him toothless always made my stomach feel a little squishy, but knowing a second dentureless person was upstairs sitting in bed made me want to faint. I choked out a “Thanks, Pop” and flew into the kitchen, grabbed my purse, and bolted out the door. It’s not like I begrudged my grandfather some action. I just didn’t want to be under the same roof where it was happening. Some things were not meant to be shared.

  Now that I’d gotten out of the house, I had no idea what to do with myself. The rink wouldn’t open for three hours. The sheriff didn’t think closing down the place was necessary. He didn’t want to scare the citizens by taking away their favorite pastime. Last I heard, the back stall of the girls’ bathroom was off-limits, but other than that the Toe Stop would be ready for business as usual, and the open house would go on as planned. Technically, I wasn’t needed for either. George had a key and was used to teaching lessons without supervision. Plus, the rink would probably sell best without me there worrying about a dead body’s effect on the real estate market.