“Honey? Are you okay?”
My fingernails dug into my palms. “No.”
“What’s wrong?” My father’s face filled with such concern, I almost believed him. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I’m okay,” I said as my throat tightened. “I meant no, I won’t lend you any money.”
Good old dad’s concern dropped like a two-ton Acme anvil. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.” I stood up slowly, doing my best to hide the wobble in my legs. “You left Mom to run a business and raise your daughter all by herself. Never once did you call. Not on Christmas or my birthday. And now you want me to lend you money that my mother, the woman you abandoned, earned with this rink?”
My father tried to smile as he shifted in his chair. “I don’t think you understand how hard things were back then. I didn’t really want to leave you and your mother, but I had to.”
“Funny,” I said, yanking open the office door. “I didn’t think I was going to want to throw you out of the rink without giving you a red cent. But trust me when I say I absolutely have to.”
Stan considered my words for a moment, gave me one of his boyishly winsome smiles, and waited. Something told me most women caved when faced with his charming bull. Not this chick, I thought as I met his stare with a condemning one of my own.
Our staring contest stretched out as “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” pulsated through the building. Appropriate, if not helpful.
My eyes itched with unshed tears, but I still didn’t blink. I summoned every scrap of anger and stood there, waiting.
Finally, my father hung his head. Heaving a large sigh, he pushed himself out of the rickety chair. Then, with one last wounded glance, he walked out of my mother’s office.
I closed the door behind him, sat at my desk, and stared at the walls as time passed.
* * *
When the shock of throwing my dad out had worn off, I wiped my runny nose. Then I gathered up my wounded heart and made a break for the door, determined to track down the car thief. Stan was a complete jerk and deserved his bad car karma, but that didn’t mean I was going to give up. Pop’s well-being hung in the balance, not to mention my pride. I’d be damned if I’d give those up because of my father.
Cell phone in hand, I hopped in my car and hit Doreen’s speed-dial number.
No answer.
I left a message, asking her to give me a ring, then steered my way over to the diner, hoping that maybe someone there could confirm that my suspect, Clayton Zimmerman, had been the guy ordering takeout.
Sammy was at the counter, pouring coffee for the diner’s sole customer, when I strolled through the door. I gave him a smile and took a seat at a booth with a window view of the parking lot. If Doreen passed by, I’d spot her.
Sammy came over to my booth, coffeepot still in hand. I gestured to the empty bench, and he sat down with a grateful sigh. “Been on my feet all day. The new kid we hired didn’t bother to come in today, which left me and Mabel on our own. My corns are killing me.”
More information than I wanted to know.
“Do you want some coffee?” Sammy held his coffeepot at the ready.
I shook my head and unfolded my laser-printed picture. “I just came by to ask if you’ve seen this guy in here. He might have moved to town recently.”
Sammy set the coffeepot on the white Formica table and took the picture from me. Squinting, he stared at it for several seconds. Then he smiled. “Meat-loaf sandwich with extra fries.”
I blinked.
Sammy slapped the table and let out a sandpaper-sounding laugh. “He’s been a regular take-out customer for the past couple days. At least I think it’s him. His hair is longer than it is in the picture, and he’s never worn that suit. Mostly slacks, jeans, and polo shirts.”
Made sense. Only funeral directors wore suits every day in Indian Falls.
“You wouldn’t happen to know where he’s living, would you?” I asked.
Sadly, Sammy shook his head. “Never came up. He’s been here a couple of times, but only during our busy hours, so I didn’t have time to welcome him to Indian Falls like I should’ve.”
“Sammy!” Mabel poked her head out of the kitchen, a scowl on her face. “Are you going to get this food while it’s still hot, or are you going to keep talking?”
Pink spots brightened Sammy’s age-lined face. He scooted out of the booth and gave me a sheepish smile. “Gotta run. Mabel can get ornery if an order gets cold.”
I gave him a fond smile as he picked up the coffeepot with a wrinkled hand and shuffled back toward the kitchen. Once he was gone, I pulled out my cell phone and called Doreen.
No answer. Again.
Suddenly, I had an idea. I flipped open my cell phone and punched in Pop’s number. After one ring, Pop’s voice came on the line.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Pop,” I said with a grin. After today’s scare, it was nice to know Pop was still safe. “How did the sketch-artist thing go?”
“We’re still working on it. Ethel was having a hard time concentrating at the center. Too much activity with the bridge tournament going on. So we brought all of Ethel’s gear to the house and ordered a pizza.”
“Is it any good?”
“Sausage and pepperoni from Dom’s. Doesn’t get any better than that.”
I rested my forehead against the heel of my hand and sighed. “Not the pizza, Pop. The sketch. Does it look like the guy who attacked you?”
Silence. I could almost see Pop cocking his head to one side to consider my question.
“Well, Ethel’s first try didn’t look much like him, but that was because she was using watercolors. Tell you the truth, it looked a lot like Bozo the Clown. So she decided to switch to charcoal and try again after we eat the pizza. She thinks we’ll get it right this time. Hey, I gotta get going. Ethel needs me to describe the guy’s eyebrows. I thought they looked like two caterpillars, but I learned not to say that. Ethel is a literal kind of artist. The watercolor she did showed the guy with two fuzzy bugs on his face.”
I choked back a laugh and said, “Wait, Pop” before he could hang up. “Do you have any idea where Doreen is today? She isn’t picking up her phone.”
“Hey, Arthur, we need you in here.” Max’s voice traveled through Pop’s house to my phone.
“Be right there,” Pop called to the crack investigating team of Max and Ethel. To me, he said, “I bet you’ll find Doreen at the center. She never misses a bridge tournament. Oh, and come by here later. Ethel should be done in another hour or two. She’d draw faster, but her arthritis is acting up.”
Pop disconnected before I had a chance to respond. I shook my head, shoved my phone in my purse, and headed for my car. Two minutes later, I was on my way to the Senior Center to crash a bridge tournament.
The last time I’d been at the Senior Center to play cards with Pop, the place had buzzed with loud conversation and a couple of snores—even card night wasn’t enough to keep some of the seniors awake. I figured a bridge tournament would be much the same, so no one would notice me crashing the party.
Wrong.
As I walked down to the main common room, the only sound in the place was the echo of my footsteps on the linoleum floor. It was kind of creepy. Where were all the old people?
I turned the corner and found them. They were seated in groups of four around small tables. The rustle of cards being shuffled and an occasional cough were the only disruptions to the eerie silence. If it hadn’t been for the slapping down of cards on the table and the occasional superior look, I would have thought they were all in comas.
It took me several moments to spot Doreen at a table in the back. I did a double take and let out a gasp. The last time I’d seen her, Doreen’s hair had been champagne blond. Today it was fire-engine red. If Pop thought Ethel’s picture looked like Bozo the Clown, I couldn’t wait to hear his take on Doreen’s new do.
Doreen glanced up from her cards,
and I waved. I could have sworn she noticed me as her narrowed eyes panned around the table to study the other three players. Then, with a frown, she looked back down at her cards.
Huh. I figured I was too far away for her to see me. Well, that was easy to fix.
Weaving around chairs, tables, and mute cardplayers, I crossed the room to Doreen’s table and stood behind the player sitting kitty-corner to her.
“Doreen, can I talk to you?” I asked.
Several dozen heads snapped toward me, all eyes wide with a combination of surprise and outrage. Something hard thwacked my leg.
I jumped, but not quick enough. Something whacked my calf again.
“Ow!” I yelled, turning around and looking for the source of the pain.
An old man with wrinkles that strongly resembled uncooked pie dough was tapping a wooden cane menacingly on the floor.
“Did you hit me?” I demanded, feeling slightly foolish for raising my voice at a basset hound look-alike.
An angry frown appeared under the wrinkles. “Only a bidding player can talk during a tournament. You broke the rules.”
Several voices murmured agreement, sending my indignation to new levels. “You could have said something. You didn’t have to hit me.”
“Talking breaks the rules,” he said. “Didn’t want my team disqualified. We’re winning.”
I really wanted to stick out my tongue and give the guy the raspberry. Juvenile? Absolutely. But he’d started it.
Before I had a chance to revert to childhood behavior, Doreen held up a single perfectly manicured nail and mouthed the works one minute. And then the game continued, with all the players in the room dead silent.
The clock on the wall ticked. Another card was played. A player said something, which I assumed must be bidding. Another card. I was both clueless and restless.
Finally, after what felt like hours but what my watch had the nerve to claim was only twenty minutes, the tournament was over. Doreen and her cane-happy friend came in first. Yippee. Now we could get down to business.
“Sorry about that,” said Doreen, walking over to me. She was clutching a gaudy gold-framed certificate declaring her bridge-playing prowess. “Bridge tournaments are a serious thing around here.”
A shuffling man with two wisps of gray hair and nearly toothless smile said, “Nice play, Doreen.”
This was followed by the approach of two frail-looking ladies. “If you ever need a new partner, let me know,” one of them said before turning to me. “Tell your grandfather that Nan says hello. He threw me a scarf at his last performance.”
Something told me Nan thought Pop’s Elvis gesture had a deep hidden meaning. She didn’t know Pop got a deal on the Internet if he bought twelve cases of multicolored scarves. The boxes were currently sitting in his living room, obstructing the view from the couch to the TV. The sacrifices he made for art.
Still, between Doreen’s cardsharp abilities and my grandfather’s conquests, I was never going to get the information I needed.
“Is there somewhere else we can talk?” I asked.
Doreen tilted her bright red coif and nodded. “Come with me.”
I followed Doreen as she headed out the side door, down the long hallway, and into the ladies’ room. Doreen tossed her award onto the bathroom counter and sighed. “Thanks for waiting. I worked hard to finally snag Myron as my partner, and I didn’t want him throwing a fit and getting disqualified.”
“Myron was the one hitting me with his cane?”
She nodded and adjusted her glasses. “Best bridge player at the center. Normally, he plays with Marjorie, but a month ago I asked him out and convinced him to jump ship.”
“If you’re dating Myron, what was the thing with my dad?” I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of indignation. My dad might be a jerk, but that didn’t mean I wanted Doreen to break his heart. Even if the jerk deserved it.
Doreen gave me one of her tsks. “Don’t worry about Myron. He agreed to be my partner and broke it off. Said he didn’t want to taint the game of bridge by mixing it with romance. He’s dating Marjorie now. So I’m free to see whoever I want.” Her chin jutted out, as if she were challenging me to warn her off my father.
Yeah, right.
“Look,” I said, changing the subject. “I was wondering if you have a client named Clayton Zimmerman. He just moved to the area, and I figured you might have showed him some properties.”
Doreen pursed her pink-tinted lips. “Nope, I can’t say I did.” I could tell Doreen was annoyed to have missed a potential sale.
“Do you know of any properties in town that were recently purchased? The guy is a lawyer,” I said. Doreen wasn’t much of a Watson, but she was all I had. “I’m betting he was looking for a house that could also function as an office.”
Doreen’s eyes brightened behind the rhinestones. I’d hit pay dirt. “The old Miller place went off the market about three weeks ago. It’s at the edge of downtown, on Main Street. You probably know it. Donna Miller used to run a taxidermy shop out of the place until her husband up and died. He wasn’t around to bring in inventory, so she folded and moved to Miami.”
I wasn’t sure I remembered Mrs. Miller and her stuffed menagerie, but I had a good idea which house she’d lived in. I left Doreen to polish her tacky gold frame and made a beeline for my Civic. Soon I was cruising down Main Street, with one eye out for Spanish-speaking thugs and the other for the old Miller place.
The minute I drove up to a faded green Colonial with yellow trim, I knew I was at the right house. Six very large boxes with animal heads peeping out their tops sat on the front porch. I approached the house in a warped haze of fascination. Raccoons with beady little eyes, possums with perfectly curled tails, and molting squirrels watched my approach. It was like walking into the Hundred Acre Wood gone zombie.
The front door flew open. I looked up and froze. One of Winnie-the-Pooh’s really angry cousins was coming through the door—fangs, claws, and all. The thing launched down the porch steps. Right at me.
Oof.
I hit the ground with a thud. Right on top of me, giving me a big hug, was the icky bear. I sneezed. The thing wasn’t only dead and creepy; it was incredibly dusty, too. Yuck.
I tried to push the bear off me, but he wouldn’t budge. I was trapped.
“Help!” I yelped, hoping the person doing the bear shoving hadn’t gone back inside.
Nothing.
I opened my mouth to holler again and stopped as the bear rolled off me. Squinting into the sunlight, I looked up at a tan, dark-haired man with a big smile.
I had found Clayton Zimmerman.
Fourteen
Clayton offered his hand while grinning like the Joker. “Can I help you up?”
“It’s the least you can do, since you knocked me over.” I took his hand. Clayton yanked me upright and almost dislocated my arm in the process. Ow. The man packed a wallop. So did his bear.
I sneezed.
“Are you okay?” Clayton’s smile dimmed.
“Dust,” I said between two more sneezes. I was coated in it. The bear must have been collecting the stuff for years. He had just been waiting to transfer it to some unsuspecting stranger.
My eyes narrowed as I took in Clayton’s perfectly pressed khaki pants and powder blue polo shirt. Not a speck of dust in sight.
“You’re clean,” I said, a decided edge to my voice.
He gave me a crooked, slightly baffled smile. “Thank you.”
“Why are you clean?” I demanded. “I look like Pig Pen, and you are—” A girly sneeze ruined my diatribe.
Still, Clayton got the point. “I kept my distance while moving the thing,” he explained. “Once I got it to the stairs, I decided to let it find its own way down.”
And smack into me.
Clayton tucked one hand in his pocket and held out the other. “My name is Clayton Zimmerman.”
I took his hand and grimaced at the gray cast to my skin. Sweat and grime weren
’t a good look for me. “Rebecca Robbins. I run the Toe Stop Roller Rink in town.”
Clayton didn’t seem to mind my grimy hand, since he continued to hold it. In fact, his thumb did this little caressing thing on my palm. Either I didn’t look as bad as I thought or Clayton was hard up.
The guy gave me another crooked smile and lowered the pitch of his voice. “So, what are you doing here, Rebecca?” The guy sounded a lot like the announcers on smooth jazz radio.
I reclaimed my hand and took a step back, trying not to trip over the mangy bear. “I heard a new lawyer had moved to town. I figured I’d see if you were open for business yet.”
Okay, my excuse sounded lame even to me. Being tackled by Smokey the Bear had thrown me off my game.
Thank goodness Clayton bought it. He straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “Not yet. I’m working on getting the place cleaned up. I didn’t think potential clients would be interested in sharing the living room with stuffed woodpeckers. So, what kind of business do you need a lawyer for?”
Good question. I racked my brain for a legal problem. “The rink. I’m selling it. There are a couple of conditions in the contract of sale that I want a lawyer to look over. My Realtor is local. I don’t want it getting back to her that I had someone double-check her work.”
Clayton scratched the back of his head. “I hadn’t realized that people in small towns were really that nosy about everyone else’s business.”
“Gossip beats baseball here as the American pastime.” I tried not to look too interested in Clayton’s obvious concern. “I guess you’re new to small-town life?”
He gave a distracted nod. “I moved here from Chicago. After working for a large firm in the city, I thought I’d try something different.”
If different was what he was looking for, Indian Falls had plenty of it. “So, how long have you been in town?”
“A week. That’s why this place is such a mess. I bought the house after seeing pictures on the Internet. It looked like the perfect size. The inspector I hired told me about a chimney problem and some plumbing issues. I guess he just assumed I knew about the furry tenants.”