Skating Around the Law by Joelle Charbonneau
“Rebecca, what are you doing sitting all the way back here? You can’t see any of the good stuff from the back.”
I turned to see Pop frowning at me. Pop was annoyed, probably more by his date last night than by my chosen seat.
“This is a good place for me to observe everyone. You don’t have to sit with me if you don’t want to.” It seemed like the polite thing to say even though I was dying to ask him if Eleanor had told him the name of the drug.
A man walking by nodded his head in acknowledgment. I did a double take before waving back. Zach was almost unrecognizable in a well-cut charcoal suit and a deep purple tie. There wasn’t a speck of grease in sight. He took a seat in the very front row, the one reserved for family.
Pop tapped my shoulder. “Yeah, but what about Mack’s body? You can’t see that.”
I tore my eyes away from Zach’s drooping shoulders. “I don’t want to see Mack’s body,” I said. After last Friday in the bathroom I’d seen more of Mack than I’d wanted to.
Pop’s eyes widened. “I get it. You’re doing surveillance.” He danced from foot to foot. “Scootch down. I’ll help.”
I stayed right where I was. “Why don’t you cover the front of the church? You’ll be able to hear if someone says anything incriminating.”
My grandfather turned toward the front. His eyes narrowed. “I can do that. Oh, wait.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Here. Eleanor said that’s what you wanted. I read it, but I’ve never heard of the drug. Must not have to do with kidneys. I’ve used every drug there is to keep my pipes flushed.”
Pop turned, put his chin down, and stalked down the aisle with his head darting from side to side. Pop was on the watch for danger in the pews of St. Mark’s. He took a seat near Doc Truman. A few moments later, I saw his head slump. My lookout was asleep.
Heart palpitating, I unfolded the note and read the one word written on it.
Clomipramine.
I’d never heard of the drug either. Maybe the Internet would shed some light.
“Do you have room for me?”
Lionel peered down at me. I scooted over. He settled in and looked down at the paper in my hand. “What’s that?”
“The name of the drug someone slipped Mack.”
“Really?”
Something in Lionel’s tone made my Spidey sense tingle. “Yeah, why? Have you heard of this drug?”
Lionel crossed his arms. “Maybe. I don’t know. Let me give it some thought.”
I wasn’t buying the innocent routine. “I think you know something and you aren’t telling me. That isn’t fair.”
“Becky,” Lionel said with a half-smile, “life isn’t fair.”
The organ started to play, cutting me off. Lionel leaned back in the pew, his forehead scrunched in concentration. He knew something. I was certain of it.
The service began taking my mind off the named but unknown drug. The pastor said some nice things about Mack. My throat tightened up. Doc Truman rose and read a Bible passage that made my eyes start to leak. By the time everyone was asked to sing “Amazing Grace,” I was in pretty bad shape.
I took deep breaths, but trying to calm myself just made me sob harder. I was having funeral flashbacks. The last one I attended was a year ago for Mom. Doc Truman did the reading then, too.
Lionel’s arm crept around my shoulders. I leaned against him, and he hugged me tight to his chest. To my surprise the tears stopped. I breathed in the warm scent of spicy aftershave and barn animals. It was reassuring and surprisingly sexy.
Pulling away, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I gave Lionel a hint of a smile. “Thanks,” I whispered.
He looked embarrassed by my gratitude. He shifted in his seat and nodded toward the front of the church.
Amused, I turned my attention back to the service. Zach was taking his place behind the podium to give the eulogy. To my surprise, the poor guy broke down twice talking about how great Mack was. Zach talked about how Mack was seven years older and had helped coach his Little League team. Mack taught Zach how to hit a curveball, and that summer of baseball had ultimately led to a lifelong friendship.
I sniffled. Zach was going to miss Mack, a lot.
Ten minutes later, the service ended. I followed the procession of automobiles into the Falling Brook Cemetery parking lot. Then I found a spot at least twenty yards away from the burial to watch the proceedings. Seeing the open grave would turn the water-works on again. I wanted my vision clear for detective work. Besides, all redheads look blotchy when crying.
The ceremony was short, about five minutes. Tom, Zach, and Doc Truman putting flowers on the coffin was the signal it had ended. Then, in a loud voice, the pastor invited everyone to a complimentary luncheon at the Hunger Paynes Diner. That got most everyone moving toward the parking lot. I guess funerals make some people hungry. Not me. I waited for most of the cars to peal away. Then I walked up to the gravesite. Lionel was there waiting for me.
“How do you know Mack took clomipramine?” he asked as I stared at the grave. “Doc said he wouldn’t release that information. How did you get it?”
I shrugged. “Pop seduced Doc’s secretary.”
Lionel shook his head, but I don’t think he was surprised. “Your idea?”
“Nope.” I studied the gravesite. My eyes latched onto something interesting. “Pop came up with it all on his own.”
“You could have said no.”
“I tried.” I stepped behind the grave and stooped next to a large object covered by a black plastic tarp. “It isn’t easy to say no to Pop.”
“Eleanor must feel the same.”
I shot him a disgusted look. Then I pulled aside the tarp. On the ground in front of me was a beautiful green marble headstone with Mack’s name and dates etched into it. Weird. Gravestones typically took weeks to arrive. Mack must have really planned ahead.
I peered up at Lionel. “Did Mack have burial insurance?”
“Burial insurance? Mack didn’t have homeowners’ insurance.” Lionel squatted next to me. He ran a hand along the edge of the headstone. “Mack was the kind of guy that lived one day at a time. He would have thought burial insurance was a waste of time.”
That’s what I’d thought. So what was with the fancy headstone? After arranging Mom’s funeral last year, I had become an expert on all things funeral including the cost of headstones. I was certain this one cost a fortune. Where did the money come from? No one during the service claimed to be Mack’s relation. So who liked Mack enough to pay thousands of dollars to mark his burial site?
I stood up. Raising my eyebrow at Lionel, I asked, “Did you buy this?”
“I hate to say this, but buying Mack’s headstone never occurred to me.” Lionel got up with a frown.
“And if it had?”
“I wouldn’t have done it.” Lionel shrugged. “Mack would have thought that was a waste of good money.”
I understood where Lionel was coming from. My grandfather said that same thing last year when I’d insisted on a white marble headstone for my mother. She was buried on the other side of town in the Catholic cemetery. I’d wanted people who visited the cemetery to know she was important. Maybe Mack’s mysterious benefactor felt the same way, or maybe someone was feeling guilty for killing him.
With nothing more to see, Lionel and I walked away from Mack’s final resting place.
“Hey,” I said as we reached the parking lot. “What do you know about the drug that killed Mack? You acted strange after seeing the name.”
Lionel leaned forward. He gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. Then he climbed into his monster truck with me yelling the question at him again. Instead of answering, he started up the engine and drove away. Damn. He’d gotten away, but one thing was certain. Lionel really did know something, and I needed to know what that something was.
By the time I arrived, the diner was jammed with people. Diane must have been in school, because Mabel Pezzopayne
I commandeered a seat at the far end of the counter and scanned the room. None of Mack’s poker buddies were here. Annette was also absent. Not that the place could have fit many more mourners. It looked like everyone else in town had made time to eat for free. Again I wondered who cared about Mack enough to foot the bill.
Before I could pursue that thought, Mabel hustled over to my stool with her pen and pad.
I was about to order when a female voice across the room screeched, “How dare you accuse my granddaughter?”
Every head in the place turned. At a table in the back was my Realtor, Doreen. She was standing with her hands on her hips glaring down at the three older women sitting at her table. “I want you all to apologize this very minute. Or else.”
“Or else” hung in the air.
“Sit down, Doreen.” One of the three women waved at Doreen’s chair.
Doreen wasn’t listening. No, she danced from foot to foot looking like a boxer ready to knock someone out. “I want you to apologize, now. My Brittany wouldn’t deface church property. She’s a good girl.”
A loud snort from a woman at Doreen’s table said this opinion wasn’t universally shared. The snorting lady was dressed suspiciously like a leprechaun. Not a person with judgment I would trust.
“Look at the way your granddaughter dresses,” the green woman shouted up at Doreen. “She’s a troublemaker, that one. I wouldn’t be surprised one bit if we find out she was stealing from the church. That’s what kids like her do.”
Quick as a flash Doreen grabbed the plate of chocolate mousse pie on the table and hurled it at the old lady. Sadly, Doreen wouldn’t win any accuracy contests. The pie sailed by her target—splat—into the back of Mayor Poste’s head.
Mayor Poste turned around. His fingers felt around the back of his head as he frowned. Doreen turned beet red and stammered, “I’m…so…sor…”
Before Doreen could get the last word out, a tomato slice smacked her right between the eyes. My eyes followed the tomato’s trajectory to its source in time to see Mayor Poste’s wife reloading. Now she was brandishing a pickle.
“Marion, put that down.” The mayor grabbed his wife’s arm. The pickle went flying out of her hand. It landed with a splat on a ratted head of white hair three tables down. The woman shook the pickle off her head right onto the little boy sitting behind her.
“Eeeeoo.” The kid screamed and launched the pickle at his older sister seated across from him. She retaliated by spooning up her mashed potatoes. They went flying off to the left, smack into the face of Doreen’s brightly hued friend. In between globs of mashed potatoes, her eyes narrowed at Doreen. The little boy laughed, his sister reloaded, and the green lady picked up her plate of biscuits and gravy and took aim.
I decided this was my cue to head for the exit. As the door swung shut behind me I heard the crashing sound of a breaking plate. That was followed by several primal screams.
Yep, definitely time to leave.
I zipped over to Pop’s house and changed into a comfy pair of jeans and a bright turquoise T-shirt. As I was going out the kitchen door, Pop walked in. I clapped a hand over my mouth, stifling a horrified laugh.
Pop looked like a refrigerator had thrown up on him. A streak of ketchup ran down his left cheek. Smears of meat loaf and mashed potatoes were ground into his black suit pants. What I guessed was melted ice cream decorated his shoulders. Still, it was the cherry wedged deep in his white wavy hair in tandem with the disgruntled look on Pop’s face that made my shoulders lurch with laughter. Starving kids in Africa could feed off of Pop for a month.
“Did you win or lose?” I asked, my lips twitching.
He shrugged. “Hard to say.”
George was teaching a group lesson when I arrived at the rink. By four o’clock the place was teeming with kids. They were free from the confines of school and ready to race around like idiots. Thankfully we had a couple of high schoolers employed. They helped collect admissions and handed out skate rentals. That left me free to spin CDs in the booth.
I slid a Best of Motown CD into the changer and kicked my feet up as “My Girl” blasted over the loudspeakers. I was enjoying the music when I heard a knock on the booth window. Brittany and Diane stood on the other side of the glass waving.
I motioned for them to come into the booth. They grinned like fools and made a dash for the door. Diane and Brittany needed to get out more. A visit to the roller rink sound booth shouldn’t be the highlight of any teenager’s day.
The two girls piled into the cramped space. I scooted my chair back to accommodate the extra bodies.
Diane looked around the tiny booth with wide eyes. “Wow, I’ve never been in here before. This is cool.” Imagine what she’d say about seeing a building over three stories tall. Maybe she should try out Des Moines before making the move to Chicago.
I smiled at the two of them. “Would you guys like to pick out the next CD?”
They gave me another “I can’t believe my luck” look, then dove into the rink’s music library. Both wore triumphant expressions as they came up with a CD by a band I’d never heard of. Mom must have been hipper than I was to have bought it.
I let Brittany put the CD in the changer. Turning to Diane, I said, “I missed you at the diner today. There was a big crowd after Mack’s funeral.”
Diane shot Brittany a look, then said, “I know. I was supposed to work this afternoon, but Sammy and Mabel closed the diner for tonight. The place was a mess. When I showed up there was food and broken plates everywhere. Were you there when all that happened?”
“I left after the first french fries went flying,” I said. “I’m still making payments on my leather blazer. Mashed potatoes stain.”
Brittany’s lip started to tremble, and her chin lifted as she said, “The whole thing was my fault.” I thought the pride in Brittany’s voice was a nice touch.
I shook my head. “Unless you cut school and were hiding under a table with a fistful of spaghetti, you can’t claim responsibility. Trust me. You can’t control your grandparent.” I understood this better than anyone. Grandparents had sex and threw food no matter how much you wanted them to behave.
Diane put her arm around Brittany. “Rebecca’s right. You didn’t tell your grandmother to trash the diner. She did it all on her own.”
Brittany shook Diane’s arm off her shoulder. “My mother told me it was my fault. My grandma’s friends told her that I ruined a statue at the church. Only I didn’t. I swear I don’t know what they’re talking about.”
Brittany wouldn’t be my first choice for town vandal. Pop would. “Why do they think you did it?” I asked. “Do they have any proof you did something?”
“Of course not.” Brittany straightened her shoulders. Her trembling lip ruined the defiant pose.
“Then what?”
Diane blurted out, “It’s the hair. Ever since she dyed her hair everyone thinks Brittany’s out to cause trouble. I said she should dye it back to blond. She won’t do it.”
“I shouldn’t have to.” Brittany glared at her friend. “Just because I have black hair doesn’t mean I stole a piece of the church statue. I shouldn’t have to change my hair to prove it.” I nodded in agreement. Encouraged, Brittany said, “Rebecca, you’re a detective. If you took my case you could find the real person who ruined the statue and clear my name.”
“Wait a minute,” I protested. “I’m a mortgage broker, not a detective. I’m only looking into Mack’s murder because I feel guilty that he died in my rink.” I’d used that excuse so many times I was almost starting to believe it.
Neither of the girls seemed to care. “You’re good at asking questions,” Diane said firmly.
Brittany nodded. “Besides, you’re on my side. I know you can prove I didn’t do it.”
I studied the two wide-eyed teenagers. They looked so hopeful. Their eyes sparkled with faith—in me. My resolve
“Okay,” I agreed, blowing a curl off my forehead. “Tell me what they say you did. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”
Brittany launched herself at me. I found myself the recipient of a grateful hug. “You’re the best,” she said with a happy smile.
I was a pushover.
Brittany gave me a rundown of her problem, with alternative music playing in the background. “I went to church with my family this Sunday at St. Mark’s. After mass a bunch of us hung around the back of the sanctuary waiting for our families to leave. The next day a part of the Jesus statue was missing. The pastor ‘remembered’ I was standing near it the day before.” Brittany made quotation marks in the air to emphasize her point. “I guess that’s why everyone thinks I had something to do with it, but I didn’t.”
I promised Brittany I’d do my best to clear her name, and the two girls raced off to the concession stand. They needed sodas. Good for me, since I needed to ponder Brittany’s problem without contracting a case of claustrophobia. With the girls gone, the booth felt downright roomy.
I tried to picture the Jesus statue from this morning, but all I remembered was the casket and the flowers. No statue. I was going to have to visit the scene of the crime. That was the only way I could understand exactly what happened.
I left George in charge of changing the music and slipped out the side door of the rink. The early May evening was warm and inviting. The smell of lilacs filled the spring air. I decided to enjoy it by walking.
The St. Mark’s sanctuary was deserted when I walked through the double doors. I spotted what might be Brittany’s statue on the right-hand side in the back of the church. The thing stood about six feet tall and was a modern styling of Jesus hanging on the cross. The artist had used a combination of copper and silver. Both were extremely tarnished, and while I’d studied the Crucifixion in catechism class, never once did our teacher mention Jesus looked like Herman Munster with a bad perm. No offense to Jesus, but this statue was ugly. It also had a gaping hole in the center of Jesus’s feet. The statue was missing a nail.