Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) (16 page)

“Is it about the case?” His voice got low and whispery. “Stan and I worked out a plan that can get you into you-know-who’s basement without the you-know-whats gnawing on your leg like it’s one of those fancy-shaped rawhides. Mary Anne O’Reily’s dog has a rawhide that looks like a mutant chicken leg. If Amy Jo and Mark Boggs could get their chickens to grow as big as that, they wouldn’t need to get a second mortgage from the bank. They’d be making a fortune selling those cluckers to Perdue.”

“I’m not going to break into the Kurtzes’ basement, so just—” Wait. “Amy Jo and Mark Boggs are having financial trouble?”

“Hey, don’t start without me,” Pop yelled as more laughter drifted through the receiver. “Sorry, Rebecca. Your father needs me to do a test shot with Nan. It’s my job to make her look comfortable. Jimmy Bakersfield gave us a lift to the center in his new ride. We’ll be done here in about two hours if you want to stop by and talk about our plan.”

Click.

Sigh.

I put the phone in my pocket and considered Pop’s words while George and his skater glided across the rink. Amy Jo and Mark Boggs had been taking care of Betsy Moore’s horses when she was out of town and her house was robbed. If Amy Jo and Mark were having money troubles, they might have been tempted to snag a few items from their neighbors in order to keep their financial heads above water.

Of course, for Mark and Amy Jo to qualify as suspects, they would have to have lived here long enough to commit the crimes. Since Pop was currently too busy to stop angry hordes of senior citizens from painting protest signs, I had time to track down a new lead. The time had come for me to figure out when the Boggs family had moved to town.

Eleven

Pop’s mention of chicken
reminded me I hadn’t eaten lunch. I hit the drive-through for nuggets, a large order of fries, and a Coke as big as my head. Then, munching on a fistful of salty deep-fried potatoes, I steered my yellow Civic to the Boggses’ farm. When I pulled into the concrete driveway lined with cars, my stomach was protesting the amount of grease I’d consumed.

Slightly nauseated, I climbed out of my toasty warm car and hurried to the door of the front porch of the Boggses’ two-story red-and-white farmhouse. I rang the bell, wrapped my arms around myself, and stamped my feet to keep warm as I waited … and waited. I rang the bell again.

Huh. I looked at the four cars in the drive and wondered if Mark tinkered with automobiles in his spare time. If so, there was a good chance no one was home.

I was about to leave when the door swung open, revealing a woman about my height with straight, light brown hair and sad eyes.

“Can I help you?”

The hitch in the woman’s voice and the tissue clutched in her hand made me think this was a really bad time for a visit. “My name is Rebecca Robbins. I’m looking for Amy Jo Boggs. If this is a bad time, I’d be happy to—”

“Rebecca Robbins?” The corners of her mouth turned up. Her eyes brightened. “I’m Amy Jo. Please come in. We were just talking about you.”

We? Who was we?

I followed Amy Jo down a hall, past a small office and a formal dining room, into a cheerfully painted orange and yellow living room filled with eight or nine not-so-cheerful people. I spotted my high school employee Kristin Chapman seated on the wood rocking chair next to a partially assembled Christmas tree and waved. She gave a weak smile and waved back. Next to Kristin was her mother. The rest of the faces were unfamiliar, but I could guess who they were. This was Ginny Chapman’s family, who had started mourning her death on Sunday and had now learned that Ginny had been murdered.

“Rebecca, this is my husband, Mark.” A tall, gangly guy with a mop of curly blond hair stood and held out his hand. I shook it while Amy Jo introduced the other people in the room. Among the mourners were Ginny’s younger sister and her two daughters.

“We’ve been working on arrangements,” Ginny’s sister said. Her wrinkled eyes were red from fatigue and tears. “With everything going on, they won’t let us have the wake until Sunday. Ginny would have hated to make everyone wait. She didn’t like it when people went to a lot of trouble for her.”

Everyone nodded.

Amy Jo sniffed and patted her great-aunt’s hand. “I’m so glad you stopped by. We were going to call and ask if you might be willing to help our family.” Amy Jo sat on the arm of a floral-patterned sofa and indicated for me to take a seat in the chair next to her. “My great-aunt Ginny was one of the nicest, most considerate people I’ve ever met. If she had just passed in her sleep as we were originally led to believe, we would still be sad, but we would understand why she was gone. But now…”

Mark took Amy Jo’s hand. Sniffles filled the room, and my heart squeezed in sympathy. To grieve without understanding who caused the loss and why had to be unbearable. I thought about losing my mother and how that had made me feel. Great. Now I was starting to sniffle.

Taking a deep breath, Amy continued, “Besty Moore came by earlier. She said Julie Johnson hired you to look into the thefts.”

“Actually,” I said, relieved to focus on anything that wasn’t going to make me cry, “that’s part of the reason I dropped by. I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions, but those can wait until after…” After what I wasn’t quite sure.

I started to stand, and Amy Jo waved me back into my seat with a sad smile. “Please stay. It took Betsy months to sleep through the night after the break-in. Mark and I are happy to answer whatever questions you have. Especially now that we understand what it’s like to have someone take something precious from us.”

From across the room, Kristen looked at me with glistening eyes. I had two choices. I could flee out the door and feel like a schmuck or sit back down while pretending I wasn’t about to cry.

The chair won.

Mark raked a hand through his unkempt hair and shifted in his seat. “What Amy Jo is trying to say is that our family wants the person who ended Aunt Ginny’s life brought to justice.”

“The sheriff and Deputy Holmes are working to make sure that happens.” Technically, the sheriff was off catching a turkey or raking leaves, but that was probably more useful than having him get in Sean’s way. The sheriff was better at making reassuring statements, directing his staff, and shaking hands than at tracking criminals. As far as I was concerned, it was best to have him play to his strengths.

“We know the sheriff’s department will work hard,” a dark-haired woman seated next to Kristen said, “but we don’t feel confident in their ability to handle a murder investigation without outside assistance. That’s where you come in.”

What? Wait. No. “I don’t think—”

Without waiting for me to figure out what I thought, Mark said, “We know you’ve agreed to dedicate your time to helping solve the thefts. We don’t want to interfere with that, but we were hoping you might also be able to look into Aunt Ginny’s death.”

“But…”

“We can pay you.” This from a tiny woman with sharp features and steel-gray hair. “I’m willing to pay whatever it takes to see to it that my sister rests in peace.” She swiped away a tear with a tissue. Lifting her chin, she added, “Please.”

Gulp.

“It’s not about money.” I swallowed hard, and my heart hammered. All eyes looked at me with sorrow and hope. Hope that relied on me. Yikes. “I’m really not qualified.”

“You solved the last two murders,” Kristen said.

“But—”

“And the car theft ring,” Kristen’s mother added. “The sheriff’s department would never have arrested the criminals responsible for those crimes if it weren’t for you.”

“That’s not true.” I didn’t have a gun or handcuffs. Arresting people was not in my skill set.

Unfortunately, none of the faces looking at me seemed to believe that.

“Look,” I said, trying to ignore my grease-coated lunch rolling in my stomach. “I’m really not qualified to investigate a murder.” Hell, I wasn’t qualified to investigate anything more than who snagged the last pretzel out of the heating carousel. Only I couldn’t ignore the way Kristen’s lip trembled and Ginny’s sister’s shoulders slumped. “I’ll keep my ears open. If I hear anything I think will help catch Ginny’s killer, I’ll let Deputy Holmes know.”

Then he’d either ignore what I had to say or pitch me into the pink penitentiary from hell. While he might be willing to let me poke my overcurious nose into a ten-year-long string of robberies, I doubted he’d be so accommodating when it came to murder. Still, if it brought Ginny’s family a moment of peace, I would take whatever retribution Sean delivered.

Of course, that peace might be short-lived depending on what I learned from Amy Jo and Mark. The two walked me to the door after the family gave me a rundown on Ginny’s likes, dislikes, friends, and typical activities, along with a key to her apartment at the retirement home. There was probably some kind of law about me going into the apartment without the sheriff’s permission, but I figured I’d worry about that bridge when I jumped off it.

“Here’s a list of our phone numbers in case you have any questions or information.” Amy Jo handed me a piece of paper and gave me a small smile. “I realize you might not solve this case, but we feel better knowing someone we trust is working for Aunt Ginny.”

Amy Jo was talking about trust, and I was about to ask questions that could implicate her in a decade’s worth of crimes. Was I a nice person or what? Still, the questions had to be asked. Maybe I’d get lucky and Amy Jo and Mark would have information that would eliminate them from the suspect list. While that wouldn’t help me solve Julie Johnson’s case, I’d stop feeling like a traitor. Sometimes you had to take what you could get.

With that in mind, I changed the subject to the thefts. “Betsy mentioned that you and Mark helped feed the horses while she was away for Thanksgiving last year.”

“A bunch of us try to help out with livestock when one goes out of town. Last year we helped Betsy with her horses. The year before it was the Gullifers’ cows.”

My fingers itched to reach for my notebook. Instead, I mentally scrolled down the victim list. The Gullifers’ house had been robbed four years ago. Or maybe it was five. Whichever year it was, they were on the list, and Amy Jo and Mark not only knew them … they knew how to get into their house. At least they did as of two years ago. I needed to find out when they’d started the animal swap. Before I did that, though, there was something else I had to ask. Something I hoped would get them off the suspect list for good.

“When exactly did you move to Indian Falls?”

Amy Jo beamed at Mark. He beamed back and said, “Eleven years ago last month.”

Well, crap.

Zipping my coat, I promised to be in touch and then headed out into the cold, wishing I hadn’t come to visit Amy Jo and Mark. If I’d waited until tomorrow, Sean might have already found Ginny’s killer. I wouldn’t have seen the way these people were counting on me to help them. I wouldn’t feel like such a complete ass, knowing that my actions might deal them another blow.

Okay, technically, if Mark and Amy Jo were behind the thefts, my actions wouldn’t be the reason they ended up singing gospel songs in a pink room. Still …

Shivering, I hurried to my car. As I reached for the handle, I spotted a flash of fur and heard a distinctive purring sound. A moment later, Homer skittered from under a bush. Apparently, Betsy still wasn’t having luck keeping him inside.

Homer chattered, stood on his hind legs, and waved his hands. The friendly gesture made me smile. Since I didn’t speak raccoon, I made the assumption the little guy was hungry and dug a few french fries out of the bottom of the fast-food bag. Homer’s whiskers twitched as he took a fry and began to munch. When he was done with the fry, he purred and waved his paws again, and I handed him another. While he ate, I revised my thoughts on getting a pet raccoon. Couches were totally overrated, right?

Despite the cold, I waited until Homer polished off the remnants of my lunch before giving him a pat on the head and climbing into my car. Homer ambled up the porch to the front door while I waited for my heater to kick in. After several minutes, I saw the door open and Homer disappear inside.

Seeing the furry tail twitch before the door closed made me feel lighter. Less conflicted. The welcome Amy Jo gave Homer suggested he was a frequent visitor. Anyone who welcomed a pet raccoon into their house at the risk to their furnishings couldn’t be a criminal. Okay, that thinking would earn me an eye roll from anyone trained in investigative deductions, especially Deputy Sean. They’d say acceptance of a raccoon had no correlation with the guilt or innocence of a suspect. I didn’t care. Homer thought Amy Jo and Mark were good people. I trusted his instincts. Now I had to prove both of us right.

The good news was that my new mission required me to do exactly what I was going to do anyway—find whoever had been robbing houses and bring them to justice. The bad news was it also required me to try to track down another murderer. The last two times I did that, I wound up with a gun pointed at my nose. I really wasn’t interested in repeating that experience. Getting shot would totally ruin my day.

Hoping I wouldn’t need to invest in a bulletproof vest, I motored down the street in search of a sign for the Gullifer Dairy Farm. Sadly, the Gullifers didn’t appear to believe in advertising. It took me forty-five minutes, three dropped calls to my grandfather, and a lot of colorful vocabulary before I pulled up to my destination.

The sound of mooing and the faint smell of cow manure accompanied me as I walked to a house that needed a new coat of white paint. Twenty minutes later, I was back in my car, armed with a list of jewelry, small electronics, and other valuables taken by the thief five years ago. I also learned that Amy Jo and Mark had been lending a hand with livestock for the past seven years. Drat. The upside was the Boggs duo had only been given a key to the milk room and the barn. Not to the house. Apparently, attaching machines to cow udders didn’t rate refrigerator privileges.

Steering back to town, I debated the next steps in my investigation. I still thought the motivation behind the first theft was the key to solving the case. With that in mind, I pulled my car into a driveway and dialed Amy Jo’s number.