Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) (30 page)

Pop would then bring Reggie and Bryan through the rink’s back door so they could celebrate Thanksgiving with us. Once our Thanksgiving lunch was over, Stan would drop Reginald and Bryan back home so they could make a very large production of loading up their car. At five o’clock, they’d drive off. By then I’d be staking out the house from a spot Bryan swore was impossible to see from the road. Since Thanksgiving had put me in a sharing kind of mood, I planned on giving Sean Holmes a call while en route. I wasn’t interested in playing hero. The man with the badge had signed up for that job. I was more than willing to let him do it.

When I went downstairs with a steaming tray of stuffing, Bryan and Reginald met me at the door. Phase one of Operation Catch a Turkey was complete, and I’d added several helping hands to the meal’s preparation. Holiday planning didn’t get any better than that.

Or maybe it did.

“What do you think?” Bryan asked as he began setting the table with the china he’d brought. “Are they fabulous?”

Fabulous wasn’t the word I’d use. The white china was rimmed with a gold scalloped edge. That’s where the plates’ tasteful appearance ended. In the center of each was a turkey sporting a Pilgrim’s hat, a wide smile, and a large shotgun. The turkey looked like he was delighted to have just shot his annoying bird cousin and was waiting for me to serve him up.

“I couldn’t believe the store had these marked down to half price,” Bryan said.

I couldn’t believe the store hadn’t reduced them further. Still, the plates had three things going for them: They were large, they were sturdy, and, as long as I didn’t burn anything, the picture of Terminator Turkey would soon be covered by heaping mounds of food. Which is why I could say, “The plates are wonderful,” to Bryan with a straight face.

With the table set, I raced back upstairs to perform my duties as chef. While Bryan and Reggie set food on warming trays, opened wine bottles, and selected dinner music, I removed the turkeys from the oven, scooped mashed potatoes into a large chafing dish, and slid a tray of green beans and peppers into the space once occupied by the birds. So far, I hadn’t burned anything. Hoping that streak would continue, I grabbed a cookie sheet filled with rolls, turned toward the oven, and caught sight of my reflection in the stainless steel refrigerator.

Holy crap.

Strands of hair were coated with flour, mashed potatoes, or both. A streak of something orange (sweet potato, I hoped) lined my forehead, and the rest of my face was flushed and sweaty. I was a wreck.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

I turned and spotted Lionel’s mother standing in the kitchen doorway. Her perfectly pressed deep red blouse and gray trousers made her look as though she’d just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine, and I looked as if I’d been in a food fight. My ability to impress never ceased to amaze me.

Tucking a strand of food-caked hair behind my ear, I said, “Almost everything’s ready. I was about to change clothes so I don’t scare my guests.”

Mrs. Franklin laughed. “You should see my family’s Thanksgiving photos. This is the first time I’ve looked presentable in thirty-nine years. I think mashed potatoes in the hair is a rite of passage.”

I searched for signs that she was humoring me and smiled at the genuine warmth in her eyes. Smiling back, I said, “I’m sorry I haven’t had more time to spend with you and your husband. Things have been a bit crazy with Danielle’s wedding and this dinner.”

“Not to mention your investigation into a string of break-ins and a murder.”

I cringed. “I know those kinds of activities could make you worry about your son’s involvement with me.”

“Are you kidding?” She laughed. “Lionel’s always looked for safety above excitement. Even when he was a little boy. If the rest of my children were hanging upside down from tree branches, he’d be warning them of the dangers with his feet firmly on the ground. My son thrives on order—sometimes too much so. Being a large-animal vet allowed him to move to a community where everyone knows everyone and life is mostly predictable. After he came here, I worried that he was getting too set in his ways. Too afraid to explore the possibilities of life or hang upside down from a tree. Then you came along and changed all that.” She took my flour-crusted hand in hers. “I couldn’t be happier.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She laughed again. “The worst thing my son could do is spend his life with someone predictable. He almost did that, and it broke my heart to stand by and smile as they made wedding plans. I hated that he was so unhappy when she refused to move away from Chicago and broke off the engagement, but I was relieved, too.”

A timer dinged. Mrs. Franklin picked up a pot holder and headed for the oven to rescue the rolls before they went up in smoke. I was glad she did. Otherwise the Indian Falls Fire Department would have gotten a call—because I was too stunned to move.

Lionel had been engaged. More important, he’d never told me.

“Go get cleaned up,” she said, sliding the pan onto a trivet. “I’ll keep an eye on things here while you put something on that’ll make my son’s eyes pop.”

From the way I was feeling, that wasn’t the only thing Lionel was going to feel pop. Once this holiday was over, he had some serious explaining to do about his almost-marriage. I was lousy at dating and love, but even I knew you were supposed to share that kind of information.

Fifteen minutes later, I reappeared in black stretchy pants, a tight-fitting V-neck tunic sweater, and black leather boots and found Mrs. Franklin, Lionel, Jasmine, Stan, and Erica the Red standing in the kitchen, waiting to haul turkeys and the rest of the trimmings downstairs. Lionel gave my appearance an appreciative smile before grabbing a foil-wrapped bird. Tray by tray, the food disappeared down the stairs. By the time I carried the basket of bread and container of butter down to the rink, all of my guests had arrived.

With Mozart playing quietly on the sound system and sprays of colorful fall leaves adding to the ambience, the firearm-fowl plates looked almost charming. Letting out a relieved sigh, I put the last of the serving trays on the buffet table and grinned. I did it. Nothing had been dropped or burned. Dinner was actually served.

“Should we wait for the Pilgrims to arrive?” I asked Pop.

“Nah.” He handed me a glass of white wine. “Let’s say grace and get this show on the road.”

Pop asked everyone to take a seat. I slid into a chair next to him and looked around the table. Lionel and his parents. Stan and his date, a lovely blonde I thought worked in the high school office. Reginald and Bryan. Annette. George, Erica the Red, Typhoon Mary, and Halle Bury. Alan from the Presidential Motel. Eleanor’s son, Joey. Agnes Piraino. Pop’s band. Jasmine, who gave me a wide smile and mouthed “I have a date” as she pointed to the guy grinning from the seat next to her. Sean. His patrol shift wouldn’t start for another five hours. Jasmine had convinced him to spend that time with us. I should have been surprised, but …

A strange group. Yet each had become part of my family. They would never fill the void left by my mother’s death, but in their own ways they made me feel needed, cared for, and loved. They were the reason I’d chosen to adopt my mother’s dream for this rink as my own. It was because of them I wanted to stay here in Indian Falls. This town and these people might not always be a comfortable fit, but it was where I belonged.

Pop said grace, and a stampede for the food began. People were going back for seconds when four Pilgrims walked through the door. Each carried a box and was wearing an overly chipper smile. The guy with the tallest hat and pointy shoes bellowed, “Happy Thanksgiving,” and everyone applauded as Pop’s contribution to the day unloaded their offerings onto the buffet table.

While Pop snapped shots of me and the costumed delivery folks, the head Pilgrim apologized for being late. “Denise got a little lost driving here.”

“It’s not my fault.” Denise tugged at her white bonnet. “The car of Pilgrims we passed distracted me.”

“Friends of yours?” I asked Denise.

“Not that we know of,” the head dude answered. “Our contract with the Pilgrim Program says this is our territory. No other restaurants are allowed to deliver to this area. The program either screwed up or someone went rogue.”

The idea of rogue Pilgrims made me smile through dessert and the start of cleanup. Or maybe it was the glass of wine I consumed and the steamy kiss that Lionel stole behind the concessions counter that made me feel so giddy. Then I looked at the clock, and nerves set in. The rest of cleanup had to wait. We had to finish setting the trap and discover whether the thief was going to spring it.

Once Bryan and Reginald left with my father, I waited fifteen minutes and then grabbed my coat and purse and headed to the parking lot. I’d originally planned on bringing Jasmine with me, but she was busy flirting with Sean. I didn’t want to tip him off until I was on my way. Sean had been more reasonable lately, but I sincerely doubted he’d let me come along on a stakeout with him. Even if he did, I wasn’t sure my nerves were up to a night of the two of us sitting alone in the dark. Especially after watching Sean flirt with Jasmine throughout the meal. Not that I’d been paying attention.

Since I was thinking about Sean, I decided to get out my phone and clue him in on the sting. I was almost to the farm. There wasn’t much he could do to put a stop to my plan.

“You’re just telling me this now?” he yelled.

Whoever said turkey mellowed a person’s mood was totally wrong.

I listened to him rail as I steered along the roads toward Bryan and Reggie’s house. Sean’s voice cut in and out depending on the reception, but I got the gist. He was on his way. He was a real law enforcement agent. He was angry. Story of my life.

I put the phone in my cup holder and then squinted into the dimming night. The small gravel path where Bryan had instructed me to park was a hundred feet from the driveway and hidden behind a line of mostly leafless bushes. Cutting the engine, I pulled out the binoculars I’d borrowed from Pop and waited. From this vantage point, I could see both the front and back of the house. If the thief decided to strike, I would see him. If I didn’t, Carlos the bass player would.

The front lights went on. Ten minutes later, Bryan and Reginald drove off in their truck as planned.

Showtime.

Taking a deep breath, I peered through my binoculars and waited for something interesting to happen. Leaves blew in the wind. A squirrel scampered across a woodpile. No burglar. No Sean doing a drive-by. Nothing. Yep—this was a lot like watching grass grow. Consuming turkey hadn’t seemed to alter Sean’s energy level, but it was having a decided effect on mine. Sitting in the dark wasn’t helping either. If things didn’t get more interesting, I’d end up fast asleep.

Since turning on the interior car light wasn’t an option, I decided to keep my mind alert by mulling over Ginny’s murder case. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that the ten-digit number belonged to a bank account. With all the cooking and prewedding activities, I hadn’t had time to ask Sean if he’d checked that possibility. If I was right, the other numbers and letters on the paper had to be associated with that account.

I grabbed my cell phone and, by the light from the screen, flipped through my notebook for the letters and numbers.

WMCSA 765432

Maybe the letters were an abbreviation for whatever name was on the account. Organizations used acronyms all the time, right? Maybe it was something like the Women’s Mountain Climbing and Scuba Association. Of course, we didn’t have mountains or oceans around Indian Falls, so that was probably a bust, but the abbreviation idea made sense.

Especially when I read the final set of numbers again. Because of the popularity of ATMs and online banking, every account required a PIN number. A fact I lamented whenever I needed to access the savings account my mother opened for me when I was a kid. I rarely used it. When I did, I could never remember where I put the paper on which I wrote the PIN. Ginny was probably smarter about keeping that number handy, and, if not, descending consecutive digits would be easy to recall.

Hot damn. My Spidey sense jangled. I just had to figure out what the letters meant and I’d be a step closer to catching the killer. Ginny wasn’t the type to spend money on extravagant things. In fact, other than the yearly trip to Florida, I hadn’t seen any expenditures that indicated …

Wait a minute. I sat up straight and shook off the tryptophan fog. The annual Florida trip. Ethel said Ginny and the rest of the group began their yearly trip a decade ago, and the group had a name—the Winter Migration Club. WMC: the first three letters of the acronym on the account. Coincidence? I doubted it. This account must be where Ginny got the money to pay for the group’s Florida condominium. If I was right, Ethel, Joan and Marty McGoran, and Alice Peppinger would all have access to this account. The McGorans were retired soybean farmers. Alice Peppinger used to work the counter at the pharmacy. Unless one of them had hit the lottery or made a killing in the stock market, there was no way they could afford to spend several months a year for the past eleven years at a beachfront condo. So where did the money in this account come from?

I peered through the binoculars to look for the thief and felt them fall into my lap as my brain connected the dots. The Winter Migration Club had traveled to Florida for eleven years. Almost the exact amount of time the Thanksgiving Day thief had been in action. Money, jewelry, and small, easy-to-sell electronics were taken year after year. Selling them wouldn’t yield a lot of money, but it would provide enough cash to rent a condo and cover travel expenses—and who would suspect a group of senior citizens? No one, especially since those seniors weren’t around to question immediately after the thefts took place.

Holy shit! Ethel, Ginny, and the rest of the Winter Migration Club were the Thanksgiving Day thieves. Only now Ginny was dead. Unless I was totally whacked, one of her longtime criminal partners had killed her.

And I knew who.