“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, othe
r 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.
I grabbed the phone and dialed Sean’s number. Direct to voice mail. Damn. My phone had reception, which meant he was in a bad spot. Hoping he’d get the message, I said, “Sean, I know who killed Ginny and who’s behind the robberies. If you’re around—”
The back door on the driver’s side opened and light filled the car, momentarily blinding me. I spun in my seat, expecting to see Sean climbing inside. Instead, I came face-to-face with a Pilgrim-attired Ethel Jacabowski, who was calmly holding a syringe against my neck.
Twenty-four
Shit! Shit! Ow.
“Please don’t move, Rebecca. Otherwise you’ll be sorry. Insulin doesn’t kill instantly, but by the time someone found you out here and got you to a hospital…” Ethel reached over and plucked the phone out of my hand. “Let’s just say it would be best if that doesn’t happen. Trust me when I say I really don’t want to hurt you.”
The syringe pricking the side of my neck was evidence to the contrary, but what did I know?
“Why are you here?” I asked, trying hard to keep very, very still.
“Because I need you to do something for me. I need you to understand what I did.” Ethel shifted, and the needle poked deeper into my neck. Yeouch. I whimpered and bit my lip. My eyes watered, but I didn’t move. Death wasn’t on my agenda.
Trying to think my way out of this, I said, “You’ve been robbing houses for ten years.”
“Technically, eleven, but yes.” Ginny sighed. “Your grandfather was positive you’d figure out who was behind the thefts. I wanted to believe he was wrong. I wanted to believe a lot of things.”
Ethel’s Pilgrim-clad shoulders slumped. Her eyes looked tired. Worn. Incredibly sad. Nevertheless, the needle didn’t falter against my throat. No matter how unhappy and fatigued she was, Ethel meant business. I was screwed.
“You’ve probably figured out most of it by now. Arthur told me you would.” Ethel smiled. “Of course, he didn’t know I was partially responsible.”
“You’re also responsible for Ginny’s murder.”
The smile disappeared. “Ginny was my best friend, but yes. I killed her, and you probably want to know why.”
The needle edged deeper into my flesh. Something wet trickled down my neck. Sweat or blood, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. A little blood wouldn’t kill me. It was a press of the plunger that would do that job. I had to hope Sean had seen the light in my car go on and would feel inclined to come over and yell at me. Until that happened, I needed to say whatever Ethel wanted to hear in order to keep me alive.
Since Ethel said she wanted to explain, I said, “I would like to know. I assumed it had something to do with the thefts.”
Ethel’s bonnet shifted over her forehead as she nodded. “Twelve years ago, my Paul got sick with cancer. They tried everything, but nothing took away the pain or stopped the disease. A friend gave him a drug to help with the pain.”
“Seth Kurtz. I found the marijuana plants he grows in the basement.”
She let out another sigh. “Paul helped Seth turn those plants into a business that would help other people like him. There’s so much pain in the world. We couldn’t see the harm in growing something that could take the pain away. Seth promised to rent a place with the profits so we could spend the winter together with all our friends in Florida.” Tears shimmered in Ethel’s eyes. “Paul hated the cold. He didn’t want to spend the end of his life in the snow. Only, when the time came, Seth backed out of the deal.”
“So you and Paul broke into the Kurtzes’ house to get what was owed to you.”
She smiled. “Paul read an advertisement in the paper about Pilgrims who would deliver Thanksgiving dinner to you for a fee. He thought that would make the perfect cover, since the Pilgrims have to carry boxes in and out of houses. If someone spotted us, they’d see the costumes and assume we were strangers. None of our friends would ever believe it was us. My Paul was smart. Even when he was in pain, he liked planning for every contingency.” She smiled at the memory. “Paul asked Ginny to make the costumes, and her husband, Walter, sneaked Jan’s spare key out of the silverware drawer when she wasn’t looking.”
Well, that explained the costume Ethel was wearing and the renegade Pilgrims who had been spotted zipping around town today.
The interior light clicked off, cloaking everything in darkness. Suddenly, the needle felt sharper, the possibility of death more real. I told myself to stay calm, but my body wasn’t listening. My heart slammed in my chest. My breathing was shallow, and the rest of me was clammy with sweat. “How did you get past the dogs?” My voice was hollow with fear.
“Walter and Ginny had steak laced with sleeping pills in their delivery boxes. When the dogs fell asleep, Paul and I went downstairs and took the cash from marijuana sales that Seth had yet to deposit. It wasn’t as much as Paul had expected, so we filled the empty boxes with other things to make up the difference. We didn’t think Seth and Jan would call the cops, but Jan mentioned the theft to her son and he insisted. Thankfully, by the time we returned from Florida, the police had stopped investigating the case. Paul was so sick by then I doubt they would have considered questioning us even if they’d thought of it.”
Okay, I almost understood the first theft … but the second? “Why did you rob Mr. Donovan’s house the next year?”
“Because Paul wanted to. Planning the theft of the Donovan farm and reading books about picking locks were the only things that kept him going. I still have the tools he ordered. He loved helping me learn how to use them.” Ethel wiped a tear off her cheek. “When he passed that October, the rest of us decided to go through with the robbery as a tribute to his memory.”
That was both screwy and sweet.
“We created an account for money we received after selling the things we took. Ginny and I worked it out so that every year a different member would access the account and pay the rent on our winter condo. That way no one would wonder how any one person could afford to pay so much. Social Security isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know.”
The needle shifted, and I let out a small yelp.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear,” Ethel said. “I can’t remove the syringe or you’ll run away, but I’ll try to keep still so I don’t hurt you any more than necessary.”
Call me crazy, but that didn’t make
me feel any better.
“If you and Ginny were in this together,” I asked, “why did you kill her?”
“Because after all these years, Ginny wanted to end the club.” Ethel sniffled. “Ginny’s granddaughter began having nightmares about the robberies. She was scared someone was going to come into her house and hurt her family. Two weeks ago, she wrote an essay for her English class about how the Thanksgiving thief had not only taken possessions but also stolen the warmth and joy of the holiday from everyone in this town. Ginny’s granddaughter got an A on the paper, and Ginny told me we had to turn ourselves in. She wanted the town to feel safe spending Thanksgiving with their families again.”
Wow. After a decade of crime, that had to have been one heck of an essay.
“Ginny didn’t care that we’d go to jail. She wasn’t scared, but I was. The idea of being confined in a cell terrified me. I asked her to wait a few days before talking to the others, just in case she changed her mind. I knew she wouldn’t, though.” The syringe trembled against my neck. “She didn’t have the right to make that kind of choice for all of us, but she was going to. Unless I stopped her. I slipped three sleeping pills into her cranberry juice before we walked over to the center for Danielle’s shower. She started feeling woozy during one of the games, and I convinced her to go down the hall and put her feet up. She was asleep when I went to check on her. If she’d been awake, I wouldn’t have done it. I couldn’t have. But I was scared and ashamed, and I put the needle in her arm and gave her the shot of my insulin. I thought I was making everything better.” Ethel’s voice hitched. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the dim light, I could see the tears streaming down her face as she whispered, “I was wrong.”
My heart squeezed with sympathy even as it pounded with fear. “So now what?”
Skating Under the Wire Page 24
