Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) by Joelle Charbonneau Page B

dwelling on relationship concerns, I dodged a couple holding hands and darted into the rink office. When I closed the door, the music muted, making me once again appreciate the renovations Mom had done a year before she passed away. When I was growing up, the warped office door frame and thin door made the decibel level only slightly lower in here than on the other side. Other than the door, Mom skipped renovating the rest of the office. She figured she had time to update the room later. Later never came. In a way I was glad. The scarred wooden desk, old trophies, and framed photographs made me feel as though Mom could walk through the door at any moment. On paper, the rink was mine. In my heart, it would always belong to my mother.
    Sitting in one of the only additions I’d made to the room—a fake leather wheely chair—I fired up the computer and ran through the details for the upcoming school field trips. Once I knew we had adequate staffing and soda to keep the kids wired for hours of skating, I shifted my attention back to my investigation.
    After flipping open my notebook, I ran a search on Seth and Jan Kurtz. There wasn’t much to be found. Aside from the original article that appeared in the local paper after the theft (in which Seth was quoted as saying he hoped God struck the thief dead), I learned that Jan was a member of the quilting circle and that Seth habitually placed second in the Women’s Guild’s landscaping contest.
    I jotted down the couple’s hobbies and ran searches on the other victims. By the time I’d gone through all the names, I’d learned that a holiday tree-decorating contest had resulted in several small fires, an exposé of Barna Donovan’s goat-eating alien had appeared in the National Enquirer, and Betsy Moore’s neighbor and helper with horses, Amy Jo Boggs, was Ginny Chapman’s great-niece. It was a small and peculiar world, especially when you lived in Indian Falls.
    Since my Internet search had resulted in nothing more than my sending four Facebook friend requests, I picked up the phone and dialed my grandfather. While the World Wide Web was short on details on the upstanding citizens of Indian Falls, I was pretty sure Pop could tell me everything about them, including their favorite ice cream, how often they attended church, and who needed prunes to stay regular. The CIA, FBI, and Interpol had nothing on Pop and his friends.
    Voice mail. Drat. Pop was probably too busy taunting my father with a roll of toilet paper to answer his phone. Leaving a message, I asked Pop to stop by Tilly’s for a quick performance and to call me when he had a chance.
    Deciding it would be best to wait to hear from Pop before questioning any more witnesses, I flipped off the lights and opened the door to the dance party on wheels. The new disco ball I’d purchased was spinning. Flecks of colorful light shimmered on the floor. The smell of pizza, popcorn, and sweat filled the air. Everywhere I looked kids were laughing, smiling, and having a great time. It was moments like these that made me understand why my mom loved owning The Toe Stop. This wasn’t a business to make piles of cash. It was a place where a community could celebrate being together. Since I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to be when I grew up, I figured this was a pretty good way to spend my time.
    I spotted Erica in the center of the rink floor. Raising my hand, I started to flag her down before deciding against it. She was having the time of her life giving skating technique tips to some bourgeoning speed skaters. Erica excelled at speed. She crouched low and had good balance, strong leg pushes to the side, and wonderful recovery strokes. The woman was a natural. Hmmm. I wondered if her schedule was open enough for her to consider teaching a speed-skating class. With George booked solid for lessons, I was on the hunt for more instructors. I’d have to talk to her about that.
    I asked one of my high school employees to tell