Skating on Thin Ice (17 page)

I turned at the sound of a squeak to see Mort Metzger coming into the room.

“Did you get the report from the dive team?” I asked.

“Yeah. We won’t get forensics on the trace evidence back for a while, but they found his cell phone, his gold chain, and his keys. I asked to get a list of the last calls he made. That should come through fairly quickly and give us some leads to follow,” he said. “Which one of these is his locker?”

“It’s right here,” I replied, “but it’s padlocked.”

“No problem. I think I’ve got a bolt cutter in the trunk of my cruiser.”

Mort returned moments later. “Someone walked away with my bolt cutter, but these should do the job.” He held up a screwdriver and a hammer. Positioning the blade near the shank of the lock, he gave the top of the screwdriver a few good whacks with the hammer. Seconds later, he placed the open padlock on the bench and pulled open the door to Alexei’s locker.

“With those skills, you could have been a first-rate safecracker,” I said.

“Sometimes it’s the simplest tools that are the most efficient,” he replied. “Let’s see what we got.”

Alexei’s apartment had been relatively neat, but his locker was a lot messier, and I had a hunch it was a more accurate reflection of the way he usually lived. Workout clothing, emitting the expected scent of having been worn during strenuous exercise, hung from hooks on either side of the narrow, metal closet. A towel taken from a prominent hotel was balled up on the shelf above. As Mort pulled out each item and dropped it into an evidence bag, I made a note of it on a pad of paper.

There was a pair of skates in a plastic skate carrier on the floor of the locker. Tossed in on top of the carrier were envelopes and scraps of paper. Mort opened a second evidence bag, this one considerably smaller than the one that held Alexei’s clothes. We scanned what was written on the papers before Mort deposited them in the bag. Some were postmarked Moscow and written in Russian, probably letters from his mother or friends back home. I was about to give up hope of finding anything helpful when the final slip of paper fell out of Mort’s hand and landed at my feet. Without picking it up, I read it:

The day he died, and the approximate time of death according to Seth’s initial estimate.

“Do you think that’s his handwriting?” Mort said as he added the note to the evidence bag.

“I don’t know, but it should be easy to verify,” I said. “The more difficult question to answer is: Who was he meeting?”

“Maybe that turkey with the gun Jeremy found sitting on the Zamboni. He said someone had pointed him out as the guy who was interested in buying the rink.”

“Did you call Eve to find out if it might have been her client?”

Mort nodded. “I left a message on her guy’s answering machine, but he hasn’t returned my call yet. You think he’s still in town?”

“Probably not, especially if he’s guilty,” I said.

“I don’t know, Mrs. F. You never can tell what crazy people will do. I’m going to run these back to the station. Need a lift anywhere?”

“No, thank you. I think I’ll poke around a little longer, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself. Thanks for the call about these,” he said, hefting the two bags. “Worse comes to worst, they’ll go back home to his mother.”

Mort took the evidence bags out to his cruiser while I returned the staff locker room master key to Marisa and bought myself a hot chocolate at the concession stand. Sipping the sweet drink, I contemplated the myriad questions floating around my mind.

Why had Alexei changed his mind about skating Friday afternoon? And whom had he met in the Zamboni garage, a place he rarely if ever visited before his death? The last slip of paper we’d found indicated that he’d arranged to meet someone there late in the afternoon on that fateful day. Was it Eve’s client Harvey Gemell? And if so, why would Gemell want to kill Alexei? How would he have gained by the skater’s death?
What would anyone have gained by killing Alexei?

The hot chocolate provided a welcome calm. But I had some questions for Eldridge Coddington. I left the table and main hall and climbed the stairs to the second floor, pausing at the windows overlooking the hockey rink, which was hosting lessons on one end of the ice and hockey-stop drills on the other.

The gym was locked, as was the dance studio Brian Devlin had sneered at the first time I’d wandered upstairs. But Eldridge Coddington’s office door was ajar. I heard his end of a conversation but couldn’t tell if he was on the telephone or talking with someone in person.

“I swear you’re setting me up, but I’ve half a mind to sell it to you so you can reap the lawsuit along with all the other headaches this place has been giving me.”

I heard a soft murmur; he had someone with him.

“Why does he want it? That’s what I want to know. Nothing but one crisis after another. The utility cost is sky-high. When the temperature outside drops, I keep the windows open overnight so I don’t have to pay to keep the ice frozen. Does he have any idea what it takes to run a business like this?”

Another murmur.

“You tell ’im he’d better come talk to me directly. I don’t want the mayor and town council falling down on me like a brick wall if he wants to raze the place and build another shopping center. I have to live in this town. What’s that? No, you can’t stand in for him. You’re not going to own the place once he puts down the money, are you? You let me take the measure of the man, and then I’ll think about it. But that’s all I’ll do. Don’t take this as a commitment. Now let me get back to work.”

Someone opened the door, and I heard a voice I recognized. “You won’t be sorry, Eldridge. I so appreciate your seeing me today, especially after this Grand Guignol.”

“What the heck’s that?”

“Horror show.”

“Certainly is. Can’t believe he sent you to see me in the wake of it,” Coddington muttered. “The man must have a stone stomach.”

“
Au contraire, monsieur
. He is
très sympathique
.”

“For the love of Harry, woman, speak English.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I hear from him.”

Eve Simpson stepped into the hall and closed Coddington’s door behind her.

“Hello, Eve,” I said.

“Oh, Jessica, what a surprise.” She smoothed down the front of her wool skirt and looped her handbag over her arm. “Are you here to talk to Eldridge?”

“I thought I’d stop in and say hello.”

“Terrible news about Alexei,” she said. “So
tragique
, even though Loretta told me she’d heard he wasn’t a very pleasant young man. Well, I have to get back to the office. Nice running into you.”

“Wait, Eve,” I said, taking hold of her arm as she tried to brush past me. “Is Harvey Gemell the only person interested in buying the ice arena?”

“So far as I know. Eldridge never mentioned anyone else. Oh, dear, you haven’t heard something I don’t know, have you?”

“Was Gemell here on Friday?”

Eve smoothed her hair. “I’m not certain. I don’t keep track of his whereabouts.”

“Come on, Eve. I saw you escorting a man around the rink last week. Wasn’t that Gemell?”

“I thought that was you on the ice. Are you feeling all right, Jessica?”

“Perfectly fine, Eve. Was that Gemell you were with?”

“Yes. Nice looking, isn’t he?”

“That was Wednesday. Was he still in town Friday afternoon?”

Eve squirmed a bit. “Really, Jessica—”

“Please, Eve. It’s important.”

“Probably not, but I actually don’t know. He wasn’t supposed to be. He told me he was going to leave on Friday morning. He doesn’t know anyone else in Cabot Cove. There wasn’t any reason for him to stay.”

“So you think he’s back in Connecticut now?”

“Oh, I’m sure he is. I spoke with him this morning.”

“Mort would like to speak with him. Would you ask him to call the sheriff’s office?”

“Why does he want to talk to Harvey?”

“Mort needs to know if Harvey was at the rink on Friday, and if he was, if he noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“All right. He should be calling me later today. I don’t want to call and have him think I’m badgering him. You know how men can be. I’ll give him your message.”

“Thanks, Eve. Oh, by the way. Do you know whether Mr. Gemell carries a weapon?”

“What?”

“A weapon. A handgun.”

“That’s ridiculous. Sometimes you ask the oddest questions.
Ciao
, Jessica.”

I waited for her to reach the staircase and disappear from view, then knocked on Coddington’s door.

“What is it now?” his gruff voice sounded through the wooden panel.

I opened it. “May I come in?” I asked.

Coddington shook his head. “May as well. Everyone is conspiring to keep me from working today. I should go home, put my feet up, and watch the Bruins lose another game instead of messing around in here. Can’t be any worse for my indigestion than sticking to this desk.”

“Eldridge, are you really ready to sell this arena?

He gave a big sigh. “I’ll give it to you, Jessica. At least you come right out and ask. No pussyfooting around. That’s what everyone in this town wants to know, and not a spleeny one of them has had the nerve to put the question to me directly. Why not?” His voice rose. “Am I such an ogre?” He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Bunch of gorbies trying to steal my dinner.”

“Who, Eldridge?”

“Those real estate people.”

“You mean Eve Simpson?”

“Her and her greedy boyfriend. Thinks if she reminds me of the string of accidents been happening here, I’ll throw up my hands and chuck it all. Like I haven’t hit a skid of bad luck before. Underestimate me. They all do. I see what’s happening here.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that, Eldridge, because—”

“Course, I never had anyone die here before,” he said, interrupting me. “But he was hanging around in an unauthorized area, now, wasn’t he? The foolish tourist. I told Jeremy to find a lock for that grate. Doesn’t have to be anything special. We must have dozens of them in some drawer that we pulled off the old lockers. Don’t need to use the pit anyway. Just plow the stuff out into the parking lot is the way I’d do it.”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“We’re too close to the reservoir is why. Town decided the ice from the rinks might flow downhill and pollute the water, so we had to connect to county sewers. Cost me a pretty penny. But what choice do we have now with the cops locking up the garage?” He chuckled. “There’s so much snow out in the parking lot, the town’ll never know if we add to it.”

“Eldridge, were you here anytime on Friday?”

“Thought you might get around to asking that. Friday is the day I visit my wife’s cousin in the Waterview nursing home, outside Portland.” He stared off, thinking quietly for a moment. “Bella was real close to her cousin Phoebe and asked me to look after her. I’ve been as faithful to her as I was to my Bella. Never miss a Friday. Bring her a coupla Charlene Sassi’s almond pastries. She likes that.”

“What do you think will happen to the figure skating program without your star attraction?”

“Not up to me. That’s Devlin’s problem. He’ll have to get another pair in here or maybe play it safe and coach singles instead. But I’ll wait to install all those fancy fripperies he wants, see if he can still make a go of the program.”

“Have you spoken with him about it?”

“Haven’t even seen the man since last week. Not my favorite fellow; that’s for certain.”

“How did you happen to find him?”

“He came on Allen’s recommendation. He wanted him. Wanted to get his daughter out of San Francisco. Some trouble there.”

“How did Mr. Allen find
you
?”

“I advertised. Put the word out in one of those skating logs or whatchacallit—Jeremy did that for me. Said that we had ice and wanted to expand the program. Allen calls me up and we made a deal.”

“Is he your partner in the rink now?”

“We’re talking.” A little smile played around his lips. “We’ll see how it goes. I might get ready to retire some day. Didn’t tell that to Eve Simpson, though. Don’t want to get her hopes up.”

By the time I got downstairs again, Lyla had left. “She got hit with a puck, you know,” Marisa said. “Those things are hard as rocks. She fixed her hair so you can’t see the bruise, but she started looking peak-ed, turned a bit green, and said she had to go home. Mr. Devlin drove her.”

“Is he coming back after he takes her home?”

“Didn’t say.”

A woman carrying a big flower arrangement approached the desk. “These are in memory of Alexei Olshansky,” she said. “Can I leave them here?”

Marisa looked at me as if to say,
I told you so
. “We have two baskets here already,” she said to the woman. “Wouldn’t you rather enjoy those flowers at home where they’ll remind you of him?”

“I can’t. My husband will start asking questions. Please let me leave them here.” She started to tear up.

“Sure, sure,” Marisa said. “Just push over that basket to the right.”

After the woman had left, Marisa confided to me, “You should see Lyla’s office. Her desk is covered with flowers.”

I wanted to ask Marisa some questions, but the phone rang and I could tell by her end of the conversation that she was going to be talking for a while. I buttoned up my jacket, pulled on my gloves, and walked outside to look at the makeshift memorial that was filling the space at the foot of the stairs into the building. Several people took pictures of those admiring the flowers, most of which had been pushed into the snow that had piled up when the front stoop was shoveled clear. Some of the mourners had poked holes in the snow so the flowers stood up as if they were in individual vases, making the area look like a florist’s display. Ribbons around the stems fluttered in the breeze, and there were condolence cards either pressed into the snow next to the flowers or scattered at the base of the pile.