Skating on Thin Ice (22 page)

My taxi dropped me in front of the arena at quarter to ten. A couple of TV remote trucks were parked close to the entrance, their satellite dishes jutting up into the lowering gray sky. Mort had positioned two uniformed deputies at the door to check press IDs as people passed through. The media was invited but not the public. I wasn’t sure I agreed with the decision to ban everyday citizens from attending, but it obviously wasn’t my call to make. I only hoped it wouldn’t keep me out.

Mort must have called in additional staff from the state police. An officer I didn’t recognize stopped me at the door and examined my private pilot’s license, which I carry for identification since I don’t possess a driver’s license. For a moment, I thought he was going to deny me access, but Mort, who was standing nearby, nodded at the deputy, and I entered the arena, where a podium and microphone had been set up in the concession stand’s seating area. The picnic tables had been pushed to one side, and folding chairs were lined up in rows. I spotted the Russian television crew that had had a run-in with Coach Devlin the previous week. Seated with the Russian reporter was Irina Bednikova, flanked by Maxim and Boris. There were two dozen reporters and dignitaries scattered throughout the area, including Mayor Jim Shevlin and members of the town council. I spotted Eldridge Coddington, sitting two rows behind Richard Koser and Evelyn Phillips from the
Gazette
. I took an empty seat next to her.

“Good morning,” she said. “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Looks like someone else changed his mind,” Evelyn said as Seth Hazlitt slipped into the chair next to mine.

“Morning, Evelyn,” he said.

“Morning, Seth.”

“Do you have any advance indication of what Mort will be talking about?” I asked her.

“Unlike some others I could name, he doesn’t take me into his confidence,” she said, “but I hope it’s worth holding a press conference. I already got the ME report, and I have lots of other things I could be doing this morning.”

At ten o’clock straight up, Mort came to the podium, tucked some papers under his arm, and held up his hands for silence. The room went very quickly quiet, except for the click and whirr of camera shutters.

“Good morning. Thank you all for coming. As you know, we had a tragic event here at the ice arena, the death of a pretty well-known Russian skater, Alexei Olshansky, age twenty-five. Pending autopsy reports, his death was initially considered accidental. But Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who is acting medical examiner in Doc Foley’s absence, performed the autopsy.”

“Where is Doc Foley?” a reporter called out.

“In Florida,” Mort said, chuckling. “I bet we all wish we could be in Florida with him, huh?”

No one laughed.

Mort cleared his throat and continued. “Anyway, please hold your questions until my statement is complete.” He looked down at his paper. “Dr. Hazlitt performed the autopsy and has ruled that Mr. Olshansky’s death was a homicide. This finding confirms what I’ve felt all along.” He looked at me for a reaction; I didn’t have one.

Mort went on. “This isn’t your routine murder investigation. It has what I suppose you could call international implications. The Russian embassy in Washington, D.C., has gotten involved and is putting on the pressure for me to come up with an answer. Our own State Department is pretty interested, too, and wants this case solved today, if not sooner. The Maine State Police are on board, and I appreciate their help. The FBI is asking questions, too, but aren’t part of my team, at least not yet. No matter where the deceased came from, this is a local matter, and I want to assure you that my office is pulling out all the stops to get to the bottom of it. We are on this case twenty-four-seven. Everyone who worked at the arena the night he died has been questioned, and I intend to question them all again. Doc Hazlitt has provided a written report of his autopsy findings, which I’ve had photocopied, and it’s available for all you folks from the media.

“I can’t get too specific about the details of the investigation, but I promise each and every one of you that we will bring whoever killed Mr. Olshansky to justice. I know that there’s a lot of rumors going around town, and plenty of folks are on edge because this happened in our otherwise peaceful town. Well, there’s no need for anyone to worry. I’m counting on you media types to get the word out that information from any citizen will be appreciated and kept confidential. If anyone knows anything that might help in the investigation, please notify my office. Along with the autopsy report, I have a press release that includes contact information in case anybody wants to get hold of me.

“On a different topic, there have been a series of incidents here at the ice arena lately that have nothing to do with the murder. I’m pleased to announce that my office has identified the individual behind these incidents and an arrest has been made. I will not be releasing the name of the person now in custody until further questioning of the suspect has been completed.”

Mayor Shevlin came to the microphone and read his statement, declaring the city’s cooperation with the police department and pledging that the citizens of Cabot Cove had nothing to fear; the police were on top of the situation. Eldridge Coddington added his two cents, saying that he had hired additional security at the rink for the hours it was open, and that while several programs had been suspended at parents’ request, they would be reinstated the following week, and there would be no refunds.

Mort returned to the microphone. “Now, I’ll take a few questions, but don’t ask about details of the investigation. I’m not at liberty to answer them at this time.”

I glanced over at Evelyn Phillips, who was busy making notes in a long, thin reporter’s notepad. She stopped writing, turned to me, and said, “What do you know about Mort arresting someone, Jessica?”

“Not a thing,” I replied. “I’m only hearing about it now.”

Our conversation was drowned out as reporters threw questions at Mort, few of which he elected to answer. They soon gave up trying to get something out of him and turned to Irina, wanting mostly to know what her plans were now that her former skating partner was dead. She answered the best she could, considering the language barrier. Eventually, her beefy brother put a stop to the questioning and the trio left.

“Maxim and Boris are very protective of her,” I commented.

“Who’s Boris?” Evelyn asked. “The other bodyguard?”

“He’s the brother of Alexei’s fiancée,” I said.

“Fiancée? I didn’t know he had a fiancée,” Evelyn said, sounding annoyed. She got up and ran after the departing Russians.

It struck me that some significant figures were absent that morning. Christine Allen and her father weren’t there, nor were Brian Devlin, Marisa Brown, Lyla Fasolino, Jeremy Hapgood, or Mark Rosner. I mentioned it to Seth. “I suppose there wasn’t any official reason for them to attend, but I would’ve thought that at least a few of them would have shown up, if only out of curiosity.”

“They might be here somewhere out of sight, since Mort restricted attendance,” Seth said. “Although if I know Eldridge Coddington, he probably gave them all the day off, unpaid, of course.”

We waited until the crowd thinned around the podium before approaching Mort, who was gathering up his notes. The autopsy report and press release had already been distributed.

“How’d I do, Mrs. F.? Doc?” Mort asked.

“Just fine,” I said.

“Not easy dealing with the media,” Seth added.

“No, it never is,” I agreed.

We followed him out the front door to his vehicle, and Seth went to get his car.

“Find out anything new, Mrs. F., since we spoke yesterday?”

“No, but I should know more later today. You mentioned in your remarks that you were reinterviewing everyone who worked at the rink.”

“Already started the process. Interesting the things you find out the second time around.”

I wasn’t sure I should ask, but I did. “What did you come up with?”

He looked around to be sure that we weren’t being overheard. “Checked into that second bodyguard, not the one who’s the skater’s brother but the other one, Boris something. Did you know his sister, Dariya, had a baby?”

“Oh?”

“The father of that baby was none other than Alexei Olshansky. So it’s not simply a broken engagement. Seems to me that Boris has a pretty strong motive to kill Olshansky,” Mort offered.

I had to agree with him.

“What about this person you’ve arrested?” I asked.

“I can’t say any more about that, Mrs. F., except he’s a person of interest. Excuse me. I have to get back to the office. I have Ms. Allen and her father coming in for follow-up interviews.”

He got in his car and drove off.

The news that Boris’s sister had been impregnated by Alexei Olshansky was, of course, confirmation of yet another rumor, this one provided by Christine. Both of the big, hulking Russian bodyguards had reason to be angry with Alexei—Maxim because Alexei had abandoned Irina as a skating partner, and now the other man, Boris, whose sister had a child out of wedlock with the murder victim.

Seth pulled up in his car, and I climbed in.

“It’s eleven,” he said, “a little late for breakfast and too early for lunch, but I wouldn’t mind a snack at Mara’s. How about you?”

I still had an hour before it was likely that Detective Molito would be calling. “As long as I’m home by noon. I’m expecting a phone call,” I said.

“I have to make a fast stop at Charles, but we should get you home in time, no problem.”

The sky was leaden and the wind whipped up a chop on the water in the bay. By the time Seth and I walked from his car to Mara’s, the cold had gone right through me, and I looked forward to a bowl of whatever soup she was featuring that day. The restaurant was busy, but we managed to find an available table away from the draft created each time someone came through the door. It appeared that Mara was shorthanded this day. She scurried between tables and behind the counter while two young female waitresses, who’d worked there a while, helped the owner keep up with taking orders and delivering the food.

Mara waved to us in acknowledgment and held up her index finger to indicate that she’d get to us shortly. When she did arrive, I said, “Looks like you could use an extra hand.”

“Are you volunteering, Jessica? If so, I’ll put an apron on you.”

I laughed. “I’m almost tempted to take you up on it. What’s the soup today?”

“Roasted tomato. It’s terrific.”

“I’m sure it is if you say so. I’d love a bowl, and some bread, please.”

“Coming up. You, Doc?”

“I’ll have a short stack of the blueberry pancakes.”

“Seth, what happened to your diet?” I asked.

“Put the maple syrup on the side,” he said.

Mara took a black grease pencil from behind her ear and wrote our order down on her pad. “You folks go to that press conference this morning?”

“As a matter of fact, we did.”

“Anything exciting happen?”

“No. Go on. You don’t have time to chat with us.”

Friends stopped by our table while we waited for our order to be delivered. Despite the growth that Cabot Cove has experienced over the years, it still remains a close-knit community, particularly for those who have been there a while, including Seth and me. Jack Wilson, the town’s leading veterinarian, joined us for a few minutes; so did Susan Shevlin. It occurred to me as I chatted with them that I was in the unusual situation of not actively writing a book at the moment. I’d delivered my most recent novel to my publisher a month ago, and while I had a contract for two more, I was taking a break from writing. But I’d started to develop a plot for the next one and was thinking about that when Mara arrived with my soup and Seth’s pancakes. By that time, the crowd had thinned out a little, and she took a moment to sit and catch her breath.

“You would think it was high tourist season,” she said through a laugh. “Seems like there is no tourist season anymore. They show up every time of year, including the dead of winter.”

“Which is good for you, Mara.”

“Good for business, that’s for sure,” she said. “The problem is I’m never sure how to staff the place. When I think it might be slow, they come pouring through the door, and when I bring on extra people in anticipation of a big crush, it’s slow as molasses.”

“Where is that new young fellow you introduced me to?” I asked.

“Tommy? I don’t know. He didn’t show up today, which is unusual. He’s been as punctual as a Swiss watch until this morning. I hear there’s flu around.”

“Same as every winter,” Seth put in.

“He must’ve gotten sick and forgot to call in,” Mara said.

I sighed. “I’m sure that’s the toughest part of running a business, hiring the right people.”

“You’re right, Jessica. I try to be understanding with all my help, and people
do
get sick. I would’ve appreciated a phone call, that’s all.” She stood. “Enjoy your soup. Doc, are you sure you don’t want me to make that a long stack instead of a short one? Take me a minute to get you the extra pancake.”

“No, thanks, Mara. This is fine. I’m dieting.”

With an effort, I refrained from saying anything about Seth’s diet and did exactly as Mara had suggested—enjoyed my soup and the warm, crunchy bread from Sassi’s Bakery, where Mara buys most of her baked goods.

Mara put the check on the table upside down as she always does. “My treat,” I said to Seth, “as thanks for the ride.” I turned it over to see what I owed. “Oh, my.”

“What’s the matter?”

“What does this look like, Seth?”

“Mara’s usual scrawl. She could’ve been a doctor.”

“No, I mean the pencil she used. What does that look like?”

“Looks like a black crayon to me. Finish your soup. We have to be going.”