Skating on Thin Ice (26 page)

I
went directly home from Mort’s office, started a fire in the fireplace, made myself a cup of soup, and settled in for some serious thinking. I left the lights off and enjoyed the peace the darkened room and roaring fire created, the flames tossing flickering shafts of orange light onto the ceiling and walls.

That day had been an eye-opener for me. While I’d not ruled out anyone as a suspect in Alexei Olshanky’s murder, I hadn’t focused on specific people. But Tommy Hunter’s emergence on the scene as not only Christine Allen’s San Francisco stalker, but also a troubled young man with anger festering inside of him, cast a deserved spotlight on him as the potential killer. It certainly could be said that he had a motive—get rid of the man who, in his befuddled mind, was a rival suitor for Christine.

But there was Alexei and Christine’s coach, Brian Devlin, who turned out to have had more in his background than figure skating and coaching. Not only had he been a gambler in Las Vegas—and not a very successful one, according to Peter Valery—but he’d also been implicated in at least one dubious business deal that entailed purposely sabotaging the value of a piece of property in order to buy it at a fire-sale price. Never mind that the plan also involved bribing politicians and presumably anyone else who could help the scheme along. Peter Valery’s father had paid dearly for choosing the wrong business partner. That Harvey Gemell had been the one to introduce Devlin and Valery, coupled with my having seen Gemell leave Devlin’s house that afternoon, sent me on an entirely new train of thought.

Was Devlin working with Gemell to devalue the Cabot Cove Ice Arena and to push Eldridge Coddington into selling it to Gemell at less than its worth? Could Devlin have been behind the incidents that had beset the arena? If that imagined scenario proved true, how far would he go to taint the arena’s reputation and compromise its value? Was murder an option?

But surely, I reasoned, killing someone in order to create a negative image of the arena was beyond the pale. Only someone demented, and desperate, would resort to such a heinous act. Brian Devlin might be desperate, but he wasn’t demented.

Could Devlin have had another motive for killing Alexei? The Russian skater’s comment to Devlin that hinted at something shadowy in the coach’s background had stuck with me. Alexei had been in Colorado Springs; his extended Russian-American family there had known Paul Valery. Might he have learned about the financial problems and legal action that had caused Valery to take his own life?

There had to be some connection between the skater and his time spent in Colorado, and Devlin’s role in Valery’s shady Las Vegas business deal.

It was hard to imagine that Christine Allen would have killed her pairs partner. From what I’d observed at the rink, they got along nicely, both on the ice and off. Of course, that didn’t mean that there was an absence of tension between them. Alexei had a reputation for being cruel to certain people. Marisa Brown had been the object of his nastiness on occasion and was vocal about it. Jeremy Hapgood was equally open in his dislike of the Russian skater and had been on the receiving end of many of Alexei’s verbal barbs. But, according to Marisa, Jeremy had a much more powerful motive to get rid of Alexei. He wanted to be Christine’s pairs partner. Would he have killed Olshansky in order to achieve that opportunity? People have been killed for lesser reasons, for a pair of sneakers or an imagined insult.

Although I had no idea how it might fit into the scheme of things, having learned that afternoon that Devlin and his assistant coach, Lyla Fasolino, were evidently more than professional colleagues added another dimension to the scenario. I had no reason to believe that Lyla had anything but a cordial working relationship with Alexei, nor was there a hint of any romantic interest between them. But then again, I hadn’t been aware of her relationship with Devlin. If Lyla was two-timing Brian with Alexei, it could change the whole picture. Jealousy ranks right up there with greed as a motive for murder. But lacking any knowledge of an affair between Alexei and Lyla, I put aside that notion of a love triangle as having a possible bearing upon the murder.

Despite the assorted conjectures that rose in my active mind, the dark room and crackling fire conspired to make me sleepy. A good night’s rest had eluded me since finding Alexei’s body in the pit, and I decided that there was nothing more to be accomplished by staying up and continuing to analyze motives and suspects. After banking the fire, I went upstairs, undressed, put on my pajamas, and curled up in a recliner, my favorite spot for reading. I had a new novel but had to struggle to stay awake, no fault of the author. Finally I surrendered to the inevitable, closed the book, turned out the floor lamp, and was padding toward the bathroom when the phone rang. I glanced at my digital alarm clock: 10:20.

“Hope I’m not calling too late, Mrs. F.”

“Another few minutes and you would have been,” I said.

“Glad I didn’t wake you. Thought you’d want to know since you sat in today on my questioning of Tommy Hunter that I’m holding him as a suspect in the murder of Alexei Olshansky.”

“You feel you have enough evidence to do that, Mort?”

“I can’t hold him any longer without charging him, Mrs. F. Legal Aid has assigned him a lawyer. The way I see it, he had motive and means, and he admits he saw the victim go into the Zamboni garage the day he was killed. Like you said, maybe he was talking about himself when he says he saw somebody follow Olshansky into the garage. That means he was there. And I have the threatening notes he wrote to the victim. Seems like a pretty strong case to me. Of course, I’m pretty sure he’ll file an insanity plea.”

“Have you run it past the district attorney?” I asked.

“First thing in the morning. Just figured now that the murder is solved, you can put it out of your mind and enjoy a good night’s sleep.”

“That was thoughtful of you, Mort,” I said, deciding not to question him further. “Good night.”

His call had abolished any sleepiness I’d been experiencing. I returned to the chair, turned on the light, and tried to get back into the novel. A half hour later, my eyelids drooping, I decided once again to call it a night. No sooner had I climbed beneath the covers when the phone rang. I debated letting my answering machine pick up but succumbed to the need to know who was calling at that hour.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” a male voice asked in almost a whisper.

My first thought was that it was a crank call, and I waited for the heavy breathing. But the caller dissuaded me of that possibility.

“Mrs. Fletcher? It’s Jeremy Hapgood at the ice arena.”

“Jeremy?” I said.

“I know it’s late, but I have to talk with you.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No, ma’am. Marisa told me that she spoke with you about what’s going on here at the rink.”

“Yes, she did. Is this about that?”

“It’s about Alexei Olshansky’s murder. I told her she got it all wrong.”

I was now fully awake. I sat up against my headboard and blinked away any vestiges of fatigue that remained.

“You have my attention, Jeremy,” I said, concealing a yawn.

“Can you come to the rink?” he said.

“Now? Isn’t it closed?”

“Yes, but it’s better that no one else be here.”

“You can come to my house if you’d like,” I offered.

“No, it has to be here. I want to show you how Alexei died. Marisa said that you can be trusted.” He paused. “Look, if you’re not interested, I’ll just—”

“Don’t you think this is something you should share with Sheriff Metzger?”

“I’m sorry I called,” he said.

“No, wait,” I said. “I’ll come and meet with you. You say we’ll be alone. What about security guards?”

“They go off duty once the rink is closed.”

I remembered Coddington saying the same thing at the press conference.

“The back door, at the rear of the parking lot, will be open.”

When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Are you coming?”

“Yes, Jeremy. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hung up.

I got out of bed, splashed cold water on my face, got back into my clothes, and went downstairs. It was a few minutes after eleven. I looked outside through my front window. It had started snowing again, but only feathery flakes, the deceptive prelude to a heavier snowfall.

I picked up the phone and called Mort’s cell number. There was no answer. I tried police headquarters.

“This is Jessica Fletcher. Would the sheriff happen to be there?”

“No, Mrs. Fletcher. This is the night dispatcher. I think he’s on his way home. Can I help you?”

“Would you please see that he gets a message the minute he reports in?”

“Sure.”

“Tell him that Jessica Fletcher has gone to the ice arena and would like him to meet her there.”

He wrote down the message and repeated it to me.

“Perfect,” I said. “Oh, and please tell him that it’s extremely important that he come to the arena.”

“Shall do, Mrs. Fletcher.”

Next I phoned Maureen.

“Is Mort home yet?” I asked.

“No. He was going to stop down the highway for some Chinese food. I expect him home in a half hour or so. Did you try his cell?”

“I think he’s out of range,” I said. I repeated the message I’d left with the night dispatcher. “It’s very important, Maureen. Promise me you won’t forget to tell him.”

“You have my word, Jessica.”

Dimitri runs my trusty cab service, which has been providing me with dependable transportation for years. “I need a taxi to the ice arena,” I told him.

“It’s closed, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I know, but I’m meeting someone there. Do you have a driver available?”

“He’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I sensed that my driver wasn’t pleased to be called out on a frigid night at the start of a snowstorm, but he didn’t tell me that. He drove me to the arena, where I instructed him to drive around to the back of the building.

“Sure this is where you want to come?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m meeting someone inside.”

“Do you want me wait for you?”

“I have no idea how long I’ll be.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “I have a book to read.” He held up one of mine. “I was almost to the end when Dimitri called.”

“Well, thank you, then. I’ll take you up on your offer. I hope I won’t be long.”

He watched me as I walked to the building and tried the door, which was unlocked, as Jeremy had said it would be. I turned and waved. He waved back, then drove to the edge of the lot and parked under a streetlamp.

I paused inside the arena to get my bearings. A strange thought crossed my mind at that moment. I thought of so many movies I’d seen in which the heroine willingly places herself in a dangerous situation, while the audience is silently pleading, “Don’t do it!” This was no movie, and I’m no heroine, and there was no one at home to consider my having come there alone in the middle of the night as foolhardy, if not plain stupid. Why hadn’t I waited for the sheriff to call me back? I had no idea how long it might take for Mort to get my message. Only the taxi driver knew where I was, and he was absorbed in reading one of my books. I pulled out my cell phone and held it in my gloved hand. I didn’t want to miss Mort if he called me back.

The lights that illuminated the Olympic-sized rink had been turned off, but a crescent moon shone through the giant glass windows on one end and bounced off the white ice, giving half its surface an eerie blue glow. The rest lay in shadows. The cavernous interior was bone-chillingly cold. I pulled the collar of my jacket closed and without removing my gloves awkwardly pushed the jacket’s top button through its loop with one hand. The sound of dripping water somewhere inside echoed off the concrete walls. I breathed in the damp air; violent shivers ran up my spine.

Tempted to whisper in the empty silence, I took a deep breath instead and called out, “Hello? Jeremy? Are you here?”

The words reverberated in the icy atmosphere. There was no response.

“It’s Jessica Fletcher. You told me to meet you here.
Where
are you?”

Nothing.

I took a few tentative steps on the rubber mat that carpeted the area around the rink. Skaters had been complaining about wrinkles in the flooring that rose to trip them if they weren’t watchful. I blinked several times, trying to accustom my eyes to the gloom, and reached out, pressing my fingertips onto the narrow ledge formed by the boards ringing the rink and the tall plastic panels on top that kept errant hockey pucks from beaning unwary spectators. Moving slowly, following the contours of the oval arena, I reached a part where the Plexiglas barrier ended and I could grip the flat railing of the boards with my gloved hand. Ahead of me were the bleachers, steel benches rising nearly to the roof to accommodate hockey fans, and perhaps, one day, to hold an audience for a major figure skating competition.

I peered across the ice to the Zamboni garage’s doors, squinted, and leaned forward.

Something or someone was there, a dark shape slumped on the skating surface.

“Hello?” I called again. “Jeremy? Is that you? Do you need help?”

No movement that I could see, and still no answer. I rummaged in my pocket for my keys, which had a tiny flashlight attached to the ring. While the beam would never reach the other side of the ice—its light barely penetrated the dim blue shadows—it was a great help when trained on the floor, allowing me to step over the lumps in the rubber that might have pitched me onto my knees if I hadn’t seen them.

I found the gate in the boards that admitted skaters to the ice and lifted the latch. Not stopping to think, I stepped out onto the slick sheet and let go of the board. I took two steps and slipped, arching painfully to keep from tumbling backward. The cell phone flew from my hand. I heard it hit the ice and skitter away. I gasped and felt my stomach rise, the blood rush to my head, and adrenaline surge through my veins before I was able to regain my equilibrium. Breathing hard now, I paused, shivering, as much from the shock of nearly falling as from the cold. I squinted in the dark, straining to see where my phone had landed, but I had no time to search for it; whoever was on the ice needed my help now.