Skating on Thin Ice (5 page)

A bemused Jim looked down at his fluffy charge, then up at me. “Cute, huh, Jessica? I wonder what kind of dog it is.”

“It looks like a toy poodle,” I said.

The dog watched Jim closely, but when he tried to put his nose near the dog’s snout, we heard a low growl.

“Pravda!” its owner said, scowling at her pet.

The dog slunk down in Jim’s arms and whimpered.

“This will work in U.S. of A., yes?” she asked, holding up a box.

“Guaranteed,” Jim said.

She looked confused and Jim corrected himself. “Yes. This will work.”

“
Spasibo!
Thank you.”

She put on her coat, took back the dog, handed the box to Jim, and followed him to the register. It was difficult to say how old she was since she wore heavy eye makeup and bright red lipstick, but I guessed she was in her twenties. She nodded at me. “
Izvinite
,” she said, as she walked past. “
Scusi.
Uh,
pardonnez-moi
.” She stopped and shook her head.
“Nyet!”
Satisfied that she had found the correct language, she tipped her head to the side and smiled. “Excuse me.”

“Certainly,” I said, returning her smile.

She dug through an oversized alligator-skin purse and presented her credit card to Jim. When he’d completed the transaction, she signed the sales slip with a flourish, regally walked to the door with a dog in one arm and a shopping bag on the other, and waited while one of her bodyguards held it open for her.

“Wow!” Jim said, returning to the desk after locking up. He waved a hand in front of him. “We don’t have such glamorous customers every day.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” I said, chuckling.

“I hope you’re not offended, Jessica. I just meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant, Jim, and of course I’m not offended. She must be one of the reporters with the Russian film crew I heard was in town.”

“How exciting. I never met a Russian before. Can’t wait to tell my wife. Of course, I may leave out how pretty she was.” He called out, “Hey Dave, you just missed a looker.”

David poked his head out of the back room. “What did you say?”

Jim grinned. “Never mind.” He handed me my skates. “Thanks for waiting, Jessica.”

“Wouldn’t have missed her for the world,” I replied.

T
he moment of my big day arrived.

I called the local cab company at which I had an account and arranged for a taxi to take me to the ice arena. I admit I had mixed emotions. On the one hand, I couldn’t wait to lace up my skates and step out onto the ice. On the other hand, Seth’s admonitions about being too old to take up skating again and risking injury stayed with me. I’ve always liked to consider myself someone who listens to others and benefits from their wise counsel. Seth had my best interests at heart, and there was no argument that what he’d warned of could happen. But I’m also a person who doesn’t believe in losing out on the joys of life because of fear. That latter belief system overrode Seth’s concerns, and I happily and enthusiastically got in the taxi, my arms around my skate bag, and the sort of smile on my face that you see on kids about to embark on an adventure.

The arena was busy when I arrived. I told the driver that I’d call when I needed a ride home, went inside, and took a seat at one of several round picnic tables arrayed in front of the concession stand, which hadn’t opened yet. A half dozen other skaters were there getting ready to take to the ice, and if I’d been concerned that I’d be the only older person on the ice, I was quickly disabused of that notion.

At the next table was a woman with gray hair styled in a pageboy. She was easily my age, perhaps older, and wore black wool slacks and a pink angora sweater. She had already donned her gleaming white skates and was applying a lip balm over her pink lipstick. Next to her was a gentleman of an equally advanced age, who I assumed was her husband. His gray sweatpants were tucked into his black skates, and he had pinned his entry ticket to his zippered jacket. They smiled at me as they walked past and entered the rink.

I unzipped my carrier and pulled out my skates. I’d spent the good part of an hour the evening before trying, not entirely successfully, to polish out the old scuffs and smudges, and had tried out four pairs of socks before finding one that allowed my foot to squeeze into the skate without pain. I put guards on the blades and placed both skates on the floor in preparation for donning them.

Across from me was Jeremy Hapgood, the young man who worked at the arena. He was removing his socks while I was putting mine on. He picked up a hockey skate and, after liberally shaking baby powder into it, shoved in his bare foot.

“You skate barefoot?” I said, shaking my head.

He heard me, smiled, and nodded. “Oh, hi,” he said. “Best thing to do if you forgot to bring socks or brought the wrong ones. The powder makes the inside of the boot slippery, makes it easy to get your foot in.”

“But aren’t your feet going to freeze without socks?” I asked.

“When you get moving, you warm up everywhere,” he replied. “Thick socks help only if your skates are too big and don’t fit properly. A thin sock isn’t going to make that much of a difference anyway. Besides, I like to feel the texture of the ice, and you can do that better when the only thing between you and the ice are your boots and blades.”

“You’ve been skating for a long time, I take it.”

“Since before I was four. My dad bought my first hockey stick when I was born.” He laughed. “You think he had plans for me?”

“And do you play?”

“Sure! Sometimes. When I can get a little time off. Actually, I do more teaching than playing. I’ve got team practices. Coach Beliveau has me leading the drills for the mites and squirts.”

“Sounds like an infestation.”

“The little-kid hockey leagues. I like hockey, but I don’t play all that much.”

While we’d talked, he’d powdered and put on his second skate, laced up both of them, and shrugged on an oversized brown down jacket with CABOT COVE ICE ARENA across the back in block letters, and his name, JEREMY HAPGOOD, in small letters on the front.

A man in a matching jacket clapped him on the back. “Hey, Jer. Will I see you guys later?”

“Sure, Mark, we’ve been working on our side-by-side toe loops.”

“Great! Don’t forget to change skates,” the man said, walking toward the rink.

“Jeremy,” I said, “aren’t you the one who found the screws on the ice? I heard about that.”

He acknowledged that he was. “Can you believe it?” he said. “Some jerk trying to make trouble. We finally get some excitement going in this town with the hockey teams and the skating school, and somebody wants to mess it up.”

“Why do you think someone would want to do that?” I asked.

“Who knows why people do dumb things,” he said. “Like the dork who drilled a peephole in the ladies’ room wall.”

My face mirrored my surprise.

“Yeah,” he said, “Christine—she’s training with Alexei Olshansky—she discovered it late yesterday and reported it to Security.”

“Any idea who might have done it?”

He shook his head. “Some pervert, I guess. They patched it up.” He stood. “You’ll have to excuse me. I don’t want to be late. He drew a whistle on a long cord from his pocket and looped it around his neck.

I was wondering whether the incident with the peephole had been reported to the police when music suddenly came from large speakers suspended from the ceiling. That hour’s public skating session had begun.

I made my way unsteadily to the boards that encircled the ice and saw that the older couple was already skating and had been joined on the ice by two girls who skated holding hands; several men of varying ages in hockey skates; a young mother in a short dress with her toddler in a snowsuit; and a few other people who glided confidently around the rink. Jeremy, my barefoot-skating young friend, eyed all the skaters, perhaps counting them, and kept time to the organ music that blared from the loud speakers. At the far end of the rink, Lyla, wearing a big brown jacket like Jeremy’s and Mark’s, coached a woman dressed in a puffy white coat.
Maybe I should have arranged for some lessons before trying it on my own
, I thought as I removed my skate guards, left them on a bench, clumsily stepped through the swinging half door, and ventured out onto the ice, gripping the railing of the boards that ran around the periphery of the rink. The surface was a lot slipperier than I remembered. I held on tightly, wondering if maybe the skating chair Lyla had suggested wasn’t such a bad idea.
Nonsense, Jessica; you’ve done this before
, I told myself.

Girding my loins, I slid forward, my arms out to the sides, but I stayed within grabbing distance of the boards.
One, two, three
, I silently counted as I stroked with first one foot and then the other.
Okay, not too bad
, I thought, moving a little farther into the rink.
I knew I could do it.
Then my blade caught a gouge in the ice and I gasped. I straightened my back, abruptly bent forward, and shuffled to the boards, one leg sliding out from under me just as I dug my fingers into the wood. Notwithstanding my awkward posture and heavy breathing, I was grateful I’d managed to stay on my feet and not land on my bottom.
Now I see what he meant by feeling the texture of the ice.

While I stood by the boards trying to boost my confidence, I caught sight of Eve Simpson escorting a gentleman around the far side of the rink. She was gesturing with her arms as they looked up at the ceiling. My eyes followed their gaze, but I couldn’t imagine what fascinated them up there. I watched for a few more moments, but when they walked in my direction, I turned my back, hoping they wouldn’t notice me. If I was going to make a fool of myself, I preferred to do it in relative anonymity.

The older couple I’d noticed earlier did not skate together. Instead, she followed a circular pattern at one end of the rink, where large rings were painted on the ice, while he swiftly stroked down the length of the rink, leaning into the center and executing smooth crossovers like a speed skater.
If they can do it, I can do it
, I told myself.
Buck up, Jessica. It’ll come back to you.

Both inspired and intimidated, I started out once more, staying close to the boards, trailing the fingers of my right hand over the railing to assure myself that it was available should I stumble again. I worked my way around the oval, trying to sense the edges of the blades. Little by little, I remembered the feeling of skating. Counting the numbers of strokes, I tried to skate longer from foot to foot before resting on a glide. By the third time around the rink, my confidence had risen enough to allow me to give a slight wave to Lyla as I skated past her and her student.

“You’re doing very well, Mrs. Fletcher,” I heard her say.

The fourth time around, I was smiling, and by the fifth time, I was confident enough to stop and say hello.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.

“Very much. I had hoped skating would come back to me, and it seems to be happening.”

“Good for you!”

“Yes, I’m so pleased,” I said, twisting to watch the older woman skate smoothly by and for a second forgetting where I was.

It happened so fast I had no time to correct my posture. One moment I was standing. The next moment my feet slipped out from under me and I was flat on my back, my head snapping hard against the ice.

Lyla was at my side in an instant, helping me sit up. “Don’t get up too quickly,” she said. “Are you dizzy?”

I felt a spray of ice as Jeremy raced over and stopped just short of plowing into me.

“You okay?” he asked, bending over me.

“I’m fine,” I said, rubbing the sore spot where my head had made contact with the ice and where a pulsating lump had already appeared. “I’m more embarrassed than hurt.”

“Want some help getting up?” Jeremy asked.

I nodded. Jeremy swooped around behind, put his hands under my arms, and hauled me to my feet. “There you go,” he said.

“Leave it to me to fall while I’m standing still,” I said, brushing ice particles off my slacks.

“Happens all the time,” Lyla said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” I replied.

“You should go to the emergency room to be checked out,” Lyla said as she guided me to the gate.

“No, that’s not necessary.” My hand came up again as the back of my head began to pound.

“Please,” Lyla said, peering into my eyes. “I’m sure you’re fine, but it’s policy here that when someone is injured, they be seen by a doctor.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Within seconds, a big, beefy man wearing the uniform of a private security guard extended a hand to help me off the ice.

“Joe will take you to the hospital,” Lyla said.

“Happy to drive you there, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said through a wide smile. “It’d be my pleasure. My wife, she’s read every one of your books—says you’re her favorite mystery writer. Come on. I’ll get you there in no time, they’ll check you out, and you’ll be back here on the ice before you know it.”

I didn’t argue. With an ice pack provided by Lyla pressed to the back of my head, I left my skates in a locker, followed the guard to his car, and in ten minutes had checked into the emergency room and was sitting on a gurney being examined by a young female physician. Evidently I answered all her questions correctly because she decided that no serious damage had been done. “But I do want a CAT scan, Mrs. Fletcher, to make sure there’s no internal bleeding.”

I put up a feeble argument but found myself being taken to the room in which the radiology equipment was housed. Its operator was a young man in green hospital scrubs. Fifteen minutes later I’d been cleared to leave, with the recommendation that I wear a helmet if I planned to continue to skate.