Skating on Thin Ice Page 15

  “Who is Dasha?” I asked Maxim while Irina and Boris consoled each other.

  “The sister of Boris—Dariya. She is fiancée to Alexei.”

  “Fiancée?” I said.

  “He promise marry to her,” Boris shouted, banging a fist on the wooden table.

  “Okay. Okay. Take it easy,” Mort said. “Nothing to get excited about.” He stood and announced, “Thanks for your time, Ms. Bednikova. Sorry to have upset you. I may have some more questions, so I suggest you not leave town until I say it’s okay.”

  “We go when we want go,” her brother said.

  Mort stared him down and said, “No, you go when I say so. Understood?”

  “We call embassy,” Maxim said.

  “That’s your choice,” Mort said. “Good-bye, Professor Simmons. Appreciate your time and help.”

  Members of the press camped on Jill and Craig’s front steps fired a barrage of questions at us as we made our way to Mort’s marked vehicle. He waved them off as he’d done when we’d arrived, then started the engine, and we drove away.

  “Well, Mrs. F., what do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s hard to say, Mort. She certainly had ample reason to be angry at Alexei for abandoning her as a skating partner and coming here to the United States to skate with an American woman. Did you happen to notice the length of her fingernails?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Long and pointed,” I said. “I’m thinking, of course, about that scratch on Alexei’s nose. It could have been caused by a number of things, but I couldn’t help thinking about it while watching her hands.”

  “I gotta say, I can’t picture her pushing him into that freezing pit of water.”

  “Because she’s a woman?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “It wouldn’t take brute strength to push him in,” I said.

  “On the other hand, those two goons are plenty strong. They could easily have dumped Olshansky into the pit and held down the grate. If Alexei broke his promise to marry the one guy’s sister, it could be a motive.”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but an awful lot of engagements have been broken without resulting in violence,” I said.

  “I guess you have a point. Care to come back to the station house with me? We got a new coffeepot, makes much better brew.”

  “Thank you, no, Mort. I want to get home. I have some things to follow up on.”

  “About the case?”

  “Yes.”

  I told him about Alexei’s remark and my curiosity about Devlin’s past.

  “Might be interesting, Mrs. F., but I doubt if it has anything to do with his death here.”

  “You’re probably right, Mort, but I think I’ll follow up on it anyway.”

  “Keep me posted. I’m going to stop at Sassi’s for some doughnuts. I’ll drop you off on the way, unless—”

  Back in my home office, sitting in front of my computer, my address book and atlas nearby, a fresh cinnamon bun from Sassi’s Bakery on a plate, I picked up a pencil and wrote down the names of the people I wanted to research online. Alexei Olshansky topped the list, followed by Brian Devlin, Irina Bednikova, her two bodyguards, Boris’s sister Dariya, William Allen, and his daughter Christine. I had confirmed with Charlene Sassi that Eldridge Coddington had indeed stopped by Friday morning for his usual almond pastries to bring to his late wife’s cousin at the nursing home, so I left him off the list—for the moment.

  I tapped the end of my pencil on the pad. Who else? What was the name of Eve Simpson’s client again? Oh, yes, Harvey Gemell. At the bottom of the list I added Deval Holdings. That was from the clipping we’d found in Alexei’s apartment. It was the name of the company in Colorado Springs headed by the man who’d died in his speeding Alfa Romeo.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I’ve been blessed in many ways, including having had the opportunity to travel extensively. Not only has this allowed me to experience many wonderful places, but it’s also brought me into contact with a wide variety of people from all walks of life. Of course, being the author of mystery novels has meant spending a considerable amount of time with law enforcement. As every reader of murder mysteries knows, it’s imperative that an author be as accurate as possible when it comes to depicting police procedures. The same holds true for novels involving the legal system. Not only have I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with men and women who devote their careers to keeping society safe, but also I find that their insight and willingness to share their knowledge is refreshing and extremely helpful.

  I reviewed my list. In addition to people who had been in Cabot Cove when Alexei was killed, I added the names of contacts to call in various parts of the country. It turned out to be a fairly lengthy list, and I was happy to settle in the peace and quiet of my home office and get started.

  The first thing I did was to access Google and look up the name of the company headed by the man who had died in the automobile crash years ago. There wasn’t a lot of information, but what I did discover was a sad story. The alleged suicide victim, Paul Valery, had been on the receiving end of numerous lawsuits from investors in his company and had been at the helm of the firm when it closed its doors, leaving them with no way to recover their money. Most of that same information had been in the brief obituary Alexei had saved and kept in his album.

  One article I found went into greater depth as to why Deval Holdings had gone under. It claimed that Valery had been running what amounted to a Ponzi scheme, paying off early investors with money contributed by latecomers, who ended up with nothing when it was found there were no legitimate profits to distribute. Valery denied the allegations, but a prosecutor believed he had enough to go forward and was preparing a variety of charges against him, including fraud. Apparently Valery couldn’t face the prospect of being convicted and going to jail. He chose a different way out.

  I found it interesting that Valery had been born in the former Soviet Union. Was this man related to Alexei? Was he the cousin Alexei had been visiting in Colorado Springs as a young boy? There was no one to ask because both men were dead.

  The clipping in Alexei’s apartment had mentioned few survivors, but among them was Valery’s son, who had been in business with his father. His name was Peter. I did a search for Peter Valery and found that he’d moved from Colorado Springs to Danbury, Connecticut, where he’d gone to work for a nonprofit organization, All-for-One. I looked up the phone number for that organization, dialed it, and asked the woman who answered to be connected to Peter Valery. He came on the line a minute later.

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Valery,” I said. “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’m calling from Cabot Cove, Maine.”

  “The mystery writer?”

  “Yes. I’m hoping you can help me with some information. We’ve had an unfortunate death here in Cabot Cove. It involved a well-known Russian figure skater.”

  “Oh, yeah. I saw something in the papers,” he said. “Are you writing a book about it? I don’t know what kind of help I can be.”

  “Oh, no, I’m not asking about that. Actually, my interest is in your late father and whether he might have had some relationship with the victim, Alexei Olshansky, when he was a youngster visiting the United States and skating in Colorado Springs.”

  His tone up until this point had been friendly and open. Now I sensed a tightening in his voice. “Just because I come from Colorado Springs doesn’t mean I’m associated with figure skating,” he said coldly. “My father never knew anyone like that, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I can certainly understand that,” I said, “considering the age difference. It never would have occurred to me to call you about this except that Alexei kept a newspaper obituary about your father’s death. Naturally, I wondered why he might have done that if he didn’t know your father. The obituary was one of only a few things he had in his possession. I found that interesting, if not strange.”

  He paused for what seemed a long time be
fore saying, “Let me be honest with you, Mrs. Fletcher. I have absolutely no interest in figure skating. As a matter of fact, I want nothing to do with anyone involved with that so-called sport.”

  I hadn’t expected such a vehemently negative comment.

  “Might I ask why that is, Mr. Valery?”

  “It’s a long story and not a very pleasant one.”

  “I certainly don’t mean to drag up unpleasant memories, sir, but Alexei died under suspicious circumstances. While the authorities here in Cabot Cove haven’t made an official statement, I have no doubt that he was murdered.”

  My blunt declaration created another pause in our conversation. He broke it by saying, “He was being coached by Brian Devlin, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Do you know if Mr. Devlin spent a period of time in Colorado Springs? Might your father have known him?”

  I didn’t expect his answer.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said sternly, “you’ve just touched a very sore spot with me.”

  “I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I certainly had no intention of doing that. But since I’ve already introduced the subject, I might as well ask why the name Brian Devlin raises such unpleasant associations for you.”

  “Devlin killed my father, Mrs. Fletcher. Is that reason good enough?”

  “My understanding was that your father died in a car accident.”

  “Some accident,” he said, the combativeness gone from his voice.

  “I’m sorry to bring up a painful topic, Mr. Valery, but could you explain what you mean when you say Devlin killed your father?”

  “I suppose that you assume I’m accusing Devlin of shooting my father, or sticking a knife in him. It was nothing like that. Devlin and my father were business partners, if you could call them that, in Deval Holdings.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” I said. “I didn’t know that Mr. Devlin had been involved in anything during his professional career other than figure skating.”

  “He shouldn’t be. All he knows is to teach kids how to skate. He should have stuck to what he knows best. My father learned that lesson, only it was too late by the time he found that out.”

  “What sort of business activities were your father and Devlin in?”

  “I guess you’d call it real estate, only we weren’t a real estate company in the usual sense. We bought up distressed properties and used legal loopholes and government funding to improve them to the point that we could sell them at a profit. It was a good business—at least it was until Devlin got involved.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not very good at complex business matters. How did Mr. Devlin get involved? Did it have to do with figure skating, or with an ice arena and training facility?”

  “No, what happened was—excuse me, please.”

  Someone had entered his office, and I could hear their conversation, although not clearly enough to hear what was being said. After a few minutes he came back on the line. “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m at work and this is too long a story for the phone. I have a suggestion for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have to travel to Portland tomorrow on agency business. I wasn’t sure I could do it because of the nasty weather in Maine, but it looks like it’s not going to snow again soon.”

  “Yes, the weather has improved considerably.”

  “I can make a side trip to Cabot Cove to spend a little time with you if that would fit into your plans.”

  “I’ll make myself available,” I said. “You say you’ll be here tomorrow?”

  “That’s right. I could be there by early afternoon.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting you.” I gave him my phone number and address, and we ended the conversation.

  I would have preferred to hear the story of Devlin’s involvement with Valery’s father’s company while I had the son on the phone. But after hanging up, I realized that meeting Peter Valery in person might be to my advantage and could result in a fuller understanding of Devlin’s background.

  I went back to my computer, and this time I Googled Brian Devlin. There was, as I expected, quite a bit about him, but nothing that hinted at any involvement he might have had with any real estate company, much less Deval Holdings. I knew, of course, that he had been in Nevada when his father mustered out of the service, and I included “Nevada” with his name in my search. That resulted in only a few items, each of which talked of his launching a figure skating career. I tried other combinations of words to attempt to link him to something other than ice-skating, but to no avail.

  Time to shift gears.

  I picked up the phone and called a number in San Francisco that I resurrected from my telephone directory. Years ago when I’d visited northern California as part of a conference on crime writing, I was introduced to a fellow panelist and police detective, John Molito. Detective Molito headed a special task force within the San Francisco Police Department that focused on unusual, high-profile crimes. He was a bear of a man with a full inky-black beard and a hearty, knowing laugh that testified to his appreciation and understanding of the human condition. The last time we had been in contact, by telephone, he’d told me that he was about to retire from the force and open his own private investigation agency. I called his home number and was pleased that he was there, not off providing services for a client.

  “What a treat this is,” he said in the big, booming voice that I remembered so well.

  “I wasn’t sure that I would catch you at home, John.”

  “Business has been slow, Jessica. No, I suppose that’s not quite accurate. I recently decided to slow down a bit and, what’s the expression—smell the roses?”

  I wondered whether an illness or the economy was behind his decision but, of course, didn’t ask. I didn’t have to.

  “Not really my choice, Jessica,” he said. “My cardiologist told me that if I didn’t I’d be permanently put out of business in a casket.” He laughed. “I took on an associate, which leaves me time to putter around the garden and catch up on reading for fun.”

  “I hope my books are on your list.”

  “Of course they are. How have you been? Get much snow up your way? I saw a storm in New England on the Weather Channel. Did it reach you there in Maine?”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle, John. We’re used to it. I’ll tell you why I called, and I hope that what I’m asking won’t prove too much of a bother.”

  “If it’s something I can help you with, I’m happy to do it.”

  “We’ve recently had a tragic death here in Cabot Cove, John. A Russian figure skater named Alexei Olshansky.”

  “Figure skater, you say? Never heard of him, but then again I don’t follow that sport. I’m more a football kind of guy. What happened to him?”

  “He drowned in a six-foot pool of water used to melt ice that’s been scraped off our skating rink.”

  “Not a very nice way to go.”

  “No, it’s not. At this juncture our local sheriff hasn’t made it official, but the death is suspicious; there’s no doubt about that.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know your sheriff, but I do know you, Jessica. If you say it’s suspicious, I’ll put my money on your interpretation. What do you think happened? Murder?”

  “That’s exactly what I think, John. Alexei came here from Russia to pair up with an American skater, Christine Allen. Why she chose him is a long story; actually, it was her father, a wealthy man, who made the decision to bring Alexei over from Russia and to arrange for them to train here in Cabot Cove. We have a newly renovated ice arena that the owner is trying to turn into a world-class figure skating training center.”

  “I assume the stakes can be pretty high in figure skating, with all the television coverage and such.”

  “They don’t get as many sponsors as football players, but yes, elite skaters are often asked for endorsements and can make a great deal of money, although the preparation it takes to reach that level is expensive. I
don’t know that those conditions would have been a factor in Alexei’s death, though.”

  “No? Then how can I assist you?”

  “I’m calling because Alexei’s partner, Christine Allen, came here from San Francisco. She’d been training there, but her father evidently felt that she needed a change of scenery.”

  “Local girl makes good. I always enjoy those stories.”

  “She’s a talented skater, but I’m not sure what the future holds for her now that her partner is dead.”

  “You say her last name is Allen. What’s her father’s name?”

  “William. William Allen.”

  “African-American businessman? Banker?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A controversial figure out here,” Molito said. “I don’t know a lot about him except that he’s ruffled a few feathers over the years, not the kind to suffer fools gladly, that sort of thing. If I remember correctly, he was once charged with assault, some dustup with a business associate or a competitor. I don’t think the charge stuck. He walked.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “He came here with his daughter and is renting a house in town. I’m told that Christine’s mother stayed home with her younger child.”

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ve established who we’re talking about. I take it there’s something you’d like me to do on this end.”

  “Actually, I was hoping to get some background on an incident that allegedly occurred with Christine when she was in San Francisco. The story has it that her father decided to bring her all the way across the country to get away from a stalker. I’d like to know if there’s any truth to that rumor, and if so what the circumstances were.”

  “I wouldn’t have come across anything like that, but I can check it out easily enough. How fast do you need the information?”

  “As quickly as you can come up with it, provided that doesn’t put too much pressure on you.”

  “You know, Jessica, I don’t mind a little pressure; in fact, I think I could use some. Frankly, I’m bored to tears. Give me a day and I should have everything you need.”