Skating on Thin Ice Read online

  I walked to the rear of the machines and found a large, mostly empty space with tall garage doors on either end. On the right were rough wooden shelves holding an assortment of hardware. To my left, set into the concrete floor, was an open pool of water, partially covered by an ironwork grille. Perforated pipes on the wall spilled a continuous stream of water into the pool, which had a layer of ice floating on top. A shovel stuck out from a pile of snow that had been dumped on the metal grate.

  Jeremy knelt next to the pipe and held his hand under the running water. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said, his back to me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just came in to see if you’re all right. Seems to be a day for accidents.” He removed his hand from the water and wrapped it in something white. “Did you injure yourself?”

  “It’s not too bad,” he said as he attempted to tug a glove over his hand.

  “What’s on your hand?” I asked.

  “Paper towels. Can’t do much one-handed.”

  “Don’t you have any gauze?”

  “Probably some in that old first-aid kit,” he said, cocking his head to indicate the wooden shelves on the far wall, where a rusted white metal case with a large red cross on the side was shoved in next to pieces of electronic equipment—switches, toggles, and push buttons. “I don’t have time to wrap it right now. I have to get back on the ice. There are only two of us on duty.”

  “Let me see that,” I said, reaching for his hand, which he extended to me. “Surely the rink can do without you long enough for you to get bandaged properly.”

  I pulled down the ancient first-aid kit. Inside I found a roll of gauze, a pair of surgical scissors, and a brown bottle with a liquid inside. “I didn’t know you could find this anymore,” I said, setting the bottle aside.

  “What is it?” Jeremy said.

  “Tincture of Merthiolate,” I said. “People stopped using it years ago because it has mercury in it. Throw it away and get the rink to buy you some iodine, and a new first-aid kit while you’re at it.”

  “Like old man Coddington would spring for the money,” he snorted.

  “How did this happen?” I asked, carefully pulling the paper towels away from his wound.

  “One of the guys skated into my hand when I was kneeling on the ice helping someone who fell. He couldn’t stop in time.”

  I wound the gauze around his hand. “You’ll want to show this to your doctor. You might need a stitch. By the way, what is that behind me?”

  “You mean the pit? That’s where we melt the snow that the machines collect when we clean the ice.”

  “How deep is it?”

  “Six feet.”

  “And you leave it uncovered? That’s dangerous. Someone could fall in.”

  “I know. But like I told you, you’re not supposed to be in here.”

  “Have you ever fallen in?”

  “Not yet.” He laughed. “I’ve come close, but I’m pretty sure-footed. It’s colder than a ... Well, I wouldn’t want to find out how cold.”

  “That should do it,” I said, carefully tucking in the loose end of the gauze. I held his glove open for him.

  He winced as he slid his hand in.

  “Does it hurt a lot?” I asked.

  “I’ll pop an aspirin later, but Mark will be mad. We have some tricks scheduled for the exhibition we’re supposed to practice. I only have a week to heal, but I probably can still do them if I tape it up good.” He led me back between the Zambonis and out the door.

  “What kind of tricks do you do?” I asked.

  “Lifts, throws, that kind of thing.”

  We walked around the hockey rink toward the main hall.

  “You’re Marisa Brown’s pairs partner, aren’t you?” I said, referring to the young woman who also worked at the rink in exchange for skating lessons.

  Jeremy stopped. “You heard about us already?”

  “I’ve heard people mention it. I didn’t think it was a secret.”

  “Hey, it’s not a secret at all. It’s just pretty recent. Mark Rosner is coaching us. This is my big chance, especially if Mr. Devlin likes what he sees. Maybe we could move up to him. Marisa is a terrific skater and we match up well. I hope it works out.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  He gave a short laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how expensive skating is. I asked Mr. Coddington to give me more hours so I can pay for the extra training. Chris—that’s Christine Allen—she said her father is going to spring for more gym equipment for her and Alexei to use, and she said that Marisa and I can use it, too. That’ll save us a bundle. I hope it’s okay with Coddington.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Well, it’s his rink, but it would be Mr. Allen’s equipment. I don’t know if Mr. Allen expects the arena to reimburse him, or if he would take it all away with him if he decides Chris and Alexei should practice somewhere else.”

  “I’m sure they’ll work something out.”

  “I hope so. I’m really excited. Wait till you see us at the exhibition. We’re going to be great. Hey, thanks for this.” He raised his gloved hand. “Gotta get to work now. You’d better leave, too.”

  He hurried off, leaving me alone. How nice to see him so excited about skating with Marisa; I hoped his injury wouldn’t spoil their program plans. I was pondering that when a movement in the second-floor window overlooking the rink drew my attention. I looked up in that direction and saw a figure silhouetted against the light. How long had he or she been there? My eyes scanned the rink to see if there was something or someone else that might be of interest. When I looked up again, the figure was gone.

  Curiosity drew me upstairs. I ambled down the second-floor hallway. There wasn’t much to see. One side of the corridor was the glass wall overlooking the empty hockey rink. Most of the doors were closed on the opposite side. I stopped at the first open one and glanced inside. It was the gym. Apparently, news of the coming hockey team had inspired more donations, or Mr. Allen’s promise to install more equipment was already bearing fruit. I spotted a weight-lifting machine and a treadmill. I also saw Alexei Olshansky’s reflection in the mirror. Dressed in shorts, a thick gold chain glistening against his naked chest, he was watching himself, turning from side to side, flexing his biceps as he alternated lifting weights. He was speaking in a low voice. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or if there was someone else in the room with him. When he caught me looking at him, he set down the barbells and came toward me.

  “Oh, hello,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I was just—”

  He raised his eyebrows, gave me a silly smile, and closed the door.

  Well, you didn’t expect him to stop and chat, did you?

  There wasn’t anyone in the next room to shut the door in my face when I poked my head in. It was bare, only a folding chair in the corner with an old cassette player perched on the seat. One wall was covered in mirrors, and on the floor were rubber mats similar to those downstairs.

  Raised voices down the hall caught my ear, and I debated whether to cut short my impromptu tour of the facility. But nosiness trumped my good intentions. I stood where I was and listened. I recognized Coddington’s voice.

  “I’m not accustomed to having to wait a day when I say I want to talk to someone, Devlin.”

  “And I’m not accustomed to being given arbitrary orders. What was so important you had to create a scene in front of my students?”

  “I didn’t bring you here to have you humiliate me in the press.”

  “I didn’t say anything about you at all. All I said was that services and equipment were late in being installed, but that I fully expected the arena would live up to its obligations. I thought I was being diplomatic.”

  “You call that diplomatic?”

  I heard a newspaper being slammed down.

  “Look, I didn’t call the reporter. She called me. Don’t give out my number if you don’t want me talking to the press.”

 
; “We’re trying to get some good publicity for the rink, Devlin. You’re not helping,” a third voice said.

  “Don’t give me that, Beliveau. You just want to boost your hockey program. I’ve already got ESPN interested in my top pair. We’ll get more of that when we have a first-rate service to offer top skaters, like what was promised me. My reputation brings in the press. Big-time coverage, not some amateur story in your local rag.”

  “What do you have to complain about? I advanced you the money you wanted. You have everything you need here,” Coddington said.

  “This place is a far cry from the rosy picture you painted, Coddington.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Look around. It’s a dump!”

  “A dump! How dare you—?”

  “Our contract called for a dance studio. Where’s my spring floor? Where’s my ballet bar, my Bose sound system? You call a couple of mirrors, some rubber mats, and a boom box a dance studio?”

  “Has that baby Olshansky been complaining?”

  “What’s the matter, Beliveau? Has he been hitting on your girlfriends again?”

  “Cut it out, you two,” Coddington rasped. “I laid down a fortune to move you here, Devlin. When I see a return on my investment, we can upgrade the dance studio.”

  “You haven’t had any ‘return on your investment,’ as you so nicely put it, with your hockey team, yet you managed to set up a shiny new locker room for Beliveau’s players. I can’t attract top-flight skaters with a second-rate facility. You live up to your promises or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what? You have a contract, Devlin. If you think—”

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” Lyla said from close behind me. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Oh, you startled me. No, thank you, dear.”

  “Are you feeling all right? No headache from the fall earlier?”

  “I’m fine, Lyla. I was just exploring, seeing the changes that Mr. Coddington has made.”

  “Well, let me show you around,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the argument.

  The voices fell silent.

  Lyla walked in front of me. When she reached Coddington’s office, she pulled the door closed. “I think they might like some privacy,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  Chapter Six

  The following morning I was in Mara’s Luncheonette, a popular dockside restaurant in downtown

  Cabot Cove and home to the best blueberry pancakes in all of Maine, maybe all of the country. In addition to serving good food, Mara’s was a prime spot in the town’s gossip league, which also included Sassi’s Bakery and the Cabot Cove Post Office. And, of course, there was always Loretta’s Beauty Shop. Among them they regularly scooped the Gazette on local news, which was why Evelyn Phillips made certain to stop at each place on an almost daily basis. On this morning she was detailing her plans for coverage of rehearsals for the upcoming skating exhibition. She buttered her toasted bagel and tapped the lip of her cup to show Mara she wanted more coffee.

  “Our regular photographer ran out on me,” Evelyn said to me. “He’s driving his daughter up to school in Montreal. He should be back in time for the exhibition, but in the meantime Richard Koser said he’d take pictures for me on Saturday. He’s calling himself the paper’s ‘second-string photographer,’ told me to order him business cards with that title. Smart aleck! But I need him. I’m going with a double truck of photos in the center of the issue. It’s a slow news week.” She took a bite of her bagel.

  “What’s a double truck?” Mara asked.

  “That’s newspaper talk for a two-page centerfold,” I said, saving Evelyn from having to speak with her mouth full.

  “Well, why didn’t you just say so? ‘Double truck’ sounds like a tandem tractor trailer.”

  Evelyn swallowed and took a sip of her coffee. “I don’t like to refer to a centerfold in the newspaper,” she said. “People always get the wrong idea.”

  “You mean no naked pictures of Alexei Olshansky or Brian Devlin?” Mara said, chuckling. “Too bad. I kinda like that idea.”

  “See what I mean?” Evelyn said. “Who’s the new waiter?” she asked, cocking her head toward a young man delivering two orders of pancakes to a table by the window. “Haven’t seen him around before.”

  “I think I saw him at Charles Department Store the other evening,” I said.

  “That’s Tommy Hunter,” Mara replied. “Isn’t he just the cutest kid?” She lowered her voice. “Came up from New York City. Told me he lost his folks a few years ago in a car wreck, poor thing. He’s working his way through college.”

  “He looks too young for college,” Evelyn said.

  “He showed me his California driver’s license. He’s twenty-one.”

  “I thought you said he was from New York,” Evelyn said.

  “Must have moved there from California,” Mara offered.

  “How did you find him?” I asked.

  “He found me,” Mara replied. “He had breakfast here a few days ago, raved about my pancakes, paid his bill, then asked if I had any openings for work.”

  “Smart kid,” Evelyn said. “He knew right away how to get around you.”

  “At least he paid his bill first,” Mara said. “But he’s been a big hit since he started. Real mannerly. A little shy. He offered to teach me how to use the computer for my accounting. I don’t know if I’ll take him up on it, though. Those machines scare me.”

  “Mara, you’ve had that computer for three years,” I said. “You must use it for something. Don’t you?”

  “Just to e-mail my sister in Bangor.”

  “You could just as easily call her up,” Evelyn pointed out.

  “I do that, too. Anyway, Tommy said he’d show me what I need to do. I think he’s a good addition to the staff.”

  “I’m sure he is,” I said.

  “Let me introduce you.” Mara called out, “Tommy, come meet these ladies while I go refill this pot.”

  “I’ll refill it for you, if you like,” Tommy said. He was a slight young man with close-clipped sandy hair and a baby face.

  “Isn’t he sweet?” Mara said. “No, thanks, hon. The coffee is my job. How else would I learn about what’s going on in this town if I didn’t go table to table? Say hello to Evelyn Phillips and Jessica Fletcher. Mrs. Phillips is the editor of the town paper, and Mrs. Fletcher is our resident celebrity.”

  “Mara, please,” I said.

  “Well, you are, Jessica, and I like to brag about you.”

  “Wh-why are you a celebrity, Mrs. Fletcher?” the young man asked.

  “You see, Mara, I’m not such a celebrity as you think.”

  The young man’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “She wasn’t a finalist on American Idol,” Evelyn put in. “That’s probably why you don’t know her name.”

  “This is the famous J. B. Fletcher,” Mara said.

  “Stop that, you two.” I turned to Tommy. “I write mysteries under the name J. B. Fletcher. If you’re not a mystery fan, you wouldn’t have heard of me. And even if you are, you might not have heard of me.”

  “Nonsense,” Evelyn said. “If he reads mysteries, he knows your name.”

  “Um, I don’t read much, I mean books, that is, actually. I’m kind of more of a sports fan,” he said, looking nervous. “Can I get you anything? Mara has a terrific special, chicken noodle soup, perfect for a cold day.” He pulled a black pencil from behind his ear and started scribbling on his order pad, clearly eager to make his escape.

  “I’m fine,” Evelyn said. “The bagel is enough, but I wouldn’t mind more coffee.” She eyed Mara’s empty pot.

  “Coming up,” Mara said and went behind the counter.

  “I’ll have a cup of the soup,” I said, “and some whole wheat toast.”

  “Speaking of a cold day,” Evelyn said after Tommy went to fill my order, “it’s supposed to snow like the dickens this weekend. I’m
praying it won’t interfere with the rehearsals. That’s my lead story. That and the Russians in town. I bet their government is hopping mad that Alexei and Christine are going to skate for America in the next Olympics.”

  “They haven’t even skated together in public yet. It’s a little early to assume they’ll make the Olympic team,” I said. “And doesn’t he have to have American citizenship first?”

  “He does, I think. I’ll ask Devlin. He’s addressing the Cabot Cove Chamber of Commerce today. I’m going to stop by before I meet Richard at my office. Want to join me?”

  “Yes, I’d like to hear his talk.”

  “Thought you might. How’s the skating going? Heard you took a tumble.”

  “I was hoping no one would hear about that. Who told you?”

  “Doc Hazlitt.”

  I sighed. “I have to admit that Seth cautioned me about falling.”

  “Lyla, the assistant coach at the ice arena, also mentioned it to me, but I don’t plan to put it in the paper. I’m not that desperate for news.”

  I laughed. “I appreciate that.”

  “What made you decide to take up skating again?”

  “You’re partially responsible.”

  “I am?” Evelyn looked at me skeptically.

  “I’ve been reading all your coverage of the renovations to the rink, and the excitement about the pairs program and the new coach. I guess I just got a yen to try it again.”

  “If you say so, Jessica, but I’m no lumper’s helper. Sure you don’t have some other motive, something else up your sleeve?”

  I smiled. “You’re looking for news where there is none, Evelyn.”

  “We’ll see,” she said, wrapping the second half of her bagel in a napkin and tucking it in her shoulder bag.

  We left Mara’s and walked over to Nudd’s Bait & Tackle, where the chamber of commerce was meeting. Nudd’s was the center of attention in the summertime, when Cabot Cove was filled with tourists and fishermen. Its barnlike interior was a popular stop, especially for children, who goggled at the huge fish mounted high on the walls and rafters, the small whale arched over one of the doors, and a fierce-looking shark over another. But business dwindled in the winter. Any fishermen going out had stocked up before dawn, the busiest time, and the remainder of the day for Nudd’s was mostly long and empty. To fill his time and space—and sell the occasional item—Nudd volunteered his store for local gatherings. While the town’s other fraternal organizations—the Lions, Moose, garden club, Rotary, and others—held their meetings at local restaurants, Cabot Cove’s chamber of commerce chose Nudd’s because he was an active member and to show its support for local businesses. He didn’t charge a fee for using the space, which warmed everyone’s thrifty Yankee souls; attendees paid only for the buffet lunch, which was catered by Mara’s Luncheonette.