Skating on Thin Ice Read online

  I looked to where Alexei and Christine stood and saw Alexei smirk. He pulled Chris into his side, wrapped his arm around her shoulder, tipping his head over to rest on hers, and wiggled his fingers at the departing camera crew.

  The two men walked swiftly toward the exit. Devlin’s eyes never left them, his expression furious. When he heard the sound of the heavy door slamming shut, he skated over to his students.

  “That was quite a show,” he said. “I don’t recall telling you to practice the throw triple loop.”

  “We haven’t practiced it,” Chris said brightly, smiling up at Alexei, who grinned back. “That was our first time.”

  “You don’t do any elements until I tell you to—especially not in front of a camera. Do I make myself clear?”

  The skaters’ smiles faded.

  Devlin addressed Alexei. “You got away with it today, but what if she wasn’t ready? What if she fell, was injured? Not only could you have scuttled your chances to make the next competition; your friends back in Moscow would have gotten quite a sight of your new American partner collapsed on the ice. That would have given some people we know satisfaction, wouldn’t it?”

  “But Chris did not fall. She did it perfectly.”

  “I say when she does it perfectly. Not you.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Devlin narrowed his eyes. “Okay, big shots, you want to do throw jumps? That’s what we’ll practice today. But only a double. This time I want to see the entrance with a Mohawk turn.”

  Lyla nervously twisted the chain she always wore and said to me in a low voice, “Oh, boy, Mr. Allen is not going to like that. Chris just got the stitches out of her chin last night. If she falls facedown again, the wound might open.”

  “Do camera crews come here often?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Because this is a new program, we’re getting a lot more attention. A sports writer for the New York Times arrived yesterday and wants to interview Devlin’s students. Usually it’s pretty quiet here, but having big names like Christine and Alexei changed things. I suppose the fact that he’s Russian makes it an even better story. The Russians are irritated that Alexei is skating for America, calling him a traitor, although it’ll be a couple of years before he can apply for citizenship.”

  “There was bound to be some reaction like that,” I said. “Wasn’t there a Japanese girl who skated for Russia? She was the victim of a lot of name-calling, as I remember.”

  Lyla nodded. “Well, this is complicated by the fact that Irina hasn’t found another partner as good as Alexei. I haven’t seen her, but there’s a rumor around town that she’s here gunning for him.”

  My second time on the ice was an improvement over the first—at least I didn’t fall. But the skills I’d possessed in my youth did not return with the speed with which I’d hoped. I made a dozen circuits around the rink, sticking close to the boards just in case, after which I came off the ice and sat on one of the metal benches in the bleachers to catch my breath. Skating was hard work. Stroking around on a quarter-inch-wide blade meant constantly being aware of my posture, keeping my weight toward the middle or the front of the blade—not too far forward or the pick would scrape the ice, but not too far back either. That’s how I’d fallen the last time, and I was determined to not allow it to happen again. Most important, I had to remember to breathe. I’d found myself holding my breath whenever I hit a rough patch in the ice, and there were lots of them. No wonder I was panting.

  “You’re doing very well out there today. Are you going to become a regular?” The speaker was the lady who’d worn a pink angora sweater the first time I’d skated. Today her sweater was powder blue. “May I join you?”

  “By all means,” I said, moving to the side, “although I warn you, this bench is icy cold.”

  “Oh, I’m used to that,” she said. “My name is Muriel Charney. That’s my husband, Larry, the speed skater.” She waved at Larry as he streamed by, bent at the waist, left arm resting on his back, right arm swinging out in front of him.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Oh, I know who you are. Everyone in Cabot Cove knows you’re a famous writer of murder mysteries.”

  “That’s very kind,” I said, “but right now I’m just another person trying to get her skating legs back. You and your husband are both wonderful skaters. Have you been at it long?”

  “Larry’s been skating for fifty years. He skated as a young man and never stopped. It’s great exercise, and he loves it.”

  “And you? How long have you been skating?”

  “Let me think. It’ll be five years this May. That’s how long Larry and I are married. So I’ve been skating for six years. How long had it been since you were on the ice?”

  “A good twenty years, I think.”

  “It gets tougher as you get older. These knees and hips are not what they used to be.”

  “So I’m finding out,” I said.

  “But I do love it. Even with this gray hair, I get out on the ice and I imagine I’m an Olympic champion like Peggy Fleming or Dorothy Hamill. I’m dating myself, of course. They were from the sixties and seventies.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t say Sonja Henie,” I said, laughing. “That would be going back to the twenties or thirties when she won the title.”

  “Ooh, I loved her movies on television when I was a little girl. Have you had enough of a rest? Are you ready to go back on the ice?”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said, “if only to get off this freezing bench.”

  “Whatever motivation it takes,” she said, laughing.

  We stroked around the rink together, and I found myself relaxing. Muriel was a talker as well as a skater. Just by trying to keep up with her, I was gaining more confidence as we circled the rink.

  “Have you seen the any of the figure skaters that train here yet?” she asked.

  “I watched Alexei and Christine for a few minutes this morning,” I replied. “It’s nice that they block some time for the public to watch.”

  “Christine Allen is lovely, isn’t she? But he’s a handful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He gets into so many scrapes. Someone is always yelling at him.”

  “How do you know?”

  “When you’re here every day, you see things,” she said, chuckling. “I don’t know about you, but I find that the older I get, the more invisible I am to younger people. They don’t hesitate to speak or act out in front of me. It’s as if I’m not there.”

  “I find it hard to believe that you’re invisible,” I said. “You’re too pretty for that.”

  “You’re a flatterer. Perhaps a better way to put it is that you become so familiar to the younger people around you, they don’t pay attention to you anymore. Whatever it is, it allows me to be privy to conversations and arguments that, had they thought about it, they might have moved to a more private location.”

  “Who yells at Alexei other than his coach?”

  “Well, he and Jeremy over there will never be best friends.”

  “Yes, I gathered they’re not fans of each other’s.”

  “I think Jeremy has a crush on Christine. That’s what I told Larry. Alexei’s probably afraid if Chris returns Jeremy’s affection, it will jeopardize Alexei’s position. So what does he do? He goes after Marisa, but not nicely, not flirting or anything. He teases her mercilessly. Tells her she needs to watch him and Chris if she wants to see what real skating is about. Just little taunts to undermine her confidence.”

  “Marisa certainly doesn’t like him.”

  “I don’t blame her. He makes her cry. Alexei obviously has a mean streak. He was called on the carpet for it yesterday.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure of the exact circumstances, but Larry and I overheard Mark Rosner—he’s one of Marisa’s coaches—tell Alexei off. He threatened to report him, said his behavior was unbecoming and not gentlemanly. There�
�s a code of conduct for skaters here. Lots of rinks have them, especially if they run freestyle sessions for competitive skaters. You could have several pairs on the ice at the same time. There’s a need for rules, and respecting your fellow skaters is a big one.”

  “It’s a good idea,” I said.

  “Well, Mark was hot under the collar. I think his remarks went beyond the gentlemanly. The two of them went at each other.”

  “Physically?”

  “And how. Mr. Devlin had to pull them apart.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “You said it. ‘Oh, my,’ indeed.”

  “I hadn’t realized,” I said.

  “Stick with me, Jessica. You’ll get all the gossip while you relearn to skate. See how nicely you’re doing now? Come back tomorrow and we’ll skate together again.”

  I happily agreed. I was gaining confidence with every turn on the ice. If I kept it up I might even invite Seth Hazlitt to watch me.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’ll see a big difference with this pair,” Lyla told me the next day as Evelyn Phillips and I watched her sift through a pile of CDs looking for the music for Marisa and Jeremy’s exhibition program. Across the rink, Richard Koser focused his camera on the skaters.

  “Are Christine and Alexei so much better?” I asked.

  “Their skills are at a higher level, of course, but the real difference is in their styles. You’ll see what I mean.” She extracted one CD case, put it aside, leaned over the gate, and called to Mark Rosner, who was directing Marisa and Jeremy on the ice as the two ran through their program. “Let me know when you’re ready for the music.”

  “A few more minutes,” he called back. He turned to his students. “No lifts today, no throws,” he said. “I want Jeremy’s hand to heal before we put pressure on it.”

  A young man in a black ski jacket came through the rink door, tucking his bare hands under his arms.

  “Hello, Tommy,” said Evelyn. “Did Mara give you the day off?”

  “No, ma’am. I have to be there in an hour,” he said, hopping up and down. “It’s fr-freezing in here.”

  Evelyn introduced Mara’s newest employee to Lyla.

  “Mara’s great to work for,” Lyla said. “I waitressed there when I was in high school.”

  “Yeah? She’s nice.”

  “I think I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?” she said.

  “Um, I might’ve been here once. I like to watch the skaters.”

  “Ever try it yourself?” I asked.

  “No. I’m, um, I was raised on a ranch in Nevada. It never snows there.”

  “It snows in the mountains,” Lyla said. “I skied at Lake Tahoe.”

  “Well, I’m from the southern part of the state, the flatlands.”

  “I thought you told Mara you were from California,” I said.

  “No. No. Only recently, when my folks moved West. Sold the ranch, the whole bit.” His expression became sad for a moment. “Before they, um, before they died.” He brightened. “But I’m a Down-Easter now. Isn’t that what you folks say? Anyway, I came to see the famous skaters.” He shivered and clapped his hands on his arms. “Where are they?”

  “Yes, Lyla, where are Chris and Alexei this morning?” Evelyn asked. “I was hoping Richard could get some shots of them.”

  “They’ll be back, but not for a while. They have the ice booked after the lunchtime public session,” Lyla said, looking at her watch.

  “Nuts!” said Evelyn. “I was sure we’d catch them now. I can’t believe I have such bad timing.”

  “You mean I came here and they’re not going to show up?” Tommy said.

  “Ordinarily, this is when they would be here, but they switched practices with Jeremy and Marisa,” Lyla said. “Mr. Allen was planning to take them for final fittings on their new costumes. They need to skate in them before the exhibition to make sure nothing binds them or flies up in their face while they’re moving.”

  “Aw! I was counting on seeing Christine,” Tommy said. “She, ah, I mean, I heard so much about her. She’s a great skater.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve missed them. I can let her know a fan stopped by.”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Why not stay and watch Marisa and Jeremy? They’re getting better with each practice session.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so. I gotta get to work anyway.” He walked away, yanked open the door to the rink, and left it ajar.

  “I guess they’re not famous enough for him,” Lyla said, smiling.

  Mark waved at Lyla, and she pressed the PLAY button. The strains of the love theme from Tchaikovsky’s “Romeo and Juliet” filled the arena.

  “What do you think?” Lyla asked after Jeremy and Marisa finished the first run-through of their routine.

  “They’re terrific,” Evelyn said. “Unless I can get a better shot of Allen and Olshansky later on, I’ll block them in on the front page.”

  “I like the way they skate,” I said. “They’re not as sophisticated as Chris and Alexei, not as smooth, but their style is very lyrical. You certainly can see the talent, the potential.”

  Lyla sighed. “I know. They’re going to be good. I’d still rather see Marisa stick to singles, but I understand why Mark was so eager to train them. Jeremy is a real natural. Some skaters just are.”

  I heard a sharp bark behind me and turned. A white ball of fluff came barreling through the open door to the rink. It stopped, turned in a circle, then trotted to my side and sat down, tail wagging.

  “Hello, Pravda,” I said, leaning down to give the dog a pat on its head.

  Pravda’s owner, wearing a fur jacket this time over skintight jeans and high-heeled boots, bustled inside and called to her dog in rapid Russian. She’d abandoned the fur hat she’d worn when I first saw her in Charles Department Store. Her blond hair was pulled to the side in a loose ponytail that came over her shoulder. She looked very chic and very young.

  “I look for Alexei,” she said, scooping up her dog and peering across the rink to where Marisa and Jeremy were practicing their spirals, a move in which they leaned forward on one skate, arms outstretched to the sides, the other leg elevated behind them, looking like children pretending to be airplanes. “Is not him,” Irina said. She watched for a moment more and made a face. “Not very good. Free leg not high enough.”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce her to us, Jessica?” Evelyn asked.

  “We haven’t been formally introduced ourselves,” I said, “but I have a pretty good idea that this is Alexei’s former partner.”

  “I’d know her anywhere,” Lyla said coldly. She addressed our visitor directly. “You’re Irina Bednikova. I hope you’re not here to make trouble.”

  “Trouble? What trouble? I am here, speak to Alexei. Where he is? And where this famous coach is I never hear of? Devman? Devin?”

  “Devlin,” Lyla ground out. “You’re too late,” she said. “They were here early this morning but left about an hour ago.”

  “I am not finding him? Such bad. Alexei comes back, yes? I will wait. We must talk.”

  Richard Koser had made his way to our side of the rink and began to shoot pictures of Irina.

  “Evelyn, do you have to?” Lyla asked.

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” She addressed Irina: “Is this your first trip to the United States, Ms. Bednikova?” she asked, pen poised over pad.

  “Da! I come only to take Alexei back. He runs away from home. Silly boy. But he knows he never find better partner than Irina.”

  “Does Alexei Olshansky know you’re here?” Evelyn asked.

  “I send word, but he hides from me like little baby.”

  “He’s been at the rink every day this week,” Lyla said. “I’d hardly call that hiding.”

  “I want he should come see me,” Irina said, “but now I lose the patience. Is coming time to go home. Is enough stubbornness. He has plenty time for to see this Christine not as good as Bednikova. Is
a little girl, no? Bednikova is a woman. I bring the heart.” She pounded a fist on her chest, causing the dog to raise its head in alarm. Irina stroked Pravda’s fur. “Alexei leave his poor mother at home. She is—how you say?—pinning for him.”

  “Pining?” Evelyn said.

  Irina waved a hand dismissively. “Alexei’s mother, she tells me, ‘Irina, go bring my Alexei home. He is proud Russian, must not skate for U.S. of A., only for Russia. If not, I will be so embarrassed.’ ”

  “Who will be embarrassed?” Evelyn asked. “You or his mother?”

  “Both of us,” Irina said, taking in a great breath. She let it out in a stream of impassioned Russian.

  “English, please,” Evelyn said. “We don’t have a translator handy. Sorry.”

  “So tiring to speak the English,” Irina said.

  “How come Alexei speaks better English than you do?” Evelyn asked.

  “He have cousin here. He visit when he was little boy. Bednikova has to study the other language. Not the same.” She straightened to her full height, raised her chin, and looked down her nose at Evelyn. “But I speak the English some. You do not speak the Russian at all.”

  “Touché, Evelyn,” I said. “She’s got us there.” I turned to Irina. “How long are you planning to stay in the U.S.?”

  “I have booked flight for Sunday, but now it will snow. So ...” She shrugged her shoulders.

  One of the men I’d presumed to be her bodyguards leaned through the door and called to her.

  “Who is that man?” Evelyn asked.

  “My brother, Maxim Bednikov. He come help me. Together we convince Alexei is time to go home.”

  I had visions of Irina’s brother and the other large man who’d accompanied her hustling Alexei into a car, tying him up, and forcing him onto a plane to Moscow. Perhaps that was what Irina had hoped to do. Apparently the potential kidnap victim was not cooperating.

  “Ms. Bednikova, how long did you skate with Alexei before he abandoned you for America?” Evelyn asked. “And what did you argue about that made him want to leave?”

  Evelyn must have been doing research on the Internet, I thought. But Irina was not fazed by the line of questioning.