Skating on Thin Ice (11 page)

As I’d predicted, there was a game in progress on the hockey rink for the bantam division, a sign said, and a general session was taking place on the ice where I’d skated. Referees in black-and-white striped shirts directed the action in the hockey game, and rink personnel, some of whom I hadn’t met before but who were easily visible in their big brown down jackets, manned the office and skate rental and patrolled the public skating rink.

Mort stopped at the counter in front of the office and showed Marisa his badge. “We got a call to come to the rink. What happened?” he asked.

“I didn’t see anything unless it was the fuss made by Alexei’s former partner. I caught a glimpse of her this morning, and she came back tonight, parading in here in a big fur coat looking for him. I told her that he probably went home, but she wouldn’t listen. She had these two goons with her, and her dog wouldn’t stop barking. She kept insisting Alexei was here and ordering me to go find him and bring him to her.”

“Did you get their names?” Mort asked.

“The woman’s name is Irina Bednikova,” I said to Mort. “One of the men with her is her brother, Maxim. I don’t know who the other man is.” I looked at Marisa. “Do you?”

She shook her head.

“What did you do?” Mort asked Marisa.

“Nothing. I can’t leave my post. Friday is a big night here. Besides, I knew that Alexei wasn’t here. He and Chris had already rehearsed. I saw her here earlier, but she’s probably long gone by now. They never hang around the rink when they can’t use the ice.”

“Who called the police?”

She shrugged. “Not me. Might’ve been Jeremy. The Russians were threatening to search the place.”

“What Russians?” Mort asked.

“Alexei’s former partner and those two big scary-looking guys with her.”

“They’re Russian?”

“Well, of course. Alexei is Russian, isn’t he?”

“Do you know what’s she’s talking about, Mrs. F.?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” I said. “What did you do?” I asked her.

“I told them to go talk with Mr. Coddington.”

“Is he here?” I asked.

“I doubt it. He doesn’t usually come in on a Friday night. I just said that to get them out of my hair. We were busy, and I was afraid those guys would scare some of the little kids. They scared me; that’s for sure.”

“When did they leave?” Mort asked.

“They might still be here for all I know.”

“Where did you see them last?”

“Over there.” She pointed to the staircase leading to the second floor.

I told Mort about the arrival of Alexei’s former partner and her hopes to repatriate him.

“Must be the same people as out at Blueberry Hill Inn,” he said.

We walked past a game room with an array of arcade machines, every one of them being played. The bells, whistles, and other sound effects added to the general cacophony in the building. Maureen covered her ears with her mittened hands, and feeling like a party of visitors exploring another planet, we climbed the steps to an empty hallway.

“How do those parents stand the racket?” Maureen asked.

“They’re used to it,” Mort replied. “Kind of like me and the police siren. Doesn’t hurt my ears anymore. It’s just background noise.”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Seth said. “It’s not as if anyone is hurt, and I’ve toted this heavy bag for nothing. I could be home by a nice fire enjoying my chicken à la Hazlitt, and so could you.”

“I could eat it all myself,” Mort said. “I’m about as hungry as a bear.”

“I don’t serve bears,” Seth said stiffly. “The dish I made for tonight has a subtle blending of spices. It should be savored, not gobbled down.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

Our sheriff walked up and down the corridor trying the doorknobs. All the rooms were locked. He tried pounding on Coddington’s office door, but there was no response.

“I don’t think it’s worth getting the keys,” he said. “Sorry to get you all out for no reason. I’ll talk with Gladys to see if she has more details on what the complaint was about.”

“If we’re finished up here,” I said, “why don’t we get back to Seth’s house and enjoy that dinner?”

Mort hesitated. “Gimme a few more minutes,” he said. “I’d better talk to that guy Jeremy and see if he’s the one made the call.”

“And give him a good dressing-down for dragging us out on a night like this,” Seth grumbled as we headed off in search of Jeremy.

W
hen we returned downstairs, both the hockey game and the public skating session had ended, and one Zamboni was already making its circuit on the ice. Skaters and parents crowded the hall. Seth had gotten waylaid by a mother with a question about her son’s allergy medication, and a small circle had gathered around him. Seeing Seth occupied, Maureen, citing hunger pangs, had joined the line to get a hot dog.

“You know much about this guy Jeremy, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked as we approached the public rink.

“A little. He seems like a nice enough fellow. He has aspirations to become a top skater and works here to help that dream along. You’ve met him. What did you think?”

“Didn’t spend much time with him. Seemed nice enough. Is that him out on the ice driving the Zamboni?”

I stood on my tiptoes and peered across the rink. “I believe it is,” I said.

Mort and I walked toward the boards that separated the ice from the rest of the rink area. A father with a child on his shoulders, and a few small boys who hung on the boards, watched the giant vehicle make its rounds as we moved closer to the gate.

When the Zamboni reached our side of the ice, Mort pulled out his badge and beckoned to Jeremy.

Jeremy put up his index finger, stopped the Zamboni, and fished around under the dashboard. He jumped off the machine, carrying what looked like a joystick for a video game, and slid his way over to where we stood.

“Hang on a second,” he said as he stepped off the ice. “Hey boys, get your arms out of the rink,” he called to the youngsters. The children reluctantly moved back from the railing. “Mr. Gervich, if you stay in here, you have to keep the kids off the boards,” he told the father.

“Sorry, Jeremy. We were on our way out anyway. C’mon guys. Who wants a hot dog before we leave?”

A chorus of “me” followed him from the rink.

Jeremy turned to us. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“What’s that?” Mort said, waving at Jeremy’s hand.

Jeremy looked down at the white tape on his palm. “It’s just a cut. It’s healing up pretty good.”

“No, I mean what’s that thing you’re holding?” Mort asked

Jeremy lifted up the device. “This? It’s a modified throttle quadrant.”

“What in the heck is that?”

“It’s a kind of controller. Originally they were used to run flight simulators. I use mine for Bessie over there.”

“You name your Zamboni machines?” I asked.

“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Show me how that works,” Mort said.

“It’s really not as complicated as it looks,” Jeremy said, balancing the device on the railing and pushing several toggle switches. As he manipulated the controller, the Zamboni engine revved up and the machine lurched forward. “See, I use this joystick to put Bessie into her circuit, then flick this switch to hold her to the pattern. The Zamboni will follow the pattern of increasingly smaller circuits until it turns in a circle in the middle of the rink. At that point you have to stop it or it will keep circling itself until it runs out of gas or digs a hole in the ice.”

“That’s fascinating,” Mort said. “Can I try it?”

“Sure. Just move this yoke to the left. Not too far; that’s it. Now hold her steady. This one controls the speed.”

I cleared my throat. “Mort?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you have a question for Jeremy?”

“Huh? Oh, right.” He handed back the controller. “That’s pretty cool,” he said, “but we need to talk to you about a call to the station that came in tonight.”

Jeremy adjusted his levers, and the Zamboni continued on its route. “Sure,” he said, his eyes following the machine. “What do you want to know?”

“Someone called my office to complain about a fight at the rink.”

Jeremy swiveled to face us. “Sorry! That was me, Sheriff. I totally forgot about that.”

“You
forgot
! You got me all the way out here for nothing?”

“I just forgot to call again when it was over. I’m really sorry. It’s been such a crazy night.”

“What happened?”

“I walk into the garage and find this guy sitting on Audrey. That’s the other Zamboni. I told him he was in a restricted area and that he had to leave. He gives me some lip about lax security. Got really nasty. Wouldn’t get down. I’m yelling at him to get off the machine. I’m responsible for those things; they cost a fortune to repair. And we’ve had so many things go wrong lately. He just sits up there taunting me. Finally, I go to pull him down, and he threatens me, says he’s got a gun. I ran out of there and called your office.”

“You saw the gun?”

“No, but he said he had one.”

“Then what?”

“When I went back to tell him that I’d called the cops, he was gone. I looked around for him, but one of the staff grabbed me. The panel on the hockey rink that fell out earlier was loose again. Lyla got whacked in the head with a puck the first time it fell off. I didn’t want anyone hurt again.” Jeremy raised his hands and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I know I should have called again. I got so busy, it completely slipped my mind.”

“Did you recognize this guy, the one on the Zamboni?”

“I’ve seen him around. Someone said he was thinking of buying the rink. It would be just my luck if he did.”

Immediately I thought of Eve Simpson’s real estate client, Harvey Gemell, and made a mental note to mention him to Mort when we left. If Mr. Gemell was walking around Cabot Cove wielding a gun, our sheriff ought to know it.

“Well, there you go, Mrs. F. That’s what we missed dinner for,” Mort grumbled.

“No harm done, Mort,” I said.

I asked Jeremy, “While you were racing around tonight, did you happen to see the Russian lady and her two large companions? Marisa said they were looking for Alexei.”

He shook his head. “After Lyla got whacked in the head with the puck and left, I’ve been honkin’ all night. If Marisa hadn’t filled in, I’d still be back in the skate rental. I’m basically running the show without the title or money, but please don’t tell the old man Coddington I said so.” He squinted at the Zamboni and pushed a button to stop its progress.

“Something wrong?” Mort asked.

“Looks like the blade is going to need replacing. Just what I need, another thing to do tonight.” He looked at his watch, then used his controller to back the Zamboni up to the garage. “Any more questions, Sheriff?”

“A few.”

“Mind asking them while I replace the blade? Actually, I could use a hand pulling the new one out of its case. It’s heavy, but I can handle it once it’s out.”

Mort looked at me. I shrugged.

“Sure thing,” Mort said. “Where is it?”

“In the garage. Down this way. Same place we talked last time.”

“Do you mind, Mrs. F.?”

“Of course not. I’ll come with you.”

We walked down the narrow aisle along the boards to the area that housed the two Zambonis, and entered through the open garage door. With Bessie on the ramp of one rink, and Audrey on the ramp of the other—poised to go when its driver was free—the space inside appeared even larger and more ominous than it had the other day. A small hill of snow sat on the iron grillwork, a shovel thrust into its side.

“Shoot!” Jeremy said. “Who closed up the grille and turned off the motor?” He grunted against the strain of lifting a panel of the ironwork cover, leaned it against the snow pile, shoveled a fresh layer of snow onto the water, and flipped a switch on the wall, setting off the low hum of a motor. “I train people, but it’s a lost cause,” he said, walking across the garage to a tall door. “The blades are over here, Sheriff. We keep ’em locked up. They can cut a man’s arm off if you’re not careful, but they’ve got guards on them. It’s heavy but not dangerous. If you’ll take that end, I’ll grab this one.”

“Sure thing,” Mort said. “Do you happen to know the name of the guy who was sitting on the Zamboni?”

“I don’t, but I can try to find out.”

“You do that and get back to me. I don’t like the idea of someone wandering around here carrying a weapon.”

“Like I said,” Jeremy said, “I didn’t actually see a gun. He could’ve been bluffing.”

I wandered around the other side of the snow pile and peered into the pit. The perforated pipe that sprayed water on the melting snow wasn’t operating, but whatever motor Jeremy had turned on was making bubbles in the corner of the pool, disturbing some of the snow that floated on the water. I noticed something colored at the edge of the snow. “What’s in the pit?” I called out.

“Just water and snow,” Jeremy answered. “If you can hold up that end, Sheriff, I’ll pull it over here.”

“Wait up a second,” Mort said. “Let me get a better grip.”

“There’s something red in the pit, Jeremy,” I said.

“Maybe it’s a reflection from one of the lights.”

“I don’t think it’s a reflection.”

“Well, don’t get too close. I’ll take a look when we’re done. Over here, Sheriff. Lay ’er down real slow.”

I pulled the shovel from the snow pile and put it in the water, moving it from side to side to try to break up the coating of granulated ice on the surface. The red looked like a piece of fabric. Using the shovel, I pulled it closer to the edge of the pit, knelt down and reached into the frigid water. I gave it a quick tug, but it wouldn’t come out. I let go and shook my hand to rid it of the painfully cold water. “I think it’s a scarf,” I said, “but it’s stuck to something.” I tucked my hand under my arm to warm it up.