Skating on Thin Ice (16 page)

“That would be a reasonable explanation for the injuries. I had the staff take additional photos before I sent in tissue samples from the fingers, and also from the cut on his nose that you noticed. I’ll have the specimens examined to determine if there’s microscopic evidence of metal or other fragments.”

“Can you give me a preliminary report, Doc?” Mort asked.

“What the devil do you think I’m doing right now?”

Mort’s eyes sought the ceiling, and he shook his head. “Okay, okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’s just that I need the report in writing for it to be official. I got a lot of people asking.”

“I’ll dictate it before I leave here and have the hospital’s Medical Records send it over to you.”

“That’ll be fine, Doc. Thanks for letting us know.”

I heard Seth harrumph. “Jessica?”

“Yes, Seth?”

“Do you think I should dump out the rest of the dish?”

“I know you hate to see food go to waste, Seth, and so do I. But I wouldn’t want you to get sick. Yes, I think you should discard the stew.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll trust your judgment, which I might add has not been especially solid lately.”

After that comment, he disconnected the call.

T
he first forty-eight hours following the announcement of Alexei’s death had been a madhouse, with camera crews from national networks as well as local stations sending their satellite trucks into town, their cameras capturing reporters posing in front of the Cabot Cove Ice Arena and waxing poetic about the skater, or taking panning shots of the growing mound of flowers in tribute to Alexei that littered the snow outside the main entrance.

Press had camped out in front of the Allen house demanding a statement from Christine, who had gone into seclusion. Mr. Allen had negotiated a single pool interview in which he allowed her to make one short, tearful statement as multiple cameras clicked furiously around her. Then, with an arm protectively around his daughter’s shoulders, he escorted her back into the house, drew the blinds, and waited for the press to melt away. Unfortunately, like the snow, the media lingered in hopes of snatching a candid shot of Alexei’s partner that no one else would have.

The Russian news crew was everywhere in town, having hired a Russian-speaking assistant professor of political science from the University of Maine at Orono to act as translator. They managed to learn about the screws that had been strewn on the ice and other unfortunate incidents that had occurred at the rink, and word around town was that they had cobbled together a story of a vast Western conspiracy to keep Alexei from returning to Russia, and at the same time to ensure he would never again be the skater that he once was.

It seemed that by now everyone in town had learned of Alexei’s death, and theories ran rampant. I hadn’t been back to the arena since Friday, and headed there to see what the staff was saying. It took a while because there was a line of cars snaking in and out of the parking lot as if the building were a drive-by tourist attraction.

Inside, I was surprised to find the place almost empty. A steely-eyed Marisa Brown sat behind the reception desk holding a copy of the
Cabot Cove Gazette
, whose front page featured a photograph of a smiling Alexei Olshansky beneath the headline TRAGIC ACCIDENT ENDS OLYMPIC DREAMS. Under his head shot were two other photos, one of Christine Allen, the other of Alexei’s former partner Irina Bednikova.

“Look at that,” Marisa said hotly. “Irina’s all dressed in black like she knew she was going to have to attend a funeral.”

The photo had been taken at Blueberry Hill Inn, the bedand-breakfast owned by my friends Craig and Jill Thomas. Indeed, Irina was draped head to toe in black; the only spot of light was her tiny white dog, Pravda, into whose furry head she’d buried her face. I was sorry that Irina’s first notification about Alexei’s death had come from the press, who, despite her bodyguards, mobbed her in front of the inn until Jill came out to chastise them and take a sobbing Irina inside.

It was impossible to reach everyone who needed to know about Alexei before information about his death was broadcast. Fortunately, the State Department had alerted our ambassador in Russia, who personally brought the sad news about her only son to his mother. What a terrible task that must be. I was thankful that a seasoned diplomat might know how to deliver the harsh blow without inflicting more pain than necessary.

Eldridge Coddington had insisted that Mort allow him to reopen the rink after two days, and Mort had acquiesced with the stipulation that the Zamboni garage remain off-limits. Just to make sure, he sent two of his deputies to keep curiosity seekers out of the crime scene, but he needn’t have bothered. The hockey rink was dark, and only a few of the regular customers circled the other ice.

Mort had called in Maine’s state police to arrange for the services of its dive team to examine the pit before it was pumped out. While he hadn’t made a public announcement, he was convinced that what we had was a murder, and the dive team was among the forensic specialists needed to comb the Zamboni garage for clues. Who knew what could be sitting six feet below the surface? Mort feared that letting the water out could disturb a crucial piece of evidence, perhaps even see it disappear down the drain along with the water.

“Why do you think she came here, Mrs. Fletcher?” Marisa asked, pointing to Irina Bednikova’s picture.

“To try to lure Alexei back to Russia, so she could be his pairs partner again.”

“I wish she’d succeeded,” she said. “Then we wouldn’t have this mess. People keep asking me questions, taking pictures, leaving flowers, yak, yak, yak, everything Alexei. That’s all I hear. I’m sick of it. Sick of
him
.” She stopped and looked around, realizing someone might misinterpret what she was saying, but no one else was nearby.

“Look, I’m sorry he’s dead. Really. I know I said I didn’t like him, but I’m sorry he died. He was pretty young, too. I never knew anyone that young who died before. It’s really weird. I just saw him on Friday, and now he’s never coming back again. Am I awful that I didn’t like him? Why couldn’t he have been nicer? I never said anything bad about him, at least not to his face.”

Lyla, who had been listening in on our conversation, took Marisa by the shoulders and turned her around. “I think you need to take a break,” she said. “Go lie down on the sofa in my office.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Go! I don’t want to see you for ten minutes.”

“Do you have a minute to talk?” I asked Lyla when Marisa had closed the door to the coach’s office.

“I guess so. I’ve never seen this place so empty. There’s barely anyone here skating, even though the parking lot is full.” She shook her head. “They’re all outside watching the press or waiting for something to happen.”

“That’s just a temporary novelty,” I said. “The skaters will come back.”

She glanced at the door and rubbed the back of her neck. “Not if they’re afraid to come inside where someone died. They’d better get over that fast or we’ll go out of business again.”

“Lyla, may I ask you a few questions about Alexei?”

“Why not? Everyone else has.”

“Last week, when the Russian camera crew was here, why did Alexei get so angry when the reporter brought up his former partner?”

“They didn’t part on good terms. Irina’s been bad-mouthing him ever since. It’s been all over the Internet and on the skating blogs. She was a star at home, the center of attention, and now she’s not. Instead of the talk dying down as it usually would, she continued to fuel the fire.”

“What did she say?”

“There was nothing attributed directly to her, but I knew Irina was behind all those nasty comments being passed around about Chris.”

“What kind of comments?”

“At first, there were ugly rumors circulating that if Chris’s father hadn’t paid off Alexei, she couldn’t have attracted a partner on her own, that she’s not good enough. It’s just not true. Then the rumors said Alexei was getting back together with Irina, and Chris was begging him to stay.”

“It all sounds very dramatic, like a daytime soap opera.”

“You’re not far off. The other day, someone wrote that the only reason Chris and her father moved East was to get away from a stalker. Another blogger said her father was divorcing her mother so she wouldn’t stand in the way of Chris’s career. Chris was very upset by that one. I don’t know where they get these things.” Lyla linked her hands behind her neck, looked down, and sighed. “Anyway, these kinds of rumors happen all the time. Skating is a tight community; there’s a lot of gossip, jealousy, and backbiting. But it can be devastating when you’re the victim of it. Plus, it wasn’t very good publicity for Alexei and Chris starting out together.”

“So Brian Devlin allowed the Russians to film to give them a positive story to cover.”

“That was the idea. In Russia, Irina and Alexei were followed by paparazzi. They were a very volatile couple, always arguing in public, angry at each other, constantly in the press. Sometimes that could translate into passion on the ice. The judges love to see that. But it makes a lot of work for the coach. Their last coach spent half his time trying to get them to skate without killing each other.”

“Doesn’t sound as if it makes for efficient practices,” I said.

“It sure doesn’t. Brian had a lot of reservations about bringing Alexei over. But Mr. Allen was convinced he was the right partner for Chris. Heaven only knows why. The combination of a black skater with a white skater means that you’re taking a chance.”

“Why is that? Do you think some judges would have been prejudiced against them?”

“Judges are human beings. The scoring system in competitions has always been controversial. You’re bound to find some prejudiced judges. Why stack the deck against the pair to begin with?”

“It didn’t seem to hurt a German pair who were successful,” I said. “They were an interracial couple, and they went on to win the world championship.”

Lyla sighed. “There are always exceptions.”

“Maybe Chris and Alexei would have been an exception, too,” I said.

“We’ll never know now.”

 

I left Lyla at the desk and wandered past the rows of fifty-cent lockers toward the concession stand, where Joe the security guard was getting a cup of coffee. I looked around. Mort and I hadn’t found Alexei’s skates in his apartment. They must be somewhere here at the rink. Surely, the staff and elite-caliber skaters like Alexei and Christine wouldn’t be expected to put in quarters in order to have a place to stash their possessions.

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher. Feeling better?” Joe asked when I came up to him.

“Oh, yes, much.” I thanked him again for having driven me to the ER and asked where the skaters in training had lockers.

“Behind the new hockey locker room,” he replied. “Used to be the old hockey locker room. All the coaching staff and special students have lockers back there, if they want to use them. Most don’t bother.”

I thanked Joe and pulled out my cell phone, dialing Mort’s number as I walked toward the new area. I told him about the special locker room.

“See if you can find his locker. I’ll be there in a little while,” he said. “I’m on the phone with the leader of the dive team.”

Walking past the hockey locker room, I came upon a door marked STAFF. It was locked. Retracing my steps to the front desk, I caught Lyla as she was donning her jacket and gloves.

“Why do you need to see Alexei’s locker?” she asked when I requested the key to the staff area.

“The sheriff is gathering his personal effects to send home to his family,” I said. It wasn’t entirely untrue; I didn’t want to raise any eyebrows if I admitted that Alexei’s possessions might yield some understanding of his death.

“I don’t ever use those lockers since I have an office here, but Marisa has a master key,” she said.

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Stay here. I’ll get it for you.”

She returned a few minutes later with the key on an oversized key ring. “Return it to Marisa when you’re done,” she said.

When I unlocked the door marked STAFF, I found myself in a small anteroom that had two doors leading from it into separate areas labeled MEN and WOMEN. Obviously, Alexei’s locker would be in the section reserved for men—which posed a question for me. Did I dare enter that area and perhaps embarrass myself, not to mention whoever might be there, possibly undressed? I put my ear to the door and focused my hearing on the other side. Nothing. I took a breath, knocked on the door, waited a moment, then put my hand on the brass plate and pushed it open. The hinges squealed, but I had hesitated for nothing. The room was empty. It was much smaller than I anticipated, and pretty run-down. Clearly, this was an area of the ice arena that Coddington hadn’t gotten around to renovating. Eldridge had spent his money on places the public would see but had held back when it came to staff accommodations and, according to Devlin’s complaints, behind-the-scenes amenities for his students.

A row of lockers was on my left. Scarred wooden benches ran their length. At the far end was a door that led to the showers. I listened intently again. No sound of running water. I peeked in. The shower section had been added when the new hockey locker room had been built. The tiles were gleaming; it looked as if it had never been used.

I walked back along the lockers and read names on pieces of white tape affixed to the doors. Most of the lockers were open, but a few weren’t. I found what I was looking for. The black writing on the tape said
AO
, which had to be the initials for Alexei Olshansky. An old padlock was inserted through the hole in a flange on the door that lined up with an identical one on the locker. Where was the key? Mort and I hadn’t found any keys in our cursory search of Alexei’s apartment. Could the key be at the bottom of the pit?