Skating on Thin Ice (8 page)

“I’m not the one,” Evelyn said, looking up from her pad, where she’d been jotting notes. She shook her head and pointed a finger at me.

“Thanks, Evelyn,” I said under my breath, straining to keep a smile on my lips.

“No problem.”

“I hope to see more of you in this room enjoying yourselves on the ice,” Devlin resumed, recapturing his audience.

The whole town would now know I was skating, and I had no doubt that news of my fall was a topic of conversation at the town’s gossip centers.

“Skating as a recreational sport started in Europe, but it was actually an American by the name of Jackson Haines who first introduced the kind of figure skating we’re familiar with today,” Devlin said, pushing a button.

An old photograph, probably a daguerreotype, appeared on the screen. Haines’s costume looked like something designed for an opera or ballet, with an elaborately striped, trimmed, and belted tunic over short pantaloons, with matching cap. The boots of his skates were high and topped with fur trim.

“At the time—we’re talking the middle of the nineteenth century—his combination of skating and dance with a free-flowing style was at odds with the stiff and rigid movement people were accustomed to seeing.”

“Nice legs,” Evelyn murmured. “Obviously before Queen Victoria got everyone to cover up.”

“His performances were not embraced here in the States, so Haines moved to Europe, teaching what came to be known as the ‘International Style.’ He was a sensation in Vienna, where he invented the sit spin, still one of our basic spins today. But the first competition here in the International Style didn’t take place until many years after his death, in 1914, in New Haven, Connecticut.”

Devlin moved to present-day topics and spoke for another ten minutes, detailing the many offerings of the Cabot Cove Ice Arena, even touching on Luc Beliveau’s hockey program, although not with enthusiasm.

“Before we go, I’d like to introduce some of our stars of tomorrow,” he said.

He extended his hand toward a table to his right, its occupants shielded from my view.

“Stand up and let them see you,” he said. “Here’s Christine Allen, Alexei Olshansky, Marisa Brown, and Jeremy Hapgood.”

The four skaters stood and turned to the audience, waving and smiling, while the chamber of commerce audience applauded. Several people took pictures of them with their cell phones.

“These are pairs we are currently training for competitions. Marisa and Jeremy are local talents. They train with Mark Rosner. Christine and Alexei train with me. They moved here from far away, Chris from San Francisco and Alexei all the way from Moscow, Russia. We’re hoping to make Cabot Cove a major training center for pairs skating in the U.S. There’s another pair—exceptionally talented—who are weighing whether or not to come to Cabot Cove to join our program.”

Both Christine and Alexei turned to look at Devlin. Apparently his announcement was a surprise to them. He waved the quartet back into their seats.

“That’s why it’s so important that the services we provide live up to the needs of our elite skaters. Skating is an expensive sport. It could cost upward of seventy thousand dollars for an elite skater to reach the Olympics. Skates alone can be a thousand dollars a pair. Throw in lessons, ice time, off-ice training, costumes, travel, and a host of other expenses. It adds up pretty fast. But you can help our American teams. If anyone wants to talk with me about sponsorship, I’ll be here for a while after the meeting. Please support our skaters. Come to next week’s exhibition and take advantage of the facilities and programs that the Cabot Cove Ice Arena has to offer. I hope to see you all there.”

“I didn’t realize they were up there at the table,” Evelyn said to me, a look of consternation on her face. “I would’ve made sure that Richard came here to grab some shots.”

“Perhaps one of those people who took pictures of them just now would be glad to share them with you,” I said.

“A cell phone photo won’t be sharp enough for the paper,” Evelyn said. “Excuse me.” She headed for the front of the room.

I lingered while the audience filed out. There was a small crowd around Devlin, mostly women, peppering him with questions, Evelyn among them. The athletes had wandered to the back of the store and were browsing the shelves. They’d come with Devlin and were awaiting their ride back to the rink.

“Cut it out, Olshansky,” I heard Jeremy bark.

I turned to see the two young men straining toward each other. Marisa was tugging on Jeremy’s elbow. Christine had stepped in front of Alexei and was pushing him back, her hands on his chest.

Alexei let out a stream of Russian I was grateful I didn’t understand, and spat in Jeremy’s direction.

Devlin abruptly detached himself from his admirers and rushed to intercede. He stepped between them, pushed Christine aside, and grabbed a handful of shirt on each man, hauling them to his side. “If I see another squabble between you two, one of you won’t take another step onto the rink, and I think you know, Hapgood, who that will be. As for you, Alexei, you’re one step closer to getting on an Aeroflot flight home. You’re both jeopardizing something I’ve worked a long time for, and I won’t let it happen. You understand me?” His gaze switched from one to the other.

“Hey, you broke my necklace,” Alexei complained.

Devlin relaxed his grip, and the skater’s gold chain slithered to the floor.

“Fix it and bill me,” his coach said as the Russian knelt to retrieve his jewelry.

“He better keep his hands to himself,” Jeremy ground out. “He thinks he’s above the law, and he isn’t.”

“What happened this time?” Devlin asked.

All four were silent.

“You want it that way, all right,” Devlin said. He pushed Jeremy Hapgood away. “Find your way home.”

“Why me? How am I supposed to get there? I drove here with you.”

“You live in this town. Find someone to take you home. I don’t want to see you at the rink until tomorrow.”

“I’m on duty this afternoon, and we’re supposed to rehearse tonight.”

“Someone else will take your place. I’ll tell Mark you’ll rehearse tomorrow. Get out of here.”

Jeremy shook himself and picked up his jacket. “Come on, Marisa. We’re outta here.”

“She stays,” Devlin said, glaring at the younger man, daring him to contradict what he’d said. “You’re on thin ice, Hapgood, no pun intended.”

“Go on, Jer,” Marisa said. “I’ll call you later.”

As Jeremy punched one arm into his jacket and stomped out of the store, Alexei slipped his hand into his pocket and then put something on a nearby shelf.

Devlin turned to Christine. “I want to know what happened, and I want to hear about it now.”

She looked down at the floor and mumbled something.

Marisa jumped in. “It wasn’t anything, Mr. Devlin,” she said. “Alexei just bumped into me accidentally, and Jeremy, he ... he thought it was on purpose. I tried to tell them that it was just a mistake, but they started to fight anyway. It’s all over now.”

Christine looked at Marisa, who avoided her eyes. She looked up at Alexei. His face was impassive, but he tapped his foot nervously.

“We’re leaving,” Devlin said. “Marisa, you sit up front with me. Go wait in the car. All of you.”

Devlin turned. The chamber members were still gathered at the front of the store, silently watching. “My apologies,” he said, walking toward them, “but I think we’d better break this up. You’re welcome to come to the rink and talk with me anytime.”

“What was that about?” Evelyn asked.

“A combination of youthful exuberance and too much testosterone,” Devlin replied. “It’s been a while, so I tend to forget how touchy they can be at this age. It explodes and it’s over. They won’t even remember it tomorrow. Thanks again for coming.”

He walked out.

I went to the shelf to see what Alexei had placed there. It was a small piece of faux scrimshaw made of resin in the shape of a shark’s tooth. A drawing of Nudd’s Bait & Tackle had been etched on it. The label on the bottom said it was priced at twenty-five dollars. I gazed around. Similar scrimshaw carvings in Nudd’s were displayed in a case against the wall. I took the piece and returned it to its rightful place, wondering all the while what it had been doing in Alexei’s pocket.

“A
re you skating again, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I thought I would, Lyla. As you said, it’s important to get back on the ice. But I came a bit early to watch the practice. Are those people press?”

“Uh-huh. They’re from some celebrity Russian TV show.”

A bright light lit up the side of the rink. A camera crew was interviewing Alexei Olshansky, but the person holding the microphone was not whom I expected. Instead of the glamorous young woman I’d seen in Charles Department Store, this reporter was a stocky fellow in a double-breasted black topcoat and black sheepskin hat. In his figure skates, Alexei loomed over the older man. The two conversed casually in Russian while a third man adjusted the focus of the large camera balanced on his shoulder.

Devlin paced impatiently, making a show of pulling up the sleeve of his down jacket to look at his watch.

The cameraman nodded, and the reporter spoke into his microphone, then thrust it up to the mouth of the skater. Alexei appeared thoughtful and replied in Russian. Several more questions and answers followed, until the reporter’s next question elicited a frown. Olshansky made a cutting motion with his arm. The camera kept rolling. There was a heated exchange; the only words I caught were a name: Irina Bednikova. She had been Alexei’s former partner, and from what I knew, he’d severed their professional relationship and had come to the United States to skate with Christine Allen. But now I wondered if the customer at Charles might indeed have been his ex. And why would she be here?

“No more,” Alexei said in English.

“What’s going on?” Devlin asked.

“Nothing,” Alexei said. “Let’s get on with the practice.”

“What did he ask you?” the coach demanded.

“He asks about Bednikova. She is history.” Alexei removed his skate guards and entered the ice.

Devlin squinted at his student. “She’d better be,” he said, following him.

Alexei slashed an arm behind his back angrily and glided to where Christine waited.

The cameraman shifted around to focus on the couple on the ice.

Alexei took Chris’s arm, and they began to skate together. The rink was silent except for the grinding sound as their edges dug into the ice. Alexei pulled Chris in front of him, his hands firmly at her waist. They turned together. She put one hand on his wrist, crossed her skates, and bent her knees. In a smooth move, he lifted her, turned, and threw her in front of him. She rotated three times in the air, turning counterclockwise, and landed on one skate with her left foot raised behind her, arms stretched out to the sides.

Devlin watched for a few seconds, then cupped his hands at his mouth and shouted at the reporter’s crew. “Okay, you got your shot. Now get out!” He turned to Chris and Alexei. “You two, wait for me over there.” He pointed to the sound booth by the side of the rink where I stood with Lyla Fasolino.

“But you agreed we could shoot today,” the reporter yelled. “You cannot change your mind now.”

“No more. Your presence is disruptive. My skaters need calm. You got enough. Take your camera and go.”

“I need another angle.”

“You got all the angles you’re going to get. I want you out of here. Do I need to call the cops?”

The reporter yelled something in Russian, followed by, “I am going to complain.”

“Complain all you want. This is my rink when I’m teaching. Get out of here.” He called to Jeremy Hapgood, who stood by the Zamboni, “Make sure they leave.”

Jeremy, who was suited up for hockey, sauntered in the direction of the reporter and cameraman, swinging his hockey stick in front of him. He was tall and broad to begin with, but with the padding of his uniform and the extra height provided by his skates, he appeared to be enormous.

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.”