by Cleo Coyle
Despite the presence of Bree’s experts, it was Tucker, wielding years of theatrical experience, who took command of this production. With a showman’s eye he made every decision, from the proper hair color to suitable attire.
But it began with everyone staring at my discount sweater and stonewashed denim–clad form. Hands thoughtfully placed on chins, Tuck and his staff offered a critical head-to-toe appraisal of what they saw. (It wasn’t pretty.)
“Boris is right about your face being a mirror image of Kulikovskaya’s, but the resemblance ends there,” Tuck declared. “Your figure is much more . . . shall we say lush? And Galina could have used your rear padding during all those falls in ice dance training.”
“Oh, that’s a tactful way of putting it.”
The hairdresser leaned close, his fingers caressing my chestnut locks.
“Nice color, healthy ends, much too light for Galina,” he declared. “We’ll give her a fast raven wash. And her emerald eyes are all wrong. Miss Kulikovskaya has brilliant sapphire blue eyes.”
Tuck nodded. “No time for a contact fitting. We’ll have to go with snow-blind.”
“Pardon me?”
“‘Galina Kulikovskaya suffered from snow blindness twice in her life,’” Tucker said, reading from her Sports Illustrated profile. “‘First when she was a teen and practicing on the frozen banks of the Kura River in Tbilisi. The second time during the run-up to the Olympics where she won the Gold.’”
Tuck faced the fashion editor. “We need sunglasses. Stylish, but large enough to hide Clare’s eyes.”
The woman scurried off, while the others went to work.
Two hours later, I stared in awe at my own reflection.
My hair was darkened and twisted into a bun; a ribbon of blue silk encircled my neck (to make it appear “swanlike,” apparently); and my “lush” breasts were taped practically flat. They’d blanched my olive skin to a snowy white, using a pound of foundation; painted my lips redder than cherry pie filling; and squeezed my hips into a pair of Spanx. Over my weak protestations, they’d actually double wrapped me with a bikini girdle under the spandex panties.
Swathed in a Fen gown of shimmering blue, I barely recognized the freshly painted, severely flattened, and torturously slenderized me.
“That should attract Ross Puckett’s attention,” Tuck declared. “You’re the perfect bait for Number 88. He’ll skate right to you!”
I hoped so, because I intended to mentally probe the man once I got him alone. Puckett had flirted with Moirin before she was killed, he’d visited with Rita before she was murdered, and he’d had his BMW convertible “stolen” and used as a weapon to kill M’s cousin almost exactly one year ago.
Did it all add up to anything?
I wasn’t entirely sure. But knowing a vicious killer was still walking around out there scot-free, I was absolutely ready to try doing the math. I intended to draw Ross out for answers, but I’d have to draw him in first, and there was no better bait to attract a serial playboy than a pretty, famous, and famously desirable woman.
Despite the need for sex appeal, I protested the dress’s skimpiness. It had nice long sleeves (to hide my bruised arms), but an obscenely short hemline.
Tuck insisted the length was appropriate “to show off your toned skater’s legs.”
“I don’t have skater’s legs!”
“No, but you do have toned legs. They’re very shapely with well-developed calves, not surprising given the hours you spend on your feet at the Blend, plus the daily New York walking.”
“But, really, it’s ridiculously short. If I were to bend over—”
“Take my advice—and don’t.”
“But—”
“Listen, honey. We have to do something to make up for your lack of cleavage. You’re wrapped flat as a hockey puck and covered up everywhere else. Don’t forget, your goal is to attract this jock’s attention.”
“Are you sure it’s not to catch pneumonia? I am going to an ice rink.”
“We have a solution for frostbite!” Tuck announced, stepping aside.
The fashion editor approached, offering me a pair of Kazuo Kawasaki sunglasses and Breanne’s own ankle-length sable coat. “Ms. Summour suggested you borrow it. Galina Kulikovskaya should be swathed in fur.”
I was wrapped in the sable’s warm embrace right now, as the limo rolled up to the Barclays Center. An usher opened the door and cold night air washed over us. Matt climbed out first.
I took a deep breath—cut short when an iron grip closed on my stocking-clad thigh. Breanne leaned close and hissed into my ear.
“If you are exposed as the fraud you are, I am going to claim you fooled me, too. Make no mistake, Clare Cosi. If this masquerade goes south, you’re on your own.”
Breanne released her killer grip, and with a practiced smile she took Matt’s hand and exited the car.
I slipped on my sunglasses, barely rattled. After all, Matt’s new wife was running true to form. When coerced, she was there to help. But when the “fit hit the shan” as my pop used to say, she was “outta there” quicker than a cornered Dublin hood.
“You are Galina Kulikovskaya,” Boris sternly reminded me. “Speak Russian, or not at all.”
The rapper had tried to teach me a few phrases in his native language, but I had trouble pronouncing what was supposed to be my name. Boris suggested I turn my V’s into W’s as Russians do when speaking English. But my decision about my Russian accent had already been made.
“I told you before. I’m sticking with da and nyet. At least until I interrogate Ross Puckett.”
Boris nodded. Then, in a perfect imitation of Matt—or perhaps Yames Bond—he extended his hand to help me exit the limo.
Fifty-seven
BECAUSE this was a private party for a few hundred guests, there were no paparazzi or press lurking at the doors. The only indication of an “event” taking place was a gathering of ushers at the arena entrance. While we checked our coats inside the vast foyer, I whispered to Matt—
“I’m sorry about all this.”
“Sorry? Why?”
“Breanne does not look happy.”
“She’ll get over it. And believe me, I want to catch Moirin and Rita’s killer as much as you do. Besides—” He threw me a reassuring wink. “This little stunt might prove to be a lot more fun that the deadly dull holiday parties I’ve been forced to attend.”
We next descended a flight of stairs and entered a long tunnel. Moments later we exited in the middle of the arena, right beside the ice rink. The arena blazed with lights. Hundreds milled around the buffet table, the wet bar, the children’s snack table.
Nearly invisible in the gloom, thousands of empty seats rose up in tiers under a lofty, steel-framed roof. I was still gazing in awe at the brand-new section of the arena when a familiar voice called my name—well, Galina Kulikovskaya’s name, anyway.
“Evil Eyes” Eddie Rayburn, a fireplug in formal wear, took my hand and graciously kissed it. “A pleasure to meet you,” he cooed.
“Da,” I replied.
For the crowd, I gracefully mimicked the real Galina’s signature gesture, the graceful arm pillow that evoked her famous Sleeping Beauty ballet on ice routine. The move was greeted with excited applause.
“A shame you didn’t let us know you were coming,” Eddie said. “I’m the promoter for this venue. I could have arranged something special with the press.”
Shaking my head, I muttered one of the phrases Boris taught me. (I believe I said, I want a bowl of soup.)
Eddie shot Boris a puzzled look.
“Galina, she say no camera,” Boris explained, thickening his Russian accent. “The champion, she have snow blindness. Bright lights and flashbulb werry bad for eye. Werry, werry bad.”
Eddie nodded. “Ah yes—”
Suddenly an exuberant ten-year-old boy rushed among us, shoving Boris aside and stepping on my designer pumps.
“Adam! Behave like a gentleman!” Dann
i Rayburn cried as she chased after her son. Huffing, she paused to apologize.
“I can’t control him,” Danni said. “My nanny just disappeared on us, and we haven’t hired a new girl yet!”
There was a crash, and all eyes faced the rink. Little Adam, sans ice skates, had rushed onto the ice, slipped, and slammed into a rack of hockey sticks, scattering them.
“Adam Rayburn! You get back here this instant!” Danni yelled.
In response, her son crawled to his feet and slide-skated away on his loafers, brushing ice dust from his little suit.
Meanwhile, Eddie Rayburn assembled the guests and made introductions. While I shook hands and listened to “translations” of everyone’s effusive greetings, I finally spied the other half of the Double D team.
Delores Deluca stood alone near the bar, champagne flute in hand. She observed the guests mingling, and her friend’s frantic attempts at parental control, with bemused disinterest. Then her gaze found me and her disinterest fled. The look on her face turned almost hateful.
She rose from the bar and began to approach. As she neared, however, her nasty expression morphed into one of suspicious curiosity.
Oh crap.
Dolores seemed somewhat smarter than her ditzy friend—not to mention more prickly. I still recalled the glare she gave me last Friday.
Did she recognize me from the toy store Cookie Swap?
Luckily, I was saved by the hockey captain. Before Dolores could get closer, Ross Puckett shouldered through the crowd to speak with me, a look of fanboy adoration on his typically blank face.
“Oh, gee, Ms. Galina . . . I mean Ms. Kulikovskaya. It’s really an honor to meet you. I’m a big fan.”
“Da, da,” I replied, neck craning to address the giant. I extended my hand. Unfortunately Puckett didn’t kiss it in the manner of an Eddie Rayburn. He shook it hard enough to jar my bruises.
Because this invitation-only event was billed as “practice and party,” Ross was in his Raiders uniform, including the famous Number 88 jersey. It was the first time I’d seen him in his natural habitat, and he seemed even larger and more imposing—and, yes, physically scary enough to be a multiple murderer.
“Excuse me,” Eddie cried, rushing up to us. He held something in his beefy hands: a faded pair of pink ice skates. “Remember these?”
Boris pretended to translate. I shook my head.
“Why, these are the skates you wore while performing Sleeping Beauty at Madison Square Garden a few years ago,” Eddie said, loud enough to attract everyone’s attention. “How about you put them on, give us a demonstration.”
Yikes!
Excited applause broke out. Ross joined the chorus, and even insisted on donning his own skates to join me. Boris leaned close, pretending to translate.
“Vat za heck am I supposed to do-sky?” I whispered.
Boris sat me down and pulled off my pumps. As he laced up the skates (which mercifully fit!) he gave me a way out, through rap! “If your back’s to the wall / and there’s no one to call / don’t whine, don’t bawl / just take the fall.”
Off my puzzled look, Boris gestured toward the hockey sticks on the ice.
“Trip,” he said. “And make it look good.”
Fifty-eight
I glided onto the ice to cheers and applause, grateful that my nascent skating skills came back in a mental rush. But twirling and swirling were well beyond me, so I faced the audience, faking them out, yet again, with another signature Galina arm move.
I continued to skate, one foot smoothly in front of the other, which was about all I could manage out here. I couldn’t even use a toe pick! So I swallowed hard and braced myself for some necessary pain.
I turned, gliding backward a bit, as if I were considering which Olympic-level jump to show off. I wanted my fall to look convincing, but I needn’t have worried about verisimilitude, because I’d misjudged the distance to the hockey sticks, and collided with them much sooner than expected.
One second I was moving along, and then I was airborne, staring in shock at the pink ice skates on my feet—only those feet were framed by the lofty ceiling lights high above, not the ice below.
I landed with a jarring thud that bruised my tailbone.
The audience whooshed in a collective gasp. I let fly with a convincing howl of pain—convincing because it really hurt.
Eddie Rayburn paled, as visions of an Olympic-sized lawsuit danced in his head (it was his hell-spawn who scattered those hockey sticks in the first place)! I felt strong but tender hands gather me up, and lift me off the hard, cold ice. Encircled by a pair of powerful arms.
Then a shadow fell over me. I looked up, into the concerned, starstruck face of Ross Puckett.
The guy was built like a Roman god and the skates on his feet flew like Mercury’s wings as he rushed me across the rink’s ice. Before I knew it, we were through a nearly invisible door—a first aid room, I realized.
Inside the brightly lit space, he set me down on an examination table. Then he closed the door and twisted the lock.
“Where does it hurt?” he asked.
“My ankle,” I moaned, though it was really my tailbone that was smarting!
Ross gently removed the ice skate and ran his callused hands along my ankle and up my calf. “There’s no swelling. Let me ice it.”
He tugged off his own skates, crossed to a small freezer, and retrieved a segmented ice pack. He carefully wrapped the cold compress around my lower calf. Then his eyes met mine; well, my sunglasses.
“Better?”
I nodded. “You are werry kind.”
He chuckled. “It’s cute the way you talk.”
Here comes the playboy I knew—and counted on.
I flirtatiously batted my eyelashes before I remembered he couldn’t see them behind my sunglasses. I reached out and touched his hand instead.
“Tank you. For everything,” I said softly.
That was all the encouragement Ross needed. Suddenly I was fending off an octopus.
“Nyet, nyet,” I protested. “Am married voman.”
“Don’t let a little thing like that stop you,” he insisted.
Panting, Ross nuzzled my neck. I pushed him away. Back off, big boy!
“Maybe you need to relax, have a drink,” Ross said, producing a familiar flask. He thrust the container under my nose, but I shook my head and pushed it away.
“Am training.”
“Hell, I’m training every day, and it never stopped me. Come on, give it a try. It’s good stuff. Smirnoff.”
“I drink too much wodka, I womit.” Ooh! That didn’t come out right!
Ross shrugged and took a gulp himself. The alcohol had an immediate effect on his libido and he renewed his assault on my virtue.
“Nyet, my husband werry jealous!” I cried.
“You don’t know jealous,” he replied with a sly laugh.
“Da, I do,” I said. “My husband keel to keep me. And he has dangerous friends who watch my every move. Irish gangsters who do terrible, violent things. Irish gangsters werry bad. Do you know Irish gangsters?”
Ross shrugged again. “I saw The Departed once. I liked Scarface better. Remember the ending?” Ross formed little guns with his fingers and thumbs.
“Bang! Bang! ‘Say hello to my leetle friend!’”
“Nyet. Not Hollywood gangsters. Real gangsters. Irish men who steal cars and like to bet on the ponies and the sports. Crazy, jealous men like my husband.”
Ross scowled and swallowed another snort. “So your husband’s real jealous, hunh?”
I nodded, rolling with his question. “Da. Once husband got behind wheel of BMW convertible. Try to run Galina’s trainer over. He miss, wreck car. He run away, say car was stolen to get insurance.”
“What a coincidence,” Ross said after another toot. “I had my BMW convertible stolen. The crazy bitch wrecked it, too.”
“A girl wreck car?”
“Yeah. She was crazy jealous, too. Loved m
e so much she put an ‘88 is Great’ tattoo where the sun don’t shine!” He winked. “Got hammered one night, took my car out, and smashed the heck out of it.” Ross sighed. “I loved that car.”
“Who vas girl?”
“Sorry, can’t tell you that. It’s complicated . . .”
My mind started working on this revelation—a woman wrecked his car. A “crazy bitch” in his words. Obviously, he’d lied to the police, claiming he didn’t know who stole his car. Maybe he’d lied to protect this woman. More likely he’d lied to protect himself from the bad publicity of a sordid scandal.
Whatever the reason, he was clearly guilty of a cover-up—though innocent of manslaughter. He wasn’t innocent of sexual harassment charges, however. After yet another swallow of wodka, he pinned me to the table.
“Come on, Galina, we’re alone,” he whispered in my ear. “No one will know.”
“Nyet,” I countered, slapping his face. Thankfully, he backed off, and I sat up. “I know men,” I told him. “They boast and brag of their conquests!”
Ross backed off, rubbing his cheek. “Is that all you’re worried about.” He smiled. “Believe me, I’m a true man of discretion.” He made a zipping motion across his mouth then mumbled something with his lips zipped.
“Vat?”
“I would never tell!” he repeated. “I’ll prove it to you. The fact is—I’m a guy who knows all about jealous husbands. Remember that man who brought you the skates?”
“Comrade Rayburn?”
“Da,” Ross said, smiling and nodding. “He’s a real jealous husband. I work with the guy on promotional events all the time, and I nailed his wife—practically under his fat nose. You met the missus. That built cougar, Danni?”
