Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

  "Did I ask you to coach me, Gold?" Jordan demanded. "I don't remember asking you to coach me."

  To his credit, Gary Gold did not, at any point, descend to Jordan's level. Frankly, Bex doubted Gary Gold knew where Jordan's level was. If Ms. Ares was skating's wild-child, then Lian Reilly's coach was its reigning gentleman. Gary Gold never appeared in public—be it at competition, practice session, or picking up the morning paper outside of his door—in anything but the most immaculately pressed suit and tie. His graying hair was always combed, his mustache neatly trimmed. He pronounced every letter in every word— unless the letter was a foreign, silent one, and then he always knew when that was the case (he was the only person Bex ever met who correctly pronounced "forte" as "fort" instead of "fortay"). He did not use contractions. And he certainly never swore.

  When Jordan did both in one sentence, then grabbed him for good measure, Gary did not miss a beat. He simply turned around slowly, as if Jordan had politely called his name and inquired, "Did you have something you wished to say to me, Ms. Ares?"

  "You're not coaching me, pal." Jordan refused to back down. Though, in the face of Gary's unshakable aplomb, she did somewhat awkwardly let go of his sleeve, resting her hands on the barrier. "All you coach-types do is yell for me to not drop my shoulders or to bend my knees, and then charge mucho bucks for the treat. Hell, I can do that myself and for free."

  "You are here, Ms. Ares, as a representative of the United States. And, as long as you are a representative of the United States, you will behave in a certain manner—"

  "La-dee-dah."

  "If you wish then, yes, la-dee-dah, it shall be."

  "I don't have to listen to you. And I can do whatever I want, you can't stop me," Jordan stressed dramatically, and attempted to stomp off. Bex used the word attempted because no matter how emphatic her parting words and how theatrical the toss of her head, it was still almost impossible to truly, effectively stomp off while wearing skating boots and trying to pull off said stomp while teetering atop bright orange blade-guards.

  A few of the reporters attempted to pursue Jordan for a follow-up question. They received a cornucopia of expletives they'd only have to delete and bleep for their trouble. The group that chose to stay rink-side and continue questioning Gary, Bex included, were rewarded by Lian, also awkward atop skate-guards, stepping up to her coach and grinning into the camera lights before remembering that this was a somber occasion and opting for a respectful, concerned look. She waited until all eyes were unquestionably on her before primly telling the press, "You'll have to forgive Jordan. I think she's very upset over Mr. Marchenko's death. She just needs some time to pull herself together."

  Mrs. Reilly beamed.

  Bex couldn't be sure, but she thought she spied Gary coming as close as he could to rolling his eyes.

  Lian waited expectantly for more questions to which she could provide thoughtful yet accessible answers. She grinned into the crowd, eyes darting from right to left, then quickly back to the right, in case she'd missed someone. Once. Twice. There seemed to be no takers. And yet the crowd showed no indication of dispersing, either. Lian looked at them. They looked at Lian. No one said a word.

  Bex couldn't take it anymore. She'd always been very bad with uncomfortable silences. She blurted out, "Lian, how do you think Igor Marchenko's death will affect your performance at this competition?"

  "Well..." Lian's pigtailed head bobbed up and down, condescendingly offering Bex her approval at having asked such an intriguing and perceptive question. "While I think Mr. Marchenko's death was an awful, awful tragedy, and my prayers go out to his friends, family, and countrymen, I don't think it should have much effect on my skating here. I've trained very hard for this competition, and I feel very prepared to go out there, do my best, and have fun!"

  Lian looked at Bex, expecting a follow-up or, at the very least, a smile to tell her how well she'd done. Bex couldn't quite go that far with the charade. The best she could manage to muster up by way of a reaction was to glance down at her binder, pretending to be jotting down notes with a gloved hand that didn't even have a pen in it.

  Bex putting Lian out of her misery with a token question did the trick in giving the other reporters permission to disperse. As they mumbled in various tongues a phrase that, loosely translated, proved to be, "Who knew it was so cold in an ice rink? Are these people out of their minds spending so much time here?" Bex also attempted to sneak out. Unfortunately for her, Amanda Reilly had other plans.

  Though Bex tried to hide behind Sasha, Mrs. Reilly could not be stopped or even slowed down. "Yoo-hoo! Bex! Bex!" she yelled over the heads of the other reporters. Several of them turned around, saw Amanda coming, and proceeded to power-walk like the idiots who every year attempted to outrun the bulls at Pamplona. Bex would have done the same, except that, unlike the temporary figure-skating-enthusiasts here for the gory murder details, she actually had to keep seeing Mrs. Reilly for several more months, if not years. Who knew, some day soon Bex may be asking a favor of Amanda—like a last-minute interview with Lian—and she did not need her mother holding a grudge.

  So as the rest of the press corps stampeded past her, Bex forced herself to stop, turn around, and greet Mrs. Reilly with a bright hello. She even introduced her to Sasha, hoping the presence of a total stranger would keep Amanda from launching into whatever issue it was she had with Bex and 24/7 this week.

  Amanda nodded politely in Sasha's direction, and mumbled something about his lovely country, how nice it was of Russia to host them—Lian always enjoyed performing here and she was also a big fan of Russian salad dressing. Then she turned to Bex and, without any sort of preamble, stated, "I certainly hope this Igor fiasco isn't going to affect 24/7's broadcast."

  "We have to mention it, Mrs. Reilly."

  "Yes. Yes, of course, you have to mention it. I suppose it is news of one sort or another. But 24/7 had better not use that poor man's death as an excuse to simply shove more of that trashy Jordan Ares down the viewing public's throat. I won't stand for it, Bex, I simply won't stand for it!"

  "Mrs. Reilly, Jordan is the ranking U.S. and World skater in this competition. The viewing public expects to see—"

  "And whose fault is that?'

  "Whose fault is what?"

  "Don't think I haven't noticed how biased your coverage has always been. From the beginning, 24/7 has been pro-Jordan and anti-my Lian. Don't think we haven't seen it. Last year at Nationals, for instance. Francis and Diana Howarth interviewed Jordan for two minutes and eleven seconds at the conclusion of the competition. They spoke to Lian for only fifty-two seconds."

  "Well, Jordan was the silver medallist. Lian was the bronze."

  "My poor little girl came back to her hotel room and how long do you think she sobbed over 24/7's slight? How long?"

  Bex was very, very tempted to guess, "Uhm... twenty-three minutes and sixteen seconds?" But she suppressed the urge. It would set a bad example for Sasha. Instead, she offered, "It wasn't our intention to upset Lian. But protocol—"

  "Oh, don't you lie to me, Bex. I know what this is about. And it certainly isn't about any so-called protocol."

  "You know what this about," Bex repeated, hoping that having the words come out of her own mouth might help her make sense of Mrs. Reilly's statement.

  Nope. Didn't help at all.

  "This is about racism, pure and simple!"

  "Racism," Bex echoed. She no longer even phrased it as a question. Bex hoped her dumbfounded expression would silently get the point across.

  "The only reason Jordan receives all the press attention is because she is blond and blue-eyed, just like America likes their ladies' champions. It doesn't matter that she can barely skate. It doesn't matter that my Lian has twice the personality and three times the natural talent, not to mention delicate beauty; Jordan gets all the coverage and all the endorsements and all the magazine covers because she's white— white trash, anyone can see that, but still white, I suppose—and m
y Lian is a proud Asian-American."

  "Mrs. Reilly. For one thing, less than a year ago, we did a whole feature on Lian competing at the Four Continents event in Harbin, China, and going back to visit the orphanage where she was born."

  “Tokenism," Mrs. Reilly confidently replied.

  "For another, the reason Jordan seems to get more media attention—"

  "Not seems. Does. I've made a chart"

  "Is because she has been more successful both nationally and internationally."

  "Well, what can you expect? The judging panels at most competitions are made up primarily of Americans, Canadians, and Europeans—especially Eastern Europeans. Of course they are going to favor Jordan. It's to be expected. You know what those people are doing to the poor Chechnyans within their own borders! What kind of chance does Lian have in front of judges like that?"

  Bex didn't know which issue to tackle first: the sociopolitical origins of Russia's conflict with its breakaway region or Mrs. Reilly's insinuation that skating judges went straight from the ice rink to the killing fields.

  "This is just like what happened with Igor and Gary when they were competing as young men," Mrs. Reilly asserted.

  "What?" Bex suspected she'd lost the conversation thread among the Caucasus.

  "Judges favoring their own kind. Especially those Eastern European judges. The reason Igor always beat Gary is because he was a Russian, and everyone knows that skating-while-Russian is good for a couple of extra points. Always."

  "You mean when Igor was still skating for the Soviet Union?"

  "And after, too."

  "But that doesn't make any sense. The Soviets were furious at Igor for defecting. Why would they hold him up? Wouldn't they want to bury him?".

  "It's because they prefer the Soviet style. All those long-sleeved costumes and the dramatic arm-waving and overdone artistic impression every time you turn around. That's the Russian school—frilly, pretty, ballet silliness. Our American way is clearly superior. Power, big jumps, energy; it's what we do best. The Russians couldn't skate like us if their lives depended on it. Our skating is about individuality and freedom. No Russian can duplicate that. But the judging panel is always dominated by the Eastern Europeans, so what chance do we have? It's the same with my Lian and Jordan. Igor Marchenko taught Jordan to do all that interpretive silliness, so the judges always put her first. My Lian has a triple-triple combination, and that seems to count for nothing!"

  Bex wanted to offer that perhaps the triple-triple combination might score a few more actual points if Lian actually ever landed it in competition, rather than just compose diary entries about it on her website. But that might have prolonged her encounter with Mrs. Reilly. And no one really wanted that.

  "Don't think I don't know that's another reason why 24/7 is always falling all over itself to give the good press to Jordan. It's not even about the skaters. It's about the coaches: 24/7 prefers Igor over Gary, so my poor Lian has to suffer!"

  "Why would we prefer Igor over Gary?"

  "Oh, you always have. Since the beginning. Everyone just fell so quickly for that poor little brave defector-boy story. That poor little brave defector-boy cost Gary Gold his career, did you know that? Gary could have been our own U.S. and World Champion—multiple times—if it wasn't for Igor. And now the sins of the coaches are being visited on their skaters! Lian is paying for her coach's story not being as interesting as Jordan's coach's story. I ask you, is that Lian's fault? Is it?"

  As a rule, Bex did not designate a larger than necessary portion of her brain to the ranting and raving of Amanda Reilly. Rather, she let the verbalized paranoia and self-importance wash over her like a soft, summer breeze over a sparkling lake—or any other yoga-like vision Bex could summon to keep her blood pressure from popping off the top of her head like a cork.

  On the other hand, on this particular occasion, somewhere in the midst of her paean to Lian's superiority, Mrs. Reilly seemed to have dropped crumbs of information about a recently deceased man, and a still living man, who certainly had many good reasons not to like the dead guy very much. And, if there was one thing Bex had learned from the last murder and kidnapping she'd stumbled over, that kind of information was terribly useful to have. Especially if you were looking to compile a suspect list.

  To that end, she stopped thinking about breezes and lakes, and asked Mrs. Reilly, "Did Gary really resent Igor for defecting?"

  "He was furious. Here he was, some poor teenager from Brooklyn—"

  Brooklyn? Mr.-I-Never-Met-a-Long-Vowel-I-Didn't-Like was from Brooklyn? New York, Brooklyn? That one? The revelation might be the most shocking thing Bex was destined to discover on this trip—even if she did find the murderer.

  "—working two jobs just to pay for his skating, and making incredible progress, when, out of nowhere, this Russian kid just shows up and becomes everyone's pet. Igor got scholarships. Igor got donations. Igor got Gary's titles and, eventually, he even got his job! Most parents approach Igor about coaching long before they ask Gary. They've got it all wrong, of course. Gary has always been by far the superior coach, you merely have to look at Lian to realize that. Why, we wouldn't have switched even if Igor had promised to pay us! We're sticking with Gary Gold, all the way. It doesn't matter who people think the number one coach in America is. It's all about perception, I suppose. It's all about buying into the myth. That's why prospective students went to Igor first. That's why Gary's students have the reputation for being the ones Igor Marchenko didn't want. Not that it's true in our case, you understand. We've been with Gary since the beginning. He's been wonderful for Lian. He teaches a nice, clean, American style. Because he's a real American. But he can't help that uninformed people seem to prefer the other type. He can't help it that less loyal students than us left him for Igor at first opportunity."

  "So Gary had a very good reason to kill Marchenko!"

  That's odd, Bex mused. Somehow, the thought currently bouncing around her skull with the subtlety of a Gil Cahill binder-drop had managed to escape.

  And picked up a Russian accent.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was Sasha who asked the question. And Amanda Reilly who launched into a spirited defense of the man she expected to guide her daughter to fame and fortune. But it was Bex who instantly began pondering the possibility.

  "So you think I am correct about this?' Sasha asked as soon as Mrs. Reilly was out of earshot.

  "I think," Bex said slowly, plucking each word one at a time, assembly-line-style, in the hope that inspiration might strike during the lengthy pauses, "You... definitely... have... the... potential... to... not... be... wrong."

  "You are saying yes?”

  "I am saying... maybe."

  "Then why did you not just to say maybe?”

  "Because. While a mind may indeed be a terrible thing to waste, very often, overeducation ain't too great either."

  Sasha stared at Bex not so much blankly, but with obvious concern for her mental health. In retrospect she supposed that asking a young Russian man, even one aspiring to mini-media-moguldum, to comprehend a reference to the very American United Negro College Fund campaign launched before either of them was even born, may have been a bit much. Especially for his first day.

  Bex said, "We need a comprehensive answer about what exactly happened here the morning Igor died. Come on, you're about to get utilized."

  Before she leapt on the "Gary Killed Igor" bandwagon—or any bandwagon, for that matter—Bex felt she needed to hear a version of yesterday's events that didn't come from a Russian police station or consisted, in its entirety, of the scribbled words: "Igor Marchenko killed by poison in gloves by unknown person." (Even Sasha appeared a bit surprised at the brevity when he gamely translated the file for Bex. "This is not, I believe, very helpful to you," Sasha offered. "Thanks," she said.)

  Bex decided to question Jordan first, because, as Marchenko's student, she in all likelihood had been in closest contact with him immediately prior to his deat
h. Bex also decided to question Jordan first because she was not feeling up to another session with Amanda and her precious Lian. And also because Jordan was the first person Bex saw when she entered the ladies' changing room.

  She left Sasha outside to keep watch for the arena's manager, whom Bex also wanted to talk to before she got down to heavy-duty investigating, and barged right in. She'd discovered last season that a television-sponsored, all-access pass really meant all-access. Nudity included.

  Not that Jordan Ares could be spooked by being caught topless, wearing only hot pink panties, the words "Open All Night" and an arrow printed on the crotch. She didn't even look up when Bex entered the changing room. She was too preoccupied with rifling through her skating bag and cursing about "stupid, crappy, goddamn tape."

  "I think it's over there," Bex offered and indicated the floor, where a plastic gold and black audio cassette lay half-obscured by a skate tossed on top of it.

  "Hey, thanks!" Either Jordan's medication finally kicked-in, or her bipolarism was more pronounced than previously suspected. In any case, she rewarded Bex with a seemingly sincere smile, picked up the tape, tossed it in her bag, and plopped down on a bench beneath the lockers, grabbing an equally hot pink bra (although Bex wondered if one could really call a bra something that didn't so much hold up a nonexistent bust, as merely cover it underneath the translucent tops Jordan usually wore—off the ice and on) and slipping it on. Her hands were behind her back, snapping the hooks, when she asked, "What's up, Tex-Mex?"

  Bex figured that was almost her name, and she should go with it

  She said, "I wanted to talk to you about Igor."

  "Still dead." Jordan finished with the bra and reached for an orange turtleneck sweater. Bex would have guessed something that color could never work on a girl as pale as Jordan, but the particular shade actually made her (Amanda-detested) blue eyes practically pop from her face, and emphasized the shine of her (pharmaceutically enhanced) blond hair.