Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

  "Do you know if he'd ever done this before, with any of his other students?" If he had, Bex suddenly had a whole new line of inquiry to pursue.

  "How should I know?"

  "And why is the check made out to him, instead of to you?"

  Jordan shrugged. "Less suspicious that way. I mean, why would Amanda ever have a good reason for writing a check to me? But, writing it to Igor, if anyone found out, she could always say he was giving Lian extra lessons or something. God knows she could use some if she ever expects to win Nationals fair and square."

  Bex admitted, "She did. That's what Amanda first said when I asked her. She said Igor was secretly giving Lian spinning lessons. It was only when I asked Lian about it that Amanda had to change her story."

  "Yeah. I'd bet Lian didn't know what was going down. Mommy protects Lian from the big, bad scary world. It's kind of stupid, in a way. I mean, Amanda's got Lian convinced she's the best skater in the universe, no one's better and there's nothing she needs to work on. So, like, who can blame Lian for being totally surprised each time she doesn't win? Her mom, she's doing Lian a disservice. Building her up like that, only to have the judges tear her down. She'd do her a bigger favor if she said, hey, Lian, you're not too bad, and you're a hard worker, no one's arguing that; but your spins suck and that's why you keep being marked down in the technical and the presentation. Fix your spins and your in-betweens and maybe you'll see some better results. That's the way you get better, hearing the truth." Jordan shrugged again and added bitterly, "On the other hand, why bother when you can just buy the competition?"

  "I'm sorry," Bex said.

  "What the hell for?"

  It wasn't that easy to explain. Bex only knew that something in Jordan's tone had prompted her spontaneous expression of sympathy. And it wasn't just condolence on not being able to buy her own competition. It actually had more to do with the wistfulness that had crept into Jordan's tone when she spoke about Amanda Reilly's devotion to her daughter's career.

  Bex asked, "Do your parents ever come to watch you skate, Jordan?"

  "My parents have better things to do."

  "But they must have, when you were younger..."

  "There's a reason I'm emancipated, okay? I don't need the hassle. You think I need somebody standing at the barrier with me at every practice, messing with my hair, shouting, 'You go, girl,' drying off my blades like I'm some paralyzed gimp who can't take care of herself?"

  "I'm guessing the answer you're looking for is: no?"

  "Just leave me alone, Bex. I still got to skate tonight. I got to focus."

  "Okay." Bex nodded. "That's fine. Fair enough." She held out her hand. "Can I have my check back, please?"

  "What do you mean, your check? It's my check, you just told me so yourself. It's my money. It's for me."

  "But... but," Bex stammered, knowing that logic was the only weapon she had; as mentioned earlier, there wouldn't be any arm wrestling. "It won't do you any good. It's in Igor's name. You can't cash it without—"

  Jordan grinned. "I know people."

  And she was out the door.

  With Bex's evidence.

  She really should be more careful with her irreplaceable evidence, Bex alternately flagellated and mused to herself. Especially when, despite what both Amanda and Jordan insisted, the complete story of the mysterious check seemed rather far from over. Jordan did not seem like the type to so easily agree to a fix, no matter how badly she needed the money. And even if a desperate Jordan had caved in, what about Igor? A coach was only as good as his last winning student. Would Igor really have allowed a skater with his name on her bio to skate badly? Was it possible, Bex mused (taking a break from the flagellation to grab a snack in the production office: tortilla chips and soda, mmm, mmm, good, a lunch of champions) that Jordan had accepted the deal before checking with Igor, and, when he found out, he put his foot down and forbade her from accepting Amanda's money? Would that be a motive for murder? On either Jordan's or Amanda's part?

  It was certainly a train of thought worth pursuing.

  And actually managing to hold on to the check sure would have made it easier.

  Bex sighed. You'd think she'd be better at this by now. But her biggest problem seemed to be a sort of researcher's attention deficit disorder. She got so excited about one theory, that she dropped everything to untangle it... until the next theory came along, and there she went all over again.

  Speaking of which—oh, look, there was Valeri Konstantin trying to sneak out and eat his own lunch in the hospitality suite set up for coaches and officials. Bex better quit musing about Jordan or Amanda killing Igor over a crooked deal gone sour and rush right over to pry out what Konstantin knew.

  For one thing, he certainly knew more than Bex about where to get decent food at the arena. While she was still wiping tortilla crumbs from her jacket and tossing her soda can into the trash as she ran, he was sitting at a table covered with a white linen cloth and boasting a place setting of the china-and-metal—not plastic—variety. His plate was filled with plump, steaming beef and pork dumplings called pelmeni bobbing in vinegar and butter, while his non-plastic non-cup (it was a glass actually made out of... glass) seemed to be filled with a burgundy-colored, winelike substance. He was the only one sitting at his table. The handful of other coaches—all Russians; Gary was the sole American left at the competition and he'd made it quite clear to Bex how he felt about breaking bread with them—had circled their ice skates half a room away. Konstantin did not seem to mind the alone time. But Bex did. She plopped down next to him, trying not to salivate too visibly at his feast, and offered him her brightest smile.

  Konstantin speared his pelmeni with a fork, took a bite, and ignored her.

  She said, "I need to speak to you."

  "It is dinner time. I am not working at this moment."

  "That's okay, the particular time period I want to talk to you about, you weren't working then, either."

  "This is about Marchenko?"

  "Yes. How did you know?"

  "You visited his mother and sister."

  At the risk of sounding redundant…. "Yes. How did you know?"

  "Friends," he said. "I have friends."

  Which was exactly what Jordan had said about the check. Just a coincidence? Or was this conspiracy to kill Igor much broader than Bex could have imagined?

  Bex said, "Igor's mother and sister, they told me some things. About you."

  "Lies. Many, many lies."

  "You're saying you and Alexandr Troika didn't harass them after Igor defected?"

  "Igor Marchenko ruined the life of Alexandr Troika and myself. We were angry men. We have rights to be angry."

  "Do you have the right to attack two women who never did anything to you?"

  "Luba Marchenko, she had option to stop her son. When he is hiding at American embassy, she can speak to him, tell him not to do this, not to annihilate so many people. She did not do this. She is not innocent. The sister is not innocent."

  "Luba and Sveta say you threatened them."

  "A million years ago. Words said one million years ago, the memory lies."

  "This was a week ago," Bex corrected. "They told me you called and threatened that something dire would happen if they came to the arena to see Igor."

  "Nonsense."

  "You didn't threaten them?"

  "I did not threaten them. I did not call them. I have not engaged in contact with Igor's family for several years."

  "Then why did they say you did?"

  "Because they wish to make me look negative before reporter from television."

  "That's possible, I guess."

  "What do they say is my motive for this threat I did not make?"

  "That you were afraid they'd tell the press about what you and Troika did to them after Igor defected."

  "They have proof of this for press?"

  "I—I don't know."

  "I am not worried about what Marchenko family wishes to say ab
out me. And I am also not worried"—he took a measured sip of wine and deigned to look up from his meal for the first time since Bex had come in—"about girl who works for television who is thinking I killed Igor Marchenko. I did not kill Igor Marchenko. I have no reason to kill Igor Marchenko. In Russia."

  Now, there was a qualifier if Bex had ever heard one. "You mean you do have a reason to kill him somewhere else?"

  "You think about this, Miss Researcher. I travel very much for competitions. I see Igor Marchenko many places in the world. If I wish to kill him, I kill him in another country, and then I get on plane and return to Russia. No one can arrest me. No one can do anything to me. But, in Russia, I am home. I cannot run away. So, you think about this. You think about this hard. Yes, Igor destroy my life for many, many years before I am able to get it back. Yes, I do not cry about his death. But, to kill Igor, I would not do this in Russia. It is stupid. And I am not stupid."

  What a shame Bex could not say the same thing about herself.

  Because, walking outside to check up on Sasha's progress tracking down Holistic Healing Man, Bex noted the following things: 1) Holistic Healing Man was not back; 2) The Gypsies with their crimson candy on a stick, however, were; and 3) Sasha was talking to them.

  However: 4) Bex did not want Sasha talking to them, because she did not want them tipping off Holistic Healing Man; and 5) Perhaps Bex would have been more successful at getting Sasha to obey her wishes if she had taken the trouble to inform him of them first.

  Well, it was too late now. The three seemed to be bosom buddies. Sasha spotted Bex across the street, called her name and enthusiastically waved her over.

  "Bex, Bex, please to listen to this!"

  Did she have a choice at this point? Bex crossed the street.

  Sasha was crouching on the sidewalk next to the Gypsy couple. He said, "This is Nastia and this is her husband, German. They tell me something very interesting about the man who sells the medicine."

  "I'm listening," Bex said, even as she wondered how they would ever catch up to the holistic healer if he first heard that someone was asking questions about him. Street vendors did not strike her as the type to enjoy a nice long chat about who they were, what they sold, and who might have purchased their wares for nefarious purposes.

  "German and Nastia, they tell me the man who sells the medicine, he knows about Igor Marchenko. He is telling them last week—last week! Before Igor is killed!—he is telling them how Igor Marchenko was a boy and he defects. And then he tells them so many people are angry with Igor for leaving, he is surprised Igor risks return to Russia, because so many people, they probably want to kill him!"

  "He told them this a week ago?" Bex wanted to make sure she was understanding correctly.

  Sasha nodded fervently, practically bouncing up and down like a happy frog and looking so proud of his discovery that Bex almost forgave him. The problem was, she still hadn't figured out what she was mad at him for. But now wasn't the time to ponder that digression.

  "How did he know?" Bex indicated the Gypsies. "Ask them, Sasha, please. Ask them how he knew anything about Igor Marchenko."

  "Or perhaps..." The voice behind them made both Bex and Sasha jump in surprise. It did not sound friendly. Or happy. It did, however, sound very tall. And very close by. "Or, perhaps, you could ask him yourself."

  Bex turned around. Although she wondered why she bothered. She already knew who would be standing there.

  And he was tall.

  And he was unhappy.

  And he was holding a very large knife.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Everything about him was very large. His navy blue, patched-on-both-elbows down coat loomed broadly at the shoulders and continued straight down, forming a rectangle topped by the triangle of fur that was his strapped hat. His black, rubber, fisherman-style boots went up until they disappeared into the folds of the coat. Even his ruddy mustache and beard were so lengthy it would have been impossible to determine where one ended and the other began, if it weren't for the unlit cigarette sticking from a slit somewhere to the left of his granite nose.

  He would have been a gape-worthy sight under any circumstances. The foot-long knife that he clutched in both awkwardly gloved hands like a Samurai sword, however, did drive home the point (insert your favorite Vlad the Impaler guffaw, here) of his presence with particular... intensity.

  For a moment Bex could do nothing but obey instinct and gape mutely. She did notice, though, that Sasha, while doing the same, did, seemingly instinctively, also take a step forward. So that he now stood directly between Bex and Holistic Healing Man.

  Not that his weapon wasn't long enough to pass right through Sasha on its way to Bex without so much as chipping the point.

  But it was a noble gesture all the same.

  Bex wondered if it was a lie or not.

  "You have question for me?" To Bex's surprise, the voice that emerged from the mass of man wasn't the cavernous booming of a cartoon villain issuing orders from the darkness of his evil, echo-drenched lair. It was actually rather low; not exactly a whisper, more of a rumble. But perfectly controlled and in almost impeccable English.

  Bex nodded, still waiting for her own voice to make a return appearance.

  "Will you pay?" he asked.

  She had exactly six hundred and seventeen rubles on her. Bex wasn't sure how much that translated to in dollars, but she knew that a piece of fruit, when you could find one at the market, started at fifty. So her total wasn't exactly flush bribery material.

  Nevertheless, Bex nodded boldly. "How much do you want?"

  He gave it some thought. "One hundred rubles."

  Bex blessed the exchange rate.

  Bex took Holistic Healing Man to a small coffee shop around the comer from the arena. She'd been meaning to dismiss Sasha, but he refused to leave her side. Or take his eyes off the knife. Even after Holistic Healing Man stuffed the weapon into the folds of his coat in response to Bex's teatime invitation, Sasha kept staring at the guy's pocket and twitching every time it looked like he might be reaching for his knife.

  Once they got inside the eatery, though, Holistic Healing Man seemed a lot less interested in his weapon than he was in the steaming cup of tea and the double-decker ham and brown bread sandwich Bex got him. He grabbed the ceramic cup with both hands and clutched it so tightly the skin all the way on the outside of his palms turned red. Bex could only imagine the blisters rising on the flesh in actual contact with the simmer.

  For her part, she asked the indifferent woman at the counter for a bagel, figuring it best to stay away from meat of indeterminate origin, especially when there didn't seem to be a refrigeration case in sight.

  Bex sat down at the metallic wicker table on the side next to Sasha, both of them facing Holistic Healing Man. The pair of them together seemed to take up as much space as one of him. He didn't remove his coat. Neither Bex nor Sasha invited him to.

  Bex asked, "What's your name?"

  "Fedya."

  "Fed-yaw?" Bex repeated cautiously, breaking the name into two syllables and knowing she'd get it wrong anyway, but eager to demonstrate at least a token attempt at cultural sensitivity.

  Sasha gently corrected, "No. Feh-d-yah. It is nickname. Short for Fedor."

  "Hello, Fedya." Bex butchered his name for the second time.

  He might have chuckled in response. The slit between his beard and mustache twitched, and his massive shoulders bucked.

  "How do you do?" he replied.

  "You speak excellent English," she complimented.

  "When I attended school, one foreign language was required to study. English, French, or German. I should have studied German. It is better for the study of medicine in University. But I very much enjoyed the books of James Fennimore Cooper. Cowboys and Indians. I wished to read them in their first language. Have you read these books?"

  Bex admitted she hadn't.

  "They do not teach them in school?"

  "Not that
I know of."

  "Pity." He finished off his tea and grunted. When he let go of the cup, Bex saw that his palms were covered with calluses. So that's why the burning had so little effect. "My medicines," Fedya explained, "I grind for the medicine that I sell, it leaves marks on my hands." He mimed a small bowl and the turning of a pestle.

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about. Your medicines." Bex reached into her pocket and awkwardly pulled out a wad of bills. She wondered how one bribed properly. Was there an etiquette for this? Did she owe him the money before he talked, or after? Would he be offended if she did it wrong? Would giving money too late imply that she didn't trust him to keep his bargain? Would giving it too early show how out of her depth she was and prompt him to demand more?

  She tallied what she had randomly plucked. Sixty rubles. Neither here nor there. She counted out fifty and laid them on the table in front of him. (Wasn't it illegal to bribe people in broad daylight? Wasn't it illegal to bribe people in general?) She said, "Half now, half when you've answered my questions."

  There. That sounds reasonably hard-boiled.

  Of course, now she didn't know what she was supposed to do with the leftover ten ruble note except roll it awkwardly around in her palm until it got mushy.

  "More tea?" Sasha suddenly interrupted.

  Bex thought that in addition to telling him that she didn't want him interviewing potential sources without her, she also should have told him not to interrupt when she was in the middle of a cross-examination. He was breaking her flow.

  Fedya nodded and pushed his empty cup towards Sasha. Sasha stood up and, in one smooth gesture, picked up the cup, plucked Bex's ten rubles out of her hand, and headed towards the counter.

  Okay. So the guy was useful. That last mental reprimand? Never mind.

  Fedya took his money, recounted the bills, and tucked the wad in the general vicinity of his knife. "Your question," he prompted.

  "It's about Igor Marchenko."

  Fedya nodded, to indicate either that he'd heard of him, or merely that he'd heard her question. In any case, he didn't elaborate.