by Alina Adams
And it was only one of the reasons why it took Bex close to two hours to locate the Ben-Golans's residence, despite the many gas stations she'd been forced to pull into, to ask for directions only to be reassured that it "should be like, fifteen minutes, tops."
Fortunately, once she finally turned onto the correct street, Bex had no problem identifying which particular abode belonged to the Ben-Golans. On a cul-de-sac where every house appeared engaged in a game of "Can You Top This?" with perfectly manicured lawns, swooping arches, and never installing one window when you could instead boast a series, Bex still guessed that Pandora Westby was the proud owner of the mirrored, oval-shaped koi pond with the granite, layback-spin figure fountain twirling in the center, and a front porch displaying marble columns in the shape of three male pair skaters lifting their females. Who were then holding up the rest of the roof.
The doorbell played "The Skater's Waltz."
The knocker was in the shape of an antique, brass skate blade.
The woman who answered the door was not happy to see her.
She was dressed much more casually than Bex was used to. Instead of the silver fur, chandelier earrings, and suede gloves that matched her lipstick exactly, Pandora was wearing black Capri pants and a lavender cotton fitted T-shirt with short sleeves. Seeing the pale skin quivering above her elbow in a manner Pandora would certainly never allow to protrude in public was as embarrassing to Bex as if she'd stumbled in on the dowager naked. Or, even worse, having sex with her shockingly fit husband.
Pandora did not appear any more thrilled by the potential encounter. She hugged her arms across her chest. Bex couldn't tell if it was a generally defensive gesture, or one specific to hiding the loose flesh. In any case, it screamed: Keep Out!
Bex, to the surprise of no one, did not.
She said, "Could I have a few words with you, Mrs. Ben-Golan? I'm — "
"I know who you are."
"You do?" As far as Bex could recollect, they'd never officially met. Pandora wasn't a skater or a coach or a judge. She had no actual official standing in the skating community, at least not as far as television was concerned. They rarely interviewed sponsors, preferring instead to tell the tale of the spunky, struggling athlete subsisting on sheer... spunk. "Cash of the Pan," as she was so politely called outside of earshot, may have been someone everybody on the inside of the sport was well acquainted with, but to the general audience, she was a nonentity. Which meant Bex never had a need to bother her until now.
"You're all the same," Pandora snapped.
"We are?" Bex asked the obvious question, despite not knowing what she was asking. "We who?"
"Like little moles," Pandora said. "All of you production assistants. P.A.s, is that the correct abbreviation? Who can keep track? Year after year, you're the same. Just out of college and desperate to make your terribly distinctive mark. Always running around, trying to look busy, hoping someone will notice how talented and industrious you are. I suppose it's possible. Look at Gil Cahill, after all."
"Gil?" Gil as a P.A.? Hard to imagine. As far as Bex knew, he'd gotten his start in radio — hence his ability to project obscenities over distances that might daunt others — and moved from producing his own sports broadcasts to working in television.
"Oh, yes. He was the worst of them. He wanted to prove how much smarter he was than everybody else in his position. He ended up miscounting how many seconds were left until the end of the broadcast and called time early. The entire network went to black for ten seconds because little Gilbert Cahill was too good to use a stopwatch."
Bex wanted to giggle. But it was hard to do with your mouth hanging open.
"They fired him, of course," Pandora added. "I remember because it was the talk of the other P. A.s for a while. At Nationals that year, the joke was 'What time is it?' 'Oh, Cahill to one,' that sort of thing. I was shocked to see him again sixteen years later. And a producer, no less. I guess life really is full of second chances."
Bex said, "I'm not a P.A." She'd been meaning to bring that up for a while, but the moment never seemed right. It wasn't any righter now, but Bex also had nothing else to say. "I'm a researcher."
"What's the difference?"
Mainly that the P.A.s had to share hotel rooms while Bex got one of her own.
"I'm gathering information about Allison Adler's murder."
"I know." Pandora indicated some undisclosed location with the upward tilt of her chin. "Idan told me you were there this morning."
"Idan is here?" Bex double-checked. "With Omri?"
"Where else would he be?"
"Uhm..." This really was not a chat to be having on the front stoop, even if the neighborhood was deserted at this time of night. "Can I come in?"
"What would happen if I refused?"
"I would make things up."
Pandora sighed. She opened her door a bit broader. "Come in."
Bex stepped inside a foyer and, though she knew it was bad manners, had to gasp. The entire far wall facing the front door had been removed and in its place was an at least ten-by-ten-feet stained glass window featuring a painstakingly detailed competition scene, complete with skaters on the ice, colorfully dressed spectators in the stands, and national flags billowing in the breeze.
"When the sun comes through the window," Pandora said, "you can also see the tableau sparkling across the floor."
"Wow," Bex said. But by the time she got to the second "w," her attention was captured by a round, wooden, eight-story display case at the center of the sunken living room, each shelf holding half a dozen or so glass figurines, ranging in shape from a rose small enough to fit in the palm of a hand, to a carving of a young girl sitting on a bench, tying her skates, that had to weigh at least fifty pounds from the looks of it.
"Lalique," Pandora explained. "One-of-a-kind items all. I commissioned them. It's the least I could do. They've been so supportive of figure skating."
Bex would have said "wow" again, but she figured she'd better pace herself.
She also figured she'd better get to the point of her visit.
"Mrs. Ben-Golan," she said, "you have a lovely home; really, you do. But I'm here to talk — "
"I know what you're here to talk about, Miss..."
"Levy. Bex Levy."
"I'm not a fool."
"I'm not suggesting — "
"I watched television discover skating. Yes, believe it or not, we did exist before the cameras were turned on. My father and mother skated at Nationals back when all our competitions were still held outside. Back when compulsory figures were still actually a part of figure skating. One stiff wind at the wrong time, and you could watch an entire year's worth of practice go down the drain. My grandparents were founding members of the California Skating Club. It was more of a social club then. People competed, but it was a gentleman's sport. Why do you think those early skaters competed in white dinner jackets and pressed slacks? It was part of the uniform. Television changed things. You wanted to make it more accessible to the viewing public, you said. Something people can relate to, a story they could follow, heroes they could root for. You said the compulsory figures were too complicated. There should be more free skating. So television created the Short Program. And then you got rid of figures altogether."
Bex felt like pointing out that she had barely been born when most of the offenses Pandora was listing were committed, but the lady was on a roll. And a rambling subject was always preferable to a hostile one.
"I watched skating evolve. Well, devolve would be more accurate. We're no different now than any other sport. No more ladies and gentlemen. No more manners. Television made the sport popular, the champions international stars, and the governing body wealthy. All we had to give up in return was the last vestiges of class, decorum, and privacy." Bex figured this was her cue to get crass. She asked, "Mrs. Ben-Golan, about your husband — "
"Neither of us had anything to do with Allison's death."
Well. Talk about g
etting right to the point.
"Again, I didn't mean to suggest — "
"Of course you did. Miss Levy, I told you before, I'm not a fool. I know what kind of ratings 24/7 got from exposing Silvana Potenza's killer live on the air last season. I have no doubt Gil Cahill is hoping for a repeat at this championship. And I do look like such a promising suspect."
"It's just that — "
"My husband fathered a child with the dead girl. Yes, thank you, I realize what it looks like."
"You sound like you're okay with this. The affair, I mean, not being a suspect."
"If I were not, as you put it, 'okay with this,' Miss Levy, would the situation change in any way? Would the little bastard disappear?"
She had a valid point. "So you're certain that Idan is Omri's father?"
"If I wasn't, would I have agreed to pay Allison Adler's living expenses for the past seven months?"
"You did?"
Pandora waved for Bex to follow her up the stairs. She opened the first door on the second-floor hallway, revealing a home office complete with a desk, computer, bookshelves, and framed antique, Olympic posters on the walls. Pandora unlocked a drawer and pulled out a folder, but at that moment Bex's attention was captured by the room directly across from the study. A nursery.
Without asking permission. Bex stepped out of the office and poked her head into the junior bedroom. The wallpaper was a soothing blue. The truck and race car sheets on the crib matched the drapes and the ruffles on the changing table. A stuffed bear wearing a sailor cap perched on a rocking chair. Idan Ben-Golan, army vet, choreographer, rebel, was standing by a Blue's Clues mobile, dressed only in cut-off shorts, a burp cloth over his shoulder, a baby pressed to his bare chest.
Bex could not imagine a more disorienting rabbit hole than the one she had fallen down through. She was about to say "hi" when Pandora materialized, glaring at Bex and Idan in turn but making no move to drag her out of there.
"Pretty nursery," Bex observed, skipping the salutations.
"Thank you." Idan shifted the baby so that Omri rested horizontally in his arms, covering more of Idan's chest, in a gesture not unlike the one Pandora employed before.
"You went to a lot of trouble. It must have taken you a couple of months."
"More like a few weeks. Pan is an excellent decorator. She decorated this entire house."
Bex nodded, making the mental note that Idan claiming Omri had clearly not been an impulsive or last-minute deal. He obviously had everything ready in advance.
As if reading Bex's mind, Pandora said, "You might be interested in these, Miss Levy." She handed Bex a manila folder and then, without waiting for Bex to explore for herself, identified, "Canceled checks. Made out to Allison Adler. Each endorsed by the recipient herself. Allie took our money."
"Why?" Bex asked.
"She needed to live somehow. Her father threw her out of the house. She had nowhere to go."
"No. I mean, why did you support Allison?"
"What choice did we have?" To Idan, Pandora said, "Miss Levy here wondered how I could be certain you're the father. I thought seeing it in black, white, and green might prove helpful."
"We went over everything this morning, Bex," Idan reminded. "My name is on Omri's birth certificate. I'm his father."
"Coop Devaney thinks — "
"Coop Devaney is missing key pieces of information."
"Such as your affair with Allie?" Though Bex addressed Idan, she snuck a peek at Pandora to gauge her reaction. For better or for worse, Idan's wife winced at the words and looked away, focusing on the nautical bear leaning precariously to the right and in danger of falling off his rocker.
"Such as that, yes."
"Allie was your student."
"She was over eighteen. I did nothing illegal."
"Yes, but as her coach, you were in a position of power. You could manipulate her to act against her best interests and her will."
"I did no such thing."
"You're married."
"Which is not really a concern of yours."
"How did you get Allie to agree to give up her baby?" Bex asked.
Pandora interjected, "It was her idea. Well, her blackmail, actually."
"Pan — "
"No, Idan. No, let's tell the truth. It will make a nice change from the last year, won't it, darling?" She turned to face Bex, hands on her hips. "Why don't you put this down in your report for Gil Cahill? This is a story the viewing public should be able to relate to. Allison Adler's father threw her out of their home for being a little tramp."
"Ralph Adler says she ran away."
"Well, Ralph Adler is lying. Ralph threw her out of the house with nothing. She had barely forty dollars in her wallet and an ATM card for an account her father closed the next day. She came to us and told Idan that she would abort his baby unless we paid up. She looked around my home and she told me, 'Look at all this crap. You guys are loaded. Shouldn't hurt a bit."'
"And you agreed?"
Pandora hesitated. She and Idan exchanged charged looks, during which an entire conversation Bex wasn't privy to passed in the set of a jaw, the lift of an eyebrow, and the flare of a nostril. Finally Pandora replied, "We agreed. We agreed to cover her expenses and find her a place to live and handle the medical bills."
"In exchange for her leaving Omri with you?"
"Allison didn't want him!" Idan exploded. "She told us she didn't want to be a mother. She just wanted to have the baby — 'get it over with,' that's what she called it — and forget it happened. She didn't want him. And I didn't want him going to strangers."
"Which, believe me," Pandora drawled, "cost us extra."
"Why did you go along with this?" Bex asked. In all the time she'd stood in the nursery. Pandora hadn't so much as looked at Omri or even faced in his direction. Her body language was not screaming "Stepmother of the Year."
"He's Idan's child." Pandora shrugged. "Idan is my husband. I decided to look at it as if I had married a man who already had a child. It's a little game I play with myself. To stay sane."
Bex wondered if a trained professional would concur with Mrs. Ben-Golan's assessment of her mental state. But she doubted now would be a good time to ask.
Instead Bex told Idan, "You know that Coop is going to challenge your custody."
"He can try all he likes. I am Omri's legal father. Coop has no standing." Idan sighed and elaborated, "With Coop, it is about the image. You don't know him well. I do. He cares what the people think of him. He takes care to present his best side. His mother, she has him convinced his entire future depends on projecting the right image."
Bex took a gamble.
"Coop is going to demand a paternity test to prove who Omri's father really is," she lied, wondering if the news would please Idan or unnerve him.
"Very well then." His expression didn't change. Bex had no idea what he really thought. "Let him do it."
"Oh, yes," Pan agreed. "Let the dear boy do it. Maybe we will get a wonderful surprise and solve the problem once and for all."
Bex looked from Idan to Pandora and suddenly had a flash-forward of little Omri on a therapist's coach, trying to explain his complicated family situation... not to mention household decor, and being disbelieved on both counts. For a moment, Bex was tempted to just grab the little guy and run. But she figured there were enough people fighting over him at the moment. Besides, no matter how interesting the true story of Omri's paternity might turn out to be, Bex had to remember that her only stake in the predicament had to be in how it related to Allison's murder.
Which was why her next question was, "Do either of you have any thoughts about who might have wanted Allie dead?"
"No," Pandora drawled. "But since you're here, talking to the two of us, I simply have to assume that you do."
"Where were you the morning Allie was strangled?"
Idan smirked. "This is the American idea of interrogation? Are you deliberately playing stupid, or have you honestly
not explored this all in advance? You know where I was. Everyone knows where I was. Allison was killed during the Dance practice. The Men's practice was next. Obviously I was on my way to the rink. However, I cannot prove that I did not arrive ahead of time to strangle Allie. Then again, neither can Coop."
"Doesn't Coop need to warm up before his practice?"
"Yes."
"But you weren't with him."
"Coop is not a child. It is not necessary for me to hold his hand."
"It's a shame," Bex said. "You could have alibied each other."
"The next time I plan a murder, I will make certain to call you first, Bex."
That sounded like a cue to change topics if she'd ever heard one. Bex had gotten much better at recognizing them over the years.
"And what about you, Mrs. Ben-Golan? Where were you?"
"Perhaps I was 'warming up' with Coop." Pandora did not need to wiggle her fingers to form air quotes. They were right there in her tone.
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm Cooper Devaney's sponsor. I was also at the rink, waiting to observe his practice. He and I spend a great deal of time together, pondering his future."
"So were you with Coop that morning?"
"What did he say?"
"He didn't mention it."
"There is your answer then."
Under normal circumstances Bex would have wondered if these people were deliberately trying to make her job more difficult. But in this case, she didn't have to ask. She knew. Idan and Pandora Ben-Golan were deliberately trying to make her job more difficult.
The only question was: Why?
Bex spent the night trying out various theories: Did Coop kill Allie because she'd cheated on him with their coach, or because she was planning to keep him away from his child? Did Idan kill Allie to get their son, or did Pandora commit the murder in a jealous rage? And if either Coop or Idan were knowingly lying about being Omri's father, what could possibly be their respective motives? Plus there were Ralph and Sebastian, both furious over Allie's abandonment of her skating career and, by extension, them. Did they get angry enough to kill? All Bex knew for sure was that no one had a sound alibi for the time of Allie's death. And that the physical evidence of bruises and crimson glove fibers implicated all of them. Which means it implicated none of them.
