Skating on Thin Ice

by Jessica Fletcher

  Folding chairs had been set up at makeshift tables toward the front, with several rows without tables at the rear for people who weren’t interested in eating. All the tables were occupied when Evelyn and I arrived, and most of the seats in the front were, too. We took seats in the back near the door.

  Tim Purdy, Cabot Cove’s historian and the chamber’s longtime treasurer, who’d also been elected president when no one else wanted the headaches, tapped on the microphone with his fingernail to make certain it was working. A screen on a tripod stand behind him showed a picture of Christine and Alexei in matching costumes and sporting big smiles.

  “Our speaker is our outstanding figure skating coach, Brian Devlin, of the Cabot Cove Ice Arena,” Tim said, rattling a piece of paper. “Mr. Devlin is considered—” Tim raised his chin to look down through the bottom of his glasses at the paper in his hand. “He’s considered one of the best pairs coaches and choreographers in the country. He’s a former gold medalist, a professional skater for many years before turning to coaching at the world-famous skating center at Hackensack, New Jersey. That means he’s not a New Englander, but we won’t hold that against him, I guess.” There was laughter. “He’s going to fill us in on what he does and explain his plans for the rinks. Let’s give a warm Cabot Cove welcome to Brian Devlin.”

  There was a round of applause as Devlin stepped to the microphone. Without the bulky brown jacket that all the arena personnel wore, and without the added height provided by skate blades, he looked different than he appeared at the rink. He was shorter, of course, maybe just shy of six feet, and with a slender build, but his shoulders were broad under a tan wool sports jacket worn over dark blue jeans. He had shaved for the occasion, revealing a dimple in his chin that his usual whiskers obscured.

  “My, my, he is handsome,” Evelyn whispered to me. “I can see why all the ladies are gaga over him.”

  “Are they?”

  “Oh, yes. I hear they beat a path to his door. The older ones, that is. Some of the younger ones are smitten with Alexei Olshansky.”

  “Not Marisa, the young woman who works at the rink. She’s crazy about Devlin, not Alexei.”

  “She’s in the minority,” Evelyn said. “Between the two of them, the ladies in Cabot Cove have a lot to talk about. Not so sure how the men feel about them, though.”

  Devlin cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming today. I must say Cabot Cove has made me feel very much at home these past few months, and I thank you for that. My dad was in the military for twenty years, and we moved around a lot, ending up at Nellis Air Force Base before he retired. Having been a military brat, the opportunity to put down roots in as nice a town as you have here is deeply gratifying.”

  I looked around. He had everyone’s ear.

  “I want to tell you a little about figure skating and what we hope to accomplish at the arena, and leave you some time for questions. But I won’t talk too long. By the way, I understand there’s a nor’easter coming in this weekend. I’m not sure how my car will handle a Maine snowstorm. I hope there’s at least one tow operator in the room.”

  There was a general chuckle.

  “Al’s Garage can help you out,” someone at a front table said as he stood.

  “Sit down, Witham,” Tim said. “You don’t have to advertise here. We all know who you are.”

  “Well, he asked, Tim. Just thought I’d be of help.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Witham,” Devlin said. “I’ll get your business card before I leave.”

  The picture behind him changed to a bar chart. “Just a few statistics to start off. I’m happy to see so many businesswomen with us today because women comprise the major portion of figure skating’s fan base—seventy percent, in fact. It’s the number one spectator sport of women and their teenage daughters. This will come as no surprise to the gentlemen here, but women prefer to watch figure skating on television than college basketball or football, tennis, or professional hockey.”

  “That’s why I gotta fight my wife for the remote during the Super Bowl,” said Al Witham.

  “That’s called counterprogramming, Mr. Witham,” Devlin said. “The TV folks are no fools. They usually put skating on the schedule opposite a big sports event. You don’t have to give up your Sunday game, but guys, if you want to woo your ladies, you should get tickets to the skating exhibition we’re putting on the Saturday after this.”

  “We have some flyers up here on the counter,” Tim put in. “Don’t get up now. You can pick one up on your way out.”

  Devlin continued. “Americans love all kinds of skating—figure skating, speed skating, hockey—not just as spectators but as participants, too. Skating is great at any time of life, from toddlers through seniors. My mother put me on skates as soon as I could walk. I was skating as part of a pair by the time I was six, in competitions at nine. But you can start skating at any age. We have quite a few older folks taking up skating or coming back to it after a time away. I see a few familiar faces here.” He looked to the rear of the room and smiled at me, causing heads to turn.

  “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 Devl
in. 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.

  Chapter Seven

  “Are 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 tim
es 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.