Skating on Thin Ice

by Jessica Fletcher

  “What did you answer to that?”

  “I told him I wouldn’t be made responsible for his reckless behavior, and he said ‘ditto.’ ”

  “Ditto?” Mort looked at me quizzically. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He thinks I’m behaving irresponsibly by skating again,” I said. “He predicted all sorts of injuries I’m likely to acquire. After I fell and conked my head, he told me that if I really want to do myself in, I ought to take up hockey. He even said he knows a good dentist to see when I knock out my front teeth.”

  Mort chuckled. “That’s quite a picture, you playing hockey.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I have no plans to play hockey, but it might be worth suiting up just to see the expression on Seth’s face when I step onto the ice in a helmet and pads.”

  “I’d like to see that, too.”

  “I’ll think about it. At any rate, Seth didn’t get sick from the dinner, lucky for him. He refrigerated the rest of the casserole. I told him he took a greater chance than I did getting on the ice.” I reached up and pulled down a package from Alexei’s shelf.

  “What’s that you have there?”

  “I’m not sure.” I opened the cardboard carton to find a fabric-covered box inside.

  “Anything of interest?”

  “Just a souvenir from Charles Department Store,” I said, lifting out a glass Christmas ornament in the shape of a globe with a gold star where Cabot Cove would be.

  “How do you know it’s from Charles?”

  “They have a sale on holiday ornaments. I saw these on display the other evening. Besides, Alexei left the label on the box.”

  “Looks like he had quite a collection of souvenirs,” Mort said, eyeing the bookcase. “I didn’t figure Russians to be sentimental.”

  “I’m sure they’re as sentimental as anyone else,” I said.

  “Think so? They always seem to me, at least the ones I see on TV, as cold.”

  “If they’re cold, it might be the Russian winters,” I said.

  “Yeah, maybe that’s it.”

  I smiled and continued to look over other items on the shelves, which included glass figurines, a kaleidoscope, a shot glass, a deck of cards, a tin of Boston mints, a pair of buffalo-nickel cuff links, and a New England Patriots snow globe. It seemed a strange assortment for a twenty-five-year-old man to have bought, and I voiced my thought.

  “Maybe he planned to bring them home as gifts,” Mort said.

  “Or maybe he changed his mind and wanted to be able to return them,” I said. “They’re all still in their original packaging with the price tags on.” I picked up the snow globe and shook it. “Of course, there’s another possible explanation,” I said, setting it down and watching the flurry of confetti swirl over the team logo and goalpost.

  “Oh,” Mort said. “You think he might’ve had sticky fingers?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “The other day at Nudd’s I saw him retrieve a piece of scrimshaw from his pocket and return it to a shelf.”

  “No kidding? I’d better check to see if there’s been any recent report of shoplifting.”

  He held up the book he’d been perusing. “Take a look at this,” he said.

  “An actual photo album,” I said. “How nice. Most young people today just post their pictures online.”

  “This album sure isn’t new,” Mort said. “Looks like a family album he brought with him from Russia.”

  It was as much a scrapbook as a photo album, with pictures of Alexei, both on and off the ice. In one boyhood photo he was flanked by two men, one of them possibly his father. In another, he sat on a sofa with a blond lady who must have been his mother, the resemblance was so strong. In addition there were articles featuring him from Russian newspapers and magazines, ticket stubs, program pages, and other memorabilia. There were several photos of him with different girls. One showed Alexei and Irina skating together as teenagers. From their smiles, it was clear that they hadn’t always fought with each other.

  “I didn’t know he’d been here in the States before,” Mort said. “Did you?” He handed me a yellowed clipping in English that had been tucked into the back of the album. It showed Alexei as a ten-year-old on skates and was captioned:Alexei Olshansky from Moscow will skate in the Broadmoor Skating Club’s Winter Ice Show.

  “I just learned that myself,” I said. “Irina, his former partner, mentioned that he’d come here as a child to visit a cousin. She said that’s why his English was better than hers.”

  “Did she say how long he stayed in the States?”

  “No, but this would seem to indicate that it was longer than a short visit. I imagine he had to have belonged to the skating club if he was participating in its winter show.”

  “Maybe this guy was a relative,” Mort said, putting down the first clipping and picking up another, an obituary:Colorado Springs businessman Paul Valery died in a one-car accident Tuesday. Mr. Valery, driving a vintage Alfa Romeo, failed to negotiate a hairpin turn on Mountain Road in Chipita Park and crashed into a stone embankment. The car flipped over the barrier and plummeted into the woods below, killing the driver. Police suspect suicide, although an investigation still continues.

  No suicide note was found, but family members, citing recent financial reverses, said Mr. Valery had been despondent lately. His company, Deval Holdings, had been in the news for mishandling funds, leaving investors empty-handed when the firm closed its doors. Charges were pending against Mr. Valery.

  Police said the road was clear and dry the day of the accident but investigation showed skid marks indicating the driver may have sped up approaching the turn. Police speculated the automobile was going over sixty miles per hour when it hit the stone wall.

  A naturalized citizen, Mr. Valery was a native of Minsk in the former Soviet Republic of Byelorussia, now Belarus. He was active in several business organizations in Colorado Springs. . . .

  “His name isn’t here,” I said, “but if Alexei was a distant relative, a cousin perhaps, he wouldn’t have been mentioned among the survivors.”

  “I suppose not. Have you checked out the bedroom yet?”

  “My next stop. Are you looking for anything specific, Mort?”

  “No. Just getting a feel for his lifestyle in case the doc comes up with bad news. A toxicology report could take weeks to come back. I don’t want to let that much time pass.”

  “Are you thinking of keeping this apartment locked until you have the toxicology results?” I asked.

  “Not sure I could even if I wanted to. The owner of the house, Mrs. Skow, is already after me to release it so she can rent it out again. And I don’t know what kind of pressure we’ll be under from the Feds. We’re dealing with a foreign citizen, and a pretty famous one, who died under mysterious circumstances. They could come in and seal everything off. I want to get whatever I can before I lose control of the situation.”

  Alexei’s bedroom was spare, with little furniture aside from a bed and dresser. No pictures were hung on the walls, which were covered with a maritime-themed wallpaper of small, navy blue boats sailing in vertical stripes. His closet and bureau were packed with clothing, mostly what you would expect a young man to have, in addition to three skating costumes in vividly colored stretch material and adorned with spangles. Only a pile of unopened fan letters on his night table, and a wastebasket full of those he’d already read, held any interest. Mort decided to take both sets of letters back to his office to read, along with the family album.

  “See anything else we should take along?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied. “What strikes me is that there are things that should be here, but that aren’t.”

  “Like what, Mrs. F.?”

  “There’s no computer on his desk. I would have expected one.”

  “Yeah, I would, too. Do you think someone got here before us and took it?”

  I bent down to look under the desk. “No. There�
��s no Internet connection here. I think he must have used his cell phone to get and send messages. Did you find one in his pockets?”

  “No, but I’ll ask the techs in case I just missed it.”

  “And where are his skates, Mort?”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve been all through his apartment, and I haven’t seen a single pair of ice skates. In fact, other than the three costumes hanging in his closet and that album you’re holding, there’s nothing here to indicate Alexei was a world-class figure skater. Where are his skates? I heard him say he never lets them out of his sight.”

  “They’re probably still at the rink. They have a locker room.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “We can look for them there later. But I still wonder why he wouldn’t keep at least one pair here in his apartment.”

  “Coffee, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked once we were settled back at police headquarters. “Gladys ordered some Sumatra this time. It’s strong, but I like it.”

  “No, thanks, Mort, but you go ahead.”

  Mort left me with the letters while he went to get himself a mug of coffee. He returned with a plate of cookies as well. “Maureen baked these to bring to the doc’s, but she burned them,” he said, setting the plate on his desk. “She scraped off the black parts. They’re not bad. I told her they taste like barbecued cookies.”

  “Thanks, Mort, but I think I’ll pass.”

  We slipped on latex gloves to prevent our fingerprints from contaminating the papers, and spent the next thirty minutes reading Alexei’s fan mail. There were a few letters from children starting skating, but more from older admirers, almost all female, and several bearing Cabot Cove return addresses.

  “This one has a Cabot Cove postmark,” I said, slitting an unopened envelope with a dull knife Mort used as a letter opener, “but no return address. It also isn’t signed, but I think I know the reason.”

  “Why are you frowning?” Mort asked.

  “Evidently not all his mail is from admirers,” I said, scanning the message, which was scrawled in black crayon on the back of a slip of paper torn off a pad of business forms. At the bottom of the form, it said: “Thank you for your business.” The note on the reverse was not as warm. I read it aloud: “ ‘I’ve told you before. Keep your Commie hands off Christine Allen. She’s too good for you. Manhandle her again and you’ll live to regret it.’ ”

  I looked up at Mort. “ ‘You’ll live to regret it,’” I repeated. “Sounds like a threat to me.”

  “From Cabot Cove?”

  “Yes.”

  “Better keep that one as evidence.” He held open the plastic bag, and I dropped the message and envelope inside.

  The phone rang, and Mort leaned over to see who was calling. “It’s the doc,” he said, pushing a button to turn on the speakerphone. “Hey, Doc. Mrs. F. and I were just talking about you. How was that stew?” He winked at me.

  “Best I’ve ever made, if I say so myself.”

  “Nicely aged, huh?”

  “If you ask politely, I’ll let you have some leftovers. It’s supposed to be better on the second day.”

  “Sure you’re not conducting a laboratory experiment in your refrigerator? Seems I heard that old stew is the perfect medium for bacteria.”

  “I’m still alive, aren’t I? And considering some of the meals I’ve been served in your house, that says a lot.”

  “That’s enough, gentlemen,” I said. “Was there a reason for your call, Seth?”

  “Yeah, Doc. Got anything new?”

  “Mebbe,” Seth said. “Thought you’d want to know that Olshansky’s death was definitely a drowning.”

  “That’s kind of the way I had it figured,” Mort said, wincing.

  “Does that mean the circumstances surrounding his death are still inconclusive, Seth?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His fingers and hands. I paid particular attention after you mentioned them, Jessica. There were cuts on the bottom of his fingers, consistent with him pushing up on the grating.”

  “So the grating was down when he was in the pit?” Mort put in.

  “That appears to be the case.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Ayuh. The tops of his fingers were badly bruised, the little ones crushed.”

  “How would that happen if he’s pressing up from below with his palms?” Mort asked.

  “He could have pushed his fingers between the gaps in the metal to get a better grip on the panel,” I replied. “Seth, do you think someone might have stomped on his fingers as he was trying to lift the grating up from underneath?”

  “That would be a reasonable explanation for the injuries. I had the staff take additional photos before I sent in tissue samples from the fingers, and also from the cut on his nose that you noticed. I’ll have the specimens examined to determine if there’s microscopic evidence of metal or other fragments.”

  “Can you give me a preliminary report, Doc?” Mort asked.

  “What the devil do you think I’m doing right now?”

  Mort’s eyes sought the ceiling, and he shook his head. “Okay, okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. It’s just that I need the report in writing for it to be official. I got a lot of people asking.”

  “I’ll dictate it before I leave here and have the hospital’s Medical Records send it over to you.”

  “That’ll be fine, Doc. Thanks for letting us know.”

  I heard Seth harrumph. “Jessica?”

  “Yes, Seth?”

  “Do you think I should dump out the rest of the dish?”

  “I know you hate to see food go to waste, Seth, and so do I. But I wouldn’t want you to get sick. Yes, I think you should discard the stew.”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll trust your judgment, which I might add has not been especially solid lately.”

  After that comment, he disconnected the call.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The first forty-eight hours following the announcement of Alexei’s death had been a madhouse, with camera crews from national networks as well as local stations sending their satellite trucks into town, their cameras capturing reporters posing in front of the Cabot Cove Ice Arena and waxing poetic about the skater, or taking panning shots of the growing mound of flowers in tribute to Alexei that littered the snow outside the main entrance.

  Press had camped out in front of the Allen house demanding a statement from Christine, who had gone into seclusion. Mr. Allen had negotiated a single pool interview in which he allowed her to make one short, tearful statement as multiple cameras clicked furiously around her. Then, with an arm protectively around his daughter’s shoulders, he escorted her back into the house, drew the blinds, and waited for the press to melt away. Unfortunately, like the snow, the media lingered in hopes of snatching a candid shot of Alexei’s partner that no one else would have.

  The Russian news crew was everywhere in town, having hired a Russian-speaking assistant professor of political science from the University of Maine at Orono to act as translator. They managed to learn about the screws that had been strewn on the ice and other unfortunate incidents that had occurred at the rink, and word around town was that they had cobbled together a story of a vast Western conspiracy to keep Alexei from returning to Russia, and at the same time to ensure he would never again be the skater that he once was.

  It seemed that by now everyone in town had learned of Alexei’s death, and theories ran rampant. I hadn’t been back to the arena since Friday, and headed there to see what the staff was saying. It took a while because there was a line of cars snaking in and out of the parking lot as if the building were a drive-by tourist attraction.

  Inside, I was surprised to find the place almost empty. A steely-eyed Marisa Brown sat behind the reception desk holding a copy of the Cabot Cove Gazette, whose front page featured a photograph of a smiling Alexei Olshansky beneath the headline TRAGIC ACCIDENT ENDS OLYMPIC DREAMS. Under his head
shot were two other photos, one of Christine Allen, the other of Alexei’s former partner Irina Bednikova.

  “Look at that,” Marisa said hotly. “Irina’s all dressed in black like she knew she was going to have to attend a funeral.”

  The photo had been taken at Blueberry Hill Inn, the bedand-breakfast owned by my friends Craig and Jill Thomas. Indeed, Irina was draped head to toe in black; the only spot of light was her tiny white dog, Pravda, into whose furry head she’d buried her face. I was sorry that Irina’s first notification about Alexei’s death had come from the press, who, despite her bodyguards, mobbed her in front of the inn until Jill came out to chastise them and take a sobbing Irina inside.

  It was impossible to reach everyone who needed to know about Alexei before information about his death was broadcast. Fortunately, the State Department had alerted our ambassador in Russia, who personally brought the sad news about her only son to his mother. What a terrible task that must be. I was thankful that a seasoned diplomat might know how to deliver the harsh blow without inflicting more pain than necessary.

  Eldridge Coddington had insisted that Mort allow him to reopen the rink after two days, and Mort had acquiesced with the stipulation that the Zamboni garage remain off-limits. Just to make sure, he sent two of his deputies to keep curiosity seekers out of the crime scene, but he needn’t have bothered. The hockey rink was dark, and only a few of the regular customers circled the other ice.

  Mort had called in Maine’s state police to arrange for the services of its dive team to examine the pit before it was pumped out. While he hadn’t made a public announcement, he was convinced that what we had was a murder, and the dive team was among the forensic specialists needed to comb the Zamboni garage for clues. Who knew what could be sitting six feet below the surface? Mort feared that letting the water out could disturb a crucial piece of evidence, perhaps even see it disappear down the drain along with the water.