Skating on Thin Ice

by Jessica Fletcher

  “That’s great, John. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “A signed copy of your latest book would be nice compensation.”

  “Consider it on its way.”

  I sat back and enjoyed the feeling of satisfaction that washed over me. With only a few searches under my belt, I’d already been able to dig deeper into what actually happened to Paul Valery, whose obituary Alexei had kept. And through the good offices of my friend in San Francisco, Detective Molito, I was tracking down the truth behind a rumor. Before that, I’d been, as Seth would put it, dazzled with confusion. Now I felt that I had least taken some tangible steps that hopefully would lead to a resolution of Alexei Olshansky’s death.

  I was thinking about that when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. F.? It’s Mort.”

  “Hello, Mort. I meant to call you. I wanted to let you know I’ve been looking into Brian Devlin’s background and expect to unearth a few findings that might interest you.”

  “Happy to hear them, Mrs. F., but you might be interested in what I’m going to do. I plan to announce that Olshansky’s death was not accidental.”

  “What’s led you to that decision, Mort?”

  “Doc Hazlitt’s autopsy report. It’s all down here in black and white.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, you know about the bruises on Olshansky’s fingers. Preliminary tox report is negative. No drugs or alcohol in his system, making it less likely he would have fallen. Doc also said that the circumstances surrounding the death point in the direction of murder.”

  “I have to say, Mort, I simply couldn’t accept the possibility that this physically fit young athlete could have lost his balance, tumbled into the ice pit, and then not been able to get himself out.”

  “Well, the good doc agrees with you—and so do I.”

  I was pleased, of course, that my initial impression had been validated, but I certainly wasn’t about to gloat over it.

  “So what are these things you say you’re looking into?” he asked.

  “It’s just preliminary right now, but Brian Devlin may have had some questionable business dealings. I’ve also put in a call to an old friend of mine in San Francisco, a retired detective who now has his own agency. I wanted to follow up on the rumor that Christine Allen was being stalked while she was living there.”

  “Anything concrete so far?”

  “My friend is going to get back to me tomorrow. In the meantime, Mort, have you learned any more about the man who threatened Jeremy with a gun?”

  “No. That guy Gemell never called me back. Thanks for reminding me.”

  “I asked Eve Simpson about him,” I said.

  “I’ve been too busy to get the Connecticut cops after him.”

  “Eve thinks it’s ridiculous that anyone would think that he carried a gun, but she said that she would pass along the message to have him call you.”

  The minute I said it, I knew what Mort was thinking, that I was stepping on his toes and treading in his investigative waters, so I quickly added, “I’m not sure if she’ll remember, so it probably makes more sense for you to call him again.”

  “I intend to do that the minute we get off the phone. By the way, Mrs. F., Maureen wants to know if you have plans for dinner.”

  I hesitated before answering. It sounded as though I was about to receive an invitation to the Metzger home, and I wanted to leave myself an out in case his wife was in one of her frenetic kitchen moods and whipping up an experimental dish. Thankfully, Mort didn’t put me in the position of having to ask what was on the menu.

  “Maureen has been playing all day with a new Mexican recipe, scallops cooked in some kind of chocolate sauce. I never heard of scallops being cooked with chocolate, but she thinks it’ll be terrific.”

  “I appreciate the invitation, Mort, but I’ve fallen behind on my correspondence and bill paying. Please tell Maureen that the dish sounds yummy.”

  I don’t mind a white lie now and then.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’d been truthful when I told Mort that I had fallen behind in my correspondence and bill paying and had decided to focus on those tasks. But after less than a half hour of responding to e-mails and writing a few checks—I’ve never become comfortable with the idea of paying bills online—I got up from my desk and paced my office. My research and phone calls had given me a sense that I’d made a modicum of progress in the Olshansky case. I suppose that his death being officially labeled a murder only bolstered my need not to lose momentum.

  Restless, I glanced at the clock on the wall: four thirty. I went to the window and looked out. It was already dark. Even so, I decided that a brisk walk was in order to clear my mind. I slipped into my down winter jacket, put on boots, and was about to head out when the phone rang.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?” a young woman’s voice asked.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Marisa, from the ice arena,” she said, her voice wavering.

  “Hello, Marisa. What a nice surprise.”

  She burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong, dear? Are you all right?”

  “Did you hear what they’re going to do?”

  “No, I don’t think I’ve heard anything new,” I said. “Are they going to close the arena again?”

  “I wish!”

  “You do? Why don’t you tell me what the problem is and—”

  “I can’t talk on the phone. Someone will hear me. They’re all looking at me. Can I come see you? Would you mind?”

  “Of course I wouldn’t mind. Or I’ll come to where you are. You sound very distraught.”

  “It’s horrible,” she said.

  “What’s horrible?”

  “What’s happened.”

  It was obvious that I wasn’t going to elicit any useful information from her on the phone.

  “Do you have a car? If not, I can call a taxi and—”

  “I have my car.”

  “Good. Here’s my address.” I gave it to her slowly and included directions from the ice arena.

  With my plans suddenly changed, I removed my boots and jacket and went to the kitchen, where I put up water for tea, opened a package of cookies, and awaited her arrival. Fifteen minutes later she knocked at my door, and minutes after that we sat at my kitchen table with steaming cups of tea in front of us, Red Zinger for her, English breakfast for me.

  “Now,” I said, “let’s hear what has you so upset.”

  “It’s—it’s Jeremy.”

  “What about Jeremy? Has something happened to him?”

  She reached for a cookie, nibbled on it, took a sip of tea, and said, “He’s become a monster.”

  “That sounds ominous, Marisa, but you’ll have to be more specific.”

  “It’s all because of Christine.”

  “I thought this was about Jeremy.”

  “It’s about both of them, Mrs. Fletcher. I hate them.”

  “That’s a harsh thing to say, Marisa. From what I had gathered, you and Jeremy were making wonderful progress as a pairs team. I’m sure that Alexei’s death has set everyone on edge, but I’d hate to see it get in the way of you and Jeremy realizing your potential as skaters.”

  She moaned. “That’s just it. We don’t have any potential. We don’t have a future anymore as a pairs team,” she said. “Jeremy has seen to that.”

  I sat back and took a few seconds to take in the pretty young woman sitting across from me. At that moment she projected a combination of profound sadness and abject anger. It was clear that something traumatic had happened between her and Jeremy.

  “I don’t understand, Marisa. Why is Christine the cause of whatever problem it is you’re having with Jeremy?”

  “She ... I mean, he ...” She took a deep breath and waved her hands as if to clear her thinking. “I’m so mad I could spit. Now that Alexei is dead, Chris wants Jeremy to become her partner.”

  “Are you sure? Did Jeremy tell you this?”

 
; “He’s been hinting around, but I couldn’t believe it. Just before I called you, Mrs. Fletcher, he pulled me into Lyla’s office at the arena and told me he was going to become Chris’s partner. He was so excited. And the stupid idiot thought I’d be happy for him. How could she do that to me, after all the things I did for her, defending that jerk, Alexei, when he was shoplifting at Nudd’s, and not telling on him?”

  “Well, I’m not sure that protecting Alexei at that time was the wisest thing to do, but let’s put that aside. Surely, Jeremy can’t make such a major decision like that unilaterally. What about Christine’s coach, Brian Devlin? Has she discussed it with him? Or Mark, who’s been coaching you two? Don’t they have something to say about this? Jeremy can’t just decide to replace Alexei as Christine’s partner.”

  “I’ll bet that Mark will be furious, but his opinion doesn’t matter. Mr. Devlin is the top coach at the arena. What he says matters most. I don’t think that he’ll care one way or the other just as long as he keeps getting paid.”

  “What about Christine’s father?” I asked. “He has some very strong opinions as to the type of partner his daughter should skate with. He spent a lot of money to arrange for Alexei to come here from Russia. I’m sure Jeremy has lots of potential, but he has a long way to go before reaching Alexei’s skill level and reputation. I somehow can’t conceive of Mr. Allen buying into this.”

  She came forward in her chair, her forearms on the table. “You don’t understand what’s been going on down at the arena, Mrs. Fletcher. There’s nothing but backbiting and scheming. Jeremy has been after Christine ever since she arrived. He’s mad about her; he’d sell his soul to get close. You can’t get much closer than being a pairs partner. Mr. Allen looks like a mean man. He struts around like he owns the place, but everybody knows that Christine twists him around her little finger. If she wants to skate with Jeremy, her father will go along with it.”

  Her comment that Jeremy was mad about Christine and would sell his soul to become close to her was troubling. If that were true—and allowing for overstatement on her part—did it mean that he was willing to kill to achieve that goal? That contemplation was chilling.

  Marisa seemed to read what I was thinking because she said, “I hate to say it, but I wouldn’t put it past Jeremy to have gotten rid of Alexei in order to get what he wants.”

  “That’s a pretty shocking statement, Marisa. I hope you aren’t accusing him of that.”

  “But it’s possible, isn’t it, Mrs. Fletcher? I mean, look at it. Jeremy is the one who has the most to gain with Alexei out of the way. Frankly, Jeremy scares me. He has a mean streak, a bad temper when things don’t go his way.”

  “This is the first I’m hearing about that.”

  While listening to her, I thought back to comments that had been made at the arena about Alexei’s treatment of Marisa. According to her—and Jeremy, too—Alexei seemed to take pleasure in deriding her both personally and professionally. Yet here she was insinuating that Jeremy might have murdered Alexei because he had something to gain. But had the Russian skater’s behavior toward her been sufficiently harsh to have prompted her to strike out in a fit of pique and push him into the ice pit? I hated to even consider that possibility, but the fact was that at this juncture, anyone involved in the arena couldn’t be ruled out as a suspect.

  Was Marisa simply an overly dramatic adolescent reacting to having been hurt? Or was she being shrewd in coming to me in order to point a finger at someone else? I didn’t like thinking that about her, but I’d learned over the years when dealing with murder that no possibility should be left off the table.

  “Why are you telling me this, Marisa?”

  “I had to tell someone, Mrs. Fletcher, and you seem to be the sort of person who would understand. I know that you’re famous and all that. Everybody says you’ll probably know who killed Alexei before the police do. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered you today, but I was ready to explode after Jeremy told me he wouldn’t be my partner anymore.”

  “Did he tell you what he intended to do, Marisa, or did he say that he’d already done it?”

  She shrugged. “I guess he said he planned to do it. But that’s as good as doing it, isn’t it? I mean, if he plans to do it, he will.”

  “Not necessarily,” I replied. “He might simply have been expressing a desire, but that doesn’t always translate into it becoming a reality. As I said before, it’s not his decision to make alone. Did he say that Christine had agreed to become his partner?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well then,” I said, “I suggest that you put what he said in perspective. Christine might not want him as a skating partner, and her father will certainly have something to say about it. And I’m not so sure that Mr. Devlin would want to coach Jeremy until he’s at the level Christine has already achieved. I understand why Jeremy’s announcement upset you so, but I suggest that you step back and not assume anything until everyone else has weighed in.”

  She picked up another cookie, took a bite, and said, “I suppose you’re right, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s just that I want so much to become a champion skater. You put so much into it and you feel like you’re getting somewhere, and then someone throws a rock in your path. It’s going to take so many years to make it in singles competition, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be as good as the world gold medalists. But I know that I can be great in pairs. Maybe I should try ice dancing.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure out the right thing Marisa. You know how competitive the sport is and the years of dedicated practice and training it takes. I have no doubt that if you apply yourself you’ll achieve your goal, whichever way you decide to go. But in the meantime, I suggest that you put aside what Jeremy has told you and wait to see how things develop.”

  The conversation, and the tea and cookies, had done their job. She was considerably calmer than when she’d arrived and actually had a smile on her pretty face when she left the house.

  I was glad that she had come to me and that we’d had the conversation. It was evident that if I were to play a productive role in solving Alexei Olshansky’s murder, I was going to have to learn everything I possibly could about the potential suspects, and that included everyone who worked at the arena.

  I tried to get back to answering correspondence and paying bills, but my mind was too clogged with other thoughts of murder and potential murderers. I looked at the pad on which I’d written the names of those I was researching. Then I added six more:Jeremy Hapgood

  Marisa Brown

  Lyla Fasolino

  Eldridge Coddington

  Mark Rosner

  Luc Beliveau

  I hoped I had included all the possible suspects. Of course, there was always the remote possibility that Alexei had been killed by someone with no connection to him or to the arena, but that was so unlikely that I discarded the notion.

  I was pondering this when Seth Hazlitt called.

  “I thought you might be at Mort’s for dinner,” he said.

  “He invited me, but I declined,” I said. “Too much to catch up on here.”

  Seth chuckled. “Sure your decision didn’t have to do with scallops in chocolate sauce?”

  I joined in the laughter. “I take it that you were invited, too.”

  “Ayuh, I was. Somehow, Maureen’s latest culinary adventure didn’t appeal. So, you’re free for dinner.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “I’m cooking roast duck,” he said, “and would be pleased to share it with you.”

  I hesitated and looked at the pile of bills that needed to be paid and the stack of correspondence awaiting a response.

  “I love duck,” I said, “but only if Mort and Maureen don’t find out that you and I had dinner together. I’d hate to hurt their feelings.”

  “It’ll be our little secret, Jessica. Seven?”

  “Seven it is.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  In addition to being a wonderful physician—espec
ially when it comes to diagnosing difficult cases—Seth Hazlitt has worked to become a very good cook. He’s developed a special knack for things like roast duck, preparing it so that it’s moist on the inside and perfectly crisp on the outside. This night was no exception. The salad he whipped up, which included walnuts and cranberries along with fresh endive, was a perfect match for the rich, succulent taste of the duck with orange sauce, and I left the dinner table thoroughly sated.

  “That was splendid,” I said as we settled in his den with after-dinner drinks. “Chef Hazlitt hasn’t lost his touch.”

  “Much obliged for the compliment, Jessica. Now, fill me in on what’s going on with that Russian skater’s death.”

  “You mean that Russian skater’s murder,” I said.

  He looked at me quizzically. “And where did you hear that, Jessica?”

  I hesitated answering because I didn’t want to reveal that Mort had shared Seth’s autopsy findings with me. I needn’t have been reluctant.

  Seth said, “So our outstanding sheriff passed that information along to you, did he?”

  “He did mention it, Seth. He knows how much I’ve been involved with the goings-on at the arena and didn’t want to keep me in the dark. He meant well.”

  “Sheriff Metzger always means well, Jessica. I would have told you tonight myself, but no harm done. Now that Mr. Olshansky’s death is officially a murder, how does that fit with the conclusions you’ve come to?”

  “You don’t sound as though you’re pleased that I’ve come to any conclusions, Seth.”

  “It’s not my place to second-guess you. I learned long ago that when my dear friend Jessica Fletcher decides to stick her nose into what it is basically police business, it is useless to resist.”

  “I’m not sure that I agree with your characterization that I ‘stick my nose’ into police business, but I suppose it’s one way of putting it. You certainly will agree that the circumstances brought me into the picture. I was there when the body was discovered, and I’ve accompanied Mort during some of his interviews. I’ve also taken some steps on my own to try to help him with the investigation.”