“There! See? So what have you uncovered, Detective Fletcher?”
I ignored his sarcasm and gave him the details of my conversation with Peter Valery. “He says Brian Devlin is responsible for his father’s death.”
“Does he have anything to back up that accusation?” Seth asked.
“I don’t know yet, but I’m meeting with him tomorrow. He’s coming to Portland on business and plans to stop here.”
“A little out of his way, isn’t it?”
“He didn’t seem to mind. He did say that Devlin and his father had been in business together.”
“What sort of business?”
“Something to do with real estate. I really don’t know much more than what I’ve told you. I’ll fill you in if I learn anything new. I also spoke with an old friend, a detective now retired from the San Francisco Police Department. I doubt if you’ve heard the rumor that Christine Allen had been the victim of a stalker back in San Francisco. Lyla Fasolino told me it was on the Internet. I’d like to know more about that, and I’m sure Mort would, too.”
“You’re probably right, Jessica. Mort has always been quick to give you credit when you’ve helped him with a case. But it seems to me that—”
He was interrupted by the ringing of his private, unlisted home phone.
“Oh, hello, Evelyn,” he said, wincing for my benefit. “No, you’re not interrupting something important, Evelyn, probably nothing as important as why you’re calling me at home.” The edge in his voice was apparent. “Is that so, Evelyn? What? As a matter of fact, I was just discussing the case with Jessica. I’ll put her on the line with us.” He pointed to an extension, which I picked up.
“Hello, Evelyn,” I said.
“Seth said you were discussing the Olshansky case, Jessica. Anything I should know about? You know I have a lot of connections. I could probably help out with research.”
Seth and I looked at each other and smiled.
“No, Evelyn,” I said, “I have nothing new to tell you.”
“All right. Keep secrets. I always find out in the end.” She turned her attention to Seth. “I need a quote from you, Dr. Hazlitt.”
“A quote about what?”
“About the conclusion you came to after the autopsy, that Olshansky was murdered. The headline I’m running is ‘Russian Skater Murder Victim.’ ”
“Where did you learn about the autopsy findings?” Seth asked.
“A good reporter tracks down the news, Seth. I spoke with Sheriff Metzger, and he—”
“Then I suggest that you get a quote from our sheriff,” Seth said.
“I already have, but I need one from the acting medical examiner, who happens to be you.”
“I think it would be inappropriate for me to comment at this stage, Evelyn. The sheriff’s office is your best source of information.”
She sounded huffy. “I’m disappointed in you, Seth Hazlitt. The murder of the Russian skater is the biggest news we’ve had in Cabot Cove since Walter Motley burned his house down using a blowtorch to take the paint off his dining room wall.”
“I appreciate that you have a job to do, Evelyn,” said Seth, “but I still have no comment, at least not at this moment.”
She gave up trying to wheedle something from Seth and tried me again. “You’ve been involved in this case since the beginning, Jessica, and don’t say that you haven’t. The people of this town have a right to know what’s going on, especially when it involves a murder at a public facility.”
I shrugged at Seth before saying to Evelyn, “You know as well as I do that certain aspects of a murder case are not made public until the investigation has been completed.”
“Will you be at the press conference tomorrow?” she asked.
“What press conference?” Seth and I said in unison.
“At the ice arena. Sheriff Metzger is conducting it. I suppose you don’t consider the Gazette to be as important as the other media that will be there to cover it, but—”
“That isn’t true, Evelyn, and you know it,” I said. “The Gazette is a fine community paper, and I’ve always been a big supporter of it.”
“No matter,” she said, her pique evident in her voice. “I just think it’s strange that the medical examiner who decided Olshansky was murdered won’t be there to explain his findings to the public.”
“Now, see here,” Seth said. “I’ve already provided a written report of the autopsy’s findings. I don’t need to conduct a class in postmortem examination, do I?”
“Sorry to have bothered you,” Evelyn said stiffly. “Have a good night.”
Seth and I returned the phones to their cradles.
“Sometimes I lose patience with that lady,” Seth said. I started to say something in her defense, but he cut me off. “I know, I know—she is a good reporter and editor, and I’m fond of her personally. But I think she should back off a little.”
Evelyn Phillips might have been a little aggressive, but she was a good and fair journalist. What was more important to me at that moment was the news that Mort Metzger intended to hold a press conference the following morning. Had he come up with new, useful information about the murder that he would announce at the conference? If so, he’d obviously decided to not share it with anyone until making it public. I couldn’t blame him, of course, and I appreciated how much he’d already shared with me. Still, I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t known about it.
“Will you go to the press conference, Seth?”
“Nobody asked me. Besides, I have a full slate of patients in the morning. What about you?”
“I won’t be there, either. I’m meeting with the fellow who’s driving in from Connecticut tomorrow, and waiting for a phone call from my detective friend in San Francisco. Plus, I still haven’t caught up with my correspondence and finances.
Seth drove me home. We sat in my driveway and chatted about a few things, none of which had anything to do with murder. As I was about to get out of the car, he placed his hand on my arm and said, “I know you don’t like me to tell you what to do, Jessica, but keep in mind that there’s a murderer down at the ice arena, someone who won’t take kindly to anyone out to identify him—or her.”
“I appreciate your concern, Seth. I promise not to get myself in too deep.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Pleasant dreams of scallops doing the backstroke in chocolate sauce.”
Chapter Twenty
I wished Seth’s parting words hadn’t invoked the image of scallops swimming in chocolate sauce. That vision dominated my dreams and became even more unpleasant when the scallops and chocolate sauce were in the ice pit from which Alexei Olshansky’s body had been pulled. Alexei was in the dream. He was covered with chocolate and struggled to keep his head above the murky mix of ice water and chocolate, eventually losing his battle and disappearing beneath the surface.
I woke up in a cold sweat and out of sorts. The sunny weather of the previous day had given way to low-hanging gray clouds, and I could smell more snow in the air. Hopefully, it would hold off until Peter Valery had completed his drive from Connecticut.
He wasn’t due in Cabot Cove until early afternoon, and I reconsidered my decision not to attend Mort Metzger’s press conference at the ice arena. Evelyn Phillips had said that it was scheduled to begin at ten o’clock. Because of the time change between Maine and San Francisco, I didn’t expect to hear from Detective Molito until noon my time, or even later. I’d had good intentions of devoting the morning to catching up on personal matters but decided that putting it off one additional day wouldn’t matter.
My taxi dropped me in front of the arena at quarter to ten. A couple of TV remote trucks were parked close to the entrance, their satellite dishes jutting up into the lowering gray sky. Mort had positioned two uniformed deputies at the door to check press IDs as people passed through. The media was invited but not the public. I wasn’t sure I agreed with the decision to ban everyday citizens from attending, but i
t obviously wasn’t my call to make. I only hoped it wouldn’t keep me out.
Mort must have called in additional staff from the state police. An officer I didn’t recognize stopped me at the door and examined my private pilot’s license, which I carry for identification since I don’t possess a driver’s license. For a moment, I thought he was going to deny me access, but Mort, who was standing nearby, nodded at the deputy, and I entered the arena, where a podium and microphone had been set up in the concession stand’s seating area. The picnic tables had been pushed to one side, and folding chairs were lined up in rows. I spotted the Russian television crew that had had a run-in with Coach Devlin the previous week. Seated with the Russian reporter was Irina Bednikova, flanked by Maxim and Boris. There were two dozen reporters and dignitaries scattered throughout the area, including Mayor Jim Shevlin and members of the town council. I spotted Eldridge Coddington, sitting two rows behind Richard Koser and Evelyn Phillips from the Gazette. I took an empty seat next to her.
“Good morning,” she said. “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”
“Changed my mind.”
“Looks like someone else changed his mind,” Evelyn said as Seth Hazlitt slipped into the chair next to mine.
“Morning, Evelyn,” he said.
“Morning, Seth.”
“Do you have any advance indication of what Mort will be talking about?” I asked her.
“Unlike some others I could name, he doesn’t take me into his confidence,” she said, “but I hope it’s worth holding a press conference. I already got the ME report, and I have lots of other things I could be doing this morning.”
At ten o’clock straight up, Mort came to the podium, tucked some papers under his arm, and held up his hands for silence. The room went very quickly quiet, except for the click and whirr of camera shutters.
“Good morning. Thank you all for coming. As you know, we had a tragic event here at the ice arena, the death of a pretty well-known Russian skater, Alexei Olshansky, age twenty-five. Pending autopsy reports, his death was initially considered accidental. But Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who is acting medical examiner in Doc Foley’s absence, performed the autopsy.”
“Where is Doc Foley?” a reporter called out.
“In Florida,” Mort said, chuckling. “I bet we all wish we could be in Florida with him, huh?”
No one laughed.
Mort cleared his throat and continued. “Anyway, please hold your questions until my statement is complete.” He looked down at his paper. “Dr. Hazlitt performed the autopsy and has ruled that Mr. Olshansky’s death was a homicide. This finding confirms what I’ve felt all along.” He looked at me for a reaction; I didn’t have one.
Mort went on. “This isn’t your routine murder investigation. It has what I suppose you could call international implications. The Russian embassy in Washington, D.C., has gotten involved and is putting on the pressure for me to come up with an answer. Our own State Department is pretty interested, too, and wants this case solved today, if not sooner. The Maine State Police are on board, and I appreciate their help. The FBI is asking questions, too, but aren’t part of my team, at least not yet. No matter where the deceased came from, this is a local matter, and I want to assure you that my office is pulling out all the stops to get to the bottom of it. We are on this case twenty-four-seven. Everyone who worked at the arena the night he died has been questioned, and I intend to question them all again. Doc Hazlitt has provided a written report of his autopsy findings, which I’ve had photocopied, and it’s available for all you folks from the media.
“I can’t get too specific about the details of the investigation, but I promise each and every one of you that we will bring whoever killed Mr. Olshansky to justice. I know that there’s a lot of rumors going around town, and plenty of folks are on edge because this happened in our otherwise peaceful town. Well, there’s no need for anyone to worry. I’m counting on you media types to get the word out that information from any citizen will be appreciated and kept confidential. If anyone knows anything that might help in the investigation, please notify my office. Along with the autopsy report, I have a press release that includes contact information in case anybody wants to get hold of me.
“On a different topic, there have been a series of incidents here at the ice arena lately that have nothing to do with the murder. I’m pleased to announce that my office has identified the individual behind these incidents and an arrest has been made. I will not be releasing the name of the person now in custody until further questioning of the suspect has been completed.”
Mayor Shevlin came to the microphone and read his statement, declaring the city’s cooperation with the police department and pledging that the citizens of Cabot Cove had nothing to fear; the police were on top of the situation. Eldridge Coddington added his two cents, saying that he had hired additional security at the rink for the hours it was open, and that while several programs had been suspended at parents’ request, they would be reinstated the following week, and there would be no refunds.
Mort returned to the microphone. “Now, I’ll take a few questions, but don’t ask about details of the investigation. I’m not at liberty to answer them at this time.”
I glanced over at Evelyn Phillips, who was busy making notes in a long, thin reporter’s notepad. She stopped writing, turned to me, and said, “What do you know about Mort arresting someone, Jessica?”
“Not a thing,” I replied. “I’m only hearing about it now.”
Our conversation was drowned out as reporters threw questions at Mort, few of which he elected to answer. They soon gave up trying to get something out of him and turned to Irina, wanting mostly to know what her plans were now that her former skating partner was dead. She answered the best she could, considering the language barrier. Eventually, her beefy brother put a stop to the questioning and the trio left.
“Maxim and Boris are very protective of her,” I commented.
“Who’s Boris?” Evelyn asked. “The other bodyguard?”
“He’s the brother of Alexei’s fiancée,” I said.
“Fiancée? I didn’t know he had a fiancée,” Evelyn said, sounding annoyed. She got up and ran after the departing Russians.
It struck me that some significant figures were absent that morning. Christine Allen and her father weren’t there, nor were Brian Devlin, Marisa Brown, Lyla Fasolino, Jeremy Hapgood, or Mark Rosner. I mentioned it to Seth. “I suppose there wasn’t any official reason for them to attend, but I would’ve thought that at least a few of them would have shown up, if only out of curiosity.”
“They might be here somewhere out of sight, since Mort restricted attendance,” Seth said. “Although if I know Eldridge Coddington, he probably gave them all the day off, unpaid, of course.”
We waited until the crowd thinned around the podium before approaching Mort, who was gathering up his notes. The autopsy report and press release had already been distributed.
“How’d I do, Mrs. F.? Doc?” Mort asked.
“Just fine,” I said.
“Not easy dealing with the media,” Seth added.
“No, it never is,” I agreed.
We followed him out the front door to his vehicle, and Seth went to get his car.
“Find out anything new, Mrs. F., since we spoke yesterday?”
“No, but I should know more later today. You mentioned in your remarks that you were reinterviewing everyone who worked at the rink.”
“Already started the process. Interesting the things you find out the second time around.”
I wasn’t sure I should ask, but I did. “What did you come up with?”
He looked around to be sure that we weren’t being overheard. “Checked into that second bodyguard, not the one who’s the skater’s brother but the other one, Boris something. Did you know his sister, Dariya, had a baby?”
“Oh?”
“The father of that baby was none other than Alexei Olshansky. So it’s not simply a brok
en engagement. Seems to me that Boris has a pretty strong motive to kill Olshansky,” Mort offered.
I had to agree with him.
“What about this person you’ve arrested?” I asked.
“I can’t say any more about that, Mrs. F., except he’s a person of interest. Excuse me. I have to get back to the office. I have Ms. Allen and her father coming in for follow-up interviews.”
He got in his car and drove off.
The news that Boris’s sister had been impregnated by Alexei Olshansky was, of course, confirmation of yet another rumor, this one provided by Christine. Both of the big, hulking Russian bodyguards had reason to be angry with Alexei—Maxim because Alexei had abandoned Irina as a skating partner, and now the other man, Boris, whose sister had a child out of wedlock with the murder victim.
Seth pulled up in his car, and I climbed in.
“It’s eleven,” he said, “a little late for breakfast and too early for lunch, but I wouldn’t mind a snack at Mara’s. How about you?”
I still had an hour before it was likely that Detective Molito would be calling. “As long as I’m home by noon. I’m expecting a phone call,” I said.
“I have to make a fast stop at Charles, but we should get you home in time, no problem.”
The sky was leaden and the wind whipped up a chop on the water in the bay. By the time Seth and I walked from his car to Mara’s, the cold had gone right through me, and I looked forward to a bowl of whatever soup she was featuring that day. The restaurant was busy, but we managed to find an available table away from the draft created each time someone came through the door. It appeared that Mara was shorthanded this day. She scurried between tables and behind the counter while two young female waitresses, who’d worked there a while, helped the owner keep up with taking orders and delivering the food.
Mara waved to us in acknowledgment and held up her index finger to indicate that she’d get to us shortly. When she did arrive, I said, “Looks like you could use an extra hand.”
“Are you volunteering, Jessica? If so, I’ll put an apron on you.”
Skating on Thin Ice Page 17
