Skating on Thin Ice (4 page)

“Did I hear my name being bandied about?” Devlin said, leaving the ice by the gate next to which we’d been standing.

“I’m only saying good things,” Lyla said playfully, “but you’d better be nice to me.”

“I’ll be extra nice to you if you lend me a twenty,” Devlin said, slipping rubber guards over his blades. “I left my wallet at home, and I’m starving.”

“Likely story,” she said, “but I’ll do it if you promise not to lose it all on the ponies.”

“Very funny,” he said. “Excuse us,” he said to me, and walked with Lyla out of the rink.

Christine and Alexei came over to the gate and stepped down from the rink to the rubber mat.

“You didn’t have any problem with your skates today,” I heard Christine say.

“I fix them. But I will always have them where I can see them from now. I make sure to keep your boyfriend’s hands off.”

“For the last time, Alexei, he’s not my boyfriend. And he didn’t do anything to your skates.”

“He wants to be the boyfriend, yes?”

She rolled her eyes and sighed as they picked up the guards for their blades, which they’d left on the railing, slid them into place, and traipsed toward the door with wide, rocking gaits. I followed them out.

Christine glanced over her shoulder at Alexei, who was winding a long red scarf around his neck. “Mr. Devlin wants us to do the star lift in the exhibition,” she said. “Think you’re ready?”

Alexei flexed his biceps and pounded on his chest with his fists. “Strong peasant man,” he said with a grin as he came alongside her.

His partner laughed.

Alexei leaned over and swatted her on the backside. “But you must make your weight lower. No more sweets. I don’t want to lift baby elephant.”

“Keep your hands to yourself and off my daughter, Olshansky.”

Christine’s father, a middle-aged black man, stood outside the glass door to the rink. Dressed in a long, camelcolored cashmere topcoat over a charcoal gray pinstripe suit with a white shirt and a regimental tie, he scowled at the young Russian coming toward him. “Change into your shoes and street clothes, Christine. You have dance class in an hour.”

“Oh, Daddy,” she said, “he didn’t mean anything.”

“I want him to treat you with respect. You deserve that. You
demand
that.” He pointed to Alexei, who had dropped back behind Christine. “You hear that, young man? I didn’t pay for you to come all this way to abuse my daughter.”

“He didn’t mean any disrespect, Daddy. He was just kidding around.”

“He’s here for business, not to kid around. Come on, I want to check your computer before the class. You got another one of those e-mails again.”

Alexei whirled around and walked toward the concession stand, chin tucked into his chest, cursing in Russian, his voice low.

“What’s the matter?” Devlin said, grabbing Alexei’s arm as the young man stormed past him.

“You keep that—that—that
person
away from me,” Alexei said, wrenching his arm free and pointing at Christine’s father. “He does not own Alexei. I spit on his money. I am better skater than his little brown bird. I make the team good. The audience, they love me. Her jumps are weak. You see double axel? Nothing to mine. I can do triple.”

Devlin poked a finger into the skater’s chest and leaned forward. “Listen to me, buddy,” he said between clenched teeth. “This team isn’t any good unless you’re
both
good. You hear me? Her jumps are damn good, as good as yours. I didn’t come here to train a self-centered artiste. You’re both going to work your tails off for me or I’ll ship you home to Russia so fast your head will spin.”

Alexei’s eyes widened. He put his hands up, palms forward. “Yes, boss.”

“Don’t ‘yes, boss’ me. Just follow my instructions and keep your mouth shut. I don’t want to hear a whisper of a scandal like what surrounded you and Bednikova back in Russia. If Mr. Allen knew about that, you wouldn’t be here now.”

“Not my fault.”

“I don’t care whose fault it was. You have a second chance here. Don’t blow it.”

“Ah, yes . . . boss. But the same can be said of you. No?”

Devlin glared at him before saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” and walking away, a troubled expression on his handsome face.

“E
ve is is telling everyone how handsome the new coach is,” Loretta Spiegel said as she fluffed the back of my hair at her beauty salon.

“He is, I guess, if you like them tall, dark, and unshaven,” I said.

“Sounds good to me. Virile and sexy.”

“Well, he isn’t my type,” I said, “but I’ll give you the virile part. And he’s attracting quite a few teenaged fans. Lyla Fasolino said her after-school classes filled up quickly this year.”

Loretta ran a comb down the back of my head. “It doesn’t look too bad, if I say so myself,” she said, “but you really could use a haircut, Jessica. It’s been four weeks.”

“I know, Loretta, but I don’t have the time today. I just came in for a manicure. I don’t know how you talked me into a wash and style.”

“It’s the Tuesday special—a styling is half price when you have a manicure.”

“It’s definitely a bargain,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Now, tell me what I owe you. I’m going to be late if I don’t get going.”

I was standing at the desk paying my bill when Eve Simpson hurried in.

“Well, speak of the devil,” Loretta said. “I was just telling Jessica what you said about the new skating coach. She doesn’t think he’s that handsome.”

“Now, that’s not exactly what I said, Loretta.”

“Forget Brian Devlin,” Eve said. “I’ve got to get ready to meet Harvey Gemell. Loretta, can you fit me in right now?”

“You just got a haircut last week, Eve,” Loretta said.

“I know, but I want to look my best.”

“Who’s Harvey Gemell?” I asked.

“
Who’s Harvey Gemell?
” Eve said, her eyes flying to the ceiling. “Just the man who will make my fortune, and if I’m really good, perhaps my future, as well.”

“Take a seat at the sink,” Loretta directed her, pulling a fresh cape from the shelf and shaking it out.

“His name isn’t familiar,” I said.

“Is he from around here?” Loretta asked.

“No,
mes amies
. He is not from around here. He is the most sophisticated, urbane, brilliant businessman—and too, too wealthy, if I don’t miss my guess. He’s an entrepreneur, the president and CEO of Gemell Capital Investments of Greenwich, Connecticut. Isn’t that impressive?”

“Is he good-looking, too?” Loretta asked, whipping the cape around Eve’s neck and snapping it in the back.

Eve hesitated. “Well, he looks nice in his picture, although he said it was taken a few years ago, but who cares if he’s good-looking if the deal goes through.”

“You haven’t met this paragon of business?” I asked.

“Not face-to-face, but I know all about him. We’ve talked on the telephone a lot, and his profile online was so exciting. I just knew he’d be the perfect one.”

“What profile?” Loretta asked.

“The perfect one for what?” I asked.

“The perfect one to buy the ice arena,” Eve said as Loretta pressed her seat back against the sink and turned on the water.

“Didn’t you tell me that Eldridge Coddington changed his mind about selling?” I said.

“What did you say, Jessica?” Eve said. “I can’t hear with the water running. Loretta, just wet me down. I washed my hair this morning.”

I raised my voice and repeated my question.

Eve waved a hand in front of her. “Doesn’t matter.”

I waited to respond until Loretta turned off the taps and began drying Eve’s hair with a towel.

“Why bring a buyer all the way up here from Connecticut,” I asked, “if the seller isn’t interested in selling? Doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“Jessica, I’m surprised you’re so naïve,” Eve said, peeking out from under the towel.

Loretta energetically rubbed Eve’s hair and rolled her eyes at me.

“Everyone has his price,” Eve continued. “Coddington will sell if the right buyer comes along and offers enough.”

“Well, you know your real estate customers better than I,” I said, glancing up at the clock on Loretta’s wall. “Oh, my heavens,” I said. “Is that time right, Loretta?”

“Don’t worry. I keep the clock ten minutes fast,” Loretta said, leading Eve to a seat in front of the mirror.

“Why on earth do you do that?” Eve asked.

“People like it that way. When they think they’re late, they’re really on time.”

“Thank goodness for that,” I said. “I really have to go.”

I had dropped off my skates at Charles Department Store that morning. In addition to selling street shoes, snowshoes, sneakers, hiking boots, and ice skates, Charles Department Store sells just about anything else you think you need, and even more that you’ve probably forgotten you need. It always amazed me that no matter how exotic the item I requested, the proprietors, David and his brother, Jim, not only had heard of it, but could produce it, or at worst have it in stock by the next day.

David was running his annual skate inspection for his customers and graciously offered to have his expert check over my old skates to make sure they were safe, tighten any loose screws, and sharpen the blades. I could have had the skates sharpened at the ice arena or at the sporting goods store in the mall outside of town, but David said those places were better for hockey blades. His guy was a specialist in figure skates.

The bell jangled as I opened Charles’s door. It was ten minutes to closing. Jim was at the register ringing up a roll of duct tape and a package of clothesline for a young man in a ski jacket. “Go on in the back, Jessica. Mr. Klingbell is finishing up for the day.”

I walked around the showcase of fancy cookware, past a display of tea kettles and a hanging rack of halogen lightbulbs, to the small workroom in the rear. A wizened man wearing a Red Sox ball cap set backward on his head was sitting on a stool, eyeing a skate blade under the glare of a lamp clipped to a shelf over his shoulder. He ran a thick finger gently over the edge of the blade and nodded. “Should do.”

David stood nearby, wrapping a pair of skates in craft paper. He marked the bag into which he slid them with the name of the owner and set them on a shelf. “Perfect timing,” he said. “Jessica Fletcher, meet Aaron Klingbell. Aaron is looking over your skates right now.”

“How do, Mrs. Fletcher,” the man said, lifting his cap to reveal an irregularly shaped, completely bald head.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Klingbell. Will my skates last me another twenty years?”

“They will if you don’t skate on ’em, but these don’t look too bad to me. The boot is a little scuffed, but the blade hasn’t had too much wear.”

“I’m going to start skating again after a long time off the ice.”

“Take it slow at first. Might even try walking around in the skates at home. Either way, your anklebones will be a little sore at first.”

“My anklebones?”

“Secrets of the trade,” he said with a small smile.

“C’mon, Aaron,” David said. “Will you share your secret if Jessica promises not to write about it in any of her books?”

“Mebbe,” Klingbell said, looking from my skate down to my feet and back. “These skates are the kind that conform to the shape of your foot, but it takes a while. You got to break them in. When the skates aren’t worn for a long time, sometimes they go back to their original shape. I put a bit of lamb’s wool inside the left one. Stuff it around your ankles when you put on the skates, and that should help ease the pressure until they fit right again.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I never had a problem with weak ankles. You always hear people complain about them.”

“No such thing,” Klingbell said. “Just weak skates. You’re not going to be doing any jumping, are you? These are fine for stroking around, but you need a tougher boot if you want to jump.”

“If I had to guess, I’d say my jumping days are over, Mr. Klingbell. Not that I ever really jumped before.”

“Never can tell these days. They have adult competitions now, you know. Seniors, too. Even for old coots like me.”

“Have you entered a competition?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t skate.”

David hid a smile as he wrapped up my skates. I bid him and Mr. Klingbell good evening and took my package to the register. Jim was just turning over the OPEN sign to CLOSED when a woman in a long silver fur coat, and holding a tiny white dog with a jeweled collar, pushed inside, closely followed by two linebackers in black overcoats with somber expressions.

“We’re about to close,” Jim told her, nervously eyeing the men, who appeared to be her bodyguards.

“I need for the hair, this thing,” she said with a heavy accent, using one hand to hold an imaginary hair dryer over her head while clutching her dog to her chest with the other. “You have this? Must have tonight. Please.”

“I’m sure I can help you, but I’m with a customer now.”

“I can wait, Jim,” I said.

“Are you sure, Jessica?”

“Go ahead. I’ll just browse these holiday ornaments you have on sale.”

“All right, miss. Come this way.” Leaving the two men posted on either side of the door, the woman followed Jim to a display of hair dryers and styling wands. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“
Da!
” she said, a satisfied smile on her lips.

Jim held out his hands. “Would you like me to hold your dog?”

The woman contemplated his offer for a moment, cocked her head at her pet, then thrust the tiny dog into Jim’s arms, shrugged off her fur coat, threw it over a tray of socks, and began examining the dryers, lifting one after the other, and inspecting the plugs.

I was surprised to see how slim and how young she was. In the coat, she had appeared to be bulky, but she was built like a miniature doll with platinum blond hair peeking out from under her fur hat. Her perfume filled the room.