Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

  Bex waited for Igor to percolate. Heck, she would have settled for boil. Simmer, even. What she got, instead, was, at best, a drip off an icicle.

  Igor said, "The psychiatrists, do they not say that what we accuse others of, is actually our own wrongdoings?"

  Well, if they did, Bex sure hoped they were clearer about it. She had to take a moment to untangle Igor's sentence and rearrange the clauses before she fully grasped what he was talking about. "You mean that Patty is accusing you of cheating, because—"

  Igor only shrugged cryptically. And then he reminded, "You asked if people thought my Jordan should have beaten Erin at nationals."

  "You're saying that Patty cheated? At nationals?"

  "Erin won nationals. Xenia won worlds. Judges' decision is always final. Always."

  "Can one judge really make that much of a difference, though?"

  "In a five-four split?" Igor looked amused to be pointing out the obvious. "Yes, then, I would say one judge can make quite a bit of difference."

  Bex wished everyone would stop speaking to her as if she were an idiot. She supposed a good way to nip that in the bud would probably be to stop acting like one. "So how did Patty do it, then? Did she bribe every single judge?"

  "Why do you say bribe?" Igor waved his palm in the air, perhaps to indicate the sic-transit-Gloria of all things. Or maybe just to exercise his wrist. "Bribe is such a... such an ... American ... word. Why do you assume money? There are many, many ways to influence results, without bringing money to the table."

  "Like what?" Bex asked eagerly. Her own instantly compiled list read: sex, threats, and/or a bomb wired to go off if a judge's marks dipped below 5.9.

  "Talking," Igor said.

  Bex blinked. “Talking?"

  "Let us pretend you are a judge. A judge at the United States Nationals, for instance."

  "Let's," Bex agreed.

  "Good. Now. Your job as a judge at the United States Nationals, it is to ... "

  Bex realized he was waiting for her to fill in the blanks, and promptly jumped to attention. "Uhm ... Your job is to pick the top three best skaters in each event."

  "No," Igor said.

  "No?"

  "No. Your job is to pick the three skaters you think will perform best and win you medals at the upcoming world championship."

  "Those aren't the same people?"

  "Not necessarily. Let us say, for instance, you have the defending bronze medallist from last year's world championship. And, at the nationals, he or she has a bad day. A very bad day. Falls on everything, including taking her bows. Let us also say that, at the same nationals, is a skater who, for the past five years has always, always, always, frozen in competition. Always. Except, today, when she freezes, she still manages to perform better than last year's medallist. It is a miracle! It is also, probably, what you call a fluke. Now, I ask you: you are the judge whose job it is to pick competitors for the world championship. Who do you put in the top spot? The girl who ninety-five percent of the time skates well, but not today, or the girl who ninety-five percent of the time skates awful, but not today?"

  "Oh," Bex said.

  "Yes. Oh." Igor looked around, checking if anyone could hear them. From the look on his face, Bex couldn't be sure if he was trying to avoid, or in fact attract, eavesdroppers. "Patty Simpson, she grows up in American skating, no? She has many friends, many people she has known not just all of Erin's life, but most of her own. Patty is a smart woman, and she knows how to talk the right language. Let us pretend you are a judge at the United States Nationals."

  "Let's. I'm on a roll."

  "Let us say you have two skaters of almost equal ability. Both have excellent chances of winning you medals at the next world championship. And then, one day, as you are sitting in the arena, freezing cold, thinking about the money you are losing needing to take the weeks off from work to come volunteer as a judge in the middle of nowhere, your good friend Patty comes and sits down next to you, and she says: 'You know, that Jordan, she is not exactly what we here in America want to see in our champion, is she? She talks maybe not so pretty. She listens to no one, not even her parents. She is this ... loose cannon. You never know what she will say and to who. You never know who she will insult. The girl is out of control. She will make us look bad. She does not know how to behave like the right kind of champion. Not like my Erin. My Erin always says the right thing. My Erin listens to her mother, and, of course, her mother, I, Patty, always listens to my federation. Oh, and Erin is a good skater, too."

  "Oh," Bex said again.

  "So, in my example, did Patty bribe a judge?" Igor asked. "Did she threaten? Did she even suggest that Erin should win?"

  "Well, maybe not technically. But she did..."

  "She did nothing wrong."

  "Oh. Well, then." Bex asked, "Did you?"

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Did you?" The question hopped off Bex's tongue like a renegade frog off a favorite lily pad. She hadn't meant to just blurt it out like that. She'd meant to be crafty and sly and as cool as he was. But that didn't work out so well. And now the question was out there. Bex figured she might as well go with it. The naturalized native was getting restless. "Were you involved in getting Xenia the gold medal? Did you talk to Silvana and suggest..."

  For the first time, Igor's face actually darkened. The icicle didn't so much drip, as crack. "I am a member of the American," he stressed the word, "team. Why would I ever, ever make a deal for a Russian girl to win?"

  "I... I don't know. But Patty thought—"

  "Patty! Patty Simpson is like all the rest. I skate for American team. I win my Olympic gold for American team. I spend my life coaching in America, making American champions. I have not returned to Russia, not seen my mother, my sister, since I was a boy. But, it does not matter. I am still a Russian to you. My loyalty is still in your question."

  Oh, God. She'd been politically incorrect again. Damn karma.

  "I didn't mean—"

  "I know exactly what you mean. I barely know Xenia and Sergei, and here you have me in cahoots with them, against the Americans!"

  Okay. Bex may have been squirming with embarrassment, but she hadn't dissolved into a puddle of goo so deep that she still couldn't pluck the lie out of his tirade.

  "You barely know Xenia and Sergei?"

  "We speak maybe two words every competition."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Really. I do not talk to Russians. They are not my people."

  "Then how come Erin Simpson says she saw you, Sergei, and Xenia deep in conversation the morning Silvana Potenza died?"

  The icicle that had earlier broken off now hit the ground with a thump. Mr. Cool was gone. In his place was Mr. Deer in Headlights.

  "Well?" Bex asked. "I have the tape of the practice, so I know you were all off the ice at the same time, then. Erin said you were standing by the pay phone across from the refrigeration room, speaking Russian."

  A moment of silence.

  A moment of silence during which Igor didn't deny it. He didn't deny it! Oh, my God, he actually wasn't denying it! Bex wondered if it was possible to pat oneself on the back, and whether doing so suggested more than an acceptable hint of arrogance.

  Igor said, "That conversation, it had nothing to do with Xenia beating Erin."

  "So what did it have to do with, then?"

  "That is none of your business."

  "True," Bex agreed. "But I bet it would be the police's business."

  She knew that it was wrong, she knew that it was something a truly nice person should never really do, but when Bex said the word police, she hoped it triggered some sort of post-traumatic stress in Igor, where he actually thought KGB, and cowered accordingly.

  "You can tell the police, or you can tell me, and I'll decide whether it's worth going to them about."

  Boy, she was brazen. Bex had no idea where all her bravado was coming from, but she certainly hoped it wouldn't wear off before Igor figured out she was full of
it.

  He looked around again. This time, Bex felt pretty certain he most certainly did not want them to be overheard.

  "Sergei Alemazov, I have arranged for him to begin coaching at the Olympic Training Center in the next year. And he can bring Xenia to train with him. The ice where they are now, it is horrible. No place for a champion and her coach to work. But Sergei did not want the Russian federation to know of it until the matter was definitely settled. You know the problem they have been having with their federation. That is why we were keeping it a secret."

  "You're sure that's all you were talking about? Your getting Sergei a job?"

  "That is all," Marchenko said definitively, turning dramatically towards the revolving doors. "Anything else is just Patty Simpson nonsense."

  With Igor out the door, Bex did a single sweep of the hotel lobby just in case another potential witness felt like falling into her lap. When such a miracle failed to occur twice in one morning, Bex hightailed it back to the ISU room, where, after much charm and a little lying, she managed to get her hands on a standard piece of Italian Skating Federation stationery, just in case Silvana's E-mail had been printed on that.

  It wasn't.

  Of course it wasn't.

  Why should anything about this be easy? After all, if detecting were easy, how would Nero Wolfe earn the big bucks to live in that cool New York townhouse? Bex lived in New York. She knew how much real estate cost. Nero Wolfe had to be billing major, major cash for every case he solved. And probably dealing drugs on the side to keep up with the maintenance charges.

  But, as she was wont to do, Bex digressed.

  She walked out of the ISU room and plopped on the nearest plush lobby couch. The better to lay in wait for further prey.

  It was also as good a place as any for her to finally stop procrastinating and at least begin writing that report Gil needed from her on the Silvana murder. What a shame that everything she knew to date was utterly circumstantial, unsubstantiated, and uncorroborated. (There Bex went with the big words again. She must have been feeling more awake now.)

  Awake enough to notice something that previously she'd completely blanked on.

  Bex looked at the piece of 24/7 stationary she'd pulled out to take her notes on. It had the network's logo at the top of the page. A 24, slash 7, all against the background of a supposedly spinning globe. "Everywhere, all the time" was

  the 24/7 motto. It was written in capital, block letters beneath the spinning globe.

  Her stomach did a roller-coaster dive and lodged somewhere behind Bex's Adam's apple. She didn't dare think what she was thinking. She ordered herself to stop thinking what she was thinking. She chastised herself for thinking it. And then she thought it.

  Bex reached into her pocket and pulled out the copy of Silvana's E-mail. She lined it up against the 24/7 stationery. The gray, fuzzy area on top, the one that indicated where a few inches of paper had been chopped off, matched the space taken up by the 24/7 logo. Perfectly.

  Bex's stomach left her Adam's apple. It moved into her brain, where it swelled until she thought her ears would shoot off from the pressure.

  Silvana Potenza's E-mail had been printed on 24/7 stationery.

  And 24/7 stationery was located exclusively within the 24/7 printer.

  The 24/7 printer stood in the 24/7 production truck.

  Silvana Potenza's E-mail had been printed right underneath Bex's own nose.

  Bex swallowed the information like a whole watermelon. And then she ran to the production truck.

  Well, she tried to, anyway. She got up off the couch, hurriedly gathered up her things, and turned to face the direction of the doors, all in preparation for running.

  But then, a split second before the Run, Bex, run message from her brain reached her feet and galvanized them into action, Bex's peripheral vision spotted Xenia walking the opposite way, toward the elevator. Abort! her brain shouted to her feet, and, before Bex knew it, it shoved her in Xenia's direction instead.

  As a result, Bex did not run to the production truck. She ran to Xenia. Unfortunately, once she caught up with her, she wasn't sure what exactly she wanted to say. Her brain hadn't briefed her that far ahead.

  "Hello!" Bex said, gambling that it was a safe and non-suspicious opening.

  "Hello ..." Xenia's narrowed gaze suggested that non-suspicious was the last impression Bex had managed to convey.

  "How are you?"

  Xenia said, "Erin Simpson is skating an extra exhibition number tomorrow, at the end of the show."

  That, Bex understood, was skating for I'm crappy, thanks for asking. The last spot in the show was, by tradition, supposed to go to the gold medal winners.

  "You sound really angry at Erin," Bex told Xenia, hoping that the language gap would at least take a small tinge off her stating the obvious.

  Xenia's look suggested that it, in fact, did not.

  Bex decided to try a new tack. She said, "You know, Xenia, you were right about the Western media being unsympathetic toward you."

  Xenia didn't reply. But it was obvious Bex had her attention.

  "But it's not deliberate, not really. The Western media, especially the American media, they like to tell a story with a good guy and a bad guy. They like to make things simple for their audience." Bex figured she could skip, for now, the part where, as the 24/7 researcher, she played a major role in that dumbing down of the American TV viewer.

  "So they decide that I am the bad and they decide that Erin is the good?"

  "But it doesn't have to stay that way!"

  Now, Xenia was definitely interested.

  "The media loves, loves, I'm talking loves, to shove someone on a pedestal, then pull them down again. Today's good guy is tomorrow's bad guy, it's practically guaranteed. You can still persevere here, Xenia. All you have to do is be ... be ... you have to be more sympathetic."

  Xenia stared at Bex queerly. "I have to be a good skater, that is all that I have to do."

  "Boy, are you wrong. Xenia, a successful professional career isn't about being a good skater or how many titles you've won. That's almost the least of it. A successful professional career is all about getting the public to love you. And the way you get the public to love you is to give them a good story, a sympathetic story. Like if you've come back from a career—or even better—a life-threatening injury. Or if you're a poor orphan. Or even just poor. Xenia, I know how hard you've had to work, how the federation has been against you every step of the way, how they said you were too old and tried to sabotage you. You have a great story; you just have to tell it to the world. I can help you with that. I can tell your story. I can make you sympathetic. But only if you work with me. For instance, you have to try to be more gracious to Erin in public. Like, the morning that Silvana died, screaming at Erin outside the practice arena, you just can't do things like that, no matter how angry you—"

  "I did not scream at Erin." Xenia wasn't so much defensive as confused.

  "Erin said you did. She said you were standing there with Sergei and Igor Marchenko, and Erin walked by, and you attacked her."

  "Erin Simpson is a liar. I never yell at her. I never even speak to her. Ask Sergei. Ask Igor. We three, no one speaks to her. What would be the reason for this?"

  So Bex had her confirmation. Erin hadn't lied about seeing Xenia, Sergei, and Igor outside the refrigeration room minutes before Silvana was lured to her death. Xenia wasn't denying that they were there. Even as she challenged the rest of Erin's narrative.

  Bex asked, "What were the three of you talking about?"

  "Nothing." The answer Heimliched out of Xenia's mouth, and she looked away, refusing to meet Bex's eyes.

  "You had to have been talking about something."

  "Nothing. Igor, he just was congratulating me on my win."

  "That's all? Erin made it sound like you spoke for a while."

  "We talked about Russia. Igor is Russian. We talk about him maybe visiting where we live soon, where we will go,
what we will do."

  Bex knew Xenia was lying now. Igor never visited Russia; it was a fact. Xenia stressed, "We did not speak to Erin Simpson, and Erin Simpson did not speak to us. She just to walk by, and make a call on the telephone there."

  Bex froze. "Erin made a call?"

  "Yes."

  "On the pay phone?"

  "Yes."

  "To whom?"

  "I can not hear. She turn her back, like hiding. I not hear anything. Maybe whisper."

  "How long was she on the phone?"

  "Not long. Maybe minute or two. She look in a big hurry, looking over shoulder, like scared someone coming. Probably scared Patty will come out and see Erin off the ice. Patty see Erin off the ice, Patty is ready to kill."

  Bex shivered involuntarily. And wondered if homicide could be genetic.

  Contrary to the impression Bex generally gave out, the 24/7 production truck wasn't only the place where Gil railed at his employees while waging battle with the perennial, insubordinate, downhill slope of the floor. On certain occasions, the production truck could actually be a place of certain, sleep-deprived, punchy merriment.

  At this particular event, it all started with the information wall.

  Since the 24/7 staff was so large, and since all of them worked on such wildly different schedules (not that any of them worked less than the bare-minimum eighteen-hour day, but they didn't all begin and end at the same time), the information wall was set up as the place they could turn to at any time to pick up the latest information and bulletins. The PAs took legal-sized manila envelopes and taped them to the wall, like large, hanging pockets. Each envelope was labeled to indicate its contents: Directions to the Arena, ISU Communications, Judge's Draw, Ladies' Results, Men's Results, Pairs Results, and Dance Results. Except that, on this show, the PA in charge had made a mistake, and written instead: Pears Results. It was a boo-boo no self-respecting joker could pass up.

  The next day, a new envelope went up on the wall, labeled "Peaches Results."

  It was joined less that twenty-four hours later by an envelope labeled: "Picasso's Draw," an abstract crayon doodle hanging out to drive home the point.