Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

  "Uh-huh," Bex said.

  "Now," Gretchen smiled brightly and took a seat behind her desk, atop of which was a picture of, Bex presumed, Mr. Local Husband Guy. To be fair, he looked very nice and Bex could probably do worse than to find one just like him. "What can I do for you, Rebecca?"

  "It's Bex. And I wanted to talk to you about the Rachel Rose murder."

  "Oh, yes, we've received a few calls about that. Mostly the wire services working on an obituary. I guess she was quite a famous skater in her day."

  "Do you have ideas yet what exactly happened?"

  "Well..." Gretchen shuffled though some papers until she'd found the one she was looking for. She squinted, tried to read, then put on her glasses and gave it another shot. "It's so awful," Gretchen laughed. "You wake up one morning and you're forty years old and suddenly you can't see a thing without your reading glasses."

  "About Rachel..." Bex prompted.

  "Yes, yes. Here it is. Let me see.... Oh, yes. It appears she was beaten to death in a public park earlier this morning, probably by a blunt object of indeterminate origin. The police report no suspects at this time." Gretchen set down her glasses and looked up, most satisfied with herself.

  Bex, on the other hand, wanted to scream. And/or beat Gretchen to death with a blunt object of indeterminate origin and wait to see how long it took the police to report a suspect.

  "That all was on the Internet this morning," Bex said calmly. Well, at least, she hoped she sounded calm. It was hard to hear over the frustrated howling in her head. "I was hoping for some new information."

  "I really don't know what to tell you. I won't claim that our crime rate here is low, we actually get quite a rash of muggings and robberies, drunk and disorderly, that sort of thing—we get a lot of tourists, you understand, both summer and winter. They're mostly from the cities and they don't really respect our quiet, local community, if you know what I mean. But murder! We so rarely get a murder around here. Especially where the cause isn't immediately obvious, like a bar fight or a very public lovers' quarrel. This actually looks premeditated. I mean, Ms. Rose was presumably lured to the park so early in the morning."

  "Was she dressed to go jogging? Shorts? Running shoes?" Bex took a guess. Having been a skater, Rachel might have been hard-wired to do her exercising early in the morning, even if there was no ice-time involved.

  Gretchen checked her notes again. Since there was obviously no pertinent information on the press release she'd just read Bex, she excused herself and went to another room, returning with a disappointingly thin folder titled, "Rachel Rose." Heck, the file Bex had on her back at 24/7 was bigger than this sliver of manila.

  Gretchen re-donned her glasses and read from another sketchily filled out piece of paper. "The victim," she said, "was wearing blue jeans, a green fleece jacket, and cowboy boots." She looked up at Bex. "Doesn't sound like Ms. Rose was jogging."

  "No," Bex agreed. And then she asked, "Do you know what she was hit with?"

  "A blunt object of in—"

  "Of indeterminate origin, yes, I know. But, let's see if maybe we can't determinate it down a little bit, shall we? Where were her wounds, anyway?"

  Gretchen shuffled more papers. "Primarily about the head. It appears there were multiple blows that got harder and harder as the assailant went on."

  Well, Bex thought, that part was at least interesting. And even quasi-helpful. After all, a psychopath merely interested in the kill wouldn't start slowly and work his way up now, would he? (This was the part where Bex felt the need to remind herself that she really had no idea what she was talking about, dealing with, or even asking. Something to keep in mind before she leapt to her next, inevitably wrong conclusion).

  "Did that mean that Rachel's injuries occurred in the middle of a fight that got progressively more violent as it went on?" Bex leapt to a conclusion.

  "That's one of the working theories, yes. It might have been a mugging gone wrong. The perpetrator asked Rachel for her money and hit her to make his point. When she didn't give it to him, he continued to hit her. He may have never meant to kill her at all, it just got out of hand."

  Bex asked Gretchen, "Could the weapon used have been a stick? Or a rock? Something the killer could have just picked up in the park and didn't necessarily have to have brought with him?"

  "That's certainly possible."

  "Did you find anything in the vicinity?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like oh, let's say, a bloody stick?" Bex asked patiently. "Or a bloody rock?"

  "No. Nothing."

  "Could the killer have used his hands?"

  "That's certainly possible, too."

  And now, Bex had reached the end of her forensic knowledge. She clearly needed to brush up on her C.S.I. watching.

  "About the suspects..." Bex figured this was an area she was stronger in. Asking about forensic evidence actually required knowing something about physiology and how things worked. Asking about suspects only required the ability to draw instant conclusions about the motivations of people she'd never met. Bex could definitely do that. "Even if you've got no physical clues, surely you've got a suspect theory or two? I mean, you must have questioned Rachel's friends—"

  "She actually kept to herself quite a bit."

  "Her neighbors..."

  "They rarely saw her. She traveled a great deal. For her business, you know. It was a travel agency. She was constantly checking out new destinations and resorts."

  "Well, then, her business clients."

  "Most of them only spoke to her on the phone or online. And she wasn't the kind of person to share personal details. None of them even knew she'd been a champion figure skater! They were very surprised to read about it in the paper."

  "How about a boyfriend."

  "Oh, no, there wasn't one. We checked."

  Great, the woman obviously left skating to become a nun. She didn't know anyone, she didn't see anyone, she never spoke to anyone. Heck, maybe she did kill herself by whacking herself over the head. To alleviate boredom.

  Gretchen said, "Rachel definitely wasn't cheating on her husband."

  Bex blinked. "Excuse me?"

  "Our research shows that—"

  "Rachel Rose was married?"

  "Oh, yes. For almost fifteen years, I believe he told the police."

  Almost fifteen years? Rachel Rose disappeared fourteen years ago.... Apparently, there was one person she'd kept in touch with.

  "Is the husband a suspect in her death?"

  Gretchen hesitated. She looked left. She looked right. She lowered her voice despite the fact that her office door was closed and seemingly soundproof. In all the time they'd been talking, Bex hadn't heard another conversation through the door, and she assumed that worked both ways.

  Gretchen said, "It's not official. It's not even on the record. But, the fact is, whenever we're faced with a case like this, well, the husband is always the prime suspect. It's the only thing that really ever makes any sense."

  Bex called Toni on her cell phone while hightailing it to Rachel's house. Taking care to cross her T's and I's and even a few H's while she was at it, she inquired, "Remember when I assumed that Rachel Rose was dead because I didn't bother to ask you whether she was or not?"

  "Indeed I do, Bex."

  "Did you also not tell me that Rachel was married because I forgot to ask?"

  "Rachel was married?"

  "That's what the police here told me."

  Toni sighed. "The police. You have no idea how it breaks my heart to hear you say that. It's all anyone at the rink is talking about today. Rachel's death. She was such a lovely girl. So much potential. Bad enough to quit in her prime, but this..."

  Only in skating, Bex thought, could murder be equated with basically giving up your hobby.

  "So you didn't know if she was married or not?"

  "I had no idea. But Bex, you must understand something: Rachel and Robby weren't my students. I only encountered them because they s
kated at the same rink. Naturally, I knew some private details about them because, well, people talk here, they gossip, and you can't help but hear, even if you're not listening."

  "Did you happen to hear if Rachel at least had a boyfriend or someone in that last year before she took off?"

  "I believe she did. We didn't see him much. Her parents... to be honest, they didn't like her being distracted from her skating. And they didn't like the boy, either. I don't remember much about it, except he had one of those Asian names, and I always thought... I thought..." Bex could hear Toni changing her mind and deciding not to finish the sentence. "I'm sure I could have been wrong. Like I said, they weren't my students...."

  "How did Robby feel about Rachel's boyfriend?"

  "Robby didn't like her being distracted, either. Not that I think she was. I believe I may have seen the boyfriend a grand total of one time at the rink when they were practicing, and maybe another time at Nationals. As far as I could tell, he wasn't getting in Rachel's way. If anything, he made her happy. And it showed in her performance on the ice."

  "So, Toni." Bex figured it had been minutes since her last conjecture. She had to be due. "Do you think Rachel quit skating and ran off because she wanted to get married and her parents and Robby were against it?"

  "You don't have to quit skating to get married," Toni exclaimed. "This isn't a girls' school in the 1950s!"

  "What if Rachel's parents threatened to cut off her money? What if they made her choose? Or what if she was afraid of what Robby would do to her?"

  "Anything is possible, Bex." Toni hesitated. And then, quite logically, she asked, "But what does this have to do with her murder?"

  Bex wished she knew. (She also wished Toni would stop asking her such logical questions, it made it hard to think.) As she pulled into the dark driveway of Rachel Rose's home, she tried to figure out how the heretofore unmentioned boyfriend/husband might fit into the "Robby was in love with Rachel, Felicia was a jealous wife, Robby had a temper, Felicia had a motive except that Rachel wasn't actually killed fourteen years ago but earlier this week" scenario.

  All the lights were off in Rachel's house. Bex knew this because, after ringing the doorbell in the most annoying manner that she knew and getting no answer, she'd crunched through the late fall leaves and snuck around to peek into all the tightly closed windows she was tall enough to reach. She also considered climbing a tree to cross the second floor windows off her list. In the end, though, Bex decided that it wasn't worth the neighbors seeing her and raising the alarm. The last thing she wanted to do was spend the evening explaining to the local police why she was lurking around a recently murdered woman's home.

  And so Bex chose to try a tactic utterly unfamiliar to her. She chose to sit down quietly on Rachel's front stoop, and wait. She figured the husband had to come home eventually.

  Although, a half hour into her vigil, Bex was starting to seriously reconsider her hypothesis. For one thing, it was after eight p.m. and thus pitch-dark now. For another, it was December, and, while mild for the season, it was still rather cold. Most importantly though, Bex was starting to get very, very bored. There was just so much drama one could coax out of repeatedly blowing on one's hands for warmth, clapping them together when that failed, and, finally, sitting on them. It was equally dull to stomp her feet against the wooden porch to keep them from freezing and/or falling asleep. Even trying to make a little dance out of it failed to keep Bex's attention for long. Alas, when Bex got bored, Bex went looking to relieve that boredom.

  By any means (sorry, Malcolm X) necessary.

  Despite her vow to be a good girl and just stay put, Bex got up. She told herself it was just so she could jump around in place and get warm. But, it wouldn't be the first time she'd let herself down. (Herself could really be very gullible about things like this sometimes.)

  Casually, still telling herself that it was all in the interest of precious warmth, Bex mozied over to Rachel's front door. She got down on her knees. She peeked through the mail slot.

  Which was when she heard the car pulling into the driveway.

  Bex leapt to her feet. Smacking the bridge of her nose along the way.

  "Ow," Bex yelled out, covering her aching nose with one hand as she turned around in the direction of the car. And got hit by two blinding headlights blaring straight into her eyes as a result.

  "Ow," Bex yelled out again, shielding her eyes with her other hand and wincing.

  She looked like a little kid, trying to get out of trouble by covering her face and insisting, "You can't see me!"

  She realized it was not the most mature or respectable of stances with which to introduce herself to Rachel Rose's husband.

  But, as it turned out, introductions didn't prove to be necessary.

  Because, when the headlights were turned off and the passengers exited their blue Toyota, Bex found herself standing angry face to bruised nose with Jeremy and Craig Hunt.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Resolved: All the previous times in her life when Bex had been really, really speechless did not hold a candle to the dumbness with which she was struck now. Bex didn't just not know what to say on this given occasion, she'd also managed to forget what it was one said on any occasion. If asked that instant, she probably would not know the correct greeting for someone celebrating a birthday or even how to ask, say, a taxi driver to please back up off her foot. All she could do was stand there, looking deer-eyed from Craig to Jeremy, and pitifully clutch her nose. At the moment, even an encore "ow" seemed beyond her capabilities.

  Her slightest consolation was that Craig Hunt seemed to be in the same boat. He'd rushed up the stairs, two at a time, to get a better look at his intruder. But once he realized who it was, he stopped dead in his tracks, mutely wrapping his fingers around a porch pillar. Whether he intended to smack her with it or just needed support, Bex couldn't be sure. Neither, apparently, could he.

  Finally, it was Jeremy who broke through their Marcel Marceau imitations. He'd come up the stairs behind his dad. He, too, stood for a moment looking at them both. And then he said, "Ms. Levy? What are you doing here?"

  "Yes, Ms. Levy." When Craig Hunt spoke, it wasn't with the cool, confident demeanor he'd exhibited back at the rink. His voice sounded raspy, as if he'd been screaming for days. Or crying. And yet, the trademark sarcasm was unmistakable. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Rachel," she managed to croak out. It wasn't an explanation or even a verb, and yet it was truly the only honest answer.

  "She's none of your business. Just like Jeremy was none of your business." Craig grabbed his son by the arm and moved to unlock their front door.

  "You and Rachel are married," Bex stated the obvious. Perhaps it was for the benefit of those viewers who tuned in late to their regularly scheduled programming.

  "What do you want?" Craig led Jeremy into the house and whipped around, stunning Bex with both his ferocity and his visible, utter despair. "What the hell do you want from us? Haven't you done enough?"

  “I—I only—I was doing this piece—"

  "Your precious piece!" Bex thought he might lunge for her then, but Craig only slashed his hands angrily through the air, then brought them to his head, running his shaking fingers through his hair and pulling so hard that Bex saw him rip out several follicles. "I don't want to fucking hear about your precious piece. Your piece, Ms. Levy, is what got my wife killed!"

  He calmed down after that. Not because of anything Bex did, but because Craig realized that Jeremy was still standing right behind him. He took a deep breath, and, with a final if-looks-could-disembowel glare at Bex, turned around to face his son, forcing his voice to return to normal.

  Jeremy stood half-hidden behind the front door, turning the knob this way and that with one hand. He didn't look up to face Craig or Bex. He just turned the knob. Back and forth. Back and forth. His shoulders were shaking, but the knob kept turning.

  Craig knelt down, his knees cracking a bit, so he could
peer up into his son's face. Jeremy still avoided looking at him. Craig said, "I seriously suck, Jer. I'm sorry."

  "Don't yell at her."

  Craig looked over his shoulder at Bex, and sighed. "I won't."

  That was a nice thing to know. Bex did notice, however, that Craig didn't promise not to pulverize or otherwise disassemble her.

  "Can I go upstairs?" Jeremy asked. “I’m tired."

  "You don't want dinner?"

  "No."

  "Not even a sandwich?"

  "No." Jeremy finally looked up. "Can I just go upstairs? Please?"

  Craig stood. He put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I really am sorry."

  Jeremy turned around and walked upstairs without another word.

  Leaving Bex and Craig alone. Him inside the house, her on the porch. The way Bex saw it, she had two choices: She could turn tail and scamper away, not unlike Jeremy. Or she could force her way inside the house and ask Craig Hunt a few questions only he knew the answer to.

  Bex knew what the professional and brave thing to do would be. But she stepped inside the house, anyway.

  She waited for him to snatch her up bodily and toss her onto the welcome mat. When he didn't, Bex guessed that Craig was either too exhausted to do much more than shut the door behind her, or he was planning something much more insidious and didn't want the neighbors to see.

  "Jeremy has barely eaten these last three days," Craig accused. "You have no idea how upset he is."

  "I didn't mean to upset him."

  "What did you mean to do? What are you, stalking us? Is this the new 24/7 thing? Stalk skaters until they crack?"