by Alina Adams
Jordan indicated the brown ones. "This is the digitalis. See, they're all still full. That shows I didn't use them on Igor, or on anybody. Doesn't it?"
Bex pointed out, "All the bottles are still full. They haven't even been opened."
"So? Doesn't that prove my point that I didn't kill him?"
"You said you bought the muscle-pain stuff for your knees. You said I caught you using it earlier. You haven't used any of this, as far as I can see."
"This isn't arnica. It's something else. Arnica is usually an ointment. At least that's how I use it. I slather it on before practice and after."
"So what's this for?"
Jordan hesitated.
"Is this the illegal substance you thought I'd found out about?"
"No! No, I mean, this isn't even for me.
"Who is it for, then?"
"It's for..." Jordan looked away, pondering either the dresses or the iron, or just the cruel world at large. When she looked back, she asked, "Promise you won't tell?"
"Depends," Bex hedged. If this was something illegal, immoral—or, more importantly, something 24/7 needed to make their coverage more interesting—she didn't want to be stuck in a pinkie-swear.
"It's got nothing to do with skating. Honest."
"Well, if it's got nothing to do with skating ..."
"It's for my dad," Jordan said.
"Your dad. You have a dad?"
"You think I hatched from a pod?"
"No, but I mean..
"I know what you mean. No one's seen my parents for years. I want it that way."
"Why?"
"Because," Jordan said. "Because of people like you."
"People like me?"
"Yes. People like you. TV people, newspaper people. Why can't you guys just let us skate, and that's it? Who cares what we think about world peace, or what we had for breakfast, or whether our parents have any cinematic diseases for you to exploit like it's a movie of the week or something."
That last part seemed to offer too many details to be just a hypothetical rant. Bex asked, "Do they? Your parents? Do they have any cinematic diseases?"
"My dad," Jordan said, "he has ALS. That's Lou Gehrig's disease. You know, like that Stephen Hawkins guy, the physicist? He's almost totally paralyzed. Couple of years now. He can't walk. He can't talk. My mom takes care of him all by herself."
"I'm sorry," Bex said.
"Yeah. But not too sorry, I bet, to turn it into a sappy up-close-and-personal, full of close-ups where my dad's got food dripping down his chin or my mom's changing his sheets, and I'm skating at the rink with something lame like 'Wind Beneath My Wings' playing over the whole scene."
She had a point. And it was eerily accurate.
"So you pretend you don't have any parents at all."
"I don't pretend. I happen to really be legally emancipated. I've got the papers. And that's all I told the press. You guys made up the rest, about how I don't speak to my parents and all the other crap."
"So the medicine is for your dad?"
"Yeah. My mom and I did some research, and there's really good evidence that it can help him. But it's illegal to make in the U.S. So when I knew I was going to Russia, I told her I'd bring some back. It's not illegal here. They sell it on the street, duh."
"Along with digitalis."
"I told you I only bought the digitalis because that Shylock forced me! I didn't get it to kill Igor, and I certainly didn't use it to kill Igor! Why the hell would I do that? The guy was like, nicer to me than anyone, ever. He knew all about my dad being sick. He knew my mom barely had money to pay his doctor bills, so she certainly wasn't going to be shelling out for my stupid skating. That's why Igor didn't charge me anything for my lessons. He hasn't charged me in maybe two years." Jordan sighed. She looked at Bex. She said, "And you know, what? I was such a bitch to him. When Igor first told me he wouldn't charge me, I was like: 'What's the catch? You want me to put out for you or something?' God, what a pain in the ass. Igor told me: 'No catch.' He said somebody once did him a major favor without asking for anything in return, and this was his way of paying it back. Or, well, paying it forward, I guess. Anyway, I've got no reason to kill Igor. I'm up shit-creek without him. Who the hell is going to coach me now? I don't have the money for a Gary Gold or a Lucian Pryce or someone like that. I would have been an idiot times a thousand if I'd killed Igor. And if you don't believe me, you go ask your favorite source, Mrs. Reilly."
Bex felt like her grasp on the conversation had just hit the ground with a thud. "Amanda Reilly? What does Amanda Reilly have to do with any of this?"
"Amanda knows Igor was giving me free lessons. She knows that I don't have any other money. That's why she's been paying all my expenses for the last year."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“It's true," Amanda said. Well, technically, she said, "It's true," after ten minutes of swearing that it wasn't. But as Bex went through her infinite collection of skeptical faces, she eventually broke down and confessed.
"You've been paying Jordan's expenses for the past year?"
"Just her ice-time. And her costumes and travel. But not her lessons. Igor was giving her those for free."
"So that's what your check to Igor was about? It was for Jordan's expenses?"
"Yes."
"Not so that she would take a dive at nationals."
"No."
"So when Jordan confirmed your story. Your first story, I mean, she was just—"
"I'm sure she needed the money. Maybe she thought she could cash it."
"So, you were lying, and Jordan was lying, when you both swore to me the money was for her taking a dive? But neither Jordan nor you are lying now, when you say it was for Jordan's skating expenses?"
"Yes."
"And I should believe you, because…”
"Because"—Amanda tossed her hands up in the air, then allowed them to fall to her sides with an audible thwack— "because I'm tired, Bex. Because I'm tired of all this, and I'm tired of all that, and I'm tired, darn tired, of figure skating.”
Did the sun get tried of shining? Did snow get tired of falling? Did rainbows get tired of... uhm, raining?
A skating mother tired of skating? There was no such animal as far as Bex knew.
"I'm not sure I understand," she offered in place of, "Huh, what now?"
"It's so hard, Bex. Did you know Lian and I moved to Connecticut so that she could skate with Gary? I have a husband. Yes. Nobody knows that, because it's always Lian and me at practice and Lian and me at competitions, but I do have a husband. He's back home. Which means I'm the one taking care of Lian, 24/7." Amanda smiled at her unintentional evocation of Bex's employer. "Yes, 24/7. I drive Lian to the rink every morning at six a.m. I sit in the stands for three hours, and then I drive her to school. I pick her up after school and drive her to ballet lessons, then back to the rink. Then I drive her home. I watch her diet and make her costumes and I answer her fan mail and I make her travel arrangements. I travel with her and spend my days either at the rink or at the hotel. Would you believe I went to Paris and didn't see the Louvre? We went to Italy and I never saw the Vatican. I play interference with Lian and the press. I help her write out what to say so that she always comes off sounding well, and I keep clippings for her scrapbooks, and I make sure she's not overlooked in favor of... flashier... skaters."
"Like Jordan Ares." Bex pointed out the obvious.
"Lian thinks she is always being overlooked in favor of Jordan." Amanda sighed.
"I think my follow-up question is kind of a gimme by this point. But I could spell it out for you, if you'd like."
Amanda took the liberty of doing that for her. "You want to know why I've been financially supporting my daughter's biggest competitor."
"That would be nice."
"Because I am very, very much ready for an end to all of... this." Amanda waved her arm vaguely, indicating, perhaps, the entire skating universe. “To be honest, I was ready the day Lian took her f
irst private skating lesson. I didn't mind the group ones so much. Yes, it was awfully cold at the rink and I found it pretty boring, not to mention how much it hurt me personally every time my Lian fell. But, at least I had other mothers there to chat with. It was rather social and friendly and low-key, if you can believe it."
"But, that's not how it is in big-time skating."
"Big-time skating!" Amanda snorted. "That's not how it is in pre-preliminary girls, ages four to five, group B, compulsory moves! The moment you step on that horrible USFSA competitive track, everything changes. Women who you foolishly thought were your friends—well, at least friendly acquaintances—now that your child is in competition with theirs, are suddenly not even sitting next to you at the rink, much less chatting! Suddenly, everything is life or death. I hate it. I've hated it for years."
"So why do you keep doing it then?"
"Because. Lian loves it. It makes her happy. She loves to compete and she loves to win and she even loves to practice. She can be in the foulest of moods, but all we have to do is come to the rink, Lian takes a deep breath, she puts on her skates, she steps on the ice and she's off. Free. Happy. My little girl. Who didn't even smile her first year with us. My little baby Lian. Skating is her world. I couldn't tell her to quit, I just couldn't. She'd never speak to me, again. And if that happened, Bex, I would die."
"So where does Jordan fit into all of this?"
"Jordan was my way out. Or, at least I was hoping she would be. This past year, Bex, this year has been the worst one yet. Ever since Erin Simpson announced that she was retiring and left the National tide open—not that she could have stayed in skating anyway, after what happened with that horrible murder incident—Lian has been obsessed—even more than she usually is—with winning. She's doubled her training time. Skating is all she talks about, all she thinks about. She's like... like... like sort of a zombie. I look at her and I think, this can't be right. This can't be good for her, I must be making a mistake. It got to the point where I could barely stand it. I was crying every day, I was under so much stress. I was so worried about what this was doing to my baby. But I couldn't muster the courage to tell her to stop. I couldn't do it, Bex. After a while, even Lian noticed how upset I was. She asked me what was wrong. She really is a sweet girl. You just can't tell right now, because she's so focused on her skating. But she can be the most loving daughter. When she has time to be."
Bex nodded. To indicate that she was following the story. Because she certainly wasn't believing it.
"She asked me what was wrong," Amanda continued. "And I told her. Well, not everything. I just told her how worried I was about her, that she was working so hard, and I was worried what would happen, well, what would happen if she didn't achieve her goals. Was she putting all this work in for nothing? What if she didn't win Nationals this year? Would she keep going? Keep going at this same pace? What if she didn't win for several years? What if she never won? When would she decide enough is enough?"
"And Lian didn't mind you asking that? I mean, it doesn't sound very, you know, supportive? It sounds like you don't think Lian can win. Didn't that make her mad?"
"It did. She told me she just knew this was her year. This was the year she was going to win Nationals. Maybe even Worlds, too. At least, she thought this was her year to medal at Worlds. So that's when we made our deal. If Lian wins Nationals, we keep going the way we've been going. For as long as she wants. I'll go along with it, because, if she wins Nationals, that means Lian knows what she's doing and where she's going. But, if she doesn't win this year, then we quit. Cold turkey. No more. We quit and we leave Connecticut and we go home to stay. She can skate on the weekends. For fun. But no more competing. She can go to college. She can be normal."
"And this way, her quitting isn't your fault."
"We made a deal," Amanda insisted. "I'm not the one making her quit. It's not me she should be angry at if things don't work out. We made a deal. She agreed."
"It was a good deal on your part," Bex agreed. "Lian has never beaten Jordan in any competition, national or international. Odds are, Jordan's going to win Nationals, too."
"But only if she has the money to keep training," Amanda reminded her.
"Which is where you came in."
"Jordan was my only chance. I couldn't let her quit. I went to Igor, and we made a deal. I wrote the checks to him. I couldn't write them to Jordan. Now, though, now I don't know what I'm going to do. Has Jordan hinted to you who her new coach might be? She's not thinking of switching to Gary, is she? Because, I don't think Gary would go along with this. Well, he might go along with me paying for Jordan, but he wouldn't agree to not telling Lian. You know Gary, he's so proper and honorable. No impropriety with him. He won't let us, if we run into a judge at the hotel restaurant totally by accident, he won't let us treat them to a dinner or breakfast or, heck, even a cup of coffee. He says it wouldn't look right. But you know everyone else is doing it!"
Bex said, "So, actually, you had no motive for killing Igor."
"Of course not! Igor was helping me. Naturally, I know he was doing it for his own reasons. Of course he wanted Jordan to keep skating, and with Lian out of the way, Jordan would be the undisputed number one American lady, no competition. So, it's not like he was doing me any favors out of the goodness of his heart. But I certainly would have no reason to kill him!"
Lian, on the other hand, Bex couldn't help thinking, just got another one.
Back at the Bolshoi Theater, Lian had acted surprised to learn about her mother writing checks to Igor. But, Lian also "acted" out the role of a fiery, Spanish temptress in her short program (music from Carmen), a melancholy, dying feline (music from Cats) in her long, and an abandoned, broken-hearted, Japanese bride (Madame Butterfly) in her exhibition routine.
Madame Butterfly
So "lying little girl" wouldn't be that much of stretch. If even Amanda was afraid of what her "loving daughter—when she has time" would do to her if she found out Mommie Dearest was bankrolling the despised competition, what might she do to the coach who'd made it all possible?
It was an interesting question, and one that warranted more investigation.
If only Bex's day job wasn't getting in the way.
The ladies' short program was set to begin in less than an hour. And Bex was needed in the TV announcer's booth, where Francis and Diana Howarth's respective tongues might not have been as deadly as Fedya's trusty knife, but they were certainly as sharp. And, in the opinion of the 24/7 legal department, just as dangerous.
Bex planted Sasha outside the rink-side booth's door, with orders to keep curious passersby from poking their heads in while 24/7 was on the air. Then she mouthed a silent apology to the cameraman as she ducked beneath his
scope and stepped over his cables to take her seat between Francis and Diana (she'd determined that they argued less, if they had to make the effort of actually leaning either behind or in front of Bex to stick their tongues out at each other). In a rare bit of synchronicity, both had remembered to bring their research binders. Diana was using hers to prop up her compact mirror as she applied her mascara. Francis was fanning himself under the hot camera lights with the plastic cover to his. But at least Bex wouldn't have to make her customary mad dash back to their dressing rooms to retrieve the binders from underneath a pile of makeup and discarded clothes. Maybe this was a good omen. Maybe it meant they would have an easy show.
Francis asked Bex, "How many skaters, in total, have previously taken the ice in an international competition without a coach?'
"And how many of those skaters were Americans?' Diana added.
Okay. So much for good omens.
"I don't know," Bex told them honestly. Prior to the competition, she had remembered to compile a list of skaters who were born in one country but skated for another; skaters who competed against other skaters from their same training site; World Junior Champions (Singles, Ladies, Pairs and Dance—why presume that this being a ladies onl
y event would somehow quench Francis's childlike sense of delightful curiosity) who went on to become World Champions; skaters who were emancipated minors; and skaters who were adopted... But, she had neglected to research how many skaters ever competed without a coach.
"I'm disappointed in you, Bex." Francis sniffed.
Diana just shook her head sadly. Obviously too crushed for words.
Bex took her seat between America's former sweethearts and looked at her show rundown, the televised order in which the ladies would be skating, tonight. Although, technically, the competition draw was always supposed to be random, the fact that there were only four skaters in the entire event and, more importantly, that this was a made-for-TV show, meant that Gil had gotten to select the order for maximum audience building. He'd decided that Lian would go first, since she was American and nobody wanted fans who were just tuning in to think this would be a show full of foreigners. Then Brittany, because even though she was skating for Russia, she was really an American and could answer her post-skating questions without any silly accent. Then Galina, because, well, she did have to skate sometime. But they could use her program to tease that Jordan was coming up next, which is who everybody really wanted to see, anyway. Not only was she the bad girl of skating, but, now, her coach was dead! Murdered! What luck! So, while in the interest of journalistic integrity, they wouldn't be announcing on the air that this particular draw was random, they wouldn't exactly be doing anything to correct the misconception, either.
Bex looked around the arena, which was filling up gradually with a Russian hum that turned into a buzz, that turned into a verbal borscht. The crowd, she was intrigued to note, looked a great deal like the one she'd seen previously at the Bolshoi. Instead of the comfy jeans, one-size-fits-all down jackets and multi-colored sweatshirts festooned with their favorite skater's silk-screened action photo that were de rigueur at American arenas, this crowd had come as dressed up for a night of skating as they would for the ballet. The women wore long skirts, expensive blouses, and high-heeled shoes that made climbing steps to the higher levels particularly challenging. Many of the men, both young and old, wore suits. They followed dutifully behind their respective women, clutching bouquets of flowers ready to be flung onto the ice, so that the women's hands were free to hold on to the stairway's railing. That, at least, was exactly like the audience in America. This was still a woman's sport. The men were only dragged to it.