Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

  Bex first felt rather than heard the gossip, like a vibration. She felt the people around her, previously milling in a somnambulistic stupor as befitting the first practice of the day, suddenly perk up. Their heads tweaked into the air like a newborn bird's. They, too, could sense the gossip coming, and they wanted to be ready to pick up the first whisper. It came from the other arena. It came in loose words, in snatches of phrases:

  "Baby boy..."

  "Nobody knows ..."

  "Has to be hers ..."

  "No one suspected ..."

  "Why here?"

  'Tragedy..."

  "Allison Adler, I hear.. ."

  'Tragedy..."

  "Who do you think the father was?"

  "Well, with a girl like that..."

  Bex didn't need to hear any more. She, along with Francis and Diana — whose radar, after all, was even better tuned than hers — were already out of their seats, heading for the source.

  Just like the game her mother taught her when Bex was a kid, where one person hides an item and then directs another person to find it by turning the music up on the stereo the closer they got to the hidden object, Bex simply followed the gossip growing louder and louder, until she was standing outside the referee's office, next to the costume room, which was now blocked off with yellow police tape. Behind the glass door of the referee's office, Bex could see several blurry figures deep in conversation. One of the figures wore the brimmed cap of a police officer. He held a notebook and pen and was nodding his head as another blurry figure gestured emphatically and waved his hands in the air. Which meant only one thing: Bex needed to get into the referee's office.

  "Excuse me," she said, pushing aside the four-layer-deep crowd, using her research binder to pry them open like a crowbar against a creaky door. The rare people who dared so much as flash a peeved look in response to her rudeness, Bex instantly quieted by shoving Francis and Diana in front of her. A few rubber-neckers might get up their nerve and question Bex's right to shove her way in like this, but everyone knew figure skating royalty when they saw it. If Francis and Diana Howarth wanted into the referee's room... better step aside, little people of no importance.

  As Bex expected, the referee room's door wasn't even locked. The mob outside was staying put on the honor system. Bex, however, was able to turn the knob and walk right in, Francis and Diana in tow. Oh, those naive law enforcement types, who expected the gleam of their badge and the sheen of their authority to work on television employees.

  "Can I help you folks?" The officer in charge appeared to be in his mid-forties, Asian, with thick fingers that made the pen he was holding look like a drinking straw in comparison.

  "Miss Levy? What are you doing here, dear girl?" The officer's interview subject was the head referee, Harris Knox, a seventy-year-old, forty-six-year veteran of the sport whose biggest claim to fame was having worked Francis and Diana's first Olympic Pair Gold Medal win, and — in his telling — keeping the crooked Soviet and other Eastern bloc judges from cheating the clean-living Americans out of their rightful championship. Knox liked to boast that he'd been around skating so long, there was nothing he hadn't seen. It appeared, however, that the events of the morning were challenging his assessment. The poor fellow looked as if the gray in his hair and each wrinkle holding up his eyes were consequences of Allison Adler's stunt. To Bex, used as she was to hearing Knox proclaim every result and split decision with unquestionable conviction, it felt like the quavering voice and stunted sentences stumbling out of his mouth were a bad movie dub from the original Japanese.

  Bex smiled politely at Knox but focused her energy on the policeman. He was the only one with the authority to throw her out, after all.

  "Good morning," she chirped, "I'm Rebecca Levy, chief researcher for the 24/7 network. What seems to be the situation here?"

  This was the part where Bex usually got thrown out, by the way.

  But much to her surprise, the officer did no such thing. He simply indicated Knox with his pen and said, "Just getting the details. Stick around; better than having him repeat himself, right?"

  Bex didn't know how to respond. This was not how these things usually went. As a rule, Bex would ask the authorities for info, and they would laugh heartily. Well, not out loud, but she could see their collective chests vibrating from the suppression effort. Then they would either tell her to get lost, to read the newspaper like everyone else, or, at best, to talk to the Public Relations Department. If she chose the latter, Bex would usually get even less information than if she'd stuck to just reading the newspaper.

  No one had ever invited her to sit in on a statement before. Which obviously meant that something strange was going on here. And Bex intended to find out what it was as soon as she took advantage of the immediate situation and found out how much Harris Knox knew. She only hoped nothing would happen to upset whatever rapport she seemed to have accidentally engendered with the fuzz.

  "Where's the baby?" Francis demanded. "We heard there was a baby."

  Something like, you know... that.

  "I had one of the mothers take him to the skater-hospitality area. Much warmer up there than down here," Knox replied before the cop had a chance to advise whether he could.

  "What about the body?" Diana this time. Bex was beginning to understand why the Howarths made such a successful pair team. With one constantly trying to outdo the other, they must have practiced harder than any other skaters on the planet.

  This time it was the policeman who answered. "We had Miss Adler taken down to the morgue. We're waiting for a positive identification. Her father has been called."

  "You mean it might not be Allie?" Bex figured if Francis and Diana could blurt out whatever came to their minds, she might as well join in the fun.

  "Oh, it's Allison, all right," Knox nodded feebly, eyes shifting, agonized, in the direction of the costume room. "I saw her. I saw her... hanging."

  "Why would Allison Adler commit suicide?" Diana demanded, as if personally offended that someone could besmirch the National Championship in such a manner.

  "Actually, I was hoping you three could tell me." Officer — his name tag read "Ho" — turned to Bex, Francis, and Diana, notebook open, pen poised, interest in Knox fading. "I mean, I watch the skating shows sometimes — my wife, my daughter, they're big fans — and I hear you two talking about the skaters. Sounds like you know all about them. And you, Miss... Levy, was it? You're the researcher? So you'd probably know all about the skaters, too, right?"

  On the one hand, Bex was thrilled that someone seemed to actually understand what her job entailed without her needing to explain it. On the other hand, she hated that now that the opportunity was finally here for her to flaunt her expert knowledge in front of an officer of the law and thus prove to all the cops she'd known before that Bex, too, could be useful in a murder investigation, she had so little to offer.

  "Well, yes." Bex spoke as slowly as possible, trying to prolong her moment of presumed authority. "But, you see, I mostly research skaters who are going to be in the current championship. And Allison Adler wasn't scheduled to compete this year."

  "Why not?" Officer Ho asked, his face unreadable and as of yet, not disillusioned.

  "I don't know," Bex was forced to confess. "Allison and her partner — her dance partner, she was an ice dancer" — at least Bex knew that much — "Allison and her partner broke up last year. They never really gave a good reason formally."

  "What about informally?"

  "He was too old for the girl," Francis opined, unbidden. "How old was Allison Adler? Eighteen? Nineteen?"

  "Nineteen," Knox piped up. Then sheepishly explained, "I remember because she was no longer age-eligible to compete at the Junior World Championship."

  "But that was exactly the problem," Francis announced triumphantly. "Allison was age-eligible for Junior Worlds, but that geriatric she skated with aged out eons ago!"

  "Geriatric?" Ho inquired politely.

  "Sebas
tian Vama," Diana translated for the Francis-impaired. "Allison's partner. He was a bit older."

  "I think he was forty-two," Francis harrumphed.

  "He's twenty-six," Bex corrected. It was her turn to sheepishly explain, "He was twenty-five last year when I interviewed him before Nationals. I remember because he went on and on about the poetic significance of reaching a quarter-century mark."

  "And that," Diana pounced, "was actually a bigger problem than his age. A loon, that's what Sebastian Vama is. His feet may be on the ice, but heaven only knows where his head is most of the time."

  "He can be a bit... obscure," Bex conceded.

  "Obscure?" Francis snorted. "I interviewed the so-called boy live on the air after the last National Championship, and his response to my perfectly reasonable, predictable, downright banal question of "Though this will be your fourth World Championship, it is your first as the American Gold Medallists. How does that make you feel?" with a deadpan, "I feel like a quote by Ralph W. Stockman." Naturally, I did not quite know how to respond to such a non sequitur. So I merely bided my time, waiting patiently for what I assumed would be an immediate clarification."

  Actually, the way Bex recalled it, Francis defined biding his time as turning his head to peer into the camera, all but imploring the audience at home to step in and help him out. The pause dragged on interminably. Finally, with a sigh part condescension, part genuine psychological pain, Sebastian put Francis out of his misery and quoted, "Ralph W. Stockman: Be careful that victories do not carry the seed of future defeats."

  Francis continued looking strapped for a reply. So Vama shrugged and suggested, "Very well, to put it in terms you might understand: I feel like... a Diet Pepsi." And then he laughed uproariously — still live on the air, as if his quoting a commercial from a late 1980s Super Bowl was the height of continental wit.

  "He is an excellent ice dancer, however," Diana defended.

  "Was," Francis said. "He hasn't skated with anyone since Allison. He is much too old to start over again."

  “He told me he’d never put his fate in another skater’s hands again,” Bex interjected.

  “He did attempt to come back in Singles at this year’s Regional competition,” Diana noted.

  “That was a painful experience for all concerned.”

  “Lovely body lines,” Diana mused. “Spins, spirals, positions…”

  “Pathetic jumps,” Francis settled the issue once and for all.

  Sebastian Vama

  "Is he around?" Officer Ho asked. "This Sebastian guy? I'd like to speak to him."

  "He should be," Bex offered. "He's here working as assistant coach under Idan Ben-Golan. That's Allison and Sebastian's old coach. He's helping Idan out with Coop Devaney. The men's practice starts in a few minutes. I bet they're over there."

  On that score, however, Bex proved to be mistaken.

  Idan Ben-Golan was not over at the men's practice. He was standing outside the office, banging the glass on the door once with his fist before realizing it was unlocked and storming right in.

  "Where is the baby?" he demanded, his Israeli accent making the question sound like more of a threat than he'd meant. At least Bex hoped that was the case. Because he looked out of his mind.

  Granted, on a good day, the thirty-three-year-old coach appeared out of place at an ice rink. In a sport where suits and Republican haircuts were the de facto dress code, Ben-Golan's shoulder-length flowing blond hair was bound to draw attention. In a sport so Caucasian that Asians like Sebastian Vama were still considered exotic, his sun-scorched skin marked him as an outsider. And in a sport where fractures and shredded tendons were the expected injuries, one ear shot off by an enemy sniper during his Israeli Army days made it clear that this was no ordinary figure-skating coach.

  But Idan Ben-Golan didn't usually look insane, just intense. He had this way of gripping the person he was speaking to with his gaze and refusing to let go until he was finished. It was creepy and more than a little disconcerting. And that was when he was just shooting the breeze. Apparently, when Idan really wanted something, the gaze could be turned up tenfold.

  "Where is my baby?” Idan repeated, narrowing in on Knox. It sounded like the same question. But in Bex's world, there was a chasm of difference between "Where is the baby?" and "Where is my baby?" She didn't think this was a mere English-as-a-second-language translation problem.

  "He's your baby?" Bex and Officer Ho leaped on it at almost exactly the same time. Bex was happy to see that an officer of the law was with her on this.

  "Where is he?" Idan faced Knox. "They said you are the one who found him in the arena. What did you do with him?"

  "Come on," Officer Ho offered amiably. "I'll show you."

  Knox asked to stay behind — "I have to work the next event, you see, and I really would like to... if it's all right, of course. I really would appreciate the chance to gather myself together and such." Ho gave Knox permission, agreeing that he'd already told him everything he knew, then led Idan out of the room, upstairs to the next level. Naturally, Bex, Diane, and Francis followed without being asked, although Bex guessed she was the only one wondering why Ho was being so obliging to every request.

  Ho opened the door to the hospitality lounge and there, next to a random skating mother plucked for diaper duty, was the baby of the hour, still strapped into his car seat, though with his outer clothing layer now off and a bottle of formula dangling between his lips. Without another word, Idan rushed over to snatch the infant out of his seat He unbuckled the straps and held the boy up in the air, as if actually feeling the baby's weight was the only way to convince himself that the tot was fine.

  Noting everyone watching him, Idan finally calmed down enough to stop asking the same question over and over and, somewhat embarrassed by how crazy he'd acted only a few moments before, explained, "His name is Omri. He's my son."

  Behind her, Bex heard Francis chuckle. He leaned over and twittered in Diana's ear, although the message was rather unsubtly meant for all of them. "My, my, my, I do wonder how Miss Cash of the Pan feels about that...."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Idan, it was clear, did not find Francis's comment at all amusing. He lunged forward and, despite the baby tucked under one arm, football-style, still managed to, in the blink of an eye, constrict both palms into fists — though he did keep them at his sides. For now. "What did you say about my wife, Mr. Howarth?"

  To his credit — or shame, Bex couldn't decide which — Francis wasn't frightened or discomfited in the least. "I simply asked how your lovely wife feels about your siring an infant with, apparently, your barely legal student. It's a reasonable question under the circumstances, wouldn't you agree?"

  "And what exact business of yours would the emotional state of my wife be?"

  "Is that why Allison Adler was found dead this morning?" Ho inquired, undaunted by constricted fists or unrestricted cattiness.

  Realizing that he was the one being addressed, Idan startled and, just as quickly as he'd curled them, forced his fingers to hang limply and unthreateningly by his sides. He slipped the baby out from under his arm and cradled the little guy against his chest, chin resting atop the boy's head. His eyes darted, fully aware that everyone in the room was staring at him with a combination of curiosity and fear, and cognizant that his behavior was perhaps not painting the most innocuous of portraits.

  "Allison," Idan repeated. Bex imagined she could hear him ordering himself to sound calm, rational, and not at all at fault "Yes. I heard about Allison, of course. That is how I knew that Omri was here. I — I do not know what to say. It's horrible. She was a good person, a good girl. I am very, very sorry. I don't know what caused — "

  "Any idea why Allison was at the rink this morning, Mr...." Officer Ho asked the obvious question.

  "Ben-Golan. My name is Idan Ben-Golan." He jiggled the baby as if to calm him, although Omri showed no sign of crying or even of thinking about it. He simply sucked on his sleeve and stared
forward.

  "She wasn't competing, was she, Mr. Ben-Golan?" Ho followed up.

  "No. No, she was not."

  "Then why was she here?"

  "She was dropping off Omri."

  "Dropping him off, sir?"

  "I — Allison. Allie was preparing to leave Los Angeles. She was going to leave this morning, and she was leaving Omri with me. For good. We agreed that it was for the best. It is what we agreed on."

  "Where was she planning to go?"

  "I don't know," he claimed. "She just needed... she wanted... Allison, you see, she had a very difficult year. She had a lot on her shoulders."

  Francis quipped, "Isn't that rather uncomfortable? Gestationally speaking?"

  Idan pretended he hadn't heard. Bex figured it was either that or actually hit Francis this time. And that wouldn't be good politically. Not only might it make him look guilty in Allison Adler's death, but also no skating coach could afford to make an enemy of Francis Howarth. A negative word from Francis during a live skating broadcast, and it was bye-bye endorsements. Instead, Idan told Officer Ho, "I would like to take my son home now." Motioning to the woman who'd been feeding him earlier, he said, "Thank you very much for your help. I appreciate it greatly."

  "I'm afraid I can't let you do that," Officer Ho said.

  Idan already had the car seat in one hand and was headed for the door. He said, "I will be happy to answer any questions you may have for me about Allison, but at a later date. My son is tired and — "

  "How do we know he is your son?"

  "What did you say?" Idan's barely suppressed rancor performed a 6.0-worthy triple jump and barreled straight into Officer Ho.

  Who didn't so much as flinch. He said, "What I have right now, Mr. Ben-Golan, is it? What I have on my hands right now is a dead girl — suspected suicide — and a baby, suspected to be hers. But frankly, I don't have anything to prove that. Just like I don't have anything to prove that this little guy belongs to you."