Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1

by Alina Adams

  "Gabrielle Cassidy," Chris explained, without looking at her.

  "Oh!" Bex exclaimed. "Dr. Cassidy! Hi, I'm Bex Levy. We spoke on the phone last year when I was researching my piece about skaters who dropped out of the sport at seemingly the top of their game, remember? You told me about how you'd opened your new training center based on your PhD thesis proving that elite, champion athletes could be produced without pressure or stress."

  At that bit of blasphemy, Sabrina looked uninterested, Gina incredulous, and Toni amused. Chris was the only one who actually snorted out loud.

  Gabrielle said, "Even after a year of working for me, Mr. Kelly still has a bit of a theological problem with the concept."

  "You work there? For her?” Bex clarified.

  "Oh, yes," Gina said. "Chris and Gabrielle just flew up together this morning from California so they could both be with us for Lucian's big evening...." The mention of her husband's name triggered a quizzical, "Where is Lucian? Did he stay back at the rink?"

  Bex glanced nervously at Toni. The older woman had been content to lurk in the background up to that point, obviously happy to put off the inevitable for a few more moments. Now, Toni stepped forward, reaching one arm for Sabrina, the other for Gina. Neither took the proffered hand. Both sensed something was wrong. Sabrina inched a nervous step back and — was it subconsciously? — snuck a peek at the picture of her late mother above the fireplace. Gina, for her part, actually stopped talking.

  "Toni?" Chris was ultimately the one who spoke first "What is it, darling?”

  "There was," Toni said slowly, "an accident. Lucian was skating —"

  "That's ridiculous," Gina interjected. "Lucian hardly ever gets out on the ice, anymore. He teaches mostly from rink-side."

  "I asked him to," Bex said. "It was for the tribute show. We wanted footage of his skating. Then and now."

  Toni said, "He fell. He hit his head."

  "Is he all right?” Gina demanded.

  "Is he in hospital?” Chris asked, already standing up in anticipation of heading straight there.

  Only Sabrina calmly guessed, "He's dead."

  "Oh, shut up, would you?” Gina snapped, turning on her stepdaughter in a fury. "We all know your issues with your father, but this old song is getting very boring, and now isn't the time for a new verse, all right?”

  Sabrina didn't respond to Gina's outburst. She simply kept looking at Toni and calmly asked, "I'm right, aren't I? He's dead."

  "Yes," Toni said.

  Of all the people in the room, Chris seemed to take it the hardest. The skin around his eyes instantly turned red and blotchy. He raised one hand to cover his mouth, inhaling harshly and holding his breath. Sabrina remained frozen to the spot, eyes locked with Toni's, while Gina spun around abruptly, so that no one could see her reaction. Gabrielle merely seemed uncomfortable, not too shocked, not too saddened, not too anything except concerned that a reaction was expected of her, and she didn't have an appropriate one to offer. Toni stepped forward and wrapped one arm around Sabrina, but the younger woman didn't yield to the embrace. After a moment, Toni awkwardly let her go. Chris stepped over Gabrielle's legs to rest his hand on Gina's shoulder. She shrugged him off and he didn't try again. Bex and Gabrielle exchanged uneasy looks. Both realized they were out of place, but neither knew exactly how to either join in or extricate themselves from the situation. At least in Bex's case, she had a professional reason for observing the scene. Gabrielle looked as though she'd bought a ticket for one movie and accidentally stumbled into the screening of another.

  Trying to get them all off the hook and dissipate the unbearable tension building in the room, Bex offered, "The coroner's office, they have Lucian's body right now. You should be able to claim it as soon as they finish the autopsy and determine cause of death."

  "What are you talking about?" Gina spun back around to face them all. Bex noted that her eyes were dry, her hands steady, and her voice as shrill as ever. "What determine cause of death? Toni said he fell and hit his head. What's there to determine?"

  "It was an accident," Toni agreed, glaring daggers at Bex.

  But sticks and stones weren't too good at stopping Bex when she was on a tear. Mere words had no chance. She said, "It might not have been."

  "Then what was it?" Chris demanded.

  "It could have been... I mean, it's possible... The circumstances... There's a possibility it might have been... well... murder."

  Chris snorted again. He was very good at that. Bex wondered if all English people were. "What rubbish."

  "Why?" Sabrina piped up. "Do you think Lucian was so universally loved that no one could have even entertained the possibility?"

  "Darling," Chris began.

  "Oh, don't darling me. I'm not still that big-eyed nine-year-old you can pat on the head and tell to go play nicely in her room." She addressed Bex. "So you think my father was murdered?”

  "I'm just saying it could have happened."

  "He wasn't murdered," Toni said.

  "How?" Sabrina challenged. "How did it happen?”

  "Well, there are several possibilities," Bex admitted. "Until the coroner comes back with some kind of verdict there's really no use in guessing — "

  "Okay, then, by whom? You don't need a coroner's report to take a stab at that do you, Miss Levy?”

  "I — I don't know. I'd like to ask some questions, maybe — "

  "Well, I know," Sabrina announced.

  "You do?” That certainly got everyone's attention.

  "I do," Sabrina crowed. "Or, rather, I know who didn't do it. Other coaches may have hated my father. Other skaters, big-time officials, judges, heck, even a good number of disgruntled parents. But the one thing my father always had was the love and devotion of his precious students." She waved an arm to encompass Gina, Chris, Gabrielle, and any others who may have been lurking on the periphery, or were at least represented in abstentia by the multiple trophies, plaques, and ribbons on the walls. "My father's students were nuts about him. They were like the children he never had. Present company included, of course."

  CHAPTER FOUR: SABRINA

  Until she was six years old or so, Sabrina Pryce never knew that she was, technically, an only child. That's because everywhere she looked, there were pseudo-sibling rivals about. If they weren't clinging to Lucian's arm at the rink (he let the littlest ones practice their Axel jump by holding onto his finger and rotating), then they were badgering him off the ice with their incessant questions as he sat in the lounge, taking off his skates, or in the office, finessing the master coaching schedule.

  "Mr. Pryce, will you cut my music this weekend?"

  "Mr. Pryce, can you just take a quick look at my camel spin? I think I got it now."

  If they weren't at the house for a costume fitting, then they were on the phone, and if they weren't in the back seat of the family car being given a lift to the rink, then their photos were strewn about the living room, waiting for Lucian's approval before they sent them in for inclusion in the latest competition program.

  And then, of course, there were the ones who just moved in.

  Every season for as far back as Sabrina could remember, there had been some skater or two ensconced in their guest room. They might just be spending the night to make getting to the rink for an early morning practice session the next day easier, or they might be there for the school term or the summer to have Lucian work on a particular, troublesome element before sending them back to their regular coaches. Or they might be there for the long haul.

  Christian Kelly moved in when Sabrina was nine. At first, he was merely a videotaped presence, but even then, he consumed a good chunk of Lucian's time. Sabrina's father had received a videotape in the mail from a fellow coach in England extolling the virtues of her prodigious pupil and asking if Lucian would consider taking the fourteen-year-old boy on as a student — and as a charity case. It was that last one that prompted Lucian to watch the tape over and over again, trying to make up his mi
nd.

  Pointing at the television screen where, for what seemed like the umpteenth time, Chris was performing his interpretation of "The Flight of the Bumblebee," Lucian told Eleanor, "Boy's got talent, there is absolutely no question about that. Look how he moves, he's a natural. Nice spring, nice sense of music. And his technique isn't bad, not too many lousy habits for me to break. If they could afford it, I'd snap him up in a second. But, Nancy says there's not a penny to be spared. Parents are split up and working class, and in any case, they've practically disowned the kid for wanting to skate. Not that Nancy thinks the pair's any great bargain, says the boy would be better off away from them for the long haul. That's why she came to me. If that's the case, though, she's not just asking me to train him and fund him, she's practically asking us to raise him. He's fourteen! Boys at fourteen, Ellie..."

  "Is there money in the scholarship fund?"

  "A bit. Enough for one more this season, probably, yes. Question is, should this be the boy?"

  After another week of back-and-forth and near constant tape viewing, Lucian decided that yes, it should be.

  Chris arrived on a Saturday night, while Sabrina and her mother were at the movies. When they returned, Lucian introduced them all. Chris shook hands with Eleanor and said it was nice to meet her. He said hi to Sabrina and then went upstairs to finish his unpacking. Sabrina hated him on sight.

  She thought he looked funny. Like his arms and his legs were longer than the rest of him. She thought he talked funny, pronouncing "garage" like "gahr-age" and "can't" as "cah-n't." She thought he smelled funny, like the pungent mint gel that he was always smearing on his knees to keep them from swelling. She even thought his name was stupid. If his name was Christian, then his nickname shouldn't have been Chris, it should have been "Chrish." Any dummy could see that.

  Plus, there was the fact that Sabrina's father liked him best.

  She wouldn't have blamed Lucian if it were just about the skating. Well, she would have blamed him, but she'd have understood it, nonetheless. Despite her nearly legendary lineage, Sabrina had never taken much to skating. Her parents put her on the ice when she was eighteen months old. And promptly took her off when she commenced screaming at the top of her lungs for close to a half hour.

  "No like it!" was all they ever got in the way of an explanation.

  They tried again when she was three and when she was four, too. "No like it," remained the sentiment, even if she did become more articulate in expressing it.

  By the time she was old enough to remember, Sabrina could no longer recall what exactly had prompted her reaction. All she knew was that the thought of putting on ice-skates filled her with a stubborn conviction not to. No reason why.

  So if mere skating were all Lucian and Chris had in common, Sabrina could have accepted it. But it was more than that. Lucian and Chris were... for lack of a better term, buddies. They hung out. They talked about things. They talked about... life. And they left Sabrina out of it completely.

  "Christian is older than you, honey," her mother tried to soothe. "Of course he and Daddy have things to talk about that aren't for you. But when you're bigger..."

  "No," Sabrina said. Even at ten years old she knew when she was being spun.

  Chris ended up living with them for four years. When he finally moved out, Sabrina thought maybe now she'd have a chance at a normal family, without a perennial outsider hanging around, drawing focus. But, within a week of Chris leaving, there was another skater. And then another and another and another until, ultimately, it was Sabrina who moved out to go to college and a relatively normal living experience for the first time in her life.

  Though, as she would tell her therapist years later, Sabrina supposed she could have, one day, forgiven her father for always putting his students ahead of her. What she couldn't forgive Lucian for was killing her mother.

  At the time of their marriage, Lucian and Eleanor Quinn Pryce were not quite yet skating royalty. Lucian, after all, was only half of a Nationals-winning Pairs team — and a pretty controversial one, at that — while Eleanor was a former Novice and Junior Ladies' champion looking to make a name for herself in the Senior ranks.

  She'd only been coached by Lucian for a few months when she earned her first U.S. medal, a Bronze. Then, a year later, she came back to win the whole thing — as an entirely new person.

  It wasn't only that her name was now Eleanor Quinn Pryce. It was that, in twelve short months, Lucian had seemingly created a different skater. At eighteen, even nineteen years old, she'd been what the pundits loved to describe as "colt like," all raw energy and sinewy limbs and a style that consisted of unbridled enthusiasm over everything else. At twenty, under Lucian's guidance, she was suddenly calm, controlled, graceful, balletic, and poised. Her music, instead of a frantic Khachaturian "Sabre Dance," was now Beethoven's meditative “Moonlight Sonata.” Her costumes went from almost practice-quality blacks and whites to an assortment of soft, flowing, chiffon pastels.

  Her hair, which she once wore plaited into two braids and looped over the top of her head not unlike Heidi or one of the Sound of Music moppets just to functionally keep it from flopping in her face, was now piled in a glorious concoction atop her head, prompting spectators to sit in equal awe at her skating and at her ability to keep the carefully constructed edifice from tumbling down. She had become, quite simply, a work of art. Lucian Pryce's own, personal Galatea.

  When Eleanor won the Olympics — and the hearts of the television audience in the process; she received so many congratulatory telegrams after the event that the Olympic Village was required to create a special storage area just for her — she and Lucian ascended to the ranks of Golden Couple. Reporters wanted to interview them. Magazines wrote cover stories on them. There was even a children's book on Eleanor that featured Lucian quite prominently in the middle photo section, and when Eleanor wrote her own autobiography, Lucian was credited as the coauthor. Everyone wanted to know, what was next for Eleanor Quinn Pryce?

  Lucian let them in on the game plan: Eleanor would turn professional immediately after the post-Olympic World Championships (which she would, of course, win), she would accept a contract from the most prestigious ice show in America, tour for exactly four years, retire from performing a few weeks before the new Olympic champion was crowned, and then focus her attentions on starting a family.

  Which was exactly how it happened — to the letter. Even Sabrina did her part, being born nine months following the Olympics that dethroned her mother. Though, as Lucian liked to point out, that was hardly Sabrina’s achievement, now, was it?

  By the time Sabrina was old enough to recognize what was what, Eleanor had long ago stepped out of the limelight. She only skated on special occasions, mostly for charity events, primarily if they were televised, or for herself, just for fun. She might help Lucian out periodically by consulting on a skater he was working with, but she never coached full-time. Her chief identity, as far as Sabrina could tell, was being Lucian's support staff. She kept his house, she kept his schedule, she kept his child, and she kept him happy.

  When Sabrina was little, she didn't question it. After all, her mother serving her father's every whim at home also meant that she was usually there at Sabrina's beck and call, too. Which was nice. Sabrina would never deny that it was quite nice. But by the time Sabrina's know-it-all teen years hit in conjunction with the women's movement, she felt enlightened enough to be properly outraged and insulted on her mother's behalf.

  "How can you let Daddy treat you like that?" she demanded.

  "Like what?" Eleanor usually spoke softly. But, as her daughter grew shriller and more strident, Eleanor would lower her voice even more, in a subtle attempt to encourage Sabrina to do the same.

  Unfortunately, when Sabrina was a teenager, the technique only served to inflame her, and she cranked up the volume. "Like you're his personal slave or something. All you care about is Lucian this, Lucian that, Lucian, Lucian, Lucian. What about you? Don't you m
atter? You're a person! Heck, you're a celebrity!" To Sabrina, that last one seemed to be the biggest insult. How dare her mother yield to her father like she did, when Eleanor was the true star in the family!

  "And Daddy is the head of this household," Eleanor responded with what, to Sabrina, was a non-answer. It nevertheless meant "Discussion over."

  There was a lot of that going around the Pryce domicile. Whenever Sabrina wondered out loud why her mother seemed so tired, or where she kept disappearing in the afternoons, she got a non-answer/"Discussion over" brush off. It probably would have gone on that way indefinitely if Sabrina hadn't come home unexpectedly early from school one day because of a teachers' development meeting and caught her mother sitting in the car, in the driveway, not getting out, not moving, not doing anything.

  She might have been the Eleanor Pryce wax museum figure commissioned after her Olympic win and still on exhibit in London. Only that figure was more animated, caught frozen in Eleanor's trademark layback spin and giving off an illusion of life and motion. This version's hands were on the steering wheel. She was staring straight ahead at the garage door, not even blinking, barely breathing it seemed.

  When a terrified Sabrina knocked on the driver's side window — well, more like pounded the glass, really, so confused was she by the sight — Eleanor turned her head ever so slowly to respond, as if having a hard, almost drugged, time waking up. She looked at Sabrina questioningly. And then she started to cry.

  Sabrina had never seen her mother cry before. Lucian believed it was a wasted activity that served no purpose and so strongly urged his students never to succumb. "You put your pain in your pocket, and go" was the phrase his acolytes liked to repeat to each other, even as blood gushed from a perennially opening blister or bone ground against bone in a joint where the cartilage had long gone missing. Before she was Sabrina's mother, before she was Lucian's wife, Eleanor had been his student. And she subscribed to his philosophy as much as anyone.