“You know much about this guy Jeremy, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked as we approached the public rink.
“A little. He seems like a nice enough fellow. He has aspirations to become a top skater and works here to help that dream along. You’ve met him. What did you think?”
“Didn’t spend much time with him. Seemed nice enough. Is that him out on the ice driving the Zamboni?”
I stood on my tiptoes and peered across the rink. “I believe it is,” I said.
Mort and I walked toward the boards that separated the ice from the rest of the rink area. A father with a child on his shoulders, and a few small boys who hung on the boards, watched the giant vehicle make its rounds as we moved closer to the gate.
When the Zamboni reached our side of the ice, Mort pulled out his badge and beckoned to Jeremy.
Jeremy put up his index finger, stopped the Zamboni, and fished around under the dashboard. He jumped off the machine, carrying what looked like a joystick for a video game, and slid his way over to where we stood.
“Hang on a second,” he said as he stepped off the ice. “Hey boys, get your arms out of the rink,” he called to the youngsters. The children reluctantly moved back from the railing. “Mr. Gervich, if you stay in here, you have to keep the kids off the boards,” he told the father.
“Sorry, Jeremy. We were on our way out anyway. C’mon guys. Who wants a hot dog before we leave?”
A chorus of “me” followed him from the rink.
Jeremy turned to us. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
“What’s that?” Mort said, waving at Jeremy’s hand.
Jeremy looked down at the white tape on his palm. “It’s just a cut. It’s healing up pretty good.”
“No, I mean what’s that thing you’re holding?” Mort asked
Jeremy lifted up the device. “This? It’s a modified throttle quadrant.”
“What in the heck is that?”
“It’s a kind of controller. Originally they were used to run flight simulators. I use mine for Bessie over there.”
“You name your Zamboni machines?” I asked.
“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”
“Show me how that works,” Mort said.
“It’s really not as complicated as it looks,” Jeremy said, balancing the device on the railing and pushing several toggle switches. As he manipulated the controller, the Zamboni engine revved up and the machine lurched forward. “See, I use this joystick to put Bessie into her circuit, then flick this switch to hold her to the pattern. The Zamboni will follow the pattern of increasingly smaller circuits until it turns in a circle in the middle of the rink. At that point you have to stop it or it will keep circling itself until it runs out of gas or digs a hole in the ice.”
“That’s fascinating,” Mort said. “Can I try it?”
“Sure. Just move this yoke to the left. Not too far; that’s it. Now hold her steady. This one controls the speed.”
I cleared my throat. “Mort?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you have a question for Jeremy?”
“Huh? Oh, right.” He handed back the controller. “That’s pretty cool,” he said, “but we need to talk to you about a call to the station that came in tonight.”
Jeremy adjusted his levers, and the Zamboni continued on its route. “Sure,” he said, his eyes following the machine. “What do you want to know?”
“Someone called my office to complain about a fight at the rink.”
Jeremy swiveled to face us. “Sorry! That was me, Sheriff. I totally forgot about that.”
“You forgot! You got me all the way out here for nothing?”
“I just forgot to call again when it was over. I’m really sorry. It’s been such a crazy night.”
“What happened?”
“I walk into the garage and find this guy sitting on Audrey. That’s the other Zamboni. I told him he was in a restricted area and that he had to leave. He gives me some lip about lax security. Got really nasty. Wouldn’t get down. I’m yelling at him to get off the machine. I’m responsible for those things; they cost a fortune to repair. And we’ve had so many things go wrong lately. He just sits up there taunting me. Finally, I go to pull him down, and he threatens me, says he’s got a gun. I ran out of there and called your office.”
“You saw the gun?”
“No, but he said he had one.”
“Then what?”
“When I went back to tell him that I’d called the cops, he was gone. I looked around for him, but one of the staff grabbed me. The panel on the hockey rink that fell out earlier was loose again. Lyla got whacked in the head with a puck the first time it fell off. I didn’t want anyone hurt again.” Jeremy raised his hands and shrugged. “I’m sorry, Sheriff. I know I should have called again. I got so busy, it completely slipped my mind.”
“Did you recognize this guy, the one on the Zamboni?”
“I’ve seen him around. Someone said he was thinking of buying the rink. It would be just my luck if he did.”
Immediately I thought of Eve Simpson’s real estate client, Harvey Gemell, and made a mental note to mention him to Mort when we left. If Mr. Gemell was walking around Cabot Cove wielding a gun, our sheriff ought to know it.
“Well, there you go, Mrs. F. That’s what we missed dinner for,” Mort grumbled.
“No harm done, Mort,” I said.
I asked Jeremy, “While you were racing around tonight, did you happen to see the Russian lady and her two large companions? Marisa said they were looking for Alexei.”
He shook his head. “After Lyla got whacked in the head with the puck and left, I’ve been honkin’ all night. If Marisa hadn’t filled in, I’d still be back in the skate rental. I’m basically running the show without the title or money, but please don’t tell the old man Coddington I said so.” He squinted at the Zamboni and pushed a button to stop its progress.
“Something wrong?” Mort asked.
“Looks like the blade is going to need replacing. Just what I need, another thing to do tonight.” He looked at his watch, then used his controller to back the Zamboni up to the garage. “Any more questions, Sheriff?”
“A few.”
“Mind asking them while I replace the blade? Actually, I could use a hand pulling the new one out of its case. It’s heavy, but I can handle it once it’s out.”
Mort looked at me. I shrugged.
“Sure thing,” Mort said. “Where is it?”
“In the garage. Down this way. Same place we talked last time.”
“Do you mind, Mrs. F.?”
“Of course not. I’ll come with you.”
We walked down the narrow aisle along the boards to the area that housed the two Zambonis, and entered through the open garage door. With Bessie on the ramp of one rink, and Audrey on the ramp of the other—poised to go when its driver was free—the space inside appeared even larger and more ominous than it had the other day. A small hill of snow sat on the iron grillwork, a shovel thrust into its side.
“Shoot!” Jeremy said. “Who closed up the grille and turned off the motor?” He grunted against the strain of lifting a panel of the ironwork cover, leaned it against the snow pile, shoveled a fresh layer of snow onto the water, and flipped a switch on the wall, setting off the low hum of a motor. “I train people, but it’s a lost cause,” he said, walking across the garage to a tall door. “The blades are over here, Sheriff. We keep ’em locked up. They can cut a man’s arm off if you’re not careful, but they’ve got guards on them. It’s heavy but not dangerous. If you’ll take that end, I’ll grab this one.”
“Sure thing,” Mort said. “Do you happen to know the name of the guy who was sitting on the Zamboni?”
“I don’t, but I can try to find out.”
“You do that and get back to me. I don’t like the idea of someone wandering around here carrying a weapon.”
“Like I said,” Jeremy said, “I didn’t actually see a gun. He could’ve been bluffing.”
I wandered around the other side of the snow pile and peered into the pit. The perforated pipe that sprayed water on the melting snow wasn’t operating, but whatever motor Jeremy had turned on was making bubbles in the corner of the pool, disturbing some of the snow that floated on the water. I noticed something colored at the edge of the snow. “What’s in the pit?” I called out.
“Just water and snow,” Jeremy answered. “If you can hold up that end, Sheriff, I’ll pull it over here.”
“Wait up a second,” Mort said. “Let me get a better grip.”
“There’s something red in the pit, Jeremy,” I said.
“Maybe it’s a reflection from one of the lights.”
“I don’t think it’s a reflection.”
“Well, don’t get too close. I’ll take a look when we’re done. Over here, Sheriff. Lay ’er down real slow.”
I pulled the shovel from the snow pile and put it in the water, moving it from side to side to try to break up the coating of granulated ice on the surface. The red looked like a piece of fabric. Using the shovel, I pulled it closer to the edge of the pit, knelt down and reached into the frigid water. I gave it a quick tug, but it wouldn’t come out. I let go and shook my hand to rid it of the painfully cold water. “I think it’s a scarf,” I said, “but it’s stuck to something.” I tucked my hand under my arm to warm it up.
“Watch your step, Mrs. Fletcher,” Jeremy warned. “Don’t you go falling in.” He came up behind me. “We’ve had enough problems tonight.”
I moved out of the way, and he crouched down to get a better view of the thing to which I was referring. “Didn’t see this before,” he said.
“What is it?” Mort asked.
“Looks like it’s just what Mrs. Fletcher said, a scarf. Must be a long one. Someone either dropped it in, or one of the Zambonis picked it up when it came in from the rink. Happens sometimes.” He put both arms in the water, grabbed hold of the scarf, and yanked. It wouldn’t budge. “It’s probably caught in the drain. Would you turn off that switch up there, Sheriff? Lucky it didn’t gum up the Zamboni.”
Mort turned off the motor. “Let me help,” he said, squatting next to Jeremy. He put his hand on another portion of the fabric. “Ouch, that’s cold,” he said. “Okay, we pull on three. One, two, three.”
The fabric gave, and both men fell backward, Jeremy catching himself with his free hand, Mort landing on his bottom on the wet floor.
“Oh, no!” Mort said, scrambling to his feet. “I just had these cleaned.” He swiped at the seat of his pants. “You got any paper towels?”
“Sure. Over here, Sheriff,” Jeremy said, running to pull a fresh roll of paper towels from a shelf.
“Mort?”
“Just a minute, Mrs. F. I’m soaked.”
“Do you want more paper towels?” Jeremy asked.
“Mort, you need to see this.”
“Can it wait, Mrs. F.? I’m freezing my butt off over here. Literally.”
“I think you need to see this now.”
I heard a sigh behind me, the shuffling of Mort’s and Jeremy’s feet, and then a low whistle from Mort and a gasp from Jeremy.
The three of us looked into the pit. A shock of blond hair was visible just below the surface of the water. Then the body rose and tipped to its side, and we could see the other end of the long scarf.
It was wrapped around Alexei Olshansky’s neck.
Chapter Eleven
“What do you think, Doc?” Mort asked after we’d found Seth and brought him into the garage. “Looks like he took a misstep and fell in. Obviously a drowning accident, right?”
Alexei lay on the concrete floor next to the pit from which Mort and Jeremy had hauled him.
“Hard to tell,” Seth said, kneeling by the body. “The scarf didn’t leave any marks on the skin that I can see. No petechial hemorrhages in the eyes. That possibly rules out strangulation. More likely it’s primary respiratory impairment from submersion in a liquid medium.”
“Huh?”
“Drowning.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Mort grumbled, running his fingers through his hair.
“Face and lips are blue,” Seth continued. “Course he could have had cardiac arrest from the hypothermia. We’ll have to see if there’s water in his lungs.”
Jeremy stood as far away from the body as he could, his eyes roaming the room to keep from looking at the corpse. At Seth’s pronouncement, Jeremy’s teeth began to chatter, the sound reminding Mort of his presence.
“How many doors come into this room?” he asked Jeremy.
“One,” Jeremy said, pointing toward the door to the rink I’d come through when first visiting the garage.
“Just one?”
“Yes. Uh, no, I mean, no,” he stammered.
“Well, it’s got to be one or the other.”
“S-So sorry. There are ... th-three, if you count the garage doors.”
“Son, can you do something for me?”
“Yuh ... yes, Sheriff.”
“Listen carefully, please.”
A shaken Jeremy pulled himself together as Mort issued instructions. “I want everyone cleared out of the building,” he said, “except for the staff. Understand?”
Jeremy gave a sharp nod; his Adam’s apple jumped in his throat as he worked to swallow.
“Get me a list of the names of everyone who worked here tonight, with their addresses and phone numbers,” Mort continued. “Make me a couple of copies.”
“S-sure, Sheriff. I’ll have Marisa type it up for you.”
“And get a pot of coffee going for us. Can you do that?”
“The concession stand is still open.”
“Good. Wait for me in the office. After the public leaves, do not let anyone in the building without asking me first.”
Relief flooded his face as Jeremy rushed out of the garage.
“He looked like he was about to faint,” Mort commented. “Don’t need any additional complications tonight.”
“Won’t you want to be questioning those people who are here tonight?” I tentatively asked, not wanting to challenge Mort’s decision.
“Not right now,” he said. “I don’t want to set off a panic. Besides, they’re all locals. I can catch up with them later after I know what we’ve got here. Anyway, we don’t have enough officers available for all those people, and I can’t pull the guys on duty away from the traffic accidents.”
I agreed with his reasoning. It was highly doubtful that a casual visitor to the arena would have entered the Zamboni garage that evening; he was right in focusing on staff members, at least initially.
“Maybe Jeremy should use the mayor’s announcement that asked people to stay off the roads as the reason for closing the arena,” I said. “That way there will be fewer questions.”
“Good idea, Mrs. F.,” he said. “Tell him it’s an order from the mayor.”
I found Jeremy at the office arguing with Marisa.
“How did you get so wet?” she asked him.
“Never mind that. I need you to type up a list of everyone working tonight. Everyone. Understand?” Jeremy said.
“They’re all up on the board over there. Look for yourself.”
“Typed, I said.”
“Why do you need it typed?”
“Just do what I’m asking, Marisa.”
“You don’t have to be rude about it.”
“Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” He tore off his wet jacket and flung it across a desk. “And we’ve got to get everyone except the staff out of here. Now.”
“You’re full of demands tonight, aren’t you? What’s going on?”
I pulled Jeremy aside and told him about using the mayor’s announcement as an excuse to instruct people to leave. “I know it’s upsetting. Just take it one step at a time,” I counseled. “We need you to be composed or you’ll make others uneasy.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and gave me a g
rim smile. Without revealing the real reason, he calmly told Marisa to clear the building. “It’s because—because the mayor wants everyone off the roads during the storm. It’s dangerous. The sheriff wants the mayor’s order to be heeded. But we need the staff to hang around.”
“If everyone’s leaving, why can’t the staff? I’d like to go home, too.”
“Marisa, do I have to make the announcement or will you?”
A disgusted Marisa picked up the public address microphone and turned it on. “Hi, everyone,” her perky voice came through the speakers. “Could I have your attention for a moment, please? We already have a good foot of snow on the ground, folks. The plows are working overtime. The mayor has asked us to close the rink and send everyone home.”
A collective groan rose from a large group of the teenagers.
“If you already bought passes for the late evening session, save your tickets and we’ll honor them when you come back. Please take your time on the roads. They’re very slippery. Drive carefully. Ice arena staff, please help empty the building, then wait for further instructions.”
Marisa turned off the PA mike and eyed Jeremy, who nervously typed on the computer. “What’s going on, Jer?” she asked. “Snow is usually no big deal.”
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Okay? Help get everyone out. Check the locker room, the restrooms, the upstairs hall, and ask the concession kids to see me.”
“How late are we going to be here?”
“Just round up the staff and tell them to wait for me in the game room.”
“Do you know what’s going on, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“The mayor is worried about the snow,” I said. I didn’t like not being entirely truthful with her, but Mort was right. There was nothing to be gained by creating a panic. He needed time to sort things out.
While Marisa set off to usher any stragglers to the door and to gather the staff in the room containing the arcade games, I returned to the garage. Maureen followed.
“Why wouldn’t you keep everyone here to question them?” she asked her husband upon learning of Alexei’s death and Mort’s order to vacate the arena. His expression said that he didn’t appreciate being asked that question for the second time, but he checked his pique. “I don’t want a lot of gossip about it,” he explained. “It’s better to clear the area and see what we’ve got here. I want to go about this methodically.”
Skating on Thin Ice Page 9