His eyes became moist, and I knew that he was fighting to stay in control of his emotions. I made an excuse to go to the sink to allow him a few private moments. When I returned to the table, he’d pulled himself together and smiled. “I suppose I overstated it on the phone,” he said, “when I claimed that Devlin killed my father. The reality is that Dad was responsible for his own problems. Combine his naïveté with greed and a willingness to cut legal corners, and you have the perfect storm for failure. But that doesn’t let Devlin off the hook. He was the consummate con man who knew a patsy when he saw one.”
“A tragic story,” I said.
“It was for everyone involved,” he agreed. “It did one positive thing for me, though. It sent me running as far away as possible from anything having to do with business. I’m really happy working for a nonprofit organization where the bottom line isn’t everything.”
“Mr. Valery, I asked you on the phone if your father knew the Russian skater who was murdered here, Alexei Olshansky.”
“I don’t know if he knew him personally. The Olshansky name is familiar to me, however. After you called, I spoke with my mother. She recognized the name immediately. My dad was from Belarus. Immigrants from the same region tend to stick together when they come over here. We had a lot of Russian-American neighbors when I was growing up. I remember a bunch of them showed up at Dad’s funeral.” He suddenly narrowed his eyes and cocked his head. “I can’t help but get the feeling, Mrs. Fletcher, that you think Brian Devlin might have been involved in some way with this skater’s murder.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort,” I said, “but Devlin was Alexei Olshansky’s coach. As such, he is as much a suspect as everyone else involved in Alexei’s life. I don’t have an official role in the investigation, but I have been doing some, let’s say, exploring of my own in the hope that what I come up with will be of help to our sheriff. As I mentioned to you on the phone, Alexei had kept a copy of your father’s obituary. I found that strange, which is why I called you.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” he said, glancing at his watch.
“I don’t want to keep you too much longer,” I said, “but I’m surprised that your father ended up taking the full brunt of the fallout from the land project. From everything I’ve been able to find online, Brian Devlin was never a party to any of the lawsuits, nor of the criminal action brought against your father.”
“That’s right. Devlin was pretty shrewd when it came to covering his tracks. My father’s company was based in Colorado, and the money he persuaded people to invest also came from that state. When the criminal action was brought against him, he tried to implicate Devlin, but the prosecutor wasn’t interested in dragging in someone from another state. He had a bird in hand. Dad’s attorney made inquiries and discovered that Devlin had left Nevada. We could have had him traced, but it was already too late to benefit my father. My mother just wanted it all to end. So, Devlin got away untouched but, from what we later learned, left a trail of gambling debts behind him. After all that, he didn’t get rich. That gives me some solace. Not a lot, but some.”
Peter Valery declined a second piece of cake, finished his tea, and announced that he was leaving. I walked him out to his car, where we both looked up into a sky saturated with snow that would soon fall.
“Thank you so much for taking the time to help me understand,” I said.
“I didn’t mind doing it, Mrs. Fletcher. Gives me some closure, too. Now someone else knows what a con man this guy is.” Then, through a wide grin, he said, “Besides, it isn’t every day that I get to meet a famous writer. Would it be imposing too much if I—?”
I read his mind. “Just wait a minute,” I said. I went inside, pulled a copy of my latest published novel from a carton, sat at the desk, and inscribed it to him:For Peter Valery—
Thank you for opening my eyes.
With sincere best wishes.
I signed it and rejoined him in the driveway.
“I appreciate this,” he said.
“Not as much as I appreciate you making this detour. Travel safe.”
I watched him drive off, returned to the house, and spent a half hour typing up notes based upon our conversation. When I was finished, I called my local taxi company and told them that I needed a ride.
Chapter Twenty-two
I tried Mort’s cell phone, but he didn’t pick up. A call to headquarters elicited the information that he wasn’t expected back until later.
“Is there any way I can reach him?” I asked.
“Afraid not, Mrs. Fletcher. He must be out of range. Is this an emergency? Can someone else help?”
“No, thanks, but please leave a message for him to call me on my cell phone as soon as possible.”
“Shall do, ma’am.”
Marisa Brown answered when I called the ice arena and asked for Brian Devlin.
“He’s not here, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Do you know where I can reach him?”
“At home, I guess.”
“Thanks, Marisa, I’ll try him there.”
To say that what Peter Valery had told me during our brief conversation was surprising would be a gross understatement. “Shocking” would more aptly describe my reaction. If what he said was true—and I had no reason to doubt him—Devlin had fallen back on coaching only when his financial finagling had failed so badly that it caused his partner to commit suicide. What was even more startling was that Harvey Gemell, Eve Simpson’s potential buyer of the ice arena, was possibly involved with Devlin’s scam to defraud Peter Valery’s father. Did Gemell tell Eve that he had a connection with Devlin? If he had, she’d never acknowledged it in our conversations. Not that she was obliged to tell me about it; the larger question was whether Eldridge Coddington was aware of it. I doubted that.
My meeting with Peter Valery had kindled many provocative questions, and the only person who could answer them for me, aside from Harvey Gemell, was Brian Devlin himself.
I decided not to call Devlin. It would have been too easy for him to brush me off on the phone. Mort Metzger had gathered the addresses and phone numbers of all the staff at the ice arena the night that Alexei Olshansky’s body was discovered and had given a copy to me, so I knew where Devlin lived. Surprise was the element needed here. I would simply drop in on him, provided he was home, and trust that he would feel obligated to invite me in.
Fifteen minutes later I was on my way to where Devlin had established his living quarters. When the cab was a few hundred feet from the house, I asked my driver to stop.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, but let’s just wait here a minute.”
My reason for hesitating had to do with what was occurring on the porch of Devlin’s house. The skating coach stood there with none other than Harvey Gemell. It appeared that Gemell was leaving, and I wanted to wait until he was gone. The men shook hands. Gemell came down from the porch, got into a black Mercedes, and pulled away. Devlin looked up and down the street before reentering the house.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be,” I told my driver, “but I’ll call when I’m ready to be picked up.”
“My cell phone is on, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good. Thank you.”
As I climbed the steps to the porch, I was aware that someone was peeking through a gap in the curtains. I ignored it and rang the bell. I heard movement inside. A few seconds later Devlin opened the door, and judging from his expression, he wasn’t happy to see me.
“Hello, Mr. Devlin,” I said with a smile. “I’m sorry to barge in on you this way but—”
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked from behind him.
I looked past Devlin to see Lyla Fasolino emerge from what I assumed was the bathroom. She was wearing an oversized, red terry cloth bathrobe.
“It’s nothing,” he said, and waved her back into the room from which she’d come. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked, arms crossed over his chest, his exp
ression stern and unwelcoming.
“I was wondering whether you would give me a few minutes of your time.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“It has to do with Alexei Olshansky.”
“His death was tragic. What more can I say about it?”
“To be honest,” I said, “I’ve come across some information that I think Sheriff Metzger will be interested in having. I believe it bears directly on his investigation of the circumstances surrounding Alexei’s death.”
“That’s great, but what does it have to do with me?”
“If you would allow me to come in for a few minutes, I’ll be happy to explain it to you.”
I could see the wheels spinning in his brain. Surely, his curiosity about what I’d just said would compel him to want to know more. I was counting on that. My assumption was right.
“I only have a few minutes, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said as he opened the door fully and stepped aside to allow me to enter. “I have to be somewhere else.”
“I’ll try not to keep you,” I said, crossing the threshold. Lyla was standing there, this time fully dressed in a scoop-neck sweater and jeans, one hand casually curved around the back of her neck. But there was something different about her. Perhaps it was her red face.
“Hello, Lyla,” I said to her. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you.”
“I was just leaving,” she said, grabbing her coat from a hook by the door. “I’ll see you at the rink,” she said to Devlin. “We can finish our discussion later.” She tossed a quizzical glance at him as she walked past us and out the door.
“We were having a meeting,” he said.
I was tempted to ask what sort of “meeting” required wearing bathrobes, but I thought better of it.
As though it suddenly occurred to him that it was in his best interest to be gracious, Devlin asked if I wanted a drink, a beer, or coffee. I declined.
“Sit down, please,” he said, indicating the sofa. “I apologize for rushing you, but I don’t have much time. I’m due at the arena, and I’m already running late.” He made a show of looking at his watch as he perched on the edge of a chair.
“I’ll try to be brief, Mr. Devlin.”
“Please, call me Brian.”
“All right, Brian. Does the name Paul Valery mean anything to you?”
There was no need for him to answer; his expression was revealing.
“I’ve met so many people over the years,” he said. “I ... I can’t remember all of their names. Who was he?”
I noted that he used the past tense in asking about Valery. I responded in kind. “He was a real estate developer from Colorado Springs who lost everything in a fraudulent land deal in Nevada.”
Devlin shrugged.
“I spent time with his son, Peter, earlier today. He told me that you and his father had been involved in that land deal.”
“He must be mistaken,” he said in clipped tones. An angry scowl crossed his face before he schooled his features into a more neutral expression. “You know the name ‘Devlin’ is hardly uncommon. It must have been someone with the same or a similar name. You can’t honestly be suggesting that I’d be involved in some fraudulent deal.”
“I’m honestly reporting what Mr. Valery’s son told me, Brian. Was he wrong?”
He didn’t respond.
My cell phone vibrated and rang. I looked at the screen. Of all times for him to return my call, this was the most inconvenient. “Excuse me,” I said to Devlin. “Can I call you back in a few minutes, Mort?” I asked.
“I’m back in my office, but I’ll only be here for the next hour,” he replied.
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” I clicked off the phone and returned my attention to the coach.
“Was that your sheriff?” Devlin asked, rocking back and forth in his chair.
“Yes.”
“I thought I recognized his first name. What’s his last name?”
“Metzger.”
“Right, right, Metzger. I hope you don’t mind my saying that he comes off like a real bumbler to me.”
“He’s anything but, Brian. He’s a former New York City policeman. They’re known to be pretty sharp, wouldn’t you agree? And Mort has done a wonderful job in Cabot Cove. Don’t let his demeanor fool you. He’s a first-rate lawman.”
Devlin looked at his watch again.
“My apologies for keeping you,” I said. “I believe you were saying that you have no recollection of anyone in Colorado Springs named Valery?”
“You’re talking about a long time ago, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, which said to me that he had, indeed, known Peter Valery’s father. Buoyed by that tacit admission, I pressed on.
“I couldn’t help but notice when I arrived here that Harvey Gemell had been visiting you.”
If my mention of Paul Valery’s name had caused Devlin to become ill at ease, the name Gemell increased his apparent discomfort fivefold. I expected him to bring the conversation to an abrupt end and order me to leave, but instead he mustered a bit of bravado.
“So?” he said, cocking his head at me. “Am I not allowed to talk to people?”
“I assume you’re aware that Mr. Gemell is considering buying the ice arena from Eldridge Coddington.”
“Sure, I’d heard that,” he said. “He had some questions on how the facility is run, and if I intend to keep my program there. Nothing could be more natural for someone interested in investing in it. Do you question that?”
“Under normal circumstances, Mr. Gemell’s interest in the Cabot Cove Ice Arena wouldn’t raise any eyebrows—except for the fact that I’ve been told that it was he who introduced you to Paul Valery in Las Vegas.”
It was time for Devlin to do what I’d expected him to do a few minutes earlier. He ended the conversation by saying, “I don’t know much about you, Mrs. Fletcher, except I understand that you’re a successful writer. I suggest you stick to murder mysteries—fiction seems to be your strength—and keep your nose out of other people’s business. Who are you to be digging into my background and making accusations that are totally false? You have some nerve coming here with your imagined scenarios. That may work when you’re writing one of your books, but it has no place in my life. Now, excuse me. I have more important things to do.”
I’d wanted to press forward and follow up with more questions, but it was obvious that wouldn’t happen during this visit. I stood, straightened my skirt, zipped up my jacket, and said, “I need to call for a taxi. I don’t drive.”
He looked at me as though I might be from another galaxy. “You don’t drive?” he said. “I hope you don’t expect me to ferry you somewhere after the accusations you just aimed at me.”
“Not at all,” I said. I pulled out my cell phone and pressed the speed dial for the taxi driver’s cell phone. He answered immediately and said he’d be there in five minutes.
“Thank you for your time, Brian,” I said. “I know that you haven’t found this pleasant, but I remind you that one of your pupils has been murdered at the very arena where he trained with you. You may not think it’s my business, but I was there the night they dragged Alexei from the ice pit, and I intend to do everything I can to help Sheriff Metzger solve the case. Again, thank you for allowing me to stop in unannounced.”
The minute I got into the taxi, I called Mort Metzger at his office.
“Mort? I have to see you. It’s urgent,” I said.
“Sure, Mrs. F.”
“Do you still have in custody the person you claim was behind incidents at the ice arena?”
“Yeah. In fact, I intend to question him again in about an hour.”
“I assume you’re talking about Thomas Mulvaney.”
“His name is Thomas all right, but his last name isn’t Mulvaney. It’s Hunter.”
“I’m not surprised that he changed it, considering his background.”
“What are you talking about, Mrs. F.? What do you know about him?”
; “Quite a bit. I’ve learned a few things that I think that you’ll want to know before you question him.”
“Can’t wait to hear what it is,” he said.
“And I can’t wait to tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Mort offered me coffee when I arrived, as he always does, and I declined, as I usually do. There was a time when he was fussy about his coffee and researched good blends and fancy pots. But the busier he got, the less effort went into the beverage, and eventually his became like all other station-house brews—terrible. For some reason, every police precinct or station house in the country makes awful coffee. It’s as though cops are taught while going through the police academy how to take perfectly good ground coffee beans and turn them into acrid mud.
Mort poured himself a cup. “You’re sure? It’s Sumatra.”
“Another time, thanks,” I said. “I’ve had my quota for the day.” I took the chair opposite his. “Did you get anything from Alexei’s cell phone?” I asked.
“The phone itself was ruined, but we got a list of his calls from the telephone company. Nothing really helpful. A few calls from the rink, but we can’t tell who he spoke with.” He took a sip of his coffee, winced, and put it down. “Okay, Mrs. F., what’s this information you’ve come up with about the kid I have back there in one of the cells?” He tipped his head toward the jail.
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