Skating on Thin Ice

Table of Contents

 

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Murder, She Wrote
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Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

 

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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First Printing, April 2011

Copyright © 2011 Universal City Studios Productions LLLP.
Murder, She Wrote
is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios.

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

 

Set in Minion

 

Bain, Donald, 1935–

Skating on thin ice: a murder, she wrote mystery: a novel/by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain. p. cm.

“Based on the Universal Television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link.”

eISBN : 978-1-101-53326-0

1. Fletcher, Jessica (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women dectectives—Fiction. 3. Women novelists—Fiction. I. Murder, she wrote (Television program) II. Title.

PS3552.A376S57 2011

813’.54—dc22 2010052156

 

 

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PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

 

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The wonderful folks at the Danbury Ice Arena run a first-class operation and made our research glide smoothly. In particular we’d like to thank assistant manager Patrick McGannon, Jr., for his insights into rink operation; skating director Karla Jones, for her information on staffing and figure skating schools; and especially instructor Alan Helms for his knowledge of skating and his patience with and encouragement of the only student over seventeen in his “adult” class. We’re also grateful to the lovely lady at the International Skating Center of Connecticut in Simsbury, who answered our questions but hung up before we could get her name.

Thanks, too, to Pete Nevin of Far West Ranch and Cattle Sales and Management for his real estate advice and for not hanging up when the cell phone reception became spotty.

All the people we consulted were generous with their time and expertise. Any errors are solely ours.

“W
hat on earth are you doing?”

I was on my knees with my head buried in the attic closet when I heard Seth Hazlitt’s voice behind me. I turned sharply, bumping into a carefully piled column of books. “Hold on,” I called, putting up an arm to keep the column from toppling—again—and further fraying my already ragged nerves. Moments earlier I’d accidentally knocked an old mop to the floor, and the snap it made when it hit the wood had given me a real start. That was when the top rows of the leaning tower of literature had started cascading down, bopping me on the head one volume at a time like something out of a Saturday-morning cartoon show.

“I know they’re here,” I said.

“What’s there?”

I scrunched down, ignoring the indelicate picture I must be presenting, and poked one hand deep into the recesses of the dark closet, pushing aside my old snowshoes and trying to grab hold of the purple canvas bag behind them. “I knew it!” I said, looping a finger into the handle and dragging it with me as I carefully backed out, hoping the books would stay put and my head would be spared another landslide.

I sat up, clapped the grime off my hands, and smoothed down the back of my hair, which stood on end thanks to the static electricity created when I brushed against the hems of sweaters hanging above. “See?” I said.

“What I see is a slightly mussed mystery writer with a smudge on her nose. May I ask what occasioned this archaeological dig into the bowels of the attic?” Seth asked, extending a hand to help me to my feet.

I took his offer and, once upright, dusted off the knees of my blue jeans. “I really must bring up the vacuum,” I said. “It’s been far too long.” I leaned the mop in its place, picked up my purple prize, and headed for the stairs. “How did you know where to find me?”

“The back door was unlocked. I called out your name, but you didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“But I heard you. At least I heard something upstairs falling over—thump, thump, thump—followed by some muffled cursing.”

“I wasn’t cursing. Those were expressions of frustration,” I said, closing the door to the attic steps.

“I figured you were in some kind of difficulty, so I came to the rescue.”

“No rescue needed, but thank you for the intent,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to box up those books and take them over to the library for its book sale. What just happened was a physical reminder that I’ve neglected them for too long. But,” I added, “I found what I was looking for.”

We made our way to the ground floor and through the living room to the kitchen. I rested the purple canvas carrier on a chair and took two mugs from the cupboard.

“And just how long are you going to keep me in suspense?” Seth said.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” he replied, pulling out a chair and easing into it. “Now, what is that?” He pointed to the object of my search.

“My ice skates.”

“Your ice skates! I assume that you intend to donate them to some deserving teenager.”

“Actually, I was planning to see if they still fit.”

“You’ve done some foolish things in your life, Jessica Fletcher, but now I’ve heard it all. You can’t possibly mean to start ice-skating at your age.”

“I’ll ignore the last part of that comment. And I’ll thank you to know I was second runner-up to the queen of the winter carnival in seventh grade. My talent was figure skating.”

“It was, eh?”

“Yes,” I said, pouring the coffee, and then taking milk from the refrigerator. “I was pretty good at stroking, had mastered the left crossover—the right was still a bit wobbly—but I could do a three-turn and was working on my Mohawk.”

“Isn’t that a hairstyle?”

“No. A type of turn.” I took the top off the cookie jar. “Snickerdoodle?” I asked.

“Just one. I’m trying to take off a pound or two.”

I fished out two cookies, one for him and one for me, and set the plate in front of him. My good friend and Cabot Cove’s favorite physician had a weakness for cookies—actually, for good food of any kind. He cautioned his patients about overeating but wasn’t very good at following his own recommendations, although he made an effort every now and then. Apparently this was one of those times.

Seth picked up the cookie and took a small bite, savoring the cinnamon and butter flavor, and changed the subject. “I suppose having the old ice arena refurbished and reopened has prompted this bit of folly on your part.”