“English, please,” Evelyn said. “We don’t have a translator handy. Sorry.”
“So tiring to speak the English,” Irina said.
“How come Alexei speaks better English than you do?” Evelyn asked.
“He have cousin here. He visit when he was little boy. Bednikova has to study the other language. Not the same.” She straightened to her full height, raised her chin, and looked down her nose at Evelyn. “But I speak the English some. You do not speak the Russian at all.”
“
Touché
, Evelyn,” I said. “She’s got us there.” I turned to Irina. “How long are you planning to stay in the U.S.?”
“I have booked flight for Sunday, but now it will snow. So ...” She shrugged her shoulders.
One of the men I’d presumed to be her bodyguards leaned through the door and called to her.
“Who is that man?” Evelyn asked.
“My brother, Maxim Bednikov. He come help me. Together we convince Alexei is time to go home.”
I had visions of Irina’s brother and the other large man who’d accompanied her hustling Alexei into a car, tying him up, and forcing him onto a plane to Moscow. Perhaps that was what Irina had hoped to do. Apparently the potential kidnap victim was not cooperating.
“Ms. Bednikova, how long did you skate with Alexei before he abandoned you for America?” Evelyn asked. “And what did you argue about that made him want to leave?”
Evelyn must have been doing research on the Internet
, I thought. But Irina was not fazed by the line of questioning.
“You follow,” she said to Evelyn. “I have paper I give you. Explain everything.”
“She comes with a press release,” Evelyn said to me, her eyes merry. “Guess my timing’s pretty good after all.”
Chapter Nine
M
ort Metzger stomped the snow from his shoes and energetically wiped his soles on the doormat before coming into Seth’s kitchen. “Where’s the doc?” he asked, sliding a box from Sassi’s Bakery onto the counter.
“In the back with a patient,” I replied.
“I didn’t have time to bake, Jessica,” Mort’s wife, Maureen, said. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Anything Charlene Sassi makes is every bit as good as homemade,” I said, quietly relieved we were spared one of Maureen’s culinary experiments. Our sheriff’s second wife was a lively redhead and an avid fan of TV cooking shows. She loved to tinker with recipes, but her enthusiasm far outweighed her skills. The results were unpredictable, sometimes wonderful, oftentimes dreadful. I’d been on the receiving end of both. “What’s in there?” I asked, lifting the heavy box by the red-and-white string that was wrapped three times around it.
“Just some cookies and a few Danish pastries so Doc will have something for breakfast tomorrow. I know he likes his sweets in the morning.”
Well, there goes Seth’s diet
, I thought, but didn’t say.
“Did you skate again today, Mrs. F.?”
“I did, and I’m improving each time out. I might even brave the weekend crowds tomorrow.”
“Could be hard getting to the rink by then. It’s snowing like a bandit out there,” Mort said.
“What’s the forecast?” I asked.
“More of the same,” Maureen replied. “It’s a real nor’easter.”
“The last time I remember a snowstorm like this was when I was still in New York,” Mort said. “The city was so quiet, it was like a Sunday in the summer. You’d think everybody packed up and left for the country. It was great. The bad guys stayed inside and the only people you saw on the street were the ones skiing down Fifth Avenue.”
“That must’ve been quite a sight,” I said as I lifted the lid of a pot on the back burner, picked up a long wooden spoon, and gave the contents a stir. “I don’t remember it snowing that much when I lived there.”
“It never lasts long in the city,” he said. “Traffic turns it to slush by the next day, and it drains away.” He leaned over the stove and sniffed. “Smells good.”
“It’s a recipe I had for lamb,” I said, “but Seth is making it his own way, using chicken. It’s got wine and garlic and tomatoes. I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”
“I left the doc’s number with my dispatcher. Hope he doesn’t mind. It’s not a good night for driving. We both might get some calls.”
Seth had invited the Metzgers and me for dinner. We dined together every few weeks or so, alternating houses. Seth had become more adventurous in the kitchen and liked to share his special dishes with friends. While he was often critical of the sheriff and enjoyed giving this transplanted New York City policeman a hard time, he had a warm spot in his heart for Mort.
On his part, Mort let Seth’s caustic remarks slide right off his back. “Doc’s nothing compared to the junkies we used to roust from under the West Side Highway,” he once told me. “They called me more four-letter words than were in the dictionary, and even some colorful names I’d never heard before.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Maureen asked.
“Seth should be finishing up soon,” I said. “Why don’t we wait for him inside?”
We took seats in the living room and nibbled from a plate of diced cheese and oyster crackers while waiting for our host.
“Mort’s been so busy this week, I’ve hardly seen him,” Maureen said, smiling at her husband.
“Between the rink and the Russians, they’ve had me running,” Mort said, rolling his eyes. “There’s a news crew that seems to think the only thing my office is for is to smooth the way for them. When one of the coaches wouldn’t let them film at the rink, they came whining to me.”
“What could you do about it, honey?” Maureen asked.
“That’s just it. Nothing. Then Craig Thomas from Blueberry Hill calls. Seems some skating fans showed up at his inn looking for autographs and were roughed up by a couple of guys the size of Mack trucks.”
“Who were they?”
“A couple of Russian bears. At least they looked like bears. It was all over by the time I got there. Then I get a call from Mr. Coddington. Did I find who threw nails on the ice?”
“I thought they were screws, not nails,” I said.
“Screws, nails, whatever. They were standard issue, get them in any home-center kind of store, nothing special about them. In fact, I found a box of them in the Zamboni garage. That kid Hapgood who works at the rink is a real electronics nut. He could stock a hardware shop with what he’s got in there. Likes to tinker with remote controllers.”
“Wasn’t he the one who made the report?” I asked.
“Coddington did, but it was on Hapgood’s say-so. He’s the one discovered the screws in the first place.”
“Maybe he did it himself,” Maureen said.
“No, I doubt that,” Mort replied. “He was so hot about it. But they don’t keep the door to the garage locked. Anyone who worked there could have gone in and swiped a box off the shelf. For that matter, anyone who didn’t work there could’ve done the same.”
“But why would anyone want to sprinkle screws on the ice?” Maureen asked.
“Why do people put razor blades in Halloween candy, or tamper with pills and return the bottle to the store?” Mort said. “There’s no accounting for some people.”
We heard voices as Seth emerged from his medical office and escorted his patient to the door. “You call me if you get dizzy or nauseous or can’t see clearly. No alcohol, no aspirin. Understand? Lots of rest.”
“That’s the hardest part,” his patient said. She had a big bandage over her right eye.
“Lyla! Good heavens,” I said, getting up and going to her. “What happened?”
“She sustained a cut over the eye,” Seth said. “She’ll be fine.”
“One of the Plexi panels in the hockey rink came loose as I was walking past,” Lyla said.
“And it hit you in the head?”
“No, but the puck it was supposed to stop hit me. Dr. Hazlitt thinks I might have a mild concussion, but I feel fine.” She rubbed the back of her neck and smiled.
“See how you feel in the morning,” Seth said. “And call me. Remember, rest. No excuses.”
“But we’ve got the exhibition coming up. I have skaters to rehearse. Mr. Coddington will go crazy.”
“I’ll take care of that old fool,” Seth said. “There are other coaches at the rink. Let him assign your duties to someone else. Rest! Have I said it enough times?”
“Is someone driving you home?” I asked.
“Brian’s waiting in the car.”
“Take care, Lyla,” Seth said. “I’m going to close up back there and rejoin these good people.”
Maureen nudged her husband and cocked her head toward the door.
“What, hon?” Mort said. “Oh!” He took Lyla’s arm. “Let me walk you out, Ms. Fasolino,” he said. “That bandage is big, and you might have trouble seeing. Besides, it’s slippery out there.”
“I can see fine,” Lyla responded.
“Humor him, sweetie,” Maureen said, holding the door. When she saw Mort open the passenger door of Brian’s car, she whispered to me, “I think the rink is jinxed.”
“What do you mean?”
“All the incidents, the prowler, the falls, and the nails and the screws,” she said.
“But that was only once, Maureen. It was probably an accident.”
“Well, it wasn’t an accident last night.”
“What happened?”
“Mort told me someone broke into the rink and turned off the compressor. If the alarm hadn’t sounded, all the ice would’ve melted. You know what a mess that would’ve made?”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“Mort said at first he thought it might have happened by accident, but the person who called it in insisted to the deputy that the door had been jimmied.” She added in a soft voice, “And that hole some creep drilled in the ladies’ locker room wall.”
“You know about that?”
“Mort told me. Maybe he shouldn’t have, but it’s all over town. I’m surprised you haven’t heard it.”
“I have,” I said.
“Whooee! It’s coming down faster than the one train to South Ferry,” Mort said, shutting the door behind him. He toed off his snow-covered shoes and padded into the living room.
“Please don’t say anything,” Maureen whispered to me. “I’m not supposed to talk about his business.” She picked up a piece of cheese and popped it in her mouth. “Mmm,” she said, winking at me. “Have some cheese, honey,” she told her husband.
The phone rang as we sat down again. Seth walked in holding the receiver. “He’s right here, Gladys,” he said to the caller.
“I knew it,” Mort said. “Every time I get a night off, the calls come pouring in.” He took the phone from Seth. “Yeah. Okay, I understand. No. No. I’ll be right there. Is anyone hurt? I’ll check in when I get there. Thanks.” He hung up and shook his head.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Got another complaint from the rink. Two of my guys are tied up with fender benders, the ambulance is on the way to a three-car pileup, and there’s only one officer covering the jail. There’s nobody else to respond to the call.”
“Looks like I cooked for nothing,” Seth said.
“Sorry, Doc, but you know how it goes.”
“Yes, I certainly do.”
“How about if we turn off the burner and we all go to the rink with you?” I suggested. “There’s no point in our sitting around until you get back.”
“Nah. You go ahead and enjoy your meal,” Mort said. “I don’t know how long this will take.”
“You said the ambulance is tied up,” I said. “If we go with you and someone is hurt, Seth can tend to them until the ambulance is free. We can eat later.”
“Will the dinner hold?” Maureen asked.
“Easily,” I said. “Dishes like this are even better the next day.”
“Oh, I have a recipe like that. It’s for meatballs coated in a lemonade mix and cooked in milk. It sounds strange, but it’s really delicious.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Seth said.
“No, really, it was good. Wasn’t it, honey?” Maureen asked Mort.
“It was an interesting combination, hon,” Mort said, his expression pained. “Well, if the rest of you don’t mind going out in the cold, I’d be happy for the company.”
We piled into Mort’s SUV, the perfect vehicle for the weather, and drove to the arena. The trip was slow, thanks to the heavy snowfall. Mort’s radio crackled with reports of accidents—cars skidding through traffic lights near the strip mall outside town, complaints of stalled cars, an unfortunate encounter with a moose, and Mayor Jim Shevlin’s call for residents to stay home and off the roads to let the snowplows do their job. The mayor’s counsel notwithstanding, the parking lot was full when we arrived at the rink. Mort drove around to the main entrance and pulled into an empty handicapped spot, and we got out.
Thick white flakes fell steadily, frosting the trees and blanketing everything in sight. Most of the cars in the parking lot were caked with snow. It was going to take some folks time to dig out before they could get home.
“It’s so peaceful out here,” Maureen said. “Isn’t it nice?” She tilted her head back, opened her mouth, and stuck out her tongue. She giggled. “We used to love to catch the snow on our tongues when I was a kid. You never really got enough for a taste of it, though.”
Seth pulled out his medical bag and surveyed the parking lot. “What the devil are all these people doing here in the middle of a blizzard?”
“It’s Friday night,” Maureen replied.
He shook his head. “A good night to be home.”
“I told you this was a popular place for youngsters,” I said. “There’s probably a hockey game tonight, or a rehearsal for the upcoming show.”
“Let’s see what all the fuss was about,” Mort said, taking Maureen’s arm.
We walked up the stairs to the entrance and trooped inside. The temperature wasn’t much warmer than what we’d left outdoors, but the sound level was decidedly higher. It looked as if half of Cabot Cove had come to the rink, the younger half anyway. Children, from babies in strollers to teens in makeup, some in skates and some in sneakers or boots, occupied the entry hall from one end to the other. Every one of the round tables was occupied. Mothers and fathers wrangled with different groups of youngsters, trying to tie skate laces, zip up jackets, and snap on helmets. Others were carrying trays of hot dogs, French fries, and soda, or grabbing for sleeves as a child raced by. Clusters of teenagers, trying to ignore the younger children, gathered by gender and wandered in and out of the skating areas.