Joe, the guard who’d driven me, had remained in the waiting room. He stood when he saw me and said, “Drive you home, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” I said. “I really appreciate this, and—”
“Something wrong?” he asked as I looked past him to one of the doors leading to the ER’s treatment area.
“No, it’s just that—oh, dear!”
“Jessica?” Seth Hazlitt said. “What are
you
doing here?”
“I, ah . . . I slipped at the ice arena and—just a bump on the head, Seth. Nothing serious.”
Seth simply stared at me. He didn’t have to say “I told you so.” It was written all over his face.
“Oh, Seth, this is Joe. He’s a guard at the arena. He was kind enough to drive me here and—”
“It was my pleasure,” Joe said. “Happy to drive her home, too.”
“Very kind of you, sir, but I’ll take her from here,” Seth said. “I’m leaving in a minute. Been here checking on a patient and stopped in the ER to say hello to a colleague.”
Knowing the lecture I was undoubtedly about to receive, I would have preferred that Joe take me, but I knew that Seth wouldn’t hear of it. I thanked the security guard profusely, and he left. I waited while Seth talked with one of the ER staff, then walked with him to where his car was parked in a spot reserved for doctors. He was oddly silent.
“I left my skates at the arena,” I said. “I’d like to go pick them up.”
“You should be home resting,” he said.
“Seth, please,” I said. “I know you’re bursting to tell me how foolish I’ve been trying to skate after all these years, and I’ll admit I probably should have taken some lessons before starting again, but—”
He laughed, and I knew what was behind it. He’d made his point without saying a word. He didn’t argue with me and drove me to the arena.
“I’m going to stay a while,” I told him.
“Not to skate again,” he said.
“No. My skating is done for the day. I’ve already arranged for a taxi to pick me up here. I’m fine, Seth, just fine. The doctor said I was fine. No need to worry.” I climbed out of the car. “Thanks for the lift—and for the good advice.”
Before he could debate it with me, I was headed for the entrance. I looked back once and saw him shaking his head as he drove off.
Joe, who was back on duty, greeted me. “Everything okay?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. My head is fine.”
I didn’t mention that my ego had been terminally damaged.
Chapter Five
“Y
ou should get back on the ice,” Lyla said. “It’s kind of like falling off a horse. If you don’t get back up right away, you’ll be afraid to do it again. You can use one of the skating chairs.”
“I don’t think so, Lyla. I’m sure it’s good advice, but tomorrow’s another day. I think I’ll just spend a half hour or so moseying around. I’ve never really gotten to see all the renovations that have taken place.”
My head still hurt but not nearly as much, and my ankles were sore, too—Mr. Klingbell had been right. I rewarded myself with a hot chocolate at the now open concession stand.
Warming my hands on the paper cup, I took a stroll to see the changes that had been made to the old building. Eve and her potential client were nowhere to be seen, and I tried to envision how he would assess the property as an investment. Catty-corner to the rink I had skated on was the hockey rink, where the Cabot Cove Lobsters would play if Coddington got what he wanted, and where the future skating exhibition would be held. The area was dark now, but I could see steel bleachers reaching almost to the glass windows that overlooked the rink from the floor above.
I circumvented the rink and arrived at a door that was ajar. I pushed it open and found myself inside what was obviously a storeroom. Stacked up on the right were floor panels used to convert the rink into a solid-floor arena when a traveling event, like a rodeo or circus, came to town. A small forklift was backed into a corner, next to trash bins.
Jeremy came through the door behind me.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi,” he said as he strode past, cradling his hand. “You okay?”
“Just fine,” I called as he pushed through another door marked ICE ARENA PERSONNEL ONLY.
I threw my empty cup into a trash can and turned to leave but noticed a few drops of blood on the floor leading to the door. I hesitated a moment, then followed.
“Jeremy?” I called.
“Out in a minute,” he replied.
I was standing between two behemoth Zamboni machines in a cavernous, frigid room. The walls were cinder block and rose to at least thirty feet. Bare lightbulbs were strung across the gap overhead but offered only weak light. The sound of running water bounced off the concrete, making it hard to identify the direction from which it came.
I walked to the rear of the machines and found a large, mostly empty space with tall garage doors on either end. On the right were rough wooden shelves holding an assortment of hardware. To my left, set into the concrete floor, was an open pool of water, partially covered by an ironwork grille. Perforated pipes on the wall spilled a continuous stream of water into the pool, which had a layer of ice floating on top. A shovel stuck out from a pile of snow that had been dumped on the metal grate.
Jeremy knelt next to the pipe and held his hand under the running water. “You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said, his back to me.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just came in to see if you’re all right. Seems to be a day for accidents.” He removed his hand from the water and wrapped it in something white. “Did you injure yourself?”
“It’s not too bad,” he said as he attempted to tug a glove over his hand.
“What’s on your hand?” I asked.
“Paper towels. Can’t do much one-handed.”
“Don’t you have any gauze?”
“Probably some in that old first-aid kit,” he said, cocking his head to indicate the wooden shelves on the far wall, where a rusted white metal case with a large red cross on the side was shoved in next to pieces of electronic equipment—switches, toggles, and push buttons. “I don’t have time to wrap it right now. I have to get back on the ice. There are only two of us on duty.”
“Let me see that,” I said, reaching for his hand, which he extended to me. “Surely the rink can do without you long enough for you to get bandaged properly.”
I pulled down the ancient first-aid kit. Inside I found a roll of gauze, a pair of surgical scissors, and a brown bottle with a liquid inside. “I didn’t know you could find this anymore,” I said, setting the bottle aside.
“What is it?” Jeremy said.
“Tincture of Merthiolate,” I said. “People stopped using it years ago because it has mercury in it. Throw it away and get the rink to buy you some iodine, and a new first-aid kit while you’re at it.”
“Like old man Coddington would spring for the money,” he snorted.
“How did this happen?” I asked, carefully pulling the paper towels away from his wound.
“One of the guys skated into my hand when I was kneeling on the ice helping someone who fell. He couldn’t stop in time.”
I wound the gauze around his hand. “You’ll want to show this to your doctor. You might need a stitch. By the way, what is that behind me?”
“You mean the pit? That’s where we melt the snow that the machines collect when we clean the ice.”
“How deep is it?”
“Six feet.”
“And you leave it uncovered? That’s dangerous. Someone could fall in.”
“I know. But like I told you, you’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Have you ever fallen in?”
“Not yet.” He laughed. “I’ve come close, but I’m pretty sure-footed. It’s colder than a ... Well, I wouldn’t want to find out how cold.”
“That should do it,” I said, carefully tucking in the loose end of the gauze. I held his glove open for him.
He winced as he slid his hand in.
“Does it hurt a lot?” I asked.
“I’ll pop an aspirin later, but Mark will be mad. We have some tricks scheduled for the exhibition we’re supposed to practice. I only have a week to heal, but I probably can still do them if I tape it up good.” He led me back between the Zambonis and out the door.
“What kind of tricks do you do?” I asked.
“Lifts, throws, that kind of thing.”
We walked around the hockey rink toward the main hall.
“You’re Marisa Brown’s pairs partner, aren’t you?” I said, referring to the young woman who also worked at the rink in exchange for skating lessons.
Jeremy stopped. “You heard about us already?”
“I’ve heard people mention it. I didn’t think it was a secret.”
“Hey, it’s not a secret at all. It’s just pretty recent. Mark Rosner is coaching us. This is my big chance, especially if Mr. Devlin likes what he sees. Maybe we could move up to him. Marisa is a terrific skater and we match up well. I hope it works out.”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
He gave a short laugh. “You wouldn’t believe how expensive skating is. I asked Mr. Coddington to give me more hours so I can pay for the extra training. Chris—that’s Christine Allen—she said her father is going to spring for more gym equipment for her and Alexei to use, and she said that Marisa and I can use it, too. That’ll save us a bundle. I hope it’s okay with Coddington.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, it’s his rink, but it would be Mr. Allen’s equipment. I don’t know if Mr. Allen expects the arena to reimburse him, or if he would take it all away with him if he decides Chris and Alexei should practice somewhere else.”
“I’m sure they’ll work something out.”
“I hope so. I’m really excited. Wait till you see us at the exhibition. We’re going to be great. Hey, thanks for this.” He raised his gloved hand. “Gotta get to work now. You’d better leave, too.”
He hurried off, leaving me alone. How nice to see him so excited about skating with Marisa; I hoped his injury wouldn’t spoil their program plans. I was pondering that when a movement in the second-floor window overlooking the rink drew my attention. I looked up in that direction and saw a figure silhouetted against the light. How long had he or she been there? My eyes scanned the rink to see if there was something or someone else that might be of interest. When I looked up again, the figure was gone.
Curiosity drew me upstairs. I ambled down the second-floor hallway. There wasn’t much to see. One side of the corridor was the glass wall overlooking the empty hockey rink. Most of the doors were closed on the opposite side. I stopped at the first open one and glanced inside. It was the gym. Apparently, news of the coming hockey team had inspired more donations, or Mr. Allen’s promise to install more equipment was already bearing fruit. I spotted a weight-lifting machine and a treadmill. I also saw Alexei Olshansky’s reflection in the mirror. Dressed in shorts, a thick gold chain glistening against his naked chest, he was watching himself, turning from side to side, flexing his biceps as he alternated lifting weights. He was speaking in a low voice. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or if there was someone else in the room with him. When he caught me looking at him, he set down the barbells and came toward me.
“Oh, hello,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I was just—”
He raised his eyebrows, gave me a silly smile, and closed the door.
Well, you didn’t expect him to stop and chat, did you?
There wasn’t anyone in the next room to shut the door in my face when I poked my head in. It was bare, only a folding chair in the corner with an old cassette player perched on the seat. One wall was covered in mirrors, and on the floor were rubber mats similar to those downstairs.
Raised voices down the hall caught my ear, and I debated whether to cut short my impromptu tour of the facility. But nosiness trumped my good intentions. I stood where I was and listened. I recognized Coddington’s voice.
“I’m not accustomed to having to wait a day when I say I want to talk to someone, Devlin.”
“And I’m not accustomed to being given arbitrary orders. What was so important you had to create a scene in front of my students?”
“I didn’t bring you here to have you humiliate me in the press.”
“I didn’t say anything about
you
at all. All I said was that services and equipment were late in being installed, but that I fully expected the arena would live up to its obligations. I thought I was being diplomatic.”
“You call that diplomatic?”
I heard a newspaper being slammed down.
“Look, I didn’t call the reporter. She called me. Don’t give out my number if you don’t want me talking to the press.”
“We’re trying to get some good publicity for the rink, Devlin. You’re not helping,” a third voice said.
“Don’t give me that, Beliveau. You just want to boost your hockey program. I’ve already got ESPN interested in my top pair. We’ll get more of that when we have a first-rate service to offer top skaters, like what was promised me. My reputation brings in the press. Big-time coverage, not some amateur story in your local rag.”
“What do you have to complain about? I advanced you the money you wanted. You have everything you need here,” Coddington said.
“This place is a far cry from the rosy picture you painted, Coddington.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Look around. It’s a dump!”
“A dump! How dare you—?”
“Our contract called for a dance studio. Where’s my spring floor? Where’s my ballet bar, my Bose sound system? You call a couple of mirrors, some rubber mats, and a boom box a dance studio?”
“Has that baby Olshansky been complaining?”
“What’s the matter, Beliveau? Has he been hitting on your girlfriends again?”
“Cut it out, you two,” Coddington rasped. “I laid down a fortune to move you here, Devlin. When I see a return on my investment, we can upgrade the dance studio.”
“You haven’t had any ‘return on your investment,’ as you so nicely put it, with your hockey team, yet you managed to set up a shiny new locker room for Beliveau’s players. I can’t attract top-flight skaters with a second-rate facility. You live up to your promises or I’ll—”