Figure Skating Mystery Series: 5 Books in 1 Read online

  The Figure Skating Mystery Series - Omnibus Edition

  OTHER ALINA ADAMS TITLES

  Murder on Ice

  On Thin Ice

  Axel of Evil

  Death Drop

  Skate Crime

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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  Murder On Ice

  OTHER ALINA ADAMS TITLES

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Murder On Ice

  PRINTING HISTORY Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / 2003

  Copyright © 2012 by Alina Adams Media.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.

  * * *

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In 2001, based on a coffee-table book I’d written earlier, Inside Figure Skating, I was contacted by an editor asking if I’d be interested in writing an unauthorized biography of Sarah Hughes.

  At the time, we were both expecting Sarah to do quite well at the 2002 Olympic Games in Salt Lake City. (Little did we know how well she would actually do!)

  After I turned in my manuscript, the editor asked me to write her an outline for a figure skating murder mystery. I did, but was told that Americans like to read about Americans, so could I try another story (this outline eventually became the third book in the series, Axel of Evil.)

  I did, and this one was accepted. But, before I could start writing, two things happened in Salt Lake City: Sarah Hughes won the gold in Ladies’ Figure Skating, and the Pairs event was embroiled in a judging scandal.

  That night, I e-mailed the editor to propose we do a book on that. She agreed (the other proposal became our second book, On Thin Ice) and Murder on Ice got its plot.

  Murder on Ice was released in November of 2003 as an original paperback. Now it is being re-released in 2011 as an e-book.

  We hope you enjoy this edition of Murder on Ice, and will check out all the subsequent books in the series.

  To be the first to hear about other e-books (including romance, children’s literature, non-fiction and more), join our mailing list at [email protected].

  All the best –

  Alina Adams

  Fall 2011

  Murder On Ice

  PROLOGUE

  2003

  Prior to starting her first season as a figure-skating researcher for the 24/7 network, Rebecca "Bex" Levy received an iceberg-high load of advice.

  Some of it was concise.

  "Don't screw up," Gil Cahill, 24/7 Sports' Executive Producer told her.

  Some of it was obscure.

  "A cheated triple Axel is not a quadruple toe loop," coach Gary Gold lectured.

  Some of it was obvious.

  "I need all my research prior to the start of the event," commentator Francis Howarth intoned meaningfully, while his wife Diana stood nearby, rolling her eyes and needling, "I think she knows that, dear. I hardly think Bex was planning to give you your information after the closing credits rolled."

  But only one piece of advice turned out to be actually useful.

  "Remember," 24/7's veteran skating director told Bex before their first production meeting for their first event, "The skating season is not a sprint. It's a marathon. Ration your energy accordingly."

  He wasn't kidding. The skating season, which had once encompassed the European and U.S. championships in January, followed by the world championships in February, and once every four years an Olympics followed by ten months of getting ready for next year, now stretched from early September to late March, with senior and junior eligible competitions, ineligible competitions, pro-ams, exhibitions, Grand Prix events, a Grand Prix final, nationals, Europeans, world championships, and once every four years an Olympics followed by a five-month, thirty-city tour of champions. And then three whole weeks to relax, regroup, and get ready for next year.

  The killer schedule—if it's Tuesday, it must be Biellmann spins—took its toll on everyone connected to the sport. Not only the athletes, who dutifully packed up their sequined costumes practically every weekend for yet another jaunt to Europe, to Asia, to Canada, to New York and California and back again, but also on the coaches, parents, team leaders, doctors, judges, choreographers, skate sharpeners, nutritionists, agents, publicists, makeup artists, seamstresses, hair stylists, print journalists, Internet journalists, and assorted other hangers-on. And then there was the television media: commentators, directors, producers, cameramen, technical directors, tape operators, sound mixers, editors, production managers, production coordinators, production assistants, and researchers—let's not forget the researchers!—all of whom arrived days before the competition commenced to set up their crews and command centers and stayed days after the event ended to edit and transmit and clean.

  Naturally, as a result of jetting off every few days to yet another time-and-strain-of-flu zone, by the time the world championships rolled around, everyone, from skater to entourage to media hack, was exhausted. And even though the world championships were currently being held in the U.S.—San Francisco, California, in point of fact; home of the Golden Gate Bridge and record-breaking earthquakes, but not, Bex made a point of highlighting in her research notes, Rice-A-Roni—which at least meant less travel time for the American delegation, everyone was still dead tired from seven months of globe-trotting and eating strange, greasy foods and sleeping in strange, greasy beds and bathing in strange showers with drains that somehow seemed to be perennially clogged. Everyone, as a result, was operating on a very, very short fuse.

  That was why, in only ten days of competition, they'd already seen eleven hysterical meltdowns, eight formal complaints about biased judging, seven countercomplaints about biased refereeing, five screaming matches, four out-and-out fistfights, two reporters getting their credentials pulled, and one arrest (disturbing the peace; Belgium's ice dancer decided to celebrate his bronze medal win by doing a naked Yankee polka on the roof).

  And this was all even before the Italian judge turned up dead.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Prior to the Italian judge, Silvana Potenza, turning up dead, Bex already had a homicidal situation on her hands. When she first signed on as 24/7's skating researcher, she hadn't realized that the job description included not only collecting, transcribing, photocopying, and presenting every piece of information and/or minutia that might become even vaguely relevant during the course of a skating broadcast— information that ranged from how many quad jumps the men's champion planned to attempt to the year any given arena was built and every sporting event, plus results, held within it since construction concluded—but also the vital responsibility of keeping 24/7 commentators Francis and Diana Howarth from killing each other. On the air. And off.

  Alas, Bex was way, way, way out of her league. At the age of twenty-four, she was younger than most of Francis and Diana's ongoing arguments. Although, to be fair, just like with the origin of God, the universe, and mankind, no
one was exactly, precisely sure when the infinite vitriol initially began. According to Bex's research, Francis and Diana Howarth had started off their public lives as perfectly matched skating partners. No one before or after them had ever mastered pairs skating to such an extent that, in the words of one charmed reporter, "they even breathe in sync off the ice." However, something about singing "The Star-Spangled Banner" as the second consecutive set of pair Olympic gold medals were hung around their necks must have driven them over the edge. Because, to hear it told, it was the last time they ever verbally agreed on anything—or even faced the same direction.

  This schism, however, did not prevent the marvelously photogenic pair—both of them blond, fit, energetic, and so all-American that when they smiled, their teeth audibly sparkled—from getting lavishly and ostentatiously married, complete with four thousand of their closest and dearest friends in attendance and an ice sculpture perched upon every reception table, each individually hand-carved to mimic a different, world-famous Howarth skating pose. The spectacle earned them the cover of Time magazine and a six-page color photo spread inside. The same week their issue (number seven on the all-time best-seller list) hit the stands, Francis and Diana performed the first show on their ninety-six-city tour of the optimistically titled, "Romantic Harmony on Ice." For eight years, they crisscrossed the country with "Harmony." Their gushing PR agent insisted that, in that time, America's sweethearts got showered with enough flowers to approximate the weight of nine city buses.

  When their performing days ended, Francis and Diana continued to produce the show with an ever-changing roster of talent and in their free time spawned three now-grown children, Francis Jr., Diana Jr., and Frances Dyana (Bex shuddered to imagine the arguments that must have raged to determine first and second billing on that last moniker). Their show was the most successful tour in the world, and the children, as far as Bex could tell, had turned out well enough. So, in the end, the only thing their seeming dissent about every issue known to mankind really prevented them from doing was occupying a room, any room, without launching into a diatribe.

  Of course in any random room, there were at least other people to talk to and/or run interference. In a broadcasting booth, it was just Francis and Diana. And Bex Levy.

  The night of the ladies' long program at the world championship, Bex entered the booth knowing she was doomed to spend the next four hours sitting between the Liz and Dick, Siskel and Ebert, Sam and Diane, fill in your own cliche, of the skating world. She brought her research manual for protection. The manual, a three-ring, green binder filled with every skater's biography and the elements of both their short and long programs, plus details on their music, costumes, choreography, and coaching, was half a foot thick. Bex figured, considering how meticulously she'd slaved over putting it together, she'd be able to mediate any and all Howarth tiffs with a quick riffle of the pages and a well-documented citation. Or, if worse came to worst, she could smack them with it.

  The 24/7 research broadcast booth was built, as all 24/7 structures were mandated to be, as quickly and cheaply as possible. As a result, sitting rink side, there was only room for the ultranecessities: a table, lots of wires and cables, one camera, and three chairs, one for Francis, one for Diana, and one for Bex. At the start of the season, Bex had sat to the side, leaving Francis and Diana next to each other. Big mistake. They'd spent one entire event in December (granted it was the junior worlds, which meant there wasn't much to say beyond, "He/She/They need a little more seasoning and experience under their belts before they can confidently land all those jumps") practically arm wrestling for space to lay out their open binders. Now, Bex sat between the Skating Bickersons. It kept them from arm wrestling. But that put Bex, whether she wanted to be or not, smack in the middle of all their... discussions.

  As they prepared for the ladies' broadcast, the ice was still being diligently Zambonied in preparation of the first skater, and Bex was still fiddling with her headset, making sure she could hear both Francis and Diana in the booth, and Gil Cahill and his director in the parking lot production truck from which they actually broadcast the live show, when Francis and Diana proceeded to live up to their reputations. And lucky, lucky Bex got to be the one to hear it all.

  "We're showing the medal contenders and then the third American girl?" Francis stared at his show rundown, a listing of every skater, commercial, and announcer stand-up scheduled to go on air, as if it were the first—rather than the umpteenth—one he'd ever seen.

  "That's what it says, doesn't it? Erin Simpson, Jordan Ares, Lian Reilley, and the Russian girl, Xenia Trubin." Diana lingered over the last name, pronouncing it perfectly—Zeh-knee-ah True-bin—and cattishly grinning to drive home the point that, all season, Francis had inevitably stumbled and pronounced it Eks-ee-knee-ay.

  "Why show the Reilley girl?" Francis ignored his wife and zeroed in on the point he'd actually wanted to make all along. "She's in seventh place, no chance for a medal. And she skates like she's having a convulsion."

  "She's got a triple-triple," Bex pointed out, initially thinking he was asking a legitimate question before realizing that he was actually setting a trap with which to beat Diana over the head and her presence and/or answer was unnecessary. That resolved, Bex went back to twisting the headphone knobs and wearily listening to Gil scream in her ear, "Can everybody hear me? Speak up if you can't hear me!"

  Francis challenged the world at large, and Diana in particular, by idly remarking, "A philosophical query, my dear: If a skater only lands her triple-triple in a forest with no little woodland creatures or judges around to see it, when she falls on it every single, single time in competition, does the splat make a noise?"

  "Oh, shut up, Frannie." Diana took her seat in the booth and channeled her distaste with Francis's world-famous convoluted metaphors into glaring at her headset, trying to figure out how she could slide the clunky, offending black plastic band and dangling microphone onto her head without disturbing the meticulous French braid she'd spent all afternoon bullying out of the hotel's hairdresser. "Lian Reilley is the designated up-and-comer, she's the U.S. bronze medalist. Besides, we always show the Americans, no matter what place they're in after the short. People want to see Americans."

  "You know, of course," Francis said as Lian’s pre-taped performance played and he crossed both arms behind his head, terrifying Bex into thinking that he was settling in for a long, leisurely argument instead of getting ready for the show, "She doesn't even deserve seventh place. The child was severely overmarked. I fear the judges were so dizzied by those teeny-tiny revolutions of hers, they couldn't focus their Barney Google with the goo-goo-googly eyes enough to notice those choppy little strokes of hers or the fact that her footwork pattern was barely an earthworm, much less a serpentine."

  "Serpentine isn't a noun, Francis." Diana clucked her tongue at him in a gesture of either marital affection or extreme hate. Bex had spent a whole season with the couple. She had yet to figure it out.

  "Lian Reilly—and listen closely to this, Ms. Bex, you might want to write it down—Lian Reilley is precisely what's wrong with women's skating today. She does these tiny jumps that barely leave the ground and then lands in the same place they started from. She can't spin, and she most certainly can't coordinate a movement with a beat of music."

  "She's young.” Diana didn't look at him, but she obviously couldn't resist the rejoinder. "Give her some time. She'll improve her presentation."

  "She's the same age as Jordan Ares," Francis invoked the U.S. silver medalist, "And that girl has music oozing out of her fingertips. Watch Jordan on a practice. Watch her, watch her, I dare you. Any music that's playing, that's the beat she skates to. She doesn't even think about it, she just does it. That's an artist, a true figure skater. And that Russian vision—what's her name again, now?"

  "Xenia Trubin." This time it was Bex's turn to break down and answer Francis, even though she'd sworn and promised herself she wouldn't encourage him.

&nb
sp; "She's the same way. Even when she was little Ms. Reilley's age, goodness, could that girl skate. Couldn't jump to save her life, of course. Back in the old days, Bex, we used to take bets on whether she could actually fall more times than she had jumps planned in her program. But, her skating? Her skating was divine. She can cross the rink in five strokes and not break a sweat. She's a classic skater. A skater's skater. The fact that that wonder hasn't won a world championship in eleven years is a travesty. She's the only one out there who can actually skate!"

  "Do you think the fact that Xenia Trubin hasn't skated a clean program since Yeltsin was president might have something to do with that losing streak of hers?" Diana opened her research manual with an exasperated thunk and thumbed through the pages. "Now, I grant you, she's excellent at waving her arms around to portray Russia's grief over Stalin's five-year plan or some other such high-concept nonsense, but then she friggin’ falls down! Now, if she had half of Erin Simpson's consistency—"

  "She'd be as dull as our little home-fried jumping bean. Erin Simpson can jump. Jump, jump, jump, jump." Francis tucked his elbows into his sides and fluttered his fingers not unlike Tweety Bird. It was a most disturbing image, and Bex whole-heartedly wished he'd cut it out. Putting on a falsetto voice, Francis added, "And she's so gosh-darn adorable I just want to squash her like a bug." He dropped his arms and, thankfully, the voice, to add, "Adorable is one thing, but the girl is not world champion material. If she wins here, we might as well all slit our wrists and go home. Call it the Jump-O-Matic World Championships, that's what it's become. It's an insult to everyone who ever actually took the time to learn to skate!"