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MURDER ON ICEby Alina AdamsCHAPTER ONE - Part 1 |
MURDER ON ICE
by Alina Adams
CHAPTER ONE - Part 1
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, photo-copying and presenting every piece of information and/or minutia that might become even vaguely relevant during the course of a skating broadcast - information that spanned 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-three, she was younger than most of Francis and Diana’s on-going 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 mirror 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 set of Pairs Olympic 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 (not unlike Prince Charming in the Disney films) -- from getting lavishly and ostentatiously married, complete with 4000 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 criss-crossed 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 busses.
When their performing days ended (and, Bex presumed, they dug their way out from under that crush flowers), 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 cliché, 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 worse, 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 ultra-necessities: 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 show 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 now, Bex, whether she wanted to be or not, was 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 head-set, 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 7th 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’ world-famous convoluted metaphors into glaring at her head-set, 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 hair-dresser over. “Lian Reilley is the designated up and comer, she’s the U.S. Bronze Medallist. 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 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 places. 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 Medallist, “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.
“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 suck 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-friend 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 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!”
“The judges disagree with you, and no one seems to be slicing their wrists over it. Erin Simpson has beaten Xenia Trubin four times this year -- fair and square, I might add -- and I doubt that’s going to change at this event.”
“Erin didn’t out-skate her. Not once.”
“No. But, she out-jumped her.”
“You mean she out-stood-up her. Xenia may fall on her jumps, but at least they leave the ground and complete a full rotation. Erin is as bad as Reilley. Who cares if she lands on her foot, when the jump barely left the ground in the first place? It’s not figure skating, it’s hopscotch!”
“Landing it is all that matters. You’re out of touch, Francis. Face it, deal with it, and shut up about it.”
“You know, my dear, no one’s hair actually grows out of their head that color,” was Francis’ idea of a witty retort to his spouse as he indicated her newly dyed, blonde chiffon and wrapped his head-set around both ears, thus effectively ending the conversation.
Or so he thought.
Even as Gil was counting down, “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” to their live broadcast, Diana reached behind Bex’s shoulder, pulled one ear-flap off of Francis’ head, and hissed, ”You just wish you still had something left to dye,” before letting it snap back against his cheek.
A split second later, over the television airwaves, viewers were being treated to the cultured, dulcet tones of Diana Howarth, America’s Sweetheart, sweetly welcoming them to tonight’s broadcast of the Ladies’ Long Program at the World Figure Skating Championships, even as her husband winced and rubbed his newly bruised cheek.
“It’s wonderful to be here,” her tone was all big smiles and perfect, white teeth.
“Indeed,” Francis beamed back, scowl notwithstanding. “We’re in for a night of incredible skating. All four of the ladies we’re going to show you tonight are incredible artists and technicians, and any one of them could skate away with the gold…”
Bex took a deep breath. Let the games begin….