Skating on Thin Ice by Jessica Fletcher; Donald Bain

Author:Jessica Fletcher; Donald Bain
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9780451236289
Publisher: Signet
Published: 2012-03-06T05:00:00+00:00

“Coffee, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked once we were settled back at police headquarters. “Gladys ordered some Sumatra this time. It’s strong, but I like it.”

“No, thanks, Mort, but you go ahead.”

Mort left me with the letters while he went to get himself a mug of coffee. He returned with a plate of cookies as well. “Maureen baked these to bring to the doc’s, but she burned them,” he said, setting the plate on his desk. “She scraped off the black parts. They’re not bad. I told her they taste like barbecued cookies.”

“Thanks, Mort, but I think I’ll pass.”

We slipped on latex gloves to prevent our fingerprints from contaminating the papers, and spent the next thirty minutes reading Alexei’s fan mail. There were a few letters from children starting skating, but more from older admirers, almost all female, and several bearing Cabot Cove return addresses.

“This one has a Cabot Cove postmark,” I said, slitting an unopened envelope with a dull knife Mort used as a letter opener, “but no return address. It also isn’t signed, but I think I know the reason.”

“Why are you frowning?” Mort asked.

“Evidently not all his mail is from admirers,” I said, scanning the message, which was scrawled in black crayon on the back of a slip of paper torn off a pad of business forms. At the bottom of the form, it said: “Thank you for your business.” The note on the reverse was not as warm. I read it aloud: “ ‘I’ve told you before. Keep your Commie hands off Christine Allen. She’s too good for you. Manhandle her again and you’ll live to regret it.’ ”

I looked up at Mort. “ ‘You’ll live to regret it,’” I repeated. “Sounds like a threat to me.”

“From Cabot Cove?”

“Yes.”

“Better keep that one as evidence.” He held open the plastic bag, and I dropped the message and envelope inside.

The phone rang, and Mort leaned over to see who was calling. “It’s the doc,” he said, pushing a button to turn on the speakerphone. “Hey, Doc. Mrs. F. and I were just talking about you. How was that stew?” He winked at me.

“Best I’ve ever made, if I say so myself.”

“Nicely aged, huh?”

“If you ask politely, I’ll let you have some leftovers. It’s supposed to be better on the second day.”

“Sure you’re not conducting a laboratory experiment in your refrigerator? Seems I heard that old stew is the perfect medium for bacteria.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I? And considering some of the meals I’ve been served in your house, that says a lot.”

“That’s enough, gentlemen,” I said. “Was there a reason for your call, Seth?”

“Yeah, Doc. Got anything new?”

“Mebbe,” Seth said. “Thought you’d want to know that Olshansky’s death was definitely a drowning.”

“That’s kind of the way I had it figured,” Mort said, wincing.

“Does that mean the circumstances surrounding his death are still inconclusive, Seth?” I asked.

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“His fingers and hands. I paid particular attention after you mentioned them, Jessica. There were cuts on the bottom of his fingers, consistent with him pushing up on the grating.

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