Heaven help me. Exactly one week ago I stepped into this mess, and now I’m trapped. A Musak rendition of the “Lullaby of Broadway” assaults my ears, just as it did last Sunday when Loreen Derwent first marched her peewee figure skaters onto the ice. I’ve volunteered at enough ice shows to know that dress rehearsals never run smoothly. Still, no one anticipates disaster from the get-go; at least I didn’t until last Sunday.

 

     That afternoon, my group of cowboys followed Loreen’s peewee penguins onto the ice, until Loreen suddenly stopped and said, “What on earth is that?”

 

     She pointed to the center of the rink where a large, dark red puddle glistened under the lights. A trail of drops led to the hockey players’ benches on our left. Loreen glided over to me, her expression worried.

 

     “It almost looks like blood,” she murmured.

 

My stomach churned. When I asked her who’d want to dump blood on our ice, my eavesdropping son shouted, “Blood? Cool!”

 

     Two peewees screamed and skated for the safety of their moms who’d been asked to wait in the lobby. Loreen wouldn’t let non-volunteers watch the rehearsal because they might not buy tickets for the show. The night before, she’d even taped large sheets of black construction paper to glass panels on either side of the rink’s entrance.

 

     Loreen turned to the volunteer dads who were adjusting spotlights. “Did you guys see what happened?”

 

They hadn’t. Like Loreen and the rest of us, the volunteers had arrived at one-thirty p.m. Since she’d been running late, Loreen had stayed in the lobby to organize each group of skaters, leaving the crew to arrange the spotlights and music. The dads said the spill was there when they arrived. They also said that the hockey coach, Reese Littleford, showed up through the back entrance and assured them he’d take care of the spill.

 

While a couple of cowboys skated through the semi-frozen puddle, more skaters, accompanied by a photographer from our local newspaper, joined us. Loreen had arranged for publicity shots. The photographer, however, was more interested in the splatter than our kids.

 

     “You boys get away from that spill!” Reese stepped onto the ice from the players’ bench. He smiled after he said it, though, like he enjoyed the chaos.

 

     “Reese!” Loreen charged toward him. “What do you know about this?”

 

     “Nothing. It was there when I got here, so I called the cops.”

 

     “Your jocks don’t practice till tonight. I think you’re here to ruin my show!”

 

     Loreen had a point about Reese wanting to ruin things. Through bad luck and a lack of communication between the two coaches, Loreen had scheduled her ice show for the same day Reese planned to launch his hockey tournament. When Loreen told the Sports and Recreation Committee that tickets for her show had already been sold, Reese was forced to reschedule his tournament.

 

Loreen had lied to the Committee, though. Tickets hadn’t been sold at that time, but Loreen wouldn’t let Reese win. Those two were enemies, constantly competing for funding and media coverage. This year, they’d lodged so many complaints against each other for hogging ice time that the Committee became fed up. They’d warned both coaches that one more attempt to sabotage, or even discredit, the other would banish the offender’s club from our town’s only arena. Everyone knew about Reese’s vow to get even with Loreen over his postponed tournament, and we figured he would too. The question had been how?

      

     While the photographer snapped photos of startled faces gaping at the spill, volunteers tried to keep curious older kids from stepping onto the ice. Loreen, meanwhile, headed for the Zamboni driver, Dunstan Biehn.

 

Dunstan had been scowling from his post at the far end of the rink. Dunstan always scowled, except when he brought in the Zamboni just before classes ended and blared the horn to rattle everybody. He was capable of spilling a pail of blood to scare us. Judging from his swift retreat as Loreen moved toward him, Dunstan wanted to avoid her.

 

     “Excuse me, are you Loreen Derwent?”

 

     Shivering, I turned to find gorgeous green eyes and a police uniform on a guy who looked fifteen years old. He was new to our town, and identified himself as Officer Prensky.

 

     “I’m Joanne McCleary, Loreen’s assistant.”

 

“Loreen’s over there,” Reese said from behind me. “The one with red braids and a big orange sweater. Looks like a giant pumpkin with legs.” He shook his head. “What a screw-up.”

 

     “She is not. She just takes her work seriously.” I turned to Prensky. “Do you think that’s blood on the ice?”

 

     “We’ll know soon enough, Mrs. McCleary,” Prensky replied.

 

Since our entire police force appeared to be invading the arena, they not only thought so, but expected to find a body under the bleachers. The thought of a dead person in the building made me cringe.

 

     While my son played with the other cowboys, I headed for the concession stand, in need of a soothing cup of tea. Dunstan stood in front of me. He paid for his food by peeling a twenty dollar bill off a thick roll of cash. Lots of folks knew about Dunstan’s bingo addiction, but I didn’t think he’d be dumb enough to carry around his winnings. Unless the money hadn’t come from last night’s game.

 

As I picked up my tea, Officer Prensky approached Dunstan. I should have minded my own business, but the lobby was too crowded to move out of earshot.

 

“I finished resurfacing the ice at ten past one,” Dunstan grumbled. “Went back to my truck for a snooze and didn’t know anything was wrong till cop cars screeched into the lot. Got no idea who poured that crap on the rink between then and one-thirty.”

 

     Prensky thanked Dunstan for his help, then spotted me. “Mrs. McCleary, may I talk to you a minute?”

 

     I should have kept my big mouth shut, but I’ve never been any good at it. When Prensky asked me about Loreen, I gave him her life history, or at least what I knew of her short competitive career. From there, she’d spent three years with the Ice Capades, where she’d played various barnyard animals and a raisin. Her current mission was to build her figure skating club into a huge success.

 

     Some parents found Loreen’s exuberance a tad fanatical, but I managed not to tell Prensky this. I didn’t want him thinking badly of her. I liked Loreen. Her passion for her work and her commitment to our kids moved me, but I also felt sorry for her. Loreen’s club wasn’t the success she’d dreamed. Take this show she insisted on producing every year. Something always went wrong.

 

Two years ago, a power failure ended the show before intermission. Last year, she hardly sold enough tickets to meet expenses. This year’s disputes with Reese had cost Loreen time and anxiety. Volunteer help had also dwindled which is why, God help me, I agreed to be Loreen’s assistant again, and I don’t even like being on the ice. I never feel warm, no matter how much clothing I wear.

 

“Mrs. McCleary,” Prensky said, fixing his gaze on me, “would anyone want to sabotage Miss Derwent’s rehearsal, aside from Mr. Littleford?”

 

     I swear that young man’s emerald green eyes worked better than any lie detector could, which is why I told him about Dunstan’s money roll, bingo addiction, and mean streak.

 

     “If money was Mr. Biehn’s motive,” the officer asked, “who would have paid him?”

 

     For all I knew the parents had taken up a collection, since another ice show was about as welcome as a tax hike. What with costumes, tickets, photo packages, and show videos to buy, big bucks were spent on each kid’s two minute performance. It would have been cheaper to pay Dunstan to ruin the ice before tickets and mementos had to be purchased. Although, one would have thought he’d come up with something more permanent than a big gory puddle.

 

As the cops began sending skaters home, another officer approached us. The guy looked at me, then beckoned Prensky to join him. They didn’t move far enough to keep me from hearing, or seeing the cop remove the red-stained sole of a running shoe from a paper bag.

 

     “It came from the players’ dressing room. Both Mr. Littleford and Miss Derwent have master keys to the building.” The cop lifted an empty paint can from a second bag. “This and another one like it were found in the Dumpster near the back entrance. Garbage collection’s tomorrow.”

 

     Beneath the moist red streaks on the can, the dried, lemon yellow paint was depressingly familiar. When I dropped off costume sketches at Loreen’s condo three months ago, she’d just finished painting her bedroom that color; had insisted on showing me the room.

 

     As Loreen entered the lobby, she spotted the paint can. When she saw me trying not to look horrified, I figured she remembered that I’d seen her bedroom. Considering the warning look Loreen gave me, I knew she wasn’t about to admit that she’d framed Reese for trying to sabotage her rehearsal.

 

Now that people were leaving, the lobby seemed unbearably quiet. Feeling everyone’s eyes watching me, I looked at the floor dotted with silver sequins and bits of pink feather.

 

     “Mrs. McCleary?” Prensky asked.

 

     “Joanne,” Loreen warned.

 

     The pressure became too much. “I know where the paint can came from.”

 

     Loreen groaned. I assumed my son would be barred from her club for my betrayal. Still, I had to tell the truth. By the time I finished blabbing, Loreen had slumped onto the nearest bench.

 

     “I’m sorry, Loreen.”

 

     “Fine. You’re fired.”

 

     I didn’t have the heart to tell her this was a huge relief.

 

     “Miss Derwent,” Prensky said, “what, exactly, did you pour on the ice?”

 

     “Pig’s blood. My father manages a slaughterhouse.”

 

     “You didn’t have much time to pull it off.” Prensky’s colleague smirked.

 

“I arrived early, put everything in place, then hid in the music room,” she answered. “Once Dunstan finished with the Zamboni, I dumped the blood, then placed Reese’s shoe in it. After I put his shoe in the dressing room and tossed the cans, I ran to the front of the building and pretended to arrive with everyone else.” Loreen looked at Prensky. “I suppose you want to know why.”

 

     “Oh yeah.” His partner tried not to laugh.

 

“If Reese was blamed for disrupting my rehearsal, his club would be kicked out of the building for good. Since this town loves gossip, the publicity would have boosted ticket sales.” Loreen’s lips quivered. “I’d planned to call you guys myself, but Reese beat me to it. I didn’t think you’d learn the truth this fast.” She glared at me through tear-filled eyes. “This was supposed to be my best show ever!”

 

     Wouldn’t you know, Loreen got her wish. When the story appeared in the newspaper, ticket sales soared, forcing the Sports and Recreation Committee to let Loreen’s show go on, “for the sake of the children”, they stated publicly. Privately, they told Loreen this would be her last season at the arena.

 

Officer Prensky assured me that Loreen would probably only receive a fine, since defacing public property to destroy a coach’s reputation didn’t warrant hard time in the slammer.

 

Loreen took that bit of news well. Losing the arena, though, caused her a nervous breakdown, which was why the skaters’ parents begged me to take her place.

 

So here I am in charge, while the “Lullaby of Broadway” launches the longest for hours of my life. Shivering behind the show curtain, my butt’s already begun to freeze. You know,

crime not only doesn’t pay, sometimes it really sucks.

 

END