Thursday
The following day was better, and worse. They moved her out of the ICU into a normal hospital room where she could have flowers and visitors and television, but all she wanted was quiet. Hal had come, looking pale, and tried to cheer her up with funny stories from work. Ginny smiled and was glad when he left.
Elaine had come, with news the missing documents had been found and dispatched safely to the museum, and handing over the images she had promised. Caroline had come, bringing chocolates, and very sensibly gone away again. Her mother had come and Alex had called. Ginny accepted all these attentions stoically, but wished with all her heart she could be left alone.
There was a knock on the door.
She blinked as Steve Cheshire, the guy in charge of the skate shop at the rink slipped into the room, followed by the rink manager. William Morgan stepped over to the bed and extended a hand.
“I’m so sorry you were hurt.”
“Thank you.”
He settled into the chair beside the bed. “But you’re going to be all right?”
Ginny smiled slightly. “They’re not committing themselves, but yes, I think so.”
He nodded in satisfaction. “Good,” he said, then fell silent.
Ginny looked at his expression, then over at Steve, wondering why the two of them had come. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. I’m not planning to sue the rink. It was just an accident.”
His frown deepened. “Well, that’s the problem, you see. We’re not sure it was.”
Ginny’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
Steve stepped forward holding a woman’s skate. He placed it on the bed beside her and stepped back. “It looks like someone tampered with your skates.”
She stared at him.
“Steve was helping to take your skates off. He had the right one, this one. When he pulled on it, the blade came off in his hand.”
Ginny just stared.
“That’s not supposed to happen,” Steve said. “I’ve been around rinks for the better part of fifteen years and I’ve never seen it before. Not like that. So I took a look at it.” He stopped to lick his lips.
“And?”
“It was a slick job. Whoever it was took the blade completely off, enlarged the holes just the tiniest little bit, with a drill — there were fresh cuts in the leather — then filled the spaces with something that would crumble under stress. Then he put the screws back in, making sure the blade lined up exactly with the stains on the leather sole, so the tampering wouldn’t be noticed.”
Ginny digested this information. “Would any of this require special tools?”
“No. All you need is a Phillips head screw driver and a drill, and the filling compound, of course.”
“How long would it take?”
“Not more than an hour and probably a lot less.”
Mr. Morgan leaned forward. “We wanted to come tell you first, so you wouldn’t hear it from someone else.” He met her eyes. “I think you should tell the police.”
“I’ve already talked to them. They classified it as an accident.”
Steve shook his head. “This was a deliberate attack on you. I took the material to the lab at the University and asked them to analyze it for me. It’s a polyform steel epoxy, available at any hardware store. Easy to get hold of, but it would take someone with a chemistry background to recognize its potential.”
Ginny felt her throat tighten. Another chemist? Or the same one?
“What do you mean?”
“Well, as a glue, at room temperature and under compression, it works pretty well. So whoever chose it must have known what kind of stress is normally placed on a skate blade: cold air and lateral sheer.”
Ginny wrinkled her forehead. “I don’t understand.”
Steve shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, don’t you see? You could walk on that blade, even skate gently on it and nothing would happen. The bond would be as good as what we normally use and no one would be the wiser. It wouldn’t be until you really started to work — to pick up some real speed — that it would fail. So whoever did this intended a high speed accident.”
Ginny felt sick.
Mr. Morgan reached over and patted her hand. “Tell the police to call me or Steve. We’ll let them know what we found.” They let themselves out, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Steve was wrong. He had to be wrong. Most of the sabotage that occurred in ice skating happened during competition and most of that consisted of things stolen at the last moment. She had heard of a clever competitor who sprayed a rival’s blades with silicone, which destroyed the aerodynamics and made the victim feel as if she were trying to skate through molasses. But tampering with the blade mounting? Who would dare to try?
Ginny had seen blades come loose before, in competition and in practice. Not a pretty sight. Invariably it was boot failure. A well-mounted blade did not move, but the stress of skating on it, hour after hour, day after day, and the natural aging of the leather sole, could loosen the fit, allow the metal plate to slide, or the screw to fall out. One kept a screwdriver in one’s bag for just that emergency. And a wise skater checked her screws regularly.
Ginny frowned. What skater, or skater’s family, didn’t know that?
If someone really had tampered with her skates (and Steve seemed convinced someone had) then the question became why? Was this a warning, or had someone hoped to put her out of commission for a while?
Ginny’s hand instinctively reached for her talisman, but it wasn’t there. Pendants had a way of flying up and hitting one in the face, so she never wore it to the rink.
If this was a warning, then the perpetrator would let her know, somehow.
If, instead of a warning, this was an attempt to kill her, then whoever was responsible would be careful to cover his (or her) tracks.
Ginny pulled her knees up and put her head down on them. It was all impossible. It had to be an accident. No one she knew would deliberately try to hurt her. No one. It must be an accident. Just an accident. She felt the tears well up, then slide down her cheeks.
“Ginny?” Jim set the magazines down on the deserted chair and came over. He plucked several tissues from the dispenser, then sat down on the edge of the bed, facing her, leaning forward to blot her cheeks. She tried to turn her face away, but he wouldn’t let her.
He picked up the flashlight from the bedside table and put her through the neuro exam, then inspected the bandages. “Are you hurting?”
She nodded.
“I’ll get you something for it.”
Jim pushed the call button and spoke to the nurse’s station. He waited in silence while the nurse brought the medication, then shook his head at her question.
“No. I’ll watch her. Thanks.”
The nurse injected the medicine into the IV line. “This should help,” she said. She disposed of the syringe, completed the charting, then slipped out.
Ginny leaned back into the pillows, letting her eyes close. It was a good thing Jim had interrupted her crying. Tears would make her head worse. Better she should sleep. If she could. She swallowed hard, her eyes drifting open, finding his on her.
“It’s okay, Ginny. Sleep. We’ll talk later.”
* * *