CHAPTER SEVEN
I was struck speechless. After everything else that had happened, the sudden appearance of Paulie Dante was especially jarring. Was he really some kind of police officer? He had given no hint of this at the baking contest. And yet, there he was, with a West Hartford badge pinned neatly to his navy-blue jacket, and a look of determination in his eye. The unmistakable tone of his voice told me that I truly did have some explaining to do, though about what I couldn’t be certain.
“What…what you doing here?” I managed to stammer, still shaken by both the horrific experience at the refrigerator, and the unexpected presence of the rude would-be chef here in my home. I still had milk on my hands, and hastily attempted to wipe it off on my shirt.
Dante grinned, though his eyes weren’t smiling. “Like you didn’t know, Natasha,” he sarcastically replied. “You remember Natasha, don’t you?” he asked. “She was Boris Badenov’s partner in crime. Question is: Did you have a partner in this crime?” Dante demanded.
My anger got the better of me. “How dare you accusing me of being criminal?!” I challenged him. Dante seemed momentarily taken aback by my aggressive defense. “I am not being girlfriend of this Boris you speak of, and my name is not Natasha. I am Sonia Godunov,” I angrily informed him.
Paulie Dante put up his hands, as if to defend himself. “Ok, ok. Have it your own way, Poker Face,” he said, once again grinning. “I’m just here to ask a few questions, and maybe get some answers,” he said. Dante shrugged his shoulders; he then began to circle around the kitchen, letting no small detail escape his eye. He examined the small, butcher-block table, rubbing his hand over its smooth surface. He gazed at the Cobalt-blue cabinet, opening it slowly and paying close attention to the way it creaked as he pulled its door towards himself. Dante then let his eyes wander around the room, simultaneously pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He retrieved a small, silver-colored lighter from his jacket and turned it on with a flick of his fat thumb.
“Mind if I smoke?” he inquired. The tone of his voice suggested that he wasn’t asking for permission. Despite my sense of intimidation, I didn’t really feel like obliging his rudeness.
“Yes, I am minding,” I replied. “This is private residence, not cheap bar,” I informed him.
Paulie Dante’s eyes betrayed amusement. “You got some kinda’ smart mouth, girlie,” he said with a half-grin. “You’re a wise-ass, like your grandma from the contest. Yeah, this ain’t a cheap bar, that’s for sure. And you ain’t no cocktail waitress neither, not with that uppity manner of yours,” Dante remarked. Then he paused a moment, as if reflecting on something. “Still…I’m lookin’ at several pieces of a puzzle I can’t figure out. And I like putting the puzzles together even more than I like to cook,” he told me.
Dante extinguished the flame in his lighter that he had somehow managed to keep alive during our conversation. He took the lighter and slowly slid it back into his pocket. The unlit cigarette he placed inside of his jacket. The unpleasant man briefly scrutinized the kitchen; he then turned his beady little eyes on me once more.
“You in the habit of spending time in here, Sony?” he inquired.
“Name is being Sonia, and da, I am spending much time in kitchen,” I replied bluntly. “Cooks are being known to do this,” I added tartly.
Dante ignored my barbed remark. “How long you known Nicholas Pavlovich?” he interrogated me.
I paused a moment to consider his question. It seemed like I had been living at 69 Keeney Avenue my entire life---the time had just passed by so quickly. I struggled to remember exactly when that taxi cab had brought me to this house that had changed my life so much. The Sonia Godunov who had lived in a small village in Russia was now an elusive stranger to me. That past life was now a dream I could barely recall.
“I think…I think it is being one month since I am moving here,” I answered. If the short policeman didn’t make me so nervous, I could probably have said this with more confidence and assurance. Without meaning to, I reverted to pulling on my earlobe. Dante’s quick eye instantly witnessed the motion. I swiftly pulled my hand away from my face, which went red with embarrassment. Dante smirked, barely able to suppress a chuckle. He moved a little closer to me, and I involuntarily pulled back a few inches away from him. This time he really did snicker a bit.
“That’s some kinda’ quirk you got there, honey. You pull on that ear every time you lie?” he asked slyly.
I quickly attempted to protest, but Paulie Dante cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Nah, don’t bother, Sony,” he commanded me. “I know you been here in this country now five weeks. I know you go to that Russian church on Scarborough Street in Hartford once a week,” he said, pausing a moment to watch my reaction. “I even know how you won that baking contest the other day,” he smiled knowingly.
Hot tears came to my eyes. “Da…you are regular KGB,” I accused him. “You are spying on me like that. But I do nothing wrong!” I defended myself.
Dante crossed his arms, arching his eyebrows as he tilted his head sideways. “Ok, Poker Face, have it your own way,” he said resignedly, suddenly lowering his voice and speaking in a much softer tone. “Still, there’s one thing kinda’ playin’ with my brain,” he said. He paused, examining my blue ribbon that was still attached to the refrigerator door. “You gotta’ admit, it’s kinda’ funny how your boss suddenly vanishes right after you win the first prize. Yeah, it’s probably just a coinky-dink. Problem is…I don’t buy into coinky-dinks,” he said emphatically, suddenly giving me a long, hard stare.
I didn’t know how to respond. Nothing in my previous life had prepared me for such an inquisition as this. Still, I felt strongly the need to maintain my innocence in the face of Dante’s grilling. “Why should I be doing harm to Mr. Nicholas?” I asked the policeman. “He is being my boss, the one who give me big chance in America. Why I risk this? What I get from him disappearing?” I challenged Dante.
My point seemed to have hit its mark. Dante frowned, considering what I had said for a moment. He paced silently around the kitchen, frowning as he pondered my questions. He looked at me with a smirk, his arms crossed in front of him.
“Yeah, I hear you honey,” he reluctantly admitted. “That motivation thing don’t make no sense to me neither. And baby,” he smiled in an unfriendly manner. “You don’t look like you could say ‘boo’ to your shadow,” he informed me.
Dante moved closer to me. I was very uncomfortable with his proximity to my person. He smelled of cheap cologne and body sweat. To my chagrin, he put his face close to mine, speaking in a soft, almost whispering tone of voice.
“What you think of that brother of his?” he asked. “Oh, not the one you’re sweet on, honey,” he smirked as he said this. I flushed with embarrassment at the mention of Alexander. “I’m talkin’ bout the big shot, Ivan Pavlovich,” he said the name with some disgust. For a moment, I sympathized with Paulie Dante. I wasn’t crazy about Mr. Ivan either. But then, I remembered that I was being interrogated by a hostile detective. I tried to look impassive.
“Mr. Ivan Pavlovich is being very kind,” I defended him. “He was supportive of me in contest,” I stated.
A devilish grin betrayed itself upon Paulie Dante’s face. “Oh, I know all about that kinda’ support, baby,” he said rudely. “See, you probably don’t know who that broad was on the panel that pressured the others to vote you the blue. Her name is Indira Nehru. She’s a realtor, just like old Ivan the Terrible. Matter fact, she gets a lot of his business. So, I’m guessin’ Ivan’s one cash cow she kinda’ holds sacred,” he said, chuckling at his own bad joke.
I stepped away from Dante. I crossed my own arms in indignation. “So, you insinuating contest was fixed?” I demanded of him. But he shook his head, just the trace of a grin on his features.
“Oh, I don’t like to insinuate, Sony” he said defensively. “I just like to put the pieces together, know what I’m saying?” he remarked, then strolled around the kitchen again, slo
wly examining the cabinets. He reached up and pulled on the handle of the small, square door. Something about it seemed to fascinate him.
“You are never seeing kitchen cabinet?” I asked him with some sarcasm in my voice. I was still determined to not let him see how intimidated I was by his questioning.
“Not like this one, Sony baby,” he replied. Dante found the wooden stool that was near the telephone, and dragged it over to the cabinet. He climbed upon it, struggling to balance himself and to get a closer look into the interior of the cupboard. His dark head poked inside, then reappeared with his eyes blinking furiously. Dante pulled his lighter out of his pocket, flicking it on and illuminating his view of the cabinet’s interior.
“Please to not light house on fire,” I requested him. I was indignant at the manner in which he took liberties without as much as asking permission.
“Oh yeah…but I’m the one on fire now, Russian chick,” he replied. “This cabinet is just some kinda’ façade,” he told me. “Somethin’ older is behind it,” his voice echoed from somewhere deep in the cupboard. I could hear the noise of him pulling on something; the sound of cracking wood soon filled the kitchen.
“Hey,” I protested, pulling on his stool. “You are going to pay damage to kitchen,” I informed him.
Dante’s voice boomed from within the hollow walls of the cupboard. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Sony. The town of West Hartford will compensate you. Sue me if you like; you can only wring so many pennies out of my salary, honey,” he joked.
In answer, I pulled harder on the stool. The force of this caused Paulie Dante to fall back upon me. We both collapsed on the floor, the stool lying next to us. One of its legs was broken, the jagged stump a testament to the pig-headed determination of the detective to find some kind of clue, regardless of cost. I looked at Dante to see his reaction. To my surprise, instead of anger, there was a triumphant grin on his whiskered face. He held something upright in his hand. It was an old farming sickle, much like the one from the old Soviet Union flag. The blade looked sharp, the curved steel shining bright under the dull light of the kitchen lamp. It was a dangerous-looking object, the kind of tool that could cut right through anything.
And it had blood on it.
Dante forcibly pulled me up by my arm, dragging me to me feet and hurting me in the process. He yanked me forward, pushing the blood-red instrument under my nose. I could smell a sour stench; like death, putrid and ugly. Dante’s grin was almost malicious as he stood gloating at me.
“Now, who would hide something like this in the kitchen, where she spends much of her time?” he asked me. “Who you think, Sony?” he interrogated me.
A man’s voice suddenly rang against the lemon-colored walls of the room. It was surprisingly forceful, yet sad.
“That’s my sickle, Detective Dante,” the voice stated. “Let Sonia go.” I looked up into the eyes of the speaker. It was Alexander Pavlovich. And he was smiling warmly at me.
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