"Hi," Deb said as she made more room at the table. "How are you sleeping? I know this is a hard time for you."
"Yes, but I sleep well here," replied Anastasia, as she took off her coat.
"Will you be returning to Russia?" Pat asked.
Anastasia nodded. "Quite honestly, ve must. Joe had sent us the money to come, but ve really have no money to go back. And besides, it is all so confusing. That is vhy ve asked you to meet us today. Ve just can't figure out vhat happened to the money."
"Money?" Pat asked.
"Yes, I just don't understand it," Helga said. "Joe sent for us so that ve could start new life. He had many plans, but how could he make plans if there vas no money left from the lottery?"
"Ten years is a long time in which to spend a lot of money," Pat replied helpfully. "And the way he lived here—from what we saw—Joe didn't seem to have any left to spend."
"Oh, Joe told us that he lived very simply so no one vould know about his money. He vas afraid someone vould steal from him." Helga set down the roll that Deb had offered to her and wiped her fingers. "But that's not the money I am talking about. I'm referring to talking about money from second lottery." She looked at Deb and Pat expectantly.
Before either woman could respond, a portly man in an expensive suit approached their table. His smile was wide, but Pat thought it seemed a little shifty.
Ignoring Deb and Pat as if they weren't there, the man turned toward the Russians. "Ladies, you don't know me, but I hope I can be of help to you. I like to think of my family as the caretakers of this little hamlet. We've been here for generations. My name is Mike—Michael Williamson. Perhaps you could come into my office some time today. There are routine papers to go over whenever someone dies."
The sisters looked confused.
"At the bank, I mean," Williamson explained. "I'm the president of Great Northern, the local bank. So if you could just stop in ..."
"Excuse me, but did Joe Abramov have an account with you?" Pat asked.
As if she was an annoyance, he pursed his lips in a half-smile. "Now that would be confidential information, wouldn't it?" he replied, somewhat arrogantly. Turning back to Anastasia, he continued. "Just stop in, if you would, today." Tipping his hat, Williamson walked confidently up to the counter to pick up his togo cup.
Pat looked at the sisters. "Do you know for sure that there was a second lottery?"
"Well, he vas secretive," Anastasia answered. "You know how he vas, but he assured us he had von again. 'A big one this time,' he said. And that's vhy he could send for us and assure us all of new life here. But now our brother Jacob tells us there are no lotteries von recently, so ve do not understand. Vhat could he have been saying?"
"Maybe he was just delusional," Pat blurted out. "Pat," Deb said, frowning.
"No, no—I know you think he strange, and he vas," Anastasia agreed. "From the var, I mean. He always thought someone or some group vas after him. He send us money to get here. And money for clothes to travel. He made very specific plans for us, so I believed him. But if there vere no lotteries in Wisconsin or Minnesota von lately, could there have been one in another state? Ve vere hoping you vould help."
"Well, it would be easy enough to check in other states, but if a big one had been won, we would have heard of it by now, and his name would probably have been announced," Deb said. "Do you think he meant he came by the money another way?"
The sisters looked at each other. Lowering her voice, Anastasia continued, "First, ve vould like you to help us find out if it vas lottery. Then, if not ...vell; in his letter he didn't exactly say it vas lottery. Here, let me read it to you." She pulled a well-worn letter out of her pocket and glanced down the page. "Here ... here it is, after he invited us to come," she said. Anastasia began to read in Russian, translating as she went along.
Sis, finally I can send for you all. I just know you can have a better life here. Don't worry; I have enclosed the money for all of you to come and some for clothes to travel, but there is more—much more. I have recently come into another lottery, you could call it. And my wish is to share it with you. I can't wait until you get here, and we can start our new life together. Things are going to be different from now on. Why, if we want to, we can even buy that island I always dreamed about. And no one will be able to get to me again. I know this may sound crazy, but it's true. My ship has come in, and I want you to be aboard. See you at the airport.
Your loving brother, Joe
"What" Pat asked with her eyes, as she looked up at Deb to see if she had finished reading it. Before Deb could respond Sarah, the town decorator and owner of Design Outlet, arrived. Sarah carried a large bag of samples that she set down on the table with a grunt of relief.
"Here are the samples you asked for."
"Thanks," Pat replied. "That was very thoughtful. You didn't have to bring those here. I'd have come to your shop and picked them up." Indicating the others, she asked Sarah, "Have you met the Abramov sisters?" She put the samples on the floor by her chair. "Of course, you met yesterday. My, what a busy table we are sitting at," Pat observed. "Mike Williamson just stopped by, too."
As Sarah nodded in greeting, she grabbed her daily coffee fix from the barista's outstretched hand and smiled, in exchange handed him two dollars. She then turned to Pat. "Mikey? Came over special, did he?" Sarah's round eyes were wide with interest, her eyebrows raised. "I suppose he would."
Pat stirred her coffee. "He said he represents the community, his family having been in this town for generations."
Sarah smirked. "He usually says centuries—since the pilgrims, the way he tells it. Of course, it's really only been three or four generations."
"Wow, the way people move these days, that's actually impressive."
"Oh, it impresses him, all right." Sarah sipped her double espresso, wrinkling her nose as if it had a bad smell, then quickly concealed it. "He hasn't lived here all his life. He got out before the ink was dry on his high school diploma. Actually came back to town to take over the bank after his father had his heart attack." She turned to the sisters with an expression of apology. "Sorry, didn't mean to bring in town gossip. Actually, he used to come into the Black Cat about once a week and play chess with your brother and buy him a coffee. Joe always got him to put brandy in his. So I guess he can't be all bad, although you couldn't prove it by me." Sarah swallowed the last drop from her small cup and then set it on the table. "You know, it's strange," Sarah said, "but this is the first time Mike has been in here for about six months. He and Joe seemed to stop playing chess all of a sudden, and it was like Mike was avoiding Joe after that. I never heard why." Sarah put on her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck and added, "Not that it was any of my concern. You know Joe—he could keep a secret better than anyone."
"What do you think they argued about?" Deb asked. "Six months is a long time for an argument to last."
Sarah shook her head, although bundled as she was in her winter wear, the movement was almost imperceptible. Suddenly she remembered that her truck was still running and got up to leave. "I didn't actually say they argued. I mean, I didn't see it or anything, but it was strange that their games stopped." Turning to the sisters, she added one final thought. "Joe was a good man; he forgave anyone anything, ordinarily. He stopped regularly in my shop, ladies, and sometimes helped out with moving heavy carpet and odd jobs. I liked him. I'll miss him. You need anything, come see me."
Putting on her gloves, she turned and walked out the door.
"Well," said Deb, getting up, "I'm sorry, but I need to get to court. I don't know if there really is a way we can help you, but if there is, you can count on me. Why don't you talk to the banker this afternoon? You said you're having dinner with Jacob tonight. See if he has any ideas, and then ..." She glanced at Pat for confirmation. ... "Meet us here tomorrow morning at eight. Does that sound all right? I'm still not sure what we can do. Frankly, it's just a shot in the dark that we will ever find out what really happened
to the money. Oh, and be careful with the banker. You heard what Sarah said. It could be she's just mad because he turned her down for a business loan last winter, but I don't know him well, so be careful."
"Thank you so much, yes, ve vill meet with the banker, and ve vill be careful," Anastasia responded.
"So it is agreed we will meet tomorrow at eight."
After the others left, Pat settled herself comfortably at the table and had a second cup of the French roast as she read the daily newspaper. But though her eyes were scanning the headlines, her mind was elsewhere. What happened to Joe's money?
Back in her office after Court, Deb's intercom beeped twice on her desk, startling her and interrupting her thoughts as she sorted through the daily pile of mail. She picked up the phone and Kris, her secretary, informed Deb that Jacob Abramov was on line one. "He wants to make an appointment to meet with you about probating his brother's estate."
"Go ahead and make an appointment," Deb replied, a hint of anticipation in her voice. As she returned her attention to the pile of mail and sticky notes, Deb couldn't help wondering, How deep into this family drama am I going to go, anyway? This goes so much deeper than typical probate work...so many family dramas.
Deb sighed and sat back on her comfy new chair as Kris brought her a steaming cup of coffee. "Thanks," Deb said gratefully.
"How did you know I needed this?" She took a sip and sighed again. "And just the way I like it."
"It just seemed like a two-cup morning," Kris replied, smiling at her boss. "And besides, I've got that gorgeous detective on line two for you, and he didn't make one joke, so I'm assuming it's something serious." With that she saluted and quickly left, shutting the door behind her.
Deb gulped the steaming-hot Rain Forest Blend and picked up the phone. "Hi, Detective LeSeur, enough snow for you?" Deb started with the traditional opening of the North.
"Almost. Could use another few inches on the trails for my snowmobile, though. As if I'll have my machine out any time soon." With the amenities finished, he changed gears. "Deb ... I'm calling you about your clients, the Abramov sisters. Can I assume you are also representing the brother, Jacob?"
Deb sat up in her chair, no longer feeling so tired. "That's correct. Just on probate stuff." Then, risking his laughing at her, Deb continued. "Why? Should my clients be looking for a seasoned defense attorney?"
LeSeur hesitated momentarily, then said, "Actually, I need you to help me—that is, the department—with something."
"As long as it doesn't interfere with client/attorney confidentiality," Deb answered cautiously. "Don't ask me something I can't do, but otherwise, shoot."
"We got the preliminary autopsy reports." LeSeur cleared his throat. "Joe Abramov didn't die of natural causes."
Deb waited, and when the silence became pronounced, she asked, "You mean he killed himself or .?"
"Truth is, it's looking a lot less like suicide and a lot more like murder. But I'm telling you this for a reason."
"Okay," Deb responded, all thoughts of her hot cuppa gone from her head, as she grabbed for pencil and notepad.
"I need to inform the family before it leaks out in the press, and as they are your clients ... well, I was hoping you could be there for the women when I do so. They aren't suspects—they weren't even here when he died—but this will be another blow for them.. "
"Of course," Deb responded, "just tell me where and when."
"Best you come in to my office with them at, say, 1:00? Now, here are the ground rules." His tone became more serious. "Let me tell them. I won't be sharing specific details, and you should not be aggressive about details. If they ask questions, I'll try to answer them honestly. But I am asking you to be there to support them— that's all. Is that clear? Can I count on you?"
"Done and done," Deb responded. "I'll bring them in, but I'll leave the telling to you. And LeSeur, just one question, please?"
"Curiosity killed the cat, Deb," he responded. "But in this case, the cat was poisoned. Is that your question? See you at 1:00." And with a click the phone went dead.
"Kris," Deb called out to the reception area. "I really think it might be a three-cup day. Could you get the Abramov sisters on the phone?" Then as an afterthought, she shouted, "Are there any of those great cookies left out there?"
A nap hadn't been on Pat's agenda, but she dozed off over the latest mystery she had picked up at the Book Nook. The phone startled her out of a pleasant dream about beaches and cabana boys. By the third ring she had managed to find the right button and answered, a little louder than necessary, "Hello? Hello? Did I press the right button?"
A stifled laugh from Deb on the other end told her she had. "I just have a minute, but I just had to call, so listen and don't talk," Deb said hurriedly.
Pat bristled momentarily but then asked, "What?"
"I said listen ," Deb repeated. "In half an hour I'm taking the ladies to meet with 'Detective Hunk' about the autopsy report. Guess what? You won't believe it ... it really was murder. Poison, specifically. Gotta go. Say a prayer for me that I'll do the right things when the sisters learn of this." And without waiting for an answer Deb hung up, leaving Pat with her mouth open, looking quizzically at the phone.
Chapter Eleven
As Pat glanced at the calendar in the kitchen, she chided herself. I really am going to have to get to making Christmas cookies soon Wiping off the crumbs on the counter from lunch, she hedged. But it doesn't really have to be today. Of course, it can't be tomorrow because we're meeting the sisters, and then we might be going down to the Cities for the weekend.
She was still thinking about it with distaste when the door bell rang. The god awful one at the back door that played God Bless America. Someone's come to visit us in our new house, she thought. And throwing the dish rag into the sink and smiling, she went through the hall to answer it.
The man standing at Pat's back door seemed buried in his jacket, hat, and scarf—he was so completely covered that Pat didn't recognize him.
"Yes?" she asked tentatively. "Can I help you?"
"Pat, it's me, Bill Montgomery from the Black Cat," he said, taking off his scarf so she could see his face. "I thought I might be able to help you. I knew Joe as well or better than anyone in town, and I know this town well, too."
Pat looked confused. "I'm sorry, Bill ... help me in what way?"
Bill stamped his feet and blew on his mittened hands. "I imagine many people are willing to help you and Deb all they can for poor Joe's sisters' sake, but you might not know who they are. So I thought I would just stop by for a chat." He stamped his feet again and tugged his hat farther over his ears. "Can I come in?"
What am I doing? Pat thought. "Of course, Bill," she said, opening the door and drawing him inside. "You must be freezing."
Once the door closed behind him, Bill shook the snow off his boots and hat. Pat took his coat and hat and hung them up in the mud room before leading Bill into the kitchen. The room was warm and cozy, just right for a chat, and she put on the tea kettle. Bill settled himself at Pat's kitchen table as if he had been there many times before.
"Did you know Liz Case, the woman who lived here before?" Pat asked as she got the cups and some cookies from the cupboard. "Oh, yes, we were good friends, Liz and I," Bill replied. "She bought some photos from me and helped me quite a lot. She talked me up to her society friends, and they bought drawings and photos, too. Too bad she split up with her husband and moved away. She was a lot of fun." Settling more comfortably in his chair, he continued, "But I came to help you with your search for Joe's killer."
"Killer?" Pat repeated curiously. "Why would you think Joe was murdered?"
"Joe was a good guy, you know," Bill went on, as if he had his own agenda. "Kind and certainly trustworthy. He knew secrets all around town. All the little things he saw and never said a word about. We used to make dinner together a couple of times a week. You didn't know that, did you?" Bill reached out for the hot cup that Pat had set in front
of him.
Pat would not be deterred. "The coroner's report hasn't come out yet, as far as I know. And who told you Deb and I are helping the sisters? Frankly, we haven't even decided there is anything we can do to help them. Although for Joe's sake, I suppose we will try." She put the cookies on a beautiful plate. That always makes them taste better, she thought as she brought them to the table.
"Thanks. I guess I just assumed that you two were helping them. After all, everyone knows Deb is helping them with his estate, whatever there is. As for murder, don't you think he died rather strangely?" Putting the cookie down, Bill backtracked. "I really was just speculating about his being killed."
"What I guess I really would like to know," Pat said thoughtfully, "is who might have taken advantage of Joe." She gave him a reassuring smile. "I don't mean you, obviously, but who?"
"You know that he won that lottery ten years ago, right?" Bill replied. Seeing her startled look, he said, "Sure, I know all about that. Joe told me long ago. He was naive in some ways, and I'm afraid people took advantage of that."
Then they put their heads together, trying to think of different people in town who might have been in a position to borrow money from Joe.
"Well, let's see," Bill said, as he poured them each another cup of tea. "The good thing about a small town is everyone knows everyone else's troubles. The bad thing is everyone thinks they know each other's troubles, but that's not always true. For example, there's Mike Williamson."
"Oh, yes," Pat agreed. "I met him today. He's the banker, right?"
"Yup, a local boy who has taken over Great Northern Bank, the only privately owned bank here in Ashland. Took it over from his father. Now Mike is the third generation of Williamsons to try his hand at the banking business. His grandfather, Sam, was well respected in the community for his willingness to help his patrons. With Sam, a person could get a loan with a promise and a handshake. None of the elaborate appraisals, long financial forms, committee meetings, and crazy loan fees. Yes, those were certainly the good old days. Sam was a good judge of character and knew everyone. He inspired trust and confidence, you know what I mean? People felt good handing over their money to him for safekeeping."
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