Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Teaser chapter
MOB HIT, RUSSIAN STYLE
A long black sedan pulled up to the curb a few feet from the two men on the corner. Both back doors of the vehicle opened, and two men exited from each side. As dim as the light from the streetlamp was, it cast enough illumination to kick a reflection off the gleaming metal barrels of the weapons they carried.
The big man saw them coming and dropped his cigar. The smaller man reached into his pocket and withdrew a revolver.
“Good God!” Olga muttered.
Vaughn pushed us into a doorway strewn with empty bottles and other trash.
We’d no sooner wedged into the cramped space when another automobile roared up, windows down, men hanging out holding automatic weapons. The firing erupted like a tornado, guns going off, men yelling, bullets ricocheting off the concrete above our heads....
SIGNET
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First Printing, May 1998
Copyright © 1998 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
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For Marge and Emlyn
with love
Chapter One
“No, no, no, Mrs. Fletcher. It is pronounced shch, as in ‘fresh cheese.’ You run it together, Fre-shch-eese.”
“I’m afraid I’m not doing very well,” I said, slumping in my chair. “I never realized speaking Russian would be so difficult.”
Professor Donskoy smiled. “I admire you wanting to learn to speak some Russian,” he said, “but I’m sure those with whom you’re meeting will speak English.”
I sat forward. “But I want to show my respect by at least knowing a few basic phrases.”
“Of course. People always respond favorably when a foreigner is interested enough to learn their language. But it can sometimes get you in trouble.”
“How so?”
“Once you use a few of their words, they expect you to know much more. Better to be honest and say you speak only English.”
“You may be right, Professor, but I’d still like to keep trying. Let me see. Thank you is spasibo.”
“Yes. Very good. Spasibo.”
“And excuse me is izvinitye.”
“Almost. Say it this way.”
It was my third Russian lesson with Professor Donskoy. I had sought him out at the University of Maine’s extension center in Cabot Cove after receiving an invitation to meet in Washington, D.C., and then in Moscow with a dozen representatives of the Russian publishing industry. It was an exchange program of sorts, conceived and arranged by the Commerce Department. That I was chosen to be a part of the American delegation was flattering, to say the least.
Professor Donskoy refilled our teacups in his cluttered office. He looked like a college professor, features hawklike, hair white and flowing, patches on the elbows of his tweed jacket, a rack of pipes on a paper-strewn desk. He’d been recommended to me by one of my good friends Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who was the professor’s primary care physician. Seth was right. Donskoy was a wonderful teacher. The problem was his student—me. Learning even rudimentary Russian was proving to be a daunting task.
“Don’t be discouraged,” Donskoy said at the end of that day’s lesson. “You’re doing better than you think you are. Now, this is the vocabulary list to work on before we meet again. When is that?”
He also possessed a slight forgetfulness, adding to his professorial image.
“Day after tomorrow,” I said.
“Ah, yes. Day after tomorrow. I’d better make a note on my calendar.”
I’d been referred to Professor Donskoy in early spring in Cabot Cove, my home for many years. Spring was a welcome change of season after a harsh winter in which we almost broke our all-time snowfall record. I’d passed most of the winter working on my latest murder mystery novel, intending to take off April and May to simply enjoy the blossoming of flowers and the gradual, revitalizing change from frigid temperatures to milder air. But then came the call from my agent in New York, Matt Miller, about having been invited by our government to join in the exchange project with Russian publishers.
“What’s the purpose of it?”
“To foster better relations, and to help the Russians develop a viable publishing industry in its new democracy. An added plus might be to get them to stop publishing American works without paying for the rights.”
“They still do th
at?” I asked.
“Afraid so, although not as blatantly. This is a real honor, Jess. You’ll be one of only a few authors included in the group. Most are publishing execs, including your publisher.”
“Vaughan is going?”
“Certainly is. You’ll be in very good company.”
Matt outlined the basic schedule for me. The group from both sides of the Atlantic would gather in Washington for three days of talks, woven into a hectic round of receptions, dinners, and meetings with top American officials, including a visit to the White House where the president of the United States, Paul Singleton, would personally greet us.
“A photo op for him,” Miller said, laughing.
“I don’t care why he’s seeing us,” I said. “I’ve never been to the White House, never met a president, or a vice-president for that matter. It’s exciting.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Of course I will. We go to Moscow after the Washington meetings?”
“Yes. I’ll have the official from Commerce send you the invitation. All you have to do is RSVP, although I admit I told him you’d accept. His name is Roberts. Sam Roberts. Very high up in the Commerce Department.”
“I’ll look forward to receiving the invitation, Matt. Thanks for the call.”
“My pleasure. How’s the weather up there?”
“Delightful, although there’s still time for more snow. You know Maine and its weather.”
“That’s why I don’t live there,” he said. “If my business didn’t depend on being in New York, you’d find me on some sunny Caribbean island. Take care, Jess. We’ll talk again soon.”
Later that morning, I headed for my local bookstore, owned by a friend, Roberta Dougherty.
“Good morning, Jessica,” she said brightly. “What brings you in this morning?”
I told her of my agent’s call, and of my pending trip to Washington and Moscow.
“Sounds fascinating.”
“Except I don’t speak a word of Russian.”
“Do you have to? They’ll have translators.”
“You’re right, of course, Roberta. But I’d like to at least try to learn a few phrases. You know, good morning, thank you, excuse me, which way to the ladies’ room?”
She laughed. “Now you’re getting to the important stuff.” She went to a shelf in the cozy shop, pulled two books down, and handed them to me. They were written to help Americans navigate the Russian language.
“Just what I’m looking for,” I said. “Better pick up a good guidebook, too.”
“I have just the thing,” she replied, fetching two fat, lavishly illustrated guides.
I paid, left the shop, and stopped in at Charlene Sassi’s bakery where I bought a blueberry scone.
“What’s new?” Charlene asked.
I told her.
“Wow! I’ve always wanted to meet a president.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Better get used to fattening food, Jess.”
“I haven’t even thought about food.”
“Russians have the most fattening diet in the world,” she said. “Seventy percent more calories taken in every day than we do.”
“Better lose a few pounds before going.”
“I hear the food isn’t very tasty,” she said, making a face to reinforce the comment.
“People still say that about British food,” I countered. “I’ll find out for myself and report.”
Back home again, my scone accompanied by a steaming mug of tea, I browsed my book purchases. The more I read, the higher my excitement level. I would never have chosen to travel to Russia for a vacation. But many of my trips have come about this way, unexpected opportunities generated because of what I do for a living.
I dozed off later that afternoon, only to be awakened ten minutes into my nap by the ringing phone. It was Seth Hazlitt.
“Hello, Seth,” I said, trying to force sleep from my voice.
“Woke you, Jessica?”
I had to laugh. “Yes, you did.”
“Sorry about that. I was callin’ to make sure you’d be at the Chamber dinner this evenin’.”
“The Chamber dinner. Good thing you called. I forgot.”
I’d joined the Cabot Cove Chamber of Commerce a few years ago, urged by my friend Richard Koser, a top professional photographer who’d taken the photograph of me that appears on each of my books. There isn’t much big business in the town, but lots of small ones, shops and services, people like me and Richard working out of our homes. The monthly meetings rotate among a dozen restaurants, and we usually have a speaker.
“Got the mayor as speaker tonight,” he said.
“Jim Shevlin will be there?”
“Ayuh. Promises to fill us in on how things are progressing with that landfill proposal. Damn fool idea if you ask me.”
I’d heard Seth’s opposition to the landfill project enough times to not want to hear it again. “Where’s dinner tonight?” I asked.
“Lobster Dory. Cocktails at seven.”
“I’ll see you there.”
The Chamber of Commerce dinners represent a highlight of Cabot Cove’s winter social calendar. Like bears, we tend to hibernate during the long, cold winter months, venturing out only when necessary. But the hundred-plus members of the Chamber show up on the first Thursday of each month in a festive mood, anxious to see each other, share what’s been going on in their lives, and enjoy the food and drink offered by the restaurants. This night was no exception.
“What’s this I hear about you going to meet the president, and the president of Russia?” Tim Purdy asked the moment I walked through the door. Tim managed real estate around the country from his Cabot Cove offices.
“How did you hear that?” I asked.
“Russia?” Barbara DePaoli said. She was the Chamber’s secretary.
“Charlene told me,” Purdy said.
“I heard it from Roberta,” said DePaoli. “I was in looking for a book and—”
“Jessica,” said the Chamber’s president and Cabot Cove’s leading dentist, Anthony Colarusso. “Say something in Russian.”
Amazing, I thought as I handed my coat to the hat-check woman, how efficient and swift is the Cabot Cove grapevine. Tell one person, especially during the winter doldrums, and within hours half the town knows.
“You’ll have to be our speaker when you get back,” Colarusso said. “Tell us all about it. Get you a drink?”
Seth Hazlitt arrived after the cocktail party was in full swing. With him was Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger. Mort wasn’t a member of the Chamber, but he often attended our dinners, explaining that it was important to keep up to date on what the town’s business leaders were doing. In actuality, Mort attended the dinners because he enjoyed everyone’s company, and he always paid for his own dinner, as we all did.
“A word with you, Jessica?” Seth said.
I excused myself from Beth and Peter Mullin, who own a lovely flower and gift shop, Olde Tyme Floral, and followed Seth and Mort to a quiet corner of the room.
“What’s this I hear about you goin’ to Russia?” Seth asked.
“What you heard is probably true,” I said pleasantly.
“Russia?” Mort said.
“Yes, Russia. First to Washington, then to Moscow.”
They both measured me with stern expressions.
“Is there a problem?” I asked. “I’m thrilled to have been invited. Aren’t you ... thrilled ... for me?”
“Worried is more accurate, Mrs. F.,” said Mort.
“Worried about what?” I asked.
“Crime, Mrs. F.”
“Crime?”
“Evidently you haven’t been keepin’ up with the news out of Russia,” Seth said, his tone that of a scolding parent.
“Oh, I think I have,” I said. “I’ve been reading about the crime problem there. I understand it’s pretty bad.”
“Worse than that,” Seth said. “Show her, Mort.”
Sheriff Metzger pulled a folded piece of paper from his uniform jacket pocket, snapped it open with considerable authority, and began reading:
“Eight thousand criminal gangs ... fifty million dollars a year extorted from businesses ... forty percent of the economy controlled by the Russian Mafia ... five hundred contract killings last year, Mrs. F.... mob hits ... bankers, politicians, tourists gunned down ... slaughter in the streets!”
“Oh, Mort, I know there’s a problem there with crime, but—”
“Don’t dismiss what he’s tellin’ you, Jessica,” said Seth. “You’re puttin’ yourself in danger by going to Moscow.”
“Everyone in the next room for dinner,” Colarusso announced.
“I’ll be traveling with representatives from our government,” I said, starting to walk away. “Absolutely no danger to anyone in our group.”
Seth and Mort flanked me as we headed for the dining room. “I just think—”
Seth was interrupted by my investment advisor of many years, Sam Davis. “Sure you don’t want me to go along to help you convert dollars to rubles?” he asked, laughing.
“I wish I could take all of you with me,” I said. Fortunately, talk at dinner eventually drifted from me and my upcoming trip to other topics. Steamed mussels, a crisp Caesar salad, and crab cakes sated everyone’s appetite. Over coffee, some Chamber business was conducted, and then our mayor, Jim Shevlin, briefed us on the status of the proposed landfill project that had divided the community in recent months. Seth Hazlitt asked most of the questions following Shevlin’s brief talk, none of them intended to put the mayor at ease.
I’d walked to the restaurant. Jack Decker, publisher of Cabot Cove’s monthly magazine, gave me a lift home.
“Seth’s really worried about your trip,” he said.
“I know. He’s such a dear, but he does worry too much at times. Mort has him all riled up with his statistics about crime in Russia. I’m sure his facts and figures are accurate, but it’s not as though I’m going there alone. I’ll be with dozens of people.”
Murder in Moscow Page 1