by Susan Cox
“Theophania? Is everything all right my dear?”
“I was about to ask you the same. I have something to tell—”
He gave a lightning quick glance at the wall safe painting. I wouldn’t have noticed, except I was staring at his face, which had a large graze and purple bruise on one cheekbone. “What happened? Did you fall? Do you have any peroxide?” The injury didn’t look fresh, but my mother had used peroxide for everything and it was almost the only first aid I knew.
His hand touched the bruise, and he winced slightly. “It’s nothing, my dear. My meeting with Sergei was a little more confrontational than I anticipated.”
I tried to capture his attention as he glanced through the window and frowned slightly. “Your friend Inspector Lichlyter is approaching,” he said.
I pushed his phone into his hand. “Oh God, before she gets here—Sergei’s dead, and he had your hoof pick in his neck!”
He gave a demonstration of the reason British aplomb is admired throughout the world by raising an eyebrow instead of bursting into horrified questions. “Ah? Then perhaps I’m about to be asked to assist the police with their enquiries.” He calmly put the phone in his pocket.
“I told her I didn’t recognize it,” I said quickly.
“Just so, my dear. Ah, good afternoon Inspector,” he said as he opened the front door. “Won’t you come in? How can I help you?”
She looked a little nonplussed, possibly by my presence, and refused his offer of tea or a glass of sherry after she took a seat on the sofa in the window. I thought that was a good sign; on Law & Order the police never sit down to do their interviews unless the perp is in handcuffs. She dropped her shoulder bag on the floor and bent over to rummage in it until she came up with her phone, and a notebook and pen. Grandfather fussed a little, adjusting the drapes, moving a small table where she could reach it. I thought he was laying it on a bit thick, myself.
She lifted her telephone, perhaps to show him a photograph of Sergei’s face, and then had second thoughts and dropped the phone back into her bag. “I’m sure Ms.… Bogart has told you about the unfortunate death of Mr. Wolf. I understand he was a friend of yours?”
Grandfather settled into an armchair, fussing at the pillow behind his back. “May I ask how you know that?”
“He had your name and telephone number on your card in his pocket.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” he said thoughtfully while I understood more clearly his habit of shredding even small slips of paper. “He was scarcely a friend,” Grandfather said. “In fact, I think it’s fair to say we barely recognized each other when we met again a few days ago.” He smiled. “I suppose the years make a difference to one’s appearance, even if we tell ourselves that we haven’t changed. I knew him twenty-five or thirty years ago, when we worked together briefly. Are you aware that he is—was—a member of the clergy?”
“No. I didn’t know,” she said shortly. I watched her absorbing the information.
“Well, we knew each other before he studied for the priesthood.”
“He was a Catholic priest?” I could almost see her adjusting Sergei’s status. “In the diocese here?” Now she was mentally running through all the protocols for calling the Bishop. I was unsettled by how familiar she’d become. So Sergei hadn’t been wearing his Roman collar. I tried to decide what that meant, if anything.
“He was on vacation. I believe he had recently lived in South America, but I’m afraid I don’t know specifically where he was—er—posted. Are you certain I can’t get you a glass of sherry?”
“No, thank you. How did you come to meet again?”
“He was here for a few days on business and contacted me to renew our acquaintance. I met him last Wednesday, I believe, we talked about old times, and after an hour or so, we parted.”
“What time did you meet?”
“We arranged to meet at four o’clock; he was a few minutes late.”
“How did he contact you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You gave him your telephone number during your meeting. How did the two of you connect before that?”
“Through a mutual friend,” Grandfather said, without hesitation. “We had been fellow members of a small social club. One of the other members in England gave me his telephone number, allowing me to choose, or not, to contact him.”
She wrote something in her notebook and looked up at him. “I’d like to contact him or her. Would you tell me their name and how to reach them?”
“Yes, of course.” He took the proffered notebook and wrote something down. “I believe she is traveling in India at the moment, but I’m sure a message left at that number will reach her eventually.” He smiled blandly and returned the notebook.
Lichlyter bit the inside of one cheek. “Where did you and Father Wolf meet?” I noted the automatic respectful address. Sergei was no longer simply a dead body; he was a dead priest. I could see that it made a difference.
“He said he hadn’t yet had an opportunity to see the murals at Coit Tower, so we met there and spent our time together strolling through the tower.”
“So just at the top of the stairs here, in fact?”
“Indeed. When we parted I gave him my telephone number.” He shrugged. “I didn’t anticipate hearing from him again, but I thought it was a friendly gesture.”
“He didn’t come to your home?”
“He had another appointment, and we parted at about five thirty,” which I thought was an admirable example of telling the truth without answering the question. I think Lichlyter noticed, too, but she didn’t follow up. “I believe—yes, I took a photograph.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, and flicked through a few screens before finding what he was looking for.
Lichlyter glanced at a three-quarter photograph taken from the side, as Sergei—I couldn’t think of him as Father Wolf—bent to examine one of the murals in extreme close-up. A section of the WPA-era mural stretched into the middle distance.
“Any of the two of you together?”
“No. I thought I would send him this one as a souvenir of his visit.”
“Do you know who he was meeting after he left you?”
“I’m afraid not.” Grandfather frowned slightly, as if in thought. “He said he had originally planned to meet with another person he knew, but that it wasn’t possible. He hoped this other person could tell him something he needed to know. He told me he had been traveling recently as part of his work. Something to do with one of the churches here, I assume.”
“Did he give you any details?”
“He did say he was trying to solve a puzzle for a fellow priest, off the clock, as it were. I think he felt under an obligation to his friend, who had recently died.”
I raised my head sharply, and Lichlyter gave me an inquiring look. I gave her a casual shrug, and she turned her attention back to Grandfather, whose expression hadn’t changed.
“Do you know anything else about this obligation, or about his friend?”
“Only that he was killed in a hit-and-run accident.”
Lichlyter’s attention sharpened. “Where?”
“In Ukraine.”
That surprised her. “His friend died in Ukraine, but he was solving a puzzle on his behalf here in San Francisco?”
“So he said. He also said it was quite like old times,” Grandfather said.
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would it be like old times? What kind of work did he do?”
“He was what I believe today would be called a forensic accountant, but that was a very long time ago. I don’t know what kind of work he did in recent years beyond what I assume were regular parish duties.”
“And you don’t know any specifics of this task he had undertaken?”
“I’m sorry to say not. I can’t imagine it would stray too far from his work for the Church. Perhaps something to do with one of the local parishes? He told me one or two stories of uncovering malfeasance, without mentio
ning any names, of course,” he added, raising a hand as if to forestall the question. “I’m sorry to hear of his death, and I don’t know of any reason that he would be killed.”
“Given his extreme lack of visual acuity, did it surprise you that he chose to spend time viewing artworks?”
Grandfather smiled. “That didn’t occur to me.”
“Can you tell me where you were yesterday between approximately ten p.m. and two a.m.?” That surprised me; I was fairly sure Sergei had been dead longer than that.
“I was with a friend and, if it’s satisfactory, I would like to let her know you might wish to speak to her, and why, of course. I’m certain she will corroborate my, er, alibi.”
I tried not to look as shocked as I felt. “Her” who? Did Grandfather have a-a lady friend I knew nothing about? Being together from late evening until early morning didn’t sound as if they were playing cribbage.
Lichlyter shared a shrewd look between the two of us and chewed the inside of her cheek. “How did you injure your face, sir?”
Grandfather touched it lightly and then winced. “I can only blame my advancing years. I tripped and fell.”
“It looks painful.”
“A little.”
“When did this happen, sir?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“I would have thought longer from the color of that bruise.”
She dropped her notebook into her shoulder bag and rose smoothly to her feet. “I think that’s all for now. Please call me later today with the name of your friend.”
Grandfather walked her to the front door, giving a masterful performance of an elderly man a little unsteady on his feet.
She stopped on the doorstep, thoughtfully inspecting the highly polished brass lock and handle on the dark green door. She turned back and spoke to me. “Would you mind coming into my office tomorrow afternoon? At about three, if that works for you.”
“Okay, I mean, of course. Three o’clock at your office. Um, where is your office?”
“The Hall of Justice at 850 Bryant.”
I nodded and she finally left.
“My fingerprints will be on my hoof pick, of course. The next thing she’ll want is a blood sample or a DNA swab,” Grandfather said thoughtfully as he watched Lichlyter leave. “Theophania, I gave Sergei my key on the hoof pick. He said he felt unsafe at his hotel. I thought he was being dramatic. He asked if he could stay here, and I had no real reason to refuse.” He raised a hand absently to the bruise on his cheek. “I explained that I didn’t spend every night at home, but that he was welcome to stay and to leave the keys as he left. He took me up on the offer for a night; that would be Wednesday night. Do you know how long he had been deceased?”
“Several days, by the look of him,” I said, and thought how odd my life had become when I could say that with some confidence. “Perhaps as long ago as Wednesday or Thursday. One thing, though.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Sabina told me that the closet where he was found was empty two days ago, and the smell was only noticed today.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “So he was killed somewhere else, and possibly stored there, before being moved yesterday night. It explains why the Inspector was so specific about the time frame.”
He disappeared into the back of the house and came back carrying a small, folded cloth. He opened the front door and rubbed it over the handle, knocker, and mail slot.
I watched in stunned silence as he came back inside and made his way through the sitting room, carefully wiping the hard surfaces.
He took down the painting again and wiped the safe, then placed his fingers on each key on the touch screen before replacing the painting and wiping the frame.
“Grandfather, what on earth—”
“Did you notice if the good Father was wearing a ring when he came to your shop?”
“He had a heavy gold signet ring on his right ring finger. Is that how—?” I nodded at the graze on his cheek.
“He took exception to a remark I made about Catholic charities.”
I goggled at him. “You made a—what did you say, for heaven’s sake?”
“He goaded me.” He looked a little shamefaced. “I said their bookkeeping left something to be desired.”
“That doesn’t sound very inflammatory.”
“Well, no.” He sighed. “A Roman collar is so often a prima facie case for integrity, which of course is why some people find them so useful. He had changed a good deal—he was slender, with a full head of hair the last time I’d seen him—but I knew the remark would bite if he was, er—the real McCoy, because it was the last thing I said to him when he left us to join the priesthood. He hit me then, too,” he said reflectively. “But then he’d been under a great strain for some time.”
“So you didn’t really part on good terms, then, all those years ago.”
“I’m afraid not. Which made his attempt to reach out to me all the more surprising.”
“Did he say anything about the problem he needed you to help him with?”
“He did, Theophania. He said he thought he knew why and by whom Katrina Dermody was murdered.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I took a second to recalibrate at the unexpected introduction of Katrina. “How could he have known that? And who did he say it was?”
“I should be more precise. He didn’t say he knew who it was, just that he’d deduced their existence from the effect their activities produced. He also asked me to discover whether anything was amiss with an orphanage in Kiev.”
“Anything amiss? An orphanage in Kiev!” Apparently I had decided to repeat everything he said to me. I tried to stop doing that and grabbed onto the only question that came to mind. “Was he from there? Where is Kiev? Russia?” My education had some unexpected black spots, and geography was one of them.
He gave me one of his pitying looks. “It’s in the Ukraine. I know that he was persona non grata in Kiev, in fact in the whole of the country, and couldn’t go there himself to investigate. He felt that his friend, this other priest, had been killed deliberately, not in a simple traffic accident.”
I abandoned the orphanage. “But the Internet—”
“Of limited value in this case, Theophania. The orphanage certainly has a website with some photos of the staff and a discussion of their—er—mission I think they call it.”
“Did Sergei want you to go to Kiev?” I said blankly. “That seems like a lot to ask.”
“He hoped to persuade me. However, I am also persona non grata in Ukraine. He did not know that.”
I sat back in my chair and stared at him. Honestly, I was having trouble with all of this. I had always thought he’d had a fairly significant but boring job as a senior civil servant, and occasionally, and in an amateur sort of way, did small jobs for the Foreign Office.
“Since the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and the annexation of Crimea, modern day Kiev is like Mos Eisley.” He paused and then quoted unexpectedly, “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.”
I did a mental stutter; I thought the only movies he watched had subtitles. I recognized the reference because Ben had an unexpected inner geek and he insisted that the Star Wars movies were as important to western culture as the Greek myths.
Grandfather pulled on his earlobe and looked into the middle distance. “That is Kiev. Agents of the Russian government, anti-Russian forces, assassins—”
“Assassins!”
“Car bombs, weapons trafficking, poison—”
“Poison!” I was reeling, and apparently back to repeating him.
“The city is like the old Wild West in America. Being a journalist, opposing Russian influence, criticizing the government, being any kind of activist—they are all extremely risky. People die simply for offending the wrong people. In any event, I cannot go there, and I told Sergei as much when we had finished our disagreement and begun to talk. He was very disappointed.”
“What was supposed to b
e wrong with the orphanage in Kiev? Were they dealing in black-market adoptions or something?”
“He was concerned that someone might be relaying funds to anti-Russian forces using the orphanage as a cover. Or that possibly it was some kind of money laundering operation—” He sighed. “It’s difficult to know. And now that he’s gone, we may never know. When he realized I really couldn’t help him, he was less forthcoming. He implied that something that was supposed to be happening at the orphanage was not happening.” He frowned and made an impatient gesture.
“I know a little something about an orphanage there. It’s called St. Olga’s,” I said, happy to have something to contribute to an increasingly bewildering conversation.
“Indeed, Theophania?”
I nodded. “Gavin Melnik visited there fairly recently. He said Katrina was its benefactor, and she was concerned that the orphanage was spending more money than it should. Gavin reported back that, as far as he could tell, everything checked out, but he isn’t a-a forensic accountant or anything. If Sergei thought St. Olga’s was the orphanage connected to Katrina’s death, shouldn’t we do something? Try to find out—”
“Under no circumstances, Theophania. This is far above our, er, pay grade. If his priest friend did not die accidentally, Sergei’s is the third murder associated with whatever is happening there. It is certain to be extremely dangerous and, as I said, very difficult if not impossible to investigate. An investigation of that scope requires resources and manpower. Now,” he said in a very different tone of voice, “I heard Mrs. Munn arriving at the back door. No doubt she has been to the shops. Shall I have her make us some tea?”
“There must be something we can do,” I insisted. “We don’t have to go to Kiev; we could probably find out at least some of what we need to know here, where Katrina and Sergei were killed.”
He didn’t respond but went off to speak to Mrs. Munn, who, sure enough, produced a steaming teapot and some slices of cake in short order.
I dutifully poured cups of tea and doled out cake slices for a couple of minutes before I raised the issue again. “What about the members of your ex-spies group? Can they find out anything—surely they must have contacts in Kiev?”