“I would,” I said, and I certainly did.
CHAPTER 21
I awoke to the sound of the cat door opening. I pulled on a terry cloth robe and tiptoed into the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind me. Cuckoo announced six-thirty. O’Ryan sat in front of the spot where I usually placed his breakfast bowl, looking up at me expectantly. “Okay, okay. It’s coming. Don’t rush me.” I poured his salmon-flavored kitty kibble into a blue Willow-pattern bowl and placed it in front of him. “There, Your Majesty. Bon appétit.” He hunched down in the happy way he does when dining, and I opened the refrigerator, hoping to find inspiration there for breakfast for Pete and me.
A pound of bacon and a half-dozen eggs. So far, so good. Cinnamon raisin bread for toast. Excellent. Butter and about ten of those little restaurant jelly packages. Perfect. With coffee and hazelnut creamer, breakfast was good to go. I put a couple of place mats on the table, set out plates, silverware and coffee mugs and put the egg carton on the counter—because Aunt Ibby says eggs are better for frying when they’re at room temperature.
I padded down the hall to the bathroom, showered, washed hair and brushed teeth—getting back to the kitchen just as Cuckoo began her seven a.m. proclamation. O’Ryan, having finished his meal, sat on the windowsill, grooming his whiskers. I knew that Pete didn’t have to go to work until afternoon. I decided to wake him, if the clock hadn’t done so already. Maybe he’d be ready for breakfast—or whatever.
He was wide-awake and smiling. After some mutually enjoyable kissing and cuddling, he pointed to the mirror at the foot of the bed. “What’s the cat doing up there?”
In the mirror, angled so it reflected part of the kitchen counter, we saw O’Ryan batting at the egg carton. He’d worked the cover open and had managed to push one egg out onto the smooth granite surface.
“Stop that, you naughty boy!” I bolted from the bed and dashed from the room. Too late. With one more tap of his big paw, the cat rolled that egg over the edge, with the expected result. It hurtled downward, liberally splattering egg goo onto the tile floor and wooden cabinet. Without a backward look the culprit leaped from the countertop and darted out through the cat door. No point in chasing him. I knew he could be down the stairs and out the back door, or even hiding under Aunt Ibby’s bed, in less than a minute.
“What the heck was that all about?” I muttered as I grabbed a roll of paper towels and prepared to mop up the mess. “What’s with all the knocking things onto the floor?”
Pete took the towel roll from me and wiped up the sticky residue. “Cat getting clumsy, or did he do that on purpose?”
“If it was an ordinary cat, I’d think he was just being playful,” I said. “But in O’Ryan’s case, no. He probably did it on purpose. But why?” I poured water into the coffeemaker.
“Did you say he’s been knocking other things onto the floor too?”
I told him about the pencil sharpeners.
Pete measured out the coffee and put it into the basket. “The Statue of Liberty and a skier, huh?”
“Yes. Aunt Ibby and I thought Lady Liberty could be about the Novikovas coming to America. The skier pencil sharpener was a souvenir from Colorado. That’s where they lived when they first arrived here.”
Pete’s cop face replaced his happy face. “Then you think the egg probably means something too. Something about the Novikovas?”
“Who knows?” I tried to smile, to shrug it all away. “Maybe it’s just some silly cat game, after all, and maybe my aunt and I have wild imaginations.” I put the frying pan onto the stove and arranged the bacon strips. “Eggs over easy?”
Pete couldn’t resist. “I think that’s what the cat said when he rolled the egg off the counter.”
“Very funny.” I pushed the bacon around in the pan with a spatula while it cooked, and I thought about the Novikovas and eggs. “Seriously, the only egg I can think of that might have anything to do with all this is that carved one Mrs. McKenna has. I took a couple of pictures of it. Maybe we should look at them after breakfast.”
“Might as well. Maybe the cat is onto something.”
“I just wish Scott hadn’t lost that notebook of Dillon’s. That’s probably where the important answers are.”
“Wait a sec. He did remember a few things.” He disappeared into the bedroom and came back, carrying his own notebook. He flipped through the pages. “See what you think about this. Palmer told me that what made him believe that it was an address book was the fact that he saw several pages of names and addresses and phone numbers. Some of the addresses were circled.”
“Circles,” I said. “This whole thing goes around in circles. Aunt Ibby says it reminds her of a merry-go-round, where none of the horses ever catch up with the one up ahead.”
“She’s probably right. Nothing solid enough yet to bring to the chief.”
The very thought of what Chief Whaley’s reaction would be to a murder investigation involving a cat, some painted wooden eggs, a couple of old pencil sharpeners and a bunch of worthless stuff in trash bags made me muffle a laugh.
“I learned one thing the chief might be interested in though,” I said. “I think I know why those people in Connecticut thought there was witchcraft involved in the baker’s murder. It has something to do with a mythical Russian witch named Baba Yaga.”
“A witch?”
“River told me. It’s because of the pointed metal things on the garrote. Baba Yaga, the witch, has pointed teeth just like that.”
“Great. Now if I tell Chief about that, he’ll be having me check all our files for criminals with metal teeth.”
“Stasia has some gold teeth,” I said. “Does that count?”
“Don’t worry about her. And, no, her gold teeth don’t count.”
I put the bacon and the eggs—perfectly done, if I do say so myself—onto Pete’s plate and my own. The toast popped up, nicely brown, and Pete poured the coffee. We sat down to eat our breakfasts. The conversation then turned to more normal topics, like Aunt Ibby’s plan to help Karl Smith with his book. Not that assisting a sort of shady character with a recipe index was actually a normal thing to do, but compared to dismembered horses, bubblegum-popping fortune-tellers and dead bakers, it seemed positively ordinary.
“My aunt says she’s going to meet with Chef Karl in the library. You suppose that’s okay?”
Pete had put his notebook aside. “Seems like a safe-enough place to meet. You said something about him helping with some kind of tea party though? What does that involve?”
“That’s a library event too. She wants him to cater it. Prepare some Russian pastries.”
“She’s been on a kind of Russian kick ever since she bought that silver teapot thing, hasn’t she?”
“We both have,” I admitted. “Did Scott mention whether any of those names he saw in Dillon’s book happened to be Russian?”
“He didn’t remember any of them. At least that’s what he said.”
“He told me that at first he thought the names might be some of Eric Dillon’s contacts back in Illinois. Names he could use in case he went back there to work.”
Cop face back in place. “Palmer’s planning to leave town?”
“I don’t think so. He’s just kind of dissatisfied with his situation at WICH-TV. Too much work. Not enough chance for advancement. The usual complaints.”
“Uh-huh.” Cop voice was back too.
“Something wrong? About Scott I mean.”
“Not really. Tell me some more about your aunt’s tea party.”
“It’s a fund-raiser for the bookmobile. She’s even got her old friend Nigel flying over from London with fresh British treats from Harrods. The pastries from Chef Karl bring the Russian touch. She’s going to use some of the carved Russian toys in the decorations, and as soon as I get dressed, I’m going to print out those pictures of the McKenna egg. Blow them up so we can see the details. Might be a clue there. Why are you smiling?”
“Can’t help it. You
. Always looking for clues. You think like a detective. Or maybe a mystery writer.”
I couldn’t hide my own smile. He was right. And maybe O’Ryan was right too. Somehow the carved eggs had something to do with all this—the storage locker, the murdered man, the toys, maybe even the witch with pointed teeth.
Breakfast over, Pete headed for the shower and I got dressed. I’d meant what I’d said about taking a close look at those egg photos. I also planned to find out who Nikita Novikova’s five friends were. By the time Pete returned to the kitchen, I’d pulled up the photos of the nested eggs.
“Look,” I said. “Six little eggs in a row.” I zoomed in on one of them. “This one has a number three worked into the design. See it? Right next to that little flower.” I pointed. “Did the circles Scott saw on those pages have numbers?”
He pulled his notebook from his pocket. “Bingo. Some of them were numbered. He remembered that part.”
“Scott probably thought the higher numbers meant the most important TV contacts,” I said. “But what do you think they really mean?”
He shrugged. “Beats me. But don’t worry. If it’s important, we’ll figure it out.”
“We?”
“We—the police department. Not we—you and me.”
“Maybe it’ll be you, me and a certain nosy yellow cat.”
I knew that Pete had a hard time adjusting to the idea that O’Ryan wasn’t an ordinary cat, and probably an even harder time adjusting to the idea that I’m not exactly an ordinary person. I switched subjects.
“Aunt Ibby thinks they may need extra security at the library for the tea party. Would you want to do it?”
“No kidding? Why? That teapot can’t be worth a lot, can it?”
“No. It’s because of Mrs. Abney-Babcock’s china. Priceless antiques. If somebody stole the set, I guess the library insurance wouldn’t be enough to cover the loss.”
“What if somebody drops a teacup?”
“Big bucks.”
“I could work security for it, I guess, but I’ll have my tea in a paper cup, thanks.”
* * *
Pete left for work at noon and I headed downstairs. Aunt Ibby has apps for all kinds of historical documents and I thought that would be a good place to begin my search for Nikita Novikova’s five long-lost friends. At the same time I could see if that naughty cat was still hiding after his egg-tossing adventure.
My aunt was anxious to join me in the hunt for Grandpa Nick’s missing friends, and assured me that O’Ryan was happily napping on her bed, and had not molested any of her breakfast eggs. And so began the search for arrivals of Russian immigrants at Ellis Island in 1915. I had two names to start with. Novikova, of course, and on a strong hunch—the Connecticut baker’s name, Alex Chopiak.
Having a reference librarian in the family is a great advantage in this sort of search, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy! Thanks to my tech-savvy aunt’s ability, to say nothing of her vast circle of knowledgeable Facebook friends, and her full-boat membership in Ancestry.com—it took us only six hours to find the name of the ship, the names of passengers, the town and country of origin of each person aboard, names of other family members, the port of origin and the occupation of each one. Who knew we could find all that while sitting in Aunt Ibby’s office, nibbling on her first attempt at chernika tartaletki?
But find it we did.
The printer cranked out page after page of information. Novikova, the carpenter, and Chopiak, the baker, were on that ship and had each given the same Russian town of origin: Tsarskoe Selo. A quick Google search placed it as a few miles from St. Petersburg. There were four more men from Tsarskoe Selo aboard with their families: Pasternak, a horse trainer, Krupkin, a butler, Orlov, a valet, and Yakovlev, a doctor.
“Sounds as though some important somebody in Tsarskoe Selo was sending some of their household staff to America,” Aunt Ibby said. “And who among Russia’s rich and famous lived in Tsarskoe Selo in 1915?”
I knew the answer to that one. “Czar Nicholas II. Both Grandpa Nick and the baker from Connecticut claimed to work in his palace, and I’ll bet the other four did too.”
“I believe the czar and his family planned to escape to America.” Her tone was firm. “I believe he sent some staff ahead. And knowing a little of the Romanoff history, and knowing that Eric Dillon was a treasure hunter, I’ll just bet that each of them was carrying something of value. Something the czar could reclaim later. There’s still five hundred tons of Russian gold missing, you know—supposed to be on a sunken ship somewhere. I think that family was feathering nests all over the world in anticipation of escaping before the revolution. Mark my words, those six families were hiding something valuable.”
I remembered what Pete had said: “Something worth killing over.”
CHAPTER 22
“Okay,” I said. “So we’ve got the six of them and their families landing on Ellis Island in 1915. Where’d they all go from there? We know that there were Novikovas someplace in Colorado because Stasia visited from there when she was a child, and the baker wound up in Connecticut. Eric Dillon must have figured out where they all went. But how?”
“Probably the 1920 United States Census,” my aunt said. “We can figure it out too. But we’ll save that for another day. I’m tired.”
I could have kept going, but I knew things would move faster and more accurately under my aunt’s supervision. Reluctantly, I stacked the printed pages carefully, along with a few handwritten notes and put it all in a folder.
“We’re off to a good start, don’t you think?” I said.
“Very good,” she agreed.
“Do you have any idea what the six of them could be carrying—smuggling—that would be valuable? Gold maybe?”
“A large amount of gold would be heavy. The czar sent that away on trains or ships, I’m sure. It would be too easily noticed in luggage. No, it’s something fairly small. Something a wood-carver could hide in a toolbox, or a doctor might conceal in a medical bag.” She paused. “Something one could hide inside a Mickey Mouse toy—or in a carousel horse.”
“I guess we know now that’s two places where whatever it is surely isn’t.”
“Could be jewelry of some sort, I suppose.” Aunt Ibby turned off the computer and then stood. “They say there were millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds and rubies and emeralds sewn into the czar’s children’s clothing when they tried to escape on that last, sad night before the revolution.”
I followed her into the living room and thought about the poor murdered children. “Anastasia too,” I said.
“Of course Anastasia too. That reminds me. I want to show you something.” She sat on the couch and reached for a slim red-covered book on the coffee table. “Here. Sit by me.” She patted the seat beside her and handed me the book. A pretty child smiled shyly from the cover. Anastasia’s Album was the title. “See? They’ve gathered together some of her letters, drawings and photos and made it into sort of an album. Look carefully at the cover. Anything look familiar?”
The girl was posed sitting on a carpet, her lace-trimmed dress neatly arranged, curls spilling over her shoulder.
“No. Should it?”
“Took me a while to figure it out too. It’s the dress.” She flipped through the pages. “Not just that one. This one. And this. I recognized most of them.”
“The doll clothes,” I said. “They’re copies of Anastasia’s own dresses.”
“Meticulous copies,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the same person who made some of the child’s dresses, made the doll dresses too.”
“Lydia Novikova?”
“Might very well be. I’ve found a few other books showing the dresses too. Apparently, Anastasia and her sisters were the Princess Dianas of their day. Everyone was interested in where they went and what they wore. Here.” She pulled a small case from behind the couch. “See if you think I’m right.” Carefully unwrapping blue tissue paper, she held up a small pale blue
silk dress, while at the same time, displaying a page in the red book. “Of course the photos are all in black and white, but I’ll bet anything the dress Anastasia is wearing in that picture is blue.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, reaching out to touch gently the intricate hand stitching, the tiny pearl buttons on the doll dress. “This makes me think that maybe Lydia was just as important a member of the czar’s household staff as her wood-carver husband.”
“Wouldn’t that be something interesting to pursue?” My aunt sounded thoughtful, and I could almost hear those librarian wheels turning in her head. “Lydia, the seamstress, hmmm?”
“Do you remember, though, that Stasia said her grandmother lapsed into some kind of dementia? Didn’t know where she’d put things. Stasia seemed quite upset about it.”
“Yes. So sad. Even so, we may be able to figure out a few things. Perhaps I’ll call on the McKennas again. Bring them some cookies or a cake. Just a neighborly visit, you understand.”
“I understand perfectly,” I said, watching as my aunt wrapped the delicate silk dress in its blue tissue paper and replaced it in the case. “How many of those little dresses are there?”
“A dozen. All perfectly preserved too. As good as new. I wonder where the doll is.”
“Probably somewhere in Russia or else destroyed in the revolution. It must have been Anastasia’s own doll, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. When I go to visit the McKennas, do you want to come with me this time?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” I said. “What kind of cookies?”
“Snickerdoodles, I think,” she said. “Everybody likes them, and carrying cookies to a neighbor couldn’t possibly be considered meddling, now could it?”
“I’m sure it couldn’t,” I said with a straight face.
* * *
We began our census checking right after breakfast the following morning. We sat at Aunt Ibby’s round kitchen table, each with a laptop and a full cup of coffee. We divided the list. Three names each. Figuring out exactly where in this vast country six individual Russian immigrant families lived over a century ago seems as though it should be difficult, time-consuming and tedious. Thanks to the Internet and Ancestry.com it was none of those. Fill out a form with names and dates, and up comes the information, along with a view of the original handwritten census record. Amazing.
Murder Go Round Page 14