“I’m thinking of asking him to cater an event at the library with me. Just the pastries and maybe that delicious tea they serve.” Aunt Ibby reluctantly let go of the corner of Colleen’s tablecloth. “Thank you for showing this to us, Colleen. Could I snap a photo of it?”
If she hadn’t asked, I would have. I’d recognized the same little flower with a 3 woven through it that I could see on the wooden eggs. Colleen stood and held the cloth with outstretched arms so that most of the embroidery was visible. My aunt took several pictures, then Colleen resumed her careful folding. Stasia reached out and touched the soft linen fabric just before Colleen wrapped it, once again in tissue, and slipped it back into her bag.
“You be sure to let us know when that library thing is happening, won’t you?” Mrs. McKenna smiled. “I’d go anywhere for Karl’s Russian tea cakes. They just melt in your mouth.”
“I’ll be sure we include them. Thank you so much for welcoming us to your home. It’s been such a pleasure meeting all of you.” Aunt Ibby stood and I took the cue. Time to leave. Whether it was a matter of proper etiquette, or whether she had some other reason to leave with questions still unanswered, I couldn’t tell. I stood and shook hands with the three women, promising to stay in touch—and meaning it sincerely.
Colleen escorted us down the long hall, past the gallery of photos. I paused to look at them. They ranged from recent shots of Kevin and Colin to some 1960s-looking wedding portraits and some old black-and-white photos. “What an interesting display. It’s like a family history on the wall.”
“Thank you for noticing, Lee. Not just our family. There are a few that the Novikovas gave to Mother, so it’s more like a ‘house history.’ There’s Grandpa Nick and Lydia sitting on the back porch with me when I was little.” She pointed at a faded black-and-white photo. “You’ll be interested in this one. It shows Grandpa Nick carving your horse.” I peered at the picture. The lines of my horse were recognizable, even the little rose—but there was no paint on him at all. The man posing with the horse held a small chisel in one hand and a long knife in the other.
“Thanks for pointing it out. May I take a picture of it?”
Colleen gave permission, then led us to the front door and stood in the doorway, waving as we headed down Williams Street. Stasia stayed behind, and I was pleased by that. The two friends had been estranged for far too many years, no matter what the reason. I hoped they’d resume the childhood relationship.
“What did you think about all that?” Aunt Ibby asked as we approached Washington Square. “Were you as surprised as I was to see Stasia Novikova there? Such a well-dressed and well-spoken Stasia at that.”
“I was surprised to hear her say that we’re probably right about the czar plotting an escape to America, but I was mostly surprised that she knows the mysterious Boris. I texted Pete about it.”
“Good. Do you think that Boris person would be apt to bother the McKennas?”
“I kind of doubt it. It’s been such a long time since the Novikovas moved out of the house, but I’m going to tell Pete what Stasia said about him. Aren’t you going to tell her that you have the doll clothes she’s looking for?”
“Yes. In good time. The tablecloth is magnificent, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. I’m really glad you took those photos.”
“Any special reason?”
I told her about the number 3 and the flower I’d seen on the carved egg. “The same pattern is on the tablecloth. I think it might be important—I just can’t figure out how. There are so many things I can’t figure out lately.”
“Is something wrong, dear? You sound anxious.”
“You know how I’ve told you that the visions come suddenly sometimes—at the darnedest times and in the darnedest places. I hate it when they just pop in and out like that. I thought maybe if I learned to call them up, it would keep them from surprising me—scaring me.”
“Of course. Do you mean you’ve seen something . . . recently?”
“Very recently. It was while we were sitting at Mrs. McKenna’s table. In the glass-fronted china cabinet, right behind Stasia.”
“Oh, my dear! You’ve certainly learned to control your emotions awfully well. You must have been frightened, but you didn’t show it at all.”
“Stasia noticed, but she took it as my surprise at seeing her there. But it wasn’t her.” I closed my eyes, seeing again the bear’s terrible head, the hideous teeth. “It was a bear. A big, mean black bear. Want to take a guess as to what that’s supposed to mean? I sure don’t have a clue.”
She stopped walking and grasped my arm tightly. “Medvedev,” she said. “Medvedev.”
“Boris Medvedev? What about him?”
“His name. Medvedev means ‘bear’ in Russian.”
CHAPTER 25
By the time we’d reached home, I’d elaborated a little about the image of the bear I’d seen. I gave her the whole yellow-teeth, saliva-dripping jaws, furious-eyed beast description. We were in the front hall when Pete texted me back: Thx, LvU
The message quickly erased the slobbering bear/beast image from my mind, but not Aunt Ibby’s. “Maralee, how absolutely terrifying for you.” She grasped my arm. “I’m so sorry that you’re burdened with this . . . this thing you have. You must be so frightened. What can we do?”
I patted her hand. “The images are always metaphorical. I’m not going to be eaten by a bear. It was just giving me the man’s name. Medvedev. Bear. It’s going to be okay. Pete’s on it. Don’t worry.”
I hoped we really didn’t have to worry. That bear may have been a metaphor, but it was definitely not a nice bear.
“If you say so.” She didn’t sound convinced. “It was interesting meeting Stasia today. She didn’t look or sound at all crazy.”
“I know. She’s a puzzle, all right. I think maybe it’s a charade, a disguise. Can’t imagine why though.”
“That tablecloth is a marvel, isn’t it? Looks like a museum piece. Maybe I should be more careful with my quilt.”
“You’ll have to talk the cat out of sleeping on it.”
“I know. He loves it.” The cat in question met us at the back door. I headed up to my place with O’Ryan bounding ahead.
* * *
It was Chinese-food night for me and Pete—his turn to pick it up. I could hardly wait for him to arrive—mostly because I love him, of course, but partly because I wanted to hear what he’d been able to learn about Boris Medvedev. I was pretty sure he’d share some more information about this case with me. After all, I was the one who’d come up with the last name! I hadn’t said anything to Aunt Ibby about it, but I was suspicious that her new friend Chef Karl wasn’t being exactly forthcoming about his connection to the bearded, old wrestler. His explanation about how he happened to be out collecting other people’s trash in the middle of the night didn’t make much sense to me, and I was confident the police would want to take another look at his flimsy excuse.
Pete arrived, bearing a shopping bag filled with those enticing, slant-sided, wire-handled boxes with the picture of a pagoda on the front, along with fortune cookies and two pairs of chopsticks. “I was hungry,” he said, grinning. “Besides, there was a special on the crab Rangoon.” He put the bag on the counter and pulled me close for a long kiss—one that was certain to delay dinner.
Oh, well, that’s what microwaves are for.
* * *
Pete had made a delicious selection of Asian goodies and reheating didn’t hurt them one bit. We sat at the Lucite table, with O’Ryan lurking below, hoping for a stray shrimp or morsel of chicken to be dropped his way. Pete thanked me again for giving him Medvedev’s name.
“Guy’s got a record from Miami to Moscow. How did you find out that he was an old-time wrestler? He doesn’t look much like he did when he was young. Did somebody you know recognize him? Scott Palmer, maybe?” He frowned. “If it was him, he should have called us first.”
“No. Not Scott. I’m sure he would
have called you. It was Stasia.” I told him about our visit with the McKennas, and how Stasia had surprised everybody by showing up. “She was quite talkative, and, Pete, she’s not as nutty as everyone thinks. In fact, I doubt that she’s crazy at all.”
“Tell me what she said. Do you think she knows something about Dillon’s murder? I hate to bring her in for questioning. Every time we talk to her, she stares into space, blows bubbles and babbles nonsense. You think it’s an act?”
“I do. It’s as if she’s hiding behind a mask, covering up the real Stasia. I didn’t catch any connection to the murder, but she knows Medvedev. Apparently, she’s known him since she was a child. The reason she went to the McKennas’ today was to warn them about him. She thinks he may come looking for something hidden in their house. Do you think you could ask for an extra patrol around Williams Street until you find him?”
“Maybe. I’ll check into it. What’s he looking for?”
“She doesn’t know. But she knows now that whatever it is wasn’t inside my horse. Seemed surprised by that—and even a bit annoyed.”
“No kidding. I guess Eric Dillon didn’t know it was empty either, and whoever broke into Paul’s place sure thought there was something in it.”
“Guess they were all wrong. Aunt Ibby and I have a kind of theory about the treasures Dillon might have been tracking,” I said, thinking of our hours of careful study on the six Russian friends and their journey to America. “Want to hear it?”
His smile was just short of condescending. “Sure, Nancy. Tell me about it.”
I was a little ticked off by his attitude and changed my mind about sharing what we’d learned. The information would keep and maybe it wasn’t even important anyway. “On second thought our theory isn’t quite ready for prime time. I think we need a little more research. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“As long as it’s just research, librarian stuff, nothing you can get hurt doing.”
“Just ‘librarian stuff,’” I agreed.
“You two be careful. We’re talking about murder here. We found that stolen van, you know, wiped clean and burned. Hardly anything left of it.” He wore his cop face for a second, then smiled and handed me a fortune cookie and took one for himself. We always open them together. Mine said, Prepare for the unexpected. Pete’s was Take a break and enjoy your life.
“I’m already enjoying my life,” he said, giving me one of those heart-melting smiles that made me forget I’d been annoyed with him a few seconds earlier. “But I don’t think taking a break is anywhere in my near future. What about you? Prepared for the ‘unexpected’?”
“I doubt it. Who is? But I guess I should tell you I . . . um . . . saw something ‘unexpected’ today.”
“A vision? What was it?”
I told him about the bear I’d seen in the glass behind Stasia. “I had no idea what it could mean, but Aunt Ibby figured it out right away. Medvedev means ‘bear’ in Russian. But what was an old wrestler looking for in our trash? And what about Karl Smith? I don’t think it’s possible that he doesn’t know who Boris really is.” O’Ryan had hopped from under the table, up into my lap when I started to describe the bear. “Yes, O’Ryan. I know. You were right about the bear.”
Pete raised an eyebrow. “The cat knew about the bear?”
“There was a teddy bear pencil sharpener on the floor this morning.”
“That cat! Anyway, we ran a quick check on Medvedev as soon as I got your message. He came here from Russia, was billed as ‘the Russian Bear’ and was pretty popular on the wrestling circuit back in the seventies. Bad guy, of course. Chief saw him wrestle once at the old Salem Arena. He says the ref had to stop the match because of the illegal choke hold Boris had on some poor guy. Anyway, he eventually killed somebody in the ring, and that was the end of his career in the States.”
“He killed somebody in a wrestling match?”
“Sure did. After that, it looks like he went back to Russia. We understand that he still had some KGB connections there.” He shrugged. “Maybe he still does. Anyway, he showed up in California a couple of years ago—joined up with the Russian Mafia. They call it Bratva—‘brotherhood.’ Medvedev is what they call a ‘fixer.’ If there’s enough money involved, he’ll get you whatever you want. No rough stuff out there though. Did a little time for trying to buy a submarine for a drug dealer. But at least now we have some fairly recent mug shots. That should help someone ID him.”
“How about Karl Smith? What’s up with him?”
“No record we can find, and Smith’s sticking to his story that he doesn’t know Boris’s last name.”
“You believe him?”
He shrugged and reached for another fortune cookie. “It’s not my job to believe him or disbelieve him—or Palmer or this Boris guy when we catch him. I just take their statements. Try to get the facts.”
I took that as a signal that he wasn’t going to discuss police business any further. It was okay. I was surprised he’d shared as much as he had. I guessed it was because of the Russian Bear lead I’d given him. I still had a lot of questions about Karl Smith though. If my aunt was actually going to collaborate with him on the cookbook and the library tea, I thought we needed to know a lot more than that Chef Karl’s Russian tea cakes would melt in your mouth.
“I think I’ll check with Paul tomorrow and see how he’s coming along with the restoration,” I said.
“I stopped by the shop this morning,” Pete said. “The forensics team finished with their work on the murder site, so things are back to normal over there.”
I decided to push my luck. “Did they find anything useful?”
“Nothing they didn’t get on the first day. Dillon’s camera minus the memory card and the vomit sample.”
“Vomit?”
“Oops. Sorry. You still eating?”
“No. It’s just I didn’t know about that. The paper didn’t say anything about it.”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Forget it.”
“Was it his? Eric Dillon’s? From being choked like that?”
“No. Forget it.” This time the “forget it” was in a tone of voice that convinced me I wasn’t going to get any more information about the crime scene. Time for a subject change.
“I can hardly wait to see my horse looking like he did when he was new,” I said. “You won’t be able to call him Old Paint anymore.”
“I know. I bet the old man would have been happy about it being restored.”
“I saw a photo of my horse today without any paint at all on him. Mr. McKenna told Aunt Ibby that Nikita said the horse used to be on a merry-go-round and he was going to fix it up someday and put it back where it belonged.”
“I remember. But did anyone explain just where that might be?”
“No. Sorry. It might have been made for the Willows carousel. Why? Is it important?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Didn’t your aunt say that the bearded man she saw in the library was looking for information on old amusement parks? Places where merry-go-rounds belong?”
“You’re right. She did. Want to go downstairs and talk to her about it?”
“It’s not too late, is it?” As if in answer to his question, Cuckoo announced nine o’clock.
“Still early,” I said. “I’ll call her.”
Aunt Ibby said she’d love to see us both, and if we had any Chinese food left over, she wouldn’t mind having a taste. Pete grabbed his pen and notebook while I arranged a plate, from chicken fried rice to crab Rangoon, bagged a few fortune cookies, and we, with O’Ryan following, headed down the front staircase.
Aunt Ibby is always happy to be consulted on just about any topic—maybe from long years as a reference librarian. Between bites of egg roll she recounted her front-gate conversation with Mr. McKenna. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to talk about the experience with you, Pete.”
Pete scribbled in his notebook. “You told Lee about seeing a man who might have been this Boris Medve
dev in the library once. Could you tell me about that?”
“I’m sure now that it was the same man, and I wish I’d paid more attention, or been more observant, but”—she spread her hands apart—“the request wasn’t a bit out of the ordinary. The only reason I remember him was the bushy beard.”
I thought of how she’d remembered Colleen McKenna’s college major. “Aunt Ibby’s memory is very accurate,” I told Pete. “Even if a lot of time has passed.”
He nodded. “I know. Go on, Miss Russell.”
“It’s just as she told you. The man asked for information and pictures of vintage amusement parks. He mentioned Salem Willows in particular. I showed him what we had, which, considering that the place is right here in Salem, was less than I would have hoped.” She paused for a sip of tea. “We’ve corrected that oversight since. But at the time, all I could offer was the suggestion that he go to the Essex Institute. They have such a wealth of local historical material. I suspect that he went there, but you’d have to check with them.”
“We did,” he said. “We had no dates to go by and no last name. Though they do keep records of people who consult things in the archives there, it seemed like a wild-goose chase. Now that we have recent photos of Medvedev and his full name, maybe we’ll have better luck finding out just what he was looking for.”
My aunt looked back and forth between Pete and me. “Did Maralee tell you anything about what she saw this afternoon? When we were at the McKennas’?”
“The bear? Yes, she did.” He looked uncomfortable.
“It was just a metaphor,” I said. “A way of giving me the man’s name. And it worked just fine. Nothing to worry about.”
“I’m sure we don’t have to worry about bears wandering around in Salem, but, Miss Russell, Lee tells me you’ve found a cookbook buddy. That right?”
“Oh, yes. Chef Karl. Such a talented man. We’re going to meet at the library tomorrow to work on his index. A cookbook index can be quite a chore, you know.” She sighed briefly, then brightened. “I hope to convince him to cater the tea. Authentic Russian pastries will add just the perfect touch to the toys and my samovar.”
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