Murder Go Round

by Carol J. Perry

  “You two did pretty well on that auction, after all, didn’t you?” Pete tucked his notebook into his pocket. “When I came over to help you carry it all home, it didn’t look like much of a bargain.”

  “We got some nice items—it’s true.” Aunt Ibby lifted a forkful of moo goo gai pan. “I think if I’d known we’d be wrapped up in a murder mystery, I would have chosen something else to do that day, wouldn’t you, Maralee?”

  I thought about the dead man with the line of blood on his throat, the stolen trash, the hideous bear and even the mutilated Mickey Mouse. My “Oh, yes” was heartfelt.

  “Pete, I don’t know whether this is important or not,” my aunt said, “but we found out why Stasia was looking for doll clothes when she followed us to Goodwill.”

  Out came the notebook again. “Why was that?”

  She explained about Anastasia’s dresses and how she thought Lydia Novikova’s handiwork could be just as important as her husband’s carvings. “Lee’s probably told you, we’ve really been diving into the research lately. Stasia apparently has a doll her grandmother gave to her. It may very well have once belonged to the real Anastasia. Stasia is looking for the dresses that fit it. I want to give them to her, but I’m torn because they really belong in a museum, along with the doll.”

  “I wonder if it would be a good idea to display Stasia’s doll with the clothes and the pictures of Anastasia at the library tea,” I said. “We could advertise it. Something that rare might attract more people for your fund-raiser.”

  “You’re right.” My aunt beamed. “What a good idea, Maralee.”

  Pete’s expression grew serious. “It might even attract Boris Medvedev. I’ll definitely work security for your tea party.”

  Pete and I returned to my apartment, loaded the dishwasher and mixed together everything that was left of our Chinese feast—except for the cookies—and stuck it into one of the containers. “Take it with you for your lunch tomorrow,” I said.

  “Thanks. I will. I like it all mushed up like that.”

  “I know you do.”

  He put the carton into the refrigerator. “I hope I didn’t upset your aunt by saying Medvedev might show up at the library. Probably never will happen, but I want to be there, especially if he’s still on the loose by then. And listen, you girls did a good job with your research. Figuring out what Stasia was looking for was pretty smart.”

  With our research? He must have thought I was talking about the doll dresses when I’d started to tell him about the Russian men. I tried again. “Oh, that,” I said. “Thanks. But there’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

  “I know. You’re worried about that bear.”

  He was dead right about that. I was very worried about that bear, no matter what kind of brave face I’d been putting on.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “It was . . . disturbing.”

  He put a finger against my lips. “How about I stay here tonight . . . to protect you from lions and tigers and bears?”

  My research story could wait until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 26

  We didn’t have to worry about Boris Medvedev’s whereabouts for long. He was picked up later that same night at a bar in Gloucester. Somebody recognized him from the mug shot they’d shown on the eleven o’clock news. However, since he was just a “person of interest,” and because he denied taking the notebook after “accidentally” bumping into Scott in the station parking lot, they had to let him go after a few hours. No cause to arrest him for anything, even though Pete and I and Aunt Ibby weren’t the only ones who thought he had something to do with Eric Dillon’s murder. But he got a lawyer right away, and made a big scene at the police station, yelling in Russian and stomping around as though he was still in the wrestling ring. Some of the older guys at the station remembered him and even asked for autographs.

  Medvedev seemed to enjoy the attention. He didn’t try to hide, just strolled around as though he owned the city. According to the Salem News, people all over town were asking him to pose with them for selfies, and he even had the nerve to go to Sunday services at St. Vladimir’s. It turned out that he’d followed Aunt Ibby’s suggestion and checked with the Essex Institute about vintage amusement parks, but nobody there remembered anything out of the ordinary about his request.

  I did a little checking into Chef Karl Smith’s background on my own. I didn’t have to work very hard at it. His Facebook page told me about his days at a highly rated New England culinary college and his participation in an international baking and pastry program. He’d worked at some famous hotels and he’d even had a local TV cooking show in Boston for a while. The Russian Tea Experience next door to St. Vladimir’s was the first restaurant he’d owned outright, and from all outward signs and a slew of Yelp reviews, it was a smashing success. Nothing sinister there at all. I talked with Aunt Ibby about what I’d learned.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I’ve been checking up on him,” I told her. “It’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, but I worry about you, you know. Same as I know you do about me.”

  “Don’t mind a bit, child,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I checked up on him too. Got the same reports you did. And one more thing.”

  “What was that?”

  “He’s part of the church’s outreach program for ex-offenders. They provide programs to help people who’ve been in prison find jobs and homes and hope for the future. I think maybe the Medvedev man has been in prison and that’s how Karl knows him.”

  I remembered what Pete had told me. “He was in prison in California. Something about money laundering.”

  “You see? Karl is just a good, helpful person. You don’t need to worry about me one bit. Now tell me what Pete thought of our theory about the six Russian men carrying treasure to America for the czar. I hope he didn’t think we were meddling in police business.”

  “I never got around to telling him,” I admitted. “I started to, a couple of times, then somehow the subject got changed. We’re going to a movie tonight. I’ll tell him all about it then.”

  “Good. I’ll be interested in what he thinks. Want to work on it some more? See whatever became of the horse trainer and the doctor and the others?”

  “I’d like to,” I said. “They’ve all become quite real to me.”

  We began with Pasternak. “Look at this,” my aunt said. “He certainly did well here in a short time. When he arrived in 1915, he was a horse trainer, but he was a stable owner in 1920. Quite a leap, I should say.”

  I typed his full name into my own laptop. He even had a page on Wikipedia. Turned out that Mr. Pasternak rose from horse trainer to the owner of one of Kentucky’s most prestigious training facilities in just three years. He’d been written up quite extensively in newspapers and magazines of the early twentieth century. “In 1918, he bought the stable where he’d been employed as a groom,” I said. “What do you think of that?”

  “The revolution was going on in Russia by then,” Aunt Ibby said. “The czar was killed in 1918.”

  “Makes you wonder if he might have had something worth a lot of money, doesn’t it?” I asked. “This is getting exciting. Let’s see if any of the others came into sudden fortunes.”

  “You try the doctor,” she said. “I’ll see what I can find out about the butler.”

  Dr. Peter Yakovlev had done well in America too. He had worked as a laboratory technician at Massachusetts General Hospital, at least until 1920. But the census listed him in 1930 as an oncologist at the same hospital. By 1940, he wasn’t listed. I checked Boston newspapers for his name, thinking I’d find his obituary, but instead found another surprise. He’d been reported as a missing person in 1932. I wondered if they’d ever found him.

  Aunt Ibby had checked on both Krupkin, the butler, and Orlov, the valet. Turns out they’d both worked as extras at Paramount Pictures during the silent-movie era. Then, in 1929, they’d bought a Beverly Hills mansion together and were noted for their lavish parties. Orl
ov had died of natural causes in 1969 and Krupkin had passed away a year later.

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Some sort of hanky-panky there? I don’t think movie extras made a great deal of money back then. At least, not ‘Beverly Hills mansion’–type money.”

  “It’s all pretty fishy, isn’t it? The baker was murdered. The doctor disappeared. The horse trainer, the valet, and the butler all came up with sudden wealth, and now somebody is seriously interested in Nikita Novikova’s belongings.”

  “Can’t be all coincidental, can it?”

  “River doesn’t believe in coincidences,” I said, “and in this case I don’t either. Is there some way to dig deeper into this? To find out how three immigrants got so rich so fast? I know America is a land of opportunity, but unless they all won the lottery, this is unbelievable.”

  “I’m thinking that once they found that the czar and his family were dead, there was no point in waiting for him to collect whatever it was that they were holding for him. They probably sold it. That would account for the sudden wealth.” She turned her computer off. “Except that maybe the baker held on to whatever it was and someone took it away from him.”

  “And maybe they lost track of the wood-carver,” I said. “I hate to think of what may have become of the doctor. It wasn’t until 2007 that they found the bodies of Anastasia and her little brother. Maybe the baker, the doctor and the Novikovas thought those two kids had escaped to America, and kept their promise to the czar.”

  Aunt Ibby smiled. “I’ll check the microfilm of the 1930s Boston papers and see if your doctor ever turned up, as soon as I get a chance. But don’t forget, we’re just speculating about them making a promise to the czar, remember?”

  “You’re right.” I shook my head and closed my laptop. “All this stuff sounds like some kind of crazy fairy tale. I’m beginning to mix up what’s real and what’s imaginary.”

  “I don’t wonder,” she said. “Between your frightening visions and your poor horse getting dissected, no wonder you’re a little confused.”

  “Just the same, I need to tell Pete about Grandpa Nick’s five friends. He doesn’t believe in coincidence either. I’m going to call him and then I have to call Paul Carbone to ask how the repair is coming along. I’m sure I didn’t imagine the horse dissection.”

  “Good idea. I’m going to call Karl and see if he’s willing to cater the library tea. If he isn’t, I’ll have to make other arrangements.”

  “Maybe after your friend Nigel picks up the scones and biscuits at Harrods he can hop on over to Moscow and grab some tea cakes,” I teased.

  “Don’t think he wouldn’t, if I asked nicely.” She winked.

  “I don’t doubt it at all,” I said, and I didn’t. I was pretty sure Chef Karl was a gone goose too. I returned to my place to make the calls to Pete and the repair shop. Pete first. He answered right away.

  “Got a minute?” I asked, even though I was sure what I had to say would take more than a minute. “I think Aunt Ibby and I may have discovered something important.”

  “About Eric Dillon?”

  “About what Eric Dillon was looking for.”

  “Can it wait until tonight? I’m on my way into the interrogation room. Have to have a chat with your aunt’s new cookbook friend.”

  Why not? It’s waited about a century already.

  “Okay,” I said. “See you around eight?”

  “Eight o’clock. See ya.”

  Suddenly what he had just said registered. “Wait a minute. What was that about Chef Karl?”

  Too late.

  Click.

  He was gone.

  I hurried back downstairs to warn Aunt Ibby that her cookbook friend might be in trouble.

  CHAPTER 27

  I reported to Aunt Ibby what Pete had said and she set out for the Russian Tea Experience to see what she could learn from the staff—and “to be there when poor Karl returns.” I noodled around online for a little while, hoping to dig up some more information on the six friends, but found nothing new. My aunt was gone; Pete was working; River was asleep; Paul Carbone’s phone sent me to voice mail.

  Stasia! The thought came like a bolt of late-summer lightning. I tossed on a jacket and ran down the stairs, grabbing a Red Sox cap from the hall tree for protection against pigeon poop, hoping that she’d be on her accustomed bench.

  She was there. No stylish midi or silver belt today. She wore one of her shapeless bright print muumuus, the orange hair in disarray. Pigeons were clustered around the bench, cooing and squabbling over bits of bread. No palm-reading customers were nearby, although a small crowd of kids had gathered, watching from a respectful distance as she blew one gigantic pink bubble after another.

  I shooed a couple of birds out of the way and sat beside her. “Hi, Stasia. Can we talk?”

  She inhaled a bubble, held out one hand, palm up. “For ten dollars I can look into your future.”

  I opened my wallet. “May I ask questions?”

  “Twenty dollars,” she said, not moving her hand or changing her expression.

  I handed her two tens. “I was surprised that you were at the McKennas’. I’ll bet Colleen was glad to see you after such a long time.” She stuffed the bills into her pocket and motioned for me to show her my hand. I offered my right hand, as I had before. She studied my hand and traced a line with her forefinger.

  She looked up and her smile seemed genuine. “I was glad to see her too. And to be back in my grandparents’ house.”

  “Good memories?”

  She nodded and returned her attention to my open palm. “You want to ask a question?”

  “Yes,” I said, hoping that her answers weren’t going to cost twenty dollars apiece, and wishing I’d brought more money. “You said that Boris Medvedev was ‘an old friend of the family,’ but you obviously didn’t mean it. Was your grandfather afraid of him?”

  “I’m not sure if my grandfather ever even saw him. He showed up one day at our place in Colorado. He wanted to know what had become of Grandpa Nick’s belongings . . . especially that horse.” She dropped my hand and leaned closer, speaking softly. “Boris Medvedev was a KGB agent back then. Maybe he still is. I think my father was afraid of him.”

  “He told Medvedev that the horse was in the storage locker?”

  “Daddy didn’t know exactly where it was. He’d asked the church to store his father’s stuff. Couldn’t bear to sell it or throw it away, you know, and he figured he’d get a truck and go back to Salem and get it all someday. Anyway, St. Vlad’s had all the boxes in their basement. Then one day they called and said they needed the space. So he sent money every few years to pay in advance for storage. So he told Medvedev the truth. That it was stored somewhere around Salem. He died a while back and I came back to Salem. I was pretty sure the storage rent money was due to run out sometime this year.”

  “I suppose Medvedev figured it out too.”

  “My grandfather always told everyone that the horse was a ‘secret keeper.’ I guess that’s why some people thought there was something inside it.”

  “Mr. McKenna told us about that. But you just wanted the clothes for your doll. That’s why you were following the storage locker auctions.”

  “Exactly. I’m still looking for them.”

  “Don’t give up on that,” I said. “My aunt may have some good news about the dresses for you.”

  Her expression brightened and she took my hand again. “Really? Does she know where they are? All I’ve ever wanted from my grandparents was the doll clothes, and, oh, there was an old cuckoo clock I liked too.”

  “I definitely know where the cuckoo clock is,” I told her. “It’s in my kitchen and it still works perfectly. I’ll be happy to give it to you. My boyfriend doesn’t like it at all.”

  “Really? He doesn’t like it?” She shook her head, looking genuinely surprised, and began tracing the lines of my hand again. “Did I tell you last time that you have an optimistic outlook and a go
od sense of humor?”

  “No, but that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “In your case? It’s a very good thing you have them, because you seem to need both. Often.”

  I thought about that. She was right. I decided to push my luck—and my twenty dollars—by asking another question. “You told me once that your grandfather had the same five friends his whole life. Did you ever meet any of them?”

  “I think so. Some of them. I was very young.” She leaned back on the bench, a faraway look crossing her face. “I was visiting here for the summer. Two or three old men and they all spoke Russian. Grandpa and the men sat at the dining-room table, drinking something. Vodka, I suppose. Grandmother and I sat quietly in the corner of the room in our rocking chairs. My chair was a miniature of hers. We rocked, and they talked. I was cutting out Barbie paper dolls. She was doing needlework, some sort of patchwork. Bright colors, different patterns.” She looked down at her dress. “That’s why I like bright colors, I suppose.”

  “Could you understand what they were saying? The men and your grandfather? What they were talking about?”

  She closed her eyes. “They talked about America. The places where they lived and about their friends who had died.”

  “You mean they talked about their houses?”

  Her eyes flew open. “No. Their states. Their cities. Where they lived. That’s enough for now. Here comes one of my regular customers. Shoo now.” She flapped her hands at me as though I was one of the pigeons.

  Obediently, I stood. “I’ll come back again soon,” I told her. “We’ll talk about the doll dresses and the cuckoo clock.”

  “All right. Fine. Good-bye.” The blank look was back. She nodded toward the woman approaching the bench. “Read your palm, ma’am? Tell your future?”

  I’d learned a few new things. I didn’t know where they fit in, but I was anxious to get them onto the growing pile of index cards. I hurried home. Aunt Ibby wasn’t back yet, so the cat and I had the whole place to ourselves. I checked the living-room floor for wayward pencil sharpeners right away. Nothing out of place. I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed. Maybe I was actually looking forward to finding the little bronzed clues.