“One interesting thing he told me though.” She held up one finger. “He said he and Nick used to bet on their chess games—but only pennies. Father said that Nick had often told him he could have been a rich man if he hadn’t been so set on keeping promises.”
“That is interesting,” I said, thinking of how some of his friends had become wealthy. As she spoke, a couple of my index-card thoughts tumbled into place. “Eric Dillon told Scott he wanted a comparison picture,” I said, “and Stasia said he’d joked about betting on the wrong horse.”
Pete summed it up. “There are two horses.”
“Gotta be,” I said. “But where is the other one?”
“More important,” my aunt said, “what’s inside the other one?”
CHAPTER 33
It seemed like a good time for us to share our Fabergé egg theory with Pete, no matter how far-out it might sound. We started at the beginning and told him, in tag team fashion, everything we’d discovered and intuited, while Pete listened, not taking notes. Just listening.
“So you think this czar gave a half-dozen ordinary guys who worked for him these valuable egg things to take to America, and planned to collect them later when he and his family escaped from Russia?”
“Right,” I said.
“Not out of character at all,” my aunt added. “Nicholas II shipped literal trainloads of gold out of the country too. The revolutionists confiscated some of his treasure, but much of it’s never been found—including at least six Fabergé eggs worth millions.”
Pete was quiet for a moment. “You two think some of these guys sold their eggs and some of them held on to them.”
“We do,” I said. “We think Eric Dillon had the same idea. We think he’d probably already figured out what happened to five of them. He was looking for the sixth egg. Here in Salem. But he was wrong.”
“He was trying to sneak a quick picture of Old Paint so he could get out of town to look for the twin before anyone else did. That’s when he got killed,” Pete said, almost to himself.
From the kitchen came Cuckoo’s announcement that it was three thirty. Aunt Ibby stood, brushing a bit of potting soil from her skirt. “Oh, dear. Karl is coming over at four. He has some new cookie samples for me to consider. I’d best be getting downstairs. Your horse is wonderful, dear. Pete, do think about what we’ve said. I’ll go down the back stairs.” She pulled open the living-room door. O’Ryan darted out ahead of her. “Why don’t you both come down and join us? We value your input, and I know you’ll enjoy sampling the goodies.”
Pete stood and politely agreed to think about eggs. I couldn’t tell whether he was serious or not. “I’m not crazy about that Karl character hanging around here,” he said after she’d left. “Let’s take her up on that invitation. Kind of keep an eye on things.”
“Okay. I forgot to tell her I have one of Karl’s recipes. He dropped it on the Common. He might need it.”
He smiled. “I wonder if he’s bringing over any more of those powdered-sugar things. Want to tell me some more about what you two have been up to while you weren’t meddling in police work?”
“Okay. I’ve wanted to talk to you about it, but some of it sounds kind of nutty. Come on out to the kitchen. I’ll show you my collection of index cards.”
For the next half hour we sat at the kitchen table as Pete pored over my cards, asking a question once in a while, and occasionally copying a few words into his own notebook. He stacked them together in one pile, and pushed them toward me. “Did I ever tell you—”
“That I’d make a good cop?” I smiled. “Yes, you have, and I still don’t want the job, thank you,” I said. “But tell me, what do you think? About the six friends? About the eggs?”
“Well, it’s better than anything I’ve come up with. I’ll run it by the chief as soon as I can figure out how to do it without mentioning the embroidered quilt, the palm-reading bubblegum lady, the bear in the store window and the pointy-teethed witch.”
“I’m glad I told you,” I said. “I don’t like keeping anything from you.”
“I don’t like keeping things from you either,” he said, “but sometimes I have to.” He stood and came around to my side of the table.
“I understand.” I stood facing him.
“But you don’t like it.”
“Not one darned bit.”
He pulled me close and kissed the top of my head. “Deal with it. Let’s go downstairs and get some of those cookies.”
Cuckoo announced four o’clock. Pete watched the clock bird as she popped back and forth on her little wooden perch. “Do you know how often I’ve been tempted to shoot that thing?”
“I forgot to tell you. I’ve promised to give her to Stasia.”
“Best news I’ve heard all day.”
“I’ll go get that recipe for Karl.” I went to the bedroom and removed the folded sheet from my jacket pocket. “Karl doesn’t read Russian, so he has Stasia translate the recipes into English for him.” I opened the paper and smoothed it out.
“Where did you say you got this?” He moved closer, squinting at it.
“At the Common. Karl had a bunch of them for Stasia to translate. He must have dropped this one when he left. I picked it up off the ground.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I can arrest the chef for littering. Can’t seem to pin anything else on him . . . or his big, bearded friend.” He reached for the paper. “Mind if I look at this?”
I handed it to him. He turned it over. “Wait a minute. This is supposed to be a Russian recipe?”
“Right. Stasia translates the Russian into English for him.”
“So the original recipe, or whatever it is, would be centered on the page, and the corrections or translation would be the handwriting between the lines or in the margins.”
“Sure.” This seemed pretty basic to me, so I wondered why he was confused.
“Did you read this?”
“Nope. Not interested. I can’t read Russian and I don’t cook.”
He put the paper on the table. “What does this look like to you?”
It took about half a second to see what was wrong. The writing in the center definitely was English and the writing in the margins and between the lines definitely was not.
“She’s translating English to Russian for him,” I said. “How can that be? He doesn’t understand Russian.”
“So he says.” Pete picked the paper up again, holding it carefully by one edge. “And this isn’t a recipe.”
“What is it?”
“Looks like some names and telephone numbers. I think it’s a page from Eric Dillon’s missing notebook, with the English names translated into Russian. See? Eva is Eba, and Anna is Ahha. Got a plastic bag?”
“There are some over there in the cabinet.” I pointed. “Take your pick. Sandwich, quart, gallon, freezer—I have all kinds. All sizes.”
Pete stood with the cabinet door open, debating bag choices. He held up a quart-sized, sealable clear bag. “This looks about right.” He slipped the page into it. “Perfect fit.”
“Are you going to ask Karl about it tonight?”
He put his finger to his lips. “I think we’ll let it stay lost for a little while longer. Let’s just keep quiet about this until I do a little checking. As far as the law is concerned, it’s just a stray piece of litter you picked up from the Salem Common.”
He was right, of course.
“So we just go down to Aunt Ibby’s and eat cookies and be polite?”
“Eat cookies, be polite and listen.”
“That’s pretty much what Barbara Walters says.”
He raised one eyebrow, but didn’t ask what the hell Barbara Walters had to do with anything. He put the bagged letter on top of the refrigerator. “Where the cat can’t get it,” he said. “Let’s go downstairs.”
The meeting was in Aunt Ibby’s kitchen this time. Mrs. Abney-Babcock wasn’t there and there was no representative of New Scotland Yard on speakerphone, so the atmosp
here was a little less formal than the previous planning event had been. My aunt had made coffee and once again a silver platter of beautiful pastries held center stage. O’Ryan was curled up, sound asleep, on the seat of one of the captain’s chairs.
“I’m so glad you could join us,” my aunt said. “I guess you all know each other.”
Karl looked uncomfortable. I couldn’t blame him. The last time he’d seen Pete, he’d been getting fingerprinted and having a swab stuck into his mouth. I knew what that was like. It had happened to me the first day I’d met Pete.
But Pete smiled, shook Karl’s hand, sipped on his coffee and reached for one of the little powdered-sugar things. And listened.
With the library high tea just days away, it was crunch time and even my usually unflappable aunt appeared a bit unsettled. There were several yellow lined legal pads and a copper mug full of sharp pencils in front of her. She passed a pad and pencil to each of us. “This is a last-minute brainstorming session,” she said, “to be sure we’ve thought of everything we can do to make this fund-raiser a success.”
“Shall we just toss ideas around,” I asked, “or make notes first and talk later?”
“Ideas,” she said. “Let’s first see if we agree on the menu.” She passed a sheet of copy paper to each of us. “I’ve noted the pastries we’ve approved so far. Of course we’re trusting Nigel with the Harrods selection. What we need to do with Karl’s offerings”—she smiled in the chef’s direction—“is narrow the field down to the very best ones.”
“Why narrow it down?” Pete asked. “They’re all good.”
“Thank you, Detective.” The chef sounded pleased by the compliment. “But some are better than others. May I select those I feel would make the best impression?”
“Please do,” my aunt said. “You are certainly the best judge of that.”
Karl picked up his pencil and began to write rapidly on his pad.
“How about security?” She looked at Pete. “I understand that you’ll be there?”
“All arranged,” he said. “I’ll do the inside duty, but if you want an officer to direct the traffic out front, you’ll need to call the department. Can you get some volunteers to take care of the parking?”
“I’ve done so and I believe Mrs. Abney-Babcock’s insurance company has arranged for some sort of private security for her china.”
“With all that, plus Scotland Yard on duty,” I said. “The library will be the safest place in town.”
“Agreed,” my aunt said. “Now there’s one more thing I want to discuss with you all. There is a possibility that a doll that once belonged to the Grand Duchess Anastasia, with a complete wardrobe of handmade dresses, might be available for display.” She looked at me. “If we can arrange it, do you think it would attract more of a crowd than just tea and cakes and matryoshkas?”
Karl put down his pencil. “You know where such a doll is?”
O’Ryan sat up, stretched and raced for the front hall.
“Somebody must be coming,” I said. “Are we expecting anyone?”
“If I’m right, that might be Anastasia’s doll now.” My aunt clasped her hands together and stood up, just as the doorbell chimed “The Impossible Dream.”
“Pete, would you answer the door?”
Pete followed the cat while Aunt Ibby opened a nearby cabinet. She lifted out a clear plastic box and placed it on the table. Tissue-wrapped parcels were visible inside. She winked in my direction. “After I met with Father Richard, I stopped at the Common and had a talk with Stasia. I think she’s here with her doll.”
Of course she was right. Pete escorted the woman into the kitchen. If he was surprised to see Stasia there, he didn’t show it. O’Ryan resumed his place on the captain’s chair and sat up straight, once again turning that golden-eyed stare on Karl Smith. I’d expected the doll to be kept in a box of some kind, but it was wrapped in a pink blanket and Stasia held it against her shoulder as one would carry an infant. She approached the table and reached a tentative hand toward the plastic box. “My dresses?” Her voice was a whisper. Then louder: “They’re really the ones my grandmother sewed for her? For Anastasia?”
“I’m sure they are. Come and sit by me, Stasia. Will you tell us about your doll?”
She did as my aunt asked. Sitting down, she removed the pink blanket, revealing the doll’s sweet porcelain features, strawberry blond hair and blue glass eyes. It was dressed in a white chemise. Lace-trimmed pantalets peeked from beneath, and tiny white kid boots, slightly yellowed with age, covered porcelain feet. I knew the doll had to be over a century old, but it looked almost new.
My aunt echoed my thought. “She looks like new, Stasia.”
“I’ve taken good care of her. May I see the clothes?”
“Of course. Here they are. All yours.” She pushed the box closer.
One by one, Stasia lifted the dresses from the box and held them in front of her doll. “My grandmother told me when she gave me the doll that I could have the clothes too, but she’d forgotten where she’d put them.” She pressed a pale yellow long-sleeved dress to her cheek, stroking the soft fabric lovingly. “She was quite crazy by then. She even thought she might have put them into the refrigerator.” She laughed and picked up another dress. “She told me they might be with the eggs. Silly me, I really looked there.” Another laugh. “Now here they are after all these years. How can I thank you?” She carefully rewrapped each dress in tissue and put it back into the box.
Pete, Aunt Ibby and I looked at one another. Karl Smith’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward. His voice was harsh. “Your grandmother said that? They might be with the eggs? Are you sure?”
Stasia held her doll closer. “What do you care, Karl? It’s none of your business. I told you, she was crazy. Who would put these beautiful things in the refrigerator? She only gave me the doll because she thought I was the real Anastasia.”
The chef’s eyes shifted rapidly from left to right, then focused on the doll. With a much softer tone, he apologized. “I’m sorry, Stasia. It was just such an odd thing for your grandmother to say.” A nervous laugh. “The refrigerator indeed!”
“Well, then.” My aunt broke an awkward silence. “May we have your permission to display the doll in the library? It would just be for the one evening. A few hours at the most. Before you arrived, we were discussing the extraordinary security that will be in place. As my niece said, the library will be the safest place in town.”
Stasia agreed to the arrangement, but declined to comment on my aunt’s suggestion that the best and safest place for the doll and her wardrobe would be in a museum setting. I promised to prepare a new press release and some more ads featuring the doll.
“I can probably get a few spots on WICH-TV. I’ll need a couple of pictures of her,” I said. “My camera is upstairs. Let’s go up and dress her in something pretty. Come on, Stasia.”
I picked up the box of dresses and Stasia wrapped the doll in the pink blanket. “We’ll be right back,” I said. “Don’t eat all the goodies while we’re gone.” With O’Ryan following, we climbed the front staircase to the third floor.
I’m convinced that grown-up women don’t ever lose their love of playing dolls. At least I was sure I hadn’t. We brought the doll—Stasia said her name was Tatiana—into my room and spread the twelve tissue-wrapped parcels on the bed. “I’ve waited a very long time for this,” Stasia said, carefully unwrapping the blue lace dress with the pearl buttons.
“I know. We have a book with a photo of Anastasia wearing a dress exactly like that one.”
“My grandmother told me that the dresses were just like the ones she’d made for Anastasia back in the old country. So it’s true?”
“We think so. I’m sure my aunt will show you the book. Shall we dress her in the blue dress then?”
“Yes. I think my grandmother would like that. She used to make clothes for me too, you know.”
“How nice. I’ll bet they were beautiful.”
/>
“They were. But of course mine didn’t have jewels sewed inside them.”
“Jewels?”
“Yes. She told me that long ago the czar had told her to make special underwear for all of his children. Underwear with jewels sewed inside. She said she thought it was for them to wear in case they had to escape someday.” Stasia carefully pulled Tatiana’s arms through the sleeves of the blue dress.
“I’ve read about that,” I said. “So Lydia sewed those clothes?”
“That’s what she said.” She secured tiny pearl buttons, then held the doll up for my inspection. “There now. She looks perfect, doesn’t she?”
“Perfect,” I said. Tatiana looked absolutely museum-worthy and I hoped that Stasia would agree to my aunt’s idea of permanently housing her in a secure environment. “Let’s go back downstairs and pose her on one of my aunt’s antique chairs.”
As I spoke, Cuckoo chirped out the half-hour mark and Stasia turned toward the sound. “That’s it. It’s the same clock, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Come on out to the kitchen and see for yourself.”
“You said I could have it . . . the clock?” She sounded doubtful.
“Of course you may. You have your hands full right now, with Tatiana and the box of clothes. But I’ll take it down from the wall and get it to you tomorrow. How’s that?”
“Can I just look at it for a minute? So many memories. It used to be in my grandmother’s room. She loved the sound, even when she was old and confused.”
There were tears in her eyes. I almost wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but I knew she’d be embarrassed. Stasia stood in front of the clock, smiling a little. “It’s nice to see it again,” she said, and carrying the doll cradled in one arm and the plastic box under the other, followed me downstairs.
Murder Go Round Page 22