Trusting Viktor (A Cleo Cooper Mystery)

by Mims, Lee

  I looked at my son expectantly. “Maybe. I’m thinking about it. I love Miami, but it’d be nice to be back in my old stomping grounds.”

  Tulip bounded up and dropped her ball at my feet. I picked it up and said, “Here’s an idea. I’ll take Tulip with me. That way she’ll get a twofer: she can spend time with me and slobber on the windows. You two follow. We’ll stop at our favorite barbeque place on the way, eat on those picnic tables out back so she can join us.” They looked somewhat appeased, but not totally happy. “Don’t worry,” I added, “it’s not that long. You guys can move back in just a few more days and we can spend the rest of the summer together. I shouldn’t have to go out to the Magellan very much once we’ve locked in our location.”

  And so we set off. After a deliciously messy diner dinner roughly halfway between Morehead City and Raleigh, we parted company again. I kept Tulip with me, planning to drop her off at Henri’s place before returning to Morehead tomorrow. Forty-five minutes later, we pulled into the drive at the house in Raleigh. Tulip was having a fit to get out, so I reached over and opened the passenger door for her. She trotted nervously around the house, checking all the strange smells in her territory. Bleeping the garage door open, I drove in.

  Dodging piles of folded painting tarps—removed from the shrubbery for the weekend—paint cans, sawhorses, and a slew of other equipment necessary for remodeling work, I clomped up the steps and stuck my key in the lock to the kitchen door. As soon as I stepped inside, I could tell something more than remodeling was amiss.

  The aroma of my spaghetti sauce was unmistakable. Checking the sink, I found a single dirty plate, a fork, and a wine glass in one side and one of my individual baked spaghetti casserole dishes soaking in the other. My enormous powers of deductive reasoning told me only one person had eaten here. Had one of the contractors gotten hungry? Unprofessional maybe, but plausible. If that wasn’t the case, however, I needed to be prepared.

  With the stealth of a cat burglar, I lifted Will’s old baseball bat from the umbrella stand by the door where it had lived since he was eight. I crept into the great room.

  At first glance, nothing was out of place. Then I heard a low rumble … a growl? I cursed myself for not bringing Tulip in with me. I was just turning to go get her when I heard the growl again, this time accompanied by a snort.

  I took a few steps farther into the room, but no one was there. Then I heard a shuffling sound on the couch, which faced away from me. Something was there and in a flash I knew just what it was. An opossum or a raccoon had wandered in an open door while the workmen were here! Holding the bat in front of me at the ready—they can carry rabies, you know—I tiptoed to the back of the couch and looked over it.

  Bud gave another snort, this time a horrendous one, eliciting a blood-curdling shriek from me.

  Springing to a sitting position, Bud yelped, “What? What?” and cracked his head against the bat I was still stiff-arming in front of me. He gave me an incredulous look, then flopped back among the pillows.

  “Oops,” I said.

  No response from my victim.

  “Bud?” I prodded him weakly with the bat.

  He opened his eyes—I swore they were crossed—and gawked at me. “Good God, Cleo, you almost cracked my skull!” He rubbed the top of his head and checked his fingers for blood.

  “Good God yourself! You’re lucky I didn’t. What in the hell are you doing here?”

  For a second his face was blank, then his features transformed into their let-me-think-of-something-quick expression. I’d had a lot of experience with that face, so I stopped the wheels from grinding. “Bud! Why are you here?” I demanded.

  “Uh, I came by to check on your renovation. You know, making sure everything is getting done just like you want it.”

  “Nice try,” I said, “except you don’t know how I want things done around here. So tell me why you’re really taking a snooze on my couch instead of being at your own house. Oh wait, let me guess, your little friend is wearing you out and you had to seek refuge somewhere she wouldn’t find you, right?”

  Bud swung his feet to the floor, still rubbing his noggin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, what makes you think I’m not the one wearing my little friend out? Hmm?”

  Looking straight at his crotch, I said, “I’m sure you are.”

  “Oh, very funny, and really mature,” sputtered Bud. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Besides, you should be extremely grateful that Amanda wants to help me wrap up this project—”

  “Oh my lord!” I said, resisting the urge to raise the bat again. “Are you trying to tell me you’re taking one for the team? I’ve heard lots of excuses for male mid-life crisis, but this takes the cake.”

  Bud reddened and his ears all but steamed. I was about to remind him about being in those heart attack years when Tulip came to our rescue, barking at the back door.

  When I let her in, she took off for the great room, bristling back and neck hairs. As I put the bat away, I heard their rowdy reunion, with Bud cooing to her, “There’s my girl! Least someone’s glad to see me.”

  When he found me in the kitchen—cleaning up his mess, by the way—Bud had regained his composure. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. I filled Tulip’s water bowl and gave it to her. She lapped up a drink, her tags clinking against the stainless steel.

  Bud said, “Maybe we need to talk, babe.”

  Calmly, I walked to the back door, opened it again, and stood beside it. “Nope,” I said. “I think we’re done here.”

  Bud did whatever Bud does to make the tendons flex in his jaw, propelled himself from the counter, and left. Still calmly, but also tired—it had been a long day—I finished tidying up the remains of his uninvited drop-in.

  Tulip and I spent a pleasant night in our own digs, but bright and early Monday morning, after a lengthy discussion with the contractors, I carried her back to Henri’s house and dropped her off. Although I said I was headed straight back to Morehead, I drove instead to the old Raleigh neighborhood of postwar houses that I thought might be a good place to start looking for the one-time home of one of Southern Women’s College’s most popular French professors. Don’t ask me why I wanted to find it. Maybe I just needed to see that it really existed.

  Passing the campus, I drove several more blocks until I came to the neighborhood I was looking for and started a search, driving slowly up and down the streets. I was keeping my eye out for a yellow cottage with a crepe myrtle in front. The fact that Lucy had seen it more than fifty years before somehow wasn’t a deterrent. Or maybe I should say it wasn’t logic that was driving my curiosity.

  After cruising the streets closest to the campus, I saw nothing that I thought might fit Lucy’s description of Professor Dubois’s cottage, so I expanded my search a few more blocks. Pulling down a quiet tree-lined street I listened to a classic rock station. Tapping my fingers idly as the Big Bopper sang “Chantilly Lace,” I spotted a young man walk up the drive of a house, not yellow but with one important feature I could see from where I sat—a towering crepe myrtle tree.

  The largest of many dotting yards along the street, the tree was a blaze of fuchsia. But then the object of my interest disappeared behind an overgrown hedgerow dividing his yard from the neighbors. From where I was stopped I couldn’t see past it, so I slowly edged forward. What came into view then was worth the wait.

  A cream-colored bungalow snuggled under the immense crepe myrtle tree. Additionally, it had tapered wooden columns with stone bases, just as Lucy had described from her memory of the house. The more I studied it, the more convinced I became I’d found the dwelling of the former German French-language professor who’d somehow escaped death during the sinking of U-498 some 40 miles off the coast of Hatteras.

  But was it just wishful thinking? I had no proof, only my hunch. Mystery novels always seem
ed so full of coincidences, but this was real life.

  One possible solution seemed to be plugging the address into one of the many reverse locator websites. If I knew who lived in the house now, perhaps a call would yield information about the former occupants. I could also go to the college to see if they’d help me track the elusive professor. The trouble was, all that would take time, and I needed get back to the Magellan.

  Talk about being torn. Should I follow the trail to one of the world’s greatest lost art treasures or get back to what I was supposed to be doing, finding one of the world’s most valuable gas deposits? Decisions, decisions. I figured, at the very least, I could check in with Phil Gregson.

  “Hey, Cleo. Where are you?” The miracles of modern commu-

  nication.

  “I’m still in Raleigh,” I said. “ And since I need to attend to a few more things here, I wanted to see how we’re coming with the log.”

  “Lithology is starting to change, indicating we’re just about to the bottom of the reservoir, but I’m afraid it’ll probably take a few hours longer than I predicted to get all the readings we need. That is, if we don’t hit any unforeseen problems. The crew’s really pouring it on, though. They’re so hell bent to beat SunCo, it could go quicker than I predict. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Thanks, that’s great.”

  “Just a heads up: all the big wheels back in Houston are waiting with bated breath to hear the numbers. As you know, this is make or break for Global. They’re even sending some of the bean counters out here, like somehow their presence could summon up greater gas volumes. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe they just want to be here to make themselves feel like they’re doing all they can too. Lot of careers on the line …”

  Since Phil had just given me a few hours reprieve, I headed for the college. Seemed like the best place to start my search for the professor.

  The administrative offices of the Southern Women’s College were housed in a beautifully restored antebellum house of enormous proportions. Once the town residence of one of the kings of the cotton industry, it dripped with the grace and opulence of a by-gone era. Judging from the buildings and grounds, the cotton king had also left behind a healthy endowment. Once I’d told the receptionist, a silver-haired woman every bit as elegant as her surroundings, that I was looking for a professor who’d taught here the fifties, she directed me up an ancient stairwell. There she said, I’d find the Personnel Department, where a Mr. Devereaux would help me.

  Once I saw him, I felt I was in luck. Mr. Devereaux was old as the rocks we were drilling off the coast and might actually be the perfect source. I pegged him to be in his late seventies, though he stood straight as an arrow and looked snappy in his shirt, collegiate tie, loafers, and khakis. Nonetheless, the hand he extended was delicate, even birdlike, and I wondered how he’d avoided forced retirement.

  “How may I be of service to you, my dear lady?”

  “I’m looking for a French professor who taught here in the fifties. His name was Adrien Dubois.”

  “I knew Professor Dubois very well. May I ask why you’re looking for him?”

  “Certainly. He was a friend of my aunt,” I said, quickly adopting Lucy as kin.

  “I see.” He leaned forward, his watery eyes probing mine for more information.

  Starting with the truth, I said, “They became friends when she was a student here.” Then I veered wildly into the land of lies. “For years and years, they corresponded. She kept all the letters and now that she’s failing, she wants him to have them.”

  “How very kind of your aunt. Unfortunately, I’m not sure Professor Dubois would remember her or, for that matter, even be able to read a letter. I’m told he has slipped into senility.”

  “Oh dear.” I was momentarily stumped. Then, not willing to give up, I asked, “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “Well, I don’t see that telling you would do any harm.” Mr. Devereaux gave a thin smile. “He retired from here after thirty years, so Accounting would have his exact address. However, I myself can tell you where he is if you want to go in person.”

  “That’s very kind. I’d appreciate it. I’m sure my aunt would appreciate my seeing him in person.”

  “He’s at Capital Oaks over off Blount,” he said, his expression now revealing a definite distaste. “It’s one of the only places around here that will take folks in need of … well, his kind of care.”

  Nursing homes by their very nature are depressing. Capital Oaks, however, gave a whole new meaning to the word. I pushed through the glass double-doors, crossed the reception lobby, and approached a pear-shaped young woman at what looked like a nurses’ station. She squinted at me through prescription work goggles, then swallowed the wad of Krispy Kreme doughnut she was eating, like a heron choking down a big fish. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you may,” I said unable to resist the gentle reminder that grammar separates the civilized from the rabble hordes. I blinked, trying not to stare at her goggles. “I’d like to visit one of your guests, Mr. Adrien Dubois.”

  Her eyes crossed as she checked out her goggles from the inside. “Some of our residents might spit on you,” she said. “You won’t be expecting it.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Mr. Dubois?”

  I followed her down a long, dimly lit hallway. Several corridors later, I was starting to feel queasy from the stench of urine and boiled cabbage. But just as I was about to comment on how intolerably stuffy it was, Goggles stopped at a door. Without so much as a brief tap, she opened it, proceeding into the dark room.

  “Mr. Dubois? You have a guest,” she said in her best institutional voice. Then, without turning on a light or even checking to see if Mr. Dubois was indeed still alive, she turned on her heel to make her way back to her doughnuts.

  “Professor Dubois?” I called softly.

  A rustle of sheets let me know Mr. Dubois was still in the land of the living, so I crossed the shadowy room to the outline of daylight behind two large window shades. Tentatively, I started raising one while studying the figure in the bed. When he had raised a frail, bony arm to protect his eyes, I stopped. At least my surroundings were visible now. I pulled a chair up to the bed and sat facing the wasting shell of a man who was undeniably the one I was looking for. Here was the man who had been entrusted with hiding the whereabouts of the Amber Room sixty-six years ago. How could I tell after all that time? His eyes.

  Though rheumy with age, this man’s eyes still had the exact same haunted look. Moreover, his hair, now snowy white, was still thick and cut in the same style it had been in the photo. Blunt, parted in the middle, and tucked behind his enormous ears.

  “Mr. Dubois, I’m Cleo Cooper. Do you feel up to a little chat?”

  He gave no reply.

  I tried a different tack. “Professor Dubois, I’m a friend of one of your students, Lucy Watkins. Do you remember her?”

  Still silence. Just then a phlegmy voice cracked from the doorway, “Is Adrien being difficult today?”

  I looked up to see another frail old gentleman struggling toward me with his walker.

  “Hello,” I said, standing. “I’m Cleo Cooper. A friend of Professor Dubois—or, at least, my aunt is. And you are?”

  “Just one of the old timers waiting for death. Same as Adrien, there.”

  I was trying to think of a reply suitable to a statement like that when the man stopped, took one look at the professor, gave me the once-over, then turned back to the door. “Better come back another time,” he said. “’Cause if Adrien don’t want to talk, he ain’t gonna talk.”

  “Thanks for the advice. But when does Adrien like to talk?”

  “Anytime you bring Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.”

  Back in the parking lot, I lowered all the windows and turned the AC on full blast. Taking big gulps of fresh air, I wondered if could
really be that easy. Could little old Cleo Cooper have stumbled upon the solution to a puzzle that had eluded the world’s best treasure hunters for decades? I considered the confluence of events and realized the answer was a definite yes. I mean, who else but me had put together the existence of the sub, the mission of two Germans aboard it, and, by way of a trip down memory lane with my “aunt” Lucy, the origins of the pair she saw come ashore on Hatteras Island?

  Davy Duchamp and his boys certainly knew of the existence of the sub and its exact coordinates, and had even searched it, but they didn’t have Lucy’s information. Detective Pierce had gotten a whiff of treasure in checking Hunter’s emails, but he was headed down a blind alley in thinking it was on the Magellan. No one but me had all the pieces, and now it seemed incredible to think that the only stumbling block between me and unlocking one of the greatest mysteries of all time was a pint of Ben and Jerry’s.

  I checked the time. Good grief. Recovery of the Amber Room would have to wait on a more imminent discovery.

  Twenty

  Back in Morehead, Viktor’s car was in my drive. Since my house was locked tight as a vault and it was well over 90 degrees outside, I figured he must have sought the shade of the screened-in porch. Not seeing him there or in the back yard, I looked to the dock and the sound beyond. Then I saw him. Playing in the water like a giant otter, diving deep, then propelling himself up to dive again, sending sprays of water sparkling like prisms in the late afternoon sun. He made quite a sight.

  I walked out on the dock to watch him. Even in a sleeveless cotton blouse and Dockers, the heat was still stifling. I pulled down the brim of my Panthers ball cap and adjusted my aviators to alleviate some of the glare off the water and continued to watch him at play until he saw me.

  He threw up his hand and shouted, “Mya morkovka!” Heading for me, he cut the water like an Olympic swimmer. When he showed no signs of slowing down upon reaching the ladder, I started backing up. Like an out-of-control wet dog, he launched himself onto the dock. I couldn’t help it: I squealed like a girl and took off. I didn’t get far before he wrapped me up in salty wet kisses, his cutoffs dripping seawater down my legs and into my shoes.