by Неизвестный
“We got busy with the case, and I couldn’t get free. We were at it until three this morning.”
“But you thought about me?”
“I did indeed.”
Sylvie reached out and stroked Alan’s arm gently, grasped his hand, and pulled him a little closer. “I missed you, too.”
Alan scratched at the back of his neck nervously. “I’m here on business this time.”
Sylvie released his hand, leaned against the door jamb, and folded her arms.
“First of all,” said Alan, “I trust you completely on what you said about Alexander never having really channeled before, not like he has with this Anna who’s stealing his show.”
Sylvie nodded.
“And you know about the shooting last night at The Moore Theater with Wang Tao.”
Sylvie nodded and her eyes widened. “We read that in the papers this morning. So, how about that? Not that we’re happy with how it turned about, but that’s pretty uncanny how Alexander called it.”
“Amazingly accurate, your dynamic duo, Alexander and Anna.”
“The front desk tells us that reporters want to speak with Alexander today, but he’s going to put that off until later this afternoon.”
“This may sound bizarre to you, but we think we know who this Anna is—or who she might have been when alive.”
“What are you saying?”
“I can’t tell you everything,” said Alan, “but we’ve had three murders involving people in theater. We believe they are in some way connected to the Romanov family executions in Russia which appear to be driving the revenge. People connected to the assassination have been lured to Seattle to be murdered. Madam Zarenko it turns out is Grigori Rasputin’s daughter, and she and her ex-husband could still be targets.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sylvie. “I’ve heard the name Rasputin, but I don’t remember who he is or had been.”
“Spiritual adviser to the Romanov family. He helped Tsarevich Alexei with his hemophilia, using mysticism or hypnosis, nobody’s sure. This endeared him to the Tsarina and the Tsar, who kept him close in the castle after that for when they needed him.”
“The murdered spiritualist?”
“That’s the one. Tasha is his daughter and she had been close to the royal family, but her husband is the one who betrayed them. That louse might be the biggest reason they didn’t escape Russia and were murdered in the basement in the place they were staying. Anna had been the children’s maid or nurse, and she just might be the one Alexander is channeling. I have Tasha with me in the lobby, and she would like to meet with Alexander, if you can arrange it.”
“And she hopes he will channel Anna for her?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know if he can turn Anna on and off like that, Alan. What does Tasha hope to gain from this?”
“We’re hoping Anna might point us toward whoever is doing the killing. Tasha has a pretty good idea of how a séance should work. She watched her ex-husband perform a few.”
“Then she knows it’s almost always fakery, and they’re especially expensive.”
“We’re hoping this will be the one that’s not.”
“Not a fake or not expensive?”
“Both.”
Sylvie reached out and stroked Alan’s arm again. “Alright, I’ll ask Claude. We were about to catch a bite to eat, but maybe he’ll be willing to delay it for a few minutes After all, it’s not like we’re little kids anymore and have to eat on time. If Claude insists on a fee, just go with what he asks and I’ll forget to collect it from you. Then you can take me out to El Gaucho’s later tonight and ply me with liquor for my affection.”
Alan smiled broadly as Sylvie leaned forward on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
* * *
Sylvie left the door ajar for Alan, but when he returned from the lobby with Tasha, Ben, and Vera, he knocked, to be polite, while calling out and pushing the door open slowly.
“Come on in,” said Sylvie, “and have a seat. “Alexander will be with us in a moment.”
After a moment the bedroom door opened and as with their last visit, the well-dressed Alexander paused in the middle of the doorframe for a second, as if waiting to make a grand entrance, and then he walked past the others to Vera, offering an extended hand, palm upward, to her. She took his hand, and he lifted hers, bowing and kissing her knuckles.
Vera made the introductions to Madam Zarenko, who had dolled up special for the occasion. Alexander kissed her hand, as he had Vera’s. Alan fought the urge to punch him, figuring Alexander got far too much mileage out of playing the suave European gentleman. The reality he knew is that Alexander crafted his hustle while working bars with other con artists in Alaska during the Gold Rush. Alan didn’t particularly care for the way he treated Sylvie, but then she struck him as smart enough to know what she wanted in life. She went after it with gusto and would only let people use her if it suited her purposes. He looked forward to seeing her again, after the show, when she’d have her way with him, and he’d love her for it.
Alexander gave a courtesy nod to Ben and Alan, before taking a seat, which suited Alan fine.
“This is a rather exceptional request,” said Alexander. “Wealthy patrons often ask me to help them contact members of their immediate family, to beg forgiveness for past indiscretions or abuses, to find hidden heirlooms or keys to safe deposit boxes, or to learn more about the circumstances in which they died. But I’ve never had anyone ask me to contact someone not of their family. And most amazingly of all, you would like me to contact a nurse who worked for the Russian royal family, who’s been dead for over twenty years. Most unusual.”
Tasha nodded quietly.
“I’m intrigued,” said Alexander. “Anna is as much a mystery to me as she is to those who watched me channel her while on stage. She completely interrupted my show. Normally, I would ask for privacy for this kind of a session, but Anna’s obviously not been shy about revealing herself in front of 2,700 audience members, and I understand you’ve performed in front of large audiences yourself, or so I’m told.”
“That’s correct,” said Tasha.
“So, you don’t mind if the others are present in the room with us?”
“I’m fine with company, but my personal experience with séances is that they have always been in darkened rooms with candlelight. I’m willing to do what you think is best.”
“You’ve had experience with séances?” asked Alexander.
“When Nikolai Ivanovich and I were married, a long time ago in another world, I went with him when he performed séances in his early days, he liked the darkened room. But then, he left me unimpressed with his skills.”
“Oh, I see,” said Alexander, “he’s the darkened parlor sort. I’m afraid that he’s exactly the kind that Harry Houdini would expose, finding their wires, smoke, and mirrors. Think about it for a moment. Why would a spirit need a darkened room to show themselves? The answer is: they don’t.”
Tasha nodded.
“Well, what you see here is your standard hotel room with no props from my stage show. I’ll have Sylvie pull the drapes and light a few candles on the piano behind you. Hopefully that will be sufficient for the mood, in case Anna really likes that sort of thing, and she hasn’t bothered to tell me. If not, Sylvie can also play background music for us, something dark and heavy. She’s quite good on the piano, you know.”
“I think having the room as quiet as possible would be best for me,” said Tasha.
“I make no promises about Anna appearing, because she and I are just getting to know each other. She doesn’t work for me. She’s not on my payroll. I don’t know what hours she keeps or where she goes when she’s not interrupting my stage performances.”
Tasha smiled.
“Normally
, it’s me, who needs to take a few deep clearing breaths to relax myself enough to get in the proper mood, but since we both might end up communicating with Anna, why don’t I lead you through this. We’ll take a deep breath, like this, starting by pushing out our diaphragms and blowing—”
Alexander’s head snapped to the side and dropped to his chest, as if he’d been punched in the jaw during a bar fight. His mouth sagged open stupidly.
“Matryona Rasputina is that you before me?” asked Alexander in a woman’s voice, Alexander’s lips barely moving.
“Anna?” said Tasha, her eyes welling with tears.
“Why have you come?”
“To apologize for not being a loyal friend to the family and you.”
“The time for friendship is long past.”
“I’m so sad about what happened. I can’t sleep at nights because of it. I don’t know that Boris realized what would happen to all of you.”
“Boris gambled with the lives of my babies and he will pay for it, as will the others. No one should die the way we did, punished as if we had betrayed our country, all of us, especially poor little Alexei, always so sick. He never could hurt anyone.”
“Will there be more deaths, Anna?”
“Regrettably, yes.”
“Regrettably?” asked Tasha. “Do you not control it?”
“Nyet! These are things beyond my control.”
“Are they in the control of someone who is among the living?”
“Yes, someone close to me.”
Tasha unfolded the stationery that Alan had given her earlier and read out loud. “‘Filipp. We are in grave danger. Remember all in your prayers to the Holy Father. Anna.’ It’s dated June 21st, 1918. Did you write this?”
“Yes, of course, to my brother. You and Boris had taken the tsar’s jewels but showed no signs of helping us. We were desperate for help, looking everywhere.”
“Is Filipp in Seattle right now?” asked Tasha.
“Yes, but you will not find him in time to save—”
Alexander rolled his head and blinked his eyes rapidly. Then he inhaled deeply and glanced around the room. “She came again, didn’t she?”
“That’s correct,” said Sylvie.
Alexander stood up and cleared his throat. “Be a dear, Sylive, and get me a glass of water, would you please?”
Sylvie poured a glass from a clear pitcher on the counter, next to the ice bucket. Alexander drank half of the water before pausing and glancing at Tasha. “Sylvie will fill me in on what I missed over lunch, but did our new friend tell you what you came to find out?”
“Mostly, but not all. I wanted to ask her to tell the family how much I’ve missed them, and I regret what happened. I wish that it all could be undone.”
“But it can’t be undone, Madam Zarenko, and that’s the problem with apologies,” said Alexander. He set the glass down and began to rub his temples with his thumbs. “Somebody else wants a few words with you,” he said, “Apologies aren’t a magic cure for transgressions with the ability to erase the past and replace it with a future more to your liking. Here’s a life lesson from poker: ‘a card laid is a card played.’ There are no do-overs with cards or with firing squads. The best you can hope for is compassion and forgiveness from those you’ve transgressed against. But the problem is that ‘we’ are under no obligation to grant forgiveness.
“I was about to say that’s the ‘royal we,’ as in meaning everybody,” said Alexander, “but I think the voice I’m hearing is indeed a royal one, but I digress. He says that you can merely ask and hope that we hear your prayers and are moved by them.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not one for prayer,” said Tasha. “I haven’t said prayers of any sort since my father’s murder. I figured there couldn’t be any point praying to a God Who had allowed the death of a holy man like my father’s, such a horrible murder at that.”
“Perhaps that is your problem then,” said Alexander. “You blame God and haven’t forgiven Him. More than anything else, this may explain your unease with your life and your inability to sleep at night.”
“This isn’t me speaking, by the way,” said Alexander, “in case you’re wondering, this is someone I’m hearing inside my head. It’s a male voice, distant but not as overpowering as Anna’s. A Russian accent nonetheless. I’m seeing someone very regal, like King George the Fifth—wait, that’s not him at all. It’s his cousin, Nicholas II, the tsar. That explains the Russian accent, but my word their resemblance is uncanny. I had no idea. He’s elevated very far on the other side and his voice is but a whisper. What I’m hearing is that he ‘strongly wishes—make that strongly pleads with you—to pray for forgiveness. You must make peace with your soul and pray for forgiveness’—then something I can’t hear—‘that will be your salvation.’”
Alan glanced across the room at Sylvie, catching her eye. She shrugged her shoulders, indicating this to be unchartered territory for her and Alexander.
“Whose forgiveness do I need to pray for?”
Alexander straightened his neck and rolled his lips. “The voice is gone now, but if I were in your shoes and someone from the other side made that kind of effort to contact me, I’d heed what they told me to do. I’d start at the top and work my way down. Make a list of those you’ve offended, if you think it will help.”
Alexander paused a moment and scrunched his brow, as if listening to an inner voice. “I’m not a religious person per se,” said Alexander, “and parts of this are new to me, although I’ve been working at my craft for years. But I have a very warm feeling right now, peaceful, like I’ve spoken with a saint, someone close to God. Is that possible? Does the Russian Orthodox Church believe in saints like the Roman Catholics? Do they canonize people as saints? I have a feeling that this will happen someday.”
“We do have saints,” said Tasha. “I’m sure my father is one.”
“Then you have friends in high places, Madam Zarenko, and it appears they still might be willing to look out for your best interests. And with that, ladies and gentlemen, I must excuse myself for lunch.”
23
The uniformed usher bowed slightly at the waist as Nikolai Ivanovich entered the Coliseum Theater lobby, while holding his arm extended, indicating the left aisle with a sweep of his hand. “Mr. Moran is waiting for you, sir, on the main floor, front row, and he’s dressed very much for the part today.”
“Dressed for the part? How so?” asked Ivanovich, stopping to visit with the usher.
“When he came inside he put on a Phantom’s mask to go with his black cloak and hat.”
“I don’t think I know the Moran family. They live up on Orcas Island and don’t get down here much. Did you see his face?”
“Oh, yes,” said the usher. “Rather ordinary looking gentleman, I’d say. Slightly prominent nose, if you ask me.”
“Jewish?” asked Ivanovich.
The usher shrugged. “I can never tell, sir.”
“It’s probably not important, but what’s with the ice bucket and champagne on the counter?”
“Compliments of Mr. Moran. He said he’d like chilled champagne served during the movie.”
“That’s encouraging. Are we expecting other guests?”
“Not that I am aware.”
“The popcorn smells delicious. Bring us a few boxes. Butter for me and one of each for Mr. Moran to choose from. Unless of course he has a caterer who will be showing up soon.”
The usher bowed at the waist. “I’ll bring the popcorn, sir, and Mr. Moran said he’d like to start the movie in five minutes, promptly.”
“Really? He’s already acting like he’s purchased the theater. Well, let’s keep Mr. Moran as happy as possible, shall we?”
“As you wish, sir.”
The house lights were su
bdued but offered enough light to see Mr. Moran’s silhouette, his caped collar flared high and outward, touching the brim of his black felt hat like a vampire. As Ivanovich drew nearer, the plastic half mask Moran wore became visible, revealing a clean shaven jaw and the firm neck of a man perhaps in his early forties. As with the version of the movie they were about to see, the mask had eye holes but otherwise covered the face to just below the nose, where a short veil of white lace dangled, obscuring the lips, showing great attention to details from the movie.
Ivanovich slowed as he neared the front aisle. “Mr. Moran, I presume.”
“Indeed,” said the gentleman, as he rose to his feet and extended a white gloved hand, while his other draped low at his side, clutching a walking stick, similar to the one Ivanovich carried, except instead of a lioness’ head, Moran’s had a tiger carved in scrimshaw.
Ivanovich offered his hand, transferring the walking stick to his left as the men shook. Ivanovich shut his eyes and winced in pain. Moran eased up on his grip and released Ivanovich’s hand. “Something the matter?
“It’s nothing really. I burned my hand the other evening,” said Ivanovich, “and it’s slow in healing.”
“May I see it?”
Ivanovich shook his head, as if composing himself, while extending his hand. Moran touched Ivanovich’s fingertips lightly and examined the burn—and his ring.
“That’s nasty,” said Moran. “It’s still raw. Is that from the fire at the Paramount?”
“No, nothing heroic like that. I did it in my apartment, while using an iron to press a shirt for a walk-on part I had. My fault completely. Instead of sending the shirt out like I should have, I decided to touch it up and save everyone the bother.”
Moran nodded his understanding. “Very nice ring. It looks regal, and it’s so big you can’t possibly slip a glove over that beauty.”
“A memento from Russia I can’t seem to part with.”