Theater of the Crime (Alan Stewart and Vera Deward Murder Mysteries Book 6)
Page 23
Vera squatted down, extended her free hand, and Demidova rolled the large ring into her hand. “You have a regal bearing about you, pretty lady. You remind me of the tsarina with her proud carriage. You could wear a tiara.”
“Thank you, Filipp.”
“Now, step back, please. I need room to breathe. It’s becoming very difficult.”
Vera stood up and moved next to Alan. Behind them more customers and staff came up and crowded around.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” said Demidova. “I hope you enjoyed the show, although it’s the worst bit of magic I’ve ever performed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have family waiting for me. I hope the greeting from them is warm but not fiery. It’s time to end this.”
Demidova pulled the sword partially out of its sheath and raked it across the palm of his hand. Blood ran freely onto his suit and white shirt. His hand began twitching immediately, and he wheezed horribly, like he couldn’t take in any air. Vera leaned into Alan, put her head on his shoulder, and whispered. “I hate watching him suffer like this.”
“At least this death is not one of our making,” said Alan.
Suddenly, Demidova’s twitching and wheezing stopped. Instantaneously his face relaxed, and he finally looked at peace with himself.
“We should call this in and have the dispatcher let Ben know where we’re at.”
Alan caught the eye of a sturdy but well-dressed woman working the jewelry counter. “Do you have a blanket or screen we can put up for his privacy?” he asked.
“I’ll call maintenance. I’m sure they’ll have something.”
“Great,” said Alan, “and would you also call the police for us, please? Or if I can use your phone, I’ll make the call.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Alan put his hand on Vera’s hip reassuringly. “What are you going to do with the ring?”
“I have absolutely no idea, but I have to tell you that buying a theater is out of the picture. I’ve been down that road before and have no inclination to going back. And it doesn’t seem right that I should keep something with all that historical value. But I’m not so soft in the head to think that it should be returned to the Bolsheviks. After all, they cold-bloodedly murdered that family and stole all the jewels that were left—shamelessly, at that. I’d rather save this for Jennifer than give it to them. But then maybe I’ll donate it to Whitman College, where they can create a wing to study Russian History. We’ll see. There’s no rush.”
* * *
Following breakfast with Ben at the Five Point Cafe, Alan and Vera adjourned to their offices at the Washington Federated Union headquarters. Alan followed Vera through the back way into the office they shared. They would check for telephone messages with the receptionist later. Waiting on Vera’s desk, a large bouquet of flowers and bottle of champagne tied with a red ribbon. An envelope leaned against the bottle.
“Another admirer of yours?” teased Alan.
Vera smirked and shook her head, while opening the note. “I doubt it.” She hitched a leg on the corner of her desk and scanned the note quickly. “How nice. It’s for both of us.”
Alan leaned against Vera’s back, inhaled her perfume, and read over her shoulder:
Congratulations, Detectives Vera and Alan!
I am pleased to hear that you located the man who had been terrorizing Seattle theaters and killing the performers. I hope my counsel assisted you in your timely capture of this man, ending his murderous spree. I must say that I sincerely enjoyed working with you on your case. The newspapers and radio reports have been most kind to me, and I thank you for that. The new management at the Orpheum Theater is pleading with me to extend my show in Seattle because of high ticket demand, but unfortunately Sylvie and I are committed to touring Europe for most of the next year. Despite the winds of war, people need entertainment, which engenders hope, and I’m all for bringing that to where it’s needed. We have already booked future dates in Seattle, which will be the first stop on our return to the states. We look forward to seeing you again—and perhaps helping you in the future.
I am sincerely yours,
Claude Alexander Conlin, The Man Who Knows
“How nice,” said Vera. “Very nice penmanship. Written in a woman’s hand, I’d say.”
“He probably dictated it to Sylvie,” said Alan.
“Of course,” said Vera, “and that would explain the X and O on the lower corner of the page.”
“Where? I didn’t see that!”
THE END
26
“Neil Low is a senior captain with the Seattle Police Department and serves as the agency’s Night Commander, responsible for rapid response and coordination of emergency services during large events, civil unrest, tragedies, and serious crimes, such as homicide, kidnapping or arson. Fugitive, and Gangs; Advanced Training and the Range; Internal Affairs; and Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault.
Neil was the agency’s first commander of the Ethics and Professional Responsibility Section and has commanded sections in almost every other area of police operations, including: Metropolitan Section, which has K-9, Mounted, Harbor, and SWAT; Homicide and Violent Crimes, which also has Robbery, He is a Vietnam War veteran and a cum laude graduate of the University of Washington’s Bothell campus, where he also wrote for the school’s weekly newspaper, The UW Bothell Commons. A Seattle native, he now lives in Snohomish with his wife and three daughters.
His novels include:
THICK AS THIEVES
SIGN OF THE DRAGON
UNREASONABLE PERSUASION
UNHOLY ALLIANCE
DEADLY ATTRACTION
His short story collection, LOW STORIES, is only available on Kindle..
Acknowledgements:
Writing is very much a solo pursuit, but I don’t know of any author who does it completely alone, without the help of peers, family, and friends. There are many we owe thanks to for their behind the scenes encouragement and support. In my case I am eternally grateful and wish to acknowledge those who have helped to make this, my sixth novel, possible. I continue to be blessed by the support from my lovely wife, Lesley, as well as our three daughters, Amanda, Michelle, and Meghan, who realize the importance of writing for me. It is my oxygen. And as with my five other novels and short stories, portions of this were conceived or written at the University of Washington’s Bothell campus library, where I find solitude and freedom from interruptions while nestled inside my favorite nook on the second floor. As it was when I was a student there, the library continues to be managed by Sarah Ledley, whose alter ego, Miss Ledley, enjoys recurring guest spots in my novels, although carefully disguised in the persona of a far more mature librarian. Special thanks go to Jim Ritter and Judy at the Seattle Police Museum, who have been very helpful with my police research, some of which includes historical correspondence they allowed me access to so that I could capture the feel of the corrupt “bygone era” of the 1940s. Thanks, again, go to the amazing Steve Montiglio for his original cover art and interior graphics. I also wish to acknowledge first draft reader Marie Trujilo for her keen eyes and attention to detail, as well as acknowledging again, Dr. Jeffrey Abrams, my recently retired chiropractor, for his gritty stories about old fashioned police work (comparing Philadelphia to Seattle), which proved very helpful for character development of my recurring cast. And of course there is Peter Atkins, whose subtle hand at editing helped smooth out the rough edges of my manuscript. Of course none of the above would have been possible without the expert help and guidance from my very wonderful publisher, Kristen Morris, of Tigress Publishing. The inspiration and concept for this story came while discussing writing with her here in Seattle. An attentive listener, she has been the perfect sounding board for my character and plot development. Special thanks on technical issues involving murders go to H
omicide Detective Cloyd Steiger and Cold Case Detective Michael Ciesnyski, who graciously share the knowledge, insight, and time. Again, to all of you, thank you.