by Betsy Draine
All I had to do was type “Federenco” in the search box and click Enter. Immediately I was rewarded with a tantalizing hit. In fact, there were two entries in the database. The first was a listing for Euvgeny Federenco (1814–77) in the original Fort Ross records. He arrived at the fort in 1836 at the age of twenty-two and returned to Russia in 1841, when the fort was abandoned. His trade was listed as carpenter. The second entry was even more intriguing. Andreyev Federenco (1844–1907), his son, emigrated from Russia to California in 1870 and dictated a memoir to his daughter two years before he died. The typescript, dated 1905, was bound in a folder and available to scholars. A brief description of its contents indicated that it contained anecdotes of life at the fort told by the father to the son, as well as the son’s description of his own immigrant experience. Was it worth a trip to Fort Ross? I thought so. Today was Thursday. Angie was arriving by plane later today, and a trip to Fort Ross on the weekend would make a perfect excursion for us. With that resolved, I hurried to pack up my notes.
When I got back to the car, I checked my cell phone and saw there was a message from Angie. She’d landed, was picking up her car, and thought she would reach us by three. Though I like to greet a houseguest with a home-cooked meal, I was too wrapped up in my discoveries to shop or cook. So I made a reservation at River’s End, on the coast just where the Russian River spills into the sea. The tables look over rock-strewn water into the sunset. Happily, the food stands up to the setting. Then I dialed Fort Ross and made an appointment to use their library on Saturday.
Once home, I dashed around making the place ready for my sister. I put a bottle of Pimm’s Cup on ice. This fall, during a salon internship in London, Angie took up the official drink of polo players as a tribute to her most elegant and handsome male client. I moved some family photos from my study to the guest room. Angie likes to sleep under the loving gaze of our Irish grandmother, Molly Barnes. And I checked that there were Angie-approved toiletries in the bathroom. Since London, she uses only Pears soap. High maintenance, but I love fussing over my sister.
A half hour later I woke from a nap on the couch when I heard the ding of the doorbell. There stood Angie, smiling broadly, her silky blond hair bouncing and curling around her heart-shaped face. That’s the face I’ve cherished since I was a preteen lovingly bottle-feeding my tiny little sister.
We spent the next hour assessing each other physically the way sisters do, arranging Angie’s luggage in the guest bedroom, and giving Angie a look around our home, of which I am unduly proud, since it’s mainly Toby who’s furnished the place. We shared an initial Pimm’s Cup, hers neat, mine cut with lemonade, the way the ladies do it in London, Angie says. I thought the first thing she would ask me about would be the case I was working on, but she insisted on getting the haircut out of the way.
“So, should I give you about the same cut that I did on Turkey Day?”
“Fine. Except I like that it got longer.”
“Hair tends to do that, especially when left neglected.”
“Yes, I know you told me to deep-condition. We can do that tomorrow. Today just cut a little off. I like the longer length because I don’t have to do anything with it. It just hangs there.”
“Exactly. My darling sister, as we age, things start to just hang there. Jowls just hang there. Wiggly chins just hang there. The last thing we need is for our hair to just hang there and call attention to all the other parts that are doing the same.”
“So what are you saying, that I need a facelift?”
She laughed. “A good cut with a little more complexity would give you all the lift you need. Even my nuns know that.”
“Your nuns?”
“Dad’s nuns. You know.”
“You mean the sisters at Grace Quarry?”
“That’s right. I’ve been cutting their hair since I got back from London. Dad got me into it. You know how he’s always had a sweet spot for those sisters.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” They practically raised him during that spell when his mother was ill. “But they all must be ancient now. What are they doing getting your air-lift haircuts?”
“The sisters have gone rogue. The bishop was bothering them about giving out communion and having Buddhist speakers. So they staked their claim.”
“What do you mean?”
“Grace Quarry was a gift to them from the Graces, the lady author and her Beacon Hill husband. You remember them. They were nice to Granddad—hired him as a chauffeur when he sold his garage.”
“Sure, I remember when we used to swim at the quarry when we were kids. I asked Dad why there was an echo out there when we talked. He told me the story of Echo, the nymph who could only repeat what others had said. Dad claimed that Echo lived at the far end of the quarry, behind the trees.”
“That’s just like Dad.” Angie smiled. “Well,” she continued, “when the Graces died, they left the property outright to the order. Now all these years later, when the nuns got feisty and the bishop threatened to shut them down, they declared themselves free of the church—went ecumenical.”
“Gee, didn’t the bishop raise hell?”
“I’ll say he did, but he couldn’t touch them. The order is independent of the Vatican.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, and they’re doing great. There are a dozen sisters there, some Catholic, some Anglican, and a bunch of young nuns from the Philippines who visit and study. Plus the lay sisters who have gathered round. There’s a whole young community there.”
“And you do their hair?”
“Why not? Even a nun likes to look half-decent. Unlike some people I know.”
“Stop ragging on me. Give me the cut you think I should have.”
“Bless you. This will be fun. You know, your hair’s not half-bad. I know you say it’s thin. But it’s not. It’s fine. But thick. You have Helen Mirren hair.”
“Oh, God. She’s decades older than I am.”
“But still sexy. You should feel lucky that I even put you in the same category.”
“The point being?”
“Helen Mirren is not gifted in the hair department. But she knows that she needs help, and she gets it. And the result is: she is Helen Mirren, sex goddess for the golden years.”
“You win. Cut away.”
An hour later, I looked ready for our dinner at the River’s End. But would Toby notice?
“How about a second Pimm’s Cup?” I proposed, in approval of Angie’s work.
“We have a long night ahead,” Angie replied. “Let’s wait for Toby.” Upon which, he burst through the door.
“Angie, you look terrific. And what have you done to your sister?”
“You like?” I ventured.
“You bet,” he answered on cue.
And we were on for a happy evening. While we were freshening up, I gave Toby a quick rundown on my day’s work in the library, but we agreed to leave all that aside for tonight and to enjoy our dinner out.
We left quickly, so that we’d have light for Angie’s first drive up the coast. We wanted to be seated at our table looking out at Goat’s Rock when the sun set. That’s the whole point of River’s End. Water, sunset, and a great meal. We weren’t disappointed. On the drive up, Angie admired the views, as the road skirted one dramatic beach after another—the long sandy sweep of Coleman Beach, with its surging white surf, then Arched Rock Beach, which always reminds me of Monet’s paintings at Etretat, then hidden coves that made the road veer in and out at sharp angles. We’d had a good share of ocean drama by the time we reached River’s End, which in spite of the turbulence caused by the entrance of the Russian River to the sea, always breathes peace.
Before taking our table, we walked around the deck, watching the sky gather color for the sunset and pointing out the shoreline features to Angie—Goat’s Rock, the array of birds that nest there, and the sandbar where seals play with their pups. We’d timed it right, just as the color wheel in the sky pu
t on its full show. On this stretch of coast, late winter holds the most spectacular sunrises and sunsets. That’s the secret that year-round beach residents keep from the summer people. Angie and I reminisced about our youth, recalling the sunrises we used to watch from the sea wall behind Grammy Molly’s beach house in Hull at the other end of the country, looking out at the Atlantic.
By then it was time to move inside. The entrance to the restaurant, which is done in rustic redwood décor, passes through a narrow space adjacent to the bar, and there, listing slightly on a stool, sat Tom Keogh. He was perched between two men I didn’t recognize, sloshing a swizzle stick in a tall drink. His eyes were glassy when he looked up and saw us. “Toby Sandler,” he said in a challenging tone. “I want my stuff back.”
Toby nodded hello, smiled, said nothing. Meanwhile a hostess approached with menus and led us to our table. Tom got up and followed us. He stood swaying next to the table as we were seated. “That stuff is mine, and I want it back,” he repeated. The hostess shot him a disapproving glance, and several heads turned at the tables near us.
Toby replied in a calm but firm voice, “This isn’t the place to discuss it, Tom. I said we’d work something out. We will.”
Tom stood there for a moment looking confused. Toby said, “We’d like to enjoy our dinner, Tom. We’ll talk soon.”
“Is that right?” Tom said, slurring the words. He placed a hand on Toby’s shoulder and drew his face up close. But by now his two companions had risen from their stools, and one of them grasped Tom by the elbow. “It’s okay,” he said to us, as he coaxed Tom to turn around. “C’mon, Tom, it’s time for us to go.”
“Wanna have another drink,” said Tom.
“At home, Tom. We’ll have one at home. C’mon.” His two friends began to lead Tom away. “Sorry about that,” said the one who hadn’t yet spoken.
“It’s all right,” said Toby. “Be sure he gets home safely.”
“We will.” They propelled Tom unsteadily toward the door and left.
Angie wanted to know what that had been all about. I explained who Tom was and what he had recently gone through.
“He’s a complete mess,” said Toby.
“He’s not a bad sort, really,” I said. “Let’s put it behind us and enjoy our dinner. And the view.”
We did. A chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc smoothed the way for the “crab dégustation,” a four-course dinner devoted to various preparations of the delectable crustacean, a specialty of the house at this time of year when the local catch is at its peak. A second round of wine by the glass went down as easily as the bottle, and the meal flowed along agreeably.
Over dessert we began to plan the next day. I proposed that we go to Whole Foods in Sebastopol to get the supplies we would need for our Gourmet Club. Angie surprised me by saying that she hadn’t flown all the way across the country just to see Whole Foods. She could do that in Gloucester. “The point of Whole Foods is that they’re all alike, wherever you go. They’re the McDonald’s of health food.”
“Oh, come on, Angie. I’m talking local culture here. You should see this place. Outside, there’s an accordion player dressed like a French marionette. And sitting next to him is an old man with a long white beard and a hat with a pot of daffodils on top of it, and his fat bulldog is sitting there with a smaller version of the same hat. It’s some kind of happening, every time I go there. And that’s just the outside. The produce is like nothing you’ve ever seen in New England—watercress with leaves as big as quarters, and fresh out of the stream.”
“I believe you,” Angie said apologetically. “But I have something else going.”
“You haven’t found a boyfriend here already, have you?” I blurted out my fear under the influence of several glasses of wine on top of the Pimm’s Cup.
“Of course not.” Angie pouted. Toby hunched around to nudge me with his elbow. He knows what I think about Angie’s tumultuous romances. And he knows I go overboard with protective feelings.
“Sorry, sweetie,” I apologized. “I’m just disappointed. I was looking forward to your company tomorrow. What’s up?”
She looked a little uneasy, and her glance at Toby made me guess that she hadn’t planned to discuss this in front of him. But she soldiered on. “Well, you know this case you’re working on about the missing icon of the angel Michael? I told one of the sisters at Grace Quarry about it, and the next day she said that it was providential I was coming out here this week, because she had a dream about me. In this dream I was talking to the angel Michael and he had something important to say to me, but Sister Theresa couldn’t hear what it was. You know how I’ve always felt about angels.”
Since she was a toddler, Angie has loved anything to do with angels—statues, pictures, trinkets, stories. When she was about four she used to talk with angels. When I’d take her for a walk in the Millbrook Meadow, she’d stop at a certain tree and talk to an angel she said lived there. She used to make me walk ahead a bit and leave her alone so they could talk freely. It was sweet.
“Well,” she continued, “I went online and found out there’s a really talented angel reader in this area and this woman might be able to help me understand what Michael was trying to tell me in the dream.”
“What’s an angel reader?” Toby interjected. I could sense Angie checking out whether Toby was just humoring her. He seemed serious enough, though we both know what a skeptic Toby is in matters spiritual.
She seemed to feel safe enough with Toby, so she continued. “An angel reader helps a person listen to her angel guide.”
“Her angel guide?” I asked. Having been brought up on Grammy’s Irish lore of fairies and angels, this was less alien territory for me.
“You know how the nuns taught us. Everybody has a guardian angel. Some have more than one. When we’re young, we hear them clearly, and they show us right from wrong. But as we get older, we get so we can’t hear them, and then we’re on our own. But they’re still there and still trying to guide us. We can learn to sense what they want us to do. And some gifted people can actually hear them. Those are the angel readers.”
I remembered how Sister Mary Joseph always told us to make room on the side of our desk chair for our guardian angel to sit. She would remind us all day.
“So you want to go looking for an angel reader tomorrow morning?” Toby asked.
“I’m not looking for her. I’ve found her. I’ve been reading her website and e-mailing her. I have an appointment for tomorrow at ten.”
“Near here?”
“She’s in Graton. I have a GPS, but I was hoping you’d go over the map with me, so I’d know where I’m going.”
“It isn’t far,” said Toby. “I can show you on the map. But”—he couldn’t resist—“do you honestly believe, now that you’re grown up, that everyone has a guardian angel?”
“I do.”
“Even me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Angie. “Everyone has one. Including you.”
“What kind of hours do they work?” Toby asked with a straight face.
“They’re with a person all the time,” said Angie.
I shot him a cautionary look. He received the message and refrained from further comment.
With that settled for the moment, we paid for our meal and started for home. I was glad Toby was driving. Negotiating that winding coast road at night was not my idea of a calming activity at day’s end. But, with his usual expertise at the wheel, he got us home safely. The sisters were tired—Angie from her travels and I from my busy day. But we had an unwelcome jolt in store for us. When I reached the front door and put my key in the lock, the door opened at the first pressure. There were no lights on. When I fumbled for the hall light and got it on, we saw the living room in a jumble. All the drawers were open. Toby’s appointment desk, our linen chest, the cupboard by the dining table—all open, with half the contents spilling onto the floor. I moved to light the kitchen, the bedrooms, the bathroom, and I saw disorder every
where. Closet doors were ajar, and items had been swept aside so that the back of each space could be examined. Drawers had been scoured. Our home had been violated. All the sweetness of the evening had gone bitter.
Toby took a turn around the living room, hands thrust deep into his pockets. His face bore an ironic frown. “Just my luck,” he said at last, as he surveyed the mess. “It looks like my guardian angel took the night off.”
6
NOT A THING WAS TAKEN, not a blessed thing. Drawers and closets had been tossed, but the upset was just a quick turnover of the contents, in search of something that hadn’t been found. The woman officer Dan sent over was especially impressed that a thick envelope of twenty-dollar bills and my jewelry box with some gold items in it were touched only enough to check for the absence of something else. The intruder had not lingered a second over things a normal thief would pocket.
After documenting the break-in with photos and notes, Officer Carla Moore and her sidekick Sue joined us in cleaning up the mess. I believe it was sheer neighborliness, but Carla insisted that she often got an insight during the process of putting a room back together. Not this time. But it sure made getting up the next morning a less daunting prospect.
We each had a different reason for getting up early. Angie wanted to work on a writing exercise for her angel reader. Toby was busy trying to estimate the worth of the items Charlie had brought into the shop. And my mind was on the dinner party we were committed to having that night, in spite of all our troubles. Dan and his wife, Colleen, were members of our Gourmet Club, so I knew I’d be seeing him that evening and that we’d talk about the case. For now, I tried to push aside thoughts of the break-in and to concentrate on getting ready for our company. I needed to double-check my grocery list and get into town. So, I made coffee, put out cereal muffins and yogurt, and tried to take solace in the fact that my family was together, each of us quietly having breakfast and doing our own thing. I left before Toby and Angie did, getting a promise to see her after lunch and him before dinner.