The Body in Bodega Bay

by Betsy Draine

  “My Life” by Andreyev Federenco was a fragile, sixty-six-page typescript on paper now brown and brittle, fastened by a large clip and protected by a transparent plastic sheath, which in turn was placed inside a manila folder. As I delicately untied the ribbon that secured it, my excitement mounted. On top of the typescript was a cover letter dated July 12, 1972, marking the occasion of the document’s donation to the Fort Ross Interpretive Association. The letter was signed by Andrew Federenco, then a member of the Citizens Advisory Committee for Fort Ross State Historic Park. The letter expressed the family’s wish to commemorate their ties to the first Russian colony in California. It went on to explain that the donor’s great-great-grandfather, Euvgeny Federenco, had lived and worked at the fort in the 1830s, then returned to Russia when the fort was abandoned in 1841. The accompanying memoir had been dictated by his son, Andreyev Federenco. Andreyev, who was born in Russia in 1844, had immigrated to California in 1870, retracing his father’s footsteps, and this memoir, it was hoped, would be of interest to historians, not only for Andreyev’s account but also for his recollections of the stories told to him by his father about the life and times of the fort.

  Andrew had attached to his letter a genealogy in the form of a family tree. The line of descent ran from Euvgeny (1814–77) to Andreyev (1844–1907); from Andreyev to a son, Vladimir (1873–1951), and a daughter, Natasha (1878–1942). Natasha had no children. The line continued from Vladimir through two sons, Feodor (1904–64) and Boris (1907–60). In turn, Feodor and Boris each had a son. Naturally, they were cousins: Andrew, born in 1946, and Peter, born in 1933. I knew that Peter, who died in 1962, had acquired the triptych and that Andrew wanted it. Whether the manuscript now in my hands could shed further light on their quarrel was my question.

  Soon I was immersed in Andreyev’s memoir. As a boy he loved the romantic stories his father had told him about Fort Ross and the near-magical land of California, where there was no winter. These tales—about daily chores, logging, fur trapping, hunting, trading with the Aleuts and Pomo Indians—were exactly what gave the manuscript its historical interest, but they offered no insight to my search. Until, that is, the father mentioned to the boy that he received the gratitude of the entire fort when he lent the family triptych, which had traveled with him, for display at the little Chapel of St. Nicholas. To my frustration, there were no added details here. Instead, the narrative turned to Andreyev’s story—how the boy resolved to immigrate to America when he came of age, how he courted a girl from a nearby village and convinced her to accompany him as his wife, how the couple struggled during their first year in San Francisco, how he earned his living as an upholsterer, learned the language, started a small business making umbrellas, and began a family.

  An hour flew by. I was halfway through the memoir, and it was time for lunch. I left the manuscript on the table open to the last page I had read, gathered my things, and headed for the entrance, where Toby, Angie, and I had agreed to meet. Angie was standing there, looking eager to talk. She gave me a hug and directed me out to a picnic bench, where Toby had laid out our provisions: apples, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and cans of ginger ale. “I can’t believe you,” Angie said. “You packed us Grandma Silva’s picnic.” That was what Mom’s mom used to make for us when we wanted to eat lunch on the rocks by Gloucester harbor. All that was missing was the waxed paper around the sandwich.

  Reverting to childhood, we gobbled the lunch quickly and began sharing our discoveries as we sipped on the ginger ale. I told Toby and Angie about the memoir, and they had news for me.

  “We had a woman guide, and she knows everything about this place,” said Angie. “I got friendly with her because I was the only one answering her questions. You know, like, which fur is softer, otter or mink. It’s otter! I learned that when I modeled furs for Filene’s.”

  “Did the guide mention anything related to my search?” I was looking at Toby, but it was Angie who replied.

  “Could be. I noticed two things. First, about this guy you’re researching. I asked her whether a Russian who came over to work at the fort would have been able to remain around here after the fort was closed. She said no. Everybody who was sent over had to go back. No exceptions. So if Peter’s ancestor was here with the colony, he would have had to go back to Russia and then return later to start his family in California.”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “Euvgeny served at the fort and then went home. It was his son who came to America, decades later. So what the guide said fits.”

  “Well, then there’s what she said when we were in the chapel. She showed us the candleholders, up close to the wall, and the marks where there used to be shelves for the icons. The originals are all lost now, but they have a new one up, to give an idea of the effect.”

  “What’s the subject?” I asked.

  “A kind of stiff head and torso of Christ, with an open book,” Toby replied. “Lots of gold around him.”

  “If we have time, I’d like to see it, even though it’s bound to be recent.”

  “The guide said this odd thing about it,” said Angie. “She pointed out the shiny gold and said that the old icons would have been darkened by the candle smoke. They might have been so dark that the worshipers couldn’t make out the image. And then she said that in spite of that, word of mouth says that one of the icons was a triptych with a Virgin Mother who could get God to forgive any sin, however awful.”

  That squared with the memoir I was reading.

  “I don’t know if I want people’s sins, however awful, to be forgiven just because they prayed to the right image,” observed Toby.

  Angie laughed. “You can tell you didn’t go to catechism class with the Barnes kids.”

  “What do you think I missed?” he said, teasing her.

  “Humility,” Angie replied. “There but for the grace of God go I.”

  Toby shook his head. “Everybody says that, but if you believe in free will, aren’t we all responsible for what we do?”

  “Of course, but don’t you believe in grace?” asked Angie.

  “For everybody, no matter what they do?”

  Angie gave Toby an indulgent look. “You’re mixing up grace and mercy—completely different things. We need a little catechism lesson here,” she offered.

  I intervened. “No talking religion at the table, children. It’s bad for the digestion.”

  Toby laughed and then said, “You ought to get back to your work anyhow, Nora. This air is beginning to feel wet. I’m thinking we should head south as soon as we can.”

  “Can I take another hour?”

  “Just. Angie and I will clear up here and then we’ll walk down the hill to the cove. We’ll meet you at the counter at three-thirty.”

  “Have fun.”

  As I headed back toward the information desk, I was startled to catch a rearview glimpse of a man who had come around the counter from the wrong side and who was now walking away. The attendant must have stepped out for a moment. A large man with a mop of hair, he brusquely strode toward the back exit without giving me a chance to see his face. He didn’t have to. I was pretty sure I knew who he was. Had he just come from the library where I’d left the manuscript open on the table? Or was my imagination working overtime? There are plenty of tall men with longish hair in Sonoma County, I told myself. And how could I be sure he had been in the library?

  Disquieted, I scanned the hall for the librarian, but she seemed to have gone. I approached the library’s door and tried to calm my nerves. At first nothing seemed amiss. The manuscript was still open to the page where I’d stopped reading. But there was a slight alteration in the room. The chair I’d been using was pushed up neatly against the table, as were the others, which hadn’t been moved from their original positions. I remembered pulling mine back when I got up and leaving it like that. Was my memory at fault, or had someone returned the chair to its proper place while I was out? My first impulse was to run back outside to find Toby, but
since time was limited, I needed to complete my task. So steeling myself, I sat down and returned to the manuscript.

  It wasn’t easy to concentrate. My mind wandered as I skimmed the rest of the memoir, which covered the latter half of Andreyev’s life. In these pages he told of expanding his umbrella business into a factory, which wasn’t of great interest. He related incidents concerning relatives back in the old country. And he expressed the hope that his children would remain faithful to the religion of the Eastern Orthodox Church. It was only here, toward the end of the document, that I found a passage that reclaimed my attention, as Andreyev dictated to his daughter a benediction for future generations.

  Our Holy Mother Church has always played a major role in my life. May it continue to do so for my children and theirs and for their children as long as our family lives on. May they always honor the saints. May they respect our priests. May they remember the poor and be charitable. May they honor our holy icons, and may these continue to pass from eldest son to eldest son, as is our custom. For our icons are our family’s most precious possessions. Cherish and protect them. I speak especially of our venerable triptych, which shows the Mother of God and the archangels Michael and Gabriel. My father called it the work of a great maker. Whether that is true I cannot say, yet it has traveled twice across the ocean, once with him and once with me, and it has brought health and good fortune to our families. So, children, treasure it. I can leave no greater gift.

  That one passage made the trip worthwhile. We were tracking part of that triptych, the panel depicting the angel Michael. But what had become of the other two panels? And why had the Michael icon ended up in the hands of Peter Federenco, who then entrusted it to Rose Cassini? I flipped back to the family tree. Assuming the genealogy to be accurate, there was no ambiguity as to the line of descent through eldest sons in the Federenco family. It went from Euvgeny to Andreyev to Vladimir to Feodor. True, Feodor had a brother, Boris, but Feodor was three years older. Had he inherited the family icons, as was his due, they should have gone to Andrew, his son. But instead, they went to Peter, who was Boris’s son. So what had happened?

  By now it was nearly time to meet Toby and Angie. I went to the copier and duplicated Andrew’s cover letter, the family tree, and several other pages, then returned the manuscript to its folder and left it, as instructed, on the table. On my way out, I thanked the librarian, who had returned to her post at the gift shop counter. “By the way,” I said, “I was wondering if anyone else was using the library this afternoon.”

  “I don’t think so,” she returned. “Why?”

  “Oh, just a small thing. I think someone moved my chair while I was outside having lunch. Or was that you?”

  “It wasn’t me. Why, are you missing anything?”

  “No, everything was there. Just wondering if my mind was playing tricks with me. It’s not important.”

  “I did step away for a couple of minutes to use the ladies’ room. You sure everything’s okay?”

  “Oh, yes. No problem. And I did find what I was looking for. Thanks again.”

  Toby and Angie were at the entrance on schedule. Outside, the lowering sky looked ominous. “Do you still want to check out the chapel?” Toby asked. “There’s weather coming in. It might be better to get on the road.”

  “I agree. Let’s get going.” On the way to the parking lot I explained my suspicion of having been spied on in the library. I asked if either of them had noticed a tall man with long hair while they were touring the grounds. They hadn’t.

  Toby frowned. “Let’s say it was the same guy from Whole Foods. How could he know we would be here?” He paused. “Unless he followed us.”

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” I urged. Already waves of fog shimmied along the ground, and the air was clammy with a soft drizzle. I was worried about the drive home.

  We started our climb up the steep bluff above the fort as the fog grew worse. The higher we climbed, the thicker it became. Well before we reached the summit, the road disappeared and we were enveloped in a murky cloud. Toby slowed to a crawl, using his fog lamps and straining to see. He was following the red glow of the taillights ahead of him to anticipate curves, but he was wary of getting too close to the car in front of us. Behind us someone was following our taillights for the same purpose. In another few minutes, the car in front vanished. It was only because the road flattened out that we knew we had reached the summit.

  It was then that the car behind us picked up speed, coming uncomfortably close and causing Toby to snarl, “That idiot is using his brights.” That meant he wasn’t local. Anyone who’s used to driving on the coast knows that high beams don’t cut through the fog but reflect it, making things worse for the driver as well as the guy ahead. Toby tapped his brake lights but whoever was behind us didn’t get the message. Instead he edged closer. Toby cursed and adjusted his rearview mirror. He slowed even more. I turned around to look. The lights behind us were growing larger as the car came on.

  “What the hell does he want to do, pass me? Is he crazy?” I could make out a lone driver in a dark-colored car. Toby beat out a light tattoo on his brakes. There was no room to pull over, so that was all he could do. Gradually the lights behind us fell back.

  We continued in tandem for a mile or so, with the distance between us holding steady until the road began its spiral downward at a steep incline aggravated by hairpin turns. That’s when the drive is most dangerous for a car going south, for there’s only a light guardrail serving as the bulwark between you and a plunge to the sea. Toby shifted the automatic to its low gear. Again we slowed. I turned around again. The driver behind us was drawing close. I turned back to face ahead and saw that a sign indicated a turnoff in a quarter of a mile. “Toby, how about letting him get by? It’s not a race.”

  “That’s fine with me,” growled Toby. He put his turn signal on, and I leaned forward in my seat, peering through the obscurity to discern the turnoff. We continued for what seemed longer than a quarter of a mile. Had we missed it? I could feel Toby’s tension.

  “There it is up ahead,” I pointed out when the turnoff finally appeared out of the gloom.

  “I see it,” Toby grunted. I heard the sound of gravel under our tires as we pulled off the road into a semicircular parking area. On a clear day this might be a scenic lookout, but nothing was visible now beyond the rolling fog, not even the railing.

  “Thanks, Toby. You’re doing a great job,” said Angie.

  He acknowledged the commendation with a terse nod. “I’m going to wait here a minute. I want him to get far ahead of us.” I thought that was a good idea. Toby isn’t a macho driver, and I’m grateful for that. After a pause, we set out again. Thin needles of rain hit the windshield, the fog as thick as ever. It was getting harder to see. We inched along until a mile went by and then another. The road swerved, dipped, and started climbing again.

  “What the hell—?” shouted Toby. I turned. The high beams of the dark-colored car were right behind us again, and he was pushing, pushing.

  “I think it’s the same guy,” I said. “How can that be?”

  I’ll tell you how,” said Toby angrily. “After I let him pass, he took the next turnout and waited for us. He waited for us to go by. The bastard’s chasing us!”

  “I’m scared,” cried Angie. Then she called out, “Archangel Michael, protect this vehicle and everyone in it!”

  “Roger that,” muttered Toby under his breath.

  I was terrified. I remembered that there had been a car that drew up behind us at one point on the drive up. Then someone had sniffed around the library while I was at lunch. Now this. “What does he want?”

  “To drive us off the road,” said Toby grimly, clutching the steering wheel and increasing his speed.

  “Be careful!” I warned. “You’re going too fast.”

  “I don’t have a choice.” We crested the hill and headed down again. The car rocked as we careened around a curve, the pursuing vehicle hard on o
ur tail.

  “Hold on,” said Toby. He braked. Swerved. Stepped on the gas again. Braked. Accelerated into a curve as the road rose upward for a stretch. But in front of us the highway vanished—it veered sharply to the left. We took it on two wheels. Now we were descending again, but we weren’t gaining ground. The other car was right behind us, grazing our bumper. In another moment it would hit us.

  But that moment never came. For a split second, Toby took his eyes off the road to check his rearview mirror, and in that fraction of a second, a dark form appeared without warning in the middle of his lane.

  “Stop!” screamed Angie.

  Toby cursed, slammed on the brakes, and jerked the steering wheel instinctively to the left, skidding toward the rock face that bordered the oncoming lane. Fortunately, no one was in that lane, or we would have crashed head-on. The driver behind us wasn’t so lucky. There was a thud, audible even through the closed windows. The high beams of the other car swung crazily, pitched at a high angle, and as I looked back in horror, two dark silhouettes lifted improbably into the air and disappeared over the guardrail.

  Toby pulled back into our lane and parked against the rail. We jumped out and ran to look. Even at this height, through the dripping fog, we could make out the flames of a burning vehicle on the rocks below. Angie clutched my arm tightly as we stared down at it in stunned silence.