by Cindy Sample
“Da, number 1571. On the left side. The driveway she goes way up to the house.”
The dial tone buzzed in my ear before I could say good-bye, but at least Irina was amenable to me stopping by. I'd hoped to converse with her in private, but as a new mother and recent widow, she probably had frequent visitors.
Black Horse Road was only five or six miles from the Budget Mart but in the opposite direction from my house. Still, if I only stayed at Irina's for a half hour or so, I could be home by half past seven.
I drove down North Shingle Road looking for the sign for Black Horse Road. Headlights blasting from oncoming cars made the search far more difficult. According to Mapquest, I should be almost... There it was.
The narrow two lane road was paved but rutted and not in the best shape. I worried about driving into potholes bigger than the Prius. Headlights shone from the top of the hill as a vehicle slowly wound down the steep, twisty road in my direction. I drove into a pullout on the side of the road and waited for the SUV to pass.
I was surprised Dimitri and Irina lived in such a remote area. So far I'd only passed two other houses. Maybe the tall pines and solitude reminded them of the Russian countryside.
My little car complained about the uphill climb but eventually I spotted a driveway on the left with Irina's address scrawled on a piece of wood. Not the most ornate entrance but at least it was legible. The driveway was even narrower than the road, half gravel and half dirt ruts. Obviously Dimitri had not poured any of the money he borrowed from Dana into any outside improvements.
The long winding driveway finally ended in a flat patch of gravel in front of a rustic log house. The porch was stocked to the roof with several piles of firewood. Irina would have an entire winter's supply to keep her and the baby warm.
I parked next to a dirty white Chevy Silverado. The truck seemed too big for the petite woman to drive, so her company must still be visiting. I stepped out of my car into the frigid night air. The scent of wood smoke combined with the sweet smell of cedar pines made the air smell like Christmas. I grabbed my purse and the gifts from the front seat.
The front steps creaked as I climbed up to the porch. The drapes to the front window were open, exposing a fire burning in a massive stone fireplace in the living room, but the room appeared to be empty.
Before I could grab the bronze doorknocker, the door flew open.
Irina stood in the doorway next to the most massive person I had ever seen outside of the World Wide Wrestling Champion-ships. He was at least six foot nine, and could probably knock down the Incredible Hulk with one swat of his huge hairy paw.
He frowned at me and muttered something under his breath. When he stuck his right hand into the pocket of his Big and Tall black leather coat, I sensed danger. I backed down the porch steps, mentally berating myself for getting involved in a situation that involved the Russian mafia.
Why hadn't I heeded my mother's advice?
I had almost reached the safety of my car when my heel slipped on a piece of gravel. My purse went flying in one direction. The baby gift flew over my head landing in an evergreen shrub. The sound of two pounds of candy bouncing on the hood of my car made me cringe.
I was too big to bounce, so I merely landed flat on my back doing an ungainly version of a snow angel. Unfortunately the pebbles I landed on were far less comfortable than the soft cushy snow I used to play in.
The beak-nosed bald-headed giant loomed over me. He took his hand out of his pocket and aimed a long slender object in my direction.
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* * *
THIRTY
* * * *
The threatening object in his right hand rattled as he lowered his left hand to lift me off the ground. My overactive imagination had visualized the big man toting a gun. Not a soft pink rattle.
Someone needed a lesson in diversity training
“You okay?” the man squeaked in a high-pitched voice. This was definitely a day for eliminating stereotypical assumptions. The combination of the Minnie Mouse voice with the Mr. Clean physique caused me to lose it. I sat up, giggling uncontrollably.
“Vladimir, you are scaring her,” Irina scolded the gentle giant as she approached us. The widow had thrown an embroidered ivory shawl over her shoulders. The baby was nestled against her chest and wrapped so snugly she resembled a baby burrito.
I latched on to Vladimir's gargantuan hand and he lifted me off the ground with ease and an unexpected gentleness.
“Thanks, um, spasiba?” I used the only Russian word I knew besides vodka.
“No problemo,” he responded with a thick accent. He murmured something to Irina. She nodded and replied in her native tongue. They exchanged kisses on both cheeks and he plodded to his truck and climbed in. The engine roared and the truck barreled down the drive, sending a farewell plume of dust in our direction.
Irina waved at me to follow her into the house. I retrieved my purse, the baby gift and the box of candy that had landed on the hood of my car unscathed. I was relieved to see we hadn't lost a single piece of chocolate. I bustled after my hostess, anxious to get inside to the warmth of her cheery cabin.
Irina led me down a dark narrow hallway into the living room. The walls were paneled in knotty pine and decorated with several Russian icons. The color and detail work of Russian art has always fascinated me. I walked over to examine one of the more ornate pieces but Irina nudged me toward her sofa. I plumped down on the slightly soiled olive green cushions, resting against the green, black and cream striped afghan that covered the back.
Irina sat in a sturdy maple rocking chair decorated with pastel flowers stenciled on the back and arms. The baby remained asleep as Irina rocked back and forth in silence. I placed the baby gift and the box of candy next to a sewing basket resting on the solid maple coffee table. The temperature shift from the frigid winter air to the torpid heat in the living room caused perspiration to drip down my face so I unbuttoned my leather coat and shrugged it off.
Irina finally broke the silence. “Thank you for baby gift. It is very nice of you to come visit us.”
I breathed out a sigh of relief that Irina was okay with my unscheduled visit. I thrust the red velvet box of Russell Stover's finest at my hostess. “Would you care for some candy?”
She grinned, displaying a tiny gap between her two front teeth. Irina wasn't an exotic dark-haired beauty like Anya, but she possessed a gamine-like charm, which was particularly enchanting when she finally smiled.
“No, but you are most kind. Would you like hot tea?” She pointed toward a burnished brass samovar resting on a side table next to a couple of delicate china cups in a gold edged dark blue and white pattern. The tea would have been welcome if I hadn't been sweltering in the ninety-degree heat of the living room.
A shaker full of chilled vodka sounded far more appealing.
“Sorry, I can't stay long. I need to get home to my children.”
Her face lit up at my comment. “Ah, you are mother, too?”
I nodded. “My kids are much older. My daughter is sixteen and my son, Ben, is seven. I'm a single mother like you.”
Irina looked at me with sympathy. “Your husband he was also killed?”
Not exactly, although I did recall wanting to kill him when he announced he was leaving me for another woman. But Hank was still alive and annoying me whenever he had the opportunity.
I wasn't sure how to explain my complicated relationship with my ex, so I merely shook my head. Her question provided an excellent segue into the topic of Dimitri's murder.
“Irina, I'm very sorry for your loss, but have you thought about who might have wanted to harm your husband?”
She raised her eyes to the ceiling as she rocked back and forth occasionally patting the baby nestled in her arms. “I not quite sure how to say this. My Dimitri, he was very popular with the ladies. I love my husband but he has wandering ways.” Her face darkened and the chair began to rock faster. “When I become
pregnant, it create problems and we cannot have the sex. Dimitri, he need the sex to feel like a man.”
I smiled at her, empathizing with her predicament. “You're a better person than I am. When my husband left me for another woman, I did want to kill him. Didn't you get mad at Dimitri?”
She shrugged. “I could yell and I could cry, but Dimitri...he would do what he wanted to do.”
“What about the other male dance instructors? Were they jealous of him?”
“Dimitri, he could be very charming one day. Then next day he more like a...” She paused and tried to compose her thoughts. “He be more like lying bastard scum.”
Alrighty then. Irina's grasp of English was far better than I expected and she definitely wasn't as naive as I originally thought. She was realistic about the man she had loved and married.
“Right before little Katya was born I decided to prepare for my trip to hospital. I open suitcase and what do I find?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “I find beautiful ballroom gown.”
“A present for you?”
“No! Not for me. It was for tall woman. For his whore. So I took my scissors and cut it in tiny pieces. Then I throw it away.”
Wow. Little Irina had a big temper.
“What did he say when you told him what you did?”
“He was very upset. He say he going to start costume business and that I spoil everything for him. I never know what to believe from Dimitri, so I tell him next time I find him hiding something from me, I cut off his...” She mimicked a body part that undoubtedly meant a great deal to Dimitri.
I eyed the sharp blades of the scissors sticking out of her sewing basket and decided I'd better be careful how I phrased my questions.
“You've spoken with the detectives, haven't you?”
“Da, several times, I speak with Detective Hunter. He ask if Dimitri is involved with any criminals before we come to this country. In Russia, is not safe to talk to police so all I tell him is that Dimitri want to be huge pie maker.”
Huh? What did baking pies have to do with ballroom dance?
Irina noticed my confused look. “Let me see, it is American expression. Very strange, I think. Dimitri, he keep fingers in many pies.”
My stomach growled as I pictured a chocolate pie topped with swirls of fluffy white whipped cream. Next time I did some detecting I'd better eat something more filling than a marshmallow Santa.
“Are you saying Dimitri was involved in other things besides opening his new dance studio?”
Her head nodded, keeping rhythm with her patting motion on little Katya's back. “He tell me he has big idea and soon we will be rich Americans and can move to villa on a hill.
“Dimitri has told me this story so many times before. But this time...” She closed her eyes for a few seconds then opened them wide.
“This time I think maybe he mean it.”
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* * *
THIRTY-ONE
* * * *
The baby woke, startling both of us. Her rosebud mouth opened and closed rapidly, a sign that someone else was hungry. I decided I'd bothered the bereft widow long enough so I grabbed my purse and stood up. “Thanks, Irina. Please let me know if I can help you in any way. It must be tough living alone this far out in the country.”
“Spasiba. I am grateful for your kindness. Maybe if you hear something from the big detective, you will let me know? Detective Hunter reminds me of Russian black bear. He look cuddly, but better to be careful what you do and say around him. He is scaring me a little.”
I smiled. Sometimes the detective scared me a little, too. I said good-bye and jumped in my car, my heart going out to the little girl who would grow up without her father. My own father had died in a car accident when I was ten. Thirty years later, I still missed his presence. No matter what pie-making scheme Dimitri had cooked up, no one deserved to have their life end in such a vicious manner.
A light rain was falling, and I needed to concentrate on driving, not detecting. If the temperature dropped a few more degrees, it could turn into snow. My eyes remained glued to the road as the windshield wipers flicked back and forth, their soft clicking reminding me how late it was getting and how careful I had to be driving on the dark twisty road. Deer, raccoons and the occasional mountain lion lived in these woods. I sure didn't want to run over Bambi and his mother.
I negotiated the last hairpin turn on the slick road. The sharp crack that punctuated the air shattered my front windshield, leaving a tiny hole to the right of my face. I slammed my foot on the brake and the Prius slid sideways toward a fifty-foot drop into a tree-filled canyon.
Branches laden with pine needles brushed against the windows as the car careened toward the precipice. I jerked the wheel in the opposite direction and began spinning out of control. My heart lodged in my throat as the faces of my children flashed through my mind.
The car revolved almost 360 degrees before slowing. It skidded another twenty feet, sliding into the muddy ruts along the left side of the road but opposite the dark canyon on the other side. The car finally stopped, one of the back tires gasping out a last breath as the vehicle listed to the left.
I briefly rested my head on the steering wheel, shivering from the chilly air blowing through the shattered windshield. One of my tires must have hit a rock or something. I shivered again, but this time from realizing what a close call I'd had. Only a few feet separated my tiny car from the steep drop of the canyon.
The Prius had landed so close to a huge tree trunk that I was unable to squeeze out of the driver's side door. As I climbed over the console, I vowed to eschew all candy until New Year's Day. I opened the passenger door and stepped out. My heels sank into the squishy red foothill mud, an expensive reminder to never wear suede shoes when investigating a murder.
An immense snowflake pattern was etched across the cracked windshield. The safety glass had kept it from disintegrating into a million pieces, but visibility would be zero. The left back tire slouched haphazardly in the muck. My stomach churned in dismay as I contemplated the damage to my car.
A roar of a motor starting up in the distance provided a momentary hope that someone would drive up and rescue me, but as the noise of the engine grew fainter, I realized there was no alternative but to trudge back to Irina's house.
The wind whistling through the trees and the light drizzle seeping down my neck did nothing to improve my mood. My cell phone provided a tiny beam of light. It also displayed the fact there was no cell reception, at least where I was currently standing. In this area, the phone service could bounce from no bars to five bars within seconds.
I was glad my mother wasn't there, because she would certainly have dispensed a lecture on the many reasons why you should always carry a flashlight in your car.
I hate when she's right.
During the day, the few residences along the road undoubtedly possessed a beautiful view of the snow-capped Sierra Mountains, but my vista consisted of scary black trees silhouetted against an almost starless midnight blue sky.
The distance to Irina's house was less than a half mile, but as I trudged uphill it felt far longer. My two-inch heels didn't help my progress although I was able to proceed without any rest stops. Maybe those dance lessons were finally having a positive impact.
Lights blazing from the windows of Irina's cabin perked up my flagging spirits. I sprinted up the steps to her front porch and tapped lightly, not wanting to wake the baby in case she had settled down for the night. Irina opened the door a crack and peered over the chain latch.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Laurel, is something gone wrong?”
My mind briefly flitted with the thought that it was odd Irina assumed something was wrong, but I pushed it away. I explained about my accident and she ushered me into the house. I removed my muddy shoes and followed her into the kitchen, which was decorated with bright blue tile counters, yellow walls, and red stoneware. The scent of fresh baked bread permeated
the small room. My stomach gurgled at the smell and sight of the golden loaf resting on a braided towel.
Irina giggled and pointed at my noisy abdomen. “Come sit. You make the call and I will cut you piece of bread. It just come from oven.”
My stomach growled a thank you as I accepted the cordless phone from my hostess. I pulled my AAA card from my wallet and dialed the toll-free number on the back. The body shop that owned the tow truck was located in Placerville, so they assured me the truck would arrive in less than twenty minutes. We arranged for the driver to come to Irina's house so I wouldn't have to wait in my cold dark car.
I would need transportation home, but I couldn't decide whether to call my mother, who would undoubtedly chastise me all the way to my house, or Liz, who was unlikely to approve of my investigating when I was supposed to be one hundred percent devoted to her bridal functions.
My brain would function better once it was fed some fiber-filled carbohydrates. I decided to hold off phoning anyone for a ride until after I savored some of Irina's homemade bread. She placed a thick slice on the table along with a glass of milk.
“Mmm,” I mumbled, my mouth crammed full of the flavorful bread that had been slathered in butter. Even the butter tasted better than normal.
She smiled. “Is good, no?”
“Is good, yes.” I wiped my crumb-covered lips with a soft red damask napkin and glanced around the cheerful room, my eyes landing on a colorful teddy bear cookie jar. The ceramic lid, which was the head of the bear, was off kilter. It looked like Irina had recently refilled it. Could fresh baked cookies be in my future? My taste buds grew anxious savoring yet another treat.
Irina noticed the direction of my gaze. She stood and hastily cleared my plate from the table. It landed in the sink with a clatter. “The truck he will be here soon. We should wait in the front room.”
Okay, I can take a hint.
Little Katya was asleep, lying on her stomach in a tiny maple wood cradle. Irina settled back in her rocking chair and closed her eyes. I sat on the sofa feeling ill at ease. I had intruded on the poor widow not once, but twice in one evening.