by Linda Welch
Janine lived in a gated community in southwestern Las Vegas near the Canyon Gate Country Club, just eight miles from the Strip, and her home was indeed lovely. From the front door, the passage led between a formal dining room and a formal living room, both walled in glass, so I had an unobstructed view of beautiful furniture and display cabinets. Janine took me to her more casually furnished great room, decorated in warm southwestern tones, with comfortable leather armchairs the color of soft caramel.
She brought me a can of soda, a glass of ice, and took a seat across from me. A large-boned woman with straggling straw-colored hair, she wriggled in her seat to get comfortable. I’d bet those straggling locks were a designer Do.
“Do you have the journal with you?”
I stopped pouring the soda before it fizzled over the rim of the glass and put the can on the coffee table. I wanted to hang on to the journal for the time being, so I tucked it between Janine’s low brick wall and a big rock just inside her front yard. “It’s evidence in an ongoing case, so I’m afraid we can’t release it yet, but I promise we will get it to you.” I felt in my pocket for the page I’d scanned. “I did bring a copy of one page.”
She practically snatched it from me and held it a few inches from her face, peering at it myopically. I picked up my glass and held it to my lips, waiting for the bubbles to subside.
I managed to say, “Is it genuine?” before I gave in to thirst and swigged a mouthful of soda.
She tore her gaze from the piece of paper. “This is Elizabeth’s handwriting.”
Not a forgery, then. “Is the journal valuable?”
Janine laughed lightly. “Only to a historian. Diaries from the Victorian era are not uncommon. Ladies of Elizabeth’s social class produced meticulously detailed accounts which included their day-to-day life, their thoughts, emotions and ideas, as well as the national beliefs and events of the times. Elizabeth’s journals are of great interest to me, first because she was my ancestor, second because she was a young English lady traveling in foreign lands. She spent countless hours on the ship to Rangoon, then on the long trek to Nagka, then in Nagka, with little to do but put her observations down on paper.”
She smiled. “Did you find it interesting?”
“Once I got used to her handwriting.”
I took another healthy slug. Interesting? Boy, was she in for a surprise when she read the journal. Would Elizabeth’s musings on sex between men and woman shock or amuse Janine? And what would she make of the girl’s tryst in the jungle and Nester’s mad declaration? Whatever. I’d make sure she got the journal after I found who sent it, and why.
“You won’t do anything to the book, will you? I mean, your Forensics won’t damage it.”
“Oh, no. It’s safe in our hands, Miss Hulme.” I took another sip. “If the journal is, as she writes on the cover, a continuation of her observations, how many did Elizabeth write?”
“We think there were five in all. The household accounts of the time show the commission of five notebooks from a local book-maker. She ordered them with her name printed on the cover, as was the custom. This doesn’t mean she completed all five, but we are hopeful. We have the first volume in which she records her departure from England and the ocean voyage. You must have the second.”
“We?”
“My fiancé Robert. Researching the Hulme expedition to Burma is something of a hobby for us.”
“I read Hans Stadelmann’s book; is it true Elizabeth died in Nagka?”
“We believe so. She definitely didn’t return to England with the rest of the party, and Edward was a changed man. He was in a psychiatric institution for months. He did recover, and married again . . . and here I am,” she said with a flourish of her hands.
My heart sank and I held back a grimaced. Elizabeth had not written more journals.
The ice cubes slowly melted in the glass. “It’s very sad, really. She was what, fifteen?”
Janine nodded. “But of course, in those days she was a young lady, not a child. No doubt she would have married soon after her return to England.”
I had trouble coming up with another question. I’d learned nothing worthwhile so far. I drained my glass and poured in the rest of the soda. Janine sat on the edge of her chair now, watching me inquisitively. With her straggling hair, she brought to mind the head of a Chinese Crested on a big human body.
Janine reached over the arm of her chair to pick up a small picture in a silver-gilt frame from the side table. She handed it to me. “This is Elizabeth and her father Edward. It was taken a week before they left England for Burma, a year after Elizabeth’s mother died.”
The black and white photo was badly faded. Elizabeth sat in an ornately carved wingback chair, hands primly folded in her lap. Long, straight pale hair fanned the shoulders of a high-necked, long-sleeved, tight-waisted dress. Black ankle-boots hung inches off the floor. Her features were small, petite. Edward stood half behind the chair, a tall mustachioed man wearing a pith helmet, tight high-necked jacket and trousers resembling a military uniform. His hand rested on the ball head of a cane. The old photo gave no idea of the colors of their clothes, except they were pale and their boots were dark, and Edward’s hair could have been brown. I think they were dressed in clothing for the expedition.
I gave Janine the photo back. “She looks like Alice in Wonderland.”
She smiled at the photo. “I thought the same.”
“Have you been to Nagka?”
“My father went there in his youth, but travel in Myanmar was easier then. The restrictions imposed by the present government make it all but impossible to move about the country. I will go one day.”
“Did he discover anything about the expedition?” I asked hopefully.
She shook her head. “He explored the city, but the natives of the region refused to talk about it. They were friendly in all other ways, but mention of Nagka made them deaf and dumb. Very odd.” She frowned. “I don’t understand how Elizabeth’s book can be part of a police case.”
Neither did I. At this point the journal was an indulgence of mine, and maybe that’s all it would ever be. I swirled the ice cubes in the glass and took a sip. “I wish I could tell you. Miss Hulme, is Hans Stadelmann still alive? Do you know his whereabouts?”
“Is he involved in this?”
“No. I’m curious.”
“Oh. He went back to Myanmar and lived there a number of years before he returned home and retired. The last I heard, he’s in Arizona, although I don’t know where. He may have passed away since then. He is getting on in years.”
Maybe I could track him down. I smiled at Janine. “If you hear anything of him, I’d appreciate a call.”
“Certainly. I have friends down that way. I can ask them.”
Time I got on my way. “Well I - ” My cell rang.
I got the phone out my back pocket and looked at it reluctantly. I had a feeling I knew who was on the other end. I was right.
I mentally girded my loins, at the same time smiling apologetically at Janine. “Hello, Royal.”
“Tiff? Where in god’s name are you?”
I winced. I hadn’t got around to calling him before I left town. “Um. Las Vegas?”
“Las. . . . Why are you in Vegas? Never mind, you can tell me later. Right now I need you to come with me.”
“Come with you? Where? How?”
“I’ll meet you outside Bellagio. Get there as soon as you can.”
Uh oh. He was in Vegas. He wanted me to go some place with him, and I bet we would not be flying. “But I bought a return flight!”
“I’ll pay you back. This is urgent, Tiff.”
“My car’s at Salt Lake airport.”
“I’ll have someone drive it back to your place.”
But I had the keys. I visualized one of those scenes from a movie, where a thief jimmies a car door and pulls a mess of wires from the dashboard. “Nobody better hurt my car.”
“It will be okay, Tiff.”
I closed the phone and smiled at Janine. “I don’t suppose you have any Dramamine?”
***
I strolled up and down Bellagio’s magnificent foyer, feeling out of place among the smartly-dressed people who wandering along with me. My Levis and Princeton University T-shirt stood out, and not in a good way. But I was not about to leave the air-conditioned comfort of Bellagio until Royal turned up.
When I saw him arrive and start pacing back and forth at the entrance, I didn’t know if I was happy to get out of Bellagio, or unhappy to go out in the Las Vegas heat.
I walked up behind him. “Hi, Royal.”
He turned on his heel and a smile lit his face, but I went up to him feeling wary. We hadn’t spoken since the meeting with Gia and Daven and I felt there should be some discussion between us. He had to still feel terrible about not being able to help me as Gia threw me across the room, and we hadn’t talked about what he knew and I still didn’t. But before I could say another word, he surprised me by pulling me into his arms and treating me to one of those deep, enveloping kisses for which he’s famous. Well I think he’s famous for them. Toe-tingling would be an apt description.
I pulled away as I dragged my breath back in. “This is serious, isn’t it.”
He tucked a loose wisp of hair behind my ear. “Yes it is, but that is not why I kissed you.” He put his mouth to the side of my face, near my ear. “I missed you.”
Aw.
But the warm flush brought on by his words abruptly disappeared as he took my arm and scooted me along the sidewalk toward Caesar’s Palace. I gripped his sleeve with my free hand and clung on. “Not yet, Royal. Please. I’m not prepared.”
“Then you’d better prepare yourself.”
Well thank you for being so considerate. “Royal, we have to talk!”
He stopped and spun me to face him. “I know, and we will talk, I promise, but now is not the time.” And we were off again. I clamped my lips together, teed off, irate, incensed, take your pick, as my feet virtually left the ground.
Royal had come to fetch me, which could mean only one thing. We were taking a trip, demon style, and I dreaded it. I could manage a fast clip on the arm of a demon, but true demon speed made me nauseous, hence the Dramamine.
In the dry, baking heat, he took me up the long walkway to Caesar’s and along a narrow path which skirted the casino. We came to a small, ordinary-looking wood door.
“Ready?” Royal asked.
“No!”
Seconds later, it seemed, although I knew it had to be longer, I gasped and tried not to gag in good old downtown Clarion. A few passersby looked our way, but Royal ignored them and I could barely see them.
Dating a demon can be such fun. I guess that kiss mean we were still dating
Up the steps to Royal’s apartment, lickety-split, and into the living room. Gia and Daven waited just inside, on their feet and looking alert.
“Ready?” Royal asked.
We were going someplace else? I staggered away from him and fell on a couch. “No. You have to give me a minute. And while we wait you can tell me what’s going on.”
Gia gave me a cool look. “We can’t afford to waste time like this.”
“And I can’t afford the cleaning bill when I barf all over myself.”
She threw up her hands, very elegantly I might add, and perched on the arm of the other couch. Daven sat down at her side, looking dapper in pressed camel slacks and a cream short-sleeved shirt. The outfit went well with Gia’s cream silk pants suit and amber jewelry.
Gia drummed the fingers of one hand on her other wrist, staring at me like something dirty on the bottom of her shoe.
I folded my arms and gave her an obstinate look in return. “I’m not going anyplace till you tell me where and why.”
Royal stood with hands in jeans pockets. “She needs to know. You can’t walk her into a situation like this with no explanation.”
That sounded ominous.
“He is right, Gia,” said Daven.
Gia tossed her head, which I suppose was her version of go ahead.
“One of my people was attacked, using the same method by which the others were killed,” Royal said.
I fanned my face with my open hand. “Which was?”
“Burning and decapitation. They douse the victim in gasoline and set them alight, then cut off the head.”
Yuk. Or bomb the hell out their home with them inside, I thought as I looked over at Daven. Either way, they burned them alive. My stomach soured. What a dreadful way to die.
Then what Royal said sank in. I knew the name of the killer, or at least his alias. “The Charbroiler?”
Daven nodded.
I’d heard of the Charbroiler, as the press dubbed him, or her. Who hadn’t? Four killings in the past year, but they happened in the Eastern states and until now seemed far away. I exploded up from the couch. “The Charbroiler! Why didn’t you tell me? This isn’t some secret Gelpha thing, he killed four people!”
“Not human people, Tiff,” Royal said.
Oh. Right. The murdered were Gelpha, but they looked like human beings and were reported as such.
“I don’t know how, but she managed to get away,” Daven was saying. “She is dying and we cannot save her. She could go at any time.”
Poor woman. I made a disgusted face as I sank down on the couch. “That’s terrible.”
“I hope - we hope - you can communicate with a Gelpha shade,” Royal said.
His gaze slid away from me. I dropped my head so I could rub at the pain developing between my eyebrows. “What aren’t you telling me, Royal?”
“We don’t know if Gelpha do become ghosts,” Gia said. “We will not know until she dies.”
I blinked a few times, trying to process. They wanted me to be with the woman when she died.
“The opportunity to learn anything about the killer . . . we have to know,” Royal said. “She’s right on the edge. We must leave now.”
I closed my eyes. Tell me, God, why me? “She’s in Clarion?”
“Russia.”
I knew it. Not that we’d take a trip to Russia of all places, but I knew we would not simply walk across town. No, it couldn’t be so easy. “I thought you’d say something like that,” I muttered.
So, another trip through Bel-Athaer. At least the last one was fast. “Why Russia?”
“The Republic of Tatarstan. Kazan is her home, although for safety’s sake we moved her to a village outside the capital. With the condition she is in, we dare not take her far,” from Daven.
Gia and Daven got to their feet. “They’re coming with us?” I asked Royal.
“We are,” from Daven.
“So we won’t be demoning along?”
“We can move as fast as Gelpha,” Gia said. I swear she spoke with satisfaction.
I recalled Gia’s speed as she came at me across Royal’s living room. Damn. That’s right.
“Don’t I need to pack?” And I had to make arrangements for Mac.
“If you need anything, we’ll find it for you,” Royal said.
“I can’t go off and leave Mac for god only knows how long.”
“I’ll zip back and take him to Janie if it looks as if we will be more than a few hours.”
“Just a sec.” I pulled the little canister out my pocket and popped another anti-nausea pill. I know I just had one, but I wasn’t taking chances. Should I use the bathroom before we took off? I hauled myself up. “Give me a minute.”
“We go now,” Gia barked.
“All right, already!” I threw a glare at the back of her head as I followed her and Daven to the door.
We stepped out of Royal’s apartment and walked down the stairs, and Twenty-Second Street enveloped us. July in Clarion is Festival month in conjunction with Fourth of July at the beginning and Pioneer Day on the twenty-fourth. One big celebration all month long. Twenty-Second is the venue for the Farmer’s Market and the street’s merchants join in by setting up ta
bles outside their stores on which they display choice goods to lure in customers. Delis load their little tables with samples of food and drink. Jewelry and glassware sparkle and a wonderful aroma from two bakeries and the patisserie ride the air.
I’d rather have stayed there, taking in the ambience, than go through Bel-Athaer to Russia to see a dying woman. I would rather have the flu.
Gia and Daven almost hugged the storefronts so they walked beneath the awnings. We trooped past a trio of musicians who followed Gia with their eyes, and turned the corner to Childress, trying to avoid pedestrians too busy looking in shop windows to see us. A little ways further and we were a half block from Gorge’s Antique Emporium.
Gorge does not live there anymore, nor operate the business. Gorgeous Gorge lives in Bel-Athaer with High Lord Lawrence. He pops back every so often to see everything runs smoothly, but his home is Royal’s world.
We stood close to the west wall of an empty shop. Royal wrapped one arm around my waist.
Chapter Sixteen
Like most ancient Russian cities, one-thousand-year-old Kazan is a melding of the incredibly beautiful and the dismally drab. The Cathedral of the Annunciation, crowned by jewel-toned domes. Gleaming white Kazan University. The National Library with its elaborate reading rooms. The Tatar Theatre of Opera and Ballet. The famous Alexandrov Arcade, now used by retail stores. The ornately decorated Peter and Paul Cathedral. In the lower town, the Shamil House, the Sovet Hotel, the Azimov Mosque. And all over the place, huge brown or gray apartment blocks which earn the title tenement.
I didn’t see any glorious architecture. I did see the hideous apartment blocks.
It’s a small world; you hear it all the time, and it’s true. I helped police in Jackson, Wyoming, find the killer of a Russian girl three years ago. Anya worked in an ice-cream shop, there for the summer to earn money for her schooling back home. A month later via Clarion PD, I received a package containing a beautiful book all about Kazan, with an invitation from Anya’s family to go visit them any time I felt so inclined.
A big old gray building faced us across the street, but I had no clue to its name. In fact, I had no clue to whereabouts we were in Kazan. I presumed we were in Kazan.