Murder in Moscow

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Let’s continue,” the curator said, astutely recognizing that the tension level between the two men was on the rise.

  I drifted away from the group led by the curator and went to where my table companion, the writer, Dimitri Rublev, was talking with the Russian graphic artist.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting something important,” I said.

  “Not at all, Mrs. Fletcher,” Rublev said.

  The graphic artist, whose name I never did catch, excused himself and walked away, leaving me alone with Rublev.

  “What a beautiful place this is,” I said, indicating the vast gallery.

  “Da. Yes. We have many wonderful museums in Russia, too.”

  “So I’ve heard. I’m anxious to visit some of them when I’m in Moscow—if they give us enough free time to do it.”

  “The Pushkin is my favorite in Moscow. I hope you are also able to visit St. Petersburg. It is where I was born. The Ermitazh is a fine museum, as fine as any in the world.”

  “The ... ?”

  He smiled and said, “The Hermitage. Excuse me for using Russian.”

  “No,” I said, “excuse me for not speaking Russian.”

  “It is good we have this chance to converse alone, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’d like to hear more about your novel, Mr. Rublev.”

  “That is gracious of you, Mrs. Fletcher. Perhaps at another time. I was hoping—” He looked about, as though to ensure that no one was close enough to hear. One of the unidentified men in a suit—American cut—watched us with overt interest from a corner. From another corner one of the Russians, whom I assumed was part of a security detail, also showed interest in what was transpiring.

  “You were hoping—?” I said to Rublev.

  “I was hoping you would do me a great favor.”

  “I will if I can,” I said.

  Another furtive glance about. “I have a close friend in Moscow,” he said. “A writer—very talented.”

  “Oh? What’s his name?”

  “That is not important for now. Please, I do not wish to be rude but—”

  “You don’t need to tell me his name if you don’t wish to. I just thought—”

  “No, no, please do not misunderstand. My friend ... she will one day be as famous as you.”

  “Your friend is a woman.”

  “Da. She is a woman. A very beautiful one.”

  “Beautiful and talented. That’s a potent combination.”

  “Would you ... would you consider taking something to her from me?”

  “What do you want me to take?”

  “This.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket and withdrew a small pink envelope.

  “Is it—?” I shook my head and laughed. “I don’t mean to pry. Of course I’ll take it to her, provided they allow me the time to meet with her.”

  “Here.” He pulled another item from his pocket and handed it to me. It was a slip of paper. Written on it was: Alexandra Kozhina-14-A Nikolskaya Ulitsa, Kitay Gorod.

  I cocked my head.

  “Her name and address. Kitay Gorod is a section of Moscow adjacent to the Kremlin—a very old section of the city. She lives there. I should say that she is an admirer of yours, Mrs. Fletcher. She speaks and reads English. A friend has brought her English copies of all your books. Her ambition is to be as fine a writer as you.”

  “That’s flattering. I will try to get in touch with her and give her the envelope.”

  “Spasibo.”

  “Pazhalsta,” I responded, pleased that I’d remembered the Russian word for “you’re welcome.”

  Vaughan and Olga joined us, and we chatted about the exhibition of Russian art until an announcement was made that it was time to leave.

  “Nightcap?” Vaughan asked as we entered the Madison Hotel.

  “I have a feeling we’d better grab sleep whenever we can,” I said. “It’s an early start tomorrow.”

  “Just a quick one,” Olga said.

  “All right.”

  I raised my glass of club soda with lime in what was only one of dozens of toasts we would make over the next two weeks. “To the end of the first day,” I said.

  “A worthwhile reason to toast,” said Vaughan. “What did you think, Jess?”

  “I was impressed. How could I be anything else? Police escorts everywhere. Feted at the Russian Embassy and the National Gallery of Art. And tomorrow, breakfast hosted by a congressional subcommittee, and a meeting with the president of the United States. What’s at night?”

  “Russian ballet at the Kennedy Center,” Olga said.

  “Wow! Yes, I am very impressed.”

  “What did you think of Vlady?” Vaughan asked.

  “He’s a nice man. Drinks a little.”

  Vaughan laughed. “Quite an understatement.”

  “I was interested in the exchange between the American and Russian publisher over that painting by the artist who died in an asylum.”

  “Started to heat up,” Olga said.

  “I hope that sort of thing doesn’t taint the next two weeks.”

  “I’m sure it won’t,” Vaughan said. “We have a lot more in common than we have differences.”

  “Publishing,” I said.

  “Yes. Our common bond, no matter what language we speak.”

  We talked for another half hour before I announced it was past my bedtime. Vaughan paid the check, and we walked to the elevator. The doors slid open, and we stepped past them. As they started to close, I looked across the lobby. Seated in a chair was one of the men who’d been watching us closely at the National Gallery.

  “That man,” I said.

  “Who?” Olga asked.

  “He was sitting in the lobby,” I said as the elevator started its rise.

  “Who was he?” Vaughan asked.

  “I don’t know. He was at the dinner, kept to himself. There were a few like him.”

  We stepped out onto our floor.

  “I assumed they were part of the security,” said Olga.

  “They probably were,” I said. “Well, let’s all get some sleep. See you in the morning.”

  Chapter Three

  I slept soundly and awoke refreshed and ready, indeed anxious to get on with the day. I opened the drapes and looked down to the street, where men and women briskly walked to their day’s work. Because the government is Washington’s largest employer, it was a safe assumption that most of them were civil servants of one stripe or another.

  Ever since I was told I’d be meeting President Singleton, I debated what would be the perfect outfit for such an august occasion: my comfy Maine look—tweed skirt, simple blouse, and cardigan sweater? That would accurately reflect the way I dressed most days back in Cabot Cove. I also considered a business suit—what do they call it? A power outfit? I’d brought one along in case that was the fashion direction in which I decided to lean. Or, of course, there was the possibility of choosing something more dressy.

  It was a good thing I was up early because it took an hour of trying on clothing before I settled on what might be called my “Maine uniform.” To wear anything else would amount to trying to costume myself; something I assiduously try to avoid. The president of the United States would meet me as he would were he to visit me at home in Maine.

  Pleased with my decision—and after multiple checks in the full-length mirror—I headed downstairs to the lobby to meet up with my colleagues for our breakfast at the Capitol. Everyone seemed as rested and energetic as I was. We happily exchanged greetings, in Russian and in English, and climbed into our limousines for the short ride to where the Congress conducts the nation’s business. I’m an inveterate watcher of C-SPAN, that wonderful public service TV channel that provides gavel-to-gavel coverage of the House of Representatives and the Senate when those bodies are in session, and so I’m familiar with many of the faces and styles of the men and women elected to those institutions. Meeting some of them in person would be a treat.

  Approaching the
Capitol generates a sense of awe. Its cast-iron dome rises majestically into the sky over Washington. Atop it is a nineteen-foot bronze statue called “Freedom,” also known as “Armed Freedom” because the female figure in flowing robes has in her right hand a sheathed sword, in her left a shield. Her head is crowned with a helmet crested with feathers, which many visitors assume represents the headdress of an Indian warrior. The fact, according to what I’d read, is that the original model for the statue had her wearing a cap representing the freed Roman slaves, the sort of hat worn by extremists in the French Revolution. But when Jefferson Davis, secretary of war in Lincoln’s first cabinet, inspected the model, he saw the original cap as representing Yankee subversion, the sort of symbol that incited slaves to rebel. He insisted upon a change, and the pseudo-Indian headdress was substituted. That’s one of the things I love about Washington. There is an interesting story to go with every monument, statue, and other symbols of our country’s history.

  We were led inside the Capitol Building by a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in an impeccably tailored gray suit. I didn’t recognize him as having been part of our group the previous day and evening. Once we were standing in what’s called Statuary Hall, in which two statues of famous people from each state are displayed, he said, “My name is Sam Roberts. I head up the Commerce Department’s office of intellectual and creative development. Sorry I couldn’t be with you last night, but I had other matters to attend to. I’m delighted to have finally caught up with you this morning for what promises to be an interesting, and I hope enjoyable day and evening in Washington. Let me just say before we go to our breakfast that your willingness to devote your time, and expertise in the field of publishing, to this trade mission is, to me, an outstanding example of citizen participation in the important work of government. The distinguished Russian publishing executives with us on this mission are going through a traumatic shift in their nation’s form of governing. After years of the Soviet system, they now find themselves functioning in a democracy in which the first election in years has produced a democratically elected government.

  “The American publishing industry has enjoyed freedom since the birth of this nation. To share what we have learned over those hundreds of years with our Russian colleagues will not only develop for us a vibrant market for our books, it will certainly help Russian publishers to flourish in their newfound climate of freedom.

  “Having said that—and I think I’ve already taken too much of your valuable time—let me lead you to a breakfast sponsored by the House Subcommittee on International Economic Policy, Export, and Trade Promotion.”

  We followed Mr. Roberts to the House Restaurant, a pleasant, sedate room, where tables had been set for our breakfast. As we came through the doorway, we were greeted by a dozen members of the House, including Cabot Cove’s congressman, John Baldacci, a Democrat serving his second term. He immediately came up to me, shook my hand, and said, “Always a pleasure to meet a famous citizen from Maine.”

  “Thank you for those kind words, Congressman,” I said, “but one of the nice things about Maine is that fame doesn’t follow you around.”

  “Well put, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Are you a member of the committee hosting the breakfast?” I asked.

  “No, but I knew you were part of the trade mission and wanted to personally welcome you to Washington.”

  A brief moment of cynicism gripped me. You’re here to shake the hand of another potential voter next time you run, it said to me. I quickly shed that feeling because I’m not comfortable with cynicism. Skepticism is something else.

  I took him at his word and said, “It was good of you to take time out of what I’m sure is a very busy schedule.”

  “We do keep hopping here,” he said, smiling. He handed me his card. “My administrative assistant is Larry Benoit. If you need anything while you are in Washington, call him. Please stop by if you find the time. My office number is on the card.”

  He wished me a good day and walked away, leaving me to find my name card on one of the tables, each hosted by a member of the House committee sponsoring the breakfast. In my case, I was seated next to a congressman from California who looked as though he was barely old enough to be a member of his high school student government. His name was Joe Galway.

  I was relieved that my Russian publisher, Valdislav Staritova, wouldn’t be sitting at the same table with me that morning. I didn’t dislike him; I’d only spent an hour or so with him, hardly enough to make a judgment. But there was a certain aggressiveness that I found off-putting. I made a silent pledge to myself to be more open and accepting as the trade mission progressed. If only he didn’t drink so much.

  Breakfast was delicious, and elegantly served. Various representatives of the Commerce Department gave short speeches, all of them focusing upon the need to foster closer working relationships with the Russian publishing industry. I suspected we would hear a lot more of that talk as we continued on our journey, first through Washington, D.C., and then on to Moscow.

  Conversation at my table was spirited and competitive, which kept me from doing much observing of others in the room. But at one point when the dialogue shifted to a topic in which I had little interest, I did just that. Vaughan and Olga Buckley were at a table with Sam Roberts and Ed Rodier of the Commerce Department. Also at their table was the chairman of the subcommittee, a southerner with a boom-box voice. His back was to me, preventing me from seeing who sat at the table across from him. Vaughan looked in my direction and smiled. I returned the gesture. As I did, the chairman stood and went to another table, leaving me with a clear view of the man who’d been blocked from my view. It was the same person who’d paid such visual attention to me during dinner at the National Gallery, and who’d been sitting in the lobby of the Madison Hotel when we returned there. Who was he? I again wondered. But then the conversation at my table turned to me, and I found myself discussing my writing habits and schedule, which always seems to be of interest to nonwriters. For me, it simply represents a daily routine. But I happily respond to their questions, reliving for them how I spend each working day in Cabot Cove.

  After breakfast we were given a brief tour of the ground floor of the Capitol, including the old Senate chamber, where the Supreme Court once met. The building is spectacular, open to visitors from all over the world who wish to step foot into this country’s most visible and enduring symbol of its system of government.

  “Ready to meet your president?” Vlady Staritova said, coming up behind me and placing his pudgy hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes, and very excited, I might say.”

  “I have never met President Yeltsin,” Staritova said. “Ironic, I meet your president, but not my own.”

  “I wouldn’t feel bad about that,” I said. “Most Americans never get a chance to meet their president. This is just one of those unusual circumstances.”

  “Did you vote for him?” Staritova asked.

  “We have secret ballots in this country,” I said, injecting a little laugh to lighten my rebuff of his question.

  “But I am interested in the politics of American authors, especially your politics, Mrs. Fletcher, now that I am about to become one of your publishers.”

  I said, “I don’t think my politics has anything to do with my books. I’m not writing about politics or government. My murder mysteries are distinctly nonpartisan.”

  He smiled and placed his hand on my shoulder again, then said, “As you wish.”

  I was saved by the announcement that it was time to take our limousines to the White House, “Mustn’t be late,” Sam Roberts said. “Among many traits possessed by our sitting president, punctuality is one of them.”

  “And a good one,” Vaughan said. “I can’t stand people who are late.”

  “Vaughan insists getting to airports at least an hour earlier than necessary,” Olga said, walking beside me to the door.

  “A man after my own heart,” I said.

 
; As we stood outside waiting for the limos to pull up, I noticed the man who’d earlier captured my attention. He climbed into a Lincoln Town Car with two other men in suits. I said to Vaughan Buckley, who stood next to me, “See that man getting in the blue car over there?” I pointed.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s the same one I saw in the hotel lobby last night.

  Vaughan looked at me quizzically.

  “You were seated with him at breakfast.”

  “That’s right. Why so much interest in him, Jess?”

  I shrugged. “I just seem to see him everywhere we go.”

  “Nothing strange about that. He’s part of the Commerce Department’s mission.

  “He is?”

  “Yes. Well, he didn’t exactly say that.”

  “What did he say?” I asked. “Did you ask him who he was?”

  “No. He introduced himself. His name escapes me. No, he didn’t indicate his job, but the fact that he’s here must mean he works for Commerce. I’m sure he’s not in the publishing business.”

  We climbed in the limos and headed for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. As when approaching the Capitol, seeing the White House caused my heart to trip, and a smile to cross my face. Although I didn’t mention it to Mr. Staritova, I had voted for President Paul Singleton, and had done so with enthusiasm. Singleton was a man seemingly untainted by scandal. He’d served with distinction as governor of Pennsylvania for many years before making his run for the White House. I’ve never claimed to be particularly astute when it came to politics, especially on a national level, but I’ve always been keenly interested in the politics of Maine, particularly Cabot Cove. But I’d done my homework before deciding for whom to vote as president during the last election, and based upon Paul Singleton’s first year in office, I’d made a wise choice.

  I was surprised at how quickly we were allowed to pass through the gate to the White House grounds. Our drivers pulled up in front of the East Entrance where two rigidly erect marines stood on either side of the doors. Two secret service agents came out, followed by an attractive, tall woman wearing a red dress and a red-and-yellow scarf. Once we’d all exited the limos, she introduced herself. “Welcome to the White House,” she said brightly. “I’m Pam Prawley, special assistant to the president for cultural affairs. I’ll give you a tour of the house before we meet President Singleton. He has a very busy schedule, as you can imagine, but he personally told me this morning how anxious he is to spend time with you. Please follow me—and make yourselves at home. After all, this house belongs to each of you, too.” The Russians glanced at each other. “To most of us,” Vaughan said in my ear.