I’d just assembled my index cards on the kitchen counter when Paul Carbone called back. “Hello, Lee. I’m just putting a few finishing touches on your carousel horse. I think you’ll be happy with his new look.”
“I’m sure I will. I’m excited. When can we have the unveiling?”
“The paint should be dry by tomorrow afternoon, I should think. I’m applying a little extra gold leaf to the mane right now. Want to call me in the morning and we’ll set up a time?”
“I will, Paul. I’ll talk to Pete this evening and see if we can borrow the truck again. I don’t think the horse will fit in the front seat of my two-seater.”
“Probably not, but he’d look pretty there! Call me tomorrow and let me know when you’ll be here. Business has picked up lately.”
That surprised me. “That’s good. I was afraid the publicity might scare customers away.”
“I thought that too. At first it brought out the lookie-loos. You know, the nosy ones who slow down at accident scenes, like to see where deaths have happened. But enough of them were interested in my work to keep me busy for quite a while.” He chuckled. “Of course I was working on your horse in the front of the shop. That attracted attention, all right. He’s a beauty.”
We said our good-byes and I’d barely had time to begin making notes about my conversation with Stasia when Aunt Ibby tapped on my kitchen door. “Are you busy, Maralee? May I come in?”
“Of course.” I called, hurrying to let her in. O’Ryan beat me to it. He streaked out the cat door into the hall before I could turn the knob, then escorted her into the kitchen as though the whole thing had been his idea. “Come right on in, both of you,” I said.
Barely acknowledging the cat, she sat on the stool I’d just vacated. “I’m concerned about Karl,” she said. “Chef Karl from the Russian Tea Experience.” O’Ryan hopped up onto the stool beside her and I stood facing them from across the counter.
“Yes, I know who you mean. What’s wrong? Did you find out what the police wanted to talk to him about?”
“It was all about his friend Boris. They’d questioned him before about how he’d helped the man collect other people’s trash from the curb.”
“They didn’t believe the ‘hoarder’ story, I suppose. Nothing strange about that. I don’t believe it either.” I looked at her closely. “Do you?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “But Karl was really quite distressed.”
“They haven’t accused him of anything, have they?”
Her “no” was hesitant. “Not exactly. But they asked him not to leave town. And they asked his permission to take his fingerprints and to stick one of those swab things in his mouth. That sounds like the things they do on those TV crime shows, doesn’t it?”
I had to admit that it did. “Did he agree to the prints and the swab?”
“Oh, yes. He has nothing to hide, you know.”
“Did he give you any explanation of what he and Boris were looking for in our trash? The Novikovas’ trash, really.”
“He thinks Boris was looking for something in particular, but he doesn’t know enough Russian to understand what it is. Just that whatever it is, it’s small enough to hide inside a wedding cake. Of course Karl could only understand the words connected to food.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Svadeebniy tort,” she pronounced slowly. “‘Wedding cake.’ At least that’s what it sounded like to me. Anyway, Karl says that Boris conveyed to him that they were looking for something small enough to fit inside a wedding cake.”
“‘Inside a wedding cake,’” I repeated her words. “Like a big papier-mâché wedding cake in Connecticut?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“And he’s looking for something that would fit inside such a cake. Or a Mickey Mouse,” I said. “Or a wooden horse.”
“Or practically anything in the whole darned locker.” She reached out and touched the index cards I’d spread across the granite top. “Getting anywhere with these?”
“I just had another little talk with Stasia. I was about to make some new notes when you knocked.”
“Sorry I interrupted.” She patted her knees, signaling O’Ryan that it was okay to move over to her lap. “Come. Sit. Tell me about Stasia while you fill out your cards.” I resumed my seat at the counter, picked up the pen and a fresh card and wrote, Boris knows about the wedding cake.
“Stasia speaks Russian too, you know,” I told my aunt. “She told me about a conversation she overheard when she was a little girl. A conversation between her grandfather and some of his friends.” I paused, and made a note of what Stasia had told me.
Aunt Ibby looked at the card. “Was Lydia part of the conversation?”
“No. Stasia said that she and Lydia sat in rocking chairs. Stasia played with paper dolls. Lydia worked on a patchwork quilt.”
We looked at one another.
“A patchwork quilt?” My aunt stood, dislodging the cat, who ran for the living room. “Maybe we should take a closer look at mine.”
I put down my pen. “Maybe. But a seamstress with Lydia’s talent probably made dozens of quilts, don’t you think?”
She started for the kitchen door. “Sure. But we only have the one. Let’s go downstairs and examine the evidence!”
I smiled at her excitement. “Okay,” I said, following behind her. Just as she stepped out into the hall, I heard a soft plunk from the direction of my living room, followed by the creak of the cat door. “Uh-oh. Sounds like O’Ryan is playing with the pencil sharpeners again. Go on down. I’ll meet you in your room in a minute.”
I was right. The cat had once again invaded my collection. My favorites among the bronzed figures were the ones with moving parts. The little wheel was still spinning when I bent to pick up the tiny sewing machine. I carried it with me as I headed downstairs to my aunt’s bedroom.
CHAPTER 28
Aunt Ibby was on her knees beside the queen-sized bed. She held a large magnifying glass—one of the Sherlock Holmes variety. She looked up at me, the glass still in place, displaying one enormous green eye when I entered through the open bedroom door. The cat crouched in the center of the quilt, whiskers twitching, attention fixed intently on my aunt. “I think I have some of the pattern figured out, Maralee,” she said, lowering the glass, returning her eye to its normal size. “This is not your everyday crazy quilt.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. “What do you mean? Look, it’s pretty clear that O’Ryan agrees that sewing has something to do with our mystery. This was on my living-room floor.” The cat glanced in my direction, leaned over and gave my elbow a lick and returned to his crouch.
My aunt put the magnifying glass on the nearby bedside table, reached over and patted his head. “He’s probably right. I haven’t actually figured out what Lydia was trying to tell us, but some of these scraps are less random than others, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t,” I admitted, peering more closely at the dizzying juxtaposition of squares and triangles, oblongs and diamonds, many with their own designs of polka dots, stripes, florals and patterns with the occasional splash of bright, solid color. Some of the pieces had bits of embroidery highlighting the designs. “Just looking at it gives me vertigo.”
“Here’s what I mean,” she said, tapping the quilt in the spot she’d been inspecting. “See this oblong piece? Notice anything different about it?”
“It’s a nice, neat oblong, with pictures of bunnies on it. Oh, I see what you mean. It has a lot of embroidery on top of the bunnies. Not just a few lines around the edges.”
“Right. And look here.” She walked around to the other side of the bed. “It’s another oblong, but this one has a small notch at the top and a ragged edge at the bottom. And some more heavy embroidery.”
I moved to where she stood, inspecting the patch she touched. The fabric had a red background with white dots. She was right. There were embroidered symbols among the dots. “Look at
this,” I said. “That looks like the number three. Just like the one on Mrs. McKenna’s egg, and Colleen’s tablecloth.” I hurried around the bed to take another look at the oblong piece with the bunnies on it. “And here’s another number. It’s a six. See it? The numbers must mean something,” I said, “but what?”
She shrugged. “Beats me. I think it has something to do with the six men you saw coming to America. Between us, I’m sure we’ll figure it out. I’m going to examine every inch of this quilt, see what else I can find. Now tell me what else Stasia said.”
I wasn’t as confident as she was about us being able to figure out the crazy quilt, but didn’t say so. “Stasia said that the old men were drinking vodka and talking about where they lived in America, and she talked about how the grandfather’s things wound up in our storage locker.”
“Interesting. What else?”
I told her what Stasia had said about Boris Medvedev coming to their house, asking her father what he’d done with his parents’ belongings, especially the horse. “She said her father was afraid of Medvedev, because of his old KGB connections.”
“No wonder. What did he tell the man?”
“Pretty much what she told us when we were at the McKennas’. I guess he didn’t think there was anything special about the horse.”
“Eric Dillon must have thought there was something in it.”
“I know. The horse is still a keeper of secrets, even after all these years, isn’t it?”
“I wish we could find out what Eric Dillon had learned. It has to be about treasure, because that’s what he always wrote about.” I stood and smoothed the quilt. “And speaking of secrets, I wonder if Scott Palmer is still holding back whatever it was Dillon told him in confidence.”
“Why don’t you just ask him?” my aunt said. “He doesn’t seem to mind consulting you on every little thing.”
“You’re right,” I said. “He’s invited me to come over to the station. I think I’ll take him up on it. I’d like to know if he’s remembered where he’d seen Medvedev before too.”
“You do that. Don’t be shy about asking for what you want.”
I checked my watch. “He should be between newscasts about now. I’m going to run upstairs and call him—invite myself over for a little visit to WICH-TV.”
That’s exactly what I did. I tried out Aunt Ibby’s trick. “Scott,” I said, “would it be all right if I call on you this afternoon?” He seemed pleased to hear from me. I knew he thought I’d called because of his irresistible charm. We made a date for three that afternoon. “That’ll give you time to connect with the old gang,” he said, “then we can duck across the street to the Pig’s Eye for some private time.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “It’ll be great to see everybody—even Mr. Doan.”
“Sure. Same old, same old. Things don’t change much around here.”
When Cuckoo announced two-thirty, I was ready to leave. New jeans, boots with heels high enough to make me taller than Scott, white cashmere sweater and my black leather NASCAR jacket. Light makeup and I was good to go.
* * *
I wheeled into my old parking space at quarter to three, and arrived at the WICH-TV receptionist’s desk with time to spare.
“Lee Barrett! Where have you been?” Rhonda was clearly happy to see me. She practically flew around the curved desk and enveloped me in a gardenia-scented hug. “You look fabulous! Do you still like teaching? How’s that hunky detective? We all miss you around here.”
I returned the hug, realizing as I glanced over her shoulder at the purple-and-chrome décor of the place, that I missed all of them too. Bruce Doan, the station manager, emerged from his office and greeted me with a hearty handshake, saying, “Don’t be such a stranger, Barrett. Drop in anytime.”
“Okay if I go down to the studio and see Marty?” I asked. Marty McCarthy had been camera operator on my ill-fated Nightshades show, and we’d shared some good times. Some pretty frightening ones too. I looked forward to seeing her again.
“Sure thing. You know the way.” He retreated to his office. Rhonda waited until he’d closed his door before putting a hand-lettered BACK IN FIVE MINUTES sign on the desk and grabbing my hand. “Come on. I’ll go down there with you.”
Rhonda led the way past the glass-enclosed newsroom, through the scarred metal doors to the long, black-walled studio. We chattered all the way, catching each other up on our lives. Rhonda enthused about a new boyfriend, a planned cruise to Mexico and an online course she was taking on understanding investments. Rhonda is a never-ending source of surprises. Plus she knows everybody’s business at WICH-TV.
“You got a date with Scotty, huh?” she asked as we approached the sports desk. “He told me you were coming over today. He’s around here somewhere. He’s been kinda moody lately. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t really know,” I told her, more or less honestly. “I think his friend dying like that probably affected him quite a bit.”
“Yeah. That’s probably it. Nice guy, Eric.”
“You met him?”
“Sure. We went out for drinks a couple of times while he was here.”
I’d thought of Rhonda when I was giving myself that crash course in interviewing before I talked to Stasia the first time. Rhonda is a natural interviewer. The pretty brunette has a way of making people tell her things they probably regret later, and I don’t think she even knows she’s doing it. I wondered what Eric Dillon might have told her over drinks. I intended to find out.
“Hey, there’s Marty!” Rhonda called. “Marty, look who’s here!” The gray-haired woman’s head popped up from behind a display of back-to-school items. “Stop working for a minute. Lee’s here!”
My old friend hurried down the aisle to greet me. Never as effusive as Rhonda, her welcoming hand clasp and “Glad to see ya, kid” was sincere.
“Ready to come back to the old grind? Be a television star again?” she said. “We like River, of course, but I kinda miss you around here in the middle of the night.”
“Thanks, I miss you guys too, but I’ve already got a pretty nice day job.”
“Aw, come on. You can handle both.” Scott Palmer came up from behind me and threw an arm around my shoulders. Startled, I pulled away.
“You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that, Scott.” I smiled, but I meant it.
“Sorry,” he said. “Well, if you girls are through visiting, I’m going to take this gorgeous woman away.”
“Don’t go far,” Rhonda warned. “You know Doan is apt to start yelling for you any minute.”
“No worries. We’ll be right across the street. Bye.”
* * *
The bar was nearly empty and Scott and I sat in a narrow booth at the rear of the room. “Pepsi for you?” he said. I nodded. He ordered the same. “Okay,” he said. “I’m sure you’re not here just for the pleasure of my company. What’s up?”
“It’s about your friend Eric Dillon.”
He looked surprised. “Eric? What about him?”
“You mentioned that he’d told you a secret. Something you shouldn’t talk about until after the book was published.”
“That’s true. So you want to know what he told me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, somehow my aunt and I are involved in whatever Eric was researching. We know the storage locker we bought is central to everything. Eric was aware of it and now he’s dead. We’re not after whatever treasure he was tracking down. But if we’re in danger, we need to learn everything we can about whatever it is. Will you help me?”
He gave me one of his long, silent, eye-to-eye looks. If I’d just met him, it might have seemed sexy, but it’s just a thing he does. I think it gives him time to think of what he’s going to say next. I waited.
“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to tell you what I know. It’s not much.” He frowned. “But if what I tell you means you find a treasure chest or pirate gold or someth
ing, you have to split with me. Right?”
I thought he was kidding. He wasn’t. He stuck out his right hand. “Shake on it?”
I shook his hand. “Deal,” I said.
“Fifty-fifty?”
“Sure. Why not? I don’t think we’re going to find any treasure.”
“Eric thought he was going to. But I got the impression he didn’t think it was here.”
“Here, as in inside my horse?”
“No. Here, as in anywhere in Salem.”
“Do you know what he was doing outside Paul Carbone’s shop that night?”
He looked down at the table, making a pattern of wet circles with the bottom of his glass. He spoke so softly I had to lean forward to hear him. “‘I’ll be right back,’ that’s what Eric told me. ‘Just need to make a quick trip to get a couple of pictures. Comparison shots.’” Scott looked up. This time the long look was sincere. “I never saw him again. I keep thinking about that. Comparison shots of what? That stupid, old horse? I should have asked him. I didn’t, because he said he’d be right back.”
“I know. His laptop was missing from the car too. But you still had his notebook.”
“Yeah. For all the good that did. Addresses, scribbled pictures. Nothing that made sense.”
“Scribbled pictures? Of what?”
“Just doodles. Numbers. Flowers. You know. Doodles.” Numbers and flowers made a little bit of sense to me. There were numbers and flowers on Colleen’s tablecloth. On Mrs. McKenna’s carved wooden eggs and, most recently, on Aunt Ibby’s patchwork quilt. “I wonder if those doodles made sense to the guy who stole the notebook,” I said. “Boris Medvedev, known as the Russian Bear.”
“Yep, the Russian Bear. Knew I’d seen that bastard somewhere before.” Scott balled up his fist and pounded the table, hard enough to make his glass skittle across the wet spots. “Never actually saw him wrestle but Pete told me who he was when he took my statement. Then I remembered the publicity shots of him. There was even a big color poster of him in the sports office at the station where I worked in Illinois. The black beard, the snotty expression on his face and that damned necklace of bear teeth he wore around his neck.”
Murder Go Round Page 18
