by Giles Blunt
“Those weren’t farmed,” Cardinal said.
“No. Trapped.”
“If a buyer checked in Wednesday night, when would you expect to see him or her?”
“If they were interested in beaver, I’d expect to see them here for the preview Thursday afternoon, and Friday for the bidding. I saw the Bastovs here Thursday, but I didn’t talk to them other than to say hello. They seemed happy. Cheerful. They were shooting the breeze with people. Laughing. Scoping out the merchandise like everybody else. You can check the signin sheet for exact times.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about them? Anything at all?”
Stromberg stroked his beard for a moment and stared at the floor. “Nope. Strictly business as usual. Mind you, auction time, I’m rushed off my feet—I don’t stop moving from morning to night, so I wouldn’t be the best person to ask.”
“Is it weird to arrive on Wednesday for an auction that doesn’t start until Friday?”
“Depends what you want to get out of it. It’s called an auction, but in a way it’s kind of like a conference. People get the lowdown on what everyone else is up to. And they might combine the trip with a little vacation, who knows?”
“Did either of them have any enemies?”
“Not that I know of. Lev’s a pro, been in this game for decades. So, yeah, it’s possible he pissed some people off in his life. And they’re wealthy—people might be envious. But serious enemies? None that I know of.”
“You’ve been running this place eight years, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“And the Bastovs have been coming here all that time?”
“Irena’s been coming the past four years at least, Lev just the past two. But Lev’s not really a buyer at this point—he just comes to be with his wife. And for the skiing maybe.”
“If he’s not a buyer, what is he?”
“Lev is money. He’s a manufacturer. Plants all over Russia. He’d be selling to the big furriers—the designers, the big department stores. Lot of dough in that part of the trade.”
“How did you come to be running this place?” Cardinal said. “What were you doing before?”
“I was a trapper. Not full-time—nobody in this town’s full-time. But I’d been doing it a lot of years. Me and my partners took the place over when the last bunch went belly up. Figured we could do a better job. Believe me, a double murder is not going to help our balance sheet.”
“What happened to the former owners? Why did they fail?”
Stromberg shrugged. “You’d have to ask whatshisname—Don Rivard—he was the head guy. I’m guessing expenses outran revenues. We work strictly on a percent of sales. You have a few bad years, a few bad debts … It doesn’t take much. Ah, here’s the lady in question.”
A small blond woman with sharp features and a pixie haircut was standing by a set of glass doors, talking on a cellphone. She put it in her pocket and smiled at Stromberg.
“Nat, this is Detective Cardinal and Detective Delorme. They’re working on the Bastov thing.”
“Natalia Kuritsyn,” she said, shaking first Cardinal’s hand then Delorme’s.
“You’re the one who called in the missing persons?” Delorme asked her.
“I am.”
“Presumably you tried to call the Bastovs first. Do you have their cellphone numbers?”
“I do. Come. We can talk in cafeteria.” Her Russian accent was strong, as if she had strayed off the set of a Bond film.
“I’ll be on the floor if you need anything else,” Stromberg said.
The cafeteria consisted of a few tables in a chilly room. Coffee was available at a counter where a dark-eyed girl wearing a head scarf was arranging muffins on a tray. They got their coffees and sat at a table in the corner. The other tables were empty.
Cardinal decided to let Delorme handle Ms. Kuritsyn. He burned his tongue on his coffee and spent the rest of the interview surreptitiously sucking air between his teeth. Delorme got some general background first. Ms. Kuritsyn was a former fur buyer who had come to Algonquin Bay many times before deciding to make it her home. Immigration had not been a problem because she had fallen in love with a trapper and married him.
“Judging by the people on the floor,” Delorme said, “there aren’t a lot of women in this business.”
“Is true. Same in your business, I think.”
“I would have thought two women in the fur industry would gravitate toward one another. Especially since you were from the same country.”
“Same country? Irena Bastov is from Ukraine—born there, anyway. More important, she is Moscow. I am Kaliningrad. Not same country. Is like Paris and Marseilles, only worse. Someone like Irena Bastov is not going to spend time with someone like me. So, no, not friends. Not enemies.”
“What about other enemies? She was a beautiful woman. Maybe she caught the attentions of the wrong man?”
Ms. Kuritsyn shrugged. “Possible. I wouldn’t know.”
“You sound a little hostile.”
This elicited a big smile. “Not hostile. Russian.”
“What does that mean?”
“Always people misunderstand. Always they think we are with a problem. From television. From movies. They think we are Communist, they think we are gangsters, poets, dancers, drunks. Always they expect big emotion, big gesture. The truth is we are like Canadians—not so boring, maybe—but like you, we are wrapped up inside ourselves. Probably the winters cause this. We are slow to open. Slow to warm.”
“What about Irena Bastov? Was she—”
Ms. Kuritsyn pointed a slim finger at Delorme. “And I will tell you other thing. We don’t like questions. In my country, questions get you killed. Yes, still. And answering them …” She shook her head. “Not good.”
“Irena Bastov. Was she slow to warm up to Lev Bastov?”
Ms. Kuritsyn laughed. “Not at all. Was coup de foudre. Instant love. On both sides, I would say.”
“I can understand Lev Bastov falling for Irena. Irena was young and beautiful. But he—”
“He was rich. He adored her. Of course she loved him back. Who wouldn’t?” She leaned across the table. “Forgive me, but I think Russian women are a little more practical on this point. A little less romantic. A wealthy man in love with you? Is like winning lottery.”
“No guarantee of happiness then.”
“Please, if you know where to find this guarantee, tell me. I will divorce my husband and marry you.”
Cardinal laughed. Delorme did not look amused.
Ms. Kuritsyn leaned even closer and touched Delorme’s wrist. Not so slow to warm after all. “You are single, I think, Ms. Delorme. Can you honestly tell me you would turn down offer of marriage from a rich, handsome man just because you weren’t crazy-mad in love?”
“Let’s focus on the Bastovs, all right? Who is Anton Bastov?”
“Anton is Lev’s son from earlier marriage. He’s maybe early thirties. Used to be a buyer, now he’s in fashion industry—Donna Karan, I think. Nice guy, close to his father.”
“Okay, now please think about this: did the Bastovs have any enemies? They made a lot of money. Maybe somebody thought they didn’t deserve it. Maybe somebody felt cheated.”
Another shrug. “I heard Irena’s brother is not so crazy about Lev. At first he was all for this marriage. Totally excited. Telling whole world. Then, I don’t know, some business deal goes bad, something like that, and … not so happy. This is what I hear—I never met him.”
“What about jealousy? Maybe someone more romantic than yourself was in love with Irena Bastov.”
Ms. Kuritsyn turned to Cardinal but gestured toward Delorme with the slightest toss of the head. “She’s good cop, no?”
“You should just answer the question,” Cardinal said. He kept it deadpan. He seldom got to see Delorme wrangle with another woman and he was enjoying it.
“You two see each other outside of work?” Ms. Kuritsyn asked.
&nbs
p; “Please focus on the question,” Delorme said.
“I think you do.” Ms. Kuritsyn sat back with the smile of one who has just won a hand of poker. “I didn’t really know Irena Bastov. I wasn’t interested in Irena Bastov. But I hear things. Things maybe true, things maybe not true.”
“Things like what?”
“A bush pilot, comes here a lot. Ron Larivière. Everybody in this business knows Ron. Supposedly he was fucking her. Why do you look like that? You don’t use this word? All right. Supposedly they were making love,” she said, giving it ridiculous emphasis. “You like better? Supposedly they were making love. If true, I think this would upset Lev. Who knows? Maybe he got upset and someone got upset back.”
“But why would he kill Irena too?”
“In your job I suppose you must try and understand people. Is necessary maybe. But for me?” Ms. Kuritsyn shook her head. “Waste of time.”
10
IT WAS DARK WHEN CARDINAL and Delorme came out of the fur warehouse. The temperature had dropped, and blades of cold pressed against Cardinal’s face. The parking lot was empty except for three or four cars and a red pickup with a bumper sticker that said I ♥ Country Music.
“Lev Bastov’s been in this industry forever,” Cardinal said. “It may be his killer has too. At some point we’re going to have to talk to some real old-timers. Get background on him and the local biz.”
“What did you think of our Russian agent?” Delorme said. She pulled her hood up against the cold.
“I think she liked you.”
“Are you kidding? She was completely hostile.”
“Funny thing, Lise—you don’t seem to have any trouble understanding men, but women are a whole other story. I meant she liked you.”
Delorme looked back toward the warehouse, then at Cardinal. “No way. She has a husband.”
“Touching your hand, saying she’d marry you.”
Delorme shook her head. “You are so wrong.”
“Well, why don’t you wait in the car a minute.” Donna Vaughan was waving to Cardinal from across the parking lot. “Someone I have to talk to.”
The reporter was by her car, notebook in hand. She had bought herself a thicker parka since the other day.
“Just leaving?” Cardinal said. “Or just arriving?”
“Leaving. Man, I get tired of Russians. These people are paranoid with a capital P.”
“You talked to Natalia Kuritsyn?”
“Yesterday. Kind of frisky, that one. Today I was interviewing Russian buyers. Four of these guys, all built like trucks. All from Kalinin. Spoke five words of English between them.”
“How were you able to ID the Bastovs before we were?”
“Trade secret.” She held out her wrists together. “You can tie me up and beat me. I’ll never tell.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“Actually, it was just dumb luck. I happened to be interviewing Natalia Kuritsyn when she was waiting for the Bastovs to show up. She got more and more worried, called the hotel, called the cops. Did you find the car yet?”
“We’re running that down. They may not have bothered renting one.”
“Mercury Grand Marquis. Red. Current model. They rented it from Hertz at the airport. You want the licence number?”
Cardinal laughed. “You’re good.”
“I try to be, Officer.”
As Cardinal headed back toward his car, she caught up to him from behind. She spoke breathlessly, words colliding into each other. “Listen, I hate to sound forward and everything. I’m really not a pushy person, despite how it may look. But I’m sick of eating at the hotel and I’m hoping you’ll go to dinner with me. Someplace nice. I realize you’re married and I’m not trying to pick you up. In fact, I’d love to meet your wife, so bring her too and it’ll be my treat, okay? What do you say? I can put it on expenses and it won’t even be a lie. Say yes. You can explain Algonquin Bay to me. You can talk about hockey. It’ll be fun.”
It had started to snow, and a flake landed on her eyebrow and melted there. When Cardinal and Delorme got back to the station, McLeod told them how his unrelenting devotion to duty had led him to canvass the airport rental agencies and determine the make of the Bastovs’ car. An all-units alert for the Mercury Grand Marquis was already in place.
Cardinal dialed Anton Bastov’s number again. No answer. He looked up Donna Karan, dialed the DKNY corporate headquarters and finally ascertained his whereabouts. Anton Bastov had been overcome by severe food poisoning after a return flight from Paris. He was expected to recover but was still in hospital. Cardinal got the name of the hospital and called them and was told the patient was not well enough to receive bad news or be interviewed.
Cardinal typed up his supplemental reports, wondering if he should mention Donna Vaughan in them. He decided against it. She was press, not a witness, and others had garnered the same information through the usual police footwork.
D.S. Chouinard stopped by Cardinal’s cubicle on his way out. “Word to the wise. Just had a call from the FBI’s New York office. They’re going to be sending a man up here. Special Agent Mendelsohn.”
“What for?”
“We’ve got a couple of dead American citizens and they want to have a look-see. Naturally, we’re going to be the model of international co-operation.”
At seven-thirty, Delorme put on her coat. “You want to watch a video later, or are you too tired?”
“I’m pretty beat,” Cardinal said.
“You staying all night?”
“Nah, I’m just about done.” He didn’t feel like telling Delorme about his dinner date, he wasn’t sure why.
“Who was the blonde at the warehouse?”
“Donna Vaughan. Reporter from the States.”
Delorme’s brown eyes lingered on him for a moment, then she was gone.
—
DeGroot’s restaurant had opened up on Main Street the year before. It couldn’t boast the elegance of Champlain’s but, with its snug wooden booths and its red plush banquettes, it did offer a pleasant mixture of privacy and conviviality. It didn’t hurt that the food was good too. When Cardinal had warned Donna that it was a steakhouse, she said, “Fine with me, Detective. I’m good with red meat.”
She was already seated in a booth when he got there. “Typical pathetic single, right? Asks the guy out, gets there first, already into the wine.”
“Pathetic is not the word that comes to mind,” Cardinal said. “You look amazing.”
He hadn’t said anything like that to any woman other than Catherine for nearly thirty years. It was completely true, of course. He wasn’t sure if it was the colour of her sweater, or something she had done to her hair, or the silver earrings.
“I’m really embarrassed now about being so forward,” she said, “and suggesting you bring your wife. I looked you up on the Internet and, boy—brilliant move, Donna.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Cardinal said. He twisted his ring. “I know I should take it off. It’s been more than a year now. But we were married a long time.”
“Yes, you would be. You’re definitely the type. Stable. Steady. Secure.” She took a sip of her wine. “Tell me something. Your last name is Native American, right? Sorry—Native Canadian.”
“In my case it comes from Scotland. My grandparents were from Fife, wherever the hell that is.” Cardinal pointed at the glass of red in her hand. “Should I order a bottle of that?”
“Definitely.”
DeGroot’s was busier than usual. It was a cold night, and diners had been drawn by the lure of comfort food, candles and a roaring fireplace. When the wine came, Donna told Cardinal how she had become a journalist. It had been a toss-up between politics and journalism, and since she couldn’t stand politicians, that had pretty much sealed her fate. After college she had worked at various small-town papers, and eventually got hired at the Post, only to get downsized out a couple of years later.
Their salads a
rrived, and Cardinal told her how he had become a cop. He had been young, just finishing university, studying psychology. His life had then been touched, peripherally, by a murder—a friend of a friend—and the detectives handling the case did not seem to be very good. Cardinal became involved and helped them catch the killer.
“Don’t tell me,” Donna said, holding up her salad fork. “There was a woman involved. A damsel in distress.”
Cardinal smiled.
“I knew it.” Candlelight glittered in her eyes, and something else Cardinal couldn’t quite place.
He smiled. “We got married a year later.”
Donna shook her head. “You are so Canadian.”
The waiter whisked away their salad plates and replaced them with their steaks.
“Why did you say that?” Cardinal said. “About being so Canadian?”
“Because you do these amazing things, live this amazing life, and you don’t even realize how amazing it is. How rare. An American would be telling you the high points within five minutes. He’d have a ghostwriter working on his memoirs. He’d be a consultant on a TV show.”
“In that particular case, I didn’t do anything that wasn’t completely obvious. I was still a kid, really. It’s just the detectives assigned to the case were substandard. Missed stuff they shouldn’t have.”
“Yeah, but it’s how you met your wife. And then you’re married for the next God knows how long and you act like it’s just the most normal thing in the world.” She touched his hand. “Don’t ever change. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m trying to figure out if you’re always this friendly. Or if it’s because you’re a journalist and you think I can help you with your story.”
“I’m American. We’re pushy.”
Cardinal shook his head. “My wife was American and she wasn’t like that at all. But you seem to say what you’re feeling and the hell with it.”
“Go ahead. Try it.”
“Try what?”
“Say something you feel and the hell with it. Don’t worry about being a cop or being proper or being whatever. What are you feeling right now? Just tell me without thinking about it.”
