‘He likes you.’
‘Yes,’ I said, scratching the dog’s head. ‘Very friendly. How old is he?’
‘I’m not exactly sure. Young I think…’
‘And his name?’
‘You wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.’
I smiled. ‘How long have you had him?’
‘A week. I solved a murder on a tour bus in Kiev. This little fellow was a gift from the victim’s family. I’m headed to Bratislava now. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him at the EU border. I hope they’ll let me take him through.’
‘Solved a murder, you say?’
‘Yes. And not my first, frankly. I’m a journalist. Trouble follows me everywhere.’
‘A nice girl like you?’
‘Not so nice. You don’t know me.’
I felt my pulse rise in an unexpected way. ‘Are you famous? Should I ask your name? Or is it something else I couldn’t pronounce?’
‘Santa Ezeriņa.’
‘Santa Ezeriņa. Did I get the Ukrainian right?’
‘It’s not Ukrainian. I’m Latvian. Don’t get your Eastern Europeans mixed up. Balts are not Slavs. You’ll offend us if you do. Have you never been to Rīga?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘Everyone should go to Rīga at least once. You may never go home.’
‘What brings you to Ukraine – besides murder?’
‘Journalism, in theory. My colleague came on assignment and I tagged along. Of course, she met a boy, decided to take another train and left me all alone. Typical of Līva.’ Santa crossed her legs and rubbed a knee as if it troubled her. ‘It’s my first time in western Ukraine, that’s why I was looking out of the window at the beautiful Carpathian uplands when I saw you throw out all those ice-cream packets. I counted six…’
‘Six, yes. But how did you know it was me?’
‘The gold watch on the wrist of the discarding hand. I observed you wearing it in the car’s corridor when you were carrying that tub to the dining car.’
‘To the toilet actually. I’d just washed my mother’s feet and wanted to pour the dirty water into the sink.’
‘What was wrong with the ice cream?’
‘Spoiled. I was saving the rest for later, but the first was so disgusting that I didn’t even risk the other packets. Ejected them all, as you observed.’
‘Ukrainian ice cream always spoils. But in Rīga … Oh, I’m sounding like a tour guide…’
Her voice trailed off and we sat for several moments listening to the chug of the train in the growing altitude. Finally she said: ‘I’m sorry to bring up the tragedy of the evening, Milo, but given the rancid quality of the ice cream, have you considered that perhaps it was food poisoning that took your mother’s life?’
‘Mother didn’t have any.’
‘Maybe she had a taste while you were taking the foot tub to the toilet? Or simply had your back turned?’
‘A taste wouldn’t be enough to make her ill, much less kill her.’
‘Forgive me. I was only looking out for you. As a journalist, the stories I’ve heard about what is found in food in this part of the world … well, it would make your skin crawl. I did a story in Tallinn about what a woman discovered still living in her pecan yogurt. Ninety thousand euros she received in the settlement…’
‘We have enough money, thank you, Miss Ezeriņa.’
‘You and your mother?’
‘Me and my fiancée in Uzhhorod, now.’
‘I see.’
My attraction to this ‘murder-solving’ journalist had waned. I set the beagle on the cushion next to me and got to my feet. ‘I should be going. There’ll be a lot to do about Mother. I just wanted to thank you for the support with the porter. And the chocolate bar, of course.’
‘You’re welcome, Milo. You seem to be holding up well. I only wish I could do more.’
‘Have a pleasant journey.’
I left berth sixty-four and headed back to my cabin. I discovered the door open and Porter Panchenko waiting inside, holding a folder full of papers.
‘Mr Capela,’ he said as I entered, ‘we’ll be arriving at Mukacheve in thirty-five minutes. I should tell you what will happen. At that station, the police will come on board, as will a medical official, a doctor named Zima. He’ll do an examination of the body and you’ll formally identify the deceased. A death certificate will be issued and the police will submit—’
‘No autopsy?’
‘Not unless you request one. Or the doctor or police feel there are unusual circumstances. In this heat, sad as I am to say it, we lose an elderly traveller twice a month. I’d be surprised if the examination and paperwork took fifteen minutes. I did the same for a Moldovan gentleman on Sunday. The procedure went so quickly we left the station on time. Not a second’s delay. No less tragic, of course.’
‘Of course. Tragic.’
He withdrew a document from his folder and held out a pen. ‘If you’ll sign here, sir, we’ll provide for transportation of the remains to any Ukrainian city with an international airport. You can then fly home to America with the body, if that is your intention.’
‘What am I signing exactly?’
‘That you won’t sue our company, sir. That all involved accept that this death was a result of natural causes with no party at fault.’
‘Can we say “natural causes” before the doctor’s evaluation, Porter Panchenko?’
‘As I said, sir, two deaths a month…’
I took the pen and signed.
He seemed relieved. ‘I’ll have an English copy printed out for you at the station, Mr Capela. The death certificate too. With the bilingual papers, you should have no difficultly leaving Ukraine or retrieving the remains in America. These are international documents accepted by all countries.’
‘Thank you, Porter Panchenko.’ I handed the pen and document back to him.
‘It’s heartbreaking that these things happen, sir. I wish the procedure weren’t quite so routine.’ He bowed and went out of the door.
I laughed internally. A doctor’s certificate in English saying ‘death by natural causes’ and clearance back to America. With no siblings, aunts or uncles to question anything.
The perfect murder.
I shut the cabin door. Texted Vika the single letter: ‘V’
V for Vika. V for victory. V for vindication.
I’d never been so happy.
I was dreaming a strange dream – about Freud talking backwards – when a knocking on the cabin door awakened me. I slid off the top bunk, careful not to disturb Mother on the lower one, and stumbled groggily to the door.
The knocking repeated.
I slid open the panel. ‘Yes, Porter Panchenko…’
It was Santa Ezeriņa. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, Milo,’ she said. ‘But we might consider more seriously the food poisoning possibility. I no longer believe your mother’s death was temperature-related. It simply wasn’t as hot in this cabin as we thought.’
I patted my bed-head hair into place. ‘Miss Ezeriņa, you’re quite the fussbudget…’
‘Hear my reasoning, Milo. You washed your mother’s feet to cool them, yes? And afterwards, she put her stockings back on. If it was sweltering, I don’t think she would do that. She’d want her feet to remain open to the air.’
‘You are mistaken. Mother didn’t put them back on. Look, they’re off now.’
Her eyes didn’t stray from mine. ‘They were on when I visited your cabin while she slept, Milo. That was after you’d emptied the washtub. She wore rainbow stockings, unusual for an older woman. I remember them clearly. And I can see by your face that you do too.’
‘No … no … they were lying on the bed by her, not worn. And it was boiling hot, Miss Ezeriņa. After all, your dog swooned.’
‘There are many reasons why a toy beagle might swoon.’
‘Such as?’
‘Gas.’
‘Gas?’
‘These old, Soviet-era
trains reek of diesel fumes. This could affect a little dog.’
‘Please, enough.’ My voice turned harsher. ‘You’ve many wild theories, Miss Ezeriņa. Diesel fumes. Food poisoning. What imagination! You’ll blame extraterrestrials next. Now, have some respect for a son in mourning and kindly leave me in peace.’
‘Insist on an autopsy when the authorities come aboard, Milo. Have them check the stomach and lungs, blood and body tissues. I can help you communicate if you want. I speak fluent Russian and some Ukrainian.’
‘I think I’ve “communicated” with you all I want, Miss Ezeriņa.’ I began to shut the door.
She caught its edge. ‘Milo, if there’s any reason you’d fill a washtub other than to wash feet, you need to tell me now. It’ll be better for all of us.’
I forced the door closed. Locked the bolt.
I paced the cabin, feeling the vibrations of the car beneath my feet. For the first time, I avoided looking at Mother.
What did Santa Ezeriņa know? Nothing. Just a sleazy reporter, grasping at straws for a story.
Still…
I called Vika. It went to voicemail. I redialled. Voicemail again. I left a message. Tried to relax, rest.
When at last my beloved called back, Vika’s first words were: ‘Did she suffer?’
‘No.’
A pause. ‘She should have suffered after all she’s done to you.’
‘Listen, sweetie. There’s a change of plans. Is your Schengen visa still valid? … Good. Find us a flight tonight to the EU. Doesn’t matter where. Budapest, Warsaw, Rome. We’re eloping, getting out of Ukraine … No, the body too. You’ll need to arrange it with the airline … Use Mother’s credit-card number. Price isn’t a factor anymore.’
A fresh knocking at the cabin door.
‘Santa Ezeriņa!’ I shouted. ‘If that’s you, go away … No, no, sweetie, I’m alone. Just a nosey girl … I assure you she’s not even attractive … Please, sweetie, just get the tickets. I gotta go … Yeah, everything’s all right. Love you too.’ I ended the call.
The knocking repeated. Harder.
‘Miss Ezeriņa,’ I said through the door, ‘if you’re here to harass me further, I’ll be alerting the porter.’
‘This is the porter,’ replied a masculine voice.
‘Oh.’ I unbolted the door and slid it open.
Outside stood Porter Panchenko, a fresh document in his hands, a slightly sour expression on his face.
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘Your “request for post mortem” form, sir. I can help you fill it out if— ”
‘A post mortem?’ An autopsy? You said no autopsy!’
‘The young woman in berth sixty-four asked for it on your behalf. She said you were confused by our procedures.’
‘No! No! No!’ I plucked the form from his hand, tore it up and threw it back at him, the pieces raining down and sticking to the sweat stains on his plump body. ‘There’s no confusion. And no autopsy. Do you understand my English?’
‘Only trying to assist, sir,’ he said, brushing the paper from his uniform, then stooping to pick up the litter.
‘You can assist by letting me grieve in solitude. And fulfilling our agreement.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He turned abruptly and headed up the corridor, growling something in his mysterious language.
I stood in the doorway tempering my anger. When rage passed and reason resumed, I stepped into the corridor and slid the panel shut behind me. I had to nip this inquisitive reporter’s interference in the bud before we arrived at the station and the doctor came aboard. Frankly I didn’t trust I’d be able to stay reserved if she asked pestering questions in front of authorities.
I found her door open, Santa Ezeriņa sitting on her bunk, stroking her little pet. Ernest Blofeld came to mind.
‘Come in, Milo.’
Her dog jumped down to greet me. I ignored it, remaining in the doorway. ‘I wanted to let you know, Miss Ezeriņa – Santa – that I’ve taken your advice on the autopsy issue. No need for your kind assistance. I called America. The best pathologist in Manhattan will examine Mother on Tuesday afternoon when I arrive with the body.’
‘You’ll miss that appointment by twenty years or more, I’d say.’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘You’ll be in a Ukrainian prison unless the US government seeks your extradition, which is unlikely once the facts are known.’
‘Are you accusing me of some crime, Miss Ezeriņa?’
‘Only matricide. The autopsy, performed in this country, will show excessive carbon dioxide in your mother’s lungs and blood. Not poisonous, but in enough volume to indicate inert gas asphyxiation in a confined space. Am I wrong?’
Sharp pains shot through my stomach and I had to lean hard against the door frame to keep from trembling. ‘As I said, Santa, you’ve got quite a perverse imagination. Previously you thought it was food poisoning.’
‘Food poisoning was a ruse to test your resistance to an autopsy. No imagination was needed, however, when I kneeled to pick up my dog on my first visit to your cabin and smelled the sour scent of dry-ice gas, i.e., carbon dioxide. I knew then. Sublimated carbon-dioxide gas is heavier than air, Milo; opening the window dispersed it in the cabin above, but let invisible traces linger at floor level. That is why the beagle grew lethargic.’ She shrugged. ‘It was a simple matter to deduce where it came from on a train: the mixing of the coolant from the discarded ice cream and water in a washtub that was never used on feet. In that tiny compartment, six bars were enough to smother your sick mother as surely as if you’d thrown a pillow across her face. You gambled on murder, and for now, you’ve won.’
‘Well, this is a perfectly disgusting theory. You reporters will make up anything for a story. But you’ve no evidence to detain me or the body. Those ice-cream packets are lost in the wilderness. By the time you find them – if you find them – I’ll be in another country, Mother long cremated.’
Santa lifted her iPhone from the cabin table. On the phone’s screen was a waifish woman, casually dressed, with long, Michelle Phillips hair to her waist. She stood in hilly grasslands alongside a set of railroad tracks, a Витчизна strawberry-banana ice-cream tub in her hands. Santa swiped to the next image, a close-up of the packet, the opened and empty cavity meant for a dry-ice bar clearly visible.
I felt suddenly dizzy.
‘Your mistake was throwing the packets out the window sequentially. By the fourth packet, I found it curious enough to use the GPS on my phone to record the locations. My colleague’s train is an hour behind ours. When your mother was discovered dead, I sent the last three packets’ coordinates to Līva, had her get off at the nearest spot. She’s already found two. Your fingerprints will be on these and the coolant has clearly been removed,’ said Santa. ‘For what purpose, Milo?’
A kind of palsy seized me, my hands shaking with rage as I pointed at her screen. ‘You and your friend are doctoring those yourselves … for your newspaper. It’s your word versus mine … The police will never believe you…’
Santa sighed and flipped to the next image: a man stood in the same hillscape, the same ice-cream tub in his hands. ‘This is Līva’s beau, First Lieutenant Andrey Karpanko of the Dnieper Homicide Department. They met in Kiev when I solved the bus murder. They’re inseparable now; they’re even travelling this way in a private train compartment – “The Honeymoon Cabin”.’ She smiled sardonically. ‘Līva always did have a thing for men in uniform. I think they’ll have more influence with the police than you. And in Ukraine influence matters as much as evidence. Perhaps more.’
I stepped quickly into the cabin, the dog yipping at my shins.
Santa slipped the phone safely into her pocket. ‘No, Milo. Līva and Andrey know everything and it’s all in the cloud anyway.’
‘What do you want? Money?’
‘Justice,’ she said bluntly. ‘To murder the one who gave you life, Milo? I know seven languages yet have no words for
what you’ve become. Maybe there is a tongue somewhere with something worse than “satanic”. Or perhaps we’ll coin a term just for you.’
I reached into my pocket, nearly stumbling as the train decelerated as it approached the station. ‘I’ve fifty dollars here. And another two thousand in my mother’s bag. You, Līva, Lieutenant Karpanko, can split it. It’s yours. With more, much more, when I get the inheritance.’
‘Do you have enough for them too?’ She nodded towards the window.
The train pulled up to the Mukacheve platform. I dropped my money in horror. A dozen uniformed policemen stood waiting, some with dogs, others in body armour sporting automatic weapons. The flashing blue lights of police cars parked nearby gave the scene a deeply surreal glow.
‘With the militant problems in Ukraine these days, they take no chances with reports of killings on public transport,’ said Santa. ‘We called ahead.’
She picked up the beagle and set it in her lap. ‘I’d be careful in the way you move. The Ukrainian phrase “Stiy, ya budu strilyatu” means “Halt, I will shoot”, Milo. Just so you know…’
The Spoils
William Ryan
Stacy Kropotkin sat behind her desk, her pale face mirrored in its polished surface. The desk was wide and empty of clutter, except for a small bronze statue of Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom. The dealer Stacy had bought it from – for a lot of money – had told her it was a genuine antiquity. Stacy liked it. It was attractive. It signalled wisdom.
‘This isn’t easy for me,’ Stacy said, with a pained smile.
Of course, the statue wasn’t an antiquity. It was a fake. A bad fake. Which was probably not the statement Stacy wanted to make.
‘Really?’ I said.
Stacy was sad. Poor Stacy. I should have felt sorry for her. I didn’t. Her pained smile flattened out. Perhaps now we could get past the bullshit.
‘After all, we’ve worked together for a long time,’ she said. ‘We’re friends. Neighbours.’
This was true. And because I knew her as well as I did, I also knew, with absolute certainty, that Stacy Kropotkin was savouring this moment.
Mystery Tour Page 30
