by A. J. Carton
“I’m so sorry about that,” she apologized. “Sometimes, people say things. They mean well,” she hastened to add, “but they say things that, well,” she paused. “That make me so, so sad. I mean, that remind me of my sister. And then I start crying all over again.”
Emma nodded. But she couldn’t help thinking that Vera and Sacha had not been talking about Natasha on the phone. Whatever the handsome Russian tenor said, it had not made Vera sad. It had thrown her into a rage.
Vera had brought a plate of cookies into the room with her. She set them on the table and offered Emma one. “In case you didn’t have time for breakfast before you came,” she said with a timid smile.
Emma took one of the cookies. It looked delicious. But when Vera opened the manila envelope that Emma had placed on the table, and began to examine its contents, an uneasy feeling made Emma slip the cookie into her purse. Then she laughed at herself.
Vera glanced quickly at the press release and the program. She spent a little more time reviewing the text of the speech Barry would make from the Opera House stage when the Opera’s Director announced the creation of the Baxter and Alexandra Buchanon Russian Arts Archive. Emma noticed Vera’s eyes tear up again as she read.
Vera wiped the tears away with one hand and put down the text. “It’s so beautiful. What Barry said about me.” She sniffled. “It’s true. I supported Natasha. After our mother and father died, I was all she had left. She was so beautiful. So talented. Mamma always said she would go far. Very far. It was my parents’ dream. So, after they died, I was determined to make it come true for them. Well,” she quickly added, “for us, too.”
Emma couldn’t help wondering what burdens Vera shouldered as the less beautiful – and possibly less loved – twin. The poor girl had certainly worked hard to make up for not being as good.
“Anyway,” she continued. “Barry has always been kind. Very kind.” She nodded her head. “But I don’t know. This thing about being on the Board of the Russian Arts Archive? You see,” she shrugged. “I was never really interested in Russian Arts. I was only interested in…in Natasha.”
Emma glanced at her phone. It was almost 10:00. “Well,” she said, “you don’t really have to decide about that now, do you Vera? See how you feel in a few months.”
“You’re right,” Vera agreed. “Why spoil the generous donation with doubts. We are meant to celebrate Natasha tonight. I’ll decide about the archive later. Thank you.” Vera checked her watch. “Oh my goodness,” she cried. “It’s late. I’d love to chat more, but I have to get to that appointment.” She stood up.
Emma stood up too. She was also glad to get away. She followed Vera back to the front door.
Then Vera looked out the window. It was still pouring rain. “Oh, your coat. I almost forgot.” She turned.
Without thinking, Emma followed her down the hall and into what must have been her bedroom.
“I put your coat in my powder room. On the tile,” she called over her shoulder as she opened the door to the adjoining bath. “It was so wet, I didn’t want it dripping on the wood floor.”
Emma heard Vera shaking out her parka. While she waited, she glanced around the bedroom. A powder blue jewel box with blue silk damask drapes and a king sized bed covered in a poufy quilt of matching material.
And that’s when she saw it. Out of the corner of her eye. Just as Vera walked back into the room. It sat on the nightstand next to the bed.
It was a small painting. But it wasn’t hanging on the wall, the way a painting would be. Instead, it was propped up on the nightstand. As if put there hurriedly. It looked out of place. Not exactly the picture you’d stick on a nightstand next to your bed. It was more like art you’d hang in the dining room. The painting looked like an oil. It was very good. So good you wanted to eat it.
It was the picture of a cupcake. One solitary cupcake. Vanilla with pink frosting and a cherry on top.
Emma looked from the painting to Vera. Vera caught her eye. Something in Vera’s expression told Emma that Vera had seen her studying the painting.
“Cute,” Emma said, pointing at the painting while trying to disguise any alarm in her voice. Then she added, “I saw one like it at the Blissburg Arts Fair this weekend. I almost bought it myself.”
Vera seemed to let out her breath. “That’s funny,” she smiled warily. “That’s exactly where I got it. At the Blissburg Arts Fair. I guess we have the same taste.”
Vera shoved Emma’s coat at her. Emma wondered if she imagined it, or was Vera pushing her out of the room? At the front door, Vera barely even said goodbye.
Chapter 23: Friday - High Noon
Emma didn’t bother going home. She went straight from Vera’s to the free legal services clinic. Her hands shook on the steering wheel the whole drive there.
That morning, the parking lot at the mall wasn’t very crowded. Apparently Carmen and Tonio – and Roma Rights – had had their fifteen minutes of fame. As far as the news channels were concerned, without more drama, the Roma’s entertainment value was gone. Emma prayed she could wrap up the case before someone took more drastic steps to spotlight the Roma plight.
Once again, Emma raced past Barbara at the reception desk, barely nodding. And barged into Steve’s office. That day only one other person was with him in the room. Dexter Young, the pro bono lawyer from the downtown San Francisco firm who represented Carmen for free. Dexter had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his starched custom pin striped dress shirt. Steve had resumed wearing T-shirts. Another sign the press was gone.
Dexter was on his cell phone and Steve was on his computer when Emma burst in. Steve looked up, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face when he recognized Emma.
“What’s up?” he greeted her. The look on his face signaled he had better things to do. Dexter stayed on his call.
“I hope it’s good,” Steve added. “We’ve got problems, big problems. Tonio says he got manhandled being transported to the jail. He kicked in a window in the holding area. The police have now added felony assault and felony destruction of property to the charges. With his word against the police, those will be hard charges to beat.”
Emma sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s not good.” Then she looked at Steve and shook her head. “But if I were held for a murder I didn’t commit, I might do worse.”
Steve cast her a skeptical look bordering on incredulity.
“C’mon Emma,” he said. “This is serious. We’re running out of time. The Roma Rights people are planning a big demonstration on Sunday. Peaceful, of course. But agitators will try to spin things out of control and blame it on the Roma. Anti-Roma bigots have been coming out of the woodwork. Besides,” he added, “we haven’t come up with one bloody thing to prove that Tonio and Carmen didn’t do it.” He rubbed his forehead. “We need solid evidence either that someone else committed the murder, or that Carmen and Tonio didn’t. Absent that, we can only do our best to beat the rap on a technicality.”
Emma paused for dramatic effect. Then she leaned forward and said, “That’s why I’m here, Steve. That evidence you want? I have it.”
Steve cast her an appropriately awed look. “OK,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
Dexter Young, who had been half listening to her while on his call, quickly hung up his cell phone.
You could have heard a pin drop. Emma began her story.
“It’s Vera,” she said. “I met with her, this morning, like I promised. I’ve got the evidence. I’m sure of it. Vera Vasiliev murdered her sister.”
Steve’s jaw dropped. “No way!”
“Way,” Emma nodded. “I don’t know exactly how or why yet. But I have the evidence.”
“What?” Steve and Dexter asked at once.
“Rasputin’s Cupcake,” Emma announced before she realized there was such a thing as too much dramatic effect.
Steve and Dexter rolled their eyes at each other.
Steve shook his head.
“Emma, not another…”
She interrupted him. “OK. I guess I never told you about the Buchanons’ missing painting. I learned of it last night, when I went to their house. So when I was at Vera’s, we walked into the bedroom because I’d soaked my parka in this downpour trying to find her townhouse in the new luxury complex behind the post office. When she got the parka for me, right before I left…”
Steve started waving tight circles with his hand for her to get to the point.
“OK.” Emma stopped and took a deep breath. “The point is, I went into her bedroom and I saw the painting of the cupcake. The one that someone, obviously Vera, stole from Barry’s house the same night someone – Vera – committed the murder. It was the painting of the cupcake that Barry gave to Lexie for Christmas. But then Natasha saw it and loved it. She called it Rasputin’s Cupcake. So Barry wanted to give the painting to Natasha for her birthday. Of course, he and Lexie had a big row about that. Well, now the painting’s been stolen; and that is the painting I saw on a nightstand next to Vera’s bed this morning. If that doesn’t…”
Suddenly, she noticed that Dexter was back on the phone; and Steve was shaking his head at her.
“Emma.” Steve spoke very slowly. Like he was talking to a child. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I’m talking about Vera,” Emma almost screamed at him, angry with herself for not having rehearsed her announcement in the car. “Vera stole the paining. Vera is the murderer!”
By then, Steve was holding his head like he had just gotten a migraine.
“Emma,” he said, “last time you barged in here, you were sure that Alexandra Buchanon poisoned Natasha Vasiliev with caviar blinis. Now you seem to have developed another theory. The poisoned cupcake theory. According to that theory, without any logical motive, Vera killed her twin sister with a poisoned cupcake. If I understood you correctly, the motive has something to do with Vera and Natasha Vasiliev being Russian. And with the fact that another Russian, Rasputin, was poisoned with cupcakes over a hundred years ago in Russia. Except, I’m sorry to tell ya, unlike Natasha, Rasputin didn’t die from eating the poisoned cupcakes. He died of a gunshot wound to the forehead. Then he drowned. In the Neva. Natasha was not shot. Nor did she drown. So, for what it’s worth, the parallel does not work.”
At that point, Dexter put his cell phone on mute and whispered, “Exactly right, Steve. Except, recent evidence indicates Rasputin may not actually have drowned. The water found in his lungs is a common autopsy finding. The reason the cupcakes didn’t kill him, assuming he ate them, is because…”
“They cooked the cupcakes,” Emma interrupted.
“Right again. The poison may have vaporized.” Dexter resumed his call.
“You don’t understand what I’m saying, Steve,” Emma protested.
“That’s right,” Steve nodded vigorously. “I don’t understand at all. But this cupcake theory sounds to me like one more of your hunches. You’ve convinced yourself that Vera killed her sister for no good reason. As I said the last time you were here, Emma, we need solid proof to win this case not your…”
Emma guessed Steve was about to say silly, but he spared her.
“Hunches,” he repeated. “Look, did Vera tell you anything about her visit to Carmen the morning after the murder? That’s what you were going to find out, wasn’t it? Did Vera say anything that might help us? Anything that might prove Carmen didn’t do it? Like did they discuss the ring, at all? Or did Carmen have her basket? And what was in it?”
Emma cringed. In all the excitement of the rainstorm, Vera’s argument with Sacha, the poisoned cupcake, she’d completely forgotten to ask Vera about her visit to Carmen the morning after the murder. There was no way around it. She had to tell Steve. She let her breath out slowly again, and braced herself for his reply. Then she blurted it out. “Sorry, Steve. I forgot to ask her about that.”
Steve cast her a withering look and pressed a button on his phone. “Barbara,” he said, “would you try to get Vera Vasiliev on the phone. Immediately. I need to set up an interview with her.”
“She’s at the hairdresser now, Steve,” Emma said. “She’s gonna be hard to reach.”
Steve nodded his head grimly. “That’s choice, Emma. You got information about cupcakes and hairdressers. Nothing really about the murder.” He pointed towards the door. “Dex and I got a lotta work to do.”
But Emma wasn’t going to give up that easily. She folded her arms across her chest and stood her ground.
“I know I didn’t get off to a good start here, Steve,” she began. “I didn’t tell my story well. But it’s important. I’m going to ask you to hear me out one more time. And,” she added. “DO NOT interrupt me.”
Then, starting all the way back with her visit to the Buchanons’ house the night before, she began. First she quickly summarized the meeting with Barry (omitting the ruse about her missing ring). Then she described the part where Lexie and Barry discovered the missing painting from the breakfast room of the very same home on the grounds of which Natasha was killed. She explained how Natasha had called the painting Rasputin’s Cupcake when she saw it. How Barry and Lexie argued about whether Barry could give Rasputin’s Cupcake to Natasha as a birthday gift. Finally, Emma described being in Vera’s bedroom, noticing the very same missing painting on her nightstand, and Vera claiming she bought the painting at the Blissburg Arts Fair.
“So,” Emma concluded, “you see, don’t you? I made up the part about my seeing the painting at the Blissburg Arts Fair. So Vera’s obviously lying about where she got the painting. That proves she has something to hide. That something being that she stole the painting the night she killed Natasha.”
“We’re talking about a missing picture of a cupcake?” Steve asked.
Emma nodded.
“And you’re assuming that Natasha’s killer stole the picture of the cupcake the night he, or she, committed the murder.
“It’s what the police have assumed about Carmen,” Emma replied. “That she stole the ring the night she murdered Natasha.”
Steve shook his head. “No. Not quite. The police are assuming Carmen killed Natasha Vasiliev in order to steal a 100K ring. Are you proposing that Vera Vasiliev killed her own sister in order to steal a painting of a cupcake that belonged to Baxter and Alexandra Buchanon? Why?”
Darn! Emma thought. Steve was right. Her theory really didn’t make sense.
Dexter looked up from his iPad. “How big was the painting?”
“Not big,” Emma replied. “It fit on the nightstand. Maybe eight inches by eight inches.“
“And Baxter Buchanon said it was really valuable?” Steve asked. He sounded skeptical. “We’re talking about a little picture of a cupcake? Like the kind you see at that tacky Blissburg Arts Fair? The kind people hang in their kitchen over the stove?”
“Well, not exactly,” Emma objected. “Barry said his cupcake was a Wayne Thiebaud. The kind that hangs in the de Young Museum in San Francisco.”
Steve shook his head. The name Wayne Thiebaud obviously didn’t mean anything to him.
But Dexter looked up again from whatever he was reading on his iPad.
“Wayne Thiebaud?” he asked. “Did you say the Buchanons had a Wayne Thiebaud stolen out of their house? And you saw it in Vera Vasiliev’s bedroom?” He looked Emma over carefully. “Are you sure? I mean, do you know exactly what the Buchanons’ Thiebaud looked like? I’ve seen the ones at the museum. That retrospective they did was great. I actually have a signed Thiebaud lithograph. One of the famous gumball machine series. The price of that has sure skyrocketed. By the way, did the Buchanons’ file a police report on the theft? Someone better tell them. They’ll need a police report to collect any insurance.”
Emma nodded. “We told them.”
“So, Emma,” Steve cut in, “answer Dex’s question. Do you even know what the Buchanons’ painting looked like? I mean, how could you? It was stolen right? So, did one of the Buchanons
show you a photograph of it?”
Emma’s heart sank. She shook her head. “No,” she answered warily. “The Buchanons just said that the stolen painting was a picture of a cupcake. One cupcake. And that it was a Wayne Thiebaud. I’ve seen Wayne Thiebauds at the museum. So I sort of remember what they look like.”
“Sort of,” Steve repeated. “So, maybe, I mean maybe, it is within the realm of possibility that the painting in Vera Vasiliev’s bedroom wasn’t a Wayne Thiebaud? That, perhaps, it was, I don’t know, a copy? Or someone imitating a Wayne Thiebaud? Or someone who just liked painting cupcakes? And Vera Vasiliev, knowing that her sister liked cupcakes, purchased one for her at the Blissburg Arts Fair.”
“Yeah,” Emma admitted. “I guess that’s possible. But the Blissburg Arts Fair was last weekend. Natasha was already dead. So Vera wouldn’t have bought the painting for Natasha.”
“OK,” Steve rubbed his hand back and forth across his forehead. Emma could tell he was losing patience fast. “Then perhaps Vera bought the cupcake painting, or just a cupcake painting, to remind her of her sister. In her sister’s memory, if you will. Or,” Steve continued, building up speed, “perhaps she bought a reproduction of the Thiebaud painting at the museum store months ago. Museums do make reproductions of their popular paintings and sell them.” He smirked. “Even I know that. Is any of that possible, Emma? In fact, isn’t all of that possible?”
Emma’s head started pounding. Steve was right. It was all possible. So why was she so sure none of it was true? Why was she so sure that Vera, for no reasonable reason she could think of, killed her twin sister whom she obviously loved. Was she crazy?
“Sure, Steve,” she nodded. “It’s all possible.”
Steve turned his back to her and walked to his desk. Like a lawyer who has just demolished a witness’s testimony on cross examination. She almost expected him to add, “No more questions, your honor.”
But that didn’t happen. Because they weren’t through questioning her. It was Dex’s turn. They were playing good cop, bad cop. Dexter resumed questioning her in a gentler tone.
