A Taint in the Blood

by Dana Stabenow

  He looked irresolute. “How do I find her?”

  “Beats the hell out of me. She was a drinking buddy of yours in Niniltna, so chances are you’ll know better than I do where to find her in Anchorage.” He reddened again, and Kate relented enough to say, “Bean’s told me she was there for lunch on Monday.”

  “So I should hang out there and wait for her to show up again?”

  “I was thinking you could be a little more proactive than that, Kurt,” Kate said dryly. “Ask around. I know she has friends in town, and I know you do, too.”

  “Nine dollars an hour,” he said.

  She scribbled the phone number of the town house on a napkin. “Call me when you find her. Remember to keep track of your hours as well as your receipts.” She pulled out a wad of cash, counted out five hundred dollars, shoved it and the check in his direction, and stood up. “You can start with this one.”

  She’d called Axenia before she left the house that morning and left a message on her cousin’s answering machine. She checked Jack’s answering machine from a pay phone and found no response.

  Fine, she’d earned some personal time. She drove out to Costco and spent an hour loading up two carts with dry and canned goods, and made arrangements to have them palleted and sent to a warehouse in Ahtna that shipped into the Park. There was a woman at a kiosk selling cell phones, and Kate lingered in front of it, reading the literature and asking questions long enough for the woman to become a little impatient. In the end, the two rebates tipped the balance (she would actually make fifty dollars on the purchase) and Kate walked back to the car with a brand-new phone, which probably wouldn’t work from the Park. “Money corrupts,” she told Mutt severely, “and too much money corrupts absolutely.”

  Mutt raised one bored eyebrow. Mutt wasn’t into shopping.

  She drove to Twice Told Tales and spent another, much more halcyon hour browsing through the store, the resulting pile large enough to require three boxes. Kate, reaching for a book on a high shelf, couldn’t hold back a small moan. “Are you all right?” Rachel said.

  “I’m fine. Sore is all. Must have overdone the exercise yesterday,” Kate said blandly, and if Rachel saw the little smile on her face, she was tactful enough not to say so.

  The total due made Kate wince and Rachel smile. Kate paid extra to have most of the books mailed book rate to her post office box in Niniltna, keeping out half a dozen to read while she was in town, including two biographies, one of Shakespeare and one of Douglas Bader, the legless flying ace of World War II. Kate’s reading habits were nothing if not eclectic.

  Rachel tipped her off to a good antique store and Kate returned home just after four o’clock, the gloating owner of five Wagner cast-iron skillets, each one a different size, and one glass lid that didn’t fit any of them. The cast-iron pots and pans she had inherited from her parents had been lost in the fire, and she was determined to replace them all. Apart from the sentiment, she didn’t really know how to cook in anything else.

  The car Jim had parked in the drive yesterday evening was gone. Good.

  She smiled to herself and went upstairs to change the sheets. When she was done, she stood for a moment looking down at the bed.

  Everything she’d demanded of him, he had given. She remembered some of what he’d given and felt a wave of heat begin deep and low and spread up and out. She looked down and saw that her nipples had beaded against the fabric of her T-shirt, and she laughed out loud. The man had talent. More than that, he had consideration, not to mention courage. Most men would have been afraid to give that much. Too many men were afraid of strong women. Too many men were afraid of her.

  Jim didn’t get it yet, but he was a smart man and he would eventually. In the meantime, she didn’t mind torturing him a little. She wondered how long it would take him to find an excuse to come back. Probably he had enough strength of will to stay away for a day or two, and there was always the job, which could call him away at any moment. As long as people kept misbehaving on the front page of the Anchorage Daily News, they were both in business.

  Which reminded her of her own job. She looked at her watch. It was 4:30 P.M. Her stomach growled. Intensive shopping burned up bacon and eggs fast, and she’d missed lunch. Still, her body felt tender in various places, and she delayed dinner to run a hot bath. Showers were all very well, but a hot bath was good for what ailed you.

  She crawled in and closed her eyes, dozing until the water cooled. One of the great things about coming to Anchorage was having a hot bath at Jack’s, all over wet, submerged up to her nostrils like a hippopotamus, her hair spreading out around her head in a floating fan.

  But she had an honest-to-god bathroom in the Park now, two of them, in fact, and one even had its own tub. The realization made her a little wistful. Who was it who had said that joy was sharper when it was conditional? Oh, right. That renowned American philosopher Travis McGee, although in a much different context. Regardless, he was right. Life was made precious by the prospect of death. Baths in Anchorage had been made precious by the lack of baths in the Park. No more.

  She ran more hot water into the tub and inched back down into it with a voluptuous groan. She remembered feeling like this when she and Jack had been apart for a long time, exhausted and aching in every muscle and very pleased with herself.

  She thought about that. She had slept with Jim Chopin in the same bed in which she had spent many nights with Jack Morgan. She felt no shame, no sense of betrayal; in fact, if she listened closely, she thought she might hear Jack applauding, although the voyeuristic implications of that weren’t very attractive.

  “I miss you, you son of a bitch,” she said out loud. “But I’m moving on.” A lone tear slid down her cheek, and she let herself slip beneath the water, allowing the curative power of heat to melt away, at least for a while, her aches and pains and guilt at being so vibrantly alive beneath sun, moon, and stars when Jack was so cold and so dead in the dark, dank ground.

  She toweled off her melancholy and slipped into a pair of clean underwear and another of Jack’s blue plaid flannel shirts, of which he appeared to have had approximately two dozen, rolling the sleeves up to her elbow. Thick gray socks completed her ensemble, and she surveyed the result in the mirror, not without satisfaction. Who knew this outfit could be so seductive? Besides, high sixties or not, Anchorage was heading into fall, termination dust would be on the mountains with the next hard rain, and the nights were beginning to tend toward chilly.

  She went back downstairs, opened the two-inch-thick New York strip she’d bought at City Market, dredged it in olive oil, and rolled it in a combination of herbs and garlic powder. She turned the oven on, set it for 350 degrees, put the steak in, and set the timer for an hour. A bunch of spinach in a pot with a few tablespoons of water at the bottom of it for when the steak came out of the oven and dinner would be served.

  She curled up on the living room sofa with the telephone and the witness list Brendan had given her. Reminding herself to find a way of thanking him that didn’t include actual coitus, she dialed the first name on the list.

  She hung up the phone when the timer went off an hour later. The steak was perfect, done to a pale pink on the inside, the oil having crisped the herbs to a nice crust. The spinach went limp five minutes after she turned on the burner and she tossed it with some red wine vinegar. She sat down at the table with a glass of apple juice and ate slowly, relishing every mouthful, as she reviewed the phone calls.

  There were twenty names on Brendan’s list. Kate suspected the round number was due to Brendan’s decision to stop, rather than to the actual number of witnesses. Eight of the names were marked “Deceased” and a date of death was noted beside each, and many of the voices Kate spoke to were definitely older.

  “It was all so long ago,” one woman had said fretfully. “I can barely remember what I was doing last month, let alone thirty years ago.”

  “I’m headed out of town indefinitely,” one man had told her
before hanging up.

  “Kate Shugak?” a determinedly sultry voice had said. “Ekaterina’s grand-daughter? Your grandmother and I were very good friends; we sat on several boards together. How lovely to speak to you, dear. Perhaps you’d like to come over for dinner one evening while you’re in town. My husband would love to meet you. He’s done some work for the Raven Corporation. He’s an attorney, you know.”

  One woman hung up on her. Kate checked the name for future reference. Another said strongly, “I still can’t believe Victoria could do something so horrible as to kill her own child. I don’t even want to think about it, much less describe it all over again to some stranger,” and then she hung up. Kate checked that name, too. Memories strong enough to provide either reaction were worth further investigation.

  One man had said sharply, “Does Erland know about this?”

  Erland was Victoria’s brother. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve been retained by his niece, Charlotte.”

  There was a moment of electric silence. “What the hell does she think she’s playing at? Erland is not going to be happy about this.”

  And then he hung up on her.

  Kate remembered Victoria’s anger at her appearance and wondered if Charlotte had told anyone in her family what she was doing.

  The phone rang as she was finishing dinner. It was Emily. “Can you come down to our offices at four-thirty P.M.?”

  “Tomorrow?” Kate said, eyes going to the clock.

  “Yes. Oliver has said he can see you for half an hour.”

  “I’ll be there,” Kate said.

  Emily gave her the address and Kate hung up.

  8

  Oliver kept her waiting in his outer office, during which she had ample time to admire the gray walls, the maroon carpet, the teak furniture, and the abstract art. She didn’t admire it, actually, but she had time to.

  Emily didn’t come out to greet her. The receptionist, a woman in her late thirties who had artfully arranged hair and was wearing a trim black suit that must have cost most of three months’ salary, was seated at a large desk with a pile of what Kate instantly recognized as court documents. Occasionally, the phone would ring and the receptionist, whose nameplate announced her to be one Miss Belinda Bracey, would answer it in mellifluous tones. Every now and then, she would look at Kate and smile. Kate would smile back. Now and then, the sound of footsteps came from that part of the office suite at whose entrance Miss Bracey was standing guard, and the sound of voices in muted conversation.

  It went like that for fifteen minutes, until the outer door opened and Oliver Muravieff stepped into the room wearing a suit that cost even more than Miss Bracey’s. He had a slim cane, ebony, with brass fittings, which he leaned upon heavily. The brass was only marginally shinier than his shoes, which matched his suit perfectly. His thick black hair grew straight back from his forehead, ending at a recently trimmed line just above his collar.

  Maybe Oliver Muravieff and Associates had a personal shopper on staff.

  In spite of the window dressing, Muravieff brought the aura of a street fighter into the room with him. He was maybe five four, five five, and thick from the neck down. He worked out with weights, Kate would bet money on it, to such effect that his biceps pushed his arms out from his sides like an ape’s. Making up for the gimpy leg, Bobby Clark would say. Muravieff moved well, belying his bulk with purpose and strength, if not with grace, his step quick and firm, his movements deft and sure.

  Instinctively, Kate slid forward on the couch and pulled her feet in so that her weight would be over them if she had to move fast. The movement caught the corner of Muravieff’s eye and he turned to look at her. His face was square and blunt-featured. He had a long nose with a flat bridge, heavy black brows, and deep-set brown eyes. His gaze was steady and assessing, and he was smart enough not to dismiss her on first sight, even if she was wearing jeans.

  “This is Ms. Shugak, Mr. Muravieff,” Miss Bracey said in a low murmur, and dropped her voice even further to add, “Your four-thirty.”

  “Your four-forty-five now,” Kate said, and smiled.

  There was a brief silence. “Of course,” Muravieff said smoothly. “I’m Oliver Muravieff, Ms. Shugak.” He walked past the receptionist’s desk and opened a door in the wall. “Will you come with me to my office?”

  Kate followed him through the door, down a hallway, and through an office with three women in it typing at computers, one of whom pursued him into his office with a document for his signature.

  “Have a seat,” Muravieff said, nodding at the chair sitting on one side of a vast expanse of teak. He signed the document and shed his jacket, handing both to the woman. “May I offer you some coffee, Ms. Shugak?”

  “Certainly,” Kate said. “Cream and sugar, please,” she said to the woman.

  “Black,” Muravieff said. “Thanks, Nancy.”

  Nancy went out, soft-footed. “I apologize for being so late,” Muravieff said. “I was held up in court.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Kate said, and wondered at the sudden graciousness of her grammar.

  “Shugak,” Muravieff said. “Any relation to Ekaterina?”

  “Why, yes,” Kate said.

  “I believe my mother may have known her.”

  “So she tells me,” Kate said.

  An awkward silence fell, broken by Nancy coming back with the coffee, served on a silver tray in porcelain cups and saucers, with a matching sugar bowl and creamer. Kate doctored her coffee, Muravieff didn’t, and they both settled back in their chairs. Muravieff barely sipped his before placing it to one side. “So, Ms. Shugak,” he said, “how may I help you?”

  “Your sister, Charlotte, has hired me to look into your mother’s case.”

  Muravieff’s expression didn’t change. “So Emily has informed me. It was not a wise decision on Charlotte’s part.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because my mother has no case, Ms. Shugak. She was tried, convicted, and sentenced to life in prison.”

  “Your sister believes otherwise,” Kate said. “She believes your mother was wrongly convicted, and she wants me to find the evidence necessary to prove it.”

  His eyes went flat, and for the first time Kate saw the pit bull lurking inside every decent trial attorney. “Charlotte is mistaken. My mother even admitted doing it.”

  “Your mother admitted her guilt?” Kate said.

  Oliver nodded. “Yes.”

  “When? There is no mention of it in the court records.”

  “Privately, to us, after she was convicted and she knew lying wouldn’t keep her out of jail.”

  “’To us’? Meaning Charlotte and yourself?”

  “Yes. They took us in to say good-bye to her after the verdict. She told us then. So you can see for yourself, Ms. Shugak, my sister has sent you on a fool’s errand.”

  “That’s something you will need to take up with your sister,” Kate said, setting her cup and saucer down. “May I ask you some questions?”

  “I don’t want to talk about that time.”

  “It was thirty years ago.”

  “It was yesterday,” Muravieff said.

  A brief silence. “Well then, did your mother say why she did it?” Kate said.

  “What does that matter? She killed her own son. She would have killed me. She admitted as much to me, face-to-face, the last time I saw her.”

  “You haven’t seen her since?” Kate said.

  “She tried to kill me,” he said. “She told me so. Why would I want to see her ever again?”

  Kate regarded him in silence. He met her gaze steadily. “The prosecution held that your mother tried to kill you both for the insurance money.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she really so in need of money?”

  “I suppose she was.”

  “A Bannister? Out of money?”

  He said nothing.

  “Charlotte told me that you and she went to live with your uncle afterward.”
>
  “Yes.”

  “He or your grandparents couldn’t have helped your mother financially, whatever trouble she might have been in?”

  “Look, Miss Shugak,” he said, “I don’t know what her problem was. All I know is what she said. You worked for the DA for five and a half years. You certainly know the difference.”

  “I do,” she said. And wasn’t it interesting that he knew of her previous employment. “Did you know your mother has cancer?”

  He stared at her. “No,” he said finally. “I didn’t know that.”

  Nancy tapped at the door. “Mr. Muravieff, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Ellefson is on line two.”

  “Not a problem,” Kate said. “Mr. Muravieff and I are done here. Thank you for your time, Mr. Muravieff. May I call if I have any further questions?”

  “Certainly,” he said, and handed her a card.

  Interesting, she thought as she walked out of the building, that Oliver’s chosen profession was that of a defense lawyer, a job designed to get criminals off. An Alexander Ellefson had been the second story on last night’s ten o’clock news, something regarding a little disagreement he’d had in the parking lot of a local bar, involving three other men and a .38 Special.

  She got home to a blinking red light on the answering machine, her first this time in town. She pushed the button, smiling a little, expecting some heavy breathing and a few rude remarks from Brendan.

  “Yes, this is a message for Kate Shugak,” a pleasant female voice said. “Ms. Shugak, this is Rosemary Watson, secretary to Erland Bannister. Mr. Bannister is having a party tomorrow evening at his home in Turnagain, and he wonders if you might like to attend. Seven o’clock, drinks and hors d’oeuvres—oh, and semiformal dress, please.” Directions were given and the message ended.

  Kate stared at the answering machine. It sat on the kitchen counter, squat, black, and unrevealing. She played the message again. Rosemary Watson repeated herself.