“You can see it in their faces,” I said.
He pointed to the picture next to the one of his mother. “This is Timur and Verushka.”
A young girl wearing a frilly white dress with long ringlets tied up in a big bow stood next to a boy wearing dark pants and a light-colored shirt. Her hand rested on his shoulder.
“The prince treated Ivan and me well. He made sure we both received schooling, though Ivan was placed with a different group of children belonging to the servants. I was allowed to be taught with the prince’s other children by a private tutor.”
Perhaps their education hadn’t been quite equal, hence the differences in the way they spoke.
“The house had the classic onion domes of Russia and seemed to go on forever, room after room. The formal dining hall was so enormous, Timur, Verushka, and I would see if we could yell loud enough to get an echo.”
He handed me a photo of himself and Ivan. “This is the last one we have.”
Ivan had his arm around Rudy’s shoulders, dwarfing him more than usual. I could see the resemblance in their childhood faces. Tents had been set up and white cloths had been put over tables. Horses and buggies appeared in the background.
“Fun picnics. I remember those,” Ivan said.
Rudy sipped his tea. “A picnic with an aristocratic family was quite an event. Silver, cloth napkins, servants ever present.”
“Lots of food in big baskets. Best part!” Ivan added.
I put the photo back on the shelf with the others. A Russian time now past.
Ivan sat on the couch and Rudy joined him. I settled in one of the armchairs. It felt good to sink into its softness.
Rudy frowned. “Kelly, what happens now? If that’s blood on the knife, am I in trouble?”
“If the knife was used to commit a crime, the police would have to connect you to it for there to be a problem. That won’t happen because you didn’t do anything.”
Rudy’s face cleared. “You hear stories, you know. It’s scary to have the dagger show up on our boat and be connected with our family.”
“I understand.” I put down my tea. “I’d better get going. Don’t hesitate to call me if you have any questions or want to talk.”
“Thanks, Kelly. It was nice to have you here.”
We said our good-byes with assurances to schedule a boat tour when everything was back to normal.
As I drove up the driveway to Redwood Cove Bed and Breakfast, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Tommy Rogers, the towheaded, ten-year-old son of the inn’s assistant and baker, Helen, pedaling his bike hard. He leaned precariously from side to side. Tommy and his mother lived in a small cottage on the property.
I pulled into the parking lot in back, stopped, and put my arms on top of the steering wheel. I leaned forward and rested my chin on them, waiting to see the explosion of activity I knew was about to ensue.
Tommy skidded to a halt and leaned his bike against the porch. The back door flew open and a short-legged, tricolored basset hound flew out the door, ears flapping wildly. Tommy’s laugh of sheer delight filled the air. Along with Fred’s baying, they formed a harmonious duet. Their joy was a pleasure to see.
I loved my new life as manager of the inn. The white wooden building, with its gingerbread trim, had been built by the Anderson family, wealthy timber merchants, in the 1800s. A profusion of colorful flowers traveled up the side of a trellis. Their perfume would greet me as I walked to the house.
Helen opened the back door and gave me a wave. “Enough, you two. Tommy, come on in. I have a snack ready for you.” Her hair, brown with a few gray streaks, had been clipped up at the back of her head.
I got out of the truck and followed the duo of Fred and Tommy into the inn. Helen had milk and cookies out on the granite counter on my right, which separated the kitchen from the main room. The large area was used as a gathering place and work area. Ahead of me, along the far wall, there were a couch, chairs, a woodburning stove, and a television. A large oak table on the left served for dining when we had big groups, and a surface to scatter folders when business called.
A sweet smell filled the air. Helen was carefully peeling thin sheets of dough from a stack and placing them on a baking tray. A jar of honey was next to it. The label proclaimed it to be organic. A bowl of chopped nuts rested next to the golden substance.
“What are you making?”
“Baklava for the Russian Heritage Committee that’s meeting here tomorrow. The dessert was a special request from them.”
“What goes in it?”
“There are layers of phyllo dough, nuts, butter, honey, sugar, and a few other ingredients. The phyllo is the challenge because it’s so delicate.”
Helen’s baking skills were unlimited. I, on the other hand, didn’t even want to stand next to the delicate-looking pastry. I’d probably make the sheets fuse together. Helen had free time in the afternoon and had started a baking business. Resorts International was happy to have her use the inn’s kitchen. Often, what she was preparing was for our customers.
“How has your day been?” she asked.
“I had a wonderful ride on the beach, then met with Rudy and Ivan.” I shared with her what had happened and what I had learned.
“That’s quite a story. I wonder if they’ll be able to find out how the knife got there.”
“I do, too. I’m going to go freshen up, then I’ll help get the wine and appetizers together for the guests.”
“Everything is in the refrigerator, ready to go. I took care of it before I became stuck in honey and dough.”
I walked down the hall and opened the door to my quarters. I, too, had a view that made the ocean part of my life and another reason I was thrilled to live here. Glass windows straight ahead of me framed the blue Pacific Ocean, a sandy beach, and rugged cliffs. On my right, the inn’s garden and profuse multicolored flowers filled the scene.
I went into my kitchen, which was about the same size as the one on the Nadia. Compact, but it had everything I needed and one thing I didn’t need but enjoyed—a commercial-size coffeemaker. My boss prized a good cup of coffee and made sure his employees had an opportunity to enjoy a savory brew as well.
I brushed my red hair, then found a sturdy clip to hold my now Brillo Pad locks under control. The ocean spritz during my horseback ride had created a mass of wiry, tight curls. I washed my hands and went back to the inn’s kitchen.
Helen sprinkled chopped nuts on the now-full baking sheets. “Done, except for the cooking. I had enough ingredients to make two batches, so there’ll be some for us as well.”
I put out the evening refreshments for the guests, then went back to my rooms for my dinner of leftovers from a previous meal. I checked email as I ate, then returned to the parlor to clean up the area. The heavenly scent of Helen’s baking made me hungry as I cleaned the dishes. I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the guest jar to keep my hunger demons at bay.
I noticed the knife rack as I left the kitchen. As I got ready to call it quits for the night, questions filled my mind. Why would someone leave an extremely valuable knife on the boat? And how did it involve Rudy and Ivan? Was it a threat or a warning because it appeared to be covered in blood?
Even worse, were the brothers in danger?
Chapter 5
The next morning passed quickly, between helping with the guests’ breakfast baskets, paying bills, and ordering supplies. I closed the folder I’d been working on and rose to check the conference room. The Russian Heritage Committee was meeting at one o’clock, and I wanted to see if they had everything they needed. As I neared the room, I heard loud, boisterous voices, many with heavy Russian accents.
I paused at the entrance to the room and looked at the silver plaque over the door proclaiming it the Silver Sentinels’ Conference Room. Michael Corrigan had had the idea after the crime-solvin
g group of senior citizens had helped the community by being instrumental in catching a killer. Five members comprised the group. Besides Rudy and Ivan, there was the Professor, aka Herbert Winthrop, a retired Berkeley professor, Mary Rutledge, and Gertrude Plumber, Gertie as she liked to be called.
I entered the room and made my way between the groups of people engaged in animated conversation. Teacups abounded, and I saw Helen was on top of things as usual and had put out an extra thermos of hot water and additional tea. I picked up each container in turn to determine how full they were. Tom Brodsky, who I’d met at the horse ranch, stood next to a table talking to a short, balding man. As I straightened the silverware, Tom took a step closer to the person he was talking to.
“The festival was fine where it was until you came along,” Tom said.
I could hear bitterness in his voice.
“Tom, we’ve been over this before. I made the suggestion, but the committee made the decision,” the man responded.
“Right, Alexander. Like you had no influence. I saw you out and about, buying drinks and glad handing the members.”
“Why are you so against moving the festival to Redwood Cove?”
“Fort Nelsen, where it’s always been held, is a real fort and part of the Russian heritage we’re trying to preserve. It’s part of our history,” Tom replied.
“It’s also quite a ways out of town on a winding road many don’t want to drive,” Alexander argued. “We’ll have a bigger turnout here. More people will have an opportunity to learn about our past, and we’ll raise more money for the scholarships.”
“And it will give attendees an opportunity to visit your shop. I’ve seen the ads you’ve placed in the paper here and in San Francisco. Come to the Russian Heritage Festival and, while you’re there, stop to see the fine Russian artifacts on display at Russian Treasures, located in the heart of Redwood Cove.”
Alexander’s face reddened. “I paid for those ads and have every right to mention my business.”
“It’s a store, not a museum,” Tom snapped back.
“You’re just angry because you didn’t get your way,” Alexander retorted. “Grow up.”
“You’re a newcomer. You come in and begin changing the way we’ve done things for years.” Tom slammed down his teacup with such force, the contents splashed on the counter. I grabbed some napkins and began cleaning it up.
“I’m sorry, Kelly.”
“No problem, Tom. I’ll have it cleaned up in a jiffy.”
Tom picked up his cup, wiped off the bottom with a napkin, and blotted the tea from the saucer. I tossed the napkins in the wastebasket near the sideboard, and Tom did the same. He turned to Alexander, as if to continue their argument.
Just as Tom opened his mouth, a tall, distinguished-looking man in a gray three-piece pin-striped suit entered the room. The silver flecks at his temples set off his dark hair. He carried a black leather briefcase.
Alexander lowered his voice and hissed, “Stop. Vladimir is here. He’s been advertising the event in San Francisco and encouraging people to attend. He doesn’t need to hear us hurling accusations back and forth.”
The short man stepped away from Tom and waved at the newcomer. “Vladimir, glad to see you, my good friend.”
“Same here, Alexander.” Vladimir’s voice carried a deep bass note. He walked over to where we stood and held out his hand to Alexander. Vladimir wore two large insignia rings, one on each hand, and his nails appeared smooth and well-cared for. “The day of the festival is almost upon us.”
Alexander shook his hand and nodded. “The town is filling up already. To the best of my knowledge, there are no rooms available here or in nearby communities.”
Alexander glanced in my direction. I had my name badge on, with its accompanying title of manager.
He approached. “Excuse me. I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Alexander Koskov.”
“Kelly Jackson. Nice to meet you.”
“I was just telling my friend here, there are no more accommodations available in town or nearby. Is that correct?”
“Yes, we’ve been turning down people’s requests for several weeks now. The majority of them mentioned your festival.”
Alexander smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Wonderful.” He turned back to Vladimir. “I’m sure the work you’ve done promoting the event in San Francisco has a lot to do with the interest generated.”
“Good. I like supporting local businesses, as well as giving people an opportunity to learn about our Russian heritage and what life was like for the early settlers. This has the added benefit of providing money for the education of our youth.”
“Yes, Vladimir. So true,” Alexander said.
Tom passed by me, muttering, “I know which business you’re supporting, Alexander.”
“Where are you staying, Vladimir?” Alexander asked.
“I have a room at Bellington Bed and Breakfast, near the festival grounds, along with a number of other committee members. We blocked some rooms there.”
“Ah, yes, I’m familiar with it,” Alexander said.
The newcomer gave a slight bow in my direction. “I am Vladimir Yeltsin, Ms. Jackson. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I replied. “The town is definitely buzzing. I suspect you’ll have a great turnout.”
He pulled a black leather wallet from his pocket, extracted a business card, and handed it to me. “If you have any questions about the festival, please feel free to call me.”
“Thank you. I will. I’m new to the area and have a lot to learn.”
“If you decide to visit San Francisco, I’d be happy to write down some Russian places of interest for you.”
“That’s a nice offer. I appreciate it. I do plan a visit there sometime soon.”
I read his card. His company name was Golden Enterprises, and he was the president. The type of work was simply listed as investments.
Vladimir and Alexander wandered off and joined a group in the corner of the room.
Rudy and Ivan walked in. Ivan carried a large pot. It only took a few seconds for the earthy smell of beets to announce the arrival of the borscht he loved to make, though few in Redwood Cove chose to partake of it. He had an appreciative audience for his soup with this group; people filled glass mugs with the ruby red liquid.
Helen entered with a platter of baklava. The sweet smell of honey began to fill the room. Participants’ eyes lit up. People quickly lined up to get a plate and delve into the delicious-looking pastry.
I headed toward a blond woman who I knew to be Alena Stepanova. She was about my height, which put her at five foot six, and was the person I worked with on plans for the meeting. Alena lived in San Francisco, so most of our conversations had been by phone. She wore a long black skirt, high-heeled green leather boots, and a short, cropped green wool jacket over a black top. Long red nails set off the white skin of the delicate hand holding her teacup. Her hair was shaped in a smooth, sleek style—big city smart all the way.
“Alena, is there anything else you need?”
“No, Kelly. You have everything so well organized.” She nodded toward the crowd at the sideboard. “And Helen had me sample the baklava when I got here. Divine! We’ll definitely book your room for future meetings. It’ll be especially convenient for me because I can stay here at the inn.”
“Where are you staying now?”
“I’m staying at the Bellington Bed and Breakfast, next to where the event will be held.”
I pointed to the phone in the corner. “If you need anything, just dial. The number is written on it.”
“Thanks.” She got in line to help herself to more of the flaky dessert.
I joined Helen in the kitchen.
She held out a plate with a triangular piece of baklava on it. “Would you like to try it?”
“You bet.” The fragile pastry almost melted in my mouth, leaving a luscious chewy mixture of honey, nuts, and spices.
Maybe its sweetness will take away some of the bitterness I heard between Tom and Alexander.
The meeting attendees departed about an hour and a half later. I helped Helen clean up the room. The baklava platter didn’t even have any crumbs left on it.
I went back to my rooms to get my jacket. I’d been in all day, and a walk in the fresh air to the post office to mail some bills seemed like a good idea. My cell phone rang just as I reached for my coat. I recognized the number as Scott Thompson’s, one of my colleagues. He was currently running the Redwood Cove Community Center.
“Hi, Scott.”
“Hello, Kelly. As I recall, you said you were interested in learning how to make a pie during one of your cooking lessons.”
Uh-oh.
I’d actually hoped he’d forgotten about that. My name and the word cook didn’t belong together. After Scott prepared a gourmet dinner for me, our talk had turned to cooking, and he’d learned of my less-than-knowledgeable state in that department. He’d offered to teach me, and, at the time, it had sounded like a fun idea. Not so much now.
We’d had one lesson so far—mac and cheese. He said we’d start easy and no one could mess that up. Enter me. I didn’t mean to prove him wrong. I like cheese, so it didn’t bother me that the sauce had lumps of unmelted cheese and, personally, I liked supersoft, mushy pasta. I figured al dente was a fancy phrase for chewy and not completely cooked. Scott had patiently helped me through a second batch.
“How about another session, with apple pie on the menu?”
After watching Helen with the delicate dough, the thought of making a flaky crust caused a feeling of panic.
“Um, I’m really busy right now. We have a full house, and the Russian Heritage Festival is this weekend.”
“Kelly, the event is just one day. Saturday. The pie will only take a couple of hours. Helen’s there at the property to help guests. You wanted to prepare a pie for the Silver Sentinels because you didn’t bake one for their pie party.”
Murder at the Marina Page 3
