* * *
The Comrade Club, as I translated from the sign, was a squat, ugly building next to a strip mall where you could donate plasma for money and then presumably lose that money playing slots or doing your laundry.
Aleksander, doubled over his cane, tapped along, refusing help from either his granddaughter or me. As we approached the door and he gave a very specific knock before the door opened, I wondered if this hadn't been a mistake to bring a nine-year-old girl here. But then again, Betty knew how to turn Girl Scout cookies into ninja throwing stars and the uniform sash into a garrote, so we were probably going to be okay.
We walked into a dark foyer. Next to us sat what appeared to be Mikhail Gorbachev. He waved us toward a heavy black curtain. Aleksander straightened up, put his cane in an umbrella stand, and pulled back the curtain for us.
"Ladies first." He grinned.
I've been to many hole-in-the-wall taverns throughout the Russian Federation. I've seen a goat wearing a Putin mask playing a piano, conjoined twins who set vodka on fire and drank it, and once, I even witnessed a transgendered talent show where everyone had to sing the same song from West Side Story.
But I wasn't prepared for this.
The room was bright and cheerful, painted a blinding yellow. Flowers in vases sat on linen cloths that covered every table. It smelled like vanilla, not despair. And all along the room were singing dolls like the kind you saw on the It's A Small World ride at Disneyland. They were dressed like little Cossacks, and though I couldn't hear the words, I did recognize the traditional melody.
"We got discount from Walt Disney." Aleksander grinned when he saw me staring at them.
Men were dressed in blue jeans and many in cowboy boots, hats, and bolero ties. They all greeted each other cheerfully and held up shot glasses of what I assumed was vodka. It was like falling through time and landing in a 1950s Disneyphile cowboy Tupperware party.
"I came over from Moscow," Aleksander said, and I realized he'd been speaking the whole time that I was brainwashed by the décor. "But most of these guys came from other places in Russia. You know it's biggest country, right? Eleven time zones! Eleven!"
We were lured over to a long table where six old men were playing cards. As we sat down, someone plunked a shot of ice-cold vodka in front of me, and I noticed, with dismay, that they did the same thing to Betty, who picked it up, shouted a Russian toast, and knocked it back.
The men cheered. The look on my face must've been one of horror, because Aleksander leaned over and whispered in my ear.
"She only gets clear apple juice."
"Ah." I relaxed a little and picked up my apple juice, raising a toast to the Motherland and its time zones, and then threw back the shot.
Once they helped me off the floor and the fire in my throat started to subside, I realized that I had not been given clear apple juice.
"What was that?" I croaked. "Pure gasoline?"
The men roared and handed me another.
"We make this ourselves," a short man in a cowboy hat said. "Out back." He held a finger to his lips. The other men started laughing.
"Congratulations," I said after coughing and clearing my throat. "It's very smooth."
The men roared with laughter and encouraged me to take the new shot in front of me.
I waved them off. "Can't. I'm driving." I pointed to Betty, who had five empty shot glasses in front of her. She seemed okay and not at all dead or, worse, drunk.
This was seeming less and less of a good idea by the minute.
An old man who looked no younger than 105 leaned forward and asked, "Are you Russian, pretty lady?"
I shook my head, "No. I think Czech and, maybe, English?"
Czrygy was Czech—or Bohemian, I guessed. I'd joined an online ancestry site but only used it for a case last summer. Maybe I should look more into it.
"Czech!" The man slammed his hand down on the table. What was it with these guys? "Close enough!"
Inexplicably, the whole room burst into song. It was the Russian Federation's national anthem. I knew it but didn't join in because it wasn't my culture and I didn't want to offend anyone. Betty sang with gusto, doing a better job than most of the men at the table.
Now that we were here, I wondered what I was going to do. There was no plan when we barged into Betty's grandparents' house. Now that we were in this Russian vodka den, there had to be something I could use.
The singing stopped, and I came up with an idea.
"Is this the main hangout for Russians?" I asked. "It's pretty cool that you have this place."
The ancient man nodded. "Oh yes. All Russians in Des Moines come here."
"All real Russians." Aleksander scowled. "Sometimes, fake Russians come too!"
The men shook their heads in unison and took another shot. I didn't even see a bottle or anyone pouring. Where was this stuff coming from?
"Fake Russians?" I asked delicately.
"Ukrainians!" one man shouted.
"Belorussians!" said another.
This went on for five minutes as they went around the room calling out countries that used to be part of the Soviet Union and were now separated from the Motherland.
This was interesting because many Russians wanted these countries back. And there were Russians living in these places. So how did they rate as Fake Russians? It was a good question but for another time.
"Does anyone here know Joe Hanson?" I inquired.
The men scratched their heads and looked confused. Okay, so Joe wasn't coming here as Joe.
"How about"—I threw caution to the wind—"Oleg Tartikov?"
The table went silent. I even thought I heard a record player needle zip across vinyl. Which was weird. The men eyed me suspiciously. If I was going to get answers, I needed to do something quick.
In perfect Russian I said, "I knew the bastard back in Russia, in the old days."
The men cheered, thinking I was one of them, forgetting for some reason that I said I wasn't Russian.
"He comes here almost every day," said one man, a tall and thin with enough ear hair to make up for the lack of hair on top.
"That's true!" shouted another. "Drink, and we tell you!"
Someone shoved another shot into my hand. I'd been in situations like this before. This was a test. And if I wanted the information, I'd have to pass. I threw the shot back, praying that Betty knew how to drive.
The table cheered as I set the empty glass down. In my spy heyday, I had an amazing tolerance for alcohol. In the last few years of retirement, I'd stuck to a glass of wine a couple of times a week.
Now, vodka—real, Russian vodka—was very strong. I'd seen it poured into a gas tank to get a tractor going. I'd seen people using it to strip paint. And once or twice, I'd used it personally for arson.
"To Oleg!" I cheered.
"To Oleg!" The men applauded, just as another man joined our table.
"He hasn't been here for a few days," the man said as a shot magically appeared before him. "Maybe he has a girlfriend." The man threw back the shot and offered up a toothless grin. "A pretty girlfriend."
The others laughed and clapped Toothless on the back, as if he himself had this girlfriend.
The room was starting to tilt slightly. I asked Betty to go find me some food—preferably cheese and meat. She ran off.
"Pretty, eh?" I asked. "Must be Russian."
Another cheer went up, and more vodka shots went down. How these men were still upright was beyond me. Betty appeared at my elbow with a cold meat and cheese plate. Under the table, at my feet, she secreted a bottle of water. With a wink, she sat back down.
I managed to refill my shot glass with water and held it up.
"To Russian women!" I swallowed the water in one gulp and set my glass down, still holding it in my hands so I could avoid the invisible vodka fairy who was filling my glass.
"Does Oleg live in Des Moines?" I asked.
Aleksander nodded. "Yes. I will tell him you were her
e."
"That would be great," I mumbled.
"Give her the number, Grandpa," Betty ordered.
Aleksander's face went slack for a moment. Then he took out his cell and, using a notepad and pen, wrote down a number and handed it to me. How did she do that?
Then the man looked at his watch, hurriedly slammed another shot, and ushered us out. He sang Russian folk songs all the way back to his house, where we helped him into his den. He fell asleep immediately, and Betty and I left.
Back in the van, Betty took the phone number and punched something into the keypad on her phone.
"What are you doing?" I asked as I pulled into a fast food place.
"Tell you in a minute," the girl said before ordering french fries and a shake.
I ordered a double cheeseburger and fries. The alcohol fog had lifted with the food and water, but we still had a thirty-minute drive ahead. I had to get this kid home. She had school tomorrow.
"No answer." The girl looked dejected. "No voice mail either."
As we munched in the parking lot, I thought about what I'd learned. Oleg was still alive. And he lived near Who's There. That was interesting, and it made him a prime suspect in the murder of Joel Janson.
Did Oleg know about me? Was he aware I'd moved into his house? And what if the idea that he has a Russian girlfriend is true? I'd be lying if I said Lana wasn't the first one to pop into my mind. Finding both of them together would be a coup.
It would also be dangerous. I'd need backup for that. I shot a glance at Betty. Suddenly, finding Oleg today didn't seem like a good idea. Lana knew who I was. Betty could be in danger. No, I'd take her home and then go see Riley. He could be my backup.
After we finished eating, we drove back home. Betty tried the number three more times but had the same result. She didn't look happy. I insisted that it could be an old number or the wrong number. That seemed to cheer her up. Personally, I figured that Grandpa had a few too many when he wrote it down, so he got it wrong. But I didn't want to tell her that.
We chatted on the way home about nothing really. It was late, and Rex called to say he'd be a while. So after homework, a shower, and bed, I promised Betty I'd find out anything I could and let her know.
Then I fell asleep and dreamed of large Russian squids distilling 3000-proof vodka in Des Moines.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The next morning, Betty was allowed back to school. The kid seemed glum as she trudged downstairs and sat at the kitchen table. I made her pancakes (the microwave kind) and tried to cheer her up, but she wasn't having it.
"I want to go investigating with you!" she pleaded. "We're on to something!"
I shook my head and handed her a lunch I'd packed. It had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange, a can of Mountain Dew, and five Ding Dongs. I didn't know what to pack. I'd never done it before.
"I promise I'll keep you updated. And don't forget that we have a special meeting today. I'll see you then."
It took twenty minutes to get her out the door. Since the school was just up the street, I stood on the stoop and waved until she was out of sight.
Rex came down a few minutes later, and I made him microwave pancakes too. I was feeling pretty domestic with all this. Once everything was ready, I joined him at the table.
"How's the investigation going?" I asked, not really expecting him to answer. I asked because he was expecting me to pry.
"We are bringing Dr. Wulf in for questioning," he said.
"I know you were thinking of doing that, but why?" I had to seize the opportunity before he realized what he was saying.
"There's some new information on her relationship with Joel Janson."
Huh? While I'd been off chasing Oleg and Lana, Rex was finding new info closer to home. And it stunned me. Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows…a significant other or family member.
Was I an idiot for overlooking the obvious? What if my CIA conspiracy theories were smoke and mirrors? I had no proof whatsoever that Lana was involved or even in the state. There was no evidence that Oleg had killed Janson. He didn't even try to come back and get the Operation Wet Dog plans.
Didn't that prove that the man didn't care about his past anymore? If the plans were so important to him, he would've taken them with him in the first place. And if, for some insane reason, he forgot, he'd had all the time in the world to come back for them.
Rex, who was, after all, a professional detective, was most likely right. I was just an amateur. It was extremely likely that I was wrong.
That sucked.
"What is her connection to Janson?" I asked, not really expecting him to answer.
"We think they are romantically involved," Rex answered.
When Robby Doyle was arrested, Dr. Wulf made a passionate plea on his behalf. If she killed Janson, that's because she knew that she'd murdered him. How had I missed that?
Because I was so obsessed with it being an act of international intrigue, I'd forgotten to think about the other angles.
I pressed, "Have you arrested her?"
"We are just questioning her at this point, but we've asked her to stay in town." Rex poured syrup onto his pancakes.
"When is she coming in?"
Rex thought about this for a moment. "This afternoon."
I knew what I was doing this morning. I was going to visit Dr. Wulf.
* * *
"Mrs. Wrath." Dr. Wulf stood behind her desk and motioned for me to take a seat. "Thank you again for helping with Robby. I really appreciate it."
"No problem." Was I imagining it, or were the stuffed zoo animals in different places than the last time I was here? For one thing, the King Vulture was now on the corner of her desk.
"Thanks for seeing me." I smiled. "I just wanted to check in on Mr. Fancy Pants."
She smiled. "I'm glad you have a connection with him."
"Well, I'm really smitten with him. And I appreciate you letting me adopt him last year." It was expensive but definitely worth it to see those googly eyes fixed on me…and something off to my left at the same time.
Dr. Wulf nodded. "I wish more people in the community were like you and would participate in this place."
"I do too," I agreed. "So, is he okay?"
Her face fell just a bit, making my stomach drop. "He's a little off his food. He seems to pace a lot and stares at the spot on the floor where…" Her voice faded. "Where Mr. Janson was found." Her voice cracked on the last word.
"Are you okay?" I asked. "Sure, Fancy Pants might be a little traumatized, but Janson worked for you. And then there's the suspicion on Robby…"
She nodded. "It's hard, finding an employee like that and seeing another one under suspicion. Robby's a good kid. He's had it rough. I guess his mother died when he was small and his father works a lot."
"That's too bad," I said. "I know what that's like, with Dad being in politics. He's gone a lot too." I lied about that. My father always came back to Iowa for the important things.
"To be honest, I just don't know what to do." Dr. Wulf leaned forward. "The police have me coming in today for questioning. Can you believe that?" Her face belied the stress she must've been feeling.
I shook my head. "No, I can't. I'm sure it's nothing."
Dr. Wulf cocked her head to one side and studied me. "Your husband hasn't told you why?"
"Absolutely not! He keeps his work at work," I lied again. "He'd never tell me the confidential workings of a case."
It was a risk, saying that. But the idea was to make her feel comfortable and want to confide in me.
"I had nothing to do with Joel's murder," she insisted. "Nothing."
I nodded. "I get it. You barely knew the man. I'm sure Rex will get that too."
She nervously fiddled with her necklace. "Well, I mean…I knew him better than that. I didn't barely know him. I know everyone on my staff. I knew Joel."
"Maybe I can help?" I soothed. "I can talk to my husband, stick up for you. You've
been nothing but amazing to my troop. I know you didn't kill anyone. And of course you knew him! I can't think of the director of a zoo not knowing her staff."
The woman slumped in her chair. She seemed to be thinking about what to say next. Was she about to confess that her relationship with the deceased was more than it appeared to be? I was starting to guess that it was.
"Thank you," she said at last. "The fact of the matter is, we did go out for dinner a few times. It gets lonely in a small town. It's hard to meet new…people."
There it was. I just hoped she wasn't trolling for love on Secrets.
"I couldn't agree more. I came home after being gone for many years. It was hard to break back into dating. I got lucky when Rex moved across the street."
Dr. Wulf nodded eagerly. "That's right! Dating at my age is a challenge."
"What was Joel like? As a person." I had to tread carefully. She could close up like the stuffed clam behind her on her bookshelf if I pried too much.
"Oh, well…" She looked around the room as if something would trigger the right response. "He was very nice. We got on well. I would've gotten more serious if…"
"If what?" I nudged.
She waved me off. "It was nothing. Just a little spat."
"Oh, well." I grinned. "We have those all the time."
Rex and I rarely fought. But when you're pumping someone for information, you have to make them think you can relate…that you're on their side.
"This one was a little more serious." Dr. Wulf's hands played with an eraser shaped like a ring-tailed lemur. "In fact, he broke up with me over it."
Hmmm…maybe Rex was on to something.
"I'm so sorry." I acted like I was shocked. "Men can be awful."
She nodded, believing my act. "We dated for a couple of months, and then he broke it off. I thought we were getting serious. Then one day, he acts like he doesn't even know me. Can you believe that?"
I could. "No! Why would he break up with you?"
And that's when I lost her. The woman completely shut down, staring at me for what seemed like hours.
"I'm sorry," she said hastily. "I forgot I have a meeting. We'll have to chat later." Dr. Wulf turned to her computer and began to type.
Meerkats and Murder Page 12
