Blackberry Winter: A Novel (30 page)
I sighed and stood up, walking out toward the street. I waved at a grocery truck passing by, and the driver slowed the vehicle to a stop. “Any chance you’re passing through the Windermere neighborhood tonight?”
The driver, an older, kindly man, smiled as if he took pity on me. “No,” he said. “But I can make a detour. I’m making a delivery up north. I can drop you off on the way.”
I looked at the front seat, crammed with boxes and crates. “You’ll have to ride in the back,” he said.
I nodded, walking around to the rear. I climbed up onto the truck bed, pushing a crate aside to make room. As the truck sped forward, I took comfort in thinking of Charles.
“Here you are,” the driver said, slamming the brakes in front of Windermere. He tipped his cap at me. “Hope you find what you’re looking for, miss.”
“Me too,” I said. “And thank you.”
The streetlights were sparse, and my eyes were weary. Finally, the Kensington home appeared in the distance. I picked up my pace, walking through the gate and past the fountain. I gazed up at the home, remembering the day Charles had first brought me. He’d been proud of me. He had loved me.
How would things have turned out had I stayed and ignored Josephine’s warnings? Daniel might be…
I startled at a rustling sound overhead. A bird flapped its wings, flying toward the lake. I dismissed my fears and continued walking toward the house, passing the urns at the entryway. They brimmed with recently planted violets. I knocked timidly and waited. I knocked again, louder. And then, I heard footsteps approach. The door creaked open, revealing Charles, just as I remembered him. That warm smile. Those kind eyes.
“Vera?” he exclaimed, with shock in his eyes. “I—I—Josephine said you’d…”
“Hello, Charles,” I said quietly. I reached my hand out to him, brushing his cheek. “I’ve missed you so.”
I wished I’d taken a moment to brush my hair. I might have borrowed Gwen’s lipstick, too. But how I looked was of no importance. All that mattered was Daniel.
“Charles,” I continued, “forgive me for coming here like this, for—”
“No,” he said, smiling warmly. “Please don’t apologize. Can I help you?” He looked at my left foot, shoeless, toes poking through the stockings. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Yes,” I said, hating the desperate tone in my voice, but I couldn’t hide it. “I know this is going to sound terrible. I should have told you long ago—”
Women’s voices echoed behind Charles, and moments later
Josephine and a blond woman I didn’t recognize appeared at the door next to him. The blond woman tucked her arm inside his. A diamond ring sparkled on her left hand. “Charlie, honey, who is this?”
I stepped back.
“So you’re back, are you?” Josephine said. “I knew it.” She turned to Charles. “Asking for a handout, is she?”
“Josephine, stop!” Charles shouted. “She’s here because she needs help.” He turned back to me, his eyes as big as saucers. “What is it, Vera?”
“She’ll tell you anything to get what she really wants,” Josephine continued. “Your money.”
I shook my head. “No, please. I’m here because something terrible has happened. My little boy has vanished.”
Charles’s mouth fell open.
Josephine held out her hand. “Don’t listen to another word,” she said. “She was never worthy of you. Mother saw her on the arm of Lon Edwards at the hotel the other night.”
Lon’s reputation wasn’t good, and I couldn’t deny my association with him. I looked down at my feet. “Yes,” I said, “but—”
“That will be all, Miss Ray,” Josephine said, attempting to close the door, but Charles interceded.
“Josephine,” he said, “that’s enough!” He turned to the other woman and smiled sympathetically. “Elaine, will you excuse me for a moment? I’d like to speak to Miss Ray alone.”
The woman shrank back, as if injured. “Well, if you must,” she said. “But don’t be long, dear. You’ll miss dinner.”
Charles walked outside and pointed to the stone bench to our left. “Won’t you sit down?”
I nodded, and he sat down beside me. His hands fidgeted
nervously in his lap as his eyes met mine. “My God, Vera,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
I looked away. I couldn’t bear to stare into the eyes I’d loved, still loved.
“You broke my heart, you know,” he said, glancing back at the house, then at me again. “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
My heart ached to hear his words. “Oh, Charles,” I said, turning to face him. “I was so wrong to leave the way I did. But would you believe me if I told you that I left because I loved you?”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“Josephine,” I continued. “She said your parents would disown you from the family fortune.”
Charles shook his head. “And so what if they did?” He sighed, burying his face in his hand. “Could you actually think so little of me to believe that I would choose money over love?”
“No—no,” I stammered. “I didn’t want to be the reason for you losing…” I paused to look around the expansive property, and my eyes stopped at the elaborate fountain ahead. “All of this.”
He stared straight ahead. “I only wish you would have left that decision to me.”
I reached out and placed my hand on his forearm, but he stiffened and pulled it back. “I’m married now, Vera,” he said. “Her name is Elaine. She’s a good woman. We’re expecting our first child. We only just found out.”
The words echoed in the night air, taunting me. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, of course.” I stood up. “I was foolish for coming here.”
Charles stood up. “Vera, wait. Are you in some sort of danger? If you need a place to stay, Greta can make you up a room.”
I shook my head. “No.”
What would Elaine think? He’s about to
start a family, a real family, with a proper wife. How can I tell him about Daniel now?
“My being here will only cause trouble for you,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
Charles took a step closer to me. “You’re sure?”
I could see the emotion, the longing, in his eyes. His presence felt magnetic. I wanted nothing more than to feel the comfort of his arms, to tell him about our son and to have him help me find him.
I opened my mouth to speak just as the door cracked open. Elaine walked out to the porch with crossed arms and an impatient expression. “Charles, darling, dinner has been plated. Your soup is getting cold.”
“Good-bye Charles,” I said, walking down the steps to the gravel drive.
“Vera, wait, I—”
“Good-bye,” I said again, disappearing into the darkness. I turned back once more, with an aching heart, and watched as Elaine territorially threaded her arm through his. He kissed her cheek like a gentleman and escorted her back to the house.
I blotted a stray tear with the edge of my sleeve. The moon hovered overhead, a silent witness, shining brighter now.
Where will I go next? What will I do?
I stumbled along the side walkway, looking down toward the lake. Crickets chirped as soft waves pushed up onto the marshy shore. I remembered what Charles had said about the lilies, how they were special, not of this world. I longed to look at them again, to watch them bob in the moonlight. Daniel would have liked to see them. He would have been gentle, just like Charles as a boy, dipping his hand in the water and touching their petals ever so lightly. He would appreciate their beauty, like his father did.
With a heavy heart, I walked toward the lake.
C
LAIRE
I
lifted the papers from the case. They carried the scent of the space behind Lillian’s wall: cigar smoke, must, a tinge of old leather. The first page confirmed that Lillian’s father, Edward Sharpe, had indeed represented Sven W. Ivanoff in the murder trial of Vera Ray. The next few pages were filled with legal jargon and various motions I did not understand. But deeper in the stack lay the material I’d been waiting for, the transcribed sworn testimony of Mr. Ivanoff. I shivered, thinking of what might lie in those yellowed typewritten pages. An admission of guilt? The horrific details of Vera’s death? I began reading:
E. R. Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, please state for the record your name and address.
S. W. Ivanoff: Sven W. Ivanoff of 4395 Fifth Avenue.
Sharpe: You have pled not guilty to the murder of Miss Vera Ray. Is this correct?
Ivanoff: Yes, sir.
Sharpe: Please state how you were acquainted with Miss Ray.
Ivanoff: I knew her for about four years.
Sharpe: When did you first meet?
Ivanoff: We lived in the same building. She lived on the floor below. But that wasn’t how we first met. I was over in Windermere doing some work on a house. Saw her walking the roadside. She had the look of a lady who needed help.
Sharpe: So what did you do?
Ivanoff: I stopped the truck. Pulled over. I asked her if she needed a lift. She asked me if I could take her back to her apartment in Seattle. That’s when I realized we lived in the same building.
Sharpe: Now, Mr. Ivanoff, the prosecution seems to paint a picture of Miss Ray as a woman of questionable morals—a prostitute, even. Did you have any reason to believe that this was true of Miss Ray?
Ivanoff: No, sir. She was a decent woman. A good woman. Just trying to make ends meet like the rest of us.
Sharpe: And when you drove her back to her apartment building in the city, was there anything inappropriate, or shall I say, intimate, about the encounter?
Ivanoff: No, sir. I’m a married man, sir.
Sharpe: What did you talk about on the drive back to Seattle?
Ivanoff: She said she had to make a very hard decision. Sounded like relationship
trouble, if you ask me. I didn’t ask her many questions. She didn’t seem to want to talk much. But she did say something about one of the ladies at the house she had been at, that she hadn’t been kind to her. We both agreed that rich folks can sometimes be as mean as the devil himself.
Sharpe: So you got the impression that someone had been unkind to Miss Ray in the Windermere neighborhood where she had been visiting?
Ivanoff: Yes, sir. She was shaken up. You could tell she’d been crying. I felt sorry for her.
Sharpe: All right. So you dropped her off at the apartment building, and that was it?
Ivanoff: Yes, sir. I only saw her off and on after that. I’d tip my cap at her. Once I fixed a loose brick in her fireplace.
Sharpe: Why did you help her with it?
Ivanoff: The landlord was a real tyrant. Made the tenants pay for repairs themselves. I helped as many people as I could. After the storm, a branch from the cherry tree outside hit one of the old lady’s windows. She couldn’t pay for the repair bill, so she had to live without a window. I had some scrap wood in the truck, so I boarded it shut for her. Cold as an icebox, that apartment.
Sharpe: It sounds as if you were the unofficial handyman of the building.
Ivanoff: You could say so. Somebody had to help those poor folks. I tried to lend a hand whenever I could.
Sharpe: And when you fixed Miss Ray’s fireplace, did you get any indication that she was trying to proposition you?
Ivanoff: Heavens, no. Like I said, she was a decent woman. Besides, by the time I visited her apartment to fix the fireplace, she had a newborn baby. I was surprised at first. I didn’t even know she was expecting. She was such a little thing. Seemed hard to believe she could have carried a child. Besides, I’d never seen a man around her place. Not once. But it was her business. I didn’t ask questions. She loved that little baby. Cooed at him the whole time I was workin’.
Sharpe: Did she tell you the child’s name?
Ivanoff: Why, yes, sir. She called him Daniel.
Sharpe: And was there any monetary exchange for your services?
Ivanoff: No, sir. She tried to give me the last few coins from her pocketbook, but I wouldn’t accept them. She offered me a slice of bread instead. That was nice. The missus had been sick, and hadn’t baked bread in weeks.
Sharpe: Can we clear something up about your record now? You were arrested previously for allegedly striking your wife
during a bout of drunkenness. Can you explain what happened?
Ivanoff: It’s true that I drink more than I should. But I would never lay a hand on my wife, or any woman, for that matter.
Sharpe: Then what happened the night your wife was harmed?
Ivanoff: I was at the saloon down below the apartment. It had been a long day. I had drunk more than my share of ale. My wife came down to find me, to bring me home. One of the men at the bar didn’t like seeing a woman in the place. He called her a terrible name, he did.
Sharpe: What did he call her?
Ivanoff: An ugly Russian. Pointed to her fingers, and called them fat, fat as pierogies, he said. Made her cry. I couldn’t let him speak to my wife that way. So I stood up to tell him what I thought of him, and he popped his fist at me, straight at my jaw. Lost a tooth that night.
Sharpe: Can you please stand and show the court which tooth?
Ivanoff: Sure thing. It’s this one right here. Fell right out. I never did find it.
Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, can you tell me what happened to your wife that night? Why was she taken to the hospital?
Ivanoff: She tried to break up the fight, and that bastard hit her. She got hurt real bad.
Sharpe: So, you did not strike your wife?
Ivanoff: No, sir. The police came by the saloon, and somebody told them it was me. Guess they thought it was better to arrest an immigrant. They took me into the station. It was a terrible mistake.
Sharpe: And I understand your wife came to plead with the police the following day for your release. Why didn’t they listen to her?
Ivanoff: Corrupt, I tell you. They jailed an innocent man and wouldn’t listen to reason, even with the facts. They ruined my reputation. I don’t understand this country. In Russia, men are honest.
Sharpe: Let the record show that I have, here, a signed statement from Mrs. Arianna Ivanoff stating that her husband, Sven Ivanoff, did not harm her on the night of May 7, 1933. Now, Mr. Ivanoff, let’s talk about what happened the night of Miss Ray’s death.
Ivanoff: Well, I knew she was in a rough spot, having trouble paying her rent and all. I’d heard that her son was missing. Broke my heart. He was a good little boy. Reminded me of my own son.
Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, did you have anything to do with the disappearance of Daniel Ray?
Ivanoff: No, sir.
Sharpe: Please describe for me your encounters with Miss Ray in the week leading up to her death.
Ivanoff: Well, sir, I remember being in the saloon, the day of the snowstorm. I saw her come home from work, like usual, and shortly after she came running down the stairs, screaming for her little boy. I knew something terrible had happened.
Sharpe: Did you try to help her?
Ivanoff: Yes sir. I walked out to the street, but she’d already run off.
Sharpe: When did you next see her?
Ivanoff: About a week later. The snow had melted, I remember that. I was working on a job at the Olympic Hotel. Saw her there all gussied up, on the arm of a rich man. I didn’t recognize her at first. She saw me. Looked away. I think she was ashamed.
Sharpe: Why do you think she was ashamed? What did you think she was doing there?
Ivanoff: We all do things for the ones we love. I didn’t fault her for trying to get help from an influential person if it helped to find her son.
Sharpe: The prosecution has characterized Miss Ray as a common prostitute, a woman of questionable morals who neglected her son so she could make extra cash as a call girl. They have also suggested that you paid Miss Ray for such services and that you are responsible for her death. How do you respond to these allegations?
Ivanoff: They’re made up. Completely false. Miss Ray was neither a bad mother nor a prostitute. She loved her boy just as my
Arianna loved our son. Miss Ray’s dedication to that child was unquestionable. And I can tell you this, sir, she was no call girl.
Sharpe: How do you know?
Ivanoff: Just by the look in her eye when she was with that man at the hotel. She didn’t want to be there with him. Anyone could see that. She looked so sad, so lost. I only wish I could have helped her.
Sharpe: So let’s go through the time line of the night she was murdered.
Ivanoff: I was getting off work at the hotel, piling my tools in my truck, when I saw her run out of the hotel. She didn’t look well. Her dress was torn. Her hair wasn’t up like it usually was. She was crying. It looked as if she was running from someone. I tried to get her attention, but she was running so fast. I secured the last load onto my truck, and started out on Fourth Avenue. That’s when I noticed her get on the back of a grocery truck. She sat right there between the crates of produce and bread. I followed the truck. I wanted to be sure she was OK. Truck dropped her off right in front of a fancy street in Windermere, near where I’d first seen her years ago. I pulled the truck to the side of the road, not wanting to intrude. I waited there for a while.
Sharpe: How long would you say?
Ivanoff: Oh, at least twenty minutes. I thought she might be coming back, and if she did, I wanted to offer her a ride home. See if I could help her. The missus could make her a warm meal, make her a place to sleep on the sofa.
Sharpe: So you were worried about her safety?
Ivanoff: Yes, sir. And, as I say, when she didn’t come back up that driveway twenty minutes later, I decided to go after her. It was an instinct, I guess. I felt that she was in danger.
Sharpe: You left your truck on the street and walked down the road that led to the Kensington residence?
