Dead by Any Other Name (13 page)

thirty-two

When I got home
I called Chevrona.

“Has the stream been searched?” I asked.

“I put in the request and pushed pretty hard, but I don't think it's going to happen. Everyone is confident this was an accident or a suicide, and with our budget cuts …”

“Are
you
confident?”

There was a pause. “You're very persuasive, Janet. I'll push a little harder.”

I wasn't going to wait. I put on my hiking boots and me and Sputnik drove to the bottom of the Platte Clove. I parked on the side of the road, we walked into the woods until we reached the Plattekill and set off alongside its bank. I was determined to walk up the gorge just in case some piece of evidence had fallen into the stream and been washed down.

The Platte Clove gorge is some of the most rugged terrain in the East, an awesome and kind of terrifying place. In the late nineteenth century it was a tourist attraction, on postcards and in guidebooks, with a wooden staircase that snaked up from the valley floor to the mountaintop. When Catskill Park was established, the staircase was torn down and these days access to the bottom of the clove is tricky, there isn't much parking and you have to cross private land.

Sputs and I made our way along the stream. It was pretty dramatic as the land climbed and narrowed, soon the stream was a steep fifty feet down. I hugged the trail, which at one point narrowed to not much more than a foot across. Then it flattened out and we were next to the stream again. Sputnik leapt in and took a quick swim. We passed a group of teenagers drinking beer and smoking pot—it's nice to know some things never change.

Pretty soon we were passing one amazing waterfall after another, large pools, with ancient rocks worn down into swirly patterns by eons of water, the gorge rising on either side. The higher we got the more vertical the walls got, I could see the sunlight on the treetops above, but none reached down into the dark heart of the clove. This was a narrow ravine and it was scary, a flash flood would have swept us to a watery death, bouncing us off the boulders. If we ran into a mass murderer there would be nowhere to run. Or an escaped mental patient. Or just some perv. None of this seemed to bother Sputnik in the least, he was in his glory racing around, leaping into the water, grabbing sticks.

I walked slowly, scouring the pools and both banks for any hint of color, any unusual shape or object, anything of Natasha's or her killer's that might have been swept downstream. I'd heard that there was a virtually inaccessible stretch below the pool where Natasha died. After about thirty minutes of hiking, we reached it. The rock walls rose straight up, the trail ended.

I stopped on a flattop boulder that jutted out over a small deep pool and looked up at the imposing rock walls, the only sound was the rushing stream and the wind rustling the tops of the trees. This was a lonely place. I imagined Natasha's last moments, as she was pushed into the void and plunged through the air toward the rocks below. Did she have time to feel fear? Or was she so drugged up that little registered, that she just let go?

Sputnik had made his way down to the pool and was splashing around.

“I think this is the end of the line for us, Sputs.” I sat down on the rock, took off my hiking boots, rolled up my pants legs and dangled my feet in the water. It was
cold
—cascading right down from its mountaintop spring—but I liked the jolt, it was refreshing and real, sort of an instant psychic cleansing. Natasha's death was proving complicated and draining on so many levels, I felt like I was being pulled into a lot of other people's lives and losing sight of my own. I needed this: the cold, the waterfall, the rock face dotted with iridescent patches of moss, the swaying green far above, I'm not the type to get mushy about nature, but sometimes it's just what a body needs—I inhaled the air, which was like nectar, and felt my blood pressure drop.

Sputnik had other ideas. He galumphed around the edge of the pool and up onto the boulder, proudly holding a cellphone in his mouth.

thirty-three

I tried to turn
the phone on but it was dead. Could it be revived? I wanted to get it to Chevrona ASAP. Sputnik and I made our way back down the gorge. A little ways past the teenagers, two men appeared on the trail, heading toward us. One was big, beefy, hulking, the other lean, wiry, coiled; they looked very backcountry, unshaven funky in dirty jeans, t-shirts, and baseball caps. The closer they got, the less I liked the vibe—these two weren't out on a nature hike. My muscles went tense, Sputnik sensed it and tensed up, too.

The trail narrowed up ahead and they stopped there and waited, blocking the way. We reached them.

“Excuse us,” I said.

“Ah, maybe not,” the big guy said. They laughed.

“You boys have something you want to say to me?”

The little one turned to the big one, “I don't know, we got something we want to say to her?”

“Duh, let me think.”

Sputnik's hair was up and he let out a low growl.

“Very amusing, I'm sure, but we need to get past,” I said.

“What you
need
is to understand that you're fucking around where you don't belong,” the wiry one said.

“Who sent you?”

“Kelly sent us,” he said, “She said to tell you this is her second warning. Three strikes and you're out.”

“Yeah, back off or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else this,” the big one said, kicking Sputnik in the chest. The poor guy wailed, flew through the air, and collapsed on the ground.

I pivoted and kicked my foot up under the wiry one's chin,
hard
, sending him flying into a tree. His head smashed into the trunk and he crumpled to the ground. The big guy lunged at me, I ducked, spun around, and nailed him face-on with my right fist—it hurt me more than him but it bought me enough time to plant myself and kick him in the gut. Hard. Twice. He went down and curled on his side. Blood was pouring out of the wiry guy's mouth, he spit out a tooth and what looked like a piece of his tongue.

“Either of you assholes ever touch my dog again—or
any
dog, or any
animal
for that matter—and I'll rip your heads off and go bowling with them. You got that?”

When they hesitated I kicked the big one in the side of his head. “I asked you a question, dickwad.”

“I got it,” he mumbled.

I took a step toward the wiry one.

“I got it,” he blubbered.

Sputnik was back on his feet—tough little mutter—by my side, looking a little woozy but crouched and growling.

“Tell Kelly I have a message for her: I don't give a shit what goes down at her farm, but if one of her customers is a murderer I'm going to bring him in. I'd advise her to work
with
me on this. Come on, Sputs.”

As we walked away, Sputnik licked my hand.

It's nice to feel appreciated.

thirty-four

I drove home, with
a quick stop to pick up a nice filet mignon for Sputs, who seemed to have no memory of his trauma but certainly enjoyed the steak. After calling to make sure she was there, I headed down to the New York State Police barracks on Route 209 to give the phone to Chevrona. I found the detective in her office, surrounded by papers. She stood up as I walked in—what a gentlewoman.

“Is this a bad time?”

“I'm pretty swamped, but … no.” She smiled that knowing little smile of hers.

What was it about being in the same room with Chevrona that just made me feel better about being alive?

I handed her the phone, she immediately took out the batteries. “You did excellent work here.”

“Do you think you'll be able to retrieve anything?”

“Depends how long this was in the water. The shorter the better, obviously. It's damp but not dripping, which is a good sign. My guess is Sputnik found it on the bank.”

“How long will it take to find out?”

“I'll ask the lab to expedite, but since the death hasn't been classified a homicide, probably a week at least.”

I considered mentioning my little dustup with Mutt and Jeff but decided I should keep that side of the investigation to myself for now.

“Hey listen, Abba is having a party Saturday night to celebrate this amazing write-up she got in the
Times
. Any chance you could drop by?”

She looked at me and squinted—I went a little jello-y in the knees.

“I'll do my best.”

From there I headed straight down to Stone Ridge. I needed to talk to Pavel and the pictures I'd found at Natasha's place gave me some new leverage. I'd photographed them with my cell to protect the originals and to take denial off the table.

I turned down the drive at Bumpland—there was a horde of gardeners around—and headed straight for the garage. Pavel's motorcycle was outside. I parked and went inside to find the door up to his garret locked. He must be in the main house. I took a deep breath and headed over there.

One of the myriad maids answered the door. She had a feather duster in one hand and a cellphone in the crook of her neck, “…
segundo
,” she said before looking me up and down, “What you want?”

“I'm looking for Pavel. Is he around?”

She waved her feather duster in the general direction of the sunroom and then turned and walked away, resuming her chat.

I walked through the formal rooms with their priceless antiques
and walls covered with Octavia's splatter art. I reached the
sunroom
to find Octavia, Pavel, and a coifed-to-the-nines middle-
aged
woman sitting around the table with all sorts of booklets, swatches, and catal
ogues spread out in front of them.

“I can get you Kim Kardashian, but her price is $250,000,” the woman said.

“Oh my goodness, look who's here!” Octavia cried when she saw me. She leapt from her chair and raced over, taking my hands in hers. “Ciao-shalom! A pop visit! How marvelous! How American!”

“Hi, Pavel,” I said.

“Hello,” he said, his eyes flashing triumph.

The woman gave me a big blazing smile, “How do you do. I'm Lauren Parker-Lipschitz.”

“Oh dear, forgive me, I'm so giddy with all this wedding planning that I've quite forgotten my manners. Never mind.”

Pavel certainly hadn't been wasting time. Suddenly the pictures carried new power—and risk.

“Janet, what do
you
think of Patti LaBelle?” Octavia asked.

“I think she's a fantastic performer.”

“Oh, I
knew
you would, you're so simpatico. I can just hear her wailing ‘Here Comes the Bride' in four octaves
.
We're having a
Buddhist
ceremony. I forget why. Let's have some champagne! Delores, dear,” she called in the direction of the kitchen, “bring us a bottle of champagne! … Come, sit down.” I joined them at the table. “Pavel wants Lady Gaga, but I think she's awfully showy.”

“She's also ten times as expensive as LaBelle,” Lauren Parker-Lipschitz said.

Octavia waved her hand in dismissal, “Oh bish-bosh, don't bother me about money.”

Parker-Lipschitz eyes flashed dollar signs.

A maid brought in the champagne and four flutes on a tray. Pavel deftly opened the bottle and poured the bubbly. He handed a flute to Octavia, who gave a quivery shudder when their hands touched. “Oh,
thank you
, my darling.”

“To the blissful couple,” Parker-Lipschitz said, raising her glass.

We all clinked.

“When's the happy day?” I asked.

“October 23rd! Rasputin the Fabulous, my phone psychic, picked it! Oh, he went on for
hours
about omens and energy and vibrations! Vera Wang is doing my dress. At first she demurred but then I sent her a blank check. I've only made one stipulation:
no panties
! My vagina would never speak to me again.” She leaned across the table and kissed Pavel, he returned the kiss and before you know it there some serious tongue action happening.

I shot Parker-Lipschitz a glance, but she wasn't going to mock this meal ticket and ignored me, beaming in an
oh-you-lovebirds
way.

The betrothed couple showed no inclination to stop their necking. In fact, Octavia was practically up on the table, running her fingers through Pavel's hair, down his neck, moaning.

A maid walked by the doorway and muttered, “Puta.”

Octavia was sucking on Pavel's tongue and her body was starting to quiver.

“I love England,” Parker-Lipschitz said to fill the awkward void. Octavia took one of Pavel's hands and placed it on her ample bosom. “It has so much class and decorum.”

Octavia was now up on the table, on all fours, crawling across it toward Pavel, making weird growling noises.

“Have you been to England yourself, Janet?” Parker-Lipschitz asked, a growing edge in her voice.

“Once.”

“I can't get enough of the royal family.”

Octavia made it across the table and slithered onto Pavel's lap. She unbuttoned his shirt and started to lick his muscular chest.

Parker-Lipschitz's voice flew up to falsetto. “I collect Princess Anne memorabilia.”

Octavia had Pavel's shirt off and was sucking on one of his nipples.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?!” Lavinia boomed, walking into the room. She was wearing Wellingtons and men's tweed hunting attire, an identically dressed Jerome perched on her shoulder.

“Oh hello!” Parker-Lipschitz cried in relief, leaping to her feet. “I'm Lauren Parker-Lipschitz, Octavia's wedding planner. You must be her brother.” She took in Jerome and her mouth fell open.

Out the picture window a delirious maid ran by, followed by a gardener in hot pursuit.

“I am indeed, Vin Bump, what a pleasure. And this is Jerome. I'm afraid he's in a mood, his hypoglycemia is acting up.” She pulled out a flask and took a deep pull, then noticed her sister. “For God's sake, Octavia, rein in your id!”

Octavia looked up from her suckling, lipstick smeared all over her face. She blinked her eyes, like she was coming back to reality, and looked at us all as if for the first time. “Oh, goodness, did I get a touch carried away? No matter.”

“My dear girl, you look like a clown who lost her circus,” Vin said. “Women are so vexing.”

Parker-Lipschitz sat up straight and clapped her hands together, trying to get control of things, “We still haven't settled on a
theme
for the wedding.”

“Do I look a fright?” Octavia asked Pavel.

“You look like love,” he answered.

Octavia moaned.

“The
theme
pulls the wedding together—you know, unity, the circle of life,
hakuna matata
.”

“Carmelita, bring Jerome a steak and kidney pie!” Vin called in the direction of the kitchen.

“Joy, or as the French like to say
joie
, comes to mind,” Parker-Lipschitz suggested.

“Do let me go freshen up,” Octavia said, pulling herself off Pavel's lap and walking a bit unsteadily out of the room.

Time to move. Fast.

I stood up, “Pavel, could I talk to you for a second?” He smirked.
“It's about some photographs … of you and Natasha.” The smirk disappeared.

Pavel followed me out of the room.

“Joy is modern
and
eternal and …
joyous
!” Parker-Lipschitz cried to her dwindling audience.

“What in the bloody hell are you blathering on about!?” Vin demanded.

As soon as we were in the adjoining library I whipped out my camera and pulled up one of the more explicit pictures, “Who took this?” He hesitated. “Maybe I'll just ask the US immigration service. Octavia will be heartbroken when you're deported, but she'll get over it—there are a lot of Pavels in the sea.”

Pavel exhaled in surrender. “Collier.”

“Collier took the pictures, at his house?”

“Yes.”

“Nastasha was taking a lot of pills. Do you know where she was getting them?”

“From Collier.”

“Bullshit.”

“He gave them to me to give to her.”

“And you did it?”

“He threatened me like you just did, with deportation.”

“Why did he want her on pills?”

“He wanted her sick, so he could have me all for him.” He couldn't resist a smug little smile.

“So you fed her drugs. What an upstanding guy.”

“I did not kill her.”

“Did Collier?”

“I don't know.”

Octavia appeared, “What are you two tete-a-teteing about?” She threw her arms around Pavel's neck. “Keep your hands off my man, young lady, or I'll have to murder you, too!”

Parker-Lipschitz popped her head into the room, “Are we feeling the
joie
?”