Murder in Moscow (2 page)

She laughed. “Now you’re getting to the important stuff.” She went to a shelf in the cozy shop, pulled two books down, and handed them to me. They were written to help Americans navigate the Russian language.

“Just what I’m looking for,” I said. “Better pick up a good guidebook, too.”

“I have just the thing,” she replied, fetching two fat, lavishly illustrated guides.

I paid, left the shop, and stopped in at Charlene Sassi’s bakery where I bought a blueberry scone.

“What’s new?” Charlene asked.

I told her.

“Wow! I’ve always wanted to meet a president.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“Better get used to fattening food, Jess.”

“I haven’t even thought about food.”

“Russians have the most fattening diet in the world,” she said. “Seventy percent more calories taken in every day than we do.”

“Better lose a few pounds before going.”

“I hear the food isn’t very tasty,” she said, making a face to reinforce the comment.

“People still say that about British food,” I countered. “I’ll find out for myself and report.”

Back home again, my scone accompanied by a steaming mug of tea, I browsed my book purchases. The more I read, the higher my excitement level. I would never have chosen to travel to Russia for a vacation. But many of my trips have come about this way, unexpected opportunities generated because of what I do for a living.

I dozed off later that afternoon, only to be awakened ten minutes into my nap by the ringing phone. It was Seth Hazlitt.

“Hello, Seth,” I said, trying to force sleep from my voice.

“Woke you, Jessica?”

I had to laugh. “Yes, you did.”

“Sorry about that. I was callin’ to make sure you’d be at the Chamber dinner this evenin’.”

“The Chamber dinner. Good thing you called. I forgot.”

I’d joined the Cabot Cove Chamber of Commerce a few years ago, urged by my friend Richard Koser, a top professional photographer who’d taken the photograph of me that appears on each of my books. There isn’t much big business in the town, but lots of small ones, shops and services, people like me and Richard working out of our homes. The monthly meetings rotate among a dozen restaurants, and we usually have a speaker.

“Got the mayor as speaker tonight,” he said.

“Jim Shevlin will be there?”

“Ayuh.
Promises to fill us in on how things are progressing with that landfill proposal. Damn fool idea if you ask me.”

I’d heard Seth’s opposition to the landfill project enough times to not want to hear it again. “Where’s dinner tonight?” I asked.

“Lobster Dory. Cocktails at seven.”

“I’ll see you there.”

 

The Chamber of Commerce dinners represent a highlight of Cabot Cove’s winter social calendar. Like bears, we tend to hibernate during the long, cold winter months, venturing out only when necessary. But the hundred-plus members of the Chamber show up on the first Thursday of each month in a festive mood, anxious to see each other, share what’s been going on in their lives, and enjoy the food and drink offered by the restaurants. This night was no exception.

“What’s this I hear about you going to meet the president, and the president of Russia?” Tim Purdy asked the moment I walked through the door. Tim managed real estate around the country from his Cabot Cove offices.

“How did you hear that?” I asked.

“Russia?” Barbara DePaoli said. She was the Chamber’s secretary.

“Charlene told me,” Purdy said.

“I heard it from Roberta,” said DePaoli. “I was in looking for a book and—”

“Jessica,” said the Chamber’s president and Cabot Cove’s leading dentist, Anthony Colarusso. “Say something in Russian.”

Amazing, I thought as I handed my coat to the hat-check woman, how efficient and swift is the Cabot Cove grapevine. Tell one person, especially during the winter doldrums, and within hours half the town knows.

“You’ll have to be our speaker when you get back,” Colarusso said. “Tell us all about it. Get you a drink?”

Seth Hazlitt arrived after the cocktail party was in full swing. With him was Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger. Mort wasn’t a member of the Chamber, but he often attended our dinners, explaining that it was important to keep up to date on what the town’s business leaders were doing. In actuality, Mort attended the dinners because he enjoyed everyone’s company, and he always paid for his own dinner, as we all did.

“A word with you, Jessica?” Seth said.

I excused myself from Beth and Peter Mullin, who own a lovely flower and gift shop, Olde Tyme Floral, and followed Seth and Mort to a quiet corner of the room.

“What’s this I hear about you goin’ to Russia?” Seth asked.

“What you heard is probably true,” I said pleasantly.

“Russia?” Mort said.

“Yes, Russia. First to Washington, then to Moscow.”

They both measured me with stern expressions.

“Is there a problem?” I asked. “I’m thrilled to have been invited. Aren’t you ... thrilled ... for me?”

“Worried is more accurate, Mrs. F.,” said Mort.

“Worried about what?” I asked.

“Crime, Mrs. F.”

“Crime?”

“Evidently you haven’t been keepin’ up with the news out of Russia,” Seth said, his tone that of a scolding parent.

“Oh, I think I have,” I said. “I’ve been reading about the crime problem there. I understand it’s pretty bad.”

“Worse than that,” Seth said. “Show her, Mort.”

Sheriff Metzger pulled a folded piece of paper from his uniform jacket pocket, snapped it open with considerable authority, and began reading:

“Eight thousand criminal gangs ... fifty million dollars a year extorted from businesses ... forty percent of the economy controlled by the Russian Mafia ... five hundred contract killings last year, Mrs. F.... mob hits ... bankers, politicians, tourists gunned down ... slaughter in the streets!”

“Oh, Mort, I know there’s a problem there with crime, but—”

“Don’t dismiss what he’s tellin’ you, Jessica,” said Seth. “You’re puttin’ yourself in danger by going to Moscow.”

“Everyone in the next room for dinner,” Colarusso announced.

“I’ll be traveling with representatives from our government,” I said, starting to walk away. “Absolutely no danger to anyone in our group.”

Seth and Mort flanked me as we headed for the dining room. “I just think—”

Seth was interrupted by my investment advisor of many years, Sam Davis. “Sure you don’t want me to go along to help you convert dollars to rubles?” he asked, laughing.

“I wish I could take all of you with me,” I said. Fortunately, talk at dinner eventually drifted from me and my upcoming trip to other topics. Steamed mussels, a crisp Caesar salad, and crab cakes sated everyone’s appetite. Over coffee, some Chamber business was conducted, and then our mayor, Jim Shevlin, briefed us on the status of the proposed landfill project that had divided the community in recent months. Seth Hazlitt asked most of the questions following Shevlin’s brief talk, none of them intended to put the mayor at ease.

I’d walked to the restaurant. Jack Decker, publisher of Cabot Cove’s monthly magazine, gave me a lift home.

“Seth’s really worried about your trip,” he said.

“I know. He’s such a dear, but he does worry too much at times. Mort has him all riled up with his statistics about crime in Russia. I’m sure his facts and figures are accurate, but it’s not as though I’m going there alone. I’ll be with dozens of people.”

“You know Seth, Jess. The older he gets, the more convinced he is that bad things lurk around every corner. Sounds like a great trip, and honor, for you. Keep in touch. Maybe you’ll do a piece for the magazine about the trip.”

“Happy to. Thanks for the ride.”

My phone was ringing as I walked through my front door. It was Seth Hazlitt.

“Seth, I—”

“No more lectures from me, Jessica. You’re all grown up, capable of makin’ your own decisions.”

“Thank you.”

“Heard you mention you’d like to learn a little Russian before going there. Know Professor Donskoy over at the extension?”

“I know of him.”

“Been a patient ‘a mine for a long time. Speaks three or four languages, teaches ’em, too, including Russian. Thought you might want to take a lesson or two from him.”

“What a wonderful idea, Seth. I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

Seth gave me the professor’s number, told me again why the landfill project had to be stopped—“Jimmy Shevlin’s a real nice fella, smart and all, but he can be so damn
jo-jeezly
about this landfill thing.”

“He’s not that ornery, Seth. We’ll talk more about it at the town meeting this weekend. In the meantime, this lady in about to get to bed. Good meeting, wasn’t it?”

“Perfectly fine, Jessica. Call Professor Donskoy.”

“I will. Thanks for the suggestion.”

After changing for bed, I turned on the late news. The lead item was about an American businessman from Texas who’d been gunned down outside his Moscow hotel.

With any luck, Seth and Mort hadn’t seen the TV report. If they had, I knew I’d be in for another round of warnings the next time we were together.

I turned off the TV and climbed into bed. I could see through my window that snow had begun to fall. It hadn’t been forecast, but this was, after all, Maine. I hoped it would amount to only a dusting. As much as I love snow, enough is enough.

One of the guidebooks said that springtime weather in Russia could be delightful.

A lovely thought.

An American businessman shot to death in Moscow.

Not so lovely a thought.

I fell asleep saying aloud some of the Russian phrases I’d learned from the phrase books I’d bought from Roberta.

I didn’t know the Russian word for
murder
and didn’t want to.

Flying into Washington, D.C., in clear weather lifts my spirits. The approach often takes you down the Potomac River,. affording a good look at the magnificent monuments that testify to the democracy we all cherish: the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials, the Mall, the buildings of the Smithsonian Institution, the soaring Washington Monument (will I ever get around to climbing to the top?), the Capitol Building, the new FDR Memorial, and the White House. That our capital has fallen onto such hard financial times is cause for sadness. It truly is a special city, the symbol of our nation, and should be supported as such.

I flew there from Boston. Most of the others in our publishing contingent had traveled from New York. The landing at National Airport was smooth. The sun had begun to set over Washington, putting into motion a dazzling display of lights across the city.

As I exited the jetway, two men in dark suits held up a sign with my name on it. “Mrs. Fletcher?” one said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Ed Rodier, Sam Roberts’s assistant at the Commerce Department.” He extended his hand. “This is Mike Moga. He works for Sam, too.”

“Pleased to meet both of you,” I said.

“We have a car waiting,” Rodier said.

“Wonderful. I was told I’d be met.” .

“Pleasant flight?” Moga asked as we headed for the baggage area.

“Smooth as silk. Will I be meeting Mr. Roberts this evening?”

“Afraid not. You’ll meet him at a breakfast in the morning at the Capitol Building, hosted by members of the House Subcommittee on International Economic Policy, Export and, Trade Promotion.”

“Must be an important committee judging from the length of its name. Anything on the agenda for this evening?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. ”You’ll be a guest of honor at a cocktail party at the Russian Embassy. After that, a dinner at the National Gallery of Art. By coincidence they’re featuring an exhibition of Russian art. And then—”

“And then—to bed, I hope,” I said.

Rodier laughed. “Not on the agenda, Mrs. Fletcher, but we’ll see if we can work some sleep into the schedule.”

The long black limousine was driven by a tall, elderly uniformed gentleman. We left the airport, moved smoothly down the George Washington Memorial Highway, and crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge into the area of Washington known as Foggy Bottom, home of the State Department and George Washington University.

“It’s such a lovely city,” I said, more to myself than to the two gentlemen with me in the back of the luxurious vehicle.

“Yes, it is,” Rodier said, sighing. “But with lots of problems.”

We said little more to each other until the driver pulled up in front of the Madison Hotel, on Fifteenth Street NW, directly across from the Washington Post.

“I’ve never stayed at the Madison,” I said, “but always wanted to.”

“I think you’ll find it a pleasant experience,” Moga said. “Very classy. A big favorite with foreign dignitaries, especially the Russians. They like it because it has a top-security floor.”

“I thought the cold war was over,” I said.

“It is,” said Rodier, adding, “in some areas.”

I didn’t press him for further explanation.

The driver opened the door, and I stepped out, followed by my hosts. We entered the lobby, where I stopped to admire an impressive collection of antique furniture. Everything about the space said “rich.”

Rodier went to the desk and told the young woman behind it who I was, and that I was part of the Commerce Department’s publishing trade group. “She goes on the master bill,” he said.

“Welcome, Mrs. Fletcher,” the desk clerk said. “First time with us?”