A Saucy Murder: A Sonoma Wine Country Cozy Mystery (20 page)

Emma woke up the next morning to the sound of pounding. At first, she thought maybe it was Julie, trying to get in. Then she realized it was rain. Hallelujah!  It was September. Blissburg hadn’t seen rain since May. The river was so dry you couldn’t even swim in it during the recent autumn heat wave. The city was threatening water rationing if rain didn’t come soon.

The hammering got louder. Emma thought, too bad the storm hit on Opening Night. There’d be rain all the way to San Francisco. Everyone’s fancy shoes and pretend-to-be-fake furs would get wet. When it rained in Blissburg, the sky dumped buckets of water. Like some god had turned on a giant fire hose. If the storm continued, the front yard would be a swamp by late afternoon.

Emma got out of bed and checked her cell phone. It was already 8:30. She’d overslept. She barely had time for coffee before her appointment with Vera to drop off the stuff. Which reminded her. Where was the stuff Julie was supposed to drop off?  She’d promised to deliver the press release, a copy of Barry’s remarks and the program on her way to Harry’s preschool.

Emma ran downstairs and checked the front porch. Sure enough, Julie had deposited a brown manila envelope at her front door. It was wrapped in two plastic bags against the rain. Inside the bags, on top of the envelope, she’d even attached detailed directions to Vera’s townhouse, signed with a big heart and a lot of Xs and Os. Emma shook her head. Julie really was a dear under all those quills.

But Emma couldn’t ponder that for long. She needed coffee. Strong coffee. Fast. There was no way she was facing the mercurial Russian twin without bracing herself with that!

While the coffee was brewing, Emma quickly dressed. For Julie’s sake she decided to try to look professional. She found her black slacks in her bedroom closet. Then she noticed the beige silk sweater from Julie draped on the back of a chair. She hadn’t washed it since she wore it the night of the fundraiser. What if Vera noticed, she thought. And it reminded the poor girl of Natasha’s death? 

Emma put on the sweater anyway. Natasha had died one week before. To the day.
Everything
must still remind Vera of her twin sister’s death. Emma stepped into her old Tods and looked in the mirror. What on earth, she wondered, was that huge spot of pasta sauce doing smack on the front of her sweater?  Emma ripped it off and threw on the vintage Missoni top lying on the old painted trunk at the foot of her bed.

Then she raced back downstairs to grab some coffee, gulping it down without even stopping to eat a biscotti. She’d have to get breakfast
after
the Vera visit. By 8:50 she was in the car congratulating herself on her fast getaway.

Vera’s townhouse was located deep inside one of Blissburg’s new developments. This one was named Aria!  Fitting, Emma thought as she drove a few blocks up Blissburg Avenue past the post office. By then, the rain poured down in such thick gray sheets she almost missed the complex’s discreet sign. She turned into a narrow drive lined with drought resistant shrubs.

Once inside the drive, Julie’s instructions told her to turn right, continue on a curving lane for three blocks, turn left and then make a quick right onto Morningside Drive. By now it was raining so hard Emma couldn’t even make out the numbers on the townhouse doors. In desperation she parked the car and got out to study the house fronts on foot.

By the time she located number 300 on a gate down a path that had turned into a river of mud, she was sopping wet. She dashed back to the car, drove a hundred yards and re-parked the car by the curb. The rain had not let up. In her haste to leave her house, she forgot to bring an umbrella. Her ultra thin fuchsia parka was soaked through.

Undaunted, however, Emma grabbed her purse, stuffed the plastic wrapped papers inside and stepped out of the car. Then she made a dash for a covered porch from which she could reconnoiter, jumping puddles as she went and hoping not to become one more senior statistic.

“She never got back on her feet after she broke her hip,” a voice in her head mocked her. “Then the bed sores got infected and the pneumonia set in.”

“Oh, shut up,” she spoke the words out loud. And surprised herself by thinking next,
maybe I will sleep with that arrogant cafone!  Maybe it would be something to look forward
to
.

But she quickly reminded herself that Jack, the arrogant
cafone
, had never even actually made a pass at her. Still mourning his wife. The thought only made her madder. Pathetic old goat!  For a split second, she remembered the agony of watching Mary, her best friend, die. What was it like for Jack watching his wife of forty years die, she wondered? She chased the thought away. Too painful. TMI.

When Emma finally reached the covered porch, to her relief she saw that the number on a nearby door read 362. She wiped some of the rain off her face, removed her soaking wet jacket, slicked back her sopping wet hair with her hands, and reached for the bell.

Vera answered. She was dressed in what looked like a Japanese kimono transformed into an elegant tunic. Vera wore it over tailored green pants the color of her eyes. Emma couldn’t help wondering if the outfit had once belonged to Natasha. It fit Vera perfectly, its v-neckline exposing her impressive cleavage. Unfortunately, Emma noted, the outfit did nothing to hide the poor girl’s thick neck, or to soften her horse like features.

“Thank you for coming, Emma,” Vera said leaning forward to give Emma a hug. Then, apparently noting how wet Emma was, she backed up a few paces.

Emma lifted her shoulders apologetically and pointed to her jacket. “Where should I put this?  It’s sopping wet.”

“No problem,” Vera replied, taking the parka and disappearing, for a moment, down a hall and into another room.

Seconds later, she reappeared and motioned Emma into the living room.

“What a beautiful home you have,” Emma exclaimed walking from the elegant marble foyer of the townhouse into a cathedral living room. From its two story high windows, Emma observed a breathtaking view of the adjacent wild life preserve set against a backdrop of miles of rolling vineyards. Even in the pouring rain, the effect was spectacular. She added, “I had no idea these townhouses had such amazing views.”

Vera smiled. “Only a few of them do.”

Then Emma watched the young woman’s eyes tear up.

“Barry bought this. For Natasha,” Vera explained before covering her face with her hands and quietly beginning to sob.

Emma started to reach for the girl’s shoulder.

But Vera quickly pulled herself together. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, Emma. He loved her so much. They were made for each other. It was obvious,” she shook her head sadly. “Everyone knew.”

Emma nodded uncertainly.

“Of course,” Vera continued, “I was a sort of beneficiary of,” she hesitated, “of Barry’s generosity, if you will. I lived here. And Natasha visited me often. I was her sister, it was natural. I had a beautiful home. She had a…a fitting place where they could meet. And now,” she broke down again. “Look who has it all.”  She gestured around the lavish home. “What do I want with it?  Natasha’s gone.”  She sobbed silently again.

After taking a few seconds to collect herself, Vera changed the subject. “Look. You didn’t come to listen to me cry. Here,” she motioned to a plush purple decorator sofa arranged in front of a marble coffee table to take advantage of the view. “Sit down. You were kind enough to bring the papers. I’ll look at them quickly. I’m sure they’re fine. Then I’ll give them back to you and you can go. That way I don’t have to bother Julie with another call.”  She grinned her goofy, toothy grin. “I know this is a busy morning for everyone, what with Opening Night. I have a hair appointment at 10:00, and the nails, and makeup.”

Emma had removed the papers from her purse and just sat down on the couch when Vera’s cell phone rang. She had set the phone on the coffee table, as though she were expecting a call.

Vera glanced down at it. Emma, who was already seated in front of the coffee table, was close enough to see the name that appeared on the cell phone’s face.

“Sacha,” it read.

Vera quickly bent down and grabbed the phone off the table. “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take this call.”

“Hello,” she answered, quickly walking away into an adjoining room. Before Vera closed the door, Emma heard one side of a rapid exchange in Russian.

The call lasted quite a while. So long, in fact, that Emma wondered if Vera might miss her hair appointment. At first, all Emma heard through the closed door was the soft murmur of Vera’s voice.

Emma waited, her eyes first absorbing the extraordinary view. Slowly, however, her gaze shifted to the contents of the large room. It was beautifully, if somewhat sparsely, furnished. Not to Emma’s taste which ran more to the personal, informal, handmade.

The furnishings of the townhouse were the opposite. Expensive, mass produced time share. The parquet floors were covered in thick grey wool carpets. And the contemporary Louis XIV style side chairs, tables, and buffet had all obviously been selected by a decorator from the same line out of a high end catalogue. There was nothing personal about the place at all. Except, Emma noted, for the Steinway grand piano and some photographs.

Emma stood and walked over to the piano on whose closed lid the photos were displayed. There were four of them, lovingly framed in ornate silver. The first was of a radiant Natasha and Vera standing with their arms around each other in front of Carnegie Hall in New York. Natasha’s name was clearly visible on the theater’s marquee. The photo was obviously taken recently. No doubt during Natasha’s critically acclaimed, sold out debut the previous spring.

The second photo was of Natasha and Vera as teenagers. It was worn and faded. In it the twins, dressed in bathing suits, stood arm in arm on a beach. The photo looked like it was taken somewhere in Russia.

The third was some sort of family photo. Two little girls in pigtails stood with six adults of various ages behind a dining room table. The photograph was so faded and creased, it was hard to recognize anybody in it. Emma guessed, however, that the girls were the twins and that two of the adults were their parents, along with some other relatives.

The final picture was of a serious young man and a beautiful smiling woman. The black and white photo was obviously taken in a studio somewhere long ago. Emma guessed the two young people were Vera and Natasha’s parents. The photograph, which had been blown up well beyond its original size, sat on top of the piano behind a small vase of fresh roses. The effect was something like a shrine.

Emma had picked up the photograph to study it more closely, and was replacing it on the piano, when she heard Vera’s voice rise in the adjoining room. She quickly returned to the couch and sat down. Soon Vera’s voice got so loud, she was shouting. Of course, she spoke in Russian, so Emma had no idea what the shouting was about. Whatever it was, the argument lasted a long, long time, until finally Emma heard a crash. As though Vera had thrown the phone against a wall. After that came the heart wrenching sounds of sobbing.

Emma checked her phone. It was already 9:40.

About five minutes later, Vera emerged from the adjoining room. She had dried her eyes and looked composed, but she was still sniffling.

“I’m so sorry about that,” she apologized. “Sometimes, people say things. They mean well,” she hastened to add, “but they say things that, well,” she paused. “That make me so, so sad. I mean, that remind me of my sister. And then I start crying all over again.”

Emma nodded. But she couldn’t help thinking that Vera and Sacha had not been talking about Natasha on the phone.  Whatever the handsome Russian tenor said, it had not made Vera sad. It had thrown her into a rage.

Vera had brought a plate of cookies into the room with her. She set them on the table and offered Emma one. “In case you didn’t have time for breakfast before you came,” she said with a timid smile.

Emma took one of the cookies. It looked delicious. But when Vera opened the manila envelope that Emma had placed on the table, and began to examine its contents, an uneasy feeling made Emma slip the cookie into her purse. Then she laughed at herself.

Vera glanced quickly at the press release and the program. She spent a little more time reviewing the text of the speech Barry would make from the Opera House stage when the Opera’s Director announced the creation of the Baxter and Alexandra Buchanon Russian Arts Archive. Emma noticed Vera’s eyes tear up again as she read.

Vera wiped the tears away with one hand and put down the text. “It’s so beautiful. What Barry said about me.”  She sniffled. “It’s true. I supported Natasha. After our mother and father died, I was all she had left. She was so beautiful. So talented. Mamma always said she would go far. Very far. It was my parents’ dream. So, after they died, I was determined to make it come true for
them
. Well,” she quickly added, “for us, too.”

Emma couldn’t help wondering what burdens Vera shouldered as the less beautiful – and possibly less loved – twin. The poor girl had certainly worked hard to make up for not being as good.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Barry has always been kind. Very kind.”  She nodded her head. “But I don’t know. This thing about being on the Board of the Russian Arts Archive?  You see,” she shrugged. “I was never really interested in Russian Arts. I was only interested in…in Natasha.”