Black Princess Mystery (6 page)

He looked
at her with great interest. “Maybe it is.”

“So, his
wife left him,” Tasheka said. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“You
shouldn’t be so hard on him, Ms. Green. Detective McNab is a good guy if you
get to know him, and he’s a great detective.”

“Why did
she leave him?” Tasheka asked bluntly.

“I don’t
know.”

“Yes, you
do.”

“Let me
put it this way,” he said with a smirk. “Sometimes men think they’re being
protective toward their wives, but the wife may feel as if she’s being
controlled.”

“She had a
relationship with the other man while they were still married, didn’t she?”

“You’re
very persistent,” Thorston said.

“Come now,
detective, if she had an affair, that’s something that could not be kept quiet.
Everybody would know about it.”

“Yes, she
had an affair and, yes, everyone does know about it,” he conceded. “He followed
her to a motel and caught her in bed with another cop.”

“I don’t
like controlling men,” Tasheka said, “and I’m not too good with authority
either.”

Thorston
glanced at her. “Why do you have that tattoo on your wrist?”

“Black
Sabbath is my favorite band. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“No,”
Thorston said. “I played lead guitar in a high school band and I could play a
lot of Tony Iommi’s parts.”

Tasheka
looked at him with an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and
disdain. “Only Tony Iommi can play Tony Iommi’s parts.”

He
laughed. “What’s your favorite song by Black Sabbath?”

“Hand of
Doom. You?”

“I like
everything they did,” Thorston said, “and I like Faith Hill, too, but I’m not
tattooing Faith Hill’s name on my wrist.” He paused and looked uncomfortable.
“I don’t mean to be judgmental, Ms. Green, but did you intend to choose such a
conspicuous spot for a tattoo?”

“I’ll
never forget that hand so long as I live,” Tasheka said, “and I swear it was a
violent and brutal death. You could tell by the way the fingers were curled. It
was as if the last thing that person saw was the devil himself.”

“We don’t
know anything yet. Chances are the man left this earth under natural causes
with an army of angels dancing around him. Heart attack, stroke, fell and
banged his head—there’s probably an innocuous explanation. We’ll take your
statement, figure it out, and more than likely be out of your hair as if
nothing ever happened.”

“Dream
on.”

Thorston
looked shocked when he turned into Tasheka’s driveway. Before him was a grand
estate in the style of a southern plantation. The two-storey red brick home was
fronted with four white columns and a facade of immaculately clean windows, the
snow-covered trees reflecting off them in the morning sun. It looked like a
museum, something right out of St. Petersburg. To the west was a sprawling
English garden. To the east towered a number of huge ancient pines, and in back
of the house were a stable, a pool, and a tennis court. The entire property was
surrounded by a high stone fence, complete with the open wrought iron gate
through which Detective Henry had driven. He parked in the enormous circular
driveway and gazed at the garden with its granite benches and Roman-like
statues on pedestals.

“This is
your home?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes.”

The door
opened and a white woman in her mid-fifties walked onto the top step. Tasheka
let Kie out of the car and he immediately ran to the woman, excitedly jumping
up on her as if trying to convey what they had seen. The woman was attractive,
with Slavic features and just a hint of dullness in her blond hair. Her dress
was dark black with a blood red vine imprint running up the front. It had an
Eastern European flavor, reminiscent of something a gypsy might wear by a campfire
next to the Volga River. A gold chain circled her waist, gold earrings dangled,
and around her slender wrist was wrapped a gold bracelet with large, glittering
diamonds. Time had furrowed fine lines around her eyes and dusted the glow off
her cheeks. Perhaps to compensate, she wore blood red lipstick and heavy
makeup. On her head was a yellow kerchief flecked with turquoise streaks.

“What’s
wrong, Tasheka?” the woman asked with a heavy Russian accent.

Tasheka
hurried up to her. “I saw a dead person at the golf course, Momma.”

“Holy
Mother of God!” Mrs. Green exclaimed, crossing herself.

“Someone
may have had a heart attack,” said Thorston, stepping out of the car and
identifying himself as a police detective. “Your daughter was the first on the
scene, so I have to take her to the office for a written statement.”

“I only
saw a hand,” Tasheka said meaningfully, “but it was wearing Father Tim’s ring.”

Mrs. Green
furrowed her eyebrows. “It could not have been Father Tim. That is not
possible.”

Tasheka
nodded in agreement. “I know it’s not possible because I saw him just before
discovering the body. It isn’t him for sure. I’m one hundred percent certain of
that. But when I tried to call him at the rectory, there was no answer. Yet his
car is gone.” She nodded mysteriously. “The car was there this morning when I
saw him. That was before I found the body. But it was gone when we passed the
church a few minutes ago.”

Mrs. Green
took a mobile phone out of her purse. “Let me try.” She called the priest’s
residence, but after allowing it to ring ten times, she disconnected. “
Eta ochen stranno shtow evo eshow nyet doma
,”
she said, nervously lapsing back into her native tongue.

“Da,” said
Tasheka. “Ochen stranno.”

“We’ll get
to the bottom of this,” Thorston assured them.

“When will
you know who it is?” Mrs. Green asked.

“My
partner will get the body identified as soon as possible.”

“This is
terrible,” Mrs. Green said, “and so close to Christmas. What a shame.”

“Ms.
Green,” Thorston said, catching Tasheka’s eye, “could you come to the station
with me now? I’d like to get your statement.”

She
nodded.

Mrs. Green
picked up Kie’s leash. “Can you drive Tasheka home when you’re finished?”

“I’ll take
her statement, drive her back here, and then rejoin my partner at the scene.”

Tasheka
walked into the house and returned a moment later, slipping her phone into her
coat pocket. “I’ll be home soon, Momma.”

Mrs. Green
was extremely distraught, as if her face might crack like porcelain. Thorston
nodded reassuringly at her and then gestured to Tasheka. The younger woman
hugged her mother and climbed into the front seat.

“Ma’am,”
said Thorston to Mrs. Green, “this is probably highly unnecessary, but until we
find out for sure what’s going on, I suggest you keep your doors and windows
locked at all times.”

“Why?”
Mrs. Green said with terror quivering in her voice.

“No, no,
nothing to worry about,” he assured her, shaking his hands in front of himself.
“It’s just a precaution, that’s all. I’m sure it’s not necessary, but it’s best
to be on the safe side until this situation is resolved.”

“I’ll do
that, detective,” she said, leading Kie into the house and closing the door
behind them.

“You’re
not sure, are you?” Tasheka questioned as soon as they pulled onto the Lakeside
Road. “You think there may be a killer in the neighborhood or you wouldn’t have
scared my mother like that.”

“There
have been some odd killings in other areas, but they were hundreds of miles
from here.” He looked meaningfully at her. “We don’t know what we’re dealing
with for sure.”

“I’ll keep
that in mind,” she said. “How long will this take?”

“Not
long,” he assured her. “Just tell me precisely what you saw, the time you found
the body, and anything out of the ordinary you may have encountered this
morning.” He paused. “I hate to sound rude, but your mother and you seem a
little different. She is obviously a Russian-American and has a very noticeable
accent, whereas your English is perfect.”

“Okay,
let’s get this out of the way from the get-go.” She looked hard at him. “You are
tactful, that’s for sure. You mentioned that my mother and I are a little
different, but you didn’t point to the obvious fact that she’s as white as snow
and I would fit right in on a street in Nairobi. The reason for that is when I
was born in Houston, my mother was living in Siberia. My biological mother died
from complications shortly after my birth, detective.”

“Can you
call me Thorston?”

“If you
call me Tasheka.”

“What
happened after that, Tasheka?”

“My father
was an executive in a major oil company,” Tasheka explained, “and after my
mother died, he was devastated. He kept working and over time the pain healed
to a degree, but he was lonely. On a trip to the Russian oil fields, he met my
mother in Omsk. They had an instant rapport and six months later they were
married. She’s raised me as her child ever since I was two. I can’t remember my
life without her. She was a stay-at-home mom and she taught me Russian. She
also passed on her sense of fashion to me in some respects. I love Russian
themes. So there you have it, Thorston. I’m a woman with black skin and a
Russian sensibility. Quite a combination, don’t you think?”

“Intriguing,”
he replied. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”

“No, you
probably haven’t. I’m also very rich. When my father died, he left us a lot of
property and money. I hope that doesn’t color your opinion of me.”

“No,” he
said.

“I loved
my father very much,” she said, “but in the end all the money in the world
can’t buy you health. Dad was buried in August and me and Mom watched them
lower his coffin into the Lakeside Cemetery. It was pouring rain that day.” She
looked at him with a firm set to her jaw. “It makes you question the existence
of God, doesn’t it?”

“Excuse
me?” he asked as if he had not heard her.

“Could a
good and merciful God allow a wife and daughter to watch the man they love be
buried while he was still young and with so much to offer? What was the purpose
of that? He was the best person I have ever met, Thorston. When I was a little
girl, he used to stay up with me all night when I was sick and he would hold
me. He would sing lullabies and rock me to sleep. Why did he have to be taken?
What wrong had he done?”

“That’s a
big question, Tasheka, and I’m afraid I don’t have the answers.”

“No one
does,” she said, “because there are no answers. Maybe there is only Raskolnikov
wandering the streets with a bloody ax. Maybe that’s all there is, detective.”

Thorston
looked baffled. “I’m sorry that your father died.”

“Me, too.”
She looked out the window. “Me, too.”

A long
silence followed.

“Detective
McNab’s mother died in October,” Thorston said. “He used to phone her every day
and pay all her bills. She would get lonely and sometimes she’d be scared at
night. McNab would drive right over whenever she called, even if he was on a
case. I’m not kidding. You could hold a knife to that man’s throat when he’s
closing in on a killer and he would hardly notice, but one call from his mother
and he was gone. So, you see, he’s not all bad. He loved his mother.” They
pulled into the police station. “Here we are.”

Tasheka
followed him upstairs with her eyes lowered. Everyone noticed her, from the
rank and file uniforms to the secretaries at their desks. Thorston gently
touched her arm and indicated his office, closing the door behind them. Then he
took out some papers and a pen.

“Go
ahead,” he said, ready to write.

“I
recognized the ring,” she replied, laying her purse on the floor.

“Please
elaborate.”

“The
priest in Lakeside is named Father Tim Murphy. He’s been there almost a year
and is a good friend of mine. He was especially helpful when my father got
sick, both to me and my mother. We could call him any time. At my father’s
funeral, even though it was pouring and he was soaked, he never batted an
eyelash as he said the final words.” She paused and recalled those past days.
“He owns a very distinctive ring.”

“Why is it
distinctive?”

“The gold
inlay, the font and size of the initial, the two diamonds in the upper right
hand corner. It’s very unique.” She nodded insistently. “The ring on that dead
man’s body is Father Tim’s. I know it’s the same one. But I am also positive it
was not Father Tim lying there.”

“Please
explain,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I know
the dead man cannot be Father Tim because I saw Father Tim alive and well on my
way to the golf course. He was at the rectory. I also noted that his car was
there then but it was gone later.” She shrugged. “That’s why this is such a
mystery to me. How did someone get his ring? And how did this person die?”

A knock
sounded at the door and Thorston opened it to a short, balding man. “Come in,
Watkins.”