Murder in Moscow (10 page)

“I would like to order something brought to my room ... suite. Something light. Appetizers, perhaps.”

“Ah, of course.
Zakuski.”

“Pardon?”

“The appetizers. An assortment?”

“I suppose so.”

“Vodichka,
or the Champagne?”

“Ah, mineral water.”

“Of course.”

“How long will it be?” I asked.

“Very fast. Soon.”

Like my luggage, I thought, hanging up.

I sat at the piano again, but before I could try to pick out another tune, the phone rang.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry to intrude upon you like this.”

“Whom am I speaking with?”

“My name is Alexandra Kozhina,” the woman said.

“Yes?”

“I am with a Russian writers’ society.”

“Oh?”

“Murder mysteries,” she said, speaking slowly, forming her words with care.

“And?”

“You were told, yes?—that you would speak to us?”

“No, I don’t think I was,” I said.

“Da.
I mean yes. You are the famous American mystery writer.”

“Well, I do write murder mysteries.”

“The government—it brings you to Russia?
Da?”

“That’s right. I’m on a trade mission.”

“And you will ... speak ... address us.”

“If I’m told to,” I said. “I’ll check with my host tomorrow. If I’m to meet with your group—which, by the way, I’d be delighted to do—I’m sure they’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Yes. That would be good. Thank you.”

“Your name again?”

“Alexandra Kozhina.”

“Well, I—”

Alexandra Kozhina,
the name of the woman the Russian writer, Dimitri Rublev, wanted me to look up when in Moscow, and to whom I was to deliver his envelope.

“Ms. Kozhina,” I said into the phone.

e line was dead.

Someone knocked at my door. I opened it. A young man with a rolling cart stood in the hall.

“Please, come in,” I said.

I’d no sooner closed the door behind him when someone else knocked. It was my luggage.

I fumbled in my purse for tips. We weren’t allowed to bring any Russian rubles into the country with us, so all I had were American bills. I held up a few. The smiles on their faces said they didn’t have any problem accepting American currency.

Before they left, the young man who’d delivered room service identified each item on the cart.
“Zhulienn
,” he said.

“Ya
nye gavaryu parusski,”
I said, indicating I didn’t speak the language.

He grinned. “Mushroom,” he managed. “Sauce. Cream. Sour.”

“Ah, yes,” I said.

I laughed. “Crab.”

He, too, laughed, and went on to point to dishes containing sturgeon, sausage, and caviar, along with a small salad he called
travi,
which I looked up later and learned literally meant “grass.”

They left, allowing me to sample what was on the cart. It was all tasty, although the sausage was too fatty for my palate. When I poured from a pitcher I assumed contained mineral water, my breath was taken away. It was vodka. I knew the term
vodichka
meant “darling little water” in Russian, which might have confused the kitchen. Maybe the safe approach was to always order a Coke.

Generally, I like to immediately unpack everything and put it away, but a wave of fatigue washed over me after I’d eaten. I pulled out a nightgown, robe, and slippers from one of my bags, changed into them, and climbed into the king-sized bed in the adjoining bedroom. My thoughts went to the phone call I’d received from the young woman writer, Alexandra Kozhina. Obviously, Dimitri Rublev had told her when I’d be arriving, and where I’d be staying. But I had trouble squaring that with the circumstances. He’d told me to look her up, not the other way around. And why would he be privy to our travel schedule?

I might have pondered those questions a little longer had sleep not invaded. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and my bedside phone was ringing.

“Hello?” I said groggily.

“ ‘Morning, Jess,” Vaughan Buckley said. “Thought I’d ring you in case you didn’t leave a wake-up call.”

I sat up. “I’m glad you did. I forgot to.”

“Breakfast at seven.”

“Yes, I know. I’d better get moving.”

“Sleep well?”

“Like a rock, although at the moment I don’t feel like it.”

“Is your room okay?”

“Oh, yes.” I laughed. “It defines opulence. A suite. Grand piano and all.”

“Grand piano? You’ll have to give us a tour after breakfast. See you downstairs.”

I unpacked the rest of my things in a hurry, showered, dressed in the day’s chosen outfit, and left the suite at the stroke of seven. As I opened the door and stepped into the hall, a man who’d been leaning against the wall, startled at my sudden appearance, stiffened and turned his back to me.

“Dobraya utra,”
I said, passing him.

He returned my good morning in Russian.

At breakfast a stocky, gray-faced older man in a double-breasted brown suit welcomed us to Moscow and laid out our schedule. It was a full day, beginning after breakfast when we would meet with the new government’s cultural ministers. Then it was on to a tour of the Museum of the History of Moscow, lunch with government officials at Aragvi, a state-run restaurant, a bus tour of the city, two free hours for shopping, dinner at a sixteenth-century monastery, the performance of a contemporary Russian play at the LenKom Theater, and finally a Russian nightclub. It was exhausting just thinking about it.

Immediately following breakfast, I sought out the gentleman who’d briefed us, Pyotr Belopolsky.

“Mr. Belopolsky,” I said, “my name is Jessica Fletcher.”

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in excellent English, taking my hand. “A distinct pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you. I received a call last night from a woman who is a member of a Russian mystery writer’s club.”

“Oh?”

“She said arrangements had been made for me to address the group.”

“I am not aware of such a plan, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“You aren’t? Is there someone else who might have made such arrangements?”

“I don’t think so. I would have known. But I will ask others and report to you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Belopolsky. I appreciate it.”

“What was her name?” he asked.

“I think it was—I have it here.” I pulled out the slip of paper containing her name and address. “Her name is Alexandra Kozhina.”

I detected a flash of recognition on his face. But he said, “No, I do not know of such a person.”

“Well, if I’m to address her group, you’ll let me know.”

“Of course.”

As I turned to rejoin the others, Karl Warner, who’d taken the deceased Ward Wenington’s place, approached me. If his job was the same as Wenington’s, he went about it with more discretion. I hadn’t seen him since leaving Washington. He was on the flight, but sat far removed from me.

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Good morning, Mr. Warner.”

“Ready for a busy day?”

“I suppose so. They’ve certainly packed a lot into it.”

“How was your evening last night?”

“Fine. I was tired. Enjoyed room service and early to bed.”

His grin was lopsided. “Sounds sensible.”

“Will you be with us today?” I asked.

“Yup. Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

“I wasn’t suggesting I wanted to,” I said. “Any further word on Mr. Wenington’s death?”

“No. Take a while I suppose before they determine how he died. Enjoy the day, Mrs. Fletcher. Looks pretty decent outside, considering it’s Moscow.”

He walked away, and I thought of his final comment. He was obviously no stranger to the city. Working for the U.S. government must take him to many foreign locations, including Russia. What had life been like here when it was the Soviet Union and controlled by Communists? I wondered, grateful I never had to experience it first-hand.

Warner had been right. It was a cool, sunny day in Moscow, with a bracing breeze coming down the street as we waited for our cars to arrive. Vlady Staritova came up to me. I’d noticed at breakfast that his wife wasn’t with him. I asked about her.

“Now we are home,” he said, “she had other duties to which to attend. But she will join us for dinner.”

“Good,” I said. “Were you born in Moscow, Vlady?”

“No. Kiev.”

“As in chicken Kiev?” I asked.

“Kievskaya kotleta,”
he said with a chuckle, translating the famous chicken dish into Russian. “You have never tasted it until you have tasted it in Kiev.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” I said as the cars came around the corner and pulled up to the curb.

“I want you to visit my office while you are here,” he said. “After all, I am now your Russian publisher.”

“I’d be pleased to do that,” I said, “providing they give us a little time off.”

“I will see to it that they do,” he said. “I will be riding with you all day. I arranged it.”

I smiled sweetly. “That’s ... wonderful.”

The day went by quickly. Our hosts were gracious, if not frenetic, as they tried to keep to the schedule. I was glad I’d worn sensible shoes. Aside from the two hours on the bus, we walked everywhere, through the vast museum, around the remarkable Kremlin complex, and up and down city streets during our shopping break, led by a stylishly dressed Russian woman who steered us into selected shops.

We had dinner at U Pirosmani, named after the famed Georgian artist, Niko Pirosmani. It was across a pond from a sixteenth-century monastery, and featured Georgian food, distinctly different, we were told, from cuisine in other regions of the vast country that contained eleven time zones; Dublin is closer to Moscow than many Russian cities.

Our ranks had swelled considerably by the time we arrived at the restaurant. Many Russian publishing executives had traveled to Washington without their wives. Now, in their home city, their spouses had joined them.

There were also a number of others who’d become part of our growing entourage, young men of the type I’d first noticed at the National Gallery of Art dinner in Washington. The difference here was that there were more of them. Karl Warner congregated with a half-dozen other Americans. On the other side of the room stood six or seven young Russian men in suits. I’d come to the conclusion that no matter what their stated roles, they represented security—or were members of their respective country’s intelligence apparatus. Either way, my reaction was ambivalent. There was comfort in their presence. Simultaneously, there was something off-putting in their eagle-eyed scrutiny of everything and everyone, particularly the Russians whose basic brooding nature gave them a perpetual threatening and ominous appearance.

As had been the case all along, the event of the moment caused one to forget they were there, and to become immersed in conversation and, always, food and drink.

The menu was presented in Russian on a blackboard. Mr. Belopolsky, the Russian counterpart to the American Sam Roberts in Washington, suggested that he order for us.

“Zakuski
for everyone,” he told the waiter, indicating a variety of appetizers. “Be sure to include plenty khinkali and
gruzinskaya
kapusta.”

I would learn when the platters arrived that he’d asked for lots of meat dumplings and marinated red cabbage. It all tasted wonderful, although I kept thinking of Charlene Sassi’s admonition about the caloric clout of Russian food.

Accompanying the
zakuski,
of course, was an unending supply of “darling little water”—vodka—and Champagne, which only fueled the ebullient mood at dinner after a long, arduous day.

Vladislav Staritova sat next to me. He’d consumed enough vodka to float the proverbial battleship. His speech was slurred, and he’d reverted to directing terms of endearment at me despite his wife’s presence to his immediate right.

“Ah, my favorite,” he said, looking at the main course being served—roast chicken smothered in a heavy white sauce. Vlady leaned close and said into my ear, loudly, “Do you know how we Russians slaughter chicken?”

“How?” I said, playing the perfect straightwoman.

“Starvation.” He laughed, causing him to go into a coughing fit. He eventually got over it, licked his lips, and said of the plates before us, “You will like this very much, Jessica. A sweet meal for a sweet lady.” He winked at me; the back of his hand brushed my thigh, and I moved my chair a few inches away.

I barely touched my entree; I was stuffed from all the rich food that had come before. The vodka and Champagne had loosened everyone’s tongues, and the noise level had steadily risen.

A trio of Russian musicians suddenly appeared and started playing, which added to the festive spirit permeating the room. One of the Russian publishers insisted that the wife of an American join him on the dance floor in the center of the horseshoe-table setup. The music had an infectious melody and beat, and we began clapping as the man and woman moved awkwardly to the music.

“Jessica?” Staritova said, pushing himself up and grabbing my hand.

“Oh, no.” I said. “Absolutely not.”

I heard his wife say, “Sit down you old fool.”

He did, to my relief.

His wife’s harsh comment had deflated him. He sat dejectedly, eyes focused on his empty plate, mouth moving as though rehearsing a retort. I felt bad for him. He really was a decent sort when not under the influence of “darling little water.”

A waiter whisked away our plates, followed by another waiter who placed desserts in front of us, pastries smothered in chocolate sauce and whipped cream. The band played louder. Others joined the couple on the dance floor. I started to feel dizzy and slightly nauseated.