Murder in Moscow (24 page)

“If I think about that, George, I’ll spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I won’t live that way.”

I spoke again with George that night from Heathrow Airport, moments before I boarded the British Airways’ 747 for the flight to New York. The news was heartening. Scotland Yard’s forensic scientists had worked with the hospital in determining what had happened to Alexandra. It wasn’t ricin, thank God, but a less lethal form of poison, and a known antidote was being administered. Although she was still in critical condition, the physicians felt there was a good chance she’d pull through. Without George and his experts, I know she would have died.

I stayed in New York overnight at Vaughan and Olga’s apartment in the Dakota, and flew to Maine the following morning. It was good to be home, although I didn’t experience the sort of pleasure I usually do when returning from a trip. My friends called and wanted to get together for a welcome-home party, but I declined as politely as possible, saying that the trip had been arduous, and that I was suffering a terminal case of jet lag.

George called every night with a progress report on Alexandra. Poor girl. Although she’d survived the attack, the poison had compromised some of her internal organs. She was in for months of convalescence in a London nursing home arranged for her by unnamed officials of the American and British governments.

I obtained the nursing home address and dropped frequent notes to her, which she promptly answered. She was feeling stronger each day, she said, and looked forward to a full recovery.

Two months later, while enjoying breakfast on my patio, I received a call from Vaughan Buckley. “Sitting down?” he asked.

“No, but there’s a chair nearby.”

“Jess, Alexandra Kozhina is in New York. I just got off the phone with her.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said. “How long is she staying?”

“Just overnight. She heads for Washington in the morning. Olga and I are having dinner with her. I think she’s interested in writing the book I suggested.”

“Interesting.”

“I was wondering whether you could get down here to join us. I know it’s extremely short notice, but I figured it might be possible. Still friends with that fellow who runs his own airline in Cabot Cove?”

“Jed Richardson? Sure. But he’s away on a charter, left this morning.”

“Shame. No way you could make it?”

“You know I’d love to, Vaughan, but I just don’t see it happening. But you will give her my love.”

“Of course. Maybe she’ll have a chance to call you before she leaves.”

I no sooner hung up when the phone rang again. It was Alexandra.

“I just spoke with Vaughan,” I said. “He told me about dinner, and that you might write that book.”

“I’m thinking of it,” she said. “I wish I could see you, Jessica. I feel very much as though we’re sisters or something, close friends.”

“I feel the same way, Alexandra. We went through a lot together.”

She laughed. “That, as you would say, is a large understatement. I’ll be going directly back to London from Washington.”

“What are you doing there?” I asked.

She hesitated before saying, “Oh, just meeting with a few people.”

Translation: I can’t talk about it.

We chatted for a few more minutes, promised to one day meet again, and the conversation ended. I suffered parallel joy and sadness at having spoken with her. She obviously was still immersed in some sort of clandestine activity of the sort that, based upon my brush with it, was something I would assiduously avoid for the rest of my life.

Alexandra Kozhina did write her book for Buckley House. Vaughan told me he was extremely pleased with the manuscript she delivered. I asked questions about it, but he was evasive, saying only, “She wants to send you one of the first copies, Jess, autographed to you.”

“I look forward to that. Please give her my love when you see her again.”

A year later, a FedEx package arrived from Buckley House. I eagerly opened it to find a copy of Alexandra’s book,
A Sub-Rosa Life.

I opened it to the dedication page:

Vaughan called that afternoon.

“Get that book?” he asked.

“Yes. I was very touched. I cried.”

“It’s a fine work, Jess, well-written and illuminating.”

“I look forward to reading it.”

“I’ll be anxious for your reaction. Naturally, there is some material that couldn’t be included.”

“Sensitive material?”

“Yes. You should know that Vlady Staritova was murdered, the same poison used on Alexandra.”

“How do you know that?”

“From Alexandra. He’d learned about her double life, and pursued her to write a book for him about it, pursued too aggressively, I’m afraid.”

“Who killed him?” I asked.

“Alexandra’s not sure. Could have been her own people trying to shut him up. Or, it might have involved the other side.”

“‘The other side?’
Our
side?”

“She doesn’t know.”

It was summer, but I felt a pervasive chill that caused me to shudder.

“Wenington, too?” I asked.

“We’ll never know that, Jess. Those are the sort of questions that never get answered because the people involved don’t want them answered. At any rate, enjoy the book.”

“Where is Alexandra?” I asked.

“I don’t know the answer to that, either. We hoped to send her on a promotion tour, but we can’t find her.”

“Can’t find her?”

“Yup. Nothing reaches her in London, no forwarding address.”

“The embassy? Have you tried them?”

“Sure. They say they have no idea where she’s gone. Actually, it will probably help sell the book. Author was a spy, writes about it, then disappears into the night.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “Well, thanks, Vaughan. I’ll treasure the book, and her kind words to me in it.”

“Take care. Be in touch soon.”

I never heard from Alexandra Kozhina again. Each time I thought of her, I became weepy, and so I tried to stop thinking about her, with some success.

But there are times, usually odd moments, and for odd reasons, that her face flashes before me, and I wonder where she is and what she’s doing.

I’m sure I’ll never know.

Read on for a preview of
Murder, She Wrote: A Little Yuletide Murder
available from Signet.

“The meeting will come to order!”

We’d gathered in the Cabot Cove Memorial Hall, built after World War II to honor those from our town who’d given their lives, literally and figuratively, defending the country. It soon became a popular place for meetings and social events, especially when large numbers of people were involved. This meeting to plan the upcoming annual Christmas festival certainly qualified. The hall was packed with citizens, most of whom came simply to listen—or to get out of the house during that dreary first week of December—and for some to offer their ideas on what this year’s festival should involve.

I was delighted to be there, not only because I enjoyed participating in the planning, but because for the first time in years, I would actually be home during the holiday season. I’d found myself traveling on too many previous holidays, usually to promote my newest murder mystery, or sometimes simply because invitations extended to me were too appealing to pass up. But even though I’d spent previous Christmases in some wonderful, even exotic locations, I always felt a certain ache and emptiness at being away from my dear friends, and from the town I called home and loved, Cabot Cove, Maine.

The meeting was chaired by our mayor, Jim Shevlin. Seated with him at a long table on a raised platform were representatives from the public library, the Chamber of Commerce, the town historical society (sometimes snidely known as the “town hysterical society”), local political clubs, the fire and police departments, the volunteer ambulance corps, and local hospital, schools, and, of course, the standing decorating committee, who, each year, turned our lovely small village into a festival of holiday lights.

Shevlin again called for order, and people eventually took seats and ended their conversations.

“It’s gratifying to see so many of you here this morning,” Shevlin said, an engaging smile breaking across his face. “This promises to be the biggest and best holiday festival ever.”

People applauded, including me and Dr. Seth Hazlitt, my good friend with whom I sat in the front row. He leaned close to my ear and said, “Jimmy always says it’s going to be the biggest and the best.”

I raised my eyebrows, looked at Seth, and said, “And it usually is.”

“Hard for you to say, Jessica,” Seth said, “considerin’ you haven’t been here in a spell.”

“But from what I hear, each year tops the previous one. Besides, I’ll be here this year.”

“And a good thing you will,” Seth said. “This is where Jessica Fletcher ought to be spendin’ her Christmases.”

I was used to mild admonishment from Seth, knowing he always meant well, even though his tone could be taken at times as harsh and scolding. I returned my attention to the dais, where Shevlin introduced the chairwoman of the decorating committee.

She went through a long list of things the committee planned to do this year, including renting for the first time a large searchlight that would project a red-and-green light into the sky above the town. This resulted in a heated debate about whether it was too commercial and tacky for Cabot Cove. Eventually, Mayor Shevlin suggested the searchlight idea be put on hold until further discussions could be held.

As such meetings tend to do, this one dragged on beyond a reasonable length. It seemed everyone wanted to have a say, and did. It was during the presentation of how Cabot Cove’s schoolchildren would participate that I noticed someone missing from the dais. I turned to Seth. “Where’s Rory?” I asked.

Seth leaned forward and scanned the faces at the long table. “You’re right, Jessica,” he said. “Rory hasn’t missed a holiday planning meeting for as long as I can remember.”

Rory Brent was a prosperous local farmer who’d played Santa Claus at our holiday festival for the past fifteen years. He was born to the role. Brent was a big, outgoing man with a ready, infectious laugh. He easily weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and had a full head of flowing white hair and a bushy white beard to match. No makeup needed: He
was
Santa Claus. His custom was to attend the planning meeting fully dressed in his Santa costume. He proudly dragged it out of mothballs each year, stitched up gaps in the seams, and had it cleaned and pressed before the meeting.

“Is he ill?” I asked.

“Saw him yesterday,” Seth said. “Down at Charlene’s Bakery. Looked healthy enough to me.”

“He must have been detained. Maybe some emergency at the farm.”

“Ayuh,” Seth muttered.

A few minutes later, when Jim Shevlin invited further comments from the audience, Seth stood and asked why Rory Brent wasn’t there.

“I had Margaret try to call him at the farm,” Shevlin said. Margaret was deputy mayor of Cabot Cove. He looked to where she sat at his right.

She reported into her microphone, “I called a few times but there’s no answer.”

“Maybe somebody ought to take a ride out to the farm,” Seth suggested from the floor.

“Good idea,” said Shevlin. “Any volunteers?”

Tim Purdy, a member of the Chamber of Commerce, whose business was managing farms around the United States from his office in Cabot Cove, said he’d check on Rory, and left the hall.

“You can always count on Tim,” said Seth, sitting down.

The meeting lasted another half hour. Although there was disagreement on a number of issues, it warmed my heart to see how the citizens of the town could come together and negotiate their differences.

After, coffee, tea, juice, and doughnuts were served at the rear of the hall. I enjoyed apple juice and a cinnamon doughnut with friends, many of whom expressed pleasure that I would be in town for the festivities.

“I was wondering whether you would do a Christmas reading for the kids this year, Jessica,” Cynthia Curtis, director of our library and a member of the town board, said.

“I’d love to,” I replied. “Some Christmas stories? Fables?”

“Whatever you choose to do,” she said.

But then I thought of Seth, who was chatting in a far corner with our sheriff and another good friend, Morton Metzger. “Seth usually does the reading, doesn’t he?” I said.

“Oh, I don’t think he’d mind deferring to you this year, Jess. It would be a special treat for the kids to have a famous published author read Christmas stories to them.”

I suppose my face expressed concern about usurping Seth.

“Why don’t you do the reading together?” Cynthia suggested. “That would be a different approach.”

I liked that idea, and said so. “I’ll discuss it with Seth as soon as we leave,” I said.

Seth and Mort approached me.

“Feel like an early lunch?” Seth asked.

“Sure. Nice presentation, Mort,” I said, referring to the talk he’d given about how the police department would maintain order during the festival.

“Been doing it long enough,” he said. “Ought to know what’s needed. ’Course, never have to worry about anybody gettin’ too much out of hand. Folks really pick up on the Christmas spirit around here—love thy neighbor, that sort of thing.”

We decided to have lunch at Mara’s Luncheonette, down by the water and a favorite local hangout. The weather was cold and nasty; snow was forecast for the evening.

“I hope Mara made up some of her clam chowder,” I said as the three of us prepared to leave the hall. “Chowder and freshly baked bread is really appealing.”