Murder on the QE2 (27 page)

“Really loved it, huh, despite the murder?”

“Yes. Really loved it. See you tomorrow.”

I pulled out a piece of fancy stationery, thought for a moment, then wrote: “Dear Mary, I just spoke to my travel agent and ...”

 

 

 

 

The flight from Washington to Moscow had been long and tiring, and I was delighted to finally be in my suite in the opulent Palace Hotel, at the upper end of Tverskaya, a prime and convenient location. My perception of accommodations in Russian was that I shouldn’t expect much in the way of service and amenities. My perception turned out to be faulty.

The spacious and handsome suite was on two levels. There were two bedrooms and two full baths upstairs, and a dining and living room on the lower level. The furnishings were light pine, giving the rooms a pleasant open feel. Most striking was the art and sculpture. It was like staying in a mini-museum.

I unpacked, hung up my cloths, and explored the rooms. Management had provided a platter of cheeses, fruit, a small dish of caviar nestled in crushed ice, tiny shrimp, and a bottle of champagne. I opened a small envelope tucked between two apples: “Welcome, Mrs. Fletcher, to the Palace Hotel and to Moscow. We stand ready to meet your every need.” It was signed by the hotel’s assistant manager.

My fatigue was now replaced by a sense of excitement and energy. The actuality that I was, indeed, in Moscow suddenly hit me. I experienced what the great psychologist Abraham Maslow termed a “peak experience.” And that led me to realize, as I often do, that I was a very fortunate person living a blessed life.

I’d changed my watch to Russian time before leaving Washington, and saw that I had two hours before we were to gather in the hotel’s dining room for our first meal together on Russian soil. By now, we’d gotten to know each other pretty well. The Russian publishing executives who’d traveled to Washington at the invitation of our Commerce Department were a gregarious lot; dinners and cocktail parties were spirited and loud. One gentleman in particular, Vladislav Staritova, who’d purchased the Russian publishing rights to my most recent murder mystery before leaving Moscow for the Washington conference, was especially friendly. He spoke excellent English, and we spent many hours discussing my book, his company, and how Russia could develop a prosperous publishing industry during the difficult transition years ahead. My only difficulty with him was that after he’d consumed enough vodka, he became comically amorous. It was at those times I felt a sudden need to “powder my nose,” as the saying goes.

When I arrived at the hotel’s large banquet room, I was surprised to see that the number of people for dinner had swelled to more than double what it had been in Washington. Wives of the Russian executives had joined us, as well as a dozen or so men who I assumed were employees of the publishing houses represented. The male newcomers were a sullen lot, so unlike their bosses. They tended to stay to themselves, huddled in groups of two and three away from the main group at the cocktail party. As had been true in Washington, the vodka and champagne flowed freely, as did a dazzling array of hors d’oeuvres on large silver trays proudly carried by uniformed waiters.

“Nicely settled in your room?” asked Sam Roberts, the Commerce Department official responsible for the exchange project between American and Russian publishers.

“Room? It’s a magnificent suite,” I said.

“Glad you’re happy, Jessica. I must tell you that including you in the group was one of my smarter moves.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve absolutely charmed the Russians.”

“I’m enjoying their company.”

“They’re all intrigued that you write murder mysteries.”

“A universal fascination, I suppose,” I replied. “Like American jazz. A common language. Everyone loves a good mystery to solve.”

Roberts, an angular man with dose-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair and a ready smile, said, “Well, enjoy dinner and the rest of your stay in Russia. We’ve tried to leave enough time for you and the others to do a bit of sightseeing.”

“And I intend to take full advantage of that.”

The tables for dinner were arranged in a horseshoe. I found myself seated between Vladislav Staritova, my new Russian publisher, and one of the younger men who was new to our group. I introduced myself to him and received a grunt and weak handshake in return. The stereotype of the brooding Russian came to mind, but I silently reminded myself that it was probably more a problem of generational than national origins. Young people in America seem to have become more sullen and morose, too, these days. Why? I have no idea.

As the food started arriving from the kitchen, I thought of what my friend back in Cabot Cove had said when she learned I’d be coming to Russia: “The Russians have the most fattening diet in the world. They take in seventy percent more calories a day than we do.”

I certainly wouldn’t debate her now that my first Russian dinner was being served. It started with caviar,
ikra
in Russian, proceeded to a large bowl of borscht, then featured a salad of tomatoes and cucumbers (I’d been told Russians don’t use lettuce), and went on to such dishes as
zhulienn,
a casserole of mushrooms and sour cream, and the main course,
tsiplyonok,
chicken smothered with a rich, heavy cream sauce. Dessert would be
rizhok,
a layered pastry with chocolate sauce and whipped cream. All of it, of course, accompanied by a river of vodka and champagne.

The main course was about to be served when our official Russian host, a corpulent gentleman who held a similar position in his government as Sam Roberts did with the American Commerce Department, stood and welcomed everyone in flawless English, tossing in an occasional translation for those Russians who weren’t bilingual. He talked for a long time, which held up the waiters, and concluded his remarks by introducing Sam Roberts. Roberts also spoke too long as far as I was concerned—a disease infecting all politicians. As he did, my mind wandered, and I took in others at the tables. The younger men, who’d remained aloof during the cocktail party, were scattered among the other dinner guests. The drink and food hadn’t lightened their spirits. They still carried those brooding, bordering-on-angry expressions. I’d tried to engage my adjacent tablemate in conversation, but never got very far. It wasn’t a language barrier. From what little he said, he spoke a fair amount of English.

Sam Roberts concluded his remarks, and the waiters got on with the job of delivering the main course to the tables. Vladislav Staritova had consumed a lot of vodka. His speech was slightly slurred, and he’d reverted to directing terms of endearment to me, despite the presence of his wife at his immediate right.

“Ah, my favorite,” he said, looking at the chicken that had just been placed before him, rubbing his hands and licking his lips. “You will like this very much, Jessica,” he said. “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 tongue, and the noise level had steadily risen as dinner progressed.

A trio of Russian musicians 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 awkwardly moved to the music.

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

“Oh, no,” I said. “Absôlutely 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.

A waiter whisked away our plates, followed by another waiter who placed desserts in front of us. The pastries were 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 nauseous.

I didn’t know the name of the song, but it reached a point where the Russians suddenly yelped some phrase in concert with the musicians.

I considered leaving the table and going to a restroom. It had all been too much—the long flight, the trip from the airport into town, all the food and drink—although I’d barely sipped some vodka to be polite to my hosts—the music and noise and ...

I turned to excuse myself to Staritova.

He looked at me. His eyes bulged, his mouth hung open. His face was beet red, the color of the borscht we’d had earlier.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He replied by squaring himself in his chair, taking a deep and prolonged breath, and pitching forward, his face hitting his dessert plate with a thud. Chocolate syrup and whipped cream gushed from the plate, creating a black-and-white nest for his face.

His wife screamed.

No one heard because of the music and singing.

I turned to the dour young man at my left, but he was gone.

“Help!” I shouted, standing.

The music stopped. People turned and looked at me.

I pointed to Staritova.

“He’s dead,” I said.

And so he was.

A sudden heart attack?

That certainly would have been preferable to what an overnight autopsy revealed. Vladislav Staritova, my Russian publisher, had been poisoned.