Death of a Russian Doll Read online

  “Should I leave?” I asked.

  Dad sniffed, then stared at me for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I could use a set of fresh eyes and ears.”

  If my eyebrows weren’t attached, they probably would have bounced off the ceiling and smacked me in the face on the way back down. “You’re asking me to help?”

  Dad sat back. “Unofficially. I kind of figured I wouldn’t be able to keep you out of it. Not for long, anyway. Better I can keep an eye on you. And I’d prefer you to be more of a sounding board, rather than chasing leads, red herrings, and the occasional goose on your own.”

  “Goose chasing?”

  “And I’d appreciate your discretion.” He winked. “No sharing any of this with Lance or your other friends down at senior speed dating.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I take it you discovered something,” Mark said.

  Dad rubbed his nose. “Well, we did get some background on the victim.”

  “On Marya,” I said. “Victim” seemed so impersonal.

  “From what Ken said before those two sisters of his arrived, from what they let slip when they got their dander up, and from what I learned from his former department, Marya has been in this country most of her life.”

  “Which explains why her English was so good,” I said. “But she only became a citizen a couple of weeks ago.”

  Dad’s head jerked in my direction. “How do you know that? Do you know how many hours it took me to find that out?”

  I clammed up. No way I would throw Miles under the bus, especially if I might need to ride that bus a little later.

  “As best we can figure,” Dad said, “she was only two or three when she arrived, and not by the usual channels.”

  “What are we talking?” Mark asked. “Black-market adoption? Human trafficking?”

  “Not adoption,” Dad said. “There’s reports of an adult sister who functioned as guardian. But she’s like a ghost. No record of her much anywhere. Only a few people claimed to have met her.”

  “If they were illegal aliens,” I said, “they wouldn’t want to leave a paper trail.”

  “Still,” Mark said, “most illegal aliens pay taxes. There should be records. You have a name on this sister?”

  “That’s about all I have.” Dad pushed a paper in Mark’s direction, but I snagged it before he could complete the handoff.

  “Anechka Besk … ry … ost … nov.”

  “Something like that,” Dad said. “There’s an office pool on how to pronounce it. You might have a shot.”

  I took out my cell phone and took a picture of the name, then handed the paper to Mark.

  He stared at it for a moment. “I’ll run it. And maybe some variations. She might have tried to anglicize, or at least shorten it.”

  “Appreciate it,” Dad said. He leaned forward and rested his head on the table. “Unless we find a few other suspects and pretty quick, pressure is going to be on to arrest Ken Young. I think he knows it.” He peeked up at me. “Any thoughts?”

  “I wondered if it might be someone she encountered at her twelve-step program.”

  “That’s a good thought,” Dad said. “You know where she went?”

  “The same one Mom went to,” I said. “Only there’s a Pastor Pete in charge of it now. I met him yesterday.”

  “Liz, you shouldn’t be chasing down leads on your own.”

  “Well, someone shut me out of the investigation,” I countered. “Besides, all I did was go to church. No crime in that.”

  Mark leaned forward. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Not a lot. Pastor Pete didn’t think Marya was relapsing or anything like that.”

  “Did you get a list of names of who else attends?” Dad asked.

  “I asked, but they’re all so … anonymous. I thought about attending a meeting, but now Pastor Pete knows me.”

  “He doesn’t know me,” Mark said. He held up his empty cup. “Hello, my name is Mark, and I’m a chocoholic.”

  “Hi, Mark.” I took his cup and poured the dregs of the cocoa into it.

  “Any other thoughts?” Dad asked.

  “Well, since she was killed in the barber shop, maybe a client could have killed her.” I mentioned the hair on the floor from the crime scene photo. “I couldn’t make out the color.”

  “It was gray,” Dad said. “And we have a client list.” He shuffled through some papers. This time he slid it in my direction.

  I scanned the names. “You want to know what’s interesting about this list?” I said as I trailed a finger down the page. I looked up at him with what was probably a smug smile. “They were almost all at senior speed dating.”

  “Now that I’m not ready to check out,” Mark said.

  “And I don’t think they’d welcome me back,” I said.

  We both turned to Dad. I won’t repeat what he said.

  * * *

  While Dad went to find his much-neglected bed for a few hours, I walked Mark downstairs.

  “This is a first,” he said. “I’ve never had a date turn into a murder investigation before.”

  “Sadly, I think I have,” I said. “Oh, you wanted to talk about something. Did we ever get to that?”

  “Kind of. I was a little concerned about whether you were comfortable dating a much older man. When you turned it into a joke, I figured the answer was yes.”

  “I don’t think of you as that much older.”

  “Is it my boyish looks or my perpetual immaturity that you find attractive?”

  I swatted his arm and laughed. “Maybe both. But I should probably tell you that I do have some hesitation about getting involved with someone in law enforcement.”

  “Because of Ken?”

  I shook my head. “Not entirely. I grew up in a cop’s house, and I know the stresses it creates.”

  “Does that apply to accountants?” he asked. “My job is a bit less dangerous. Aside from a paper cut or two, I’ve had a perfect safety record.” He pointed to his pinkie finger. “You can barely see the scar now.”

  “You make a strong case there,” I said. “But now it’s my turn. Ken had a problem with me getting involved in a case in the past. What are your thoughts?”

  He moved closer to me. “Well,” he said, trailing a finger along my cheekbone. “If you understand that I may not always be able to answer all of your questions, and as long as you don’t take any stupid chances …”

  He leaned in for a tender kiss that sent all the blood racing from my head down to my toes, then back again. Kind of like NASCAR but without the burning rubber, checkered flags, and—as Dad would always say—endless left turns. I felt a little dizzy, a little breathless. Either this was chemistry at work, or I needed a cardiologist, stat.

  “I think it’s kind of hot.” He smiled at me, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Goodnight.” And he was out the door.

  Chapter 12

  On Tuesday, Cathy took Drew for his checkup and vaccinations, meaning I was stuck in the shop selling toys. When not waiting on customers, I paced the aisles, itching to get out and continue my own investigation. After all, the clock was ticking. A murderer was out walking the streets, free to tamper with evidence or just skedaddle, while the police were busy compiling evidence—in their methodical, plodding way—possibly against someone once close to me. That my aging and supposedly retired father had to shoulder all the stress of leading the investigation didn’t sit well on my stomach, which also churned with unanswered questions about Marya’s background. And her sister’s.

  After all that time trying to keep Dad from going out and involving himself in police investigations, here I was, doing the same thing. I guess it’s true: we become our parents.

  I had my coat and boots on and car keys in hand when Amanda and Kohl came to relieve me at four. Of course Kohl was too young to be on the books, but he enjoyed the toyshop, especially sorting through all the comic books. Dad always let him keep a book or two every time he worked.
r />   “Someone’s in a hurry to leave,” Amanda said as I paced the shop while they removed their coats. “Hot date?”

  “That was last night.”

  “Do tell!” Amanda raised an eyebrow. “Did this Browning fellow sweep you off your feet?”

  “No, this was Mark Baker. I think you’ve seen him. He’s been to a few game nights.”

  “FBI guy? Older fellow?”

  “He’s an FBI accountant, and he’s not that much older.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “More than okay,” I said. “He’s a really nice guy.”

  “Still processing.” She nodded. “Yeah, I can see that working. Is that where you’re headed now?”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk with Ken.” I glanced at my watch. “And I need to be back in time for Cathy’s doll meeting tonight.”

  “You’re seeing Ken!”

  “Not that way. Last night when we were discussing the case, I learned that Ken stopped talking to police. I hoped he might talk to me.”

  “Last night when you and Mark were discussing the case?”

  “And Dad.”

  “On a date? Liz, not that you asked my advice, but you need to keep your father out of your love life.”

  “Working on that. You okay here by yourself?”

  Amanda roughed up Kohl’s hair, and Kohl rushed to straighten it. “I have my favorite guy to help. We’re good.”

  * * *

  Halfway to Ken’s house, Dad’s warning not to chase any more geese niggled at my brain. But I relegated it to the category of “optional parental advice,” along with finishing broccoli before dessert and not dating Timothy Collins. (Okay, he’d been right about that last one.) But while Dad might not be pleased, I was determined not to let his overprotective instincts prevent me from helping keep Ken’s neck out of the noose. Or mine, either.

  Moments later, the door pushed open and Nancy stood there, drooling and panting. Okay, maybe that part was my imagination. On my way over, I’d nicknamed those two guard dogs that Ken called his sisters as Cujo and Mad Max.

  Cujo, aka Nancy, squinted at me. “Liz, right?”

  I nodded. “I hoped I might speak to your brother.”

  She swung open the door, and I followed her inside.

  The front door led directly to the living room, so I pushed off my snowy boots and left them on the mat. Cujo and Mad Max were already seated on the sectional by the time I finished, and after wiping the fog from my glasses, I realized the sisters were glaring at me. At least Nancy was.

  “He’s not here,” she finally said.

  “We thought he might be with you,” Grace added.

  “You don’t know where he is?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” Nancy said. “He left early this morning before we woke up, and he’s not answering his cell phone. The police …” Her eye twitched. “And by the police, I mean your father. He came by already, wanting to talk to him. We said Kenny’d just stepped out, but that was hours ago. Do you think they arrested him?”

  “If they had, you’d likely be one of the first to know,” I said, sliding into the stiff chair.

  “One would think,” Nancy said. “At least back home, someone would have the courtesy to call—not that we have much experience with that kind of thing, mind you. But up in New York?”

  “You’ll be relieved to know that the whole innocent-until-proven-guilty thing and the Constitution are in full effect here, too,” I said.

  “That’s good to hear.” Nancy picked a lint ball from her heavy sweater. Not quite sure why she needed it. The room felt as if someone had upped the thermostat to ninety.

  “Look,” I said, “I know you’re having a rough time with all of this, but please understand that nobody is trying to railroad your brother. In fact, I was hoping he’d tell me a little about Marya.” Then I remembered what Ken said about his sisters being closer to Marya than he was. Maybe, if I didn’t seem too much like a “pushy Yankee,” I could wheedle a little information from them.

  “Why?” Grace asked.

  I slipped off my coat. “If Ken didn’t kill her—and I know he didn’t—someone else did. Maybe there’s something in her background before she came here that might give the police another avenue of investigation and clear Ken.” And me, but I doubted they’d care too much about that.

  “The lawyer advised him not to say anything,” Nancy hedged.

  I put my hands up. “I’m not asking for anything that would incriminate your brother. I’d just like to know a little more about Marya. Maybe before she married Ken.”

  The two sisters shared several glances, then Nancy finally said, “Grace went to school with her.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Not friends, exactly,” Grace said. “I’m not sure Marya had any friends. She seemed quite the loner, even back then. And kids can be so cruel. We had no idea …” She trailed off and turned to Nancy.

  Nancy scooted forward to the edge of her seat. “Grace is too hard on herself. We come from a small town, and families there go back a ways, with most tracing their ancestry to the Civil War and many to the Revolutionary. Just about everybody there is kin to everybody else. Friendly. Established.”

  And rampant inbreeding, I thought, but kept my tongue.

  “Marya was different,” Grace said. “She had that funny accent. Nobody knew much about where she’d come from or where she lived …” Grace trailed off and all was silent except for a large grandfather clock which continued to tick loudly as the pendulum swung back and forth. And back and forth. And …

  “Where did she live, may I ask?” I hoped it sounded more polite with the “may I” tacked on. One thing I learned from being a cop’s daughter is that interrogations could be most effective when the subject had no idea they were being interrogated. It would be nice to be on the other end of that whole process. So I put on my most innocuous smile and waited.

  Finally, after a few more shared glances and when my fingernails were dug so tightly into my palm I worried they were going to pop out the other side of my hand, Nancy broke the silence. “Do you know anything about chicken ranches?”

  When I put my dropped jaw back into alignment, I said, “You mean … prostitution?”

  “Well!” Nancy barked, sounding more like Cujo by the minute.

  Grace paled. “Certainly not! I mean literal chicken ranches.”

  “Where they keep literal chickens?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Nancy said. “And slaughter them and pluck and disembowel them and get them ready for restaurants and supermarkets.”

  Grace had scrunched up her nose. “It’s awful work. I did it for three days in high school when I was trying to save up for a car, and I decided my bicycle would be just fine.”

  “They could never get enough workers to fill all those jobs.” Nancy pulled a throw pillow into her lap and smoothed the nap of it as if petting a cat. “So I guess they cut a few corners when it came to recruiting workers.”

  “Like checking immigration status,” I said. “And maybe age. Did Marya work there?”

  Grace shook her head. “The one good thing her sister did for her was keep her out.”

  “Anechka?” I said.

  “Oh, good,” Nancy said. “You know about Anechka then.”

  “Just the name,” I said.

  “She and a number of other workers and their families lived packed in these little rundown trailers near the plant,” Grace said. “When you passed the bend in the road, it was really funny how similar the trailers were to the cramped chicken houses.”

  “And these other workers,” I said, trying to speed up the conversation. “Did they also come from Russia? Legally?”

  “Not sure about that,” Nancy said, “but Marya told me once it was under false pretenses. Some thought they were coming as models, actresses, even teachers.” She set the pillow next to her and fluffed her claw marks out of it. “Anechka thought she was bringing Marya to America with her for
a better life.”

  “She was only a toddler when they arrived,” Grace said. “She had a fairly normal life, as much as Anechka could provide on what she earned plucking chickens. They had plans to quit and find a better situation as soon as she paid them back.”

  “Pay who back? For what?” I asked.

  “For the passage. The paperwork. The housing,” Grace said.

  And I guessed their silence.

  “Anechka really did her best to provide for them,” Nancy said. “And caring for her sister meant it took longer to pay back the—”

  “Traffickers?” I wasn’t about to excuse them with a polite word.

  “And then there was the medication,” Grace added, although Nancy shot her a foul look.

  “Whose medication?” I asked.

  Tick. Tick. Tick.

  “Lemme guess,” I said, running out of patience and having a pretty good idea of how this went down. “Anechka comes to this country under the guise of becoming a …?”

  “Russian teacher,” Grace offered.

  I winced. “And brings her little sister along in hopes of a better life.”

  “Her orphan sister,” Nancy said. “Their parents were dead.”

  “Right,” I said. “But after she arrived, she realized she’d been duped and was put to work long hours basically in a sweatshop.”

  Grace nodded.

  “Where she proceeded to do her best to pay back the scumbag traffickers and raise her sister outside of their influence—which probably cost her more.”

  Now they were both nodding.

  “You can see how this would take a physical and emotional toll on a young woman,” Nancy said. “And chicken needs to be kept cold, so that means working with sharp implements in a freezer all day. Fingers go numb … and then accidents happen.

  “Usually Anechka tried to keep her hands in her pockets,” Grace said, “but once I caught a glimpse and they were all swollen and bandaged. Anyone could tell she was in a lot of pain. You can’t blame her for taking something for that. And to get through the day. Some quack at the plant handed them out like candy.”

  “Of course they did,” I said. “So by the time Anechka had been here a year, she was probably pretty well hooked on …”