Dead of Winter Page 7

“Moroskov did. A priceless one from a private collection in Moscow. You may have heard of imperial eggs?”

  “You mean Fabergé eggs?”

  “Yes. That’s why it was such big news. Moroskov murdered a few innocent people during the heist, but they couldn’t pin anything on him. After he walked, he had a replica of the egg’s design and color scheme tattooed on his arm, along with the date. That’s how the ME was able to ID him so quickly.”

  “Why would anyone want to wear the evidence of a crime he got away with?”

  “Sheer hubris. Fred said the guy’s covered in ink drawings of prominent stolen artwork, precious jewels, rare artifacts—he’s a walking tapestry.”

  “Guess he figured he’d never get caught, but it doesn’t seem very smart to . . . you know, wear the evidence on your sleeve, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not talking about a cunning criminal kingpin. Moroskov’s just one piece of a very large, complicated operation based in Europe and New York.” He steeples his hands under his chin and changes the subject. “Fred said you’re a witness—that you saw something or heard something out on the lake last night?”

  “A scream.” She shudders, remembering the eerie cry echoing across the lake, and explains the situation to Luther.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” he says, “the ME thinks Moroskov had been dead for at least an hour before he hit the water. So far there’s no evidence that he was killed nearby. And I’m sure whoever did it is long gone. Like I said, these guys are pros.”

  “You think it was a hit?”

  “Something like that, if I had to guess.”

  “Do you think we’re in danger here, Luther?” she asks, thinking of Max and of Misty’s school bus vision.

  “No. I honestly don’t think the killer is wandering around the Dale or even has any ties to the immediate area. He was probably just looking for a remote spot to dump the body. I don’t even think that was a scream last night. I’ve heard the owls’ mating cries around here at this time of year. That’s probably all it was.”

  She nods, trying to summon relief.

  Nothing but a great horned owl.

  Yep, that’s all.

  Just a big old legendary harbinger of death and doom.

  * * *

  This morning, after Priscilla Galante had left, Misty spotted a commotion at the end of the street. Her first thought was that it might have something to do with her unsettling vision about Jiffy on the school bus.

  But Odelia Lauder, watching the action from her porch, said some guy had drowned in the lake—something like that. Whatever. Misty has too many problems of her own to worry about a tragedy that doesn’t involve her.

  She goes back inside and drifts aimlessly around the house, wondering about the vision and worrying about how to pay the rent. Odelia had mentioned that she’d referred someone to Misty because she herself didn’t have an open slot, but who knows if that will pan out?

  At least Priscilla will be back tomorrow. When Misty had invited her to return for a do-over, she’d never expected her to agree.

  But she’d said, “Sure. What time?”

  “What time is good for you? I mean, it’s a weekday, and you must be working.”

  “I’m off this week.”

  If Misty hadn’t been so rattled at the time, she might have wondered if that was really the case. The remark had seemed a little forced. But what does it matter? If she comes back, Misty will earn some sorely needed cash.

  As long as I can read her next time.

  She looks out the front window to see if Pandora Feeney’s car is parked at her cottage across Melrose Park. Yesterday, she’d mentioned that she was heading to Buffalo to meet a friend and wouldn’t be back until midafternoon.

  It’s past two now, but she still hasn’t returned, and Misty’s patience is wearing thin. She really wants to discuss her vision with someone, and Pandora is the only person she’d dare tell around here. Everyone else, even Odelia, seems critical of Misty’s parenting skills. It’s not that they say anything, but judgment radiates whenever someone mentions that they saw Jiffy here or there or he did this or that. They’d probably interpret her vision as a warning to keep Jiffy on a shorter leash.

  She’s doing her best, struggling along on her own here with an energetic kid who tests her patience along with his boundaries every minute of every day. She hadn’t given him this much freedom back in Arizona and not just because he had been younger. Things were different there. That had felt like the real world.

  Sometimes Lily Dale doesn’t. It’s a throwback to a simpler, safer era, an old-fashioned community where people look out for each other. Here, she can loosen the reins and allow him to explore the way she did when she was a child, spending summers here with her great-aunt Ellen.

  She turns away from the window and considers calling Mike. Not to tell him about the vision, necessarily. But they still haven’t discussed specifics for his upcoming visit for Christmas, and anyway . . .

  Maybe she needs to feel connected to someone right now. Someone who isn’t on the Other Side.

  Someone who’s supposed to be on her side.

  Her soul mate.

  She thinks about that day seven years ago, when she first spotted him at the amusement park, about to take his turn at the snow cone stand. She grabbed her friend’s arm and pointed. “See that guy? He’s the one.”

  “What are you talking about? Wait, where are you going? What are you doing?”

  She was marching over to the snow cone stand, stepping up beside Mike as he placed his order.

  “I’ll have cherry, please,” she’d said when the cashier asked him if that was all.

  “Excuse me?” Mike turned to gape at her.

  She didn’t look into his eyes as much as she melted into them, her soul fusing with his.

  “Did you say cherry?” the cashier had asked, and she recovered her voice.

  “Yeah. Cherry. Extra syrup.”

  Mike bought her the snow cone. Their first date had been the following night. On their second, she’d slipped and mentioned that he was going to marry her someday. That had scared him off for a while, but he’d drifted back, just as Spirit had promised he would.

  They were meant to be.

  Still are, though he’s a world away from her now and somehow seemed even more remote than when she saw him in New York City last May.

  But I still love him. And need him.

  She finds her cell phone, still silenced from her session with Priscilla. She’s missed a call from an unfamiliar number, and there’s a message, but it’ll keep.

  It’s almost midnight where Mike is stationed and costly to call him there. She dials his number anyway.

  It rings a few times before he picks up, sounding groggy.

  “Hey, babe,” she says, “it’s me.”

  “Sorry, I feel asleep. How’d it go?”

  “How’d what go?”

  A pause. “Mary Ellen?”

  “Yes,” she says, born Mary Ellen Grzeszkiewicz twenty-four years ago. “Who did you think it was?”

  “Oh . . . one of the guys was supposed to call me back about something.”

  “About what?”

  “It’s not important. What’s going on? Why are you calling me so late?”

  “It’s not late here. And I needed to talk to you.”

  “Why? Is something wrong?”

  He sounds concerned. Good. He should be.

  “Yes, something’s wrong.”

  “What is it? Is Michael okay?”

  “He is now, but . . .”

  “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  “I had a premonition.”

  He exhales audibly. Not, she realizes when he speaks again, in relief.

  “What was it this time?” he asks, and she can see him rolling his eyes at her.

  “You really want me to tell you?”

  “If you want to.”

  She doesn’t. Not anymore. “I’m j
ust worried about him now.”

  “About Michael?”

  “Jiffy. Yes.”

  “Then keep an eye on him.”

  “I always do.”

  He says nothing to that, just asks around a yawn, “Is that it, then? You called about the premonition?”

  In other words, Can I hang up and go back to bed?

  “No. I called about Christmas.”

  “We need to talk about that right this second?”

  “You didn’t answer my text about which day you’re coming.”

  “My leave starts on the twenty-second.”

  “Okay . . . so are you getting a connecting flight from JFK to Buffalo? Or renting a car in New York and driving here?”

  Silence.

  “Mike? Which is it?”

  “Neither.”

  “Neither?”

  “I don’t want to spend Christmas in Lily Dale. I hate everything about that place. It’s creepy and crowded and—”

  “That was during the season. The crowds, I mean.” She bites her tongue to keep from insisting that it isn’t creepy. He was only here once, years ago. “It’s different now. There’s no gate fee, no crowd. It’s peaceful and relaxing. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t want to see. You guys can meet me in New York City for the holidays. Michael would love all those store windows, and we can go skating by the tree in Rockefeller Center and see Santa at Macy’s . . .”

  “Are you serious?”

  “He loved New York last May.”

  “And it cost us a fortune to spend one night there then. How would we afford Christmas?”

  “Okay, then we’ll spend it with your mom in Cleveland.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  A decade ago, her widowed mother married a man who had three young sons from his first marriage, and they’ve since had two daughters together. There’s barely room for lunch guests in their tiny house overrun with children, clutter, and chaos, let alone long-term visitors.

  “Jiffy and I spent the night there last May when we were driving east. We slept in sleeping bags on the floor in the hallway. With the dog. I promised myself never again.”

  “I had a feeling you might say that. But I have another idea. How about Bethlehem? It’s not that far away, and—”

  “Maybe not far for you, but Jiffy and I can’t fly to the Middle East, Mike.”

  “Not that Bethlehem. My hometown!”

  Flabbergasted, she says, “But you haven’t spoken to your father in years!”

  “That’s long enough. Life is too short to hold grudges. I think I’m ready to mend the fences. Wouldn’t it be nice for Jiffy to have a grandpa? And an uncle? I’d like to show you and Jiffy where I grew up.”

  They’ve already seen it, last May when they were driving from her mother’s in Cleveland to meet Mike in New York. They’d stopped for lunch in Allentown at a little café called the Couch Potato. Unaware that he was a stone’s throw from his father’s hometown, Jiffy had gobbled curly fries smothered in melted cheese and bacon as Misty scrutinized every man in the place, searching for a resemblance to Mike.

  She’d opted not to tell him about it when they got to New York, thinking it might upset him and ruin the fleeting time they had together. He’s never liked to discuss his past. So why the sudden change?

  “It’s great that you want to reconcile with your family, Mike. But we can’t just show up there for Christmas after all these years.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because . . . because it’s crazy, that’s why not.”

  “Any crazier than spending it in a wacky town full of people who talk to ghosts?”

  Mike doesn’t know that Jiffy has a gift. It isn’t something she wants to tell him over the phone or via text. She’d thought it could wait until Christmas, when she could show him how happy they are here.

  Now he’s not coming.

  And suddenly, this conversation isn’t just about the holiday. It’s about where, and with whom, she’s going to spend the rest of her life—this one and those to come.

  “My son is going to wake up on Christmas morning in his own bed.”

  “Well then, I guess that means you’re going to be driving our son to Arizona. I’ll change my plane ticket to Phoenix.’”

  “Feel free. But Jiffy and I will be in Lily Dale for Christmas. If you want to see us, you know where to find us,” she says and hangs up, shaking.

  Chapter Five

  Beyond a pair of French doors in Valley View’s parlor lies a small room with creamy yellow walls and a built-in window seat with blue-and-white floral cushions. Leona Gatto had used it as a meditation room, but for Bella, it’s a pleasant little study. It’s just big enough for a desk that holds the computer where she sits now, typing Amur Leopard into a search engine.

  It returns plenty of hits, first and foremost about the animal itself. It’s an endangered species in Russia, recognized—and hunted—for its distinctive, exquisitely patterned skin.

  Kind of like Yuri Moroskov himself, Bella notes, and she types his name instead.

  How, she’s been wondering, did an internationally notorious mobster find his way into Cassadaga Lake?

  The search returns a long list of links to news about the Amur Leopard gang and the Easter Egg Heist that Luther mentioned. It had been front page news around the world, but there’s a good reason Bella doesn’t remember it. She was in labor with Max that Easter. International crime headlines were the last thing on her mind.

  According to the online accounts, the Fabergé eggs were made for the Russian tsars back in the late 1800s through early 1900s. There are only about fifty of them in the world, and seven have been lost over the years. Those that remain are priceless.

  On Easter Sunday, the most important day of the Russian Orthodox calendar, a brazen thief had slipped into a private home in Moscow, murdered the elderly resident and her household staff, and stolen the egg known as the Budding Crocus.

  It’s encrusted with alexandrite, one of the most precious gemstones in the world, known for its startling ability to change colors. In some lights, it tends to appear green, in others, red or purple. Thus, the floral design cleverly depicts buds giving way to blossoms.

  The egg has never been recovered. Moroskov was indeed a suspect, but as Luther said, the lack of evidence set him free.

  From there, he made his way to the United States, where he has used a number of aliases and was thought to be linked to many more thefts of priceless gems, artwork, and rare artifacts stolen overseas, smuggled to Canada, and then into this country.

  This is starting to make more sense to Bella now. The Canadian border is a little over an hour north of Lily Dale. And now Moroskov has been murdered—by whom? Should it matter? The man has no connection to Bella or Valley View or Lily Dale.

  Still . . .

  This is one day she’s going down to the bus stop, no matter what Max and Jiffy have to say about it.

  * * *

  Misty was sure Mike would call back immediately to apologize. But when immediately gave way to ten minutes, and now half an hour, she realizes it’s not going to happen.

  Maybe he fell asleep.

  Or maybe he’s busy talking to the someone-else whose call he was expecting.

  How’d it go?

  Misty seethes, pacing the master bedroom that she has never shared with Mike and, according to him, never will.

  How’d what go?

  He said it wasn’t important. Said it was one of the guys, but . . .

  Things are adding up.

  They used to be good at the long-distance relationship thing. She’d felt connected to him even when he was overseas. Now she probably wouldn’t even if they were sharing a bed.

  Hey, babe, it’s me, she’d said when he picked up the phone.

  He’d mistaken that for one of the guys?

  She curses and looks around for something satisfyingly fragile to hurtle across the room. Her gaze lands on the bedside clock. />
  Jiffy will be coming home from school soon. What the heck is she supposed to tell him about Christmas?

  Remembering her vision, she’s tempted to crawl into her rumpled, lonely bed and pull the sheets over her head. She might, if they’d been changed more recently. They’re stale, smeared with chocolate from the morning Jiffy brought her “breakfast” in bed, and belong in the mountain of dirty clothing and linens she should be sorting for tomorrow’s avoid-the-landlord trip to the laundromat because, oh, yeah, she can’t pay her rent.

  Beneath her bedroom window, she hears a car coming down Cottage Row, driving much too quickly to be Pandora—or, fortunately, Virgil. The driver can’t possibly be familiar with the Dale’s potholes.

  Her doorbell rings a minute later.

  Frowning, she goes to the window. A black luxury SUV sits parked in the spot reserved for her clients.

  She checks her reflection in the bureau mirror. Her haywire hair is as out of control as her emotions. She picks up a brush, then sets it down again. Why bother? Yesterday’s coffee dribble is prominently featured on the purple sweater she picked up from the floor this morning. It’s tighter than it was when she bought it a few months ago and not because it shrunk. She’s never been particularly svelte, but she’s been eating—and all right, maybe drinking—more than she used to and picked up some extra pounds.

  She gives up on her appearance and heads downstairs, hoping that whoever is at the door is looking for a reading and that she’ll be able to deliver this time.

  The buxom middle-aged redhead on her porch starts talking before she can say a word. “I tried calling you this morning for an appointment. Your neighbor Ophelia gave me your number because she was booked. She said you take walk-ins, so I’m walking in.”

  “Odelia.”

  “What?”

  “Her name is Odelia, not Ophelia.”

  “Okay. Odelia.”

  She’s wearing an insincere smile, several gaudy rings with massive diamonds, and what appears to be a genuine leopard fur coat, unzipped to bare generous cleavage in a low-cut V neck. She reeks of stale cigarette smoke. Her long nails are probably as fake as the rest of her, polished in glittery scarlet, the same shade as her aura.

  A red aura signifies passion, adventure, and a competitive spirit, but with her, Misty gets plenty of conflict and perhaps greed.