Murder by Tea a la Russe

Murder by Tea a la Russe

Copyright © 2019 by Esta Fischer

Print ISBN: 978-1-54398-326-5

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54398-327-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

All the characters, places and events in this work are fictitious

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

T ea, said Natalya Denisova.

My mother was seated in front of her laptop computer, looking at a blank Word screen. An empty glass, which had contained her morning vodka-laced orange juice, sat on the table, and from another glass she slurped tea through a sugar cube in the Russian manner.

I was no longer awakened by the sound of the tea kettle as I now slept in my renovated attic bedroom. My twin sisters and their nanny occupied two bedrooms on our second floor and my parents slept in the third bedroom. I now had to resort to an alarm clock to awaken in time to leave for high school at an early hour.

Do you need more hot water? I inquired.

I knew my mother was plotting her next mystery novel. She had resumed her early morning writing hours after my sisters’ birth, as that was the only time, except for late at night, when the house was quiet. Although our nanny took care of the babies, my mother was inclined to supervise (or, as my father phrased it, micromanage), which took up much of her time. She had also changed her belly dance practice schedule, as the blasting of her music woke the babies at nap time.

No, said my mother. In my next book, tea will contain the poison.

I was not a tea drinker myself, preferring either Turkish coffee or Coca Cola. As Coca Cola was a forbidden substance in our house, I drank it only at school and at outside social events such as birthday parties.

Will the tea be served from a samovar? I asked.

My mother frowned.

I have heard of the samovar but my family never used one. I think it is too complicated, she replied.

She peered at her computer screen through her new eyeglasses. She had been persuaded to acquire these after the birth of my sisters. My father had also acquired such glasses, the better to read recipes, as he did all our cooking.

We’re that age, he had pointed out, when we need reading glasses. They will give you an authorly appearance.

I will lose them, my mother stated.

You can buy several pairs and have them in each room, I suggested.

As a result, our cleaner, Marina, was constantly excavating eyeglasses wedged between sofa cushions, buried in bedsheets, and even on the edge of the bathtub. Marina was yet another new development in our house. As we now had an extra person in residence, Ludmila the nanny, in addition to twin babies, the additional usage of what my father euphemistically referred to as the facilities necessitated more housecleaning. Marina was not Russian, but as she was not physically attractive my mother had consented to her presence twice each week.

What sort of tea? I asked.

What do you mean? said my mother. Tea is tea.

There are many varieties of tea, I pointed out. There is black tea from India, and black, green and white teas from China. There is also Japanese green tea called Sencha. And then there are the herbal teas such as chamomile— I stopped as my mother had fixed me with a piercing stare.

"It will be Russian tea, of course!’ my mother nearly shouted.

I glanced at her half empty glass of tea.

But not from a samovar, she said, lowering her voice.

I was familiar with the samovar, as I had encountered it while researching authentic Russian cultural items when rewriting my mother’s previous books. The samovar consisted of a large metal container with a metal pipe running through the center and a tap at the bottom. The pipe was filled with fuel, and the fuel was ignited to heat the water filling the large metal container. After the water boiled, the fire was extinguished and a teapot was placed on the top to heat from the rising steam. A concentrated tea was brewed in the teapot and diluted with the boiled water from the main container.

I supposed the use of a samovar would not be necessary in a murder mystery, as either the tea or the water would contain poison. Unless a victim was to be boiled in an oversized samovar. But my mother’s mode of murder had always been poison.

If you poison a pot of tea, and several people drink that tea, they will all be poisoned, I commented.

That is the idea, said my mother.

So you have chosen a victim? I asked, although the plural might have been a better choice of word.

My question was crucial and complicated. The victims in all of my mother’s previous books had been modeled after a live person against whom my mother harbored ill-feelings: her ex-first husband, a problematic boss, her cousin Alla, and others. Following the publication of each book, these real people had suffered serious harm, and in two cases, death, though my mother denied having the power to cause these events. After her literary success she had left her day job as a computer software engineer. As a result her selection of possible victim models had become limited as she no longer had many daily encounters with the outside world.

The correlation of the literary and real victims was attributed to my mother’s possession of the Evil Eye of Belarus, which allowed her to cause harm merely by imagining it. This alleged talent was inherited from previous generations, and my grandmother, my mother and my mother’s cousin Alla all had it. I suspected that I, too, possessed the Evil Eye. Although I had no intention to cause harm to anyone, as I rewrote my mother’s books, correcting grammar and spelling, and improving plot, my involvement in my mother’s thought processes caused me to fear that I might be a culprit as well.

Not yet, my mother answered my question. But I have some ideas. She looked up from her computer screen and her eyes took on their dreamy expression, now magnified by her reading glasses. But I think it will be more than one victim. My previous books have had individual victims. I want to write something more sensational. Multiple murders will help to sell books, said Natalya Denisova. She took a vigorous slurp of tea.

I finished my cereal and put my bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Then I hurried upstairs to brush my teeth and take my school bag. As I came back down I heard a mewling noise, which came from one of my sisters. They were only three months old. I also heard Ludmila crooning in Russian.

After leaving the house I walked briskly towards our subway station. Marcy Chen, my friend from martial arts school, was waiting for me at the entrance. We dashed down the steps and squeezed ourselves onto a train. Our martial arts training helped us to subtly elbow and maneuver our way into the car. We pushed our way out two stops later and as we were now early for class we strolled slowly to the Academy for American Studies.

All the while, my mind was occupied by my mother’s new murder mystery. Although I did not have more homework than when I attended intermediate school, my trip to and from high school was somewhat longer than previously. In addition, I continued to attend martial arts school and had begun special advanced training to prepare for my black belt test. Although this test was still two years away, I had much to learn.

You seem preoccupied, Marcy commented.

I had not told Marcy about my literary work. Although I felt she was trustworthy, I also felt secrets were meant to be kept secret.

I’m just distracted by my family, martial arts class, and the new school, I replied.

Yes, Marcy agreed. High school has been a major adjustment. But I’m hoping by the spring we can form our martial arts club.

We had briefly discussed forming such a club when we learned we would both be attending the Academy. However, based on my observation of the other students at the school, and listening to their conversations, I doubted there would be interest in martial arts. Most students’ conversations consisted of references to the opposite sex, and to entertainers such as Adele and Taylor Swift.

See you later, said Marcy as we entered the Academy, and we each went off to our first class.

Chapter 2

The following Saturday, as I came downstairs, I heard our front door slam shut. This was a rare occurrence, as good manners and care of our property had been instilled in myself and my mother by my father when we first moved into our house nine years earlier. I hurried to the landing. My mother was in our living room. She had thrown her tote bag on the sofa and was standing with her hands on her hips. My father emerged from the kitchen.

Has something happened? he inquired.

Yes, something has happened! my mother nearly shouted. Actually, she continued in a quieter tone, it is somebody that has happened at the belly dance studio.

A long moment of silence followed. My father did not entirely approve of my mother’s belly dancing. However, he adopted a sympathetic tone.

We can have some drinks and you can tell us about it, said he. Leo, please make a pot of Turkish coffee.

I would like a vodka, said my mother.

My father and I exchanged looks. After the birth of my sisters, our doctor had advised my mother that she must cut back her alcohol consumption, as she was now of an age when she needed to pay more attention to her health. He had suggested red wine as her alcoholic beverage of choice.

So I explained that I am Russian and we drink vodka, my mother reported.

You know what the doctor told you, my father now began, but he did not continue.

This is an emergency! my mother declared, and she looked at me. Leo, please bring me a vodka.

I would have called this situation an extenuating circumstance, but I suspected the word extenuating had not yet entered my mother’s English vocabulary. I went to the kitchen for a glass, then fetched a bottle of vodka from the credenza, and poured my mother’s usual amount of vodka into the glass. Then we all sat at the dining table.

There is a new student at the belly dance studio, my mother began after she had consumed half of her drink. She is Greek, and she thinks she is the expert on belly dance.

Why do you say this? my father asked.

I know this because she did nothing but criticize every movement made by everyone, even Zoraya, said my mother, and she took on a tone even bossier than her normal way of speaking. ‘Where I come from we do it this way, I think you’re not wearing your hip scarf properly, the studio I attended before was much larger.’

What did Zoraya say about this? my father asked.

Zoraya told her this is how we do things here, said my mother. And then in the changing room after class, this woman looked at me and said I was really too small and skinny to be a belly dancer. I told her it was not necessary to look like a hippopotamus to be a belly dancer. She took a sip of vodka and smiled with satisfaction.

Does she really look like a hippopotamus? I inquired.

She is big and fat, and her hair could use a good washing, my mother replied.

If she is so unpleasant, why doesn’t Zoraya ask her to leave? my father asked.

Zoraya is annoyed, but I don’t think she knows what to do, said my mother. I don’t think anything like this has happened before.

Perhaps Sari Potemkin can write a newspaper article about the studio, and say how it’s important for the dancers to cooperate, I suggested.

Sari Potemkin was the reporter who had written several newspaper articles about my mother and her literary successes.

This woman is so dense I am sure she does not read any newspaper, my mother replied.

She drank her remaining vodka and placed the empty glass firmly on the table. Suddenly a dreamy look appeared on her face.

I must practice my latest number, said my mother. Call me for lunch.

She got up from the table and left the room. Soon the sound of belly dance music could be heard coming from the basement. My father shook his head, shrugged, and returned to the kitchen, where he had been about to prepare our lunch.

My mother’s departure to her basement studio, combined with her displeasure with the new belly dance student, made me uneasy. In a book about the Evil Eye of Belarus, loaned to me by my grandmother, the use of music was suggested to heighten a possessor’s power. My mother had often sequestered herself in her studio when devising literary plots. I suspected she had found a real-life victim in the person of the Greek woman, and she would now move ahead with her story. At the same time I was glad to have an inkling of her intention, as this would be helpful when I began to rewrite her book.

Ludmila, my sisters’ nanny, suddenly appeared in the dining room en route to the kitchen. As she walked, she swayed to the belly dance music and I wondered if she had studied belly dance. I had a sudden vision of the future, in which my mother, Ludmila, and my sisters Gina and Gaia, were assembled in the basement studio dancing to Middle Eastern rhythms.

Sorry to disturb you, she addressed my father. I am going to bring my lunch upstairs.

Although our nanny was considered part of our family and expected to take her meals with us when her duties permitted, she had explained that she preferred Russian food to my father’s Italian dishes. On her day off she traveled to Brighton Beach and returned with large shopping bags filled with containers of prepared food. These were stored in our basement freezer, which took up a corner of the laundry room, along with a small microwave oven where Ludmila heated her meal and carried it upstairs on a tray.

She proceeded to take a plate, cutlery, and napkins, and continued downstairs.

This house has become a circus, my father muttered as he rummaged in the refrigerator. I think we’ll have paninis for lunch. Provolone and ham. And a salad.

Although my father frequently complained about the household level of activity, he appeared to be quite smitten with my sisters. After their birth, he had arranged for a photographer to take family photographs in our living room. When he suggested this to my mother she had vigorously protested, reminding him of her previous experience with Andre the newspaper photographer, who had stalked her, taking pictures of her. But my father had obtained a good reference from one of his Wine Shop clients, and my mother finally agreed.

Several of these framed photos were displayed on a lamp table beside the sofa. There was one of my parents each holding a baby and myself seated between them, one of my mother with a baby in each arm, and one of my father similarly posed. The photographer had attempted to take one of myself with a baby on each arm, but as soon as they were properly situated Gina began to wail. Ludmila interpreted this sound as an indication of a deposit in the baby’s diaper, and the session abruptly ended. When I walked through our living room I noted that the picture of my father holding the babies was always prominently placed, and I wondered if he had instructed our cleaner to do this when she dusted the furniture.

As my father assembled his ingredients, he also put out salad items. It had become my job on weekends to prepare salads for our meals. I suspected this was the beginning of my father’s attempt to turn me into a high-level cook like himself. I did not disabuse him of this notion, as doing so would only create disappointment and possible ill-will. While I appreciated the expertise he demonstrated in feeding our family, I had no intention of making food preparation my life’s work, or even an avocation. I had narrowed my career choices to three: murder mystery writer (as I already had much experience in this field); international spy (my knowledge of the Russian language and my probable possession of the Evil Eye of Belarus as primary qualifications); attorney-at-law (my mother’s choice). I supposed attorney was the most practical occupation, but it seemed to me the dullest, unless I were to become a trial lawyer and defend prominent persons such as divorcing movie stars. But at the moment I deferred to my father’s wishes and sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and red onions into a salad bowl, washed and dried lettuce, and sprinkled chopped parsley over all. I was not yet allowed to prepare the dressing as my father considered this a complex chemical procedure. The aroma of melting cheese and grilled ham permeated the kitchen as I placed the salad on our dining table.

Please tell your mother lunch is served, said my father, and I headed downstairs.

Chapter 3

I must go to an important appointment this afternoon, so I will not be here when you come back from school, my mother announced one morning.

She had worked at her laptop every day for several weeks. The announcement of her absence was a signal that it was time for me to read and rewrite her book in progress. My mother had chosen a Wednesday, as I arrived home by one p.m. and was not due at martial arts class until five. I was in the habit of utilizing this time to complete my homework and perform warm-up exercises prior to leaving for the Tae Kwon Do Academy. However, these tasks rarely consumed the entire afternoon, and I was sure I could accomplish editorial and creative work as well.

I first went to the refrigerator to assemble my lunch. This meal consisted of a sandwich. Although I felt I was capable of frying eggs or preparing a panini, my father was reluctant to allow anyone the use of his expensive kitchen equipment. He had left a can of Italian tuna fish on the kitchen counter, and I took this as a hint that I was to prepare a tuna fish salad sandwich. I accompanied the sandwich with a Turkish coffee, then settled at the dining table with my mother’s laptop.

The story began with Pavel Ostroffsky, a high level Russian attaché at a government office. He had a wife of twenty-five years named Olga. Although he felt she had served him well and bore him three healthy children, he wanted to end his marriage due to an affair with a young belly dancer named Valeria. Under ordinary circumstances he would simply ask Olga for an amicable divorce. This might have been possible as Pavel and Olga had lived their own lives after their children had grown up and moved away. Once the divorce was finalized, Pavel could then be seen publicly with Valeria without repercussion, as he was concerned that a scandal would dash his hopes of a big promotion at his job. However, Valeria had informed Pavel that she was pregnant. He had tried to persuade her to have an abortion but she had refused. She also told him he would be named as the baby’s father on the birth certificate. He decided that even if his wife agreed to a divorce, this process would take too long and a scandal would follow the baby’s birth. In addition, Valeria could sue him for child support, making his wife an injured party in a lawsuit and allowing the two women to drain most of his income. Therefore, the fastest way to rid himself of Olga was to have her murdered.

I paused to refresh my Turkish coffee and to fetch a package of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls from my school backpack. Due to my mother’s healthful eating regime, we no longer kept packages of cookies in our house. Every day I stopped in at the Deli across the street from school and purchased an afternoon snack. Swiss Rolls were my favorite. I was always careful to place the wrapper into my school bag to be discarded the next school day in the cafeteria to avoid detection of my illicit activity.

While I munched, taking care not to allow crumbs to fall onto the laptop, I contemplated my mother’s plot. As usual, it was unoriginal and relied on ordinary circumstances. After much thought and the Swiss Roll, I added to the plot.

At the same time Pavel was planning the death of his wife, Olga had hired a private detective to follow Pavel, and she knew of his affair with Valeria. Although she was very angry, she did not want to harm her husband. He earned a high salary and was being considered for promotion. Also, through his political contacts they had an active social life with many elaborate dinners. Therefore, she decided to poison Valeria to end her husband’s affair. This turn of events would be more difficult to accomplish than Pavel’s simply poisoning his wife, and would increase suspense as the reader tried to guess if Olga would poison her husband’s mistress before she herself was poisoned. I had learned in English class that complexity in literature made reading more interesting. (On second thought, many people did not have the degree of intelligence necessary to comprehend complexity, but nevertheless I resolved to forge ahead with my new plot.)

I was highly satisfied with this revised plot and was about to close the laptop when Ludmila appeared in the dining room. She wore special slippers that made no sound, so I had not heard her coming down the stairs. Ludmila had explained she wore such slippers so as not to wake the babies when she walked. However, these slippers also allowed her to appear suddenly without warning, and gave her the option to eavesdrop on conversations. I assumed that she assumed that I, being a mere