Crimespree Magazine #56 Page 10

  Erica Ruth: Fair enough. I don’t have the same level of interest in ballet per say, but I liked the Russian spy angle. And really there wasn’t a TON of actual ballet.

  Beth: There wasn’t. There was a lot of shady Bolshoi politics, which can be just as interesting as the dancing. I was just looking through a few articles I read in the past year about the awful year Russian ballet is having, and one of them was written by the author of this book, I hadn’t even realized.

  Erica Ruth: I mean, I find shady politics—even those of the famous Russian Bolshoi ballet—super intriguing. OH! And the same author. Fascinating. Why are they having such a terrible year?

  Beth: It turns out the corruption that plagued the dance company in the early 80’s, when the novel is set, stuck around long after the fall. They had a rough year of allegations of corruption, prostitution and a really nasty acid-in-the-face attack on their artistic director. I mean, it’s AWFUL. The kind of awful I just can’t stop reading about. At all.

  Erica Ruth: Acid-in-the-face is compelling like that. What did you think about the characters? I liked the protagonist Marina...I felt like while she had some hysterical moments (but what teenage girl doesn’t), overall she handled her immigration to the US and loss of her mother well. (I mean, her mother didn’t necessarily DIE, she was locked up in an institution.) (In Russia. Which I bet was the best time ever had.)

  Beth: Haha. When she got so stressed about having visions of her mother as an old, haggard woman I wanted to be like, “Marina, honey. Wrinkles and scraggly hair are the least of her worries.” I liked Marina a lot, though. I read a lot of young adult novels, so I spend a lot of time in the mind of fictional teenagers.

  Erica Ruth: So how did Marina rate?

  Beth: It was refreshing how, even in her moments of drama, self-possessed she was. She was smart, but didn’t figure things out too quickly, which was realistic and kept the tension going.

  Erica Ruth: I agree. She was composed, and even when she was stressed about her mother, or her father getting in with the Russian mafia, she kept her eye on what she needed to do. And worked towards keeping her family (what was left) together.

  Beth: Exactly. There was a line near the beginning of the book, when she first found out that her mother was missing, and she and her father were going to have to hightail it to the US under a cloak of darkness, that I really liked.

  Erica Ruth: I especially like the idea of a cloak of darkness.

  Beth: I have always wanted to do something under a GIANT dramatic cloak of darkness, so I thought I’d throw that in.

  Erica Ruth: But we digress.

  Beth: Always. Anyway, she was trying to piece all the information her father was giving her, which could have been a lie, or the truth, or the truth as far as he knew it, or delusional nonsense, and she kept attempting to parse out her place in all of it, and finally came up with: “This is a story about my mother and father, not their daughter.” I thought that line kind of set the tone for the whole book.

  Erica Ruth: Agreed. It was amazing.

  Beth: She’s a teen girl, she’s going to think of things in terms of herself (I mean, we all do), but with each new twist in the story, it gets further and further away from her.

  Erica Ruth: And she’s able to see what her place in that is, or not at all. Shows an amazing amount of perspective on her part.

  Beth: Exactly. But still, dancing and boys still occupied a lot of her time. Which kept things real.

  Erica Ruth: I also really liked how the love interest (because of COURSE there is a love interest, you guys) wasn’t immediately apparent to her. She did not catch on to his interest for a while, which I found very charming.

  Beth: OH, it was charming. What I also found charming was the voice Kiem gave her. I appreciated the subtle difference in dialog between when she was supposed to be talking to characters in Russian, or in her limited English. Of course, we read it all in English, but parts that were supposed to be in Russian flowed a lot more smoothly, and that was very clever.

  Erica Ruth: VERY clever. It was very subtle but used to good effect. I think it showed her comfort with Russian and that aspect of her life and how learning English and her new country was more difficult and stilted. Let’s talk about the creepy uncle. Because he was creepy, right?

  Beth: Oh, Uncle Gosha. I imagined that he smelled like sausages.

  Erica Ruth: HAHAHA!! I was imagining a very cheap cologne....and entirely too much of it. Maybe some gold chains. He was such an important character though, since he ultimately led to her father’s downfall. Sausage stink and all.

  Beth: Her father was an interesting character to me, too, and I wondered if he wouldn’t have lost it even without Uncle Sausage around. Most of his actions from the time they left Moscow, and even probably before, were reactions, and desperate ones.

  Erica Ruth: True. He was sort of coming unhinged there.

  Beth: Oh man. So unhinged.

  Erica Ruth: The visions were also an interesting plot point. Both Marina and her mother Sveta, the famous Russian ballerina, had those visions of terrible things. Without them there would have been no impetus to leave Russia or loss of Sveta. I mean, beyond the OBVIOUS impetus to ever leave Russia.

  Beth: Yeah! To be honest, at first I found the visions a little annoying, I was a little disappointed, it seemed like she was going to be able to solve the mystery because she had this special power. I like my lady mystery-solvers to use nothing but their brains and their ballet slippers. After significant things changed in the action, though, her visions of what will happen to Sveta changed as well. I liked that. That the future she saw changed.

  Erica Ruth: YES. I like the concept that nothing is written in stone....the future can be re-written. Maybe it’s because I’ve been watching so much Doctor Who.

  Beth: Maybe Uncle Sausage WAS Doctor Who!

  Erica Ruth: Doctor Who would never be that gross.

  Beth: I have not actually watched that much Doctor Who, so I get it mixed up with Quantum Leap sometimes. So that’s probably not even possible.

  Erica Ruth: Now I’m imagining Uncle Sausage looks like the Quantum Leap guy. (What’s his NAME?)

  Beth: Scott Bakula

  Erica Ruth: GOD. Yes. Scott Bakula is Uncle Sausage.

  Beth: Haha.

  Erica Ruth: WAIT. NO. Isn’t Scott Bakula Charles in Charge?

  Beth: No, that’s Scott Baio.

  Erica Ruth: My memory is worthless.

  Beth: I think a fun new game for any book you read is try to guess which character is actually Scott Bakula leaping into the story.

  Erica Ruth: HAHAHAHA. Let’s play that. Always.

  Beth: So. I have a question for you.

  Erica Ruth: I am ready.

  Beth: Without giving too much away.

  Erica Ruth: Hit me. OH the anticipation.

  Beth: So, you and I talk about books a lot, and how it’s very easy for both us to lose ourselves in a mystery.

  Erica Ruth: Yes. Those are facts.

  Beth: And how the “I TOTALLY saw that coming!” thing usually does not apply to us. Blissfully so. So, did you figure out what was actually going on with the mysterious Russian dance partner she was paired up with after she was accepted into Juilliard?

  Erica Ruth: NO. But I was really glad that went the way that it did.

  Beth: I am embarrassed to tell you: I read this book twice, and it was a surprise the SECOND time as well. The one and only benefit of having a horrible memory.

  Erica Ruth: HAHA! I am often surprised by re-reads in the same way. It’s sort of comforting that we share that terrible memory.

  Beth: This book is so twisty and great.

  Erica Ruth: It really is. I’ll admit that it took me a few chapters to get invested, but once I was, I really enjoyed it.

  Beth: I like pulling a teenage girl out of a privileged life in her home country, and watching her try to get to the bottom of an international conspiracy while trying to learn a language and figure
out a new culture as a premise. She can’t trust anyone’s motives because everyone is so corrupt, but she also might not be able to figure out anyone’s motives anyway.

  Erica Ruth: So true. She isn’t sure she can even trust her father. It adds a lot to the tension of the story. Setting it in the 80’s is also inspired. Lends a further depth to the story simply because of the political turmoil at the time.

  Beth: Anyway. I don’t know how to wrap this up.

  Erica Ruth: Well. Wrapping this up is awkward. But we hope you like the book.

  Beth: We do. At least I do. I think Erica does too. I think we both do.

  Erica Ruth: Yes. Well. I apologize for speaking for the both of us.

  Beth: Don’t apologize.

  Erica Ruth: I’m not actually sorry.

  Beth: NO REGRETS.

  Erica Ruth: NO REGRETS, Beth. And you probably won’t regret this book, folks.

  Beth: That was clever, girl.

  Erica Ruth: Well, you know. I have my moments.

  Back to TOC

  Rockwell’s Cat

  L. B. Thomas

  Issue 56

  I sit and whittle on the front porch of the late Boris Kovalevsky’s forest cabin. I’m shaping a train whistle for my eight-year-old son, Clark. Every few minutes I check my watch, 4:39, then 4:42, then 4:47. I’ve been warned by the County Secretary that Detective Rockwell isn’t punctual, so it’s not a surprise that he’s almost an hour overdue. I really would like to get this nasty business about Boris settled quickly, but I’m able to take comfort in the calming movements of the pocketknife gliding through the soft pinewood.

  Finally, I see Rockwell’s truck, bouncing along the rundown dirt road; each pothole kicks a tire up like a kernel of popcorn. This road is just straight hell for truck shocks.

  I stand, put away the pocketknife, pick up the case files from the wooden deck and walk forward to meet Rockwell. He has jet black hair combed and gelled flat to his head, and when he steps out of the county truck, I see that he’s wearing a dark suit—a full three-piece suit, with dress shoes to match, out here in the middle of nowhere. When I heard that the county was sending over a detective from Los Angeles, I didn’t expect he’d be a full-blown city-slicker type.

  “Howdy,” I say. “I’m Deputy Eugene Franks.”

  Rockwell digs through a black leather bag on his dashboard and removes latex gloves and a notepad. He barely looks up when he talks. “I’m aware of who you are.” He snaps one pair of gloves onto his hands and tosses another pair at me. “Let’s not contaminate the crime scene any more than I’m sure you already have.” He walks past me towards the cabin. I’ve also been warned by the county secretary that Detective Rockwell isn’t personable.

  As I struggle to get the snug gloves on, Rockwell inspects the front entrance of the cabin. “Where did the alleged crime occur?” he asks.

  “We don’t know, sir. All we know is that we found the body there, sprawled out on the steps.”

  “Like this?” Rockwell holds his hands up in the air, mimicking someone crawling along the ground.

  “Yes.”

  “Was he crawling up the steps, or down?”

  “Up.”

  “The victim was old, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir. Eighty-two.”

  Rockwell studies the landscape surrounding the cabin, nothing but a small pond and endless pine trees. “This is out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”

  “Yes, sir. About forty miles from Chesterville. At least twenty miles from the next nearest residence, I would think.”

  “What the hell makes any of you yokels think this was a murder? Looks to me like the old man croaked in front of his shack. End of story.”

  “Because of the toxicology report, sir.” I dig through my notes. “We found a lethal dose of…”

  “Ketamine. I know. I read the autopsy. Are you aware, Deputy, that Ketamine is used as a recreational drug? Old Boris was probably shot himself up silly with Special K until his heart blew apart like Sputnik.”

  “No, sir.” I shake my head. “Not the levels we found. Much too high for recreational use. And we think the reason Boris had the Ketamine was to tranquilize his cats. That’s what Ketamine is, tranquilizer. Boris would take his cats into town for vet visits. We have records and…” I shake my head again. “No, sir, I knew Boris personally. He was a friend, and I can tell you he wasn’t the kind for drugs. He was old-fashioned. Uptight even.”

  “Suicide then?”

  “Sir, he wasn’t the type.”

  Rockwell’s eyes wander, inspecting the front wall of Boris’s cabin. “I’ll trust you on this one. Your friendship with the victim gives you a level of insight that can’t be gained through simple police work.” Rockwell walks up to Boris’s rusted Ford pickup, parked right in front of the steps leading into the cabin. He leans down and studies the tires. “But everyone has blind spots. Just because Boris wasn’t a druggie or a suicide doesn’t mean he was a saint. Most people who get themselves murdered have it coming.”

  “Boris was a good fellow, for a foreigner,” I say, pointing at the Ford. “Someone who buys American.”

  “There aren’t a lot of vehicle options in the states, when it comes to country of manufacture. More likely, old Boris just didn’t trust the Japs and settled for this.”

  “You can never know the real intentions of a man, I reckon.”

  Rockwell gazes at a shed filled with wood and metal scrap next to the cabin, then down at the small pond. The only object by the water is a thick rope tied to a tree. He jots something down on his notepad and snaps it shut. “Let’s go look around inside.”

  #

  Rockwell opens the cabin door and steps in. He immediately reels back. “It smells like shit in here.”

  “Technically, sir, it smells like piss. Cat urine. I think the old man lost his sense of smell near the end. I used to have trouble with the stench when I’d come visit, but I got used to it after a while.”

  Rockwell takes a few steps back from the door. “I’m just going to stand out here for a minute and see if I can accustom myself to the odor. In the meantime, why don’t you explain...oh, for Christ’s sake.” He holds his nose and retreats down the front steps. “It smells worse than death up there. Let’s at least air it out a little before we venture in.” He straightens his tie. “Why don’t you explain the details of your relationship with the deceased.”

  “I met Boris through my grandpa. He used to be Sheriff around here, my grandpa that is. Boris was an immigrant from Russia, and that didn’t go over well with Grandpa Franks. This was back in the late fifties, and Gramps was a member of the John Birch Society. You know, ‘Better dead than red.’ Anyhow, most people around here thought Boris was some type of spy. There were lots of rumors. People thought he used to engineer Russian nuclear plants or submarines or something.”

  “Those Ruskies are fucking savages. Killed more of their own than Hitler ever did, that’s for sure.”

  I observe Rockwell’s face for any signs of sarcasm, maybe a slight smirk, but there’s none. “Well...anyhow, Grandpa used to come up here once a week to talk with Boris, just to let him know that everyone was keeping their eyes on him. My dad took over the tradition when he became Sheriff, and then some years back, I took it over, although by that point Boris had become a family friend of sorts. Me and the wife would even bring him up a turkey each Thanksgiving.”

  Rockwell opens his notepad and writes. “So, old Boris managed to work himself into the good graces of his enemies?”

  “Well, yes. Except, I don’t know if you picked this part up, but I never really thought he was a spy.”

  Rockwell looks me in the eyes for the first time. “Let’s play a game, you and I. Let’s assume that I pick everything up. Do you think you can play along?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rockwell looks down at his notes again. “Tell me something, were you the only regular visitor that Boris had up here?”

  “I don’t k
now of anyone else.”

  “And did you have a regular time each week that you visited, or did you arrive whenever you wanted?”

  “Always on Fridays at about four or five in the evening.”

  “You discovered the body, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  Rockwell motions to me for the case files, and I hand them over. He flips through, then stops and reads. “Approximate time of death was two o’clock p.m., Monday?” He appears surprised.

  “Does that seem interesting?”

  “Yes, yes indeed. But it says here that the Ketamine was possibly injected up to thirty minutes before the death.” Rockwell looks back at the steps where the body was found, then over at the pond. “I think it might still make sense.”

  “How so? Do you have a theory?”

  “I have a narrative, a narrative that may correspond closely with the way events unfolded. I’ll enlighten you once I confirm that the facts support my conclusions. Tell me, Eugene, were you ever a Boy Scout?”

  “Yes, sir, I was.”

  “You look like a Boy Scout.” Rockwell pulls a pair of earplugs out of his front jacket pocket. “‘Always be prepared,’ isn’t that what they teach you at Boy Scouts?”