Bad to the Last Drop (8 page)

Later that day, Detective Gary LeSeur's office phone rang, startling him from his revelry—he'd been thinking about his upcoming ski vacation to Lyons, France, with ten of his friends, all of whom made an annual wifeless pilgrimage to a European ski slope each January.

"Hi, Gary," he heard the voice on the other end of the line greet him. "It's Ruth Epstein. Just wanted to give you a head's up. I got the preliminary toxicology results back from the autopsy on Joe Abramov. Looks like it wasn't accidental. The pathologist is sending the report by mail, but Joe apparently had a high level of a drug called fentanyl. Too bad—for Joe and for you. Looks like you have some work to do."

LeSeur let out a deep sigh, as he tried to decide whether he should put his skis back in the closet.

The two Russian sisters came in with a swirl of wind and snow around them, but they didn't seem to mind the cold. Their entrance didn't seem to warrant the locals' stares anymore. In fact, a few who had been at the memorial service raised a hand in a friendly wave, and then went back to the politics of the day.

"Hi," Deb said as she made more room at the table. "How are you sleeping? I know this is a hard time for you."

"Yes, but I sleep well here," replied Anastasia, as she took off her coat.

"Will you be returning to Russia?" Pat asked.

Anastasia nodded. "Quite honestly, ve must. Joe had sent us the money to come, but ve really have no money to go back. And besides, it is all so confusing. That is vhy ve asked you to meet us today. Ve just can't figure out vhat happened to the money."

"Money?" Pat asked.

"Yes, I just don't understand it," Helga said. "Joe sent for us so that ve could start new life. He had many plans, but how could he make plans if there vas no money left from the lottery?"

"Ten years is a long time in which to spend a lot of money," Pat replied helpfully. "And the way he lived here—from what we saw—Joe didn't seem to have any left to spend."

"Oh, Joe told us that he lived very simply so no one vould know about his money. He vas afraid someone vould steal from him." Helga set down the roll that Deb had offered to her and wiped her fingers. "But that's not the money I am talking about. I'm referring to talking about money from second lottery." She looked at Deb and Pat expectantly.

Before either woman could respond, a portly man in an expensive suit approached their table. His smile was wide, but Pat thought it seemed a little shifty.

Ignoring Deb and Pat as if they weren't there, the man turned toward the Russians. "Ladies, you don't know me, but I hope I can be of help to you. I like to think of my family as the caretakers of this little hamlet. We've been here for generations. My name is Mike—Michael Williamson. Perhaps you could come into my office some time today. There are routine papers to go over whenever someone dies."

The sisters looked confused.

"At the bank, I mean," Williamson explained. "I'm the president of Great Northern, the local bank. So if you could just stop in ..."

"Excuse me, but did Joe Abramov have an account with you?" Pat asked.

As if she was an annoyance, he pursed his lips in a half-smile. "Now that would be confidential information, wouldn't it?" he replied, somewhat arrogantly. Turning back to Anastasia, he continued. "Just stop in, if you would, today." Tipping his hat, Williamson walked confidently up to the counter to pick up his to­go cup.

Pat looked at the sisters. "Do you know for sure that there was a second lottery?"

"Well, he vas secretive," Anastasia answered. "You know how he vas, but he assured us he had von again. 'A big one this time,' he said. And that's vhy he could send for us and assure us all of new life here. But now our brother Jacob tells us there are no lotteries von recently, so ve do not understand. Vhat could he have been saying?"

"Maybe he was just delusional," Pat blurted out. "Pat," Deb said, frowning.

"No, no—I know you think he strange, and he vas," Anastasia agreed. "From the var, I mean. He always thought someone or some group vas after him. He send us money to get here. And money for clothes to travel. He made very specific plans for us, so I believed him. But if there vere no lotteries in Wisconsin or Minnesota von lately, could there have been one in another state? Ve vere hoping you vould help."

"Well, it would be easy enough to check in other states, but if a big one had been won, we would have heard of it by now, and his name would probably have been announced," Deb said. "Do you think he meant he came by the money another way?"

The sisters looked at each other. Lowering her voice, Anastasia continued, "First, ve vould like you to help us find out if it vas lottery. Then, if not ...vell; in his letter he didn't exactly say it vas lottery. Here, let me read it to you." She pulled a well-worn letter out of her pocket and glanced down the page. "Here ... here it is, after he invited us to come," she said. Anastasia began to read in Russian, translating as she went along.

Sis, finally I can send for you all. I just know you can have a better life here. Don't worry; I have enclosed the money for all of you to come and some for clothes to travel, but there is more—much more. I have recently come into another lottery, you could call it. And my wish is to share it with you. I can't wait until you get here, and we can start our new life together. Things are going to be different from now on. Why, if we want to, we can even buy that island I always dreamed about. And no one will be able to get to me again. I know this may sound crazy, but it's true. My ship has come in, and I want you to be aboard. See you at the airport.

Your loving brother, Joe

"What" Pat asked with her eyes, as she looked up at Deb to see if she had finished reading it. Before Deb could respond Sarah, the town decorator and owner of Design Outlet, arrived. Sarah carried a large bag of samples that she set down on the table with a grunt of relief.

"Here are the samples you asked for."

"Thanks," Pat replied. "That was very thoughtful. You didn't have to bring those here. I'd have come to your shop and picked them up." Indicating the others, she asked Sarah, "Have you met the Abramov sisters?" She put the samples on the floor by her chair. "Of course, you met yesterday. My, what a busy table we are sitting at," Pat observed. "Mike Williamson just stopped by, too."

As Sarah nodded in greeting, she grabbed her daily coffee fix from the barista's outstretched hand and smiled, in exchange handed him two dollars. She then turned to Pat. "Mikey? Came over special, did he?" Sarah's round eyes were wide with interest, her eyebrows raised. "I suppose he would."

Pat stirred her coffee. "He said he represents the community, his family having been in this town for generations."

Sarah smirked. "He usually says centuries—since the pilgrims, the way
he
tells it. Of course, it's really only been three or four generations."

"Wow, the way people move these days, that's actually impressive."

"Oh, it impresses
him,
all right." Sarah sipped her double espresso, wrinkling her nose as if it had a bad smell, then quickly concealed it. "He hasn't lived here all his life. He got out before the ink was dry on his high school diploma. Actually came back to town to take over the bank after his father had his heart attack." She turned to the sisters with an expression of apology. "Sorry, didn't mean to bring in town gossip. Actually, he used to come into the Black Cat about once a week and play chess with your brother and buy him a coffee. Joe always got him to put brandy in his. So I guess he can't be all bad, although you couldn't prove it by me." Sarah swallowed the last drop from her small cup and then set it on the table. "You know, it's strange," Sarah said, "but this is the first time Mike has been in here for about six months. He and Joe seemed to stop playing chess all of a sudden, and it was like Mike was avoiding Joe after that. I never heard why." Sarah put on her coat and wrapped her scarf around her neck and added, "Not that it was any of my concern. You know Joe—he could keep a secret better than anyone."

"What do you think they argued about?" Deb asked. "Six months is a long time for an argument to last."

Sarah shook her head, although bundled as she was in her winter wear, the movement was almost imperceptible. Suddenly she remembered that her truck was still running and got up to leave. "I didn't actually say they argued. I mean, I didn't see it or anything, but it was strange that their games stopped." Turning to the sisters, she added one final thought. "Joe was a good man; he forgave anyone anything, ordinarily. He stopped regularly in my shop, ladies, and sometimes helped out with moving heavy carpet and odd jobs. I liked him. I'll miss him. You need anything, come see me."

Putting on her gloves, she turned and walked out the door.

"Well," said Deb, getting up, "I'm sorry, but I need to get to court. I don't know if there really is a way we can help you, but if there is, you can count on me. Why don't you talk to the banker this afternoon? You said you're having dinner with Jacob tonight. See if he has any ideas, and then ..." She glanced at Pat for confirmation. ... "Meet us here tomorrow morning at eight. Does that sound all right? I'm still not sure what we can do. Frankly, it's just a shot in the dark that we will ever find out what really happened to the money. Oh, and be careful with the banker. You heard what Sarah said. It could be she's just mad because he turned her down for a business loan last winter, but I don't know him well, so be careful."

"Thank you so much, yes, ve vill meet with the banker, and ve vill be careful," Anastasia responded.

"So it is agreed we will meet tomorrow at eight."

After the others left, Pat settled herself comfortably at the table and had a second cup of the French roast as she read the daily newspaper. But though her eyes were scanning the headlines, her mind was elsewhere.
What happened to Joe's money?

Back in her office after Court, Deb's intercom beeped twice on her desk, startling her and interrupting her thoughts as she sorted through the daily pile of mail. She picked up the phone and Kris, her secretary, informed Deb that Jacob Abramov was on line one. "He wants to make an appointment to meet with you about probating his brother's estate."

"Go ahead and make an appointment," Deb replied, a hint of anticipation in her voice. As she returned her attention to the pile of mail and sticky notes, Deb couldn't help wondering,
How deep into this family drama am I going to go, anyway? This goes so much deeper than typical probate work...so many family dramas.

Deb sighed and sat back on her comfy new chair as Kris brought her a steaming cup of coffee. "Thanks," Deb said gratefully.

"How did you know I needed this?" She took a sip and sighed again. "And just the way I like it."

"It just seemed like a two-cup morning," Kris replied, smiling at her boss. "And besides, I've got that gorgeous detective on line two for you, and he didn't make one joke, so I'm assuming it's something serious." With that she saluted and quickly left, shutting the door behind her.

Deb gulped the steaming-hot Rain Forest Blend and picked up the phone. "Hi, Detective LeSeur, enough snow for you?" Deb started with the traditional opening of the North.

"Almost. Could use another few inches on the trails for my snowmobile, though. As if I'll have my machine out any time soon." With the amenities finished, he changed gears. "Deb ... I'm calling you about your clients, the Abramov sisters. Can I assume you are also representing the brother, Jacob?"

Deb sat up in her chair, no longer feeling so tired. "That's correct. Just on probate stuff." Then, risking his laughing at her, Deb continued. "Why? Should my clients be looking for a seasoned defense attorney?"

LeSeur hesitated momentarily, then said, "Actually, I need you to help me—that is, the department—with something."

"As long as it doesn't interfere with client/attorney confidentiality," Deb answered cautiously. "Don't ask me something I can't do, but otherwise, shoot."

"We got the preliminary autopsy reports." LeSeur cleared his throat. "Joe Abramov didn't die of natural causes."

Deb waited, and when the silence became pronounced, she asked, "You mean he killed himself or .?"

"Truth is, it's looking a lot less like suicide and a lot more like murder. But I'm telling you this for a reason."

"Okay," Deb responded, all thoughts of her hot cuppa gone from her head, as she grabbed for pencil and notepad.

"I need to inform the family before it leaks out in the press, and as they are your clients ... well, I was hoping you could be there for the women when I do so. They aren't suspects—they weren't even here when he died—but this will be another blow for them.. "

"Of course," Deb responded, "just tell me where and when."

"Best you come in to my office with them at, say, 1:00? Now, here are the ground rules." His tone became more serious. "Let me tell them. I won't be sharing specific details, and you should not be aggressive about details. If they ask questions, I'll try to answer them honestly. But I am asking you to be there to support them— that's all. Is that clear? Can I count on you?"