Blackberry Winter: A Novel (31 page)
I took my eyes off the page and gasped.
My God. Kensington?
Ivanoff: That’s right, sir. I walked down the gravel path, past the fountain and hedges, and looked through the window of the house. I didn’t see anything so I walked around the side yard, down to the lawn behind the house. It was the fanciest home I’d seen in my life. I couldn’t understand what Vera was doing there.
Sharpe: What did you see when you reached the lawn?
Ivanoff: Nothing, at first. Just a big lawn that connected to Lake Washington. The sun had set, so there was little light. I was going to turn back, when I heard something.
Sharpe: What?
Ivanoff: At first I thought it was the sound of an animal. It was so high pitched, so shrill. But then I heard it again, and I knew. It was the sound of a woman crying out for help. She sounded awful scared, or hurt, maybe.
Sharpe: What did you do next?
Ivanoff: I tried to figure where the cry was coming from. Then, I saw movement near the dock. Just a shadow at first. I ducked back behind a tree, and then I saw her.
Sharpe: Vera?
Ivanoff: No, another woman. She was running away from the lake back up to the house.
Sharpe: Did you get a good look at her?
Ivanoff: It was hard to make out her face, but she had dark hair. I suppose you could say she was tall.
Sharpe: And did she let herself inside the residence?
Ivanoff: Yes, sir. It didn’t make sense. Someone clearly needed help down there. I started to run down the lawn, but then the screaming stopped. I, I…
Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, are you all right? May we continue?
Ivanoff: I’ll do my best, sir.
Sharpe: What did you see when you reached the lake?
Ivanoff: Dear Lord, it was terrible. I ran to the dock, and I saw her there, floating
in the water. She’d lost one of her shoes….
Sharpe: You saw Miss Ray in the water?
Ivanoff: Yes, sir. She was floating next to a small rowboat that was sinking. It must have had a leak. I tried to reach her from the dock. But she was too far out. I’d have gone after her but I can’t swim, and besides, I think I was too late. Her face was underwater. Eyes open,. It was the most horrible thing I’ve seen in all of my days.
Sharpe: What did you do next?
Ivanoff: I couldn’t bear to think of leaving her there all alone, in the cold. But I knew after my record with the police, they’d point the finger at me. They’d never believe a Russian immigrant. They’d pin me with the crime, the way they’d done the last time. I couldn’t take that chance.
Sharpe: So you left?
Ivanoff: Yes. She looked so peaceful lying there next to the water lilies. Besides, her soul had gone to a better place; that much is certain.
Sharpe: And what did you do next?
Ivanoff: I began walking back up the lawn. I didn’t want anyone to see me. Rich folks would take one look at me and think I was up to trouble. But then I heard some sounds coming from the house.
Sharpe: What did you hear?
Ivanoff: A woman was crying hysterically, and a man was shouting at her.
Sharpe: Could you make out what they were saying?
Ivanoff: No. But I crouched down behind a hedge and watched the man run down to the lake.
Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, do you know the name of the man you saw?
Ivanoff: No, sir. But if you ask me, he loved Miss Ray. He knelt down and cried there on the dock. He took his shirt off and looked like he might have gone in after her, but that woman ran down and pulled him back.
Sharpe: So you began walking back to your truck?
Ivanoff: Yes, sir. I passed by the house on the way. It was a warm night. The windows were open in the upstairs rooms. I heard a child in the house. A boy. He was crying.
Sharpe: Did you think he might be Miss Ray’s son?
Ivanoff: I did. And when I got back to the city, I phoned the police. I told them that a crime had occurred at the residence in Windermere, and that I thought Vera’s boy could be there.
Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, what did the officer at the station tell you?
Ivanoff: He said they wouldn’t be looking into my tip.
Sharpe: Why not?
Ivanoff: He said that the Kensingtons were some of the city’s most upstanding citizens.
Sharpe: Let the record state that we have a document from the Police Department proving that Mr. Ivanoff did make a call to the police station to report the crime. Mr. Ivanoff, what do you think really happened to Miss Ray that night?
Ivanoff: I think she traveled to that home to get help and they turned on her. That woman, whoever she was, put her in that boat knowing of the hole. When she could have saved Miss Ray, she didn’t. I hope she pays for what she did.
Sharpe: Thank you, Mr. Ivanoff. There will be no further questions.
I lifted my eyes from the last page with a heavy heart. The story had come into focus. My own husband’s family had been accomplice to one of the most tragic crimes in Seattle’s history, had covered it up, even. No wonder Edward Sharpe had kept the files hidden so long. Mr. Ivanoff had spelled things out in excruciating detail.
I fanned the remaining pages, and my eyes stopped when I read the medical examiner’s notes about Vera’s personal effects:
Found on Ms. Ray: A hair clip, a hotel key, and bracelet. All remitted to Mr. Charles Kensington on June 13, 1933.
Daniel’s father was a…Kensington.
I was supposed to meet Ethan for dinner in thirty minutes.
Could I tell him?
I remembered the break-in at Lillian’s home and
quickly tucked the pages into the briefcase, slipping it under my desk. It would be safe there.
At the restaurant, Ethan ordered a bottle of 2001 merlot from a winery we both loved. “What’s the occasion?” I asked, noting the year of our wedding.
“Just being together these days is an occasion,” he said, smiling.
“I know,” I replied, taking a sip of wine.
“Hey.” He held up his glass. “You forgot to clink glasses. That’s bad luck.”
I tapped my glass against his. “There. The five-second rule applies.”
He smiled. “How have you been?”
At face value, it was a strange question for a husband to ask his wife, and yet we’d become so distant, it made sense.
“Well, I’ve been better,” I said, looking at the menu instead of into his eyes. The menu was safer.
I wanted to ask him about Cassandra, but I didn’t have the guts. “What’s good here?”
“The lamb is fantastic,” he said. “With the orzo. It has a light crust of—”
I slammed my menu down. “Since when are you a foodie? You were never a foodie. You used to pride yourself in being
anti
-foodie.”
Ethan looked startled.
“Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with
her
. She’s rubbing off on you.”
“Claire, Cassandra’s just a friend. And since when do you take offense with me enjoying my food?”
I sighed. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking away. The restaurant was filled with couples. Happy couples.
Why can’t
we
be happy?
“I didn’t mean to attack you like that.”
“Can we start over?” he asked, setting his menu aside.
“Yes,” I replied. “Reset button.”
“Now, what can we talk about that’s safe? Work?”
I nodded apprehensively.
He took a sip of wine and then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “How’s work? Got any good stories brewing?”
“Well,” I said, taking a long sip of wine and questioning whether to reveal the secret or not. “I’m working on a story that’s pretty fascinating.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, about a little boy who vanished in 1933, the day the snowstorm hit, just like the one we had this week.”
Ethan picked up a piece of bread and dipped it in the plate of olive oil between us. “Did you find out what happened to him?”
“Sort of,” I said. “It might actually shock you, if I tell you.”
“Try me,” he said, amused.
“Well,” I said slowly, “turns out, he’s a Kensington.”
Ethan stopped chewing the bread in his mouth, then swallowed the bite quickly. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a long story, but the short of it is that one of your great-greats had a fling with a poor woman. She got pregnant, and three years later, I think his sister abducted the boy. At least, I suspect that’s how it went.”
“My God,” he said. “Do you have names?”
I nodded. “The boy’s father was a man named Charles Kensington.”
Ethan shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”
“Yes,” I said. “Why? Who is he?”
“My God, Claire, that’s my great-grandfather.”
“It’s a heartbreaking story,” I continued. “I think I finally have the information I need to write a draft.”
Ethan frowned. “You know you can’t write about this.”
“What do you mean?”
“It would ruin the family name, the newspaper. It would destroy Grandpa.”
“I think you have it all wrong, Ethan,” I said. “I know Warren. He’d want to air the truth.”
He set his napkin on his plate. “No. We can’t take the risk of hurting him when he’s so ill.”
“Well,” I said, “fortunately, you’re not my boss, Ethan.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m your boss’s boss.”
I gasped. “You’d really kill this story because it involves skeletons in your family’s closet?”
“Yes,” he said. “I would.”
The server appeared, but I waved him away. “I’m not the only one looking for answers. You should have seen the scene at Lillian Sharpe’s home in Windermere. Her father was involved in the murder trial of the boy’s mother. Someone had ransacked the place looking for his files. The truth is bound to come out eventually.”
“But my paper won’t be the one breaking the news,” he said, laying a fifty-dollar bill on the table and reaching for his coat.
I hadn’t anticipated going to Café Lavanto. I’d instructed the cab to drop me off at home, but I shook my head when the driver pulled the car in front of the building. “No,” I said. “Change of plans. Take me up to Fifth, please.”
I knocked and Dominic unlocked the door to the café. “Mind if I come in?” I asked.
“Please,” he said warmly. A fire crackled a few feet away. Soft music played from the speakers overhead. He smiled at me in a way that made me swallow hard. “Come, sit down.”
Something seemed off about the café. A few cardboard boxes sat near the door.
What else has changed? New paint? Curtains?
I felt too disoriented to focus on the details. Dominic reached for a bottle of wine on the bar and pulled a corkscrew from his pocket. “Wine?”
I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
I watched as he poured two glasses, handing me one. “To new beginnings,” he said.
I nodded, clinking my glass against his. But I set it down before I had taken a sip. “Wait, you said ‘beginnings,’ plural. What did you mean by that?”
“Well,” he said, looking around the café, “there is something I should probably tell you.” He paused. “I should have told you about this earlier, Claire.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve made a big decision, about my business. About this place.”
“What, you’re going to convert the space upstairs into the loft you always wanted? Add a lunch menu?”
He shook his head. “No. Claire, I’ve decided to sell it.”
My mouth flew open. “But—but you said you’d never do that. You said you loved this place. That you couldn’t see it get into the hands of another set of condo developers. Am I missing something here?”
“I did say all of that,” he continued. “And I meant it. But yesterday, a developer made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He’d been trying to convince me to sell for a while and I was determined not
to, but his latest offer was so generous that when I considered my circumstances, I realized I’d be a fool not to accept it. Listen, it’s a life-changing amount of money, Claire. I could see that my mother is properly cared for, then buy a place, and”—he leaned closer to me—“settle down.”
“No,” I said, standing up. “I can’t believe you’re saying this.” I felt torn. I knew he was facing financial pressure to support his mother, and yet I couldn’t stand the thought of the beloved building being torn down. “There’s too much history in these walls,” I countered. “You just can’t put a dollar amount on something so special.”