“Mixed drinks or just red and white?” Nat said he’d been coerced into planning the memorial for Katrina, although I knew perfectly well he’d volunteered.
“Just wine, I think,” I said. “People can help themselves and you won’t need a bartender.”
“That’s what I thought. And no one wants to see all those downtown lawyers liquored up and then drivin’ home smashed.” He admired his reflection in the window and adjusted his yellow cashmere sweater. “D’you like the color?”
“It suits you,” I said, because it did.
He smirked. “Yeah, but what doesn’t?”
Burial or cremation would have to wait until the police released Katrina’s body, but the neighborhood, in lieu of any apparent family besides her cousin, was planning the memorial, and a small get-together. Someone in her office provided a list of professional colleagues to invite, and the rest of us were told about it on the neighborhood Facebook page. A few of our more sentimental residents were calling it a celebration of life, which seemed macabre, and I hoped we weren’t supposed to have a sing-along and champagne toasts, because I couldn’t think of anyone who’d join in.
Nat borrowed the key to Katrina’s apartment from her cousin so he could look for a few things that might add what he called “texture” to the memorial. (“Sometimes you’re really gay, you know that?” “I suppose you think it’s easy bein’ this amazin’.”) Her cousin was supposed to meet us there, but he had something come up at the last minute, which was a mild relief to me, since as far as I knew he was still suing me, and I wouldn’t know what to say to him. I looked idly round, as if I hadn’t used my lock picks to borrow, and then return, the entrance card to her office suite. She’d renovated fairly recently, and everything looked new and contemporary, except for a collection of matryoshka nesting dolls, one or two of which were more than a foot tall. Nat was going through some boxes on her desk, where someone had made a start on packing up her things. A couple of huge rolls of bubble wrap and some duct tape seemed to promise more packing in the near future.
“She had a collection of these,” I said, handing him one of the roly-poly dolls. The paint on this particular one was faded and scratched.
“You’ve gotta wonder why,” he said. He twisted the doll at the waist. She opened to reveal another doll inside.
“They can be quite valuable, especially the larger ones,” I said, and took the doll back.
“I guess we could put a couple out for people to—admire, if that’s what we think they’ll be doin’.”
“Some of the guests might know about them, so it would mean something to see them,” I said.
While Nat went through her desk looking for photographs, I amused myself by revealing all the smaller and smaller dolls inside the matryoshka and lining them up on a shelf. There were thirty, all the way down to a doll the size of a peanut.
“Ah, gotcha!” Nat said, and waved a slim Tiffany photo album in my direction. I went over to see what he’d found. “We can have a couple of these enlarged,” he said, “and leave the album out for people to look through the rest. I don’t know most of these people,” he added, flicking through the pages, “but maybe they’ll be at the memorial. Look here.” The photo was of Katrina, looking about twenty years old, wearing shorts and an open-necked shirt. Her arms were around a good-looking guy, who held some of her blonde hair back with one hand as the wind blew it all over the place. They were both laughing and I had to look twice to make sure it was her. When I knew her, she was always immaculately turned out, with every hair in place, and I’d never seen her laugh. Nat was still examining the photo closely. “This guy—”
“What?”
He held the open album upright across his chest for me to see. “Does he look familiar? He reminds me of someone.”
I took another look. It confirmed my first impression; he was a looker, with a large, sensual mouth. His hair was thick and blonde and wind-blown. I couldn’t see the color of his eyes. He was taller than Katrina, who’d been tall for a woman, but he didn’t look familiar. “Who does he remind you of?”
“I dunno. It’s probably nothin’.” He turned the page to find a photo of her alone, perching on a large boulder, in shorts again but with a different shirt, holding one of the wooden dolls. I recognized it; the mama doll was holding a cup of tea and it was still in Katrina’s collection.
“Probably started with one, and then people gave them to her for birthdays and Christmas,” Nat said, as I pointed it out. “A friend of mind bought one teddy bear because it reminded him of somethin’, I forget what, and before he knew it he had a hundred. People bought them when they didn’t know what else to get him. And the more he had, the more people thought he liked them. He never had the heart to tell anyone he only bought the first one as a joke.” He tapped the photo of Katrina. “I’ll have this one enlarged; maybe someone will come who remembers her at that age. And this one with the law books in the background. Whaddya think about this one?” Katrina was glamorous in an evening gown on the steps of the Opera House.
I nodded. “Good choices—three different ages and stages of her life. By the look if it, there were no other men in her life worth a photo since that one.”
“I’m surprised there was even one.” He flicked over more pages. “Who’s this kid, do we know?”
I looked at the photo of a boy, aged about ten. “No idea. Are there other photos of him?”
He shook his head. “Just the one. Maybe her cousin knows.” He picked up the album and tucked it into his messenger bag. “Gimme a couple of those god-awful dolls.” I reassembled the one I’d been playing with, and added the one in the photo and another at random.
He tore off some bubble wrap, rolled them in it, and stuffed them in his bag. “Not sure there’s anythin’ else. Her cousin’s her executor. He said he’s arrangin’ for her stuff to be auctioned and added to her estate.”
“That’s the fellow who’s suing me.”
“Yeah, I know. Apart from that, Mrs. Lincoln, he seems okay.”
“I wonder if he inherits anything? I never heard Katrina was married or had children. And she seemed to have plenty of money, plus her home, not to mention the Tesla. Hey! Maybe he gets everything, which gives him a motive to murder her!” I was quite excited by this flash of brilliance, but Nat shook his head.
“Sorry, Miss Marple. He said she left everything to some charity.”
“No kidding? I would have thought he’d be included.”
He shrugged. “He seemed okay with it.” He walked away and opened each of the doors in the hallway. He called back, “Where’s her wine?”
“What? For the memorial?”
He came back. “No, not thinkin’ of that. It’s just—she was always talkin’ about what an expert she was, and what a great investment wine is; she belonged to that wine club and adopted a vine or whatever the hell. And the small bedroom set up with all the custom redwood wine racks.” He opened his arms like a TV game show host. “So where’s all the wine?”
We looked at each other. “Maybe she put it in storage while she was renovating?”
“It’s been done for months.”
“Or maybe she drank it.”
“Her liver’d be the size of Montana. Take a look.”
He led the way down the hall, and we both looked into the little room. She’d had a glass door fitted, and the lights were operated by a switch in the hall so the `setup could be admired without disturbing the wine. The last time I’d seen them, several months before, the floor-to-ceiling racks had been full. Now they were almost empty.
“How long had she been a collector?”
“She said she had the wine room built when she bought the building; must be fifteen years at least.”
“They probably had someone in to value the wine, and they took it to sell.”
“Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Otherwise we’re left with a cartoon image of a guy with a little black mask hauling sacks of bottles out over his shoulder ’til he drops dead of exhaustion.”
As it turned out, even with its slightly unconventional setting, the memorial on Monday night was dignified and touching. One of Nat’s friends owned a neighborhood antiques store, and ´the upstairs was already arranged into seating areas. The tattered silk upholstery gave the occasion a sort of world-weary, fin de siècle sophistication. With the addition of some discreet folding chairs, there were plenty of places for people to sit if they wanted to. Nat had taught me to have at least a few chairs in a gathering of more than five people—there was always someone getting over a hip operation or who had sprained an ankle training for a marathon or who’d just had a tough day at work. In this case, we were expecting several people on target for their sixth or seventh decade, so it was best to be prepared. Fabian Gardens was denuded of white flowers, and Nat set up large, elegant arrangements in antique vases. I thought the addition of the giant white trumpets of the poisonous datura plant might have been an editorial comment, but he maintained he just needed the drama they provided. White pillar candles reflected softly in rococo mirrors. The Tiffany album and the matryoshka dolls sat next to the guest book on a faded gold bombé chest. Easels around the room held the enlarged photos in gilt frames, and, seeing the young Katrina again, I found myself wondering what could have changed that carefree, smiling girl into the woman I knew and disliked.
Several dozen of our neighbors were joined by a number of well-dressed strangers I presumed were professional colleagues. Inspector Lichlyter showd up fairly early in the evening, passed some moments speaking to Katrina’s cousin, Gavin Melnik, and raised her glass to me in an ironic toast. The condo developer, Amos Noble, arrived with Mrs. Noble and a teenaged daughter. The dignity of the occasion probably prevented anything worse than a few furious glares being aimed in his direction. Nat, acting as compere, invited people to speak about Katrina. Noble said a few respectful things about her, half of his audience stone-faced and the rest clueless. A priest arrived fairly late. He was a good-looking man in his mid-fifties, I guessed. He didn’t speak as if he knew Katrina, and he offered the kind of free-form prayer I’m accustomed to thinking of as Pentecostal or Evangelical rather than traditionally Catholic. Afterward, he wandered around and spoke quietly to a couple of the other guests.
While two judges and the director of the city bar association each said a few words, the priest was gently flipping the pages of the photo album. I think I was the only person who saw him take a photo from the album and slip it into his jacket pocket. Before I could do or say anything—not that I wanted to shout “J’accuse!” at a priest—he made an unobtrusive exit and the room quieted for Nat’s introduction of Katrina’s cousin, Gavin Melnik, and I forgot about the photo in the surprise that followed.
Melnik fussed with a laptop the way everyone does, clicking on keys and getting flustered by failure messages until suddenly, and obviously to his surprise, a photo appeared of a dozen or so happy-looking blonde children wearing red T-shirts and eating ice cream cones. I’d seen the same photo in Katrina’s office. With a rather charming, self-deprecating smile, he handed the laptop over to a woman sitting in the front row. She efficiently took over.
He cleared his throat nervously. The murmurs in the room quieted, and he flushed, as if he hadn’t expected it. He was neat and attractive, with a striking combination of brown eyes and thick blonde hair in shades from almost platinum to light caramel.
“I just want to add to all the wonderful tributes to my cousin, Katrina,” he said. That was a stretch. So far, the kindest thing anyone had said about her was that she was a “respected and well-known” attorney. No one mentioned, for example, that due to her efforts, several ex-CEOs were believed to be employed as Walmart greeters in Nevada.
“Before I begin, I want to thank Janine—” He dipped his head toward the woman operating the laptop who had introduced herself as Katrina’s assistant. Janine smiled damply at him, bowed her head, and sniffed into her tissue. Melnik smiled at her. “As you can tell, I’m not very tech-savvy, but Janine kindly put this small presentation together for me. It warms my heart to know that Katrina was a respected colleague,” he said, “and I’ve been pleased to meet so many of her personal friends tonight, too, but I want to share something I think will surprise everyone.” His voice cracked, and he was obviously uncomfortable, but he seemed determined. Several people leaned forward in their chairs, obviously expecting something juicy, and it was, but not in the way anyone anticipated.
“Katrina and I connected through a family tracing website ten years ago. She was an orphan and I had recently lost my parents, and we found we were both alone in the world except for each other. She felt the lack of family very keenly, and seven years ago, she founded a home for orphans in her hometown of Kiev.”
That caused wide eyes and some mutters, quickly hushed when a new photograph of children with a pair of shyly smiling Catholic nuns in old-fashioned black habits appeared on the screen behind him. Janine held her tissue over her mouth, nearly overcome with weeping; clearly the woman hadn’t worked for Katrina long enough to learn to loathe her. The man sitting next to Janine absently patted her shoulder.
Melnik stepped forward to bend down and click a couple of keys on the laptop, and the photo disappeared. He looked momentarily nonplussed and clicked some more keys, and when nothing happened, did that exasperated shrug thing everyone does and abandoned the laptop to pick up the thread of his remarks.
“Katrina didn’t want her philanthropy to be widely known, but I feel she wouldn’t mind me telling you about it now,” he said quietly. “She took a great deal of pleasure in the progress of the children, and I truly think it was the joy of her life. Katrina wasn’t able to leave her busy law practice to see the results of her generosity, but I’ve seen the wonderful work being done at St. Olga’s first hand. Katrina provided for the home in her estate plan, and so the good work of the sisters will continue into the future. I know that she’ll continue to watch over the children.” He smiled. “And, if you feel inclined to make a gift in her honor to the orphanage, perhaps she’ll watch over you, too.” The audience gave him his laugh and a smattering of applause. He handed the laptop back to Janine and stepped away, leaving his frankly astonished audience abuzz.
It brought the evening to a close on a positive note, made Katrina seem more human, and eased some of the negative attitude toward her. I even felt a little sorry that I hadn’t liked her more.
Nat stepped out onto the veranda and opened a basket resting on a table. Several white doves took to the skies and flew over Fabian Gardens. He hadn’t told me he’d planned it, but it was very effective. I resolved to ask him to do that for me, too.
I don’t know if all funerals and memorial services are so exhausting, but I fell into bed that evening at ten, and didn’t stir until it was time to get up to help Nat at The Coffee. It was the best night’s sleep I’d had in months.