Murder in Moscow by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain

Author:Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain [Fletcher, Jessica & Bain, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780451194749
Publisher: A Signet Book
Published: 1997-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

“You don’t have to do it, you know,” Vaughan said as we rode from the embassy to our luncheon.

“I’m aware of that,” I said. “But he was persuasive.”

“So’s someone selling snake oil. I was surprised when you agreed.”

I sensed that Ivan, our driver, was dividing his attention between watching the road and listening to our conversation.

“You do realize, Jess, that—?”

I put my index finger to my lips and shook my head. Ivan’s eyes bored holes at me in the rearview mirror. He quickly averted my gaze and focused on the car ahead of us.

Our lunch with the editors of Ogonyok was at Glazur, a Danish-Russian joint venture in a nineteenth-century mansion on the Garden Ring. Because it was only possible to hire a car for a full day, we had Ivan for the duration, whether we used him or not. He politely opened the door for us and scurried to do the same with the door leading into the elegant restaurant, tastefully decorated in shades of muted brown and glittering gold. We were early, beating the others by fifteen minutes. The editors were there, however, and warmly greeted us. After seeing that we had drinks—vodka for Vaughan, mineral water for me—they left us alone for a few minutes.

“Back to what I was saying in the car, Jess. Frankly, I think Mulligan and Warner, and whoever else is involved, have a hell of a nerve asking you to take on something that … well … that could put you in jeopardy.”

“You, too, Mr. Buckley,” I said. “They chose to include you in the discussion.”

“As Mulligan said, to make you feel more secure.”

“Which I do, knowing you’ll be involved. Tell you what Let’s enjoy the rest of the day. I told Mulligan I’d think about it, which I intend to do. We’re on our own for dinner. I suppose we’ll have to eat with some of the others. But after that, let’s find a quiet, secure place to talk it over.”

He raised his glass in a toast.

“What are we toasting?” I asked.

“You. I live a relatively dull existence as a book publisher. But I get my vicarious thrills through one Jessica Fletcher. You always seem to end up in the middle of some exciting, threatening, and decidedly unusual situations. This certainly ranks as one of them.”

Our colleagues drifted into the restaurant after returning from their tour. Marge Fargo came up to Vaughan and me and asked, “Everything go okay at the embassy?”

“Everything went fine,” I said.

“Autograph some of your books, Jess?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. Very pleasant experience. I understand the food here is excellent. I’m famished.”

The food was as wonderful as its advance billing. We started with russkaya zakuska, a beef aspic in which ham, chicken, and tongue had been finely chopped; went on to a main course of svinina à la gousar, spicy eggplant cooked with carrots, onion, and a healthy dose of garlic; and topped it off with the Russian version of baked Alaska and very strong coffee.

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