Enter Purring

By Lynn McMahon Anstead

While honeymooning on a Baltic cruise, Duncan and Carly meet the mysterious Kateryna, who appeals to them for help. Disembarking the ship to tour Scotland with the rest of the family, they don't expect to see her again. When Carly finds her dying on the banks of Loch Ness, they realize that Kateryna was not whom she pretended to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn McMahon Anstead
• Release date: Aug 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310746239

Book preview

Copyright 2015

www.lynnmcmahonanstead.ca

Other Books by the Author

Carly Kitchings Mysteries

Dealing with Tomorrow

Missing My Mark

Connie Lambert Series

Twin Harvest

Dance For Fools

This book is dedicated to my children Sarah and Connor Anstead, who continue to delight and amaze me.

Shelby's decision to move to England was inspired by Sarah's life and the book was completed on Connor's birthday.

Author's Note

I'd like to extend my thanks to my husband, Chris, for his continued love and support, and to my brother-in-law, Terry Anstead, for all his efforts in promoting my books.

I also want to thank my readers for their continued support and for their kind words in reviewing the books. I do want to address a point that a couple of them have made. The character of Carly's mother, Donna Steeles, is a composite of different people I have met in my life. She is not based on my own mother, who would have been mortified by most of what Donna says and does.

My own mother, who was taken far too young, was very much a lady.

Chapter One

I have a cat, well more of an overgrown kitten really. He's a black and white tuxedo cat with asymmetrical face markings that are most attractive. His name is Brutus, which he seems to like well enough, since he deigns to answer to it. We met a few months ago, over a shared meal in the freezing-cold root cellar where I was being held after being kidnapped. He was skin and bones at the time and I was happy to share my meagre food allotment with him, in exchange for some companionship and furry body heat. In return he saved my life and we've been inseparable ever since. I called him Brutus (actually it started out as Brute and then evolved into Brutus) because he didn't let his tiny size get in the way of being my hero by attacking my kidnapper and thereby saving my aforementioned life. The irony of attaching that great big name to the tiny ball of fur also appealed to my sense of whimsy.

Given his cruel treatment at the hands of whomever it was who abandoned him to fend for himself in the dead of winter, Brutus would be well within his rights to have a rather miserable approach to life. But this does not seem to be the case. Instead of dwelling on the negatives in his life, like some people I know, he prefers to take a much more optimistic view of the world. In fact he always enters a room purring, which pretty much guarantees that he's going to get the reception that he's hoping for. Even my mother, who has never been a fan of cats, cannot help but warm to him when his great big, sometimes squeaky purr precedes him wherever he goes.

For months now I have been trying to emulate his approach to life, although I admit that I am nowhere near as successful as he at staying positive all the time. But I really believed that life would be so much better if only I could learn to enter a room purring, metaphorically of course. However that was what I thought before meeting Kateryna.

The first time I saw Kateryna was on the steps of Peterhof Palace, just outside of St. Petersburg, in Russia. She was standing with her back to the ornate fountains with the gilded figures and dancing water providing the perfect backdrop for her beauty, making her hair glisten in the sun as it reflected off of the mist that was adorning her. A group of men jostled to be close to her and she was doing a marvellous job of making each and every one of them feel important. From where I was standing I could almost hear her purr. Even though she was only wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I could picture her decked out in the lavish gowns from the days of Peter the Great's dynasty, the main attraction at any ball she attended. At one time in my life I might have envied her for her effortless beauty and the attention she naturally drew, but not that day. I tucked my hand into Duncan's elbow and turned to hear what the guide had to say.

I'd like to claim that I had some sort of psychic premonition of what fate held in store for this sylph-like blonde and for the pain I would feel when I found her, dying, on the shores of Loch Ness, but there wasn't even a tingle of apprehension. I was on my honeymoon and struggling to stay one step ahead of the head cold that I'd caught on the airplane so, when I turned my back on Kateryna and her entourage, I didn't give her another thought.

Built by Peter the Great, the 17th century Russian Czar determined to move the capital of Russia from landlocked Moscow to St. Petersburg on the Baltic Sea, Peterhof is a massive property, renowned for its gardens and fountains. Although several palaces occupy the 300 acres estate, we were only touring the largest, the Grand Palace. The building is stunningly ornate, with different rooms reconstructed to illustrate the tastes of Peter the Great, his daughter Elizabeth (who favoured the heavily gilded and mirrored excesses of the Baroque style) and of Catherine the Great (whose taste ran to silk wallpaper and pale green, in the Classicistic style), each of whom had taken their turns at ruling Russia and therefore had laid claim to the palace at some point in its history.

Wandering through the various rooms, with paper slippers on my feet to protect the parquet flooring, I struggled not to fall while taking in what our guide, Irina, was telling us about how Peter the Great seized the land from Sweden, to give Russia a port on the Baltic Sea, and how he'd had to force the nobility to build their palaces on the swampy land that he had proudly claimed. But the mucus filling my head and the 6:30 a.m. muster time for the tour were taking their toll. Not only that, but we had crossed another time zone last night, resulting in yet another lost hour of sleep, and you know how much I love my sleep. Moving east on the cruise ship, we had crossed four different time zones, losing an hour of sleep each night and this was on top of the five hours of sleep we had lost flying from Pearson Airport in Toronto to London's Gatwick Airport. You can imagine what all this travel was doing to my internal clock. I wondered if it would ever function again. I secretly hoped that it wouldn't!

Jostled by a member of our group, I started to stumble and put my hand against the wall to steady myself. All tiredness fled when my hand was rudely slapped, repeatedly, by one of the watchful dowagers, as she muttered something at me which I didn't understand but could only assume was a scolding. There was one of these formidable women placed in each of the major rooms of the palace, for no other apparent purpose than to make us feel like intruders, as opposed to welcomed tourists.

I think that in North America, and perhaps in other English speaking parts of the world, these women would be called docents. But here, dressed in similar, but not identical, shapeless dresses, with grey hair molded into helmets, they looked more like prison guards. I'm quite certain that they had valuable knowledge about the palace that they could have shared had we spoken their language, but since we didn't, there was no effort made to make us feel even comfortable, forget welcomed! Our money might be needed to continue renovations on these old, cultural treasures but that didn't mean they didn't resent us for being there. I had little doubt that they would have preferred it if we'd just sent our money and stayed home.

It occurred to me that there would probably be a lawsuit if anyone had been similarly slapped in a North American museum but I doubt it would amount to anything here - although creating a political scandal appealed to my injured pride…maybe just a little scandal. The reception we received during the rest of our two day visit to St Petersburg was much friendlier than here at Peterhof, but since it was the first stop on our visit, it made for a poor first impression.

Once outside, I felt less claustrophobic and less concerned about getting my hand smacked again. As much as I was enjoying the cruise, which had been my suggestion for a honeymoon, I had not anticipated the crowds. Our ship was one of ten massive cruise ships that lay docked in the harbour and while this was definitely the worst stop along the cruise itinerary, it had been almost this mobbed at every port of call so far. We wandered through the gardens, the open air making the crowds feel less oppressive. The patio of the lower gardens resembled a massive checkerboard, with black and white tiles made of what I assumed was marble. Add to that the ornate marble and gilt statues in the fountains, which had been turned on for our benefit, and there was almost an air of Lewis Carroll's Wonderland about the place.

As if on cue Kateryna appeared, looking the part of an enchanted and enchanting Alice, dancing around the gardens, still surrounded by an entourage of adoring men. She laughed while being sprayed by the fountains, becoming even more adorable and appealing as her wet clothing clung to her. The reaction of the men around her let me know that I wasn't the only one who'd made this observation. I took a minute to admire her youth and energy - admire but not envy - I had no desire to be anyone else in life than who I was. I turned and climbed the steps to buy a silk scarf for Mom from a vendor on the patio.

A long drive back into the city took us to lunch, served in one of the almost countless palaces that St. Petersburg boasts, and a couple of cups of coffee that got me feeling more awake. I passed my complimentary shot of vodka to Duncan, as I was afraid it would put me back to sleep. He suggested that it might help clear out my sinuses, only tossing it back after I shook my head. I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of our day in St. Petersburg, which is an absolutely beautiful city, at least the parts that tourists are allowed to see.

After lunch we toured St. Isaac's Cathedral, the largest Russian Orthodox Church in the city. Construction was begun by Catherine the Great on the site of two previous cathedrals that had been washed away by flood or had sunk into the marshy land. The existing cathedral is a testament to the almost obscene excesses of the Russian nobility, with immense pillars of semi-precious malachite, ornate, gold-plated ceilings, marble floors and massive, ornately carved oaken doors that have never been opened as they were found, once installed, to be too heavy.

Thousands of people lost their lives in the construction of that cathedral, many to mercury poisoning as they experimented with a new method of applying the gold to the gilded dome to make it last through the winters. This was done by melting gold with heated mercury, and it worked, in terms of keeping the gold gilding intact for years, but it was lethal to those who did the work. Our guide informed us that 20,000 labourers died this way but other reports claim that number to be less than a hundred. I expect the real number is somewhere in the middle.

As we were leaving I caught what seemed like furtive movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned in time to catch the sum glistening off of the top of a blonde head, as it slipped out the door, a blonde head that stood at approximately the right height to be Kateryna. But I'm sure I was mistaken - there are a lot of beautiful young blondes in Russia, after all. I shook my head and wondered why I was starting to become obsessed with this girl whose name I didn't even know at that point.

From there we were given an opportunity to shop at a proper store and not just from street vendors. I was delighted to find some of the amber jewellery that the Baltic area is known for and I picked up a few beautiful pieces. Duncan was more interested in the books about the history of St. Petersburg and the Russian mafia than the other souvenirs. Once a cop, always a cop I suppose.

There were reproductions of the famous Faberge eggs in every shape, size and colour. I picked up a lovely Christmas decoration for the tree and a necklace for Shelby, both in red, one smooth, the other encrusted with imitation jewels. They were quite pretty and I was a little disappointed when I couldn't find matching earrings - for the necklace of course, not for the Christmas decoration!

I turned my head to a rack of postcards, choosing one to send to my long-lost, but recently re-found, brother and his family. Once it was determined that both Mom and I were safe, Gordon had gone home, only to return a few months later for my wedding. Meeting their cousins had been a wonderful experience for my children and I had been proud to have my brother give me away. Little Bruce walked just in front of us, his normally smiling face serious with the responsibility of delivering the cushion bearing the rings to the altar. We had tried to persuade Melanie to be a flower girl but she was too shy. She preferred to sit with her mother, a woman we were already coming to love, in the very front pew beside my mother.

We've been given the signal to wrap things up and return to the bus. Duncan recognised the signs and gently nudged me out of my reverie. I grabbed a handful of postcards and headed for the checkout line.

Before returning to the ship we visited the palace of the Yusupov family, a family whose riches had once exceeded those of the Russian royalty. I listened in near disbelief as the guide told us that, at one point, they owned nearly 25,000 slaves, most of whom worked in their mines. Wandering through the lavish rooms, including their own private theatre, I realized that a revolution in Russian really had been inevitable. It only stood to reason that if you so blatantly flaunted your wealth in front of people who had nothing, you were begging for trouble and would, eventually, get it.

A walk through the basements revealed the room in which Rasputin, the corrupt, self-proclaimed monk who exerted too much control over the ruling Romanov family, was murdered in 1916. Wax figures of Rasputin and one of his murderers inhabited the dark little room. There is much legend surrounding the death of Rasputin, some of it giving him almost superhuman powers. He was allegedly poisoned, shot and tossed into the river, still alive, where he drowned. However the official autopsy report does not support all of these details. Official reports show no poison in his stomach or water in his lungs, but are these reports accurate? His alleged murderers claimed that Rasputin consumed mass quantities of poison, so much that one of the conspirators ran screaming from the room, claiming that Rasputin couldn't be human, before they shot him. There is also some evidence that the killing shot came from a Webley .455, a revolver not owned by any of the conspirators, but one that was closely associated with British Intelligence at the time.

While standing in front of the Rasputin display, my nose turned up at the slightly sour smell of body odour. Trying not to be too obvious, I looked around to determine the source of the smell and didn't have to look very far. Leaning against the wall across from the exhibit (why wasn't there anyone around to slap his fingers?) was a short, middle-aged man with dark hair and a thin moustache. He appeared clean enough, if a little dishevelled, but the coat draped over his arm seemed to be the source of the offensive smell - it looked like it hadn't been washed in a while. He obviously wasn't there to look at the exhibit though, as he was making no effort to disguise the fact that he was watching the tourists. When his eyes met mine I felt cold and instinctively stepped back, trying to hide behind Duncan. I remember thinking that he must be KGB, before remembering that it didn't exist anymore.

I drifted off to sleep on the bus ride back, leaning my tired head against the bus window instead of Duncan's offered shoulder. The last thing I wanted to do was pass this cold on to him, although he was probably already infected. A quick dinner at the buffet and an early bed were in order, as our second day in St. Petersburg was going to start just as early as this one had. At least with the ship docked for the night I could be certain that we weren't going to lose yet another hour's sleep. Those postcards could wait to be written.

Our second day in St. Petersburg was as glorious, weather-wise, as the first had been. Our guide pointed out how lucky we were since St Petersburg isn't exactly known for sunny days. We started with a short canal ride and I soon lost count of the number of beautiful palaces built by the Russian aristocracy during Peter the Great's time. Most interesting of these was the palace allegedly given by Catherine the Great to her lover, Alexei Orlov, who was believed to have killed her husband, Peter III, for her. History ( at least according to our tour guide) tells us that after rewarding him with the palace, she pretty much dismissed him from her life, and he drank himself to death in his opulent, new surroundings.

We toured the Winter Palace and the Hermitage, where Russia's priceless art treasures are housed (including paintings by DaVinci, Rembrandt, Picasso, Monet and many other well-known artists), many of them purchased by Catherine the Great. It was a busy morning and the 3 ½ miles that our guide claimed we walked through the Hermitage alone were taking their toll on my aching back and heavy head. This cold seemed determined to hang around and the hot cup of tea and shot of vodka with lunch was much appreciated. This time I didn't share my vodka, much to Duncan's laughingly-expressed disappointment. I decided to try his hypothesis that it might help clear my sinuses. It did.

It was after lunch, when we were visiting the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood, or the Church on Spilt Blood, as it is also called, that I saw Kateryna again. She was hovering at the back of our group, conspicuous because she lacked the headset we all wore, the one that allowed us to hear Irina over the crowds. This time she was alone and did not seem to be purring. In fact she looked frightened, and kept glancing around as if looking for someone, which somehow managed to make her appear vulnerable and even younger. I studied her for a few moments, noticing that she wore the same yellow t-shirt and jeans, but today they looked worn and dirty and there was what seemed to be a new tear in one of the knees of the jeans. Even her hair lacked the previous day's luster, hanging lifeless and carelessly tucked behind her ears.

Surrounded by the most opulent building I have ever seen, it was ridiculous to be paying more attention to this Russian woman than to the cathedral. I lifted my hand to my headset to adjust the volume and tried to focus on what Irina was telling us.

Officially named the Cathedral of the Resurrection of Christ, the cathedral was built on the exact spot where Tsar Alexander II was bombed by anarchists. He died later of his wounds, in the Winter Palace. His son, Alexander III, began construction of the church as a memorial to his father but never saw it completed, because it took 24 years to finish. While the beauty of the building, resplendent with massive pillars built of semi-precious stones, gold, and intricate mosaics is undeniable, such an overt display of riches, built in response to an act that protested the already unequal distribution of wealth, struck me as being incredibly arrogant, almost obscenely so. I have never been much of an anarchist, nor have I ever supported the brutality practiced by Lenin and the Bolshevik revolution, and the resultant Communist regime, but I was beginning to understand why it happened.

The church did not fare well during the communist years, being used, at different times, as a temporary morgue and a warehouse for storing vegetables. When Irina finished talking and directed us to another area of the cathedral, despite my best intentions, I couldn't stop myself from looking around for Kateryna, but she was nowhere to be seen.

The afternoon was topped off by a visit to the Peter and Paul ( but no Mary) Fortress and Cathedral, where most of the Russian royalty, from Peter the Great up to the doomed Romanov family, is interred, including the young Anastasia, whose miraculous escape has been romanticised about in movies. There was, sadly, no fairy tale ending for Anastasia, as her remains have been confirmed by DNA. The crowds in there were unbelievable and I pitied the tour guides who were without the handy microphone and earphone sets, as they yelled themselves hoarse to be heard above the dull roar of the thousands of voices. Unfortunately that screaming was often right in my ear, making it impossible for me to hear what Irina was saying, even with my headset turned up to maximum. Every time I tried to move away from the yelling guide, she moved with me, filling in the space I created in an attempt to get closer to the front. I gave up trying. Telling Duncan I would meet him outside, I sought someplace to sit and rest where I wouldn't be shoulder to shoulder with noisy, moving crowds. I did not feel the need to visit every grave of all the Russian royalty buried there. They all looked the same.

Duncan checked up on me after leaving the cathedral and before heading off to investigate the fortress part of the site. With my sinuses throbbing, I was relieved that he was willing to wander off without me dragging along behind him. I passed the time by indulging in one on my favourite activities - people watching. I freely admit that I was secretly looking for Kateryna, although I really didn't expect to find her there. I wasn't disappointed. If she was in the crowd at all, she was nowhere that I could see her, no matter how long I looked.

I smiled when I spotted Duncan crossing the courtyard towards me, but the smile froze on my face when I saw the little man from the Yusopov Palace, with the funny moustache and dirty trench coat draped over his arm, walking beside him. He was engaged in conversation with Duncan, whose head was bent to one side, in a position he often takes when talking to me, to minimise the height difference. They stopped a few feet away and I could see Duncan gesture towards me. The man bowed his head and extended his hand for Duncan to shake. I felt a shudder go through me as Duncan took the proffered hand.

Who was that? I tried to be casual but Duncan knew me too well to not notice that my antenna were up.

His name is Boris. Duncan answered. Why?

Boris? I couldn't suppress a giggle. Where's Natasha?

Probably off hunting moose and squirrel. Duncan said quietly, then laughed and shook his head. We shouldn't make fun of the guy's name. It's probably a fairly common name here.

Mmmm. I agreed. What were you guys talking about?

The fortress. The guy actually knows a lot about it. Duncan waited a few seconds for me to say something, until it became obvious that I wasn't volunteering anything further. Alright, what don't you like about him?

I saw him yesterday at the place where Rasputin was murdered. I paused to breathe. He had cold eyes and a stinky coat.

Duncan threw back his head and laughed. Which thing bothered you the most?

Not sure. I admitted.

Well his eyes weren't cold today, but the coat still smelled. He put his arm around my shoulders and steered me towards the bus, having heard the call to muster at the bus through his headset, whereas I had removed mine. Our time in Russia was drawing to a close.

Back on the ship I decided that a visit to sick bay was in order. I was pretty sure that my head cold had blossomed into a sinus infection and I wasn't interested in trying to ride that out on my own while cruising the Baltic Sea. After dropping our bags and purchases off in our state room, I offered to head to sick bay on my own. Whether because of concern about my health or the knowledge that left on my own I would most certainly get lost, Duncan insisted on coming with me. I was pleased to have his company.

Sick bay is buried deep in the bowels of the boat, on Gala Deck (Deck 4) where passengers have no other reason to be. As far as I could guess, the only other things down there were cabins for the crew and maybe the ship's laundry facilities. The map provided by the ship was most unhelpful in that matter, showing only the Medical Centre, with the rest of the deck left blank. I guess we passengers didn't need to know what was secluded down there.

As I stepped off the elevator, I saw a girl with limp blonde hair, a dirty yellow t-shirt and torn blue jeans slip through a door. It closed behind her with a distinctive click and my cruise card, which functioned as a pass key, did not persuade it to unlock, no matter how many times I tried, while Duncan looked on in puzzlement. Frustrated, I turned and entered the Medical Centre.

While waiting to be seen, I filled Duncan in on the girl we would soon learn was named Kateryna. At the time I jokingly referred to her as Boris' missing Natasha, but we both agreed that she couldn't be Natasha because her hair was blonde while the cartoon character from The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show was a brunette. Little did we know how close to the truth we would turn out to be, although hair colour had nothing to do with it.

Duncan reasoned that she was a crew member on the ship, maybe one of the entertainment staff, who'd obviously had shore leave in St. Petersburg. After all, everyone was entitled to a little time off. This made sense so I was able to shake off my obsession and talk about the places we'd visited that day instead, passing the time until I was called in to have my sinus infection confirmed and a dose of expensive antibiotics dispensed - once we were reimbursed it would almost pay for the cost of travel insurance. I really did succeed in putting the bedraggled blonde completely out of my mind, so you can imagine how surprised I was to have her join us for dinner that evening, in the DaVinci Dining Room, a place where crew members never went to dine.

Chapter Two

On most cruise ships you have the option of traditional dining, wherein you choose one of two seating times, early or late, and sit at the same table with the same people every night. Or you can opt for anytime dining. With any time dining you can either phone ahead for reservations, or take your chances, just show up and indicate whether you wish to share a table or dine alone. If you wish to share, the maître’d chooses a table for you based on language spoken. With this option you meet a variety of different people, sometimes having the pleasure (or not) of occasionally dining with passengers whom you have dined with before. One night we actually dined with a couple who lived on a street that I had lived on as a child - it really is a small world.

Of course there are other dining options, depending on the size of the ship, including the buffet, specialty restaurants, the café, the hamburger or pizza stand, or room service. Not wanting to be saddled every night with people we might not like, we signed up for anytime dining and, with very few exceptions, had been pleased with the variety of people we had met.

That night, because of my exhaustion, we dined earlier than normal, arriving just before the doors opened. We weren't surprised to find that there were a lot of people who obviously had the same idea. We were seated at a table for six and soon joined by party of three, leaving one seat, the one beside me, empty. We had just placed our drink orders and were getting to know our companions, Richard, Maureen and Margaret, a husband and wife and her sister, from London, England, when the host escorted a single, young woman over to fill the empty seat.

It took me a minute to recognise her, as her no-longer-dirty blonde hair was swept up off her shoulders, which were left bare by the cute