Waking Anastasia (8 page)

He ate at the kitchen counter, high atop an oak stool, re-establishing his oldest tradition of reading while eating. It used to drive Haley crazy, so he’d stopped, at least when she was home. Today he was deep into the last chapter of D. B. Jackson’s historical fantasy,
Thieftaker: Dead Man’s Reach
—Jackson’s best to date, and Jerry had been hooked on the series since discovering that his own family was from pre-revolutionary Boston, where the
Thieftaker
series was set. He ate and read in silence, kept company by Sushi, whose flexed and fanned fins indicated that he was happy to be back in his own tank and on a solid countertop rather than in a sloshing, unadorned bowl in a box bouncing in the back seat and not feeling like eating much at all. Jerry grinned at his sturdy companion, dropped a pinch of food into the bowl, and went back to savouring both the book and the omelette.

HAVING USED GOOGLE
Street View to find the antique store, he knew exactly what to look for when he rounded the corner and looked up at a small shop with fine gold and black lettering on the windows indicating he’d found Ipatiev Antiques & Fine Furniture. The storefront was only fifteen feet or so wide, with the inset door bracketed by the two bay windows. Whereas some of the shops sharing the street were showing a little bit of wear and tear, the front of Ipatiev Antiques was in impeccable condition. There wasn’t a chip in the paint or a spot of rust on the iron fittings. The brass door knob and plate were gleaming and the windows all looked like they’d been hand-polished to invisibility. Jerry was impressed.

The display in the left window featured a variety of small European pieces on a solidly carved dining table. The antiques in the other window were all of an Asian origin, from Indian brass to Chinese jade. Jerry had no idea how old or valuable any of it was, but he was definitely impressed by the spotless selection spread out before him. Oh, to have a job that could allow him to purchase such luxuries, he thought. Someday, he supposed.

He checked his watch to confirm that it was after nine, then entered the shop with the old Kodak camera and the book of Blake’s poems wrapped in left-over bubble wrap in a cloth grocery bag. A pair of delicate brass bells announced his arrival as the door bumped their spring hanger and set them to ringing. Inside, the shop was as dust-free as the window displays, yet the area was full of pieces of all sizes, from French armoires to Fabergé-type jewelled eggs in a strong, stunningly lit display case. A gentle voice with the soft rasp of a lifetime smoker and a decidedly Russian accent addressed him.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome to Ipatiev Antiques. How can I be of service? I am Ivan Petrov.”

Jerry turned to find a diminutive man about seventy-five years old, dressed like an old-school banker in tailored, navy blue, wool trousers and vest, with a jeweller’s loupe hanging from a chain around his neck. “Doing a little Christmas shopping, sir?”

“Sorry, but no. You’ve got some gorgeous stuff, but right now I’m hoping you can do a rough appraisal on a couple of things I’ve inherited. I just moved here and my insurance agent wants to know their value as soon as possible, so he can include them in the coverage. You were recommended by one of his Victoria associates.”

“Of course, sir. I am honoured by the recommendation. If you have the items with you, I would be pleased to take a look.” He moved behind the display case, reached behind it, and came up with a rubber-backed, dark green velvet matt. He flicked a switch on the back of the display case and the lights inside it were replaced by a crisp halogen lamp from above.

Jerry could see that Petrov was obviously a professional who took what he did very seriously. Placing the bag on the glass next to the matt, Jerry gingerly retrieved his great-grandfather’s camera and book. Petrov put on a pair of fine cotton gloves and waited patiently while Jerry unwrapped the treasures and placed them on the velvet. As the old man examined the camera, Jerry retrieved the pocket watch from inside his jacket and gently placed it on the velvet next to the book.

“Very nice. The camera is a Number 3A Folding Brownie, made by the Eastman Kodak Company starting in April 1909. It has seen better days, but it is still in very good condition.” He picked up the watch, opened it, and examined it closely with the loupe. “I would have to open it up to be sure, but I’m nearly certain that this is a 1922 Longines. White gold, not silver, as many people assume. Seventeen jewels. Swiss-made. Very nice.” He pulled a pen and a small coil-bound notebook from his shirt pocket and made some notes.

Jerry was pleased. “It all belonged to my great-grandfather.”

Petrov barely heard Jerry as he examined the book. “A nice edition but a shame the cover is stained and torn—that will affect its value, obviously.” He opened it and read the inscription. “‘To Ana, love Mama. Christmas 1915.’ Lovely. Very sweet. This Ana was a family member?”

Jerry chuckled. “Of mine? Oh, no. My great-grandfather picked it up in Russia in the summer of 1918. He was in some place called Ekaterinburg. I’ve been meaning to do some research on the Internet but just haven’t had the time, what with the move and all.”

If at all possible, Petrov held the book with an even lighter touch than before, visibly shaken. With trembling hands, he placed the Blake volume down on the velvet. “Ekaterinburg in 1918? He was a soldier?”

“A captain in an Expeditionary Force of some kind. There’s a photo inside the back cover that might help.”

Petrov picked up the book once again. He opened the back cover and the scalloped-edged black-and-white photo of the Ipatiev House slid out and dropped onto the glass cabinet top. “Very interesting.” He looked again at the cover, using the loupe once more to get detail his old eyes alone couldn’t. “But with no way to corroborate the origin of this curious little volume, in addition to the damage, I’m afraid it has little value other than as a personal family treasure. Is that stain wine, perhaps?”

Jerry shrugged. “I have no idea. I suppose it could be.” He’d originally thought it was blood, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Mr. Petrov, do you have an estimate I can give my insurance agent until a formal appraisal can be done? Please?”

Petrov wrote two numbers on the back of his business card and handed it to Jerry. “These are estimates of the values of the watch and the camera. The book, maybe $50, because of its age. I can prepare something formal for your insurance company; if you give me an address, I can drop it off.”

Jerry read the note and put it into his wallet. “Thank you. Or you can email it. Whatever is easiest for you. I’ll give you my email, my cell number, and my address. I live around the corner on Broad Street. Not too far away.” He took another of Petrov’s business cards from the jade cardholder on the counter top and wrote the information on the back.

Petrov took it, read it, and tucked it carefully in his vest pocket. “Very good. I should have something later today or early tomorrow.” He smiled warmly, and Jerry’s doubts evaporated. “That’d be great, sir.” He left the shop, his heirlooms held close.

ANA WAS QUITE
certain that she no longer needed to breathe, but nonetheless she’d been holding her breath. She sensed a movement and the warmth of a nearby kind soul, but then there was a malignance, a jumbled, confused sense of others in the darkness, or at least other darknesses near at hand. She willed herself to be as small and unnoticeable as she could. Whatever she was sensing, it was not friendly to her.

PETROV WAS ON
the phone before the echo of the door bells had died. Working from memory, he fumbled over the last two numbers, remembered them, and finished dialling. It only took two rings before it was answered.

“Mr. Petrov. Merry Christmas.”

Petrov sat his old bones down on his stool. “How did you know it was me?”

“Call Display. You really need to catch up with the rest of us, old man. Now, what’s so important that you’re calling my personal cell phone during Christmas break?”

“Yes, I am sorry about that Doctor Professor. I have only just held in my hands the most extraordinary piece of Romanov memorabilia. What would you say to a book belonging to Anastasia herself, which may have actually been in her possession when she died?”

“I’d say ‘bullshit’. It’s too hard to prove.”

“Prove conclusively? Of course it is too hard. But the owner claims it was picked up at the House of Special Purpose days after the killings. It has what appears to be a bullet hole, blood stains, and an inscription to Ana from her mother in script which looks too similar to your own collection of Alexandra’s letters to ignore.”

“Good God! I must see it. I’ll be in Victoria for three days for the New Year’s Gala at The Empress Hotel. I’ll come to the shop to see it on New Year’s Day.”

“I’m afraid I do not have the piece in my possession, Doctor Professor. It was part of a small insurance appraisal I was doing. But I do have the young man’s name and address. Perhaps you can make him an offer. I told him it was nearly worthless, so maybe the boy will take a few hundred dollars for it. He is young and will most likely just spend it on drugs and alcohol anyway.”

“He has no idea what it’s worth? You’re sure?”

“Most positive. He will take it home, shove it on a shelf, and forget about it.”

“Perfect! Find out as much as you can about him. I like to know my opponents’ weaknesses before I face them.”

“Would you like me to make a low-ball offer for the book? Perhaps I can have it for you by the time you arrive.”

“No. I don’t want him thinking that it might be worth something and then try to sell it on eBay or Kijiji.” Petrov heard the academic take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Mr. Petrov, you’re quite certain about this piece?”

“As certain as I can be without doing DNA tests on the blood and chemical analysis on what looks like gunpowder residue. I would stake my reputation on it.”

“Reputations can be reinvented and rebuilt. Would you stake your
life
on it?”

“I am an old man. A book belonging to Anastasia is probably worth more than my life and would be a poor exchange.”

“Maybe so, but I will not be made a fool of like Ramirez and his fake Romanov Fabergé egg.” He hung up abruptly, and the old man sighed at the poor manners.

@TheTaoOfJerr: “Most people die with their music still locked up inside them.”

~Benjamin Disraeli

BY THE TIME
Jerry walked to the radio station at noon, he was pushing back another dull thumper of a headache, so the tour, the handshakes, and the welcome-aboards were all a bit of a blur. He remembered some pretty faces, some lopsided smiles, and some very eclectic personalities, but it was all he could do to remember where he was. He smiled and nodded and eventually Manny caught on that something was wrong.

“You don’t look so good, Jerr. A bit pale, even.”

“I get headaches. I’m fighting this one and winning, but it’s exhausting.”

“Then get out of here. Go relax, and enjoy the sea air. I find it’s a cure-all like no other.”

“You’re the boss, Boss.”

With the GPS on his iPhone to guide him should he get lost, Jerry just let his feet lead him out of the station and take him wherever they wanted. He eventually found himself strolling along Victoria’s Inner Harbour with only a trace of the headache remaining. Seeing all of the Christmas decorations on shop fronts and vessels in port, Jerry decided he’d better make it up to his new staff. He called Manny.

“Jerr! Miss us already? Ready to start work?”

Jerry chuckled. “Yes and almost. There’s one thing I’d like to do first and that’s have everyone over to the loft for a Christmas gathering.”

“Great idea. When?”

“Well, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Would that be too short of notice? I just want sort of a drop-in gathering so people can do what they want with their families earlier and then swing by for a bite to eat or a cocktail, and chat for a bit.”

“I like it. Want help?”

“That’s why I was calling. How would Carmella feel about being my right-hand-lady on this? She knows the people and the city. I don’t want her doing the work, just being the voice in my ear that says ‘yay’ or ‘nay’.”

“She’d love it! She loves nothing better than planning and executing a party, Jerr, especially on short notice. She just left the office so I’ll text her and have her give you a call.”

“Thanks, Manny. I’ll send out an email telling everyone when and where as soon as we hang up.”

“Then go, do.”

Jerry sent out the email to his list of station staff and ten minutes later Carmella called.

“Jerry, dear, I hear we’re planning a party.”

“Just a casual gathering, Carmella. You don’t mind giving me a hand?”

“Don’t tell Manny this, but I’m tired of shopping for presents and this is the perfect little break I need. Besides, I think it’s a great idea. We had a staff party last week but it was a sit-down dinner and we were missing our handsome new station manager with the voice made for radio. We need a relaxed, mingly-thing to start the Christmas week off.”

“Just a simple thing. You know the staff and you know where to find supplies, so I’m in desperate need of a wing-man, or wing-woman as the case may be.”