Shelley ran a finger down the left column of each page. "I don't think so. Some of the names in the farm one look vaguely Russian or Slavic, but no Romanovs or even a Smith."
As Shelley folded up the census reports, Jane handed her the pile of clippings and photos. "Some of these aren't even in English," Shelley complained.
"No, but they each have a number written on the back. There are translations in the stack of paperwork. Most are Romanov cousins and people from Holnagrad, according to Doris's translations."
"Here's an obituary of Gregory Smith."
"Yes, but don't get excited," Jane warned her. "It doesn't tell much of anything about him. Just that he came from Europe and arrived in the community in the 1920s. Most of it's about his late wife, who was connected to the town. I'd guess that either Bill or his sister gave the information to the paper, and they either didn't know much more or were respecting their father's lifelong secrecy and didn't say what they knew."
"I wonder if this Sergei person in the portrait photograph with the Tsar is supposed to be Gregory's father."
"I have no idea."
"What else do you have there?" Shelley carefully bundled up the clippings and pictures and traded them for a thin sheaf of papers Jane had put together with a paper clip.
"Some of it is translations of the clippings. There are a lot that seem to be typed-up transcripts of interviews with old-timers around here who claimed to remember Gregory Smith."
"Have you read them all?"
"Only skimmed them, I'm afraid."
"Okay, you take half. I'll take half."
They dutifully read in silence for a while. Katie strolled through, stared at them for a minute, and said, "You look like you're doing homework. Want to do some of mine when we get home?"
"In your dreams, kiddo," Jane answered.
"Can't hurt to ask," Katie replied breezily.
"What's this about?" Shelley asked, handing Jane the typed sheet with the lists of names and book and page numbers.
"I don't know, except what it says. Sheepshead Bay court records."
"I can see why the two names are starred," Shelley said. "Roman and the one Smith name. Maybe that's the court where Gregor changed his name. If he did. But I wonder why one Smith is starred and the other one isn't. And why did she record the rest of these names?"
Jane understood these to be rhetorical questions and didn't answer. Instead she just put the page on her lap and gazed at it.
A moment later, she gasped.
"What's wrong?"
Jane sat with her mouth open for a minute, then said, "Did you see those greeting cards in the gift shop? The ones with the busy little repetitive patterns on them and you're supposed to stare at them for a long time and imagine you're looking through the page-"
"Yes, I think they're a Communist plot to brainwash people like you into thinking you're seeing a secret message."
"But I did see the message on them. And I have a feeling I'm seeing one here. Sort of through the page, if you know what I mean."
"I have no idea what you mean!"
"Look at the list. Look at the names that aren't starred. You're right. There's a reason for the rest of the names!"
Shelley went through the list and looked back at Jane blankly. "No secret message."
"Wait a minute. Let me think this out before I open my mouth and make a complete fool of myself," Jane said. She got up and paced for a few moments. Shelley waited patiently, pouring herself another scant tablespoonful of wine and putting another log on the fire.
Finally Jane sat back down and took a deep breath. "I think I know."
She talked for five minutes straight, pointed out the evidence of her theory in Doris's notes and with two other objects; then she sat back, feeling mentally exhausted.
"If this is right — and I suspect it is — I have two questions," Shelley said.
"Fire away."
"Don't sound so cocky," Shelley warned. "First, how did Bill Smith know?"
"Doris told him," Jane said smugly.
"But why would she?"
"Because she was a blabbermouth. She assumed since she found it interesting, everybody would. And Bill did. He found it useful, too. Next question?"
"You can really be insufferable," Shelley said mildly. "Next question is, how do we prove it?"
Jane's smug expression faded. "Gee — I don't know. Hmmm. Oh! Remember when Lucky was talking about professional genealogists in Salt Lake City? People you can hire to do your research? That's how. We hire a genealogist."
"And get put at the bottom of a list that'll take three months to work up to the top of."
"I believe that's where we have to get Mel into this. He is a professional detective, you know. And he could say so to someone without having to be specific about whether or not he's officially involved in this case."
Shelley cocked an eyebrow doubtfully. "I don't think he's going to like this one little bit."
"Well, if worse comes to worse, we'll have to tell the whole theory to the sheriff and get his people to ask someone there to do it."
"Okay, third question—"
"You said you only had two!"
"I thought of another one. And this is a big one. If the fact we're basing this on is true, it doesn't necessarily prove murder."
"Not just one fact, Shelley. A whole host of them. But I see your point. I think the shock treatment is the only way."
"And how do you plan to administer this shock without getting yourself killed? I like your kids, but I don't want to raise them for you."
Jane thought for a long moment, then raised her hand like a child who suddenly knows the answer to a question. "HawkHunter is doing a reading from his book tomorrow night. Don't you think we could get everybody to attend?"
Shelley frowned. "Maybe so. You really think we can get all our ducks in a row by then? It's less than twenty-four hours away."
Jane lighted a cigarette and started pacing again.
She stopped at the sliding glass doors to the deck and looked up toward Flattop Mountain. "I'll bet—" She broke off, stared at the cigarette in her hand, and then back at the mountain. "Omigod! Shelley! I've got the rest of it, too! Mel was right! It was self-defense and money! Oh, Shelley, we have so much to do first thing in the morning. For one thing, we have to find that skier in the red oufit!"
"I'm sure this is going to make some kind of sense when you quit gasping and snorting and explain yourself," Shelley said.
"Oh, it will. It sure will!"
Chapter 23
In the end, it became necessary to explain to the sheriff. There was simply too much to do in one day that required the authority of law — or at least the seeming authority. The sheriff, to his credit, went along with Jane's plan. It wasn't so much that he believed her as it was pure and simple desperation. Although he didn't admit as much, he and his men were getting nowhere fast and he regarded any possible solution as better than none.
"He's just hedging his bets," Mel said. "If you're right, you might deliver a confessed murderer to him. If you're wrong, you've made a fool of yourself and he's got nothing to do with it except to witness it."
"You think so?" Jane asked as they headed down the road to the main complex of the resort.
"I'm sure of it. You've got everything, haven't you?"
Jane glanced through the canvas bag she carried, ticking off in her mind the items she needed and double-checking that each was in its properly labeled envelope. "I think so. I hope so."
"You're sure you don't want me to do this?"
"No, I'm fine."
That was a lie. Her stomach was in a knot; she was trembling with nerves. She couldn't wait for this to be over. She was certain the information she'd compiled pointed to only one conclusion, but whether she could pile it up effectively enough to elicit a confession was a different matter entirely. A person who could cold-bloodedly murder two other individuals was capable of anything — even brazening out an open threat.