He stared upward, toward the ceiling, before meeting my eyes again. “Mrs. Campbell’s father died in a car accident.”
“I know.”
He stood. “Who did you talk to about this?” he asked. “Besides me?”
I shook my head. “No one.”
“This time, keep it that way,” he said. Without another word, he bundled up his papers and left the room.
CHAPTER 20
IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE MRS. CAMPBELL’S dinner guests began to arrive. With a sad sense of déjà vu, we staged dinner in the Family Dining Room’s adjacent pantry, just as we had on Thanksgiving-when these same guests were present and we received the terrible news that Sean was dead. I couldn’t help but question Mrs. Campbell’s decision to choose this particular venue for tonight’s meal. In addition to the recent sadness associated with the room, it wouldn’t be very private. Staffers in adjacent rooms were working around the clock tonight to complete everything before tomorrow’s opening.
Cyan and I intended to handle tonight’s dinner ourselves. With three guests-possibly only two if Volkov didn’t show-there was no need to clutter up the pantry with extra bodies.
I warmed the onion gravy on the stove, about to ask Cyan a question, when I heard Treyton Blanchard’s voice in the next room. “Elaine, thank you for having us. A shame about Volkov, isn’t it?”
Turning down the heat, I inched toward the wall, hoping to hear more. A shame? That hardly seemed an appropriate reaction to Volkov being responsible for her father’s death.
“I hope Nick is all right,” Mrs. Campbell answered. “And I hope we hear more soon.”
“Let’s hope we hear from him directly.”
I pressed my fingers to my forehead. This conversation made no sense.
Jackson came in, letting us know that dinner would be served a half hour later than we’d planned. When I asked why, he shook his head. He didn’t know, he just wanted to relay Mrs. Campbell’s request. I thanked him and kept listening in.
Mrs. Campbell and Senator Blanchard moved into discussion about other things, family and such. I heard him murmur his repeated condolences about Sean, and Mrs. Campbell said something in return I couldn’t catch.
“Hey, Nancy Drew,” Cyan whispered. “What’s so important in there?”
I moved away from my eavesdropping perch. “They’re talking about Volkov.”
“So?”
“He’s still coming, right?”
Cyan twisted her mouth. “What’s with you today? I think they’re all coming.” She glanced at her watch. “And no one is officially late, yet. But Helen Hendrickson hasn’t arrived either…”
“Helen,” Mrs. Campbell exclaimed in the other room. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “She’s here now.”
Cyan and I arranged stuffed cherry tomatoes on one plate and set out another platter for the bacon-and-cornbread muffins while I waited for some word as to whether Volkov was coming or not. At the same time, I kept my ears open for any further mention of his name.
The silly bet I’d played with myself now rose up to mock me. I tried reasoning with myself. Even if the man didn’t show up, it wasn’t as though I could take that fact to the nearest police station and claim that he was guilty. But as the minutes ticked by and Volkov became officially late, I became ever more convinced that Kirsten Zarzycki’s allegations had more going for them than just ravings of an eager-to-be-promoted reporter. The fact that she was dead sealed it for me. I wondered who else she may have talked to.
Then a thought hit me so hard it made me stagger.
“Ollie? What’s wrong?” Cyan asked.
I held on to the edge of countertop, forcing my brain to slow down instead of making the terrible conclusions it preferred to leap into.
If Kirsten indeed had access to information that incriminated Volkov-and she had been killed to maintain silence-then I had to worry about who else she might have talked to. Because whoever was responsible for her death might have known she talked to me.
My fingers formed a vise around the counter edge.
“Ollie?”
“I’m okay,” I whispered to Cyan, though I was anything but. The horrible thought bounced around in my brain-what if Kirsten had mentioned me? What if whoever killed her was looking to tie up other loose ends?
I’d had an assassin after me before-and although I’d survived, it had been close. Too close. The recent incident on the street took on new meaning. What if these were the same people who’d killed Kirsten? What if they’d planned to get me first? Would they stop now, or had I made myself an even bigger target by talking with the reporter?
“I think you ought to sit down,” Cyan insisted.
“No.” I wiped the back of my hand against my eyes. “I just had a moment there. I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Maybe you’re coming down with something.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Her look told me she didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me either.
I made my way to a stool near the door to the Family Dining Room. “You know what? Maybe I’ll just sit for a minute.” I gathered some of the baby greens we intended to use for the salad, and four plates. “I’ll get the salad started here.”
While Cyan worked at the far end of the room, she cast occasional glances my way. For my part, I listened for mention of Volkov, for mention of Mrs. Campbell’s father. Instead, the three old friends seemed intent on keeping the conversation light.
“There he is,” Treyton Blanchard boomed.
I nearly stood up to see, but didn’t need to. Within moments I heard the greetings indicating Nick Volkov had arrived-and in apparent high spirits.
“He came?” I asked aloud.
“Why shouldn’t he?” Cyan asked. “We set a place for him.”
As much as I knew my little he’s-guilty-if-he-doesn’t-show reasoning meant nothing, I felt relief begin to seep into my consciousness. Last night, Kirsten had made it sound as though an arrest were imminent. Volkov showing up here today suggested that the late reporter’s musings could have been just that-musings. Solid logic was rapidly extinguishing the irrational fear that had gripped me. Perhaps Kirsten met her untimely end in a strictly coincidental fashion.
That didn’t feel quite right to me, but the fact that Nick Volkov had shown up gave me enough release to let go and enjoy the rest of the dinner preparation.
Jackson came into the pantry, all smiles. “We are ready to serve at any time.”
“Any idea why the delay?”
“Mr. Volkov was apparently in a fender-bender on his way over. His driver is still at the scene, and Mr. Volkov needed to remain until the police arrived.”
“Is he okay?”
Jackson nodded and began mixing a drink using sweet vermouth, Tennessee whiskey, and bitters. “Both Mr. Volkov and the driver were uninjured.”
“What about the other guy?”
He shrugged. “Hit-and-run.”
“Poor Volkov. Is he shaken up?”
Jackson strained his mixture into a lowball glass and added a maraschino cherry. “First thing he asked for was a perfect Manhattan,” he said, holding up the concoction. “And told me to keep them coming.”
“Yikes,” I said. “Think he’ll be in any mood to discuss business with that much in his system?”
Jackson backed into the doorway, lifting his shoulders in silent response. He mouthed, “We’ll see.”
Plating and serving dinner took my full concentration. The little snatches of conversation I caught between tasks weren’t much. It seemed as though, by tacit agreement, all four diners had agreed to table contentious discussion until after the meal.
Before the empty dishes were brought back to the kitchen, Cyan and I began to prepare for dessert. She had her back to me, one hand on the coffeepot, when she turned to ask me a question.
Instead of Cyan’s voice, however, Volkov’s rang out. “Why can’t you see reason, woman?”