Blackberry Winter

Chapter 18




CLAIRE

Ilifted the papers from the case. They carried the scent of the space behind Lillian’s wall: cigar smoke, must, a tinge of old leather. The first page confirmed that Lillian’s father, Edward Sharpe, had indeed represented Sven W. Ivanoff in the murder trial of Vera Ray. The next few pages were filled with legal jargon and various motions I did not understand. But deeper in the stack lay the material I’d been waiting for, the transcribed sworn testimony of Mr. Ivanoff. I shivered, thinking of what might lie in those yellowed typewritten pages. An admission of guilt? The horrific details of Vera’s death? I began reading:

E. R. Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, please state for the record your name and address.

S. W. Ivanoff: Sven W. Ivanoff of 4395 Fifth Avenue.

Sharpe: You have pled not guilty to the murder of Miss Vera Ray. Is this correct?

Ivanoff: Yes, sir.

Sharpe: Please state how you were acquainted with Miss Ray.

Ivanoff: I knew her for about four years.

Sharpe: When did you first meet?

Ivanoff: We lived in the same building. She lived on the floor below. But that wasn’t how we first met. I was over in Windermere doing some work on a house. Saw her walking the roadside. She had the look of a lady who needed help.

Sharpe: So what did you do?

Ivanoff: I stopped the truck. Pulled over. I asked her if she needed a lift. She asked me if I could take her back to her apartment in Seattle. That’s when I realized we lived in the same building.

Sharpe: Now, Mr. Ivanoff, the prosecution seems to paint a picture of Miss Ray as a woman of questionable morals—a prostitute, even. Did you have any reason to believe that this was true of Miss Ray?

Ivanoff: No, sir. She was a decent woman. A good woman. Just trying to make ends meet like the rest of us.

Sharpe: And when you drove her back to her apartment building in the city, was there anything inappropriate, or shall I say, intimate, about the encounter?

Ivanoff: No, sir. I’m a married man, sir.

Sharpe: What did you talk about on the drive back to Seattle?

Ivanoff: She said she had to make a very hard decision. Sounded like relationship trouble, if you ask me. I didn’t ask her many questions. She didn’t seem to want to talk much. But she did say something about one of the ladies at the house she had been at, that she hadn’t been kind to her. We both agreed that rich folks can sometimes be as mean as the devil himself.

Sharpe: So you got the impression that someone had been unkind to Miss Ray in the Windermere neighborhood where she had been visiting?

Ivanoff: Yes, sir. She was shaken up. You could tell she’d been crying. I felt sorry for her.

Sharpe: All right. So you dropped her off at the apartment building, and that was it?

Ivanoff: Yes, sir. I only saw her off and on after that. I’d tip my cap at her. Once I fixed a loose brick in her fireplace.

Sharpe: Why did you help her with it?

Ivanoff: The landlord was a real tyrant. Made the tenants pay for repairs themselves. I helped as many people as I could. After the storm, a branch from the cherry tree outside hit one of the old lady’s windows. She couldn’t pay for the repair bill, so she had to live without a window. I had some scrap wood in the truck, so I boarded it shut for her. Cold as an icebox, that apartment.

Sharpe: It sounds as if you were the unofficial handyman of the building.

Ivanoff: You could say so. Somebody had to help those poor folks. I tried to lend a hand whenever I could.

Sharpe: And when you fixed Miss Ray’s fireplace, did you get any indication that she was trying to proposition you?

Ivanoff: Heavens, no. Like I said, she was a decent woman. Besides, by the time I visited her apartment to fix the fireplace, she had a newborn baby. I was surprised at first. I didn’t even know she was expecting. She was such a little thing. Seemed hard to believe she could have carried a child. Besides, I’d never seen a man around her place. Not once. But it was her business. I didn’t ask questions. She loved that little baby. Cooed at him the whole time I was workin’.

Sharpe: Did she tell you the child’s name?

Ivanoff: Why, yes, sir. She called him Daniel.

Sharpe: And was there any monetary exchange for your services?

Ivanoff: No, sir. She tried to give me the last few coins from her pocketbook, but I wouldn’t accept them. She offered me a slice of bread instead. That was nice. The missus had been sick, and hadn’t baked bread in weeks.

Sharpe: Can we clear something up about your record now? You were arrested previously for allegedly striking your wife during a bout of drunkenness. Can you explain what happened?

Ivanoff: It’s true that I drink more than I should. But I would never lay a hand on my wife, or any woman, for that matter.

Sharpe: Then what happened the night your wife was harmed?

Ivanoff: I was at the saloon down below the apartment. It had been a long day. I had drunk more than my share of ale. My wife came down to find me, to bring me home. One of the men at the bar didn’t like seeing a woman in the place. He called her a terrible name, he did.

Sharpe: What did he call her?

Ivanoff: An ugly Russian. Pointed to her fingers, and called them fat, fat as pierogies, he said. Made her cry. I couldn’t let him speak to my wife that way. So I stood up to tell him what I thought of him, and he popped his fist at me, straight at my jaw. Lost a tooth that night.

Sharpe: Can you please stand and show the court which tooth?

Ivanoff: Sure thing. It’s this one right here. Fell right out. I never did find it.

Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, can you tell me what happened to your wife that night? Why was she taken to the hospital?

Ivanoff: She tried to break up the fight, and that bastard hit her. She got hurt real bad.

Sharpe: So, you did not strike your wife?

Ivanoff: No, sir. The police came by the saloon, and somebody told them it was me. Guess they thought it was better to arrest an immigrant. They took me into the station. It was a terrible mistake.

Sharpe: And I understand your wife came to plead with the police the following day for your release. Why didn’t they listen to her?

Ivanoff: Corrupt, I tell you. They jailed an innocent man and wouldn’t listen to reason, even with the facts. They ruined my reputation. I don’t understand this country. In Russia, men are honest.

Sharpe: Let the record show that I have, here, a signed statement from Mrs. Arianna Ivanoff stating that her husband, Sven Ivanoff, did not harm her on the night of May 7, 1933. Now, Mr. Ivanoff, let’s talk about what happened the night of Miss Ray’s death.

Ivanoff: Well, I knew she was in a rough spot, having trouble paying her rent and all. I’d heard that her son was missing. Broke my heart. He was a good little boy. Reminded me of my own son.

Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, did you have anything to do with the disappearance of Daniel Ray?

Ivanoff: No, sir.

Sharpe: Please describe for me your encounters with Miss Ray in the week leading up to her death.

Ivanoff: Well, sir, I remember being in the saloon, the day of the snowstorm. I saw her come home from work, like usual, and shortly after she came running down the stairs, screaming for her little boy. I knew something terrible had happened.

Sharpe: Did you try to help her?

Ivanoff: Yes sir. I walked out to the street, but she’d already run off.

Sharpe: When did you next see her?

Ivanoff: About a week later. The snow had melted, I remember that. I was working on a job at the Olympic Hotel. Saw her there all gussied up, on the arm of a rich man. I didn’t recognize her at first. She saw me. Looked away. I think she was ashamed.

Sharpe: Why do you think she was ashamed? What did you think she was doing there?

Ivanoff: We all do things for the ones we love. I didn’t fault her for trying to get help from an influential person if it helped to find her son.

Sharpe: The prosecution has characterized Miss Ray as a common prostitute, a woman of questionable morals who neglected her son so she could make extra cash as a call girl. They have also suggested that you paid Miss Ray for such services and that you are responsible for her death. How do you respond to these allegations?

Ivanoff: They’re made up. Completely false. Miss Ray was neither a bad mother nor a prostitute. She loved her boy just as my Arianna loved our son. Miss Ray’s dedication to that child was unquestionable. And I can tell you this, sir, she was no call girl.

Sharpe: How do you know?

Ivanoff: Just by the look in her eye when she was with that man at the hotel. She didn’t want to be there with him. Anyone could see that. She looked so sad, so lost. I only wish I could have helped her.

Sharpe: So let’s go through the time line of the night she was murdered.

Ivanoff: I was getting off work at the hotel, piling my tools in my truck, when I saw her run out of the hotel. She didn’t look well. Her dress was torn. Her hair wasn’t up like it usually was. She was crying. It looked as if she was running from someone. I tried to get her attention, but she was running so fast. I secured the last load onto my truck, and started out on Fourth Avenue. That’s when I noticed her get on the back of a grocery truck. She sat right there between the crates of produce and bread. I followed the truck. I wanted to be sure she was OK. Truck dropped her off right in front of a fancy street in Windermere, near where I’d first seen her years ago. I pulled the truck to the side of the road, not wanting to intrude. I waited there for a while.

Sharpe: How long would you say?

Ivanoff: Oh, at least twenty minutes. I thought she might be coming back, and if she did, I wanted to offer her a ride home. See if I could help her. The missus could make her a warm meal, make her a place to sleep on the sofa.

Sharpe: So you were worried about her safety?

Ivanoff: Yes, sir. And, as I say, when she didn’t come back up that driveway twenty minutes later, I decided to go after her. It was an instinct, I guess. I felt that she was in danger.

Sharpe: You left your truck on the street and walked down the road that led to the Kensington residence?



I took my eyes off the page and gasped. My God. Kensington?

Ivanoff: That’s right, sir. I walked down the gravel path, past the fountain and hedges, and looked through the window of the house. I didn’t see anything so I walked around the side yard, down to the lawn behind the house. It was the fanciest home I’d seen in my life. I couldn’t understand what Vera was doing there.

Sharpe: What did you see when you reached the lawn?

Ivanoff: Nothing, at first. Just a big lawn that connected to Lake Washington. The sun had set, so there was little light. I was going to turn back, when I heard something.

Sharpe: What?

Ivanoff: At first I thought it was the sound of an animal. It was so high pitched, so shrill. But then I heard it again, and I knew. It was the sound of a woman crying out for help. She sounded awful scared, or hurt, maybe.

Sharpe: What did you do next?

Ivanoff: I tried to figure where the cry was coming from. Then, I saw movement near the dock. Just a shadow at first. I ducked back behind a tree, and then I saw her.

Sharpe: Vera?

Ivanoff: No, another woman. She was running away from the lake back up to the house.

Sharpe: Did you get a good look at her?

Ivanoff: It was hard to make out her face, but she had dark hair. I suppose you could say she was tall.

Sharpe: And did she let herself inside the residence?

Ivanoff: Yes, sir. It didn’t make sense. Someone clearly needed help down there. I started to run down the lawn, but then the screaming stopped. I, I…

Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, are you all right? May we continue?

Ivanoff: I’ll do my best, sir.

Sharpe: What did you see when you reached the lake?

Ivanoff: Dear Lord, it was terrible. I ran to the dock, and I saw her there, floating in the water. She’d lost one of her shoes….

Sharpe: You saw Miss Ray in the water?

Ivanoff: Yes, sir. She was floating next to a small rowboat that was sinking. It must have had a leak. I tried to reach her from the dock. But she was too far out. I’d have gone after her but I can’t swim, and besides, I think I was too late. Her face was underwater. Eyes open,. It was the most horrible thing I’ve seen in all of my days.

Sharpe: What did you do next?

Ivanoff: I couldn’t bear to think of leaving her there all alone, in the cold. But I knew after my record with the police, they’d point the finger at me. They’d never believe a Russian immigrant. They’d pin me with the crime, the way they’d done the last time. I couldn’t take that chance.

Sharpe: So you left?

Ivanoff: Yes. She looked so peaceful lying there next to the water lilies. Besides, her soul had gone to a better place; that much is certain.

Sharpe: And what did you do next?

Ivanoff: I began walking back up the lawn. I didn’t want anyone to see me. Rich folks would take one look at me and think I was up to trouble. But then I heard some sounds coming from the house.

Sharpe: What did you hear?

Ivanoff: A woman was crying hysterically, and a man was shouting at her.

Sharpe: Could you make out what they were saying?

Ivanoff: No. But I crouched down behind a hedge and watched the man run down to the lake.

Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, do you know the name of the man you saw?

Ivanoff: No, sir. But if you ask me, he loved Miss Ray. He knelt down and cried there on the dock. He took his shirt off and looked like he might have gone in after her, but that woman ran down and pulled him back.

Sharpe: So you began walking back to your truck?

Ivanoff: Yes, sir. I passed by the house on the way. It was a warm night. The windows were open in the upstairs rooms. I heard a child in the house. A boy. He was crying.

Sharpe: Did you think he might be Miss Ray’s son?

Ivanoff: I did. And when I got back to the city, I phoned the police. I told them that a crime had occurred at the residence in Windermere, and that I thought Vera’s boy could be there.

Sharpe: Mr. Ivanoff, what did the officer at the station tell you?

Ivanoff: He said they wouldn’t be looking into my tip.

Sharpe: Why not?

Ivanoff: He said that the Kensingtons were some of the city’s most upstanding citizens.

Sharpe: Let the record state that we have a document from the Police Department proving that Mr. Ivanoff did make a call to the police station to report the crime. Mr. Ivanoff, what do you think really happened to Miss Ray that night?

Ivanoff: I think she traveled to that home to get help and they turned on her. That woman, whoever she was, put her in that boat knowing of the hole. When she could have saved Miss Ray, she didn’t. I hope she pays for what she did.

Sharpe: Thank you, Mr. Ivanoff. There will be no further questions.



I lifted my eyes from the last page with a heavy heart. The story had come into focus. My own husband’s family had been accomplice to one of the most tragic crimes in Seattle’s history, had covered it up, even. No wonder Edward Sharpe had kept the files hidden so long. Mr. Ivanoff had spelled things out in excruciating detail.

I fanned the remaining pages, and my eyes stopped when I read the medical examiner’s notes about Vera’s personal effects:

Found on Ms. Ray: A hair clip, a hotel key, and bracelet. All remitted to Mr. Charles Kensington on June 13, 1933.

Daniel’s father was a…Kensington.

I was supposed to meet Ethan for dinner in thirty minutes. Could I tell him? I remembered the break-in at Lillian’s home and quickly tucked the pages into the briefcase, slipping it under my desk. It would be safe there.



At the restaurant, Ethan ordered a bottle of 2001 merlot from a winery we both loved. “What’s the occasion?” I asked, noting the year of our wedding.

“Just being together these days is an occasion,” he said, smiling.

“I know,” I replied, taking a sip of wine.

“Hey.” He held up his glass. “You forgot to clink glasses. That’s bad luck.”

I tapped my glass against his. “There. The five-second rule applies.”

He smiled. “How have you been?”

At face value, it was a strange question for a husband to ask his wife, and yet we’d become so distant, it made sense.

“Well, I’ve been better,” I said, looking at the menu instead of into his eyes. The menu was safer.

I wanted to ask him about Cassandra, but I didn’t have the guts. “What’s good here?”

“The lamb is fantastic,” he said. “With the orzo. It has a light crust of—”

I slammed my menu down. “Since when are you a foodie? You were never a foodie. You used to pride yourself in being anti-foodie.”

Ethan looked startled.

“Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with her. She’s rubbing off on you.”

“Claire, Cassandra’s just a friend. And since when do you take offense with me enjoying my food?”

I sighed. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking away. The restaurant was filled with couples. Happy couples. Why can’t we be happy? “I didn’t mean to attack you like that.”

“Can we start over?” he asked, setting his menu aside.

“Yes,” I replied. “Reset button.”

“Now, what can we talk about that’s safe? Work?”

I nodded apprehensively.

He took a sip of wine and then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “How’s work? Got any good stories brewing?”

“Well,” I said, taking a long sip of wine and questioning whether to reveal the secret or not. “I’m working on a story that’s pretty fascinating.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, about a little boy who vanished in 1933, the day the snowstorm hit, just like the one we had this week.”

Ethan picked up a piece of bread and dipped it in the plate of olive oil between us. “Did you find out what happened to him?”

“Sort of,” I said. “It might actually shock you, if I tell you.”

“Try me,” he said, amused.

“Well,” I said slowly, “turns out, he’s a Kensington.”

Ethan stopped chewing the bread in his mouth, then swallowed the bite quickly. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story, but the short of it is that one of your great-greats had a fling with a poor woman. She got pregnant, and three years later, I think his sister abducted the boy. At least, I suspect that’s how it went.”

“My God,” he said. “Do you have names?”

I nodded. “The boy’s father was a man named Charles Kensington.”

Ethan shook his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“Yes,” I said. “Why? Who is he?”

“My God, Claire, that’s my great-grandfather.”

“It’s a heartbreaking story,” I continued. “I think I finally have the information I need to write a draft.”

Ethan frowned. “You know you can’t write about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“It would ruin the family name, the newspaper. It would destroy Grandpa.”

“I think you have it all wrong, Ethan,” I said. “I know Warren. He’d want to air the truth.”

He set his napkin on his plate. “No. We can’t take the risk of hurting him when he’s so ill.”

“Well,” I said, “fortunately, you’re not my boss, Ethan.”

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m your boss’s boss.”

I gasped. “You’d really kill this story because it involves skeletons in your family’s closet?”

“Yes,” he said. “I would.”

The server appeared, but I waved him away. “I’m not the only one looking for answers. You should have seen the scene at Lillian Sharpe’s home in Windermere. Her father was involved in the murder trial of the boy’s mother. Someone had ransacked the place looking for his files. The truth is bound to come out eventually.”

“But my paper won’t be the one breaking the news,” he said, laying a fifty-dollar bill on the table and reaching for his coat.



I hadn’t anticipated going to Café Lavanto. I’d instructed the cab to drop me off at home, but I shook my head when the driver pulled the car in front of the building. “No,” I said. “Change of plans. Take me up to Fifth, please.”

I knocked and Dominic unlocked the door to the café. “Mind if I come in?” I asked.

“Please,” he said warmly. A fire crackled a few feet away. Soft music played from the speakers overhead. He smiled at me in a way that made me swallow hard. “Come, sit down.”

Something seemed off about the café. A few cardboard boxes sat near the door. What else has changed? New paint? Curtains? I felt too disoriented to focus on the details. Dominic reached for a bottle of wine on the bar and pulled a corkscrew from his pocket. “Wine?”

I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

I watched as he poured two glasses, handing me one. “To new beginnings,” he said.

I nodded, clinking my glass against his. But I set it down before I had taken a sip. “Wait, you said ‘beginnings,’ plural. What did you mean by that?”

“Well,” he said, looking around the café, “there is something I should probably tell you.” He paused. “I should have told you about this earlier, Claire.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve made a big decision, about my business. About this place.”

“What, you’re going to convert the space upstairs into the loft you always wanted? Add a lunch menu?”

He shook his head. “No. Claire, I’ve decided to sell it.”

My mouth flew open. “But—but you said you’d never do that. You said you loved this place. That you couldn’t see it get into the hands of another set of condo developers. Am I missing something here?”

“I did say all of that,” he continued. “And I meant it. But yesterday, a developer made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He’d been trying to convince me to sell for a while and I was determined not to, but his latest offer was so generous that when I considered my circumstances, I realized I’d be a fool not to accept it. Listen, it’s a life-changing amount of money, Claire. I could see that my mother is properly cared for, then buy a place, and”—he leaned closer to me—“settle down.”

“No,” I said, standing up. “I can’t believe you’re saying this.” I felt torn. I knew he was facing financial pressure to support his mother, and yet I couldn’t stand the thought of the beloved building being torn down. “There’s too much history in these walls,” I countered. “You just can’t put a dollar amount on something so special.”

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “Believe me, it was an agonizing decision. I wish there was another way.”

I pushed the glass away.

“Claire,” Dominic said, trying to get me to smile, “please say this won’t change anything between…us.”

He lifted his hand and stroked my cheek gently. I closed my eyes as he pulled me toward him. His embrace was warm, comforting, but I pulled back.

“I’m sorry, Dominic. “I have to go.”