Page 5 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
I tucked my notebook into my handbag and headed back toward the stage, my heels clicking against the wooden floor. It was time to trace those mysterious gifts to their source. In my experience, men who sent expensive presents to unwilling recipients usually left a trail—if one knew where to look.
I had the feeling that trail would lead me deeper into the shadows of London's Russian émigré community, where secrets from the old country cast long and dangerous shadows in the new world.
CHAPTER 3
THE MYSTERIOUS ADMIRER
The florist's card from Anya's dressing room bore the elegant script ofPemberton & Sons, Fine Flowers,with an address in Bloomsbury. I hailed a cab, my mind turning over the details I'd gathered. A Russian man with concealed hands, expensive gifts that frightened rather than pleased, and now a paper trail that might lead me to answers.
The shop occupied the ground floor of a narrow Georgian building, its windows filled with elaborate arrangements that perfumed the street despite the closed door. As I entered, a bell chimed and the heady scent of roses, lilies, and gardenias enveloped me.
An elderly gentleman emerged from behind a curtain of trailing ferns, wiping his hands on a leather apron. His weathered face creased into a professional smile.
"Good afternoon, miss. How may I assist you?"
I withdrew the card from my handbag. "I'm inquiring about some arrangements that were sent to Miss Anya Petrova at the King’s Theatre. I believe they came from your establishment?"
His expression shifted slightly—not suspicion, exactly, but wariness. "Are you from the theatre, miss?"
"I'm a private investigator." I handed him my card. "Miss Petrova has gone missing, and I'm trying to trace her recent contacts."
He studied my card, then looked up with genuine concern. "Missing? That lovely young lady? Oh, dear me." He moved to a ledger behind the counter, running his finger down columns of entries. "Yes, here we are. Miss Petrova. Weekly deliveries for the past two months. Always the same—two dozen white roses, premium grade."
"Were these orders placed by Miss Petrova herself?"
"Oh, no. A gentleman arranged them. Paid in advance for two months' worth." He turned to another book, thick with order slips. "Most particular about the arrangements, he was. Only the finest white roses, delivered every Tuesday morning. He paid extra to have them delivered personally to Miss Petrova. He did not wish to have them left at the stage door.”
"Can you describe this gentleman?"
The florist paused, his fingers drumming against the counter. "Well-dressed, foreign accent—Russian, I'd say. Silver hair, very distinguished looking. Expensive overcoat, carried himself like a military man."
My pulse quickened. "Anything else distinctive about him?"
"Well . . .” He hesitated, then lowered his voice as if sharing a confidence. "He wore gloves. Fine leather ones, even though it was warm when he first came in. I remember thinking it odd. And there was something about the left hand. The glove seemed . . . stiff. As if it concealed something."
"Concealed what?"
"I couldn't say for certain, but when he reached for his wallet, I caught a glimpse. Scarring, I think. Quite extensive, from what little I could see. Poor fellow must have been in some sort of accident."
I made careful notes, my excitement growing. This matched Margaret's description perfectly, and now I had physical details that might prove crucial.
"Did he give a name?"
"He did, though I suspect it wasn't his real one. Called himself Mr. Volkov. Paid in cash, always. Never wanted receipts."
Volkov.The name had a harsh, distinctly Russian sound that made me think of wolves and winter. "Did he say anything about his relationship to Miss Petrova?"
"Said she was his niece, visiting London for her career. Mentioned he was proud of her success and wanted to show his support." The florist frowned. "Though now that I think on it, she never seemed pleased when the flowers arrived. The delivery boy said she always looked frightened when she saw them."
"When did you last see Mr. Volkov?"
"Last week. He came to renew the arrangement for another month but seemed . . . agitated. Kept looking over his shoulder, asked if anyone else had been inquiring about the deliveries." He paused. "I told him no, but now I'm wondering if I should have been more cautious."
"You did nothing wrong," I assured him. "One more question. Did he ever mention where he was staying in London?"
The florist shook his head. "No, but he always arrived in a fine motorcar. Black, with a uniformed driver. Foreign license plates, I think, though I couldn't make out the details."
I thanked him and left, my mind racing as I walked through Bloomsbury's tree-lined streets. A Russian "uncle" with scarred hands and a military bearing, wealthy enough to employ a driverand pay for expensive flowers in advance. The pieces were starting to form a clearer picture, and it was far more sinister than a simple family reunion.
