But I had to know. I held up the frame again. “Are you sure you don’t know her?” I pressed.
She shook her head stubbornly, pushing out her lower lip, her tone querulous. “Why do you ask me questions? I want you to go now.”
“Sure,” I said. But I didn’t leave. Instead I poured her a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the nightstand and handed it over.
She didn’t thank me, just drank greedily, a little of the juice running out the side of her mouth. I reached out and wiped the juice from her chin with my fingers.
“Evgenia,” I said, pushing gently, “is this Galina?”
Her entire face lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. “Irina!” she cried happily. She took the frame from me and kissed the glass a few times, leaving damp smudges.
I tried again. “This isn’t your sister,” I told her. “It’s not Irina. Is it her daughter? Is it Galina?”
I could almost hear the gears turning as she stared from me to the photo and back again, thinking hard. After a long moment, she gestured towards the nightstand and I opened the drawer. Inside was a small bakery box, fuchsia pink. A name was scrolled on the top in gilt lettering with a flourish. She gestured again, imperiously this time. I opened the box and inside were half a dozen cookies, dark gold and shaped like diamonds.
Evgenia held out her hand, clicking her fingers impatiently,and I passed her the box. She took one of the pastries before pressing the box back into my grasp. I watched as she took a dainty bite, sighing in contentment. When she looked up at me, some of her sharpness seemed to have returned. “Take one,” she ordered. “Very special and very delicious. Galina brings me a box every time she comes.”
“Does she now?”
The cookies were speckled with some kind of dark dried fruit—never a favorite of mine—but Evgenia was watching me closely, so I took one and nodded my thanks. I nibbled a tiny bit from the corner. It was sandy with a pronounced taste of butter, and I might have had another bite if I could be sure I wouldn’t get a piece of raisin or currant at the same time.
“Lovely, thanks,” I told Evgenia, and I meant it. The cookies were fresh which meant Galina had paid a recent visit—before she heard about Pasha’s death, I was guessing, since the old woman didn’t know he was dead.
Evgenia motioned for me to replace the box and I studied the name lettered across the top—Malvestio. There was nothing to indicate an address or phone number, and I wondered if the bakery was in the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland. While Evgenia finished her cookie, I slipped mine into my pocket.
“Does Galina live near here?” I asked in a casual voice.
But she’d gone vague again. She shook her head as if she didn’t understand the question or didn’t like it. Instead she smiled blankly and began to hum a tune, a snatch of something operatic. Classical music isn’t exactly my forte but justabout everybody has heard the “Flower Duet” fromLakméthanks to British Airways andThe Simpsons.
Evgenia’s voice cracked as she warbled higher, but I smiled at her encouragingly, humming along to the end. “That’s very pretty. Delibes, right?”
She started the melody over from the beginning, as if she were stuck on a loop. I checked the time. I was pushing my luck staying so long. Some nurse or orderly was bound to show up soon. I tried one more time.
“Evgenia, does that song remind you of Galina?”
She stopped short, her expression turning suddenly sly. “Galina loves opera. She loves operasingers,” she added in a malicious whisper.
“Oh, is that right?” I gave her a small, conspiratorial smile. I had her pegged as the kind of woman who loved a good bitchfest, and I was right. Her smile deepened, and she gestured for me to come closer.
“Do you know what she is?” I shook my head and she told me. There are a lot of words in Russian for “slut” and she used one of the nastier ones.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“She does not always wear underpants,” Evgenia said firmly.
Jesus, if that was all it took to be a slut in Evgenia’s book, we were all doomed, I thought. Especially Natalie.
She went on. “She was always a bad seed. Not like my Pasha, such a lovely boy.” I could tell she was about to launch into another panegyric about her beloved nephew, and if Ihad to sit through that, I’d have smothered her with her bed jacket.
“What makes Galina a bad seed?” I asked. A question that direct might have spooked her, but she was too eager to talk shit about her niece.
“She was in a terrible accident with my sister, and my sister did not live. Galina did.”
Shit.It was good to have confirmation of my hunch, but the fact that Galina Lazarov was alive was not good news.
I kept up my end of the conversation. “And you blame Galina for surviving the accident that killed your sister? Why?”
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “She is probably the reason for the accident. My sister was a nervous driver, and Galina was always singing and shouting. She was very loud. That is the Bulgarian in her.”