The Body in Bodega Bay (10 page)
Read The Body in Bodega Bay Online
Authors: Betsy Draine
“I'd like to know about the funeral,” said Toby. “I want to be there.”
“I'll keep you posted. You liked Charlie, didn't you?”
“Yeah, I did.”
Dan got up to go but paused and turned in the doorway. “I'm not finished with Tom Keogh yet, either.”
T
he public library on 3rd and E Street is a wonder for a city the size of Santa Rosa. I was there when it opened the next morning, and when I inquired about back issues of the
San Francisco Chronicle
, I was told that the library housed an extensive archive. Recent issues were available in digitized form, but issues dating from the '60s were stored on microfilm. A chatty librarian led me to the area where the files were stored, around the corner from the information desk. These occupied a good part of a wall, offering pull-out trays arranged by date, each containing a fairly sizeable spool of film. Two huge gray microfilm readers, antediluvian machines, were at the patrons' disposal.
I had used microfilm before, so I was comfortable with the process. The spools of film are cylindrical in shape and designed to fit over a little spindle that holds them in place. You thread the film under a glass screen and attach it to another spindle on the opposite side. Then you simply turn a crank, and the magnified images flit across the screen. To stop, you stop cranking. To go faster, you crank faster. There are no electronics involved at allâonly a projector bulb that occasionally needs replacing. The technology is antiquated but still quite serviceable.
But what was it I was looking for? According to Rose, Peter Federenco had spotted a story in the newspaper, presumably the
Chronicle
, that had stirred the pot of an old family quarrel about an icon. What would be the nature of that story? Would it be about the family, about a court case, about Russian immigrants, aboutâwhat exactly? The only way to proceed was to scroll through the headlines of each day's paper, hoping that something would catch my eye. That might seem an impossible task, except that Rose had given me boundary dates that limited the search. The period in question, she recalled, would have been around April or May 1962. Scanning two months' worth of newspaper headlines would be manageable.
Make it three months, starting with March, I said to myself, selecting the appropriate tray from the files and threading the first spool onto the machine. As I cranked, the headlines flew by with remarkable speed, and I found it hard to resist pausing to read various tidbits that had nothing to do with my search but drew me in simply because they came from a bygone era. Even the ads were fun to read. They seemed so understated, given the kind we're blasted with today. I stopped to read a couple of stories that covered the protests against the nuclear power plant proposed for Bodega Bay, and another on Alfred Hitchcock's coming to town to film
The Birds
. One of the stories on the protests contained a profile of their leader, Rose Gaffney, the woman who had taken a kindly interest in Rose Cassini. According to a neighbor, Gaffney “was a wonderful friend but a wretched enemy, so you always made sure she was a friend.” The irascible Gaffney was quoted in the story as saying that Bodega Bay “was a village of 350 souls and a few heels.” She must have been quite a character.
Otherwise, the contents of the
Chronicle
for March offered no sign of the clue I was looking for. It wasn't until I was midway through the spool for April that a headline flickered in the corner of my eye, prompting me to stop and rewind the film. The word “Russian” leaped from the page, so I backtracked until I found it again. The story was part of a series to mark the 150th anniversary of the founding of Fort Ross, a Russian trading post that was established in 1812 about twelve miles north of Jenner. The Russian presence left its mark in local place names like Sebastopol, Moscow Road, and the Russian River. In 1962 the site of the fort was designated a National Historic Landmark, and to celebrate the event, the Museum of Russian Culture in San Francisco sponsored a monthlong festival. The
Chronicle
ran a series of Sunday features on the festival, which included music, dramatizations, and lectures.
I read each of the stories, but it was the last article in the series that riveted my attention. It was titled “Hidden Treasures of Russian California”:
Just when you think you've heard it all, here's a tale that may send local descendants of Russian immigrants straight to the family attic.
According to Professor Ivan Roskovitch, who spoke on Saturday at the Museum of Russian Culture, a hunt for objects from pre-Revolutionary Russia may turn up hidden gems. He regrets that today many younger Russian Americans have lost touch with their ancestral heritage. As a result, they may not appreciate the significance of the many heirlooms that their forefathers brought with them from the old country.
As examples, Professor Roskovitch mentioned the silver samovars and gilded icons that used to be given pride of place in immigrant homes but today are at odds with modern tastes. Roskovitch made a plea to his audience to dust off any neglected heirlooms and to donate to the museum those that were no longer wanted.
To spur this statewide treasure hunt, he spun a tale as marvelous as any fabled pot of gold. For if legend can be trusted, one of the most important icons in the history of Russia, missing for centuries, may have found its way to California among the belongings of Russian immigrants. The key word, of course, is legend, because it isn't known for sure whether this wondrous work ever existed.
However, the story goes that Andrei Rublev, the most famous of all icon painters, was so pleased with his masterpiece,
The Holy Trinity
, made in 1427 for the Cathedral of the TrinityâSt. Sergey Monastery, that he painted a smaller version for himself in the form of a portable triptych that he could take with him on his travels.
As Professor Roskovitch tells the tale, no one knows what became of this famous work. According to one version of the story, Rublev's images were later painted over and hidden by another artist. Some think they were spirited out of the country. Even so, there were rumors of the triptych being seen here and there in Russia until the 1860s, but never later. One variant of the legend has it that the icons were transported to America by a Russian family who never recognized their value. “Who knows?” concluded the professor. “They may be sitting in a trunk in San Francisco as we speak.”
Asked what Rublev's icons would be worth today if they turned up in someone's home, Professor Roskovitch replied, “They would be priceless.”
Was this the story that had sparked the Federenco quarrel? It seemed a likely candidate. To make sure, I marked my place by date and hurriedly read through the remainder of the newspapers for April and May of 1962. There were no other relevant stories, so I returned to “Hidden Treasures of Russian California” and read it once again. Yes, it was possible. What if two sides of the Federenco family had been arguing for years over an inheritance, more specifically, a religious object, and what if it became known at a later date that this heirloom mightâjust mightâbe far more valuable than anyone had thought? Wouldn't that have been enough to fan the embers of their quarrel? A phrase that Dan used came to mind again. At least it was a plausible scenario.
I knew almost nothing about Andrei Rublev. As I've said, Russian icons are far from my area of expertise. It was enough for me to know that his works were sought after. My more immediate interest was the Federenco feud. How could I learn more about the family? On a hunch, I called the Russian Cultural Center in San Francisco. In response to my question, a knowledgeable receptionist suggested a check of the Fort Ross library, which contains material related to the settlement as well as to Russian immigration in the state. Better yet, she added, the catalog of the library is accessible online. Why not try a search? She provided the website address. I thanked her, opened my laptop, and logged on.
All I had to do was type “Federenco” in the search box and click Enter. Immediately I was rewarded with a tantalizing hit. In fact, there were two entries in the database. The first was a listing for Euvgeny Federenco (1814â77) in the original Fort Ross records. He arrived at the fort in 1836 at the age of twenty-two and returned to Russia in 1841, when the fort was abandoned. His trade was listed as carpenter. The second entry was even more intriguing. Andreyev Federenco (1844â1907), his son, emigrated from Russia to California in 1870 and dictated a memoir to his daughter two years before he died. The typescript, dated 1905, was bound in a folder and available to scholars. A brief description of its contents indicated that it contained anecdotes of life at the fort told by the father to the son, as well as the son's description of his own immigrant experience. Was it worth a trip to Fort Ross? I thought so. Today was Thursday. Angie was arriving by plane later today, and a trip to Fort Ross on the weekend would make a perfect excursion for us. With that resolved, I hurried to pack up my notes.
When I got back to the car, I checked my cell phone and saw there was a message from Angie. She'd landed, was picking up her car, and thought she would reach us by three. Though I like to greet a houseguest with a home-cooked meal, I was too wrapped up in my discoveries to shop or cook. So I made a reservation at River's End, on the coast just where the Russian River spills into the sea. The tables look over rock-strewn water into the sunset. Happily, the food stands up to the setting. Then I dialed Fort Ross and made an appointment to use their library on Saturday.
O
nce home, I dashed around making the place ready for my sister. I put a bottle of Pimm's Cup on ice. This fall, during a salon internship in London, Angie took up the official drink of polo players as a tribute to her most elegant and handsome male client. I moved some family photos from my study to the guest room. Angie likes to sleep under the loving gaze of our Irish grandmother, Molly Barnes. And I checked that there were Angie-approved toiletries in the bathroom. Since London, she uses only Pears soap. High maintenance, but I love fussing over my sister.
A half hour later I woke from a nap on the couch when I heard the ding of the doorbell. There stood Angie, smiling broadly, her silky blond hair bouncing and curling around her heart-shaped face. That's the face I've cherished since I was a preteen lovingly bottle-feeding my tiny little sister.
We spent the next hour assessing each other physically the way sisters do, arranging Angie's luggage in the guest bedroom, and giving Angie a look around our home, of which I am unduly proud, since it's mainly Toby who's furnished the place. We shared an initial Pimm's Cup, hers neat, mine cut with lemonade, the way the ladies do it in London, Angie says. I thought the first thing she would ask me about would be the case I was working on, but she insisted on getting the haircut out of the way.
“So, should I give you about the same cut that I did on Turkey Day?”
“Fine. Except I like that it got longer.”
“Hair tends to do that, especially when left neglected.”
“Yes, I know you told me to deep-condition. We can do that tomorrow. Today just cut a little off. I like the longer length because I don't have to do anything with it. It just hangs there.”
“Exactly. My darling sister, as we age, things start to just hang there. Jowls just hang there. Wiggly chins just hang there. The last thing we need is for our hair to just hang there and call attention to all the other parts that are doing the same.”
“So what are you saying, that I need a facelift?”
She laughed. “A good cut with a little more complexity would give you all the lift you need. Even my nuns know that.”
“Your nuns?”
“Dad's nuns. You know.”
“You mean the sisters at Grace Quarry?”
“That's right. I've been cutting their hair since I got back from London. Dad got me into it. You know how he's always had a sweet spot for those sisters.”
“Well, he would, wouldn't he?” They practically raised him during that spell when his mother was ill. “But they all must be ancient now. What are they doing getting your air-lift haircuts?”
“The sisters have gone rogue. The bishop was bothering them about giving out communion and having Buddhist speakers. So they staked their claim.”
“What do you mean?”
“Grace Quarry was a gift to them from the Graces, the lady author and her Beacon Hill husband. You remember them. They were nice to Granddadâhired him as a chauffeur when he sold his garage.”
“Sure, I remember when we used to swim at the quarry when we were kids. I asked Dad why there was an echo out there when we talked. He told me the story of Echo, the nymph who could only repeat what others had said. Dad claimed that Echo lived at the far end of the quarry, behind the trees.”
“That's just like Dad.” Angie smiled. “Well,” she continued, “when the Graces died, they left the property outright to the order. Now all these years later, when the nuns got feisty and the bishop threatened to shut them down, they declared themselves free of the churchâwent ecumenical.”
“Gee, didn't the bishop raise hell?”
“I'll say he did, but he couldn't touch them. The order is independent of the Vatican.”
“I didn't know that.”
“Yes, and they're doing great. There are a dozen sisters there, some Catholic, some Anglican, and a bunch of young nuns from the Philippines who visit and study. Plus the lay sisters who have gathered round. There's a whole young community there.”
“And you do their hair?”
“Why not? Even a nun likes to look half-decent. Unlike some people I know.”
“Stop ragging on me. Give me the cut you think I should have.”
“Bless you. This will be fun. You know, your hair's not half-bad. I know you say it's thin. But it's not. It's fine. But thick. You have Helen Mirren hair.”