Free Seven Deadly Samovars by Morgan St James and Phyllice Bradner

Godiva navigated the crowded little downtown streets after leaving Belle in the capable hands of her friend Clara, who happened by to get the latest gossip.
    “I don’t know,” Godiva said, “a couple of big Russians ought to be pretty easy to spot.”
    “Then again, maybe not.” Goldie stopped in front of the Viking Bar and looked at a sign in the window that read, WELCOME SIBERIAN NATIONAL SOCCER TEAM. “There’s likely to be lots of husky Russians in town this week.”
    “Great, what’s next?” Godiva plodded along beside her sister. Her feet were beginning to sweat in the floppy rubber boots.
    “I’ve got an idea, we’ll go over to the docks and find Maurice Flambeau.”
    “Who?”
    “Maurice Flambeau, he’s a caricature artist. You know, hangs out at the docks and draws quick sketches of the tourists.”
    Godiva raised her eyebrows. “Tell me that’s not his real name.”
    “Well, he’s actually Marty Feldstein, from the Bronx. But he really plays up the bit with the beret and the French accent. There he is over there.” She pointed to a canopy tent that protected the artist and model from the light drizzle. “Don’t blow his cover.”
    There was a line of five or six cruise ship passengers beside Maurice’s tent. They wore clear plastic ponchos that said “Golden Nugget Gift Shop” over their pastel sweat suits. The sisters bypassed the queue and ducked into the tent. Maurice looked up. “Ah, Goldie, ma Cherie , ’ow lovely to see you.” He turned to Godiva, set down his colored pencils and kissed her hand. “And this must be your charming sister, n’est pas ?”
    “Yes Maurice, How did you guess?” She pulled him aside and said in a confidential tone, “We have a very important mission for you and we need your help right away.”
    Maurice started to turn back to finish the sketch of a geeky looking middle-aged man. “But Cherie ,” he motioned to the line of customers with his chin, “eet is a very beesee day.”
    Godiva looked at the signboard beside him, noting that his most expensive sketch was forty-five dollars. She opened her purse and slipped three bills out of her wallet and dangled them in front of the artist. She said in a stage whisper, “Here’s three hundred dollars. That’s more than you would make if you sketched all six of those people.”
    Maurice magically morphed into Marty Feldstein. He dashed a quick signature on the barely finished sketch and hustled the man out of the tent. Forgetting to use the French accent, he called out to those still waiting, “Sorry folks, something just came up. Go see the museum or the glacier or go fishing. Have a nice day.”
    He brought in his signboard and motioned toward a couple of director’s chairs. “Okay, ladies, what’s up?”
    They explained the situation, described the Dumkovskys, and within fifteen minutes had a reasonably good facsimile of the two thugs.
    After several hours of tromping around town without even stopping for dinner, a bedraggled Godiva wailed, “Come on, Sis, we’ve shown this sketch to everyone, we have to take a break. It’s already 10:30 and everything but the bars are closed. I’m getting foot-rot from these boots and a serious case of matted hair from this stupid rain hat. I need my beauty rest.”
    Goldie gave in. It had been a rough day. “I guess I didn’t realize how much has happened today,” she sighed, “Mimi’s murder, Taku’s arrest, the shop break in, mayhem at the church, Belle’s burglary. Let’s walk up the hill and go to bed.”
    “No way am I walking up that hill.” Godiva dug in her heels. Either we take a cab or you carry me.”
    “But, Godiva, a cab? It’s only a few blocks.”
    “Yeah, straight up. Look, there’s the cab company right across the street.”
    The driver balked at such a small fare until Godiva flashed some folding money at him. His face brightened. “Hop in,” he chirped.
    * * * *
    They settled in the kitchen and shared a pot of Sleepytime