Mail Order Bride
Colt Rittenhouse put his final divorce decree in the top drawer of his desk, above the gold band that had represented eighteen months of marriage. Many men would have welcomed their freedom, but he found bachelorhood impractical. He hated the dating rituals; they consumed far too much of his valuable time. As a successful businessman, he needed a wife, a woman to help him shoulder his social obligations. However, after three marriages, none of which lasted more than two years, he was hesitant about searching for number four.
"My wife has got an unmarried sister," Nathan Seagram, his senior vice president and closest friend, said as the two men sat in Colt's office at the end of the day, having a drink and discussing the recent change in Colt's marital status.
"Oh, please! I'm not up to blind dates yet. Honest, I wish I could just go over to the mall or, better yet, go on to amazon.com and buy a wife. It would be much quicker and a lot less fuss."
"Plus you can get whatever upgrades you want."
"I don't want any more high maintenance women. No high-powered executive types either. I need to find a sweet, old-fashioned girl."
"Then I suggest you try the local convent because you won't find one in our social circle."
Nathan then grabbed the iPad off Colt's desk and typed something in the Google search bar.
"Here you go," he said, handing the tablet to his friend.
"What's this?" Colt asked looking down at a collection of women's photographs. "Some online dating site?"
"No. Mail order brides from Eastern European countries."
"Very funny!"
"Why not? These women are submissive, pliable. And, if you're not happy with your choice, you can get a refund. Hey, given your track record with women, they might even offer you a frequent shopper discount."
As Colt reached for the iPad to turn off his Internet browser, one photograph seemed to stand out from the others. It was a face that would have inspired Raphael to paint another Madonna. Like the legendary Helen of Troy, her beauty could have launched a thousand ships.
"See something you like?" Nathan teased when he saw his friend's attention focused on the mail order bride website.
"What red-blooded, heterosexual guy doesn't like to look at a pretty face?"
"Which one?"
Colt enlarged the photograph of the girl and turned the tablet toward Nathan.
"She's beautiful, all right," he said, "but she's a little too wholesome for my tastes. I prefer the more exotic type."
"Well, you've got a lot of women on this site to choose from."
"Me? I'm already married. You're the one looking for a wife without having to go through the whole premarital rigmarole."
"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm not desperate enough to get a mail order bride."
"Okay," Nathan said with one more attempt at humor, "but don't blame me if you're the only one at the company Christmas party sitting beside an empty chair."
"You forget. I own the company. If I don't find a suitable date, I can just skip the party."
Colt remained at his desk long after Nathan went home. It wasn't that the CEO had work that had to be done. The reports he read and letters he dictated could easily have waited until the following day. Colt stayed late at his office mainly because he didn't want to go home to an empty house.
He had just finished reading the quarterly sales projections when there was a soft knock on his door. At that time of night, the only other people in the building were the security guards and the cleaning staff.
"Yes?"
A Hispanic woman, somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties, toting an upright vacuum cleaner stood on the threshold.
"Excuse me, Mr. Rittenhouse. I don't mean to bother you, but would like me to clean your office now?"
Colt looked at his watch. It was already past nine. The poor woman was probably eager to finish and go home.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize how late it was. Sure, come on in. I'll be out of your way in a minute," he said, reaching for his briefcase. "You know what, forget about my office. It's clean enough for me, and I'm sure you'd like to spend some time with your husband and children."
"Yes, but this is my job."
"Don't worry about it. I'll sign your timecard, and you'll get paid for the full eight hours."
The woman thanked him several times and then hurried off to punch out.
Colt wondered what it must be like to leave work at the end of a day and go home where a family was waiting for him. He imagined walking through the front door and having a young son or daughter cry out with joy, "Daddy's home!" Yet after three marriages he had no children. Funny, but he never gave much thought to procreation.
As he locked his office door and headed toward the elevator, he became lost in his reverie. Colt would scoop his happy child into his arms and head toward the kitchen where his wife was busy cooking. He would put the child down, kiss his wife on the cheek and offer to set the table. The elevator came to a stop in the lobby before he realized the imaginary wife who had borne him a child, cleaned his house, cooked his meals and loved him with all her heart had the face of the captivating mail order bride.
* * *
For the next two weeks, Colt's fascination with the young woman bordered on obsession. True, he could not control his nightly dreams of her, but try as he might, he could not put her face out of his mind during the day either.
"I'm pathetic!" he told himself when he imagined presenting her to his employees as his wife at the company Christmas party, an extravagant affair for which no expense was spared.
Worse, when put on hold while waiting for the overseas operator to connect him to an important client in Tokyo, he idly searched the Internet for mail order bride websites. As he scanned through pages of faces, he felt an odd sense of loss because her face was not among them. He went from one website to the next, searching, but to no avail. Had someone already selected her? Was she now living in the United States getting acquainted with her future American husband? What kind of man would he be? What kind of life would he offer her? Colt imagined her ten years from now standing in a hallway with an upright vacuum, waiting to clean some rich man's office.
He quickly concluded business with his client in Japan and continued looking through the pictures of women, desperate to better their situation through arranged marriages. How terrible were their lives in their own countries that they would take such drastic steps?
There are so many of them, he thought.
Yet it was only one face he sought. If only he could remember what site Nathan had shown him. Although he knew his way around his Windows computer, he wasn't familiar with the features on his iPad. Did it have a browsing history? It did, and as soon as Colt found the site, he recognized the logo. He scrolled through the faces. Some looked familiar while others were new.
Where is she? he wondered anxiously.
The angelic face stood out from the others around her. The other women might have been pretty, but Colt didn't notice. He had eyes for only one. He clicked on her photo, which linked to a more detailed description. The woman's name, he learned, was Ileana. She was twenty-two years old and lived in Romania, near the city of Curtea de Argeș in the lower Carpathians.
What's wrong with me? I don't know anything about this girl, and yet ....
He was undeniably attracted to her.
As he stared at her face, Colt convinced himself that the international marriage agency was no different from domestic dating sites such as eHarmony or match.com. Finding someone online was quite common nowadays. The so-called mail order bride agencies were just casting a wider net.
Against all his previously held beliefs, he contacted the agency and was advised of his options. He could establish written communication with Ileana, speak with her via telephone or, if he preferred, he could travel to Romania and meet her in person. Since money was no object, he chose the third option.
After telling his assistant that he was going out of the country for a week or so, he had his private jet fly him to Bucharest where a representative from the marriage agency met him when he got off the plane.
"Mr. Rittenhouse, yes?" the man asked in heavily accented English. "Welcome to Romania. I take you to hotel where you meet Ileana."
Although Colt travelled extensively for both business and pleasure, he usually frequented large cities where one heard English as often as the native tongue. Now he was meeting a young woman who no doubt expected him to propose marriage in the near future, and he did not even know if she understood English.
What am I doing here? he wondered, feeling a mounting panic.
"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," he admitted. "Look, why don't I just pay you whatever fees are necessary and then get back on the plane and ...."
"You come to meet Ileana, no? You see her. Talk to her. If you don't like her, you go home. There is ... how Americans call it? ... no strings."
"I suppose you're right. After all, I flew all this way. I might as well say hello to her."
Twenty minutes later, Colt was sitting in the hotel dining room when the agent brought Ileana in to meet him. While he had not exactly expected the young woman to be wearing the traditional Romanian embroidered blouse, wraparound skirt and maramă head covering, he was surprised to see her in a sleek black dress similar to those seen at cocktail parties in Boston.
Ileana's long dark hair framed her face, and she wore only a minimal amount of makeup.
"Hello," she said, holding out her hand.
Unsure whether he should shake it or kiss it, Colt took her hand in his and led her back to the table.
"I brought you a present," he announced, and handed her a gift-wrapped bottle of Chanel No. 5. "I'm sorry. Do you speak English?"
"Yes. And thank you for present."
"You're welcome. Would you like something to eat, Ileana?"
"No, thank you. I not hungry, but you eat."
"Thanks. I'm starving."
The two sat at the table for several hours, talking. The agent, who acted as an unofficial chaperone, was at a nearby table, drinking coffee and keeping careful watch.
By the end of the evening, Colt had decided to remain in Romania until Ileana could return with him to Boston.
* * *
Colt Rittenhouse returned to America six weeks later, just in time to attend the company Christmas party. His new wife was at his side when he landed at New York's Kennedy Airport. The first stop the newlyweds made was the shopping district on Fifth Avenue. Other than the cocktail dress Ileana had worn for the couple's initial meeting—which was a loaner dress that belonged to the marriage broker—she had few clothes. By the end of the day, however, that situation drastically changed.
"Please," she begged her husband when he suggested they go to Dolce & Gabbana after leaving Gucci. "No more shopping."
Colt smiled. That was one sentiment none of his previous wives ever expressed.
After a restful evening in their suite at the Four Seasons, the couple resumed shopping the following day. Ileana was amazed at her husband's generosity: jewelry, shoes, perfume, lingerie, cosmetics. He spared no expense on pleasing his wife. Once the packages were loaded aboard the jet, the couple headed home to Boston.
Colt had deliberately not informed anyone of his return so that no one would be awaiting his arrival. He wanted a few days alone with his wife so she could slowly adapt to her new surroundings without curious or well-wishing friends and family descending upon her. Somehow Nathan Seagram had learned of the couple's return and showed up at the Beacon Hill townhouse that evening.
"What are you doing here?" Colt asked when he answered the door and saw his friend standing on the stoop.
"There are rumors circulating around the office. I had to discover the truth for myself," Nathan replied, walking into the house without waiting for an invitation. "Did you really go to Romania to meet a woman you found on a website?"
"Yes. Furthermore, it was a meeting that led to marriage."
"Are you crazy? You don't know anything about her!"
"So? I grew up with my first wife, knew her since we were in kindergarten, and look at how well that marriage turned out!"
"Any marriage can end in divorce, but to marry a complete stranger. It's insane!"
"As I recall, you were the one who suggested it."
"I was joking! If I'd thought you would actually marry a mail order bride, I would never have shown you the website."
"I'm glad you did. Ileana is the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Do I get to meet her at least?" Nathan asked.
"She's sleeping right now. Jet lag, you know. You'll see her at the Christmas party."
"You're bringing her the party? Aren't you concerned about what our clients will think?"
"While I'm not ashamed of how Ileana and I met, neither do I think it's anyone's business but ours. All the explanation I intend to give is that I met her while traveling in Romania. I hope I can count on your discretion."
"Of course. I already told Dana, though. She's my wife, after all, but you can trust her to keep quiet."
Colt sincerely doubted it. Like most of the women he knew, Dana could not keep a secret.
* * *
The night of the company Christmas party, Ileana looked stunning in a strapless Versace gown. While she was dressing, Colt surprised her with a string of pearls to wear around her neck.
"Thank you," she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.
"Are you feeling all right, darling?" her husband asked.
"Just tired."
"You've been sleeping quite a bit."
"I guess I have what you call jet lag."
"Well, if it doesn't go away soon, I'm going to have my doctor take a look at you."
When the newlywed Rittenhouses entered the Grand Ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza, all eyes turned in their direction. Since Colt was the owner and CEO of the company, his arrival always attracted attention. This year, however, it was Ileana who drew the crowd's interest. The men looked at her with appreciation while the women eyed her with thinly veiled envy.
As they made their way across the room to the head table, Colt introduced Ileana to his most valued clients as well as the officers and key staff members of his company, including Nathan, who as senior vice president was Colt's second in command.
"Ileana, I want you to meet one of my dearest friends, Nate Seagram, and his wife, Dana. And this is Ileana, my wife."
"Does she speak English?" Dana asked Colt with a haughty disdain she exhibited when she asked dog owners, "Does it bite?"
"Yes. I speak English," Ileana answered for herself.
"I'm so happy to meet you. I've never met a mail—a Romanian before."
While Dana's greeting was far from warm, it was more welcoming than her husband's.
Nathan simply shook Ileana's hand and said in a stiff, formal voice, "How do you do?"
"I don't think your friends like me," Ileana whispered to her husband as he pulled out her chair to seat her.
"Don't worry. They just don't know how to act around you. Once they get to know you, they'll find you as fascinating and adorable as I do."
An hour later, after the servers took away the empty salad dishes, Nathan asked Ileana for a dance.
"I told you so," her husband said with a smile.
"I sorry if I step on your feet," the young woman said once on the dance floor. "I don't know this dance."
"That's fine. I just wanted to get you away from your husband, so you and I can have a little talk."
"I see."
"Colt and I have been good friends since high school," Nate explained. "I was at his side when he started his company, and I've been with him through three failed marriages. I'm also the one who suggested he look into mail order brides. Of course, I never thought he'd take me seriously."
"You did not want him to marry me?"
"No, I didn't. Don't take it personally. I've got nothing against you. It's just that I'm a little concerned about your motives for wanting to marry a man you don't know, an extremely wealthy man, at that."
"You think I marry him for his money?"
"The thought did cross my mind."
"That is not true. I fall in love with Colt. He is kind man, who is good to me."
"As long as you're telling me the truth, then you and I will have no problems. But just to be on the safe side, I'm going to have an investigator look into your past."
Ileana stiffened in Nathan's arms, and he realized his instincts had been right: the girl had something to hide. The two finished the dance in silence, and when the music was over, both returned to their own tables.
"Just in time for the main course," Colt said as his wife sat down beside him.
"I not hungry."
"Maybe that's why you're always tired. You eat like a bird. If you don't like filet mignon, I'll have them bring out something else for you."
"Romania is not like America. We do not eat so much food."
Ileana's sad, waif-like eyes never failed to rouse Colt's protective instincts. He worried about her health, mental as well as physical. Could her exhaustion be caused by depression and not by a time difference? What he feared most was that she might regret having married him. When they were still in Romania, she was lighthearted and cheerful. Since arriving in America, however, her disposition had changed. If she would only open up to him and tell him what was bothering her, he would move heaven and earth to try to make her happy.
* * *
Both Colt and Ileana were sleeping when the phone rang on their night table. Colt's eyes were still closed when he reached for the receiver and answered the call.
"Hello," he said, groggily.
Ileana stirred beside him.
"Oh, God, no!" he exclaimed, instantly awake. "How did it happen?"
"What is wrong?" Ileana asked when her husband hung up the phone.
"It's Nathan. He died during the night. Dana found him dead in the living room this morning."
"From what?"
"She doesn't know. She has to wait for the results of the autopsy."
"Poor Colt," Ileana said, snuggling up to her husband. "You lose good friend."
"I really ought to go over and see how Dana is. See if there's anything I can do."
"You want I should go with you?"
"Would you?"
"Of course. A wife should be at husband's side in times like this."
While Dana was comforted by Colt's presence, she was far from happy to see Ileana. It was like welcoming cherished friends who brought along their incorrigible child.
"I knew something was wrong when I woke up this morning and noticed his side of the bed wasn't slept in," Dana said, weeping on Colt's shoulder. "I thought maybe he fell asleep on the couch, watching the late night news, so I went downstairs. That's when I found him sprawled out on the living room floor."
"Could he have fallen and bumped his head?"
"I don't know. He looked so pale. His face was white, like all the color had drained from it."
The memory of her husband's dead body brought on a renewed bout of sobbing. Colt comforted her as best he could.
"I'll never be able to forget the look on Nathan's face," Dana cried. "He looked terrified, like he'd been frightened to death."
"Shhh," Colt said soothingly. "Just try to focus on what Nathan was like when he was alive."
Colt and Ileana stayed with the widow throughout the morning. Then at noon Dana's parents arrived from Vermont, and the couple returned to their own house.
Nathan's funeral was held three days later. At the conclusion of the service, as the casket was being loaded into the hearse, Dana went to the ladies' room to cover her tear-stained cheeks with a thin layer of powder. Ileana was there, washing her hands.
"It was beautiful service," the Romanian woman said.
"Thank you," the widow replied coldly.
"He looked peaceful."
"Yes, well his skin was so pale that the mortician had to use a lot of make-up on him. I suppose you had a lot of that back in Transylvania, didn't you?"
"I from Romania, but not Transylvania," Ileana explained.
"Oh, is there a difference? Either way, isn't that where the legend of vampires began?"
"You think Nathan was bitten by vampire?"
"No, but before he died, he told me that he didn't trust you. He feared Colt's life might be in danger, and now he is the one who is dead."
"You are upset. You suffered great loss. But I not drink your husband's blood."
That said, Ileana tossed the paper towel she had used to dry her hands into the wastebasket. Then she turned to the door to leave.
"If you had anything at all to do with Nathan's death, I'll find out. And God help you if I do!"
* * *
Colt stood in front of his dressing room mirror adjusting his tie.
"Two funerals in two weeks," he said with disbelief.
He turned toward Ileana, who was wearing a tailored black dress, suitable for such a somber occasion.
"I still can't believe it," he confessed. "Both of them gone. Funny, I never imagined Dana was the type of woman to kill herself over a man."
"She could not face life without Nathan."
Colt looked at his wife's downturned mouth. He could not remember the last time he had seen her smile.
"I'm sure this hasn't been easy on you. Rather than spend Christmas here in Boston, why don't we go back to Romania?"
"What would we do there?"
"You could visit your friends and family."
"I have no friends, no family. That is why I come to America."
"Let's go sightseeing then. I'm sure there are many beautiful things to see there."
"There are castles, cathedrals, museums and casinos."
"It sounds wonderful."
"Yes. It will be fun for us."
"Good. I'll make hotel reservations when we get home tonight."
* * *
It took Colt only a week to get his new senior vice president up to speed on the current workload. The fact that it was Christmas helped since many people wanted time off to spend with their families.
"I'll try to keep in touch via email," the CEO promised his administrative assistant, "and if you have to contact me in an emergency, you have my cell phone number."
After wishing his staff a merry Christmas, Colt picked up Ileana at the townhouse and headed for the airport, where his jet was waiting.
"The last time I made this flight, I was so nervous I couldn't sit still," he said.
"You afraid plane would crash?"
"No. I was nervous about meeting you."
Ileana reached across the seat and affectionately squeezed her husband's hand.
When they arrived in Bucharest, the Rittenhouses spent the night in the same hotel where they first met. The following morning Colt rented a car and headed northwest toward the Transylvanian Alps.
"It's beautiful here," he said as they drove through a small village. "Look, there's an inn. Want to stop and get a bite to eat?"
"You Americans," Ileana laughed. "With you it is always food."
"That's probably why we have a problem with obesity. Still, I haven't eaten since breakfast, so I'm going to stop."
With Ileana translating the menu into English, her husband ordered a venison stew. As usual, she wasn't hungry.
The elderly woman that served them, kept a wary eye on the young bride. When Ileana got up from the table and went to the ladies' room, the old woman sat down at Colt's table. Her action took the American by surprise.
"Is there something I can do for you?" he asked.
"That woman you are with ...."
"My wife?"
"She is no wife, no woman. She is strigoi."
"Strigoi? What exactly is that?"
"It is troubled soul. In Eastern Orthodox Church, when person dies, he goes to heaven or hell. Sometimes the soul does not rest. Instead, it rises from grave and assumes human form. These restless souls are known as strigoi. They are undead."
"You're saying Ileana is a vampire?"
"No. Vampires live off blood of living people. Ileana has no need to feed, for she is not alive."
"Well, she seems pretty animated to me."
"You do not believe me. You think I am insane, but I am not. Ileana is a troubled soul, and as such she is dangerous. She will do anything to remain among the living, even murder. You must ...."
The old woman saw the ladies' room door open and quickly got up from the table.
"Be on your guard," she warned and headed back toward the kitchen.
"What did that woman want?" Ileana asked when she returned to the table.
"Nothing," Colt replied, not wanting to embarrass his wife or hurt her feelings with the old woman's wild accusations.
"I saw her at table. She must have said something. What was it?"
It was the first time Colt had seen Ileana angry, and it frightened him since there was no reason for such a hostile reaction.
"We talked about the stew," he lied. "Why?"
"Old people in small villages get strange ideas. Don't pay attention to what they say."
* * *
As Colt drove through the scenic Argeș River Valley, he was so taken by the natural beauty of the area that he pulled off the road to snap a picture. In the photograph the river, a tributary of the Danube, was framed by the Carpathian Mountains.
"So this is where you grew up?" he asked. "Where exactly did you live?"
Ileana seemed hesitant to answer. Perhaps she was ashamed to show him her home.
"Not far. Near old monastery."
"Not the one in the painting at the inn?"
"Yes. Curtea de Argeș Monastery."
"I'd love to see it. Is it far from here?"
"No. But it is just old building."
"It's the history of your country."
It was only a short drive to the monastery from the inn.
"I wait in car," Ileana said when her husband suggested they go inside the cathedral.
"Aren't you going to be my personal tour guide?" he teased.
"I prefer to stay in car."
"Okay. I'll just take a few pictures and be right back. Here are the keys. Please lock the car door if you change your mind."
As Colt was photographing the interior of the cathedral, a young Romanian man approached him.
"You are American," he said, more of a statement than a question. "I work here. Would you like to learn more about the cathedral?"
"Yes, I'd like that very much."
"It was built in the early sixteenth century, some say by command of Prince Naegoe Basarab, although others give credit to Prince Ioan Radu. Its interior is made of plastered brick, and the exterior is of gray limestone."
For fifteen minutes, the young man described the architectural details of the Byzantine-style structure, including the balustrade, pediment, cornice, tambours, cupolas and domes. Colt reacted to this scholarly lecture as a child would.
"It reminds me of a giant wedding cake."
His unofficial tour guide laughed.
"And St. Basil's in Moscow always reminded me of ice cream cones," the tourist continued. "My wife, who is Romanian, says with us Americans it is always food."
"What people find most interesting about this cathedral," the young man continued, "is not the facts but the legend."
"What legend?"
"That of Meșterul Manole, or master builder Manole. According to old Romanian folktales, Negru Vodă, the Black Prince of Wallachia, wanted to build the most beautiful monastery in all the country. He hired Manole, who had a reputation as the most skilled mason in the area. As work progressed on the cathedral, the walls began to crumble. The prince, impatient to have his cathedral built, threatened Manole and his assistants with death if they did not complete the work. The master builder was told in a dream that in order to complete the monastery a loved one had to be sacrificed. Manole told his masons about his dream, and they agreed that the first wife to arrive at the construction site the following morning would be the sacrificial victim. It turned out Manole's own wife, Ana, was the unfortunate one. Although heartbroken at having to undertake such a task, the master builder bricked his beautiful wife into the wall of the cathedral."
"He buried her alive?"
"That is how the legend goes. Manole loved his wife dearly. It was a great sacrifice for him to kill her, but it had to be done."
"Forgive me if I don't have any sympathy for him," Colt said. "He murdered his wife, an innocent woman."
"Ah, but he—as you Americans say—got what was coming to him. Once the cathedral was completed, Negru Vodă asked Manole if he could build a larger, even more beautiful one. The foolish builder let his pride speak, saying that he could build a cathedral whose beauty would surpass the one he just completed. The idea of a larger, more impressive cathedral infuriated the prince. He ordered Manole and his men to be stranded on the roof. In an attempt to get down, they fashioned wooden wings. They tried to fly gently to the ground, but one by one they fell to their deaths."
"That's quite a story. I'm surprised someone has never made it into a movie."
"With Hollywood it is always Dracula and eerie castles in Transylvania. That is all America knows about my country."
"Don't forget Vlad the Impaler. I saw something about him on the History Channel once."
"It is a widely held belief that Bram Stoker patterned his fictional vampire on Vlad Dracul, the prince of Wallachia."
"You seem to know a lot about the legends of this area," Colt said hesitantly. "What do you know about a strigoi?"
"A strigoi cannot rest in its grave and wants to walk among the living. When it feels threatened, it can become quite dangerous."
Nathan's face flashed before Colt's eyes. Neither he nor Dana had liked Ileana, but did she perceive them as a threat? Could she have killed ...?
Stop it! he thought. This is ridiculous! Ileana is no killer.
Back in Boston, such an idea would never have entered his mind, but in Romania, a land steeped in folktales about vampires and strigoi, things were different. If an elderly woman at the Union Oyster House had sat down at his table and told him his wife was a ghost, he would have chalked it up to dementia. Yet why had he found the old Romanian woman's words so disturbing?
When Colt left the cathedral and returned to his rental car, he immediately noticed that Ileana was not there. Perhaps she had grown tired of waiting and went to look for him. She had, however, left the keys in the ignition. He locked the car doors, pocketed the keys and went to find his wife.
* * *
After searching for Ileana for two hours, Colt called the local police.
"We are sorry," one of the officers informed him, "but we are extremely busy right now. A woman has been murdered in the village."
Colt felt as though a heavy weight had sunk to the bottom of his stomach. Fearful that Ileana might be the homicide victim, he drove back to the village with his trembling legs trying to work the gas pedal, brake and clutch. As he neared the center of town, he saw two police cars parked in front of the inn where he had eaten lunch.
"Who was killed?" Colt asked a British tourist who was standing near the police cars.
"An old lady who worked at the inn."
"What happened to her?"
"I don't know, but when her body was brought out, the face was as white as chalk."
"And her eyes!" the woman with him added. "They were wide and staring as though she'd been frightened to death."
Colt was reminded of Dana's description of Nathan when she found him lying dead on the living room floor.
"Excuse me," one of the police officers interrupted the conversation. "Are you the same American man who stopped at the inn earlier in the day?"
"Yes, I am."
"Would you come with me? I have a few questions I'd like to ask you."
"Sure," Colt agreed, "but I don't see of what help I can be."
The policeman led him back inside the inn to the same table he and Ileana had sat at earlier.
"Officer, I'll answer whatever questions you have, but I need your help. I was visiting the Curtea de Argeș Monastery earlier. My wife waited for me in the car. When I returned, she was gone. I still haven't been able to locate her."
Colt had expected the lawman to brush the matter aside and insist that the old woman's death was of greater importance. However, the police officer showed surprisingly keen interest in his missing spouse.
"Could you describe your wife for me?"
"I can do better than that. I have a photograph of her," Colt replied, removing Ileana's picture from his wallet.
The policeman borrowed the photo and showed it to innkeeper.
"That's her," the man cried excitedly. "That's the strigoi who killed Anca, my cook."
"What?" Colt asked with amazed horror.
"Poor Anca recognized your wife immediately for what she was. She told me so after you left. Anca tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen. She even went to the church and said a prayer for you."
"Is this true?" the policeman asked. "Did the victim speak to you about your wife?"
"Yes, but I didn't take her seriously. This is all superstitious nonsense. The dead don't come back to life except in horror movies and Stephen King novels. Ileana is ...."
"Dead and has been for nearly five centuries."
Colt turned toward the speaker who had just entered the inn. It was the young man he had met in front of the Curtea de Argeș Cathedral.
"Who are you?" the policeman asked.
"I am Manole, Negru Vodă's master builder, and Ileana is actually my wife, Ana, who died nearly five hundred years ago. During recent renovations to the cathedral, her restless spirit rose from its grave. Now she walks the earth again, not as a woman but as a strigoi."
"No, no, no," Colt cried, shaking his head in denial. "Ileana is alive. She's my wife, for Christ's sake! Don't you think I would know if it was a dead woman I held in my arms?"
"If you love her," Manole said gently, "you must set her free."
"Divorce her? What good would that do?"
"I do not mean to divorce her. You must set her soul free."
"As an officer of the law, I cannot hear this," the policeman said and left the room.
"What's going on?" Colt asked.
It was the innkeeper who explained the centuries-old religious ceremony meant to rid the world of a strigoi.
"You have to first dig up the body. According to our beliefs, the corpse will not decay until the soul departs, so you can tell by the condition of the remains if the person has become a strigoi or not. If the bones are clean, then the soul has gone on to eternal rest. If the flesh remains, then the soul is earthbound. If this is the case, the heart must be taken from the body and burned."
Colt found it hard to fathom that such antediluvian beliefs still existed in the twenty-first century—even in Romania.
"If I were to believe your preposterous tale about your being Manole and Ileana being your wife—and I most certainly do not!—how could you dig up her body?" he asked the man who claimed he was the spirit of the master builder. "Didn't you tell me earlier that Manole buried her alive in the walls of the cathedral?"
"I did. That is no doubt why her soul cannot rest. However, in 1875 the monastery underwent massive renovations after years of neglect. At that time, Ana's remains were uncovered and reinterred in a nearby cemetery. By the way, when the workers found her corpse, it was remarkably well preserved."
"Do you know where the strigoi's body rests?" the innkeeper asked Manole.
"I do."
"Then let us go and do what has to be done before someone else dies."
"Wait!" Colt cried. "Don't you need some kind of legal permission to tamper with a grave?"
"There is no need to involve the authorities. We will put everything back the way we found it," the innkeeper assured him.
Colt tried to warn the police about the illegal exhumation, but they refused to listen to him.
"We have a murder to solve," one officer said. "And then there's the matter of your missing wife. We haven't enough men to worry about the desecration of a grave."
He felt as though the police were deliberately avoiding taking action against the innkeeper. Obviously, they preferred to let him deal with the undead while they concerned themselves only with the living.
* * *
Colt followed the two men to the cemetery where Manole pointed to a grave whose one-hundred-and-forty-year-old headstone identified the person buried beneath it simply as an unknown woman. The innkeeper tried to hand him a shovel, but the American refused to take it.
"What you're doing is morally and legally wrong," he insisted.
"That remains to be seen," the publican replied. "We will know who is right when we see the condition of the corpse."
His two companions watched as the innkeeper dug the hole. The young man claiming he was Manole said his body was an illusion only and not capable of interacting with the physical world. To prove this, he passed his fingers through the handle of the shovel.
It's got to be a trick, Colt thought, refusing to even consider the idea that Manole the master builder had appeared to him in spirit form.
A dull thunk of metal on wood indicated that the innkeeper had dug down to the casket. Colt silently prayed that someone would arrive and stop him from unearthing the coffin. No one did, however.
"Can you give me a hand with this?" the innkeeper asked Colt as he tried to lift the wooden box out of the ground. "Look, the sooner I open this, the sooner we can put it back in the ground."
Reluctantly, the American helped him remove the casket from the grave.
Colt steeled himself as the lid was pried open.
"What did I tell you?" the innkeeper asked.
"Ileana! What have they done to you?" the distraught husband cried, seeing his wife's body in the coffin.
Although the clothes she wore had rotted away to thin rags, her flesh was as pink and lifelike as it had been when he first met her at the hotel restaurant in Bucharest.
The innkeeper removed a sharp dagger from his knapsack and showed it to Colt.
"I can do it," he said, "but since you loved her, you might want to be the one to release her from her torment."
Colt looked down at the knife in horror and screamed, "You can't kill her! I won't let you!"
"She's already dead. Take her wrist. You won't find a pulse."
Colt did as the man suggested, but he quickly dropped the cold, lifeless arm. Even to a nonmedical man, it was clear that blood no longer flowed through her veins. As the innkeeper tore away the rags above her chest, Ileana's eyes opened.
"Manole!" she cried, seeing the spirit of her first husband before turning her gaze to her second one. "Colt!"
Finally, she saw the innkeeper with the dagger in his hand.
"No!" she screamed, but she was unable to move. "Manole, you killed me once. Do not let him kill me again."
"I'm sorry, Ana," the spirit sobbed. "But it is for your own good."
"Colt, please don't let them do this to me. I beg you."
Fearing his resolve would weaken, the innkeeper acted swiftly and plunged the dagger into the strigoi's chest. The heart was then removed and set afire. The beautiful Ileana/Ana faded away until all that remained was a wooden box of bone fragments and tattered rags. With his wife's soul set free, Manole himself vanished, returning to whatever celestial plane he had come from. Perhaps he was reunited with Ana. Colt honestly hoped so.
"I'm truly sorry for your loss," the innkeeper said, putting his dagger—free of blood stains—back into his knapsack. "But it had to be done. There's no telling how many people the strigoi would have killed if I hadn't destroyed it."
"Or how many she has already killed," Colt said, wondering if his wife had been responsible for the deaths of Nathan and Dana.
"She killed my cook. We know that much."
Colt helped the innkeeper put the coffin back in the ground and cover it with dirt. Once their work was done, the two men returned to the inn. The police were nowhere in sight.
"I should tell them not to bother to look for my wife anymore," the American said.
"You don't need to tell them that. They already know. You don't think this is the only strigoi we've ever had to deal with here, do you?"
I forgot. I'm not in Kansas anymore, Colt thought.
"You look like you could use a drink," the innkeeper observed. "How about a glass of pálinka? It is, as you Americans say, on the house."
"Pálinka? What's that?"
"A fruit brandy."
"I don't know if I can handle alcohol on an empty stomach. I haven't eaten since lunchtime."
"Then I give you something to eat, too. What would you like?"
"Do you have any more of that venison stew?"
As the innkeeper headed back to the kitchen, Colt's thoughts went to Ileana.
She was right about one thing. With Americans it is always about food. I've discovered the love of my life has been dead for five centuries, buried alive in a cathedral by her husband. I should be crushed with grief, and yet here I am looking forward to my next meal. I suppose eating is a joy only the living can appreciate.
This story was inspired by the actual Romanian folktale of Manole, the master builder who allegedly buried his wife in the walls of the Curtea de Argeș Cathedral (shown in the picture below), as well as the legendary strigoi.
Salem was attracted to a mail order bride from Romania, but he refused to pay the high shipping and handling charges to bring her to Massachusetts!
