A Montenegrin Woman

By Elizabeth Drake

When you think of all the detectives in the world, there's little reason to believe you'd rank Ksenija Vukovi among the great. With thick, midnight-black hair, golden hoop earrings, and several bountiful chins, I agree, the woman doesn't make a great first impression. And if you catch her on the wrong night . . . well, she might not even make a very good impersonation of a human being.

But put her in her proper element, with a crime to be solved, or a murderer to be tracked, and she performs like the true professional she is, defying all logic in her ability to deal with the guilty.

I first met the woman thirty years ago while in Montenegro, which was then under the domination of the Serbs. My name is Aldwin Withers. I was in Cetinje on government business, and while performing my government's business I got myself into a little bad business of my own. So, when my office partner at the embassy whispered the name of Ksenija Vukovi in my ear, I immediately sought the woman out.

I found her living in a small house on a street so banal that I don't even want to remember its name. Truth be told, when she answered the door, I found her aspect so appalling, I'd have fled had it not been for my great faith in my countryman's recommendation. So, doffing my hat, and communicating in a slovenly Slovic dialect, I told her that I was in a bit of a jam and asked her if I could come inside.

She heaved a deep sigh, which made her multiple chins quiver alarmingly, then retreated to open the door.

"My young man," she said, as she ushered me through a short dark hallway to a smelly kitchen at the back of the house. "What can I do for you? What trouble has this handsome, young stranger entangled himself in?"

After entering the kitchen, I stood, twisting my hat in my hands for several seconds while I eyed the room. It was square, with an old, black cast-iron stove in one corner. Three doorways opened out of the kitchen, one leading down the hall to the front door, the direction from which we'd come. Another door with a window apparently led to the back alley. A third door, filled with strands of beads, offered the third entrance to the room. What lay behind that doorway I couldn't imagine, but there was an Orthodox icon pinned to the wall above it. Despite the evidence of poverty, the room was clean. Its only objection was that it was filled with the odor of boiled cabbages and cooking sausages.

"Well, actually," I said, seating myself across from her at her narrow, wooden kitchen table, "it's my sister who's really in hot water. You see, we're in the world on our own now. Mom and Dad are dead. But at least they left us well provided for -- financially."

"Ah, money," Ksenija muttered. "It is a two-sided sword. Those who have it must worry about losing it. Those who don't have it must worry about getting some. It's a very old tale, my young friend."

"Yes. Well, you see, that's just it. We've lost it. No, actually, I've still got mine, but Libby, that's my sister, she met a man . . ."

"And now the man has her money," Ksenija concluded, her double chins puffing in and out with each rise and fall of her nodding head. "That, too, is an old story, my young man."

"Well, it's not really Libby's fault. She's awfully young, and I suppose I should have filled her in about men, but it never occurred to me anyone would try to . . . or . . . er. . . ever be able to con her out of anything." I rubbed my hand through my hair as I spoke. The truth was I felt damned guilty about letting Libby run around without any brotherly oversight. I almost wondered if Ksenija had second sight as a slow smile spread across her ample face.

"So tell me, my young friend, where did this happen?"

"Here. Right here. Libby came over with me when I got this government assignment."

"Then, your sister has lost nothing at all," she said with finality, her ample arms crossed across her ample bosom.