The White Russian

Disclaimer: The usual, Scooby and related characters are copyrighted by smarter people than me. This is a work of fiction of which I garner no monies.

A/N: This is a fictional account of one piece of Romanov crown jewels that was lost in the October, 1917 Bolshevik revolution and subsequent deaths of Tzar Nicholas, his immediate family, a doctor and three servants in July 1918.

My thanks to my Beta, Fonzfan82 and my wife, Nurseangel, who helped with details on plot.

Chapter one: Prologue

Russia, July, 1918

Ivan was drunk, more drunk than he'd ever been in his life. They had drawn lots; he had nearly fainted when he looked down on the black pebble. He had went out and bought a bottle of Vodka. The order had been given and it was his duty to carry it out. He carried two pistols, one wouldn't be enough and he didn't trust his shaking hands to reload.

Tzar Nicholas and the immediate royal family had been sequestered in the basement room. Ivan stood in front of the closed door, his trembling hand on the handle for several long moments. Lifting the bottle, he emptied the bottle in two large gulps. Dropping the bottle, he opened the door.

Tzar Nicholas must have known what was about to happen, he rose from the old wooden chair; turning around, he faced his wife. The first shot hit the back of his head, before the body slumped to the floor five more shots rang out in quick succession amid screams of the remaining women. Ivan dropped the empty pistol when the hammer landed on an empty cylinder, immediately drawing the second pistol.

When the second pistol hit the floor the deafening reports of shots fired was the only sound. The Vodka had burned going down, on it's return trip, it was like a volcano. Ivan retched, his body reacting to the Vodka, doubling him over, spewing hot liquid over his shoes, the floor and the bodies, mixing with the blood. He turned and stumbled out of the room that had been turned into a tomb.

Ivan had no way of knowing that his shots had not reached all their targets. The Grand Duchess Anastasia remained alive, if unconscious. He also didn't know that he would be dead withing fifteen minutes from leaving the make shift tomb. Still drunk and unable to see through the tears from the emptying of the contents of his stomach, he misjudged a step and fell down a set of stairs. Or was pushed. The black deed had been completed; the only eye-witness lay dead with a broken neck.

Xxx

Coolsville, eighty-five years later, six months after Mystery Inc. broke up.

A man, six feet tall in stocking feet, climbed out of the green dumpster and jumped to the hot asphalt. It was the fifth trash bin and he had nothing to show for it. Not a crumb. He couldn't remember when he'd had a hot meal...or a shower. The man thought he'd try later, maybe his luck would change. He picked up the half filled plastic bag and trudged wearily down the street.

A half hour later, the brown haired man unlocked the rear doors of a brightly painted van. He looked around, checking if he'd been followed or being watched. Living on the streets hadn't been easy; he had been robbed twice, beaten, but generally ignored. Climbing into the van, he dropped the bag in a corner and grabbed a plastic bottle of tepid water, downing the liquid in one sip. It was his last bottle. His stomach gurgled, wanting something more solid than warm water. He ignored the sounds, curling up in a fetal position on the floor. There was only one escape: sleep. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a restful sleep.

An imaginary world, a world of disturbing dreams with her, was better than this reality without her.

"Vel...ma..."

Xxx

Coolsville, six moths later, one year after Mystery Inc. broke up

The shaft of lightening lit up the room, followed by clap of thunder went unheeded by the young woman hunched over the computer screen. Raindrops appeared, racing their way down the window pane, breaking the glass into thousands of tiny rainbows. Focused on the form displayed, she ignored the last Winter's attempt to hold off Spring.

Another bright flash of lightening and the resulting thunder caught the woman's attention finally. She turned her head to the window then back to the screen, proofreading the last lines.

The petite woman hit 'send', leaned back, stretching tired and sore muscles in lower back and shoulders.

It was done, the last part of her application to NASA was on its way. Velma rubbed her abdomen at the rumbling sounds emitting from her stomach reminding her she hadn't eaten since dinner the previous evening. She had forgotten to eat...again. It was hard to get excited when you were cooking for one. "Quiet girl, I hear you."

In Coolsville, if you were hungry for something good and fast, say a delicious hamburger, or just wanted to hang out with friends, there was only one place to go: "The Malt shoppe". She hadn't been there since—The Split—as she had come to call it. She had split from Mystery Inc. because of Fred and not getting the recognition she deserved. In reality, she missed her friends and solving mysteries more than she'd dreamed possible. Even as she powered down the computer, Velma let her mind venture back to a happier time when she and her friends used the Malt Shoppe as an unofficial headquarters for Mystery Inc..

Catching herself checking her make-up and short brunette hair in the mirror, something she never did, she smiled; a hamburger wouldn't be the only reason for her trip. Maybe, just maybe he would be there.

It would be nice to see him again. She decided to take the time to shower. Later, she dressed, adding a touch of rouge to give her cheeks some color and lastly, a little peach lipstick to define her lips.

With a dab of her favorite cologne behind each ear and at the base of her throat, she grabbed her coat and purse. With a smile playing wistfully at the corners of her mouth, she locked the house, and headed out with hamburgers and fries with him dancing in her head.

TBC