by A W Hartoin
“Because I don’t know,” he said. “And neither does Tommy.”
If I read Big Steve right he really didn’t know. His mother died when he was just a baby and his father never gave up any information other than they owed her life, as short as it was, to the Bleds. His father was silent on his own experience during the war. After he died, Big Steve tried to find out what his parents went through. His father was fairly easy to trace, but Constanza Stern was another matter. The investigator that he hired before he met my dad came to the same conclusion that Dr. Bloom had. Constanza Stern was an alias and a dead end.
“There was nothing in your father’s effects about your mother? How he met her? Family names? Anything I can run down?”
“There’s nothing. Everything about our lives was temporary. If we had to leave, we could’ve packed in twenty minutes and been gone. My father barely spoke. He went to work. He came home. I can’t say that I knew him or that he knew me.” Big Steve’s head wasn’t bowed and his tone wasn’t sad, only matter of fact.
“You’re so…”
“Loud?” He smiled, not a trace of sarcasm or irony in him.
“I was going to say warm.”
He put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his side. He did that when I had to testify at the trial over my boyfriend, David’s, disappearance. I felt warm and safe, but I should’ve been doing that for him, only I didn’t have any comfort left in me.
“I’ve given you the wrong impression,” said Big Steve. “My father was unfailingly kind and gentle. He took good care of me and made sure I had the best he could possibly provide. He just couldn’t communicate. I think I learned to communicate for the both of us. My father never really left Auschwitz. He never stopped being afraid.”
“You have no pictures of her? None?”
“I do, but they’re not real pictures.”
“Huh?”
“Millicent told me once that my mother had a kind of fear of being photographed. She wouldn’t pose or be near a camera. But the investigator I hired was able to find two photos of her, taken at Bled events. They aren’t strictly of her. She’s there in the crowd. She obviously didn’t know a photo was being taken.”
“Can I see them?” I asked.
Big Steve sighed. “You don’t know how many times I’ve looked at those pictures, searching for a clue to her. There’s nothing to be found. It’s just a frail woman in a photo. Nothing more. I can’t go on looking.”
“Don’t you want to know?” I asked.
“I’ve accepted that I won’t.” He tilted his head. “Unless Stella’s book says something.”
“Sorry. I haven’t found anything yet. Chuck and I were going to work through it together, but you know how it is. He’s working overtime catching regular cases, and he’s on the task force, too. He doesn’t have a ton of time. I’ve been helping out with Mom and Tiny.”
“How’s Collective Inquiry going?”
“He likes working with the best and brightest like Dad did on Brain Trust, but it’s a lot.”
“There are serial killers to catch,” said Big Steve.
“There are so I’m on my own and it’s confusing. Some letters are written in code and I don’t have the code. I do have lists of when the items Stella smuggled out came into the collection, but there’s no Constanza Stern. The pieces that she sold in 1947 entered the collection in July 1944.”
“The owner’s name wasn’t attached?” he asked.
“Sorry. No. But there was a note that came with them. It just says ‘Stella will understand. A.M.’ Florence cataloged the pieces as received from London care of A.M.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Very. Most things came in with specifics. The furniture in my room has labels with every member of the family, their birth date, year, and the town.”
“I don’t know what to make of that,” he said. “I didn’t think there would be anything of use. My mother took her secret to the grave.”
“Can I take a look anyway?” I asked. “I want to try. Who your mother was might give us a clue about The Klinefeld Group. It sounds like she was hiding. Maybe it was from them.”
He shrugged and said, “If you feel that strongly about it, but you should know that Tommy tried and couldn’t get anywhere either.”
“Now that’s a challenge. Do what the great Tommy Watts couldn’t. I’ll take that challenge and I’ll kick its butt.”
He grinned and squeezed my shoulders. “I hope you do and if you do…” He trailed off and didn’t finish.
“What?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always felt like I’ve got to keep working and running and trying. Olivia says I’m trying to live the lives my parents didn’t get.”
“Maybe you’ll relax,” I said.
“I don’t know about that. Relaxing is so boring.”
“You are certifiable.”
“And you have other questions that you’re avoiding.” Always the great cross-examiner, Big Steve could see things you didn’t know you were hiding.
“You really don’t know about Josiah?” I asked, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I was flipping terrified of what had happened to that old man and what my dad had to do with it.
Big Steve turned me toward him, his bulk casting a large shadow. “No. But I do know Tommy did what was asked of him.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“Have you asked The Girls?”
“They say he’s dead because he’s obviously not alive,” I said.
He chuckled. “Sounds like them.”
“But Dad would know what happened to Josiah.”
“For God’s sake don’t ask him. That’d be the last straw. He doesn’t want you anywhere near this.”
“Why? What’s the big deal?”
“The Klinefeld Group is dangerous. Nobody wanted you in their sights. You poking around could make them come after you.”
“Is it because I’m a Bled?” I asked.
Big Steve smiled. “I was wondering if you’d get to that.”
“Well?”
“I think so, but again I don’t know. Your family tree doesn’t include a Bled. Believe me, I looked. Your father looked.”
“But the way they treat us.” I gestured back to the house, a gift and an extremely generous one at that. “The house. My education. Those miniatures they gave me. I was born in the mansion.”
“I know. I can’t explain it.”
“And the lawsuit.”
“Huh?”
I told him about how Dr. Bloom spotted the language that implied that we, Dad, Mom, and me, were part of the family.
“That professor’s a bright one.”
“I agree. So?”
“So he’s right. Brooks sued his aunts and used language that basically stated that you are a member of the family. I can’t tell you why.”
“Mom and Dad don’t know?”
“They don’t.” Big Steve opened his door and leaned on the top of the window. “So you’ll take the case?”
“I will.”
“There’s one more thing.”
I knew it.
“Catherine doesn’t know she’s been threatened and Cabot would like to keep it that way.”
“How in the world am I supposed to investigate this without interviewing the victim?”
“You’ll think of something.” He got in and tried to slam the door, but I got in the way.
“Hold on,” I said. “You still haven’t told me what they’ve said about her.”
“I know.” He gently pushed me out of the way, closed the door, and drove off with a wave.
Crap on a cracker.
Chapter Four
I HEARD THE music when I was halfway up the stairs to my apartment. Somebody was blaring salsa music, which was unusual for my sedate building. I was by far the youngest and the only troublemaker. The other tenants put up with my stalkers, news crews, and the dogs I had foisted on me occasionally because I baked m
y apologies and Dad did things like open doors when they locked themselves out. All in all, it was a good arrangement, but that was about to change.
When I turned right, breathing like an overweight boxer and smelling worse than ever, I bumped into Mr. Cervantes, my sweet neighbor who favored snickerdoodles as his apologies.
“Oh, thank goodness you’re back. You left your music on and Mrs. Abbott is threatening to call the management company.”
“Why in the world? What did I do?” I asked.
He wrinkled his forehead, moving the few hairs that adorned the top of his head. “The music.”
I went blank. Maybe the rhythm blocked my brain from firing on all cylinders.
“Huh?” I almost had to yell. It was that loud.
He pointed to my door. “You left your music on.”
I didn’t listen to salsa and if I did I wouldn’t put it up that high. “I’m so sorry. My Alexa is freaking out.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Mr. Cervantes patted me as I brushed by him and jammed my key into the lock.
The blare knocked me back when I whipped open the door and yelled, “Alexa, stop music.”
She didn’t hear me. Holy crap. I ran to the breakfast bar and had to yell into her speaker. “Alexa, stop music!”
Her lights zipped around her top and the music cut out.
“OMG. That was terrible.” I dropped my purse on the floor and leaned on the counter. “Alexa, what is your problem?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand the question,” she said.
I growled and turned to close the door just in time to see my cat, Skanky, dash out the door. “Son of a…”
Skanky was down to the second floor before I caught him by Mrs. Humboldt’s door, staring at the crack expectantly.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “She’s not feeding you.”
He patted the door.
“For crying out loud, what is with you?” I picked him up and tucked him under my arm. He went limp like a rag doll. Passive resistance. Skanky had been going through an escape phase. He wasn’t very smart so it surprised me that he knew there was a world outside my apartment door, but he did and he’d figured out that I was in a hurry in the morning. He’d been able to slip out when I was leaving a few times and had visited the other apartments, telling everyone he was starving. They believed him and he’d gained a pound and a little fat sack on his belly.
“You’re a butterball,” I said, tromping back up the stairs. “I’m going to put you on a diet.”
He stayed limp when I put him on the sofa, staring off into space and not twitching his tail. I think he was doing sad cat. Not going to work. He wasn’t sad. He was greedy.
I kicked off my disgusting and still damp shoes and turned on The Great British Baking Show. I needed civility, a world where people wouldn’t dream of ramming a clinic as an alternative to paying their bill.
Mel and Sue started their bit about baking and sheep showed up on the screen. Yes. Peaceful. Then my eyes fell on Li Shou in his cage hanging from a hook next to the bookcase. Millicent’s green parrot sat on his swing completely motionless and silent. If you didn’t know better you’d think he was stuffed. The door to his cage was open, but it didn’t look like he’d moved all day. I’d seen Li Shou move, but it was rare. The Girls had had him for a few months and he’d started out as a normal parrot. He squawked and talked. Well, he said two things, “Where’s Mercy?” and “Well, isn’t that special?” I have no clue where the second one came from. I doubt The Girls were watching The Church Lady from Saturday Night Live, but Li Shou had the accent down pat.
Then he stopped talking, squawking, and moving. To be honest, I didn’t miss any of it, but The Girls did. They took him to vets and wildlife specialists, even though Li Shou could not be described as wild or life. No one knew what was wrong with him. He ate, drank and pooped, but that was about it. I once caught Myrtle up on a ladder, moving that weird parrot from one banana tree to another in the left conservatory because she said he needed a new view. That he had unclipped wings and could’ve flown over didn’t seem to matter. They manually moved their parrot and I was expected to do the same.
“Alright, bird,” I said, reaching in and picking him up. “Let’s go to the bathroom.”
I put Li Shou on the counter next to the sink and stripped. I know he’s just a bird, but it was kind of creepy the way he stared at me. Or maybe he wasn’t staring. It was hard to tell, but it occurred to me that it was in my best interest to find out what was wrong with that parrot. One vet, the one I referred to as the evil vet, suggested that Li Shou was depressed and needed a companion. Millicent and Myrtle were in discussions about what kind of friend he needed. That was one of the reasons he was with me. They wanted to see if Skanky helped. If he didn’t, they were talking about getting another parrot. That could not happen. It was an accepted fact that I was inheriting Li Shou. When Lawton, Myrtle’s son, flew in for her birthday, he straight up said, “You know you’re getting that bird, right?” Then he took me shopping and bought me an adorable red beret as a consolation prize. I was soothed for about five minutes. Getting Li Shou the pooping statue was bad enough. I could not inherit two parrots. Parrots live forever and Li Shou was still technically a chick. I’d have to leave those parrots to my kids. They’d hate me.
“Is it the food that you don’t like?” I asked the parrot. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Veal, foie gras, pickles. You name it.”
Nothing.
My phone rang and made me jump. Li Shou didn’t move a feather. Hopeless.
“Hello?”
“So we’re doing this shit?” asked Uncle Morty with a growl.
“Yes,” I said, turning on the water.
“Why?”
“Because Big Steve asked me to.”
“Bullshit.”
“I can hire someone else since you’ve retired.”
Morty said a few choice things about my parentage and hung up on me.
Peace and quiet. Until I was halfway through my hottest shower on record and the phone started ringing again. Probably Uncle Morty to confirm that I sucked. Too late, I already knew that.
The phone stopped and I washed my hair for a third time. The stink was starting to come out and I thought I’d go for a fourth to make sure. The phone started again and again and again. When you’ve had something terrible happen, things occur to you that never would’ve occurred to you before. I started thinking something had happened to Mom. She did fall and hit her head. She had internal bleeding and they needed a donor. I matched. I had to answer the phone.
Without thinking, I jumped out of the shower, missing the rug and slipping on the frigid tile. I did a full twist and landed on my hip. The pain knocked the breath out of me and I lay on the floor rigid and panicking. That’s when Li Shou moved. He walked over to the edge of the counter, turned tail, and let out a tremendous stream of poop.
That brought my breath back. “No veal for you!”
Li Shou turned around and leaned over to look at me with one beady eye before resuming his usual stuffed bird pose.
“I don’t like you,” I said. “If I inherit you, you’re going to the zoo. Nobody’s going to move you around there. It’s survival of the fittest.”
Nothing.
I tried to move, but my hip hurt so bad it seemed better just to remain immobile.
I’ve broken a hip at twenty-six. Yep. Sounds like me.
The phone started up again, but it was still on the counter.
I’ll just lay here for a minute and then I’ll get that. It’s not so bad.
The phone stopped and started. It could be about Mom. It really could.
“Hey, bird. Knock that phone off and I won’t sell you for meat.”
Nothing, not even a cursory blink. Worthless bird.
I’m going to have to get up. Ow. Ow. Ow.
Heavy footsteps came down the hall. I hadn’t locked the door.
Please don’t let that be my new st
alker or Mr. Cervantes. Please.
The door opened and hit me in the head.
“Crap!” I said.
Chuck looked down at me and smiled his patented sleazy smile. “If you’re trying to seduce me, I’d lose the parrot poop.”
“Shut up and help me.”
“That’s not seductive either, beautiful.”
“I will hurt you.”
Chuck stepped around me and the poop to haul me to my feet. “That’s going to leave a mark.”
“Oh my God. My hip hurts so bad.”
He touched the scratches on my arm. “Marks. Why do you smell like pond scum?”
“You haven’t seen the news?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. Don’t.” I stepped back in the shower and let the water hit me in the hip. Ah. Better.
“I have to watch the news,” said Chuck, peeking around the curtain. “I’m on it.”
I tried to push his head out, but he couldn’t be moved. “Stop that. On it for what?”
“We nailed James Joseph O’Sullivan.”
“Oh, yeah?” I wanted to be interested in this latest arrest that had come out of Kansas where a serial killer graveyard had been discovered thanks to me and my stellar interviewing technique that included getting bit on the face by a mass murderer. It was worth it. Sort of.
“O’Sullivan’s our way in. He’s going to flip. I can feel it.” Chuck reached in and ran a long finger up my thigh. I smacked his hand.
“What are you doing? I smell like pond scum, remember?”
“I like you naked,” he said, his eyes going half-mast.
“And smelly?”
“That is not a problem.”
I smacked his hand again. “I’m exhausted and scratched and bruised.”
“Like I said, not a problem.”
“You’re incorrigible,” I said, but I couldn’t help but smile. Chuck was at his best when he was being bad.
“You say that like you don’t like it.” He reached in again and I let him since conditioning my hair took priority. “Let’s go out and celebrate. Everyone’s at Kronos.”
“I just want to go to sleep,” I said.
“It’s eight o’clock.”
