“No explanation,” relied Morgan, “Absolutely none. No witnesses, no CCTV footage, no weapon, nothing concrete.” The policeman shook his head, “Right now the story we have leaked remains the same and no one has disputed it. He was killed by one of our officers. The last thing we want is to cause a panic, for people to believe that somewhere out there an accomplice, another lunatic is poised to strike again. Luckily, everyone seems to be buying it. For now.”
“Any news about the car bomb? The victim? Anything?” asked Elliott as the men continued to walk towards their vehicles.
“We know that the vehicle was a rental car. As for the driver, still unofficially unidentified, there wasn’t much left of him. No dental records, fingerprints – and no DNA match. We and the FBI believe he could have been a Colin Bywater, the car was rented in his name, according to DMV records and the rental company, but who he is we don’t know. No one has any idea who Bywater was. He flew into the country the day before, from the Bahamas.”
“So no closer on who planted the bomb?” asked Elliott. Morgan shook his head.
“Any indication the two are related? That Lynch’s killer planted the bomb in Bywater’s car?”
“No. Again we have nothing to go on. All we have is a crazed gunman taking potshots, shot execution-style in the back of the head. A car bomb, which killed an unidentified male, probably Colin Bywater, and a bomber on the loose, or maybe the bomber was Lynch. Of course, we can’t rule out a connection. Miami? Surely not a coincidence, but there isn’t any evidence linking them together, not yet anyway. I have my own theory. They were working together and Bywater killed Lynch, who had already planned on killing Bywater. Why? I haven’t pieced that together yet. But the evidence is pointing to that. But until we can confirm it, which seems unlikely, then the story is that they are unconnected and Lynch took a bullet from one of our own.”
“So what’s next?” asked Elliott as he, Kelly, and Morgan reached the mayor’s chauffeur-driven car.
“Back to normal, I guess,” replied Morgan “Whatever normal is these days. Despite all this, Savannah still has one of the lowest crime rates in the country. I hear your popularity rating is even higher and you would have to be deaf not to have heard the rumors of you running for Governor.”
“Just rumors Jeff, just rumors,” said Elliott as he opened the rear seat passenger door for Kelly.
“Rumors or not, you have done a good job. Even this,” Morgan spread his arms, “even this tragedy has actually given you more exposure. I just hope you don’t forget about me, if you ever go for even higher office. I think I would make a good vice president.”
Elliott smiled and patted Morgan on the shoulder. “We have one more to go, one more funeral. You go home, you look exhausted.”
The final funeral of the day had been the oddest, thought Elliott as he sat gently swinging on his porch. He took another sip of his scotch and shook his head. A very strange thing had occurred, a curious turn of events that had for a moment had left him reeling in shock. A very strange thing indeed…
Chapter 32
Kelly and Elliott had attended Heidi Launer’s funeral not in any official capacity, but as her friend. Elliott, just as he had known Cindy Mopper, had known Heidi Launer for nearly thirty years. Spencer and Gordon had been pals with Heidi’s son Steven since they were teenagers. They had been neighbors for what had seemed an eternity. Again, just as Cindy had been, Heidi had been one of Thelma’s closest friends, and together with Cindy, they had walked their dogs, gossiped, and laughed. Heidi had been a tough one though, thought Elliott. The first time he had met her, he had an unnerving feeling, but that soon evaporated once he had gotten to know her and her friendship with Thelma grew. Often though, he had caught her scowling, even muttering to herself…only to immediately stop and smile whenever she realized she had been spotted. Many times he had noticed her curtains twitching, from a room on the second floor of her house that overlooked his garden. Sometimes Elliott had the feeling that Heidi was watching Thelma, or him, or both of them. But she was a harmless old biddy. Sharp of tongue maybe, territorial definitely, especially when it came to the park and she had not been one to mince her words. She said it as she saw it and hadn’t given a hoot what anyone else had thought, but deep down, thought Elliott, it was all bluster and show.
The times Elliott had seen her berate outsiders who had dared enter the park were numerous. He had watched as she had cursed them, warned them of legal repercussions, and threatened them with arrest if they dared set foot on Gordonston private property again. She had been a fierce woman, often full of anger, and at times even frightening.
Thelma, though, had often told him how witty she was, how quick and sharp she could be, as well as wise and astute. But Elliott had rarely seen that side of her. In fact, in retrospect, she had been quite a nasty old woman on occasion. Elliott shrugged as he and Kelly approached the graveside. Dissecting Heidi’s character traits could take him forever.
Heidi’s funeral was far better attended than Cindy’s had been. Her son, Steven, and his wife, plus their two children who had flown in from New York, had been in attendance. Other relatives, with whom Elliott wasn’t acquainted, stood at the graveside next to her coffin. Neighbors from Gordonston, who Elliott knew well, had shown up to say their last goodbyes, and of course there was Betty. The ever-faithful Betty Jenkins, dressed all in black and wore a hat covered with a veil. Elliott had nodded at Betty who in turn had politely smiled back at him. Maybe now, Elliott had thought, he could convince her to come and work for him.
Steven Launer had said a few words about his mother. How she had been a loving parent, always there for him, how she had been a good wife to his father, how she had loved living in Savannah, and how much she would be missed.
It was when Steven turned to the priest, after his eulogy, that Elliott received his first surprise. Standing behind the priest was a rabbi. Elliott hadn’t noticed him at first, it was only when the priest had to step forward to bless the grave and offer his own words and prayers that Elliott had spotted him. What the heck was a rabbi doing at Heidi Launer’s funeral?
“As many of you know, my mother was not a deeply religious woman. Though she attended church as a protestant, she didn’t really follow the faith. I am sure she had faith, and I am sure that she believed in many things,” Steven Launer spoke purposefully as he stood in between the priest and rabbi, clearing his throat, he continued to speak.
“My mother, as you all know was not born in this country. She emigrated here as a child, from Austria, a place I have visited many times with my mother, as have my family. She was never shy about reminding us of our heritage, of where we came from. She was proud to be an American, I know she was, but she was even prouder to be Austrian. Recently though, I made a discovery. A discovery about my family, about my mother, and about a tragedy that even she wasn’t aware of,” once again Steven cleared his throat before he spoke. “My mother came from a respected family, a prominent family of jewelers actually, from Vienna. For years we had thought her real parents had been bakers, but that, that was not the truth.” Steven paused and took a deep breath before speaking again. “My mother’s father and mother, my grandparents, and her brother and sister, who would have been my aunt and uncle, were victims of the holocaust. Their possessions were stolen, their home stolen, and their lives stolen. They were victims of one of the most evil and vile men the world has ever known. My mother never knew this.”
Neither had Elliott, and by the look on her face, neither had Betty Jenkins. Though a dark veil covered it, Elliott could see the surprised look on her face. She stared back at Elliott and he guessed she saw the same look of surprise on him.
“You see, my mother was Jewish. She was born Jewish, and I hope she understood me the last time I saw her. I told her the story of her family. I will never know if she understood or if she remembered them. That is why, and I am sure many of you noticed him, I asked Rabbi Notrica here today, to say a few words for my mother. R
abbi Notrica…”
Elliott Miller was shocked. He was Jewish, that was no secret, but he had never known about Heidi, he would never have guessed. He turned to face Kelly, who seemed oblivious to what was happening or what had just transpired. Once Rabbi Notrica had finished speaking, Steven Launer spoke again.
“When I was a child I used to have nightmares. Bad dreams. Often I would be unable to sleep or wake up in the middle of the night. One enduring memory I have as a little boy was my mother comforting me when I woke from these nightmares. Yes, she would call me a baby and tell me that I was silly for being scared of the dark and the shadows, or the monsters that didn’t really live under my bed. But she was also my mom. And I was her little boy. When I was scared, frightened, and sobbing in bed, my mother would tell me stories, stories she told me were told to her as a little girl. Wonderful stories that she had memorized, stories she told me her uncle had told her when she was a little girl. They were fantastic tales and I would make her tell them to me again and again and again. I remember one in particular, The Little Boy Lost in the Magic Wood. It was about this boy, lost in a Bavarian forest, who encounters two bears, a woodsman and comes upon a wishing well. Here he can make three wishes…”
Elliott Miller froze and his palms began to sweat. He felt himself flush and for a moment, he thought he might even faint. Steven Launer’s words flew over him, and all he could see were his lips moving. Not that Elliott needed to hear the story. He had heard it before, word for word virtually, over forty years before.
“Are you okay?” whispered Kelly “Your hand has gone sticky.” Elliott remembered he was holding his wife’s hand. He removed his hand from hers and wiped his sweating palm on his jacket. “I am fine, honey,” he lied, “I am fine.”
“…And in the end, the boy made his last wish. He returned home, to be with his family, and the evil witch was never heard from again.” Steve Launer smiled and his wife put her arm around his waist. “So, that was my mom. I never met her uncle, the one she said made up the stories, but he sounds like a great man. I want to thank you all for coming and of course, there will be drinks and food at my mother’s house, so you are all welcome. Thank you.”
Elliott Miller had been silent during the short drive from Bonaventure Cemetery back to Gordonston. He assumed, correctly, that Kelly would put this down to tiredness. He really needed time to think and it had been a blessing that on their return home, when Kelly had collapsed on the sofa.
Elliott finished his scotch and stretched before leaning back on the porch swing, gently rocking forward and back. There was no mistaking that the story recounted by Steven had been the same story told to Elliott by Kurtz all those years before in Buenos Aires. No doubt at all. There was also no doubt that the books he had written, based on those stories, were almost exactly the same. It meant many things. Firstly, if anyone did find a copy of his now out-of-print books and had also heard the stories Steven claimed were told to his mother by an unidentified uncle over seventy years ago, then he stood the chance of being accused of being a liar, a fraud, a plagiarist, and heaven only knew what else. That possibility, though, seemed remote. The chances of anyone discovering his books and then hearing Heidi’s or Kurtz’s stories were highly unlikely, in fact, virtually impossible, he was sure. And now, so many years later, with no copyright law in place, who would care? No one. And if anyone who did care, anyone petty enough who wanted to cause a fuss, then all he would do would be to dispute his or her claims. He would tie them up in legal injunctions and court rulings. It would never be made public, he was positive. This was the only skeleton in his closet and compared to other politicians, it was nothing. No, this wasn’t a concern to Elliott, or something to worry about.
The second thing that mystified Elliott though was this ‘uncle’ of Heidi’s. Was this Uncle Kurtz? He had mentioned a niece, hadn’t he? It was so long ago that Elliott couldn’t recall exactly what the old man had told him all those years ago in Argentina. What Elliott did know was that he had a copy of a book, which Kurtz said he had written, signed by one of the most despicable men to have ever walked the earth. But Heidi’s family was Jewish according to Steven’s graveside eulogy, so it couldn’t have been Kurtz. Or was it all a lie? Was everything a lie? Maybe Heidi wasn’t Jewish. Maybe she had never told these stories. Maybe Kurtz had lied. Maybe he hadn’t written any book. Maybe Steven was on to him. Was Steven Launer going to blackmail him? It was just too confusing. A coincidence? Who knew?
Elliott stood from the swing and picked up his empty scotch glass from the ground. He was tired and, like Kelly, he needed a nap. With the scotch now flowing in his bloodstream and the events of the day, as well as the warm sun on his face, Elliott felt weary. He was just about to return indoors when he heard a voice.
“Mr. Mayor. Mr. Mayor, do you have a moment?”
It was Betty Jenkins.
“Of course Betty, of course I do.” At last, some good news thought Elliott. Betty obviously was going to ask about a job. At last he would have the legendary Betty Jenkins cooking for him. No more of Kelly’s cooking; though he loved her, she was no expert in the kitchen. Elliott could almost taste the Brunswick stew, the fried chicken, the biscuits, and the delights for which Betty was renowned.
“These are for you,” Betty handed Elliott a box. “I found them, in her things, I wasn’t snooping, but they were there. Of course I recognized your name.” Elliott took the old shoe box from Betty, and while looking utterly confused, opened the box. There they were. His books. All three of them. He looked up at Betty. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Luckily for Elliott, it was Betty who spoke for him.
“Obviously this is where she had heard those stories. She read your books. I couldn’t let Steven find them. Especially not after his speech today. Poor boy, he truly believes that some old uncle told his mother these stories years ago and I think it is better things stay that way. Don’t you?”
Elliott nodded.
“I read them by the way, your books. They were good. But I guess you lost the inkling for it. Anyway, let this be our secret. You take them Mr. Mayor. I think it is for the best.”
“Elliott. Please, Betty, call me Elliott.”
“Elliott then. You take them. They belong to you anyway, I guess. But promise me, you will never breathe a word of this to anyone? Promise?”
Elliott Miller took a deep breath and looked upwards. If there was a God, he was certainly watching over Elliott Miller.
“Of course Betty, of course. You have my word.”
Chapter 33
Forty Years Ago, Buenos Aires, Argentina
The old man was exhausted and it seemed that each passing day he was getting tired far more quickly than he once had, and as a consequence, everyday seemed longer than the day before. Maybe because the talks he was having with the young American were lasting longer and becoming more in-depth, resulting in later evenings and less sleep. Not that he minded, he was extremely fond of Elliott Miller. But it was time now for it all to end. He would miss their chats, as he would miss many things, La Casa Verde most of all. Oh, the wine, those meats, the smells, and the flavor. And of course the waiters, Santiago especially and old Cardasso himself. All of it. He would miss it all.
He had enjoyed the past few months. He had taken an immediate liking to Elliott, and he was sure that one day, he would appreciate the joke he was playing on him, especially as they had struck up such a close friendship, though brief. It was a friendship, thought Kurtz, which Elliott would remember for the rest of his life.
Holsten Kurtz had been well known for his practical jokes, his mischievous nature and of course, his fantastic acting skills. Not here though, not in Argentina, but in his country of origin which wasn’t Switzerland, as he had told the people of Belgrano, Cardasso, his housekeeper, everyone, including Elliott. It was Belgium. In fact, he had never even been to Switzerland, which of course would have been obvious to anyone who knew that there was no such language as Swiss. A clue he had added sub
limely during conversations, a clue no one had spotted. He always added clues when he was acting, or in character. He found it amazing how willing people were to believe anything, even when blatant falsehoods were uttered. It seemed to just pass over them – as though they either didn’t know or did not care – or maybe they were just too engrossed in his story to realize or notice.
Some of what he had told Elliott Miller had been true. His wife was indeed dead, along with their still born child, and he did indeed have a niece, whom he never saw. However he knew where she was; she was living in Brussels with her husband, happily married with three grown children and five grandchildren. They had exchanged the odd greeting card, at Christmas and the occasional birthday, but the truth was they were never close. He really did not desire to remain in touch with his only brother’s daughter, and he was sure that feeling was no doubt mutual.
At one time, Kurtz had been quite famous, especially in Belgium and Holland. He had been quite an accomplished actor, and had even appeared in a few movies, black and whites of course. Though not well known outside of the Low Countries, he had been held in high regard for his stage work and had often received critical acclaim for his performances, especially as a character actor, and he was lauded for his method acting abilities
But, that was many years ago, before he had met Gissell, who fortuitously for him, had not only fallen in love with him, but was also extremely wealthy. She owned several estancias in various parts of Argentina. He had not hesitated to leave his homeland, and return to Argentina with her after she had confessed her love for him. They had married and settled on one her many properties in Mendoza where they had planned to raise a family together, and maybe he would return to acting once he had mastered the Spanish language.
Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist Page 16
