by Wendy Wax
He looked her over, his angry gaze lingering on her breasts in the too-tight blouse and the bulge of the waistband that she’d been unable to pin closed. “I think that because I know your body better than I know my own,” he bit out. “And because you recently used your credit card to pay the firm of Gabianelli, Gutschenritter, and Payne for an OB-GYN appointment that included an ultrasound.” He let that and his anger hang in the air like a dark cloud. “I can’t help wondering when you were planning to tell me.”
Guilt flooded through her. Tears formed again for what had to be the second time in five minutes. She should have listened to Maddie. She should have told him. She . . . The self-recriminations stopped. “You were checking up on me. You knew about the appointment but you never called.” Anger coursed through her, shoving the guilt aside. “That ultrasound could have been for a tumor or something!”
Joe stepped closer. Leaned over her. “But it wasn’t, was it? What was your plan, Nikki? I’d like to believe you were going to tell me at some point. And I have to think that you know me enough to know how happy I would have been to find out that we were going to have a child together.” His hurt and anger rained down on her, showering her in its white-hot ash. He had every right to that anger; she knew he did. But he did not have the right to make her feel so small and miserable. She yanked her eyes back up from the asphalt. “Not a child!” she shouted, surprising them both.
“What?”
“It’s not a child, damn it! It’s children. I’m pregnant with twins!”
For an instant, surprise softened his eyes. He tamped it down. Within seconds they were once again hard and unforgiving.
His hand shot out again. “Give me the list.”
“What list?” Any control she’d started with was completely gone. Her mind might be moving at a turtle’s pace, but her mouth and her emotions were flying at warp speed.
“And the keys.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, staring him in the eye.
“Then think again.”
“I’m not handing over anything or going anywhere until you tell me where we would be going and why.”
“Get in the car,” he said tersely. “I’ll drive.”
“Where are we going?” she asked again, her anger flaring.
His sigh was one of disgust but also of capitulation. “We’re going to retrieve the cash. Then you’re going to turn it in. And you’re going to do it in front of witnesses so that there can be no question that you were colluding or doing anything other than retrieving the money on behalf of your brother’s victims.”
“But . . .” she began.
“The list and the keys. Now.”
She handed them over and then stomped around the car, yanked open the passenger door, and sank into the seat. He threw his bag in the trunk, adjusted the driver’s seat, and buckled his seat belt.
“How long until . . .”
“No. Don’t speak. I don’t want to even hear your voice.” He looked at her as if she were a stranger. “And for God’s sake don’t cry.”
She’d lost him. She hadn’t trusted him and now she’d lost him. Nikki struggled to control her thoughts and her emotions as Joe peeled out of the parking lot with an angry squeal of tires. As it turned out, not speaking was a lot easier than not crying. She kept her head turned and her eyes trained out the passenger window as billboards, scrub, and exit signs blurred by.
Chapter Forty-one
Officer Jackson looked slightly uncomfortable that afternoon when he arrived at the house to share what had—and had not—been determined about what happened that July night in 1952. Renée showed him to a chair in the family room, then took her place on the sofa between Annelise and John. The box of photo albums still sat nearby.
Annelise’s attempts to regroup and regain her bearings had met with mixed results. She’d lost weight since the remains had been discovered, and appeared almost skeletal herself. Today she seemed wan but calmer and Renée hoped that whatever the young policeman had to say would offer enough closure so that all of them, and especially Annelise, could begin to move on.
“So.” Renée took hold of Annelise’s hand. Her too-thin body trembled against Renée’s like a twig caught in a stiff breeze. “What can you tell us?”
The policeman glanced down at his notes, then leaned forward in his chair. “We have confirmed the original finding that your father died of blunt-force trauma. His head wound was the result of contact with the corner of the bedroom dresser. Photographs of the scene confirm that there was an altercation. At the time it was assumed the altercation took place between David and Ilse and that she fled.”
“And now?” Renée asked.
“Now a new analysis of bloodstains on the deceased’s pajamas and the carpet sample indicates that someone else was there at the time of death and also lost blood. That person had the same blood type as Heinrich Stottermeir, according to his military records.”
“But that only proves someone with the same blood type was there.” Annelise squeezed Renée’s hand. “It doesn’t prove it was Stottermeir.”
“No,” Officer Jackson said. “But his fingerprints do. We know he was in the apartment because when we ran the prints lifted from the bedroom through the IAFIS database—something that didn’t exist in 1952—we got a match. Stottermeir was definitely there. Based on blood spatter and the location of his fingerprints, he was definitely a part of the altercation.”
Annelise clenched Renée’s hand more tightly. “And the . . . my mother?”
Renée closed her eyes trying yet again to hear and to remember. Every night she dreamt that she was standing in front of the refrigerator with the glass of water in her hands. But while the moments in which she stood there straining to hear became increasingly clear, the memory never changed and it never went further. Had she already been back in bed when that struggle had taken place and her father’s head split open?
“We have DNA confirmation that the skeletal remains that were unearthed are Ilse’s. It’s clear she was involved in the struggle that took place. The bones in her hands display dents and splintering. Her right wrist was fractured.”
Beside her, Annelise seemed to have stopped breathing. She had not stopped trembling.
“Her neck was broken perimortem,” J. J. said.
“What . . . what does that mean?” Renée asked as Annelise’s hold on her hand tightened.
“It means that her neck was broken at or around the time of death,” he replied gently. “Official cause of death is listed as spinal shock. Which means that . . .”
“. . . death would have been instantaneous,” Annelise whispered, her relief evident.
Renée drew a deep breath and felt Annelise do the same.
“We heard back from Stottermeir’s handler, Jim Newsome, in Round Rock, Arizona. Apparently Stottermeir used a number of aliases after the war. The cold war was heating up and although it’s unclear how many sides of the fence he may have been playing by 1952, he did travel in and out of the United States. It wouldn’t have been difficult for him to locate your mother.”
“And the note I found in the photo album?” Renée asked.
Jackson pulled a piece of paper from the file in his lap. “It’s an apology of sorts,” he said quietly. “He expresses regret for ‘losing control of himself.’ But he then absolves himself for ‘exercising a husband’s rights’ since they had been promised to each other and would one day be married.”
“Oh, God,” Annelise said, her eyes pinned to J. J.’s face. “She was pregnant with me when she got here.” Annelise’s voice was once again breathy and childish; the hand that still clung to Renée’s trembled. “Was . . . could Heinrich Stottermeir be my father?”
“No.” Officer Jackson shook his head. “That’s one of the few things I can say with complete certainty. Based on your, your mother’s, and his blood
types, he couldn’t have been your biological father. But, of course, he wouldn’t necessarily have known that.”
Annelise breathed a sigh of what could only be relief. Renée did the same.
“A good number of OSS files were declassified by the CIA in the 1980s. Others were declassified more recently. Some relating to intelligence operations during WWII are still being withheld. Former agent Newsome is willing and able to answer questions that pertain to your parents and Heinrich Stottermeir. He’s actually standing by now if you’d like me to call.”
At Annelise’s nod, Officer Jackson punched in the number. She drew several deep breaths while the introductions were made via speakerphone. Clinging to Renée’s hand as if it were a life raft, she said, “Can you tell me . . .” Another breath. A swallow. “Was my mother a spy?”
“No,” Newsome replied without hesitation. “She did provide a cover of sorts for your father’s extended stay in Frankfurt. But it appears that however their relationship began, the marriage and their feelings for each other were real.” He paused then and his voice gentled. “I met your father on several occasions. He was a fine man.”
John’s arm went around Renée’s shoulders. Annelise leaned in closer. “But why would Stottermeir show up all those years later?” he asked. “What did he want?”
“I don’t know,” Newsome said. “But he was obsessed with Ilse. When he learned that she’d married and moved to America, he was furious. When he discovered that she’d had a child, he became convinced that the child was his.”
No one interrupted as the former OSS agent continued. Renée didn’t think she was the only one barely breathing.
“We had no warning he was headed to Florida. I don’t know what he intended. I think he’d convinced himself that Ilse was there because she thought she had no other option. To the end he insisted he didn’t mean to kill anyone. That she jumped on his back while he was fighting off Handleman and when he flung her off she slammed into the wall. When he realized she was dead and that Handleman was dying, he disposed of her body and ran.”
Beside her, Annelise shuddered. Tears pricked at the back of Renée’s eyelids. All these years the government had known what had taken place that horrible night in July and no one had told them.
“What happened to Stottermeir?” John asked.
“The Russians wanted him,” Newsome said matter-of-factly. “And we wanted to be rid of him. I believe he spent his last days in a Russian gulag.”
It was John who escorted the officer out while Renée and Annelise continued to sit, their hands clasped.
Annelise was the first to speak. “I wanted so badly to find her, to know that she didn’t leave of her own free will.” Her voice wobbled. Tears pooled in her eyes as she met Renée’s gaze. “And now that I do know, I just feel worse.”
“I know,” Renée said, watching her sister’s face and trying to hold back her own tears. Once she’d allowed herself to cry that day at the hotel, it was as if the floodgates had opened; she had not yet figured out how to close them.
“But at least we finally have some answers. You were right about pretty much everything. I was wrong. We were all wrong to doubt you.”
Annelise’s smile was sad. She made no move to wipe away the tears as they slid down her ravaged face. “I used to fantasize about hearing that from you. But it doesn’t really change anything. My mother has been lying in the ground all these years while everyone thought the worst of her.” She let go of Renée’s hand. Her eyes narrowed. Her tone stiffened. So did her shoulders. “You were right about one important thing, though. The hotel should be torn down and the land sold. I’d do it with my own two hands if I could.” Annelise stood slowly. “I want it gone as soon as possible. I don’t ever want to have to see it again.”
Renée looked at her sister in surprise. After all these years of begging her to do just that, it was the last thing she’d expected. “But we gave Avery and Maddie and the others permission to renovate. We pledged money. And we gave them our word.”
“I don’t care,” Annelise said. “Everything’s changed. And it’s not as if we put anything in writing.”
Annelise had been deadly serious. Nothing Renée said seemed to make an impression or come close to changing her mind.
Two days later she and John sat uncomfortably on either side of Annelise as she presented “their” decision to Avery, Chase, Maddie, Kyra, and Steve Singer in the salon at Bella Flora.
“But we’ve already started construction.” Avery’s shock was apparent in her voice. “I know we’re behind schedule, but we can still make it attractive to a buyer.”
The others voiced their agreement. They’d assembled expecting to discuss details of design and construction and been blindsided with a complete change of plan.
“We no longer want to sell it,” Annelise said. Renée had to clamp her mouth shut as eyes locked on her and John at Annelise’s “we.” “The circumstances have changed.” It was odd to see her sister so adamant, so in charge. The dithering breathiness was gone, smothered by this new resolve. “We’re going to tear it down.”
For a long moment no one spoke.
“But we agreed,” Maddie finally said. “We’ve raised money and sponsorships.”
“Renée. Please,” Avery said. “You and John know how much has already been poured into this project. Let us finish. Let us show you what I know it can be.”
“Renée and John have agreed,” Annelise said. “There’s no point in showing anyone anything.” She stood. Renée and John followed suit like puppets whose strings had been pulled. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wait out in the car,” Annelise said. She turned and headed down the central hall toward the front door.
“I’m sorry. I know you would have done a spectacular job.” John handed Avery the envelope he’d brought. “This is a signed and notarized document promising to pay back sponsors and out-of-pocket expenses out of proceeds from the sale of the land. Needless to say, we’ll pay for the demolition ourselves.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Renée said, hugging each of them in turn. “More than I can say. After all these years, I was looking forward to taming that jungle and to seeing the hotel brought back.” She found a smile and hoped they understood the apology in it. “But it’s a relief to know what actually happened and to see Annelise . . . reconciled. And I think it’s finally time to let go and focus as best we can on healing.” She took John’s hand and the two of them walked slowly toward the front door.
Despite her mother’s attempts to get them to look at their collective glass as half full, as far as Kyra could tell the collective mood at Bella Flora was downright empty.
“I can’t believe they yanked the whole project out from underneath us like that without warning or anything,” Avery exclaimed repeatedly as she paced the grounds, too anxious and too agitated to sit still. Maddie cleaned house, doing load after load of laundry before Steve could get to it, and cooked comfort food that no one but her father ate.
Kyra sat alone in front of a video monitor watching the footage they’d shot at the Sunshine Hotel. The video of the buildings and grounds was good, but as always it was the shots of the people whose history was tied up in the hotel and those who’d been determined to bring it back that drew her. She replayed a sequence she’d shot in which Renée shared the guest registers her grandmother had kept and talked about “Nana’s” personality and philosophy as a hotelier. This—not the nuts and bolts of remodeling or their own much-too-publicized lives—was what Do Over should be about. If only she could find a way to make it happen.
She checked the Do Over Facebook page and Twitter feed, which the network had taken over without warning and wallpapered with countless close-ups of Dustin. Each new episode brought new fans and followers, but those viewers seemed most interested in her mother’s budding romance with William Hightower and Deirdr
e’s attempts to win over the daughter she’d abandoned. They “liked” and reacted to the obstacles the network had thrown in their way. Time and again it was the personal problems each of them wrestled with that elicited the most interest and response. Was that only because that was what the network had focused on? Or could Troy and Daniel be right? Would a straight renovation show elicit the same kind of response and gain any audience at all?
She frowned at the thought of Troy Matthews, who had become as hard to reach as the network heads had always been. She’d left three messages that had gone unanswered and had no idea when, or if, he’d be back. All the more reason to remember that he was undoubtedly just as devious and motivated by self-interest as the network, no matter what he claimed.
Leaving her computer, she moved to the window. Despite the heat, her mother puttered with the planters, trimming and pruning. Her father lounged on the pool steps, a paperback in his hands. Every once in a while when he thought Maddie wasn’t looking he stole a peek. Kyra watched them, seeing her father’s hopefulness, her mother’s inattention. If she’d still wanted to, Kyra could have pretended they were still married, that their family was still intact. But despite the murkiness of their current situation, she couldn’t even bring herself to wish it. Her mother had found the strength to move forward; surely her father would have to do the same.
Her phone rang. Daniel’s face filled the screen. When she answered, it wasn’t Daniel but Dustin who greeted her.
“It’s me, Mommy!”
“Hi, sweetie,” she said, smiling at the glee in his voice. “Are you having a good time?”
“Is fun! I been acting today. Jes like Dundell!”
“Really?” she asked, hoping for a no.
“The tyreckther tolded me I was a natchral.”
“That’s great, sweetheart,” she said. Then as casually as she could, “Please put your dad on the phone.”
“A lady’s rubbing him. He can’t right now.”
