My Bad Grandad

by A W Hartoin

  “I’m not answering any questions.” I moved to the right and he blocked me. I should’ve brought my mace.

  “The public has a right to know—ah, shit!” He danced around, yelling. Wallace had peed on his suede shoes.

  “You are such a good dog,” I said, walking by the reporter, who was trying to wipe off his shoes with a dirty tissue.

  Good luck with that, douchebag.

  Wallace danced around, smiling her pug smile.

  Bark.

  “Maybe this won’t be so bad,” I said.

  She let out a flurry of barks and ran in front of me, managing to pee on my bare toes.

  Wrong again.

  Chapter Six

  WALLACE SLEPT ON my bed. She insisted. The barking was practically non-stop and so was the calling from my long-suffering neighbors. I liked to think they were fond of me in a way. I did make pastries to apologize for the stalkers and paparazzi that showed up to harass them on their way into the building. Plus, our street got a lot of attention from the cops. Whoever was on shift usually rolled the street a couple of times. There hadn’t been a crime since I moved in. Before, there was a spate of smash and grabs. But Wallace was pushing the limits of the building’s affection. I had to let that crazy pug in bed with me. She slept on one side of my head and snored right in my ear. And belched. In my ear. That night went on the list of low points in my life.

  To make it worse, I had cat-owner guilt. Wallace wouldn’t leave Skanky alone and I had to take him over to my favorite neighbor. Mr. Cervantes was a total sweetheart, but he wouldn’t take Wallace at any price, especially after the barking. Skanky wasn’t the brightest cat, but he’d been kicked out in favor of a wrinkly dog that had a screw loose, and he knew it. I would not be forgiven any time soon.

  Wallace kept up the joy on Monday morning. I had to meet Spidermonkey for an update. My cybersleuth had a thing about actually meeting instead of texting like regular people. He said it was civilized to discuss The Klinefeld Group over coffee and crullers. It was, but he didn’t have a wily pug to deal with. I had to pin Wallace to the floor to get her leash on and bribe her with Chuck’s disgusting soy bacon bits. His health kick was getting gross. Fortunately, the crazy pug was crazy enough not to know the difference between pig and plant and I got her in my truck by feeding her one bit at a time.

  When I got to Laclede’s Landing and parked on a picturesque side street, the bit bag was empty and Wallace was not having it. She went batshit crazy, tore up the bag, and howled.

  “There is something seriously wrong with you,” I said, dragging her out of the truck by her hind legs and garnering plenty of stares. Hopefully, I wouldn’t get reported for dog abuse, but I’d like to see one of those people get her out. Heck, I would’ve paid them to do it.

  Just when I was ready to strangle her with her own leash, she let me put her on the sidewalk and then sat on her bottom, panting adorably. Two ladies walked by and cooed about how sweet she was and gave me the stink eye. The fact that I, too, was panting and had nail scratches up and down my arms made no impression on them.

  “You do that on purpose so I look like the crazy one,” I said, locking my truck and slinging my purse over my shoulder.

  Bark.

  “You know, there’s one place I didn’t call about you.”

  Bark.

  “The Humane Society and it’s not that far away.”

  Grrr.

  I laughed and tugged the pug down the street toward Café Déjeuner. Wallace intermittently acted like a nut. With witnesses, she was the cute, smiling pug. Alone, she dug in her heels, bit her leash, and tried to pee on me. I’d gotten pretty fast in Colorado, so I managed to avoid the spray, but she always had more. That dog was like three-fourths bladder.

  When we got to Café Déjeuner, I paused at the door. I could tie Wallace to a lamp post or try to take her inside, calling the nut my therapy dog. I needed therapy after dealing with her, so it seemed valid. On the other hand, someone might steal her, which sounded pretty good, although they’d just bring her back if they had two brain cells to rub together.

  I sighed and grabbed the door handle and said to Wallace, “If you’re good, I’ll buy you a donut.”

  Bark. Growl.

  “Two donuts?” I was negotiating with a dog. I needed therapy alright.

  Bark.

  “Fine, you pain in my ass.” I opened the door and Sally, the girl that manned the counter, saw me. We weren’t exactly friends, just friendly. Actually, I think she thought I was having an affair with Spidermonkey, a man who was the same age as my grandad. “Hey, I got stuck with this dog. Can I bring her in? She promises to be good.”

  “Oh my god! She’s adorable. What’s her name?” exclaimed Sally.

  Nutjob.

  “Wallace.”

  Sally booked it around the corner with a donut hole. “Can she have a treat?”

  “Knock yourself out,” I said and nearly passed out from shock when Wallace did tricks for the donut hole. She rolled over, barked on cue, and begged.

  “She’s so well-trained,” said Sally. “Can I take her in the back? The owner loves dogs. She’s working on a dog menu right now.”

  “Please do. Take her away.”

  Sally looked over at the few customers in the place. “Do you mind?” she asked.

  Not only did they not mind, they gave Wallace more treats. She was a hit. Sally made me a latte and a cinnamon roll. I deserved that butter. I almost asked for extra butter to slather on the dripping, gooey roll, but I was good and merely asked for whole milk in my latte.

  I turned around and looked for a good spot next to the fireplace. Spidermonkey wasn’t there yet. That never happened since I was always late and Wallace made my chronic lateness worse. I wondered if he gave up and left. His normal spot was filled by an older woman with masses of auburn hair and bright coral lipstick, reading American Podiatry.

  I headed for a plush seat by the window instead. I’d text Spidermonkey and beg for forgiveness.

  Wait. American Podiatry.

  I turn around and saw the woman eyeing me over her magazine. Loretta. Spidermonkey’s wife. I’d never seen her before, but who else would be reading that? She wasn’t what I expected in her bohemian peasant blouse and ripped jeans. Not to mention that she was twenty years younger than Spidermonkey. He never mentioned that.

  She gave me a finger wave and I went over. “Is this seat taken?”

  “Be my guest,” she said in her honeyed South Carolina voice.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked before tearing into my roll.

  She rolled up her magazine and stuffed it in an enormous green boho bag. “Worried?”

  “Yeah. Did he get food poisoning again?”

  Loretta chuckled and pulled out a tablet. “He’s doing our taxes. There might be yelling and gnashing of teeth.”

  “Spidermonkey? I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. He hates taxes.” She tapped her tablet and said, “I have a list to go over with you.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  Her thick eyebrows jolted up. “Really? Did something happen?”

  “Hold on a minute.” I texted Spidermonkey for confirmation that he’d sent Loretta in his stead. He replied with a thumbs-up and “I hate taxes.”

  Loretta watched me with her stylus poised above the tablet. “Is it me, Dr. Loretta, the plump podiatrist?”

  “Spidermonkey says you’re going to retire,” I said.

  She grimaced. “He doesn’t get a say. He told me he retired and opened up shop to do,”—she waved her stylus around—“whatever this is.”

  “Hacking. He’s great at it.”

  “He lied to me for years.”

  “Er…yeah, sorry about that.” I don’t know why I apologized, except that there was an edge in her hazel eyes. I wouldn’t want to cross the plump podiatrist.

  Loretta gave me a hard look and then smiled. “He said I’d like you.”

  You scare me.

/>   “Um…do you have new info for me?” I asked, rolling my cup between my palms.

  “I do. When did you get a pug?”

  “Last night.”

  Her brows made a fuzzy V.

  “My ex-boyfriend stuck me with her. I guess I owe him,” I said.

  “If it was Pete, I’d say you do.” She tapped something on the tablet. “What do you want first, the good news or the bad news?”

  “How bad is the bad news?”

  “It’s a migraine, not a brain tumor.”

  “Alright then.”

  “We just aren’t making the connections we need to make,” said Loretta.

  Spidermonkey hadn’t found any direct financial help to Amelie and Paul or any other member of my family from the Bleds. He thought my Pop Pop’s job came through them, because there was no reason for the company to reach out to Pop pop. Of course, there was Mom’s scholarship to SLU.

  “How did the Bleds know my dad? Or did he meet them through Mom?”

  “We think they must’ve known him before your mother. The trust they placed in him when he went to Europe with Josiah was tremendous and we don’t know exactly when the Bleds met your mother. Certainly, they knew of her her whole life, but there seems to have been no contact until your parents married. You’ll have to get the facts out of your parents or The Girls.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  Loretta shrugged. “That information doesn’t exist anywhere but in their heads.”

  “Swell. What else?”

  In this case, no news wasn’t good news. Spidermonkey and Novak hadn’t been able to find anything on Stella and Nicky’s tour guide, Abel. They’d searched the Bled employment records. No Abels. Of course, there were Abels on the deportation rolls in Germany, Austria, and France, but without a last name it was a fruitless search. They’d found nothing on the Sorkines either. Perhaps Monsieur Masson will have better luck with the train schedules. Not all records were computerized, as Dr. Bloom said.

  “So what’s the good news?” I asked, crossing my fingers that there really was some.

  “Novak found out some information on Stella’s friend, Peiper,” said Loretta.

  “I doubt they were ever friends.”

  “According to Novak’s research, friendship wasn’t something Peiper had to contend with very much.” She slid over a picture of a handsome SS officer smiling into the camera. I could see the pride he had in that black uniform with its lightning bolts and skulls. His face gave me another prickly feeling up my spine.

  “When was this taken?” I asked.

  Loretta checked her tablet. “1937. He was promoted shortly afterward to…I don’t know how to say this word. It has nineteen letters.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Here’s the odd thing. He appears to have been in the SS, but he was loaned out to Göring, the commander of the Luftwaffe.”

  I perked up. “Wasn’t he that crazy art collector?”

  Loretta’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, he was.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “We thought so.”

  “Any idea what he was doing for Göring?”

  “Unfortunately, no. We’re continuing to search, but we did find out what happened to Peiper. At least in part.”

  I winced, picturing Stella’s enemy being promoted to head Auschwitz or something equally horrific.

  Loretta read my mind. “No, it didn’t go well for Helmut Peiper. Himmler stripped him of his rank in ’44 because he was unstable.”

  “Oh, shit.” I clapped my hand over my mouth and Loretta laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ve heard worse. Said worse, in fact.”

  “How crazy do you have to be to have Heinrich Himmler think you’re unstable?”

  “Pretty nuts, I would say, but the paperwork doesn’t give the reason.”

  “Was he kicked out of the SS?”

  “No, just demoted. We haven’t found out what Himmler did with him yet.”

  Loretta checked off some things in her tablet and said, “We’d like you to get a look at Stella’s Tarragon album.”

  “You and me both. I’ve asked, but The Girls always change the subject. They know I’m up to something. I can’t push it or they’ll tell my parents. Dad’ll get Uncle Morty on me.”

  “He can’t infiltrate Spidermonkey or Novak. They’re as good or better.”

  “I agree, but there’s always a trail. He’ll be able to tell someone’s been searching records to do with the family, even if he can’t tell who’s doing it.”

  “Will he?” she asked.

  I nodded and told her about Dr. Bloom’s visit. She texted her husband, then held up her hand and gave me her phone. Spidermonkey was freaking out. Well, freaking out for him. He was quiet and intense. He apologized for not knowing about that first break-in. I wasn’t upset, but he sure was. The rest of the information made him happy. More trails to follow always did that. I thought the second break-in after my great-grandparents’ deaths was either a diversion or some happy opportunist who knew they were dead and the house was easy pickings. He wanted me to give Loretta the police reports and I did. There wasn’t much in them. No fingerprints. No leads. Daniel and Agatha were definitely murdered, but like the investigation into their deaths, the break-ins went nowhere.

  “I almost think…” I trailed off.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That nobody investigated on purpose.”

  “That has occurred to me, too. It was a murder, but nothing happened. The evidence went on a shelf.”

  “My dad wouldn’t do that.”

  “He didn’t know your mother then and it wasn’t his case.”

  “You’d think he’d have done something about it when he found out.”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons.” Spidermonkey had to hang up when their financial advisor showed and I continued with Loretta. I told her about the mystery wedding guests. I still thought it was Florian Witold and his wife. Everyone else were school friends or family.

  “I think I might ask Dr. Bloom about them. He’d know if they had something to do with the resistance.”

  “Hmm…let’s wait until Spidermonkey checks him out,” said Loretta. “Anything else?”

  “There’s this painting of Stella.” I described the painting and The Girls’ reaction to my looking at it.

  Loretta quickly keyed the info into her tablet. “DH8 doesn’t mean anything to me, but the arbutus flower means I love only you. Harry gave me a bouquet of them when he proposed.”

  I grinned. “Harry?”

  The color drained out of Loretta’s face. “I’m not supposed to tell you that.”

  “I don’t know why not. You know who I am.”

  “That’s true, but don’t tell him I let it slip. He says I’m a chatty Kathy.”

  I shrugged. “Fine by me. Don’t forget about the name “Sinclair” on the back of the portrait. If she was in prison, maybe this Sinclair was with her.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Wallace came scampering out from the back, causing a chorus of oohs and ahs. She went from table to table, getting treats before ignoring me and loving up Loretta.

  “She is adorable,” she exclaimed.

  “So they tell me. Want her? I’m going to Sturgis for a few days,” I said.

  “Sturgis? You have hidden depths.”

  I scarfed down the last of my cinnamon roll and said, “I really don’t. It’s a grandad thing. What do you say? Take this adorable pug off my hands?”

  “I can’t,” said Loretta. “Spidermonkey is allergic.”

  I tried to pay Sally to take her, but she had cats. I couldn’t lie to her and say Wallace was good with cats, so I left with the maniac. She yipped and spun around, making a great show of herself in front of the patrons of Café Déjeuner. I didn’t care. My mind was full of murder and Dr. Bloom’s warning.

  As soon as we were out of view, Wallace sprayed my new sandals with an incredible amount of wee. Serves me right for w
orrying about death instead of pugs. I had to get my priorities straight or I’d have no shoes left.

  Chapter Seven

  WALLACE SNIFFED AT the door that lay in my mother’s flower bed in the side garden. I snatched her back just as she decided to claw it and dragged her into the house along with my rolling bag packed for Sturgis.

  “Mom! Your door’s in the garden!” I yelled.

  Mom peeked around the servant stairs. “Shush. You’ll remind him.”

  “Grandad?”

  “Who else?”

  Wallace took a look at Mom and, I assume, saw the resemblance, which made her bark her fool head off. Mom pointed at her. “I have Siamese and I’m not afraid to use them.”

  Wallace squealed and hid behind me. “Nice, Mom.”

  “What are you doing with that dog?”

  “I owe Pete,” I said, dragging a super-reluctant Wallace into the hall.

  Mom’s face softened. “Oh, Pete.” Then she poked me. “You do owe him. You were a terrible girlfriend.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Did you say you were sorry?”

  “This isn’t kindergarten, Mom.”

  “Did you say you were sorry?” she asked again.

  I squeezed past her and went into the kitchen that was somewhat better. Most of the stuff had been put away, but there was still one cabinet on the floor.

  “Mercy!”

  “Yes, Mom. I apologized and now I have this damn dog.”

  She gave my arm a sharp slap.

  “Was that for the damn or Pete?”

  Another slap. “Both.”

  I raised my voice, “So, about that door in the garden.”

  Mom shoved me out of the way of the kitchen door and closed it quietly. “Keep your voice down. Grandad was going to replace it.”

  “It’s an original door. Dad would freak.”

  “That’s why I want you to get him out of here. Ace says we need a security door, metal or something.”

  “That sounds ugly.”

  “It is. Just get him out of here. I have a guy coming to put it back on.”

  “Can’t Morty do it? He’s useful, sort of.”

  Mom scowled. “He’s going to the wineries in Augusta with Nikki and her lady friends.”