by A W Hartoin
Chuck pointed to the page. “The Father thought maybe fifteen.”
“Fifteen and nearly beating a Catholic priest to death. I don’t know what to do with that,” I said. “You don’t have anything on him?”
“I have never come across him other than that one interrogation. But I do have this.” She passed me photocopy of some sort of Nazi document. It had a swastika at the top and everything. I had a little German, but all I could make out was that it transferred Helmet Peiper to Hermann Göring.
“October 1938,” I said.
“Yes. Peiper was to answer to Göring for the duration of the project,” said Dr. Bock.
“What project?” asked Millicent.
“I have nothing on that, but I do have this.” She slid over another document. “It authorizes all necessary travel expenses for Peiper and his assistant.”
“Gerhard Müller,” said Chuck. “No rank.”
“A civilian, like the boy Father Gröber described,” said Dr. Bock. “It could be the same person or perhaps not.”
“You haven’t researched him?” I asked, looking at the date. January 10, 1939.
“I had no reason to.”
“Can you tell us anything else about the portrait?” I asked.
“The clothes and hat Stella is wearing are consistent with prisoners at that time,” said Dr. Bock.
I looked at the portrait. We were on to something, but Father Gröber wasn’t a link to the portrait. “Why would she be wearing that stuff?”
“Excuse me?” asked Dr. Bock.
“The House Prison wasn’t a long-term facility, right?”
“No. What are you getting at?”
Chuck kicked back and hooked his fingers behind his head. “I get it. That’s a picture of a long-term prisoner, not a nanny who got held for a few days. She’d have her own clothes. While we’re at it, her hair is brown, not strawberry blonde.”
Dr. Bock threw up her hands. “I have wasted your time. I apologize.”
“Not at all,” said Millicent.
“Your information is fascinating and I’m certain the young woman Father Gröber met was Stella,” said Myrtle.
“I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps I can find more on the flower and date.”
Millicent rose from the table. “Perhaps you can. So you don’t feel your efforts are wasted, perhaps you’d like to see our Klimt.”
Dr. Bock jumped up. “I would be honored. Dr. Broszat will be quite jealous.”
“We also have an Olère, that you might be interested in,” said Myrtle.
“I’d love to see them both and I will do my best to find out if Stella was in a long-term camp.”
The Girls left the room, smiling and chatting about Klimt.
“That was good,” said Chuck. “Spidermonkey will be all over that Gerhard Müller.”
Joy came in with a bucket of cleaning supplies and a sly smile. “Hello, Mercy. Chuck.”
“Hi, Joy,” I said. “We’ll get out of your way.”
“And go upstairs,” she said, still smiling.
“Upstairs?”
“Your room.” She took out a feather duster and flitted it at us. “Good things come to those who wait.”
“What are you up to?” I asked.
“It’s what you’ve been up to. Now go upstairs.” Joy began dusting the dust-free room.
Chuck took my hand and we went through the house, passing The Girls and Dr. Bock in the library. Millicent saw us and blew me a kiss. Not in trouble, I guess, but I had a feeling something was about to happen.
We dashed up the long curving staircase past paintings, etchings, and photos. The Bled family was interspersed among the masterpieces and miniatures. Snapshots of Stella as a bride, Myrtle cuddling baby Lawton, and Josiah in uniform. And I was there. Me sitting on the edge of Baudelaire’s tomb, gnawing on a chocolate babka with ratty pigtails, no more than two. Me on the wall with the Bled family. I ran up those stairs, suddenly aware of how much I wanted to be one of them, not only the cherished goddaughter, but a real Bled. Now that would be beyond special. Josiah would be my uncle, too. Stella, my cousin.
The door to my room was open, warm light spilling into the hall. I stopped short and said, “What do you think it is?”
Chuck turned and took me in his arms, kissing me like he hadn’t since New Orleans. His heat flooded me and I lost track of where we were and what we were supposed to be doing. Lips on mine. Lips on my earlobe and neck.
“I don’t care,” whispered Chuck. “If it comes from The Girls, it will be wonderful, like you.”
“I do love you,” I said.
“Not as much as I love you.”
“Not true.”
“It is,” he said. “I don’t mind.”
“But—”
He gave me another toe-curling kiss and said, “Let’s see what they’ve left for you.”
“Us,” I said, leading him in the bedroom. I didn’t see it at first. The bed was turned down and new set of silk pajamas were laid across the plump pillows. It was the red that finally caught my eye. I ran to the bed and saw the last thing I expected. Stella’s book. The hand-stitched leather scrapbook embossed with the word Tarragon was just as I remembered from the one time I was allowed to see it in the bank vault. What had Millicent said? Something about my needing the knowledge it contained.
I didn’t pick it up. I did as my godmothers intended. I put on the pajamas and slid under the covers. They always said the best place to read a good book was cozy in bed. Chuck kicked off his shoes and we cuddled up together with the book between us.
I opened the heavy cover and saw the photo I remembered so well. It was of Stella at a garden party in Newport, New York. She was leaning precariously over a ledge to sniff a riot of blossoms just out of reach. In the background was Nicky, her future husband, with an expression of dazzled awe on his handsome face. The photographer had managed to catch the first moment Nicky ever laid eyes on Stella. The moment when multitudes of lives would change forever. Nicky wasn’t supposed to be at that party, a ladies-only tea at his mother’s cottage, but, on a whim, he’d driven up from New York to give her a birthday present a week early. If he hadn’t, he never would’ve seen Stella. She was supposed to leave for St. Louis the following morning. A whim can change the world.
“Are you ready?” asked Chuck.
I kissed his cheek. “Turn the page.”
The End
A.W. Hartoin grew up in rural Missouri, but her grandmother lived in the Central West End area of St. Louis. The CWE fascinated her with its enormous houses, every one unique. She was sure there was a story behind each ornate door. Going to Grandma’s house was a treat and an adventure. As the only grandchild around for many years, A.W. spent her visits exploring the many rooms with their many secrets. That’s how Mercy Watts and the fairies of Whipplethorn came to be.
As an adult, A.W. Hartoin decided she needed a whole lot more life experience if she was going to write good characters so she joined the Air Force. It was the best education she could’ve hoped for. She met her husband and traveled the world, living in Alaska, Italy, and Germany before settling in Colorado where she now lives with her family, a Great Dane, a skanky cat, and six bad chickens.
Also By A.W. Hartoin*
Young Adult fantasy
Flare-up (An Away From Whipplethorn Short)
A Fairy's Guide To Disaster (Away From Whipplethorn Book One)
Fierce Creatures (Away From Whipplethorn Book Two)
A Monster’s Paradise (Away From Whipplethorn Book Three)
A Wicked Chill (Away From Whipplethorn Book Four)
To the Eternal (Away From Whipplethorn Book Five)
Away From Whipplethorn Box Set (Books 1-3, plus bonus short)
Mercy Watts Mysteries
Novels
A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book One)
Diver Down (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Two)
Double Black Diamond (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Three)
Drop Dead Red (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Four)
In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Five)
The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Six)
My Bad Grandad (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Seven)
Brain Trust (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Eight)
Mercy Watts Mysteries Book Set (Books 1-3, plus bonus short)
Short stories
Coke with a Twist
Touch and Go
Nowhere Fast
Dry Spell
A Sin and a Shame
Paranormal
It Started with a Whisper (Sons of Witches
