by Nele Neuhaus
Robert Watkowiak turned toward the spa park and walked past the Villa Borgnis in the direction of the town hall. For a while now, he’d been using the abandoned house next to the lotto shop as an occasional place to crash. The owner put up with his presence and didn’t say a word. Sure, it was full of dust and filth, but it had electricity and the toilet and shower worked—better by far than sleeping under a bridge.
With a sigh, he sank onto the mattress in the top-floor room, pulled off his shoes, and fished a can of beer out of his backpack. He finished it off in a few gulps, giving a loud burp. Then he reached into his backpack again and smiled as his fingers touched the cool metal. The old man hadn’t noticed that he’d stolen it. The pistol had to be worth a fortune. Genuine weapons from World War II were traded for insane prices. And there were freaks who would gladly fork over double or triple the price for guns that had actually been used to kill someone. Robert took out the pistol and studied it thoughtfully. He simply hadn’t been able to resist. Somehow he had the feeling that things were slowly going to improve for him. Tomorrow, he could cash the checks. And go to the dentist. Or the day after. Tonight, he was going to stop by the Brake Light one more time. Maybe that guy would be there who dealt in military shit.
* * *
In Fischbach, Bodenstein turned right at the intersection and took the B455 toward Eppstein. He’d decided to talk to Vera Kaltensee right away, before his boss could stop him with some tactical excuse. As he drove, he thought about the woman, who was undoubtedly one of the foremost personalities in the region and whose presence enhanced any occasion. Vera Kaltensee had been born baroness of Zeydlitz-Lauenburg. With only a suitcase in one hand and a baby on her arm, she had fled from East Prussia to the West. There, she had soon married the Hofheim entrepreneur Eugen Kaltensee, and together they had built the Kaltensee Machine Factory into a worldwide concern. After the death of her husband, she had taken over running the business and at the same time was tirelessly engaged in various charitable organizations. As a generous donor and fund-raiser, she had garnered the very highest esteem, and not only in Germany. Through the Eugen Kaltensee Foundation, she promoted the arts and cultural events and worked for the preservation of the environment and historical sites. She also supported the needy with numerous social projects, most of which she herself had initiated.
The “Mühlenhof,” as the grand residence of the Kaltensees was called, was tucked away in the valley between Eppstein and Lorsbach. It lay behind thick hedges and a high black iron fence with golden spikes on top. Bodenstein turned into the drive; the double entrance gate stood wide open. In the rear area of the parklike grounds stood the manor house, and to its left was the historic mill.
“Oh! I’m jealous,” Pia exclaimed at the sight of the deep green lawns, perfectly clipped bushes, and carefully designed flower beds. “How do they get it to look like this?”
“With an army of gardeners,” Bodenstein replied drily. “And I don’t think any critters are allowed to run across the grass.”
Pia grinned at this allusion. At her home in Birkenhof, some animal was always where it wasn’t supposed to be: the dogs in the duck pond, the horses in the garden, the ducks and geese on a reconnaissance mission through the house. The last time her chickens had escaped, Pia had spent a whole afternoon removing the greenish deposits they’d left in all the rooms. Good thing that Christoph wasn’t very finicky about things like that.
Bodenstein parked the car near the steps of the manor house. As they got out and looked around, a man came around the corner of the building. He had gray hair and melancholy Saint Bernard eyes in a long, narrow face. Obviously, this was the gardener, because he was wearing green overalls and held rose clippers in his hand.
“May I help you?” He eyed them suspiciously. Bodenstein pulled out his police ID.
“We’re from the criminal police in Hofheim and would like to speak with Mrs. Kaltensee.”
“I see.” He took his time fumbling with a pair of reading glasses, which he had retrieved from the breast pocket of his overalls, and carefully studied Bodenstein’s identification. A polite smile then suffused his face. “The craziest things happen if I don’t close the gate immediately. A lot of people think this is a hotel or a golf club.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Pia, glancing at the beds of blooming shrubs and rosebushes and the artistic boxwood topiary. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Do you like it?” The man was clearly flattered.
“Oh yes!” Pia nodded. “Do you do all the work yourself?”
“My son helps out occasionally,” he admitted modestly, although he was enjoying Pia’s attention.
“Tell me, where can we find Mrs. Kaltensee?” Bodenstein interjected before his colleague got involved in a technical discussion of lawn fertilizer or the care of roses.
“Oh, of course.” The man gave an apologetic smile. “I’ll tell her you’re here. What did you say your name was?”
Bodenstein handed the gardener his business card, and the man left, heading for the front door.
“Compared to the grounds, the house seems rather shabby,” said Pia. From up close, the building didn’t look quite as manorlike and magnificent as it had from a distance. The blotchy plaster was in disrepair and had started to flake off; in many places, the brickwork was visible.
“The house isn’t as significant historically as the rest of the structures here,” Bodenstein explained. The estate is best known for the mill, which was mentioned in documents in the thirteenth century, if I remember correctly. Until the early twentieth century, it belonged to the Stolberg-Werningerode family, who also owned the Eppstein Fortress, until they donated it to the city of Eppstein in 1929. A cousin of the Wernigerodes married a daughter from the house of Zeydlitz, and that’s how the estate came into the possession of the Kaltensees.”
Pia stared at her boss in amazement.
“What is it?” he asked.
“How do you know all that? And what do the Wernige what’s their names and Zeydlitz have to do with the Kaltensees?”
“Vera Kaltensee was born into the Zeydlitz-Lauenburg family,” Bodenstein informed his colleague. “I’d forgotten to tell you that. The rest is common knowledge if you know anything about local history.”
“Ah, naturally.” Pia nodded. “Among the blue bloods, you probably learn that sort of fundamental detail by heart, along with the Gotha directory of German nobility.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice?” Bodenstein asked with a grin.
“Good Lord, no!” Pia raised both hands. “Ah, the mistress herself will soon come rushing to greet us. How should I address her? With a formal curtsy?”
“You’re impossible, Ms. Kirchhoff.”
* * *
Marleen Ritter, née Kaltensee, looked at the simple gold band on the ring finger of her right hand and smiled. She still felt dizzy from the swift tempo of the enormous positive changes that had occurred in her life over the past weeks and months. After the divorce from Marco, she had been convinced that she’d live alone for the rest of her days. She’d inherited her stocky figure from her father; a more important deterrent for any potential suitor was the amputated lower part of one leg. But not for Thomas Ritter! He had known her since childhood and had lived through the whole drama with her: the forbidden liaison with Robert, the serious accident, the horrible crash that had shaken the whole family to the core. Thomas had visited her in the hospital and driven her to doctor’s appointments and to physical therapy when her parents didn’t have the time. He had always found consoling and encouraging words to say to the unhappy fat girl she had become. Yes, she had undoubtedly fallen in love with him back then.
When she had run into him last November, it had seemed to her like a sign from God. He had not looked good, almost appearing a bit down-at-the-heels, but he had been as obliging and charming as ever. He had never said a single bad word about her Omi, although he would have had every reason to hate her. Marleen did
n’t know exactly what had led to the break between Thomas and her grandmother after eighteen years. In the family, there were only whispered speculations about what might have been the cause, but it hurt her a great deal, because Thomas was a special man. It was because of her grandmother and her connections that he no longer had the ghost of a chance of finding a decent job in Frankfurt that was worthy of his talents.
Why hadn’t he simply left town and tried to start over somewhere else? Instead, he’d kept his head above water through his efforts as a freelance journalist. His tiny apartment in Frankfurt-Niederrad was a depressing hole. She had urged him to move in with her, but he told her he didn’t want to be beholden to her. She was very moved by that. She didn’t care that Thomas hardly owned more than the shirt on his back. It wasn’t his fault. She loved him from the bottom of her heart; she loved being with him, sleeping with him. And she was looking forward to the baby they were going to have. Marleen had no doubts that she would manage to bring about a reconciliation between Thomas and her grandmother. After all, Vera had never denied her anything. Her cell phone rang with the special ringtone reserved for Thomas. He called her at least ten times a day to ask how she was doing.
“How are you, sweetheart?” he asked. “What are you two up to?”
Marleen smiled at the allusion to the baby in her belly.
“We’re lazing around on the couch,” she replied. “I’m reading a little. What are you doing?”
A newspaper city room never closed, not even on holidays. Thomas had volunteered to go in on May Day to help out his colleagues, who wanted time off to be with their families and kids. Marleen found it typical of Thomas. He was always so considerate and unselfish.
“I still have to wait for two things that are pending.” He sighed. “I’m really sorry I had to leave you alone all day today, but at least I’ll have the weekend off.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m doing fine.”
They talked for a while longer, and then Thomas had to go. Marleen looked blissfully at the ring on her finger. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and thought about how much happiness she’d had with this man.
* * *
Dr. Vera Kaltensee was waiting for them in the entry hall, an elegant woman with snow-white hair and alert light blue eyes in a suntanned face, in which a long life had etched a network of deep furrows. She stood ramrod-straight, and the only concession to her age was a cane with a silver knob.
“Come in.” Her smile was sincere, and her deep voice quavered a bit. “My dear Moormann told me that you’d like to speak with me about an important matter.”
“Yes, that’s right.” Bodenstein held out his hand and returned her smile. “Oliver von Bodenstein, from Kripo Hofheim. My colleague, Pia Kirchhoff.”
“So you’re the talented son-in-law of my dear friend Gabriela,” she said, scrutinizing him. “She always speaks of you with the greatest respect. I hope my present on the birth of your little daughter met with approval?”
“But of course. Thank you so much.” For the life of him, Bodenstein couldn’t recall any present from Vera Kaltensee when Sophia was born, but he assumed that Cosima had acknowledged it appropriately with a thank-you note.
“Good day, Ms. Kirchhoff,” Dr. Vera Kaltensee said, turning to Pia and taking her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
She leaned forward a bit.
“I’ve never met such a pretty policewoman. What lovely blue eyes you have, my dear!”
Pia, who usually reacted suspiciously to such compliments, actually felt flattered and gave an embarrassed laugh. She’d expected to be looked down on by this prominent and extremely rich woman, or ignored entirely. So she was pleasantly surprised at how normal and unpretentious Vera Kaltensee seemed.
“But please do come in.” The old lady took Pia’s arm as though they were old friends and led her into a salon whose walls were covered with Flemish tapestries. In front of the massive marble fireplace stood three easy chairs and a coffee table, which, in spite of their plain appearance, were probably worth more than all the furniture Pia had at Birkenhof. Vera Kaltensee showed her to an easy chair.
“Please have a seat,” she said kindly. “May I offer you coffee or some refreshment?”
Bodenstein declined politely. “No thanks.” It was easier to announce a person’s death while standing than while drinking a cup of coffee.
“All right, then. What brings you here? It’s not a purely courtesy call, I suppose?” Vera Kaltensee was still smiling, but an anxious look appeared in her eyes.
“Unfortunately, no,” Bodenstein admitted.
The smile vanished from the old woman’s face. All at once, she seemed helpless, in a touching sort of way. She sat down in one of the easy chairs and stared at Bodenstein expectantly, like a schoolgirl looking up at her teacher.
“This morning, we were called to the scene where the body of Herrmann Schneider had been found. In his house, we found indications that he knew you; that’s why we’re here.”
“Goodness gracious,” Vera Kaltensee whispered in shock, her face as pale as chalk. She dropped her cane, and the fingers of her right hand closed around the medallion on her necklace. “How did he … I mean … what … what happened?”
“He was shot to death in his house.” Bodenstein picked up the cane and tried to hand it to her, but she ignored his gesture. “We presume that it was the same perpetrator who killed David Goldberg.”
“Oh no.” Vera Kaltensee stifled a sigh and pressed a hand to her mouth. Tears came to her eyes and ran down her wrinkled cheeks. Pia gave her boss a reproachful look, to which he responded by briefly raising his eyebrows. She knelt down in front of Vera Kaltensee and put her hand sympathetically on the old woman’s.
“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “Shall I get you a glass of water?”
Vera Kaltensee struggled to compose herself and smiled through her tears.
“Thank you, my dear,” she whispered. “That would be very kind of you. There’s probably a carafe over there on the sideboard.”
Pia got up. She found various spirits and upside-down glasses on the sideboard. Vera Kaltensee smiled gratefully when Pia handed her a glass of water, and she took a sip.
“May we ask you a few questions, or would you rather we postpone it to some other time?” Pia asked.
“No, no. It’s all … Now is fine.” Vera Kaltensee conjured an apple blossom white handkerchief from the pocket of her knit cashmere jacket, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose. “It’s just such a shock to get news like this. Herrmann is … I mean, he was … such a good, close friend of our family for so many years. And for him to die in such a dreadful way…”
Again her eyes filled with tears.
“In Mr. Schneider’s house, we found an invitation to your birthday party,” said Pia. “And there were also regular payments from KMF to his account in a Swiss bank.”
Vera Kaltensee nodded. She had composed herself now and spoke in a soft yet firm voice.
“Herrmann was an old friend of my late husband,” she explained. “After he retired, he was a consultant to our Swiss subsidiary, KMF Suisse. Herrmann was previously a financial officer, so his knowledge and advice were quite valuable.”
“What do you know about Mr. Schneider and his past?” Bodenstein asked. He was still holding the cane in his hand.
“Professional or private?”
“Both, preferably. We’re looking for someone who had a reason to kill Mr. Schneider.”
“I really have no idea.” Vera Kaltensee shook her head emphatically. “He was such a sweet man. After his wife died, he lived all alone in that house of his, although his health was not good. But he refused to move to a retirement home.”
Pia could imagine why. There he couldn’t have watched the old Nazi newsreels or hung an autographed photo of Adolf Hitler on the wall. But she said nothing.
“How long have you known Mr. Schneider?”
“A long time. As I said, he was a
very good friend of Eugen, my late husband.”
“Did he also know Mr. Goldberg?”
“Yes, of course.” Vera Kaltensee seemed a bit annoyed. “Why do you ask?”
“We found the same number at both crime scenes,” said Bodenstein. “One one six four five. It was written in the victims’ blood and might indicate some connection between the two crimes.”
Vera Kaltensee did not reply immediately. Her hands gripped the armrests of her chair. For a fraction of a second, an expression flitted across her face that surprised Pia.
“One one six four five?” the old woman repeated pensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before Bodenstein could say anything, a man came into the salon. He was tall and thin, almost gaunt. With his suit, silk scarf, three-day growth of beard, and shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair, he looked like an aging actor. In amazement, he looked from Bodenstein to Pia and finally at Vera. Pia was sure she knew him from somewhere.
“I didn’t know you had visitors, Mother,” he said, and made as if to leave. “Please excuse the interruption.”
“Don’t go!” Vera Kaltensee’s voice was sharp, but she was smiling when she turned to Bodenstein and Pia. “This is Elard, my eldest son. He lives here with me.”
