by Betty Webb
“For the duration of the war?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t that long. Gunter left Ernst and Josef at the end of March, and Hitler committed suicide in April. The Germans surrendered a few days later.”
I thought for a moment. In those days before holographic drivers licenses and data base background checks, assuming a new identity would have been relatively easy. Especially in the confusion after the war. “So Gunter Hoenig became Gerhardt Mantz.”
“Correct. And that August, Eva Schmidt, my mother, became Mrs. Gerhardt Mantz. He remained on the farm, working with my mother’s parents until they died, and then sold it and bought another one over here, where there’s a decent-sized German community.”
I pointed to the degrees on Mantz’s wall. “I take it he did well in his new life.”
Mantz nodded. “Very well. After a few years, he sold the new farm to a developer and started a construction company. It paid my way through college and dentistry school.” He smiled. “And everyone lived happily ever after.”
“Except for the Bollingers.”
“My father never harmed those people!”
Knowing that Mantz had a vested interest in guarding his father’s reputation, I allowed skepticism to show on my face. “And you believe that because…?”
He rose to the bait. “I believe it because of what he did when he saw Ernst at Gemuetlichkeit. My God, he tried to kill the man with his bare hands! He would have, too, if I hadn’t come along and stopped it. I told you that my father was an honorable man. The Bollinger murders weighed heavily on him through the years.”
Not heavily enough. I remembered Chess Bollinger, lying in a filthy nursing home bed, crying, “Not me, not me, not me,” like a litany, like a prayer. I remembered Chess’ ruined life, his wife’s and daughter’s ruined lives—all because a weak, troubled boy had carried around a burden that should never have been his in the first place.
“You say your father was an honorable man. Then why, if he knew Ernst killed the Bollingers, did he stand by and let Chess, a kid, stand trial for their murders?”
Ian shook his head. “He didn’t know anything about it. Like I told you, his stab wound was infected by the time Mom found him. His condition was pretty iffy for a couple of months, and Mom’s family kept him away from any kind of bad news. By the time he was well enough to read the Sunday newspapers my grandfather always picked up on the way back from church, the trial was over and done with. Chess Bollinger had been found innocent. But before that, in April, Edward R. Murrow broadcast from Buchenwald about the horrors he’d seen there, and the paranoia among German-Americans increased to near-panic levels. Then in November, the Nuremberg trials began and the whole world learned what had happened at places like Auschwitz and Buchenwald.”
Granted, German-Americans—and especially Gunter Hoenig AKA Gerhardt Mantz—were probably frightened, but the way I saw it, fear was no excuse for keeping his mouth shut about murder. I told Ian so.
His answer took me aback. “As soon as Dad found out about the Bollinger trial, he did notify the authorities.”
“What do you mean? You just told me…Listen, I read up on everything that was written about the case. There was no mention anywhere that someone fingered Ernst for the murders.”
“I know, I know. But Dad was an enemy combatant living in enemy territory under a false name. Technically, that made him a spy, and the penalty for spying was death by hanging. Still, Dad did everything he could to bring out the truth without endangering himself and my mother’s family. Remember, they were afraid they’d go to prison for harboring a fugitive. So Dad wrote several anonymous letters to the sheriff and the judge in the case naming the real killer. But no one followed up.”
Of course not. Unsigned letters telling the authorities they’d been dumb enough to accuse the wrong man—or boy, in this case—would have been summarily dismissed. I made a mental note to call Harry Caulfield. He’d been a mere deputy at the time and new to the job, but perhaps rumors of Hoenig’s letters had reached him. Then I remembered the unsigned letter I’d found among Fay’s notes. It bore an August 2002 post mark—the month after Escape Across the Desert hit the shelves. Yet according to Jimmy’s research, Gunter Hoenig had already been dead three years.
I narrowed my eyes at Ian. “They say the apple never falls far from the tree. After your father died, did you continue your father’s letter-writing campaign?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Don’t be silly.” But he flicked his eyes to the photograph of himself and his father out on Lake Pleasant in their speedboat. Liars always give themselves away.
“You father liked boating, right?”
He looked puzzled. “Sure. The whole family does. We have a Chris Craft and a twenty-six-foot Columbia, not that a sailboat’s much good on Lake Pleasant.”
“Did your father ever go boating in Connecticut? Say, around the time Erik Ernst lost his legs in that boating accident?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He rose from his desk and started walking toward the cabinet that housed the daggers, but stopped when he saw my hand slide into my carry-all. With a cold smile, he veered away from the cabinet and opened the office door instead.
“Time for you to leave, Miss Jones.”
***
Since I was already on the west side, I decided to drop by the jail and visit Rada Tesema. He deserved to be filled in on my progress, or lack thereof. But when two corrections officers—one black, one white—led him into the visiting room, my planned conversation went south. He limped, but that was the least of his injuries. One eye was swollen shut, and his upper lip was split, probably because his broken front tooth had exited through it.
“What happened to this man?” I demanded of the guards.
The black guard eased Tesema gently into the chair. “Aryan brothers got him in the lunchroom. Told him to go back to where he came from, that America already has more niggers than it needs.”
“Has the doctor seen him?”
“Yeah,” the white guard said. “Nothing’s broken, except for the tooth. He should be all right in a couple of days, as long as they don’t get to him again. We’re going to do what we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He gave Tesema a comforting pat on the shoulder, then he and the other guard exited the room, leaving me to speak privately with my client.
“Oh, Rada, I’m so sorry.”
His smile looked like it hurt. “I am sorry too, Miss Jones, that I am such a poor fighter. But is okay. The people from synagogue, they are here yesterday. One nice woman, she has son who is dentist. Says he will fix tooth for nothing when I get out. Put on crown. Put one on back tooth, too. They also taking up collection to fly family over. But is a lot of money.”
No kidding. The wife and all those children. “That sounds good. I’m sure you’ll be out of here in no time.” I tried to sound upbeat, but I could hardly convince myself, let alone Rada.
He gave up trying to smile. “Miss Jones, will I see family again?”
“Of course you will. I’ve almost solved the case.” If liars go to Hell, I’d better get myself fitted for a fire-retardant suit.
***
It was six o’clock and almost dark when I arrived back at Desert Investigations to discover that Jimmy was still running background checks. When I told him to go home, he said that he wanted to have everything finished before he left Desert Investigations for Southwest MicroSystems. Which was just days away, I realized. God, what was I going to do?
“No dinner with Esther tonight?”
He shook his head. “She’s picking out furniture.”
Funny. So was I. “Why aren’t you helping?”
I couldn’t tell if the twist his mouth made was meant to be a grin or a grimace. “Esther has very specific tastes.” After a moment’s silence, he added, “But she says I can decorate the den any way I want to as long as it’s that new color in all the magazines. Persian Pink.”
Since Jimmy didn’t seem like a Persian
Pink kind of guy, I said nothing. Then I remembered that my own “new” furniture was due to arrive tomorrow morning. A sofa, two chairs, an end table and a cocktail table. What should I buy next? A kitchen table? Since I always ate my ramen noodles while watching CNN, I’d never owned a table. What kind of table would go with cactus skeleton living-room furniture? Oak? Pecan? Pine? Or maybe I should continue the Fifties theme and get one of those chrome and vinyl sets I’d seen, the kind with pictures of horseshoes and lariats on the plastic seat cushions. And maybe even a Roy Rogers cookie jar to put in the center of it.
Plates, too. I needed crockery! Did they make dishes with spur-and-lariat designs? Excited by the realization that my formerly cold apartment was developing a Fifties Western theme—however childish—I began jotting down everything I would need to build a new Lena nest. Pots and pans (I’d learn to cook), salt and pepper shakers (cactus shapes would be nice), maybe a few rugs (Navajo, of course), and a…
My phone rang and when I picked it up, I heard the Alabama drawl of Eddy Joe Hughey. “My, my, y’all cowboys sure do work late out there.”
He always made me smile. “Not as late as y’all, since y’all have two hours on us. But something tells me you didn’t call to congratulate me on my work ethic.”
“Why, sweetie, I called just to hear your sexy voice.” The drawl lightened as he got down to business. “And to tell you that I found some disturbin’ info on our Mr. Jack Sherwood, AKA Jack Rinn. That Beth Osmon of yours is in for some cryin’ time.”
So I was right. Jack Sherwood had been too good to be true. “Let’s have it.”
“I drove over to Hamilton this morning and talked to the woman who calls herself Mrs. Rinn, a pretty little gal named Alea. Looks somethin’ like my second cousin, once removed. Anyway, after I told her some cock ’n’ bull story about me lookin’ into an inheritance issue on her husband’s side, she was thrilled to tell me all about him. Oh, and there’s no doubt we’re talkin’ ’bout the same ol’ boy. The pictures of Mr. Rinn, musta been a dozen all over her livin’ room, look just like the pictures you faxed me of Mr. Sherwood. So do the kids.”
“The kids?”
“Yeah. Four. The skunk.”
Poor Beth. “Go on. Tell me the rest.”
“I’m not sure Alea’s in on her husband’s little scam. In fact, I tend to think she isn’t, but it looks like Mr. Sherwood/Rinn brings home the bacon by romancin’ rich women all across the country, then, while they’re pickin’ out their trousseaus, he talks them into investin’ in some get-rich-quick scheme of his.”
“Such as shopping centers, right?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s used that one several times. Anyway, once he has his mark’s ‘investment’ money, which can run into the hundreds of thousands, he flies out of town ‘on business’ and is never seen again.”
The way Eddy Joe talked, it sounded like Sherwood/Rinn had been running his scam for some time. “Do you have any idea how many women he’s done this to?”
“Hard to say ’cause he prolly uses a different name each time. Now, I don’t mean any disrespect toward y’all Scottsdalians, but guys like him tend to work transient cities like yours. You know, places where nobody knows nobody else’s daddy and the past is a big, blank slate. Sherwood/Rinn blows into these places with nothin’ but a good suit and a smile, hangs out where the money hangs out, and cozies up to lonely divorcees and widows. He’s slick, I’ll say that for him. I could use some of that charm my own self.”
I didn’t think Eddy Joe was lacking in the charm department, but that was neither here nor there. “Were charges ever filed?”
“Not that I’ve been able to dig up. The boy’s a genius when it comes to knowin’ what woman to pick. It’s always someone who’d rather be dead than let anyone know she’s been played for a sucker.”
Eddy was right when he said that the Sherwood/Rinns of this world were drawn to places like Scottsdale, small but wealthy cities where roots ran shallow. Almost nobody was born here; their birth certificates were on file in places like Minnesota, North Dakota, New Hampshire and Ohio. I’d once read a report which said that the majority of Scottsdale’s citizens had moved here from out of state, and that percentage seemed to be increasing all the time. The city’s physical beauty and mild (except for summer) climate attracted not only people who’d earned the lush life, but also people on the run from old ghosts and failures. Hot on their heels came jackals like Sherwood/Rinn, ready to take advantage of everyone’s vulnerabilities.
“Beth might be different,” I said to Eddy Joe. “She comes from tough pioneer stock, so maybe she’ll be mad enough to file charges.”
“He ask her for money yet?”
I winced. “No.” There was the rub. A man could call himself any damned thing he wanted to as long as there was no fraud involved. And since Sherwood/Rinn hadn’t put the touch on Beth yet—accent on yet—he was in the clear.
“Listen, baby cakes, I’m gonna fax you the newspaper article that ran when Mr. Sherwood/Rinn married Alea. Got a big picture of the happy couple. If that’s not enough for Mrs. Osmon, I can scramble around and get some pictures of him with other women, too. I’m figuring he’s made the society pages in various cities.”
I doubted it. In this jet-friendly age, where the rich all tended to hang out at the same watering holes, Sherwood/Rinn would probably prove camera-shy. “Let’s go with what we have. I’ll call Beth in the morning.”
Eddy Joe sighed. “Yeah, you do that. Too bad I always have to be the bearer of bad tidings. In the meantime, don’t you go thinkin’ all men are skunks just because we’ve trapped one stinker in the barn. Most of us are OK fellas.”
“Thanks for those reassuring words.”
“Keep the faith, Lena. Even a PIs gotta believe in love sometime.”
“I guess.” I hung up, wondering if he’d given me good advice or bad.
***
As I was getting ready to leave for the day, the phone rang again. This time it was Warren, calling from L.A. People were talking in the background. None of them sounded happy, especially not Warren. “I could use you over here in L.A. Maybe you could shoot me a couple of people and resolve this mess.”
“That bad, huh?”
He groaned. “And how. Anyway, I called just to hear a friendly voice and to tell you how much I miss you.”
Miss you? We’d seen each other mere hours earlier.
Before I could formulate an appropriate answer, he said, “The usual formula is for the responding party to answer, ‘I miss you, too.’”
I was going to have to start studying how normal people behaved. “OK. Me, too.”
He laughed. “Lena Jones, you are the most self-contained woman I’ve ever met, which is why I’m so crazy about you. You’re such a change from what I’m used to! But you’re also a terrible liar. Tell you what. As soon as I get things ironed out here I’ll fly back and we’ll have dinner someplace romantic. Then I’ll show you why you should miss me when I’m gone.”
When I laughed, Jimmy made a disgusted noise. I ignored him. “Uh, me too.” Warren and I laughed some more, until Jimmy turned around with an expression his ancestors must have worn when they were hiding behind mesas, waiting for the wagon trains to come by.
That silenced me. “Call when you get back.” With as much dignity as I could muster, I said good-by and hung up.
“You white people are disgusting.” But Jimmy smiled when he said it.
“Yeah, and I’m sure you never are.”
A blush darkened his already dark face. “Touché.” He turned back to his computer.
I checked my watch again. It was still only six-thirty. Figuring that a man his age would be home in the evenings, I called Harry Caulfield, only to be told by his answering machine that he wasn’t in. I left a brief message about my interview with Ian Mantz, and asked if there had ever been any scuttlebutt around the sheriff’s office about anonymous letters accusing Ernst of the Bollinger murders. As I hung up, I noticed Jim
my shutting down his computer.
For once, dinner alone looked bleak. “Say, since Esther’s all tied up, what are you going to do for dinner tonight?”
“Maybe heat up the barbeque leftovers and watch some TV. One of Warren’s old docs is on PBS tonight.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Which one?”
“Native Blood, Foreign Chains. I saw it once and wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”
Maybe I should do the same, leaving out the barbeque. But watching one of Warren’s films tonight would only remind me of his absence. That’s when I realized I was lonely. Maybe my therapist was right, relationships were habit-forming.
Jimmy already had his hand on the door so I stopped him with a shout. “Jimmy! Why don’t we have dinner together? We could walk over to Malee’s on Main for some Chicken Pad Thai. I’ll even pick up the check.”
He paused. “That sounds better than leftovers.”
“And we can talk. Really talk.”
He looked less optimistic about this. “There’s no agenda here, is there? I’m still taking the new job.”
Life always has an agenda, but there was no point in telling the truth. “Of course not. We’ve we’ve both been so busy lately, you with Esther, me with my cases, that we haven’t had time to just be friends again.”
His face relaxed. “Chicken Pad Thai it is.”
***
Malee’s was less crowded than usual because most of the snowbirds had departed for Minnesota and other points north. The aroma of mysterious Asian spices filled the air, untainted by tobacco smoke, and the low murmur of conversation served as a counterpoint to the Thai music that emanated from the restaurant’s sound system. The hostess seated us at a table in back, where a Thai waitress arrived almost immediately to take our orders. As we waited for our food, we sipped creamy Thai tea. Lit only by candlelight, the tribal tattoo on Jimmy’s face looked blacker than ever, and I tried to envision him with it removed. He’d look like a stranger. “So, Jimmy. Other than looking for furniture and houses, how’s Esther doing?”
