Death of a Second Wife

by Maria Hudgins

  “I simply thought the last words Stephanie ever wrote in her life might be of interest to you. I wondered myself whose phone number she’d written down.”

  “The Cook County, Illinois, Bureau of Vital Records. And you must have made a copy of the note before you handed it to me because you called it yourself later that same day. At eleven forty-one, our time.”

  How could he possibly know that? I’d got a recording when I called, so either the Bureau’s answering machine keeps the numbers of after-hours calls or Kronenberg had gotten access to my cell phone records. “If you know this, you must also know what the Cook County Bureau of Records had to tell us. Erin had a problem with her marital status that did, indeed, call a halt to the wedding. Somehow, Stephanie must have suspected this and called Cook County. Erin has even told me Stephanie confronted her that evening. It was to Erin that Stephanie said, ‘If you don’t tell him, I will!’ Do you remember? I told you about that the first time you talked to me, but at the time I guessed she’d been talking to Gisele, not Erin. I was wrong.”

  Kronenberg slouched nonchalantly and threw one arm over the chair’s spindle back. “It’s taken me a long time to straighten out this mess, Mrs. Lamb, but I’ve finally done it. Every resident of the house had a motive for killing either Stephanie or Gisele, and the other could have been killed because she witnessed the murder. So I’ve been following a hundred false leads, examining videotapes that, I now realize, mean nothing. Searching for a bullet casing I’ll never find because the killer has long since disposed of it. Here’s how it happened.”

  He leaned forward and squared his forearms on the table. He glanced toward Seifert and then toward the top of the file cabinet. “You probably came here with the intention of killing Stephanie Lamb. All this one-big-happy-family thing was an act. As soon as you arrived, you started asking Juergen questions about the bunker. What did they keep inside? What sorts of weapons? After dinner, you took a walk, alone, to check out the situation. You walked around the house, walked to the bunker, noticed the bunker door could only be opened by the keypad and you didn’t know the combination.

  “About eleven-thirty, you hear Juergen talking to Stephanie on his mobile phone and they’re discussing wine. Aha! Stephanie must be in the bunker right now because that’s where they store the wine. And then, as luck would have it, Juergen asks you to go to the kitchen, which gives you an excuse to leave the room.”

  Kronenberg paused, pressing his laced hands to his chin. “I doubt you really meant to do it that night. Not so soon after arriving. Look too suspicious. But there it was, your perfect chance. Stephanie is in the bunker with a huge stash of weapons, and all you have to do is run up there and do it. You don’t even have to make up an excuse to get her up there alone. She’s already there. No one can question why she was in the bunker at that time of night because she’s just explained it to her brother while everyone in the living room was listening. Perfect.

  “You run to the kitchen, tell Gisele to make a pot of coffee, dash out the side door, up to the bunker. Was the bunker door standing open? I’ll bet it was. You probably had to talk to Stephanie for a few minutes while you located a suitable weapon . . .”

  “Stop! None of this ever happened!”

  “While discussing the merits of Italian wine, you spotted a handy Glock, already loaded, on the shelf with a number of other guns, grabbed it, grabbed Stephanie. But Stephanie surprises you. She doesn’t want to be killed! You struggle. Stephanie heads for the door. You grab her, she grabs your jacket. One of the buttons pops off. Flies out the door.”

  He signaled to Seifert, standing near the window, his head framed by eyelet curtains. “Where’s that evidence bag with the button?” Seifert pulled a file drawer open, drew out a plastic bag, and handed it to Kronenberg. “We found this less than a meter away from the door to the bunker.” He let me take the bag into my own hands.

  It definitely was my missing button. No doubt about it. Like the buttons still on the jacket, it had a metal shank on the back, and the front was covered with the same tweed material as the jacket itself. “It’s my button all right, but I don’t think it went missing until a couple of days ago.”

  “Are you sure? Can you prove that?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”

  “You can’t prove it, Mrs. Lamb, because it didn’t go missing a couple of days ago,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “We found this button frozen solid in ice. Ice from the snow that fell about four o’clock that morning, then partially melted and froze again. There’s no way this button was put there after the snow.”

  I knew something was wrong with this picture, but I was damned if I could see what.

  Kronenberg returned to his fantasy. “As I was saying, the button flies off but you don’t notice because you have more important things on your mind. You grab Stephanie around the neck, put the Glock to her head and shoot. She falls.

  I swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.

  “You wipe your prints off the gun, press Stephanie’s hand around it, fire again so gunpowder residue will be found on her hand. You fire out the open bunker door and, talk about rotten luck, Gisele is outside. She’s curious about why you went running out the kitchen door like that and has decided to check it out. Your second shot hits Gisele squarely in the heart. Without so much as a sound, she falls to the ground, dead. You look at the floor and see two shell casings. You pick up one of the shell casings, leaving one behind so it will look like suicide. You probably didn’t think it would make any difference which one you picked up. You didn’t know the clip had been loaded with bullets from two different boxes. Same caliber, different brands. You go back to the house and casually take the coffee upstairs. No one suspects a thing.”

  “I imagine you thought about it a long time that night. Juergen came to your room looking for Gisele. That must have caused you a moment of panic, what? I imagine you lay awake for a long time that night, thinking. “Where is Gisele? Could she have seen?”

  “Oh good Lord! Stop! This never happened!”

  “When Gisele’s body is found the next morning, you have to come up with an explanation for that, don’t you? So you make up an overheard argument between Gisele and Stephanie. When I take over the case, you tell me you heard Stephanie yell something like, ‘I know what you’re up to.’ Now it makes more sense that Stephanie would have shot Gisele, panicked when she saw what she’d done, and killed herself.”

  “But Patrick also heard the argument. I didn’t know what Stephanie had said, because it was in German. Patrick translated it for me and told me not to worry about it because it was not our problem. Ask him!”

  “Patrick is your son.” Kronenberg muttered tonelessly. He glanced toward Seifert, then toward the top of the file cabinet.

  I knew it was a signal for Seifert to pick up the arrest warrant already filled out with my name on it. I said, “What do you suppose I did about all the blood that must have been on me? I saw Stephanie’s body that morning. Whoever put that gun to her head must have caught some of the spray.”

  Kronenberg’s eyes gleamed as if to say, “I see. We’re playing hardball now.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, and said, “Your tweed jacket will be tested when we take it to cantonal headquarters. I’m sure you’ve cleaned off the visible stains, but our lab can find blood spatter your eyes can’t see.”

  Seifert moved around behind me, placing himself between the door and me as Kronenberg stood and droned, “Dorothy Lamb, I have here a warrant for your arrest . . .” I didn’t hear the rest because, attempting to stand, I sank to the floor.

  Twenty-Six

  As jail cells go, this one wasn’t bad. The little window had a couple of iron bars, but the eyelet tie-back curtains softened the effect. The bed was reasonably comfortable, the sheets were clean, and the tile floor gleamed. It smelled of lemon soap. I got the feeling this cell was not intended for hardened criminals but rather for the occasional disorderly visitor wh
o, police hoped, wouldn’t go home and tell bad tales about their experience in the LaMotte lock-up.

  I had nothing to read, nothing to occupy my mind but the mess I was in. I had always thought I could handle jail better than most because solitude doesn’t bother me. In fact I enjoy it. Throughout most of my adult life I’ve longed for a place to get away from, Mom, where’s my book bag? Dotsy, what’s for dinner? Can we count on you to be cookie chairman again this year? A cave on a mountain top, that’s what I’d like. Or a jail cell. Meals delivered through a slot in the door by someone who didn’t want to hang around and talk. Always sounded good to me.

  But as soon as that door clanged shut, as soon as I heard the key turn in the lock, I panicked. I can’t get out! If I call out that I’m having a panic attack, that I’m on fire, that I’m having a heart attack, that the room is full of bees and I’m allergic, it will do no good. I can’t get out! I resorted to deep breathing in a lotus position on the floor (fortunately spotless) and closed my eyes until my heart rate tapered off.

  Brian arrived after I’d been there an hour or so. They let him come into the cell with me and locked the door behind him. “I’ve retained a lawyer for you. That is, if you approve of her. Juergen says she’s good. She’ll be coming by to see you shortly, but in the meantime don’t say anything to the police. You know how that goes.”

  I offered him a seat on my bed, but he preferred to stand.

  “Where’s Patrick? And Juergen?” I’d seen the three of them on a bench outside the building when we first pulled up.

  “Juergen is trying to arrange bail for you, but apparently we have to wait until the judge or whoever sets bail. He can’t pay it until they know how much it is.”

  “And Patrick?”

  “I had to get rid of him. He was going ape shit.”

  “How did you get rid of him?” My voice carried no real alarm, in spite of the ominous sound of that statement because I knew Brian would never hurt his brother.

  “I told him Dad needed him back at the house.” He paused and looked at me, blinking back a tear in each eye. He pulled me to him and held me close. “And Dad probably does, in fact. They released him here at the same time they were talking to you up at the house. We passed him coming out of the elevator hut as we were going down.”

  “Did you tell your dad what was happening?”

  “I told him Kronenberg had taken you down in the police car. He’s had time to think about it now, so what do you think, Mom? Is Dad feeling guilty because you busted your buns to track him down and get him released? He can’t do anything to help you, you know. Or is he sitting up there drinking scotch and thanking his lucky stars he’s not where you are?”

  “You mustn’t be so hard on him. Think what he’s been through during the last week.”

  “Oh yes! The poor man inherited millions of dollars. I’d like to go through that myself.”

  “He’s lost his wife, been arrested, and—I wouldn’t be surprised—discovered his son has hired a spy without mentioning it to him.”

  “Do you think he knows?”

  “Probably. Kronenberg knows, and they probably talked about it when Chet turned himself in.”

  I told Brian about the interview, about the jacket button, and about Kronenberg’s theory. I had to explain why I’d asked Juergen so many questions about the bunker, because Brian hadn’t come to the house until the next morning. My curiosity, I told him, came from my interest in World War II and not from any clandestine plans for the bunker’s use.

  He listened, then exhaled disgustedly. “I’ll give the man credit for one thing. He’s got a vivid imagination. Seriously, Mom, Kronenberg is on the spot. He has to solve these murders. It’s all over the news and he hasn’t the foggiest notion who did it. It must’ve blown his mind when that English couple called and alibied Dad. He thought his work was done until they dropped that bombshell on him. Now what?”

  “What about Gisele’s boyfriend, Milo?” I asked. “Has he been cleared?”

  “I don’t know. Did I hear you say he works at the post office?”

  I nodded.

  “I think I’ll have a little talk with him.”

  “Careful, Brian. If Kronenberg hasn’t talked to him yet—although I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t have—you may tip him off. Put him on his guard.”

  “I’ll be careful.” He seated himself beside me on my tiny cot, lay an arm across my shoulders. “Have you thought about Zoltan? Has anyone? Talk about a suspicious character.”

  “What motive would he have?”

  “Maybe he tried to assault Gisele—sexually. Maybe she told Stephanie about it. Zoltan might have felt he had to kill them both to keep his job.”

  “Or avoid going to jail.”

  “You see? Motives are a dime a dozen.”

  “And he was caught red-handed inside the crime scene tape, sneaking in when he didn’t think the police would be looking,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Patrick heard it all. He was inside the van when Kronenberg and Seifert hauled Zoltan in.”

  “Holy crap! And, being a handyman and all, he could have moseyed around the place anytime, day or night, and if anyone asked, he could always say, ‘Just looking for something I lost,’ or something like that.”

  I put my hand on Brian’s knee. “We have to solve this, Brian. You and me. Kronenberg has a perfectly logical scenario of how I committed these murders. It’s wrong, but it makes perfect sense. He has my jacket, he has my jacket button. Someone has given him a statement, out of context, that I made at dinner—someone is walking on my grave. He thinks I was referring to Stephanie, but I wasn’t. I just had a chill. He finds something ominous in the fact that I made a copy of Stephanie’s phone pad notes before I turned them over to him, and he thinks I made up the argument Patrick and I overheard.” I squeezed Brian’s knee and stood up. “And Lord knows I had motive. Actually I didn’t, but anyone outside our family would think I did.”

  “Anyone who knows you would know you didn’t.”

  “Now. Back to that phone pad note. I think it’s the key to everything, Brian. While everyone is focusing on us, we’re forgetting about Johannesburg, and gold and silver, and gliders doing reconnaissance over our house at all hours, and Anton Spektor, who may or may not wear red Italian shoes.”

  Brian gave me his best incredulous look.

  I laughed. “How long will they let you stay with me? Let’s put our heads together.”

  * * * * *

  My next visitor was Lettie. She brought me a bundle of fresh clothes in a plastic bag. “I did your laundry for you.” She dropped the bag and looked at me, tears already streaming down her face. I hugged her to me and let her cry until my shoulder was wet.

  “I’m okay, Lettie. Really I am. They’re quite nice here and look! As jail cells go, this is great. Nice and clean. Plus, they seem to be lenient about visitors.”

  “You’re not okay. You’re charged with two counts of murder.”

  “Have you seen Patrick?”

  “I had to slip him a mickey.”

  “You what?”

  “He was so upset, he was shaking. You know how he gets. He was talking crazy, and I got concerned. I didn’t know what he might do, so I gave him a caffeine-free Coke with two sleeping pills in it.”

  “Lettie! That’s dangerous!”

  “No it isn’t. I’ve done it myself plenty of times.”

  “No you haven’t! When did you ever put two sleeping pills in a caffeine-free Coke and drink it?” That stumped her. I asked her about Chet and told her all I could remember about the interview leading up to my arrest.

  “By the way,” she said when my tale was done, “where is your pink cashmere sweater?”

  “In the dresser. Second drawer from the top.”

  “No, it isn’t. Right before I left the house, Kronenberg came in with a warrant that gave him permission to take several things and the first thing on the list was your pink cashmere sweater. I l
ooked in all the dresser drawers, but it wasn’t there. They turned our room upside down looking for it. You should see the mess! But it isn’t there. Could it have gotten mixed up with your laundry? Maybe slipped down behind the washer?”

  “I’d never put cashmere in the washer.”

  “Well, where is it? Kronenberg looked at me like he thinks I hid it.”

  “I’ll have to think about it, but if I figure it out I don’t think I’ll like the answer.”

  The young man who had locked me in here and who had brought each of my visitors clanked in with one more—my lawyer. She introduced herself and nodded to Lettie in a dismissive sort of way. Lettie took the hint and left.

  First, the lawyer explained why I’d have to stay here a while: I was charged with two counts of murder, I was not a Swiss citizen, and if I left the country they’d have a devil of a time extraditing me back. “Juergen Merz is working to get you released on bail, but if we can arrange it at all, trust me, it won’t be low. It will be astronomical. But Herr Merz can afford it, can’t he?”

  “Let’s talk about the charges,” I said.

  For the next hour, we went over everything I could think of to tell her and everything she could think of to ask. Meanwhile, my dinner arrived on a tray with regular silverware and—I had to laugh—a linen napkin. My lawyer seemed like a nice enough woman, about forty, small and trim. Her English was flawless and Juergen knew her. I decided if she was willing to take my case, I was willing to let her. She lectured me on the three legs in a murder case—means, motive, and opportunity—and the fact that the police had all three, in spades. The hard evidence was thin, she said, and mostly circumstantial. The button, my jacket (yet to be tested for blood spatter) and now, my missing pink cashmere sweater. She hadn’t heard about that yet. When I told her what Lettie had just told me, she looked at me hard and then wrote some notes. The police might or might not have found my hair or fingerprints inside the bunker, but if so, they meant nothing since everyone knew I was the first on the scene that morning.