by A W Hartoin
I started working my way through the attic in search of a bedroom suite Myrtle was sure was up there.
Stevie stuck his head under a sheet and asked, “Why are we up here?”
“I told you. Furniture.”
“Furniture for who?”
“Me. New apartment.”
“I remember.”
No, you don’t.
“How about you write your questions for the doctor?” I asked.
“That’s no fun.” He pulled off the sheet and revealed a cracked full-length mirror in the Craftsman style. “You want this?”
“I wonder where that came from. The Bleds don’t like Craftsman.”
“Servant furniture?” he asked, and I gave him a second look.
“Maybe. That’s a totally reasonable idea.”
“I can have good ideas, ya know,” said Stevie. I must’ve looked incredibly doubtful because he said with a big grin, “I just can’t remember them.”
“Dufus.”
“At least I never ate my own foot,” he said.
“Not much of a claim to fame, but yes, you are not a foot eater. Now, we’re looking for an Art Nouveau bedroom suite. Fancy and expensive.”
“What’s it doing up here?” Stevie ducked behind a precarious pile of crates full of old records. I always meant to go through those. Probably some great stuff in there.
“The Girls’ parents got it for their wedding, but they didn’t like Art Nouveau, only Art Deco.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but it sounds nice.”
I pulled a sheet off a group of boxes on top of a couple of steamer trunks. Who knew what was in there? Could be a mummy for all anyone knew.
“How come they don’t just give you your furniture?” Stevie asked.
“My furniture?”
“You got a bedroom here, don’t you?”
“I do, but it’s not my furniture,” I said.
“Whose is it?” he asked.
“It’s part of the Bled Collection.” I couldn’t resist. I took down a crate of records and started going through it. Original Sinatras. Early recordings.
“I thought that was art and crap.”
“And furniture. That furniture anyway. It’s the only set in the collection.”
Stevie opened a trunk and pulled a feather boa out. “Who are they collecting it for? You?”
“No. They’re not actively collecting it. It was already collected during the war by Stella Bled Lawrence.”
Stevie put on a top hat. “What do you think? Steven Tyler?”
I grinned at him. “Very Aerosmith.”
“So what are they doing with the collection if they’re not giving it to you?”
“Do you remember that picture of me on the grave downstairs?” I asked.
“Yeah. That was weird.”
“It’s about the collection. The Girls are trying to find the owners of the pieces. Graveyards hold clues, family names and stuff.”
“So, they’re trying to find the owner of your bedroom set. That stuff’s old. Are they alive?”
“No, I’m sure they’re dead,” I said, thinking of the names so neatly printed on the label under my bed. Two parents. Four children. Gone.
“What happened to them?”
“The Holocaust happened to them.” I got another crate down and found to my joy a crate of Billie Holiday albums. “Do you like Billie Holiday? I think this crate has every one of her albums. I wonder why they put them up here.”
Stevie didn’t answer and I looked up from Billie to find him gazing off into space. That wasn’t unusual, but his expression was. Sad. Stevie was never sad. My mom always said he had a happy soul despite everything he did to himself.
“What?”
“What you said about my grandparents, was that true?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said.
“Is some of their stuff in the Bled Collection?” he asked.
“No.” I explained about Stella and how she smuggled people’s art, jewelry, and precious possessions out of Germany, France, and other countries. We were trying to find the relatives of those people so we could give the belongings back.
“How did you find out about my grandma?” he asked.
“Start writing down your questions and I’ll tell you.” A little bribery goes a long way and Stevie sat down on a rocking chair missing a spindle and poised a pen over the little notepad. He didn’t write much, but he did give the appearance of listening.
I told him how Stella’s father went to Switzerland after the war and got Constanza out of hospital after she left Auschwitz. Then I showed him the pictures on my phone of Big Steve’s mother that he had and the one we’d found from Bickford House in England. Then I told him how Constanza sold some belongings in 1947 and that was how she funded her life in America.
“That’s it?” he asked. “That’s all you know about her?”
“We’re working on it,” I said. “Are you upset?”
“I think so. I don’t know. It’s weird. Like all the sudden I have a family I didn’t know about. Dad doesn’t talk about them. He never says anything about when he was a kid.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
He nodded. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
“You know this is your grandmother.” I showed him the picture on my phone again and Stevie frowned.
“What?” I asked.
“She seems kinda familiar, but I never saw that picture before. Maybe I did and I don’t remember. I don’t know.” He went off and quietly began looking through the attic, lost in his thoughts. I went back to looking for the bedroom set. After an hour, I came up with a dresser and a side table, definitely Art Nouveau, all flowing lines with flowers and inlaid glass. Stevie made his list of questions that were completely unreadable and found five trunks of random uniforms. They could’ve been dress uniforms or maybe some weird elevator operator wore them. I had no idea.
“Did you see these paintings?” he called out from the far corner next to the left conservatory. I’d never made it that far in my childhood explorations.
“What is it?”
“Paintings.”
“Really?”
“Is that collection stuff up here?”
“I don’t think so.” I climbed over boxes of old dishes and squeezed past a collection of spinning wheels to find Stevie standing in front of a stack of canvases of all sizes. Some were taller than both of us and a few were the size of Stevie’s hand, but only a couple were finished. They were rather beautiful in their way, flowers intertwined with nudes or nudes as part of a building. Then there was a child in some, a tiny little hand here or a newborn’s smile there. Some of the paintings gave off an angry and isolated feeling. Others were gorgeous with passion and adoration. A man’s face was repeated several times, but his features were muted like they were a distant memory that couldn’t quite be accessed.
“Are they any good?” Stevie asked.
“I don’t know. I think so. Kind of,” I said. “They aren’t by anyone I recognize, but I’m not an art historian.”
“Do you know any art historians?”
“I do actually.” I took pictures of the finished canvases and Stevie pointed out the corner of the biggest canvas. It’d been slashed and stabbed. It might’ve been signed there, but the signature was gone.
“I like these,” said Stevie.
“Me, too. Why do you like them?”
“I can’t stop looking at them.”
“That’s as good a reason as any.”
Stevie cocked his head to the side. “Pick’s coming.”
Sure enough. Toenails clicking away. I was used to hearing that sound, but for some reason, I got a feeling, a bad feeling. Something was about to be a pain in my butt. I covered the canvases with a sheet and turned to face whatever was coming up the attic stairs.
Chapter Three
I knew who it was before they got to the top of the stairs. The c
reaking gave it away. My cousin Tiny Plaskett made stairs suffer like no one else. At six six and three hundred pounds, a small man he was not. Tiny was also one of my favorite people but not on that day.
Tiny’s footsteps slowed and he emerged only to the point that I could see his dark eyes over a box of dress patterns. I stared at him and he at me. Not a good sign.
“So you coming up or what?”
“Yeah.” Tiny watched me for a second and then sighed before trudging up the final few stairs.
“Hey,” called out Stevie. “Did you come to help?”
“Get real,” I said. “My dad sent him or forced him to come is more like.”
Tiny smoothed his tie and glanced away. Yep. I was dead on.
“How do you know?” Stevie asked.
“Look at that handsome face. He does not want to be here,” I said. “Spill it, Gigantor.”
Tiny crossed his arms and his biceps bulged so much I feared for his seams. “So now I’m a robot.”
“I meant that you’re huge and fighting crime.”
Tiny wrinkled his nose. “I forgive you.”
“Swell. Will I be forgiving you?” I asked.
“Don’t kill the messenger.”
“So that’s a no.” I crossed my arms and my cousin came into the attic. He began looking around, stalling.
“Go ahead,” I said. “What does he want?”
“Who?” Stevie asked.
“My dad.”
“Oh, yeah. Ya know, I used to think your dad was better than mine.”
“What do you think now?” I asked.
“It depends on what you got to do,” said Stevie.”
I turned to Tiny, who’d discovered the Sinatra albums. “Just tell me.”
“He wants you at the house,” said Tiny.
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“Is my mother there?”
Tiny grimaced and said, “She’s at her speech therapy with Tenne.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said. “So what is it? Tailing a suspect? Pointless paperwork? Find the dingbat lover of an idiot husband?”
“None of the above,” he said. “It’s an interview.”
“So that’s a hard no. Tell my loving father to stick it.”
“I’m not gonna do that. Come on, Mercy. Just go. You know you’re gonna go.”
“Give me one good reason I should do it,” I said.
“You’ll make my life easier.”
“Low blow.”
He grinned at me. “Thanks.”
“Still not going.”
“Alright. I’m authorized to carry you, drag you, whatever I got to do.”
“Are you kidding?” I asked.
“Nope. You’re goin’.”
“Tell me what it’s about then. I deserve that at least.”
Tiny considered it and I was pretty sure Dad had told him not to tell me, which didn’t bode well. Dad knew me. It was something I was not going to agree to.
“He’s got a couple of FBI agents over there,” he said.
I relaxed. “Is that all?”
“That ain’t all.”
“Gordan and Gansa? The rookies?”
“New agents,” said Tiny.
“From the Kansas investigation?” I asked.
“Kinda.”
“Just tell me. I’m going to find out.”
Tiny bit his generous lower lip.
“How about this? I’m definitely not going if you don’t tell me what I’m walking into without my mom’s backup. I’m supposed to be resting. That’s why I’m not in Germany right now,” I said.
Tiny bowed to the inevitable and told me that two female agents were parked in my parents’ kitchen. They were from the Behavioral Science crew and were there to interview me, but the way Tiny described them, it sounded more like they wanted to study me. I knew from experience that whenever anyone wanted to find out how I did what I did, it wasn’t a compliment to my skill. It was an investigation into how a moron like me got lucky.
“Why would I want to do this?” I asked.
Tiny shrugged his broad shoulders. “It’s for the family.”
“Not you, too.” I pointed at Stevie. “That’s for the family. I’m already on family stuff.”
Stevie stared at us blankly. “Huh? What?”
“Tommy said you wouldn’t go if he asked you,” said Tiny.
“No kidding,” I said. “He might be over the FBI’s bullshit when Mom was attacked, but I’m not. They can bite my butt. I knew he was up to something with that whole ‘Relax, Mercy,’ ‘Take it easy, baby girl’ and I still fell for it. I’m the idiot in this attic.”
Stevie did a fist pump. “Yes. It’s not me.”
Tiny and I rolled our eyes in unison. We might be distant cousins, but we were a lot alike. Dad should’ve known Tiny would tell me what was up. Deep down, my cousin was on my side no matter who signed the paycheck.
“What are you doing with Stevie?” Tiny asked.
“I’m getting him straightened out before his mother sees him and hey, hey, hey I’ve got to take him to the doctor so darn it all, I can’t go see the FBI agents. So sorry. Buh-bye.”
“Don’t make me haul your little ass over there,” said Tiny.
“Little?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a liar, but I like you,” I said.
“Who wants a small ass?” he asked.
“I’d like to try it out and by the way, you have not won me over. I do have to go to the doctor with Stevie.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Tiny eyed my charge as he opened a trunk and put a woman’s gold turban on top of the top hat and added another boa to the collection around his neck.
“ADD for starters,” I said.
“I was thinking traumatic brain injury,” said Tiny.
“It’s on the menu. We’ll see.”
We looked back at Stevie just in time to see him lick a crusty silver fork.
“That’s ADD?”
“I have my doubts,” I said.
Tiny went over and whipped the hats off Stevie’s head. “Stop that. You look crazy.”
“I’m not crazy and my head is cold,” said Stevie.
“What the hell happened to the back of your head?” Tiny asked.
“I got a tattoo.”
“On the back of your head the day you got out of prison?”
“It was a swastika. Now it’s flowers.”
Tiny looked at me and I shrugged. “That was my day yesterday and you still want me to do the FBI thing?”
“You got to.”
“You want to take that to the doctor and explain the head?” I asked.
Tiny looked at the rafters. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
“You get paid plenty. You make a hell of a lot more than me and you’re the new head of stuff and things.”
“I’ll put that on my card. Department head. Stuff and Things.”
“Seriously, the Head of Genetic Research and Related Crime is a big deal,” I said.
“And I like it. That genealogy stuff is fascinating.”
Tiny had been thrown into the quagmire of DNA during the Thooft investigation when we found out about the baby adoption scam that a certain doctor had going in St. Sebastian. We were overrun by people wanting to know who they really were and where they came from. Dad put Tiny in charge and he was working fourteen-hour days, working his way through birth certificates, DNA profiles, and family trees, but he’d found a passion for it.
“Aunt Willasteen is very proud of you,” I said. Willasteen was Tiny’s imperious aunt and the only person as scary as my Aunt Miriam. Those two weren’t related, but they seemed like they were.
“You told her?” Tiny asked.
“She told me.”
“How’d she know?”
“How does she know anything? She’s Willasteen.”
“Good point. Do we have a deal?” Tiny asked.
“You’
re going to take Stevie to the doctor? Really?”
Tiny heaved a huge sigh that sounded like enormous fireplace bellows. “Why not? I can work while I’m there.” He checked his phone. “I’ve got thirty-two emails to return and sixteen phone calls.”
“Holy crap. I’d rather deal with the agents.”
He shooed me to the stairs. “Good. Get ’er done.”
I gave him the doctor’s details and told him, “Just so you know I’m not doing what those agents want.”
“I know,” he said with a chuckle. “And I told Tommy that. But he doesn’t believe me. He thinks he can get you in a tight spot.”
“I’m great at getting out of tight spots.”
My cousin grinned at me. “Yes, you are. Watch out, Tommy. Mercy’s gonna bring it.”
I was and I did.
I went in the front door of my parents’ house, avoiding the side alley. I still wasn’t recovered from Mom’s attack that happened there. My therapist said it would fade with time and it was but not fast enough. For now, it was safer to go in the front.
“Tiny!” Dad yelled from the back of the house. “You got her?”
“I’ve got myself!” I yelled back and tossed my coat on the bench in the receiving room before I strolled back to the kitchen. I didn’t have a plan. When do I ever? But I didn’t need one. I wasn’t doing it. Period.
Sitting at the kitchen table were two women, looking both snotty and irritated. I guess waiting wasn’t their usual thing. Or maybe it was waiting for me that was the problem. I did have a rep for being difficult. Well deserved, I’m happy to say.