Mother Dear

by Nova Lee Maier

  Mikey saw them first and emitted a shriek.

  Ralf instantly understood. “There’s your fucking three thousand euros,” he panted. He crawled away through the shards of glass toward his gun, which had been knocked from his hand and was lying by the wall, underneath the radiator.

  Naomi got there first. Holding the butterfly knife between her thumb and her index finger, like it was something dirty, she pushed the window open and threw it outside. Then she snatched up the gun.

  “Give it to me,” Ralf said.

  She shook her head, gripping the pistol clumsily with both hands.

  “Don’t point it at me—are you crazy? It’s loaded!”

  She glared at him. “I thought you were nice, Ralf Venema, but you’re just as big a sicko as the rest of them.”

  Mikey was frantically gathering up the packages of cocaine behind Ralf. Occasionally, he glanced at Ralf and Naomi, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned by their presence, or by the gun. He was counting under his breath, stopping now and then to wipe the blood from his face, and stuffing the packages into his pockets.

  11

  “It’s so wonderful here!” Helen wanted to spread her arms wide and run in circles. It had been a long time since she had felt so light, so free.

  She had taken off her shoes and was running with Werner across the expansive beach. The fine shingle crunched under their feet. The wind was up, but it was warm for the time of year, and the fall sun flooded the entire coastline with a yellow glow. Helen held her arm up to her forehead and looked at the colorful amusements lining the esplanade—the Ferris wheel, the fairground rides, the ice-cream and candy stalls—and the stately Victorian buildings that formed a gleaming white backdrop. For a moment, it felt like they had landed not just in a different country but in a different dimension.

  Werner came and stood next to her. “Come on; let’s take a photo.” He pulled his phone out of his inside pocket and put his arm around her.

  She looked at him with pleasant surprise. Werner wasn’t a fan of photos. He viewed the selfie trend as an affliction—a sign that half the world was suffering from a form of viral narcissism.

  “Say ‘cheese’!” he shouted.

  The wind swept back Werner’s hair, exposing a slight widow’s peak. Helen’s was hidden under a scarf.

  They smiled at the camera.

  “Well?”

  Helen cupped her hand over the screen. The device had captured two ecstatically happy people; she and Werner both looked years younger. Even the sky looked bluer in the photo. “It almost looks real,” she joked.

  He frowned. “What do you mean? It is real.”

  “Oh, lighten up. I was kidding!”

  He held the phone in his hand as if weighing it. Then his thumb raced back and forth over the keypad. He sent the photo to his mother.

  Helen saw him type:

  Brighton is glorious. We’re having the time of our lives. It’s very windy, though Is everything OK at home? Werner

  He put his phone away. “Shall we head downtown? See if it’s changed much?”

  They walked back. The wind tugged at their clothes, and Werner had his arm over her shoulders.

  She didn’t know if it was the weather, the fairy-tale surroundings, or Werner’s cheerful mood, but she hadn’t felt such an intense connection with him in a very long time. Who knew? Maybe this would work out; maybe they really would find each other again.

  12

  Ralf felt himself slowly growing calmer. Occasional shudders continued to run through his limbs. His throat was raw, and there was a dull pain in his side from when he had fallen onto the table, but his head felt clear and calm. It was over; he no longer had to worry about money or about Naomi.

  Mikey had his coke.

  And Naomi was sitting next to him in the car, her fingers knitted together on her lap.

  “What did you do to him back there?” asked Ralf.

  “I punched him in the balls.”

  “You’re a real—” He raised his hand and shook his head.

  “It was a reflex. I have two older brothers, remember.”

  He gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, I know. It was still pretty dumb, though.”

  She was putting on a brave face, Ralf could see. But it was all fake. Behind the bluffing was a good deal of fear and uncertainty. He could see it in her eyes, in the faint movements she was making, in the minuscule twitch by her mouth. She had been scared to death, and it would take her a good while to get over it.

  And it was all his fault.

  “Well.” She sighed and placed her fingers on the door handle. “I should go.”

  “Naomi—”

  She turned her magnificent eyes on him. They were the most beautiful he had ever seen, but now they were red and puffy from crying.

  He licked his thumb and wiped a trail of mascara from under her eye. “What will you tell your parents?”

  “Nothing.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Nothing?”

  “I’ll tell them I had a fight with Sara or something. They’d never let me leave the house again if they knew what happened. Seriously. They’re superprotective. And my brothers are even worse.”

  “They’ve got a point.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully and slowly shook her head. “It’s insane. What you did back there . . . Seriously, man, a gun . . . That was totally—”

  “Shh.” He held her face, moved his own closer to hers. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I mean it, Naomi. I’m so ashamed of myself. Go home, OK? Go back to your parents and your brothers and your little sister. Keep your distance from me. Keep away from boys like me and Brian. You deserve better.”

  She bit her lower lip. He saw tears well up in her eyes again. “I don’t know what I should do.”

  “Just do what I say,” he said sternly. Then he kissed her gently on the mouth. Her lips parted in response, but he pulled his head back and gave her a friendly peck on the top of her head. “I mean it. And I’ll be watching. If I ever see you around town with a son of a bitch like me, I swear I’ll kick his kneecaps in.”

  “So romantic,” she said cynically.

  “Go on, get going.”

  Hesitantly, she opened the door and got out. He watched her go. She turned around at the corner, and her hair wafted behind her, speckled with gold.

  He stepped on the gas and drove off without looking back.

  At the intersection, he turned right. Back toward Brian’s building. He had seen something in his room that didn’t quite seem right. The packages of coke weren’t the only things that had emerged from the base of the coffee table. Ralf had also seen an envelope with sheets of handwritten paper sticking out of it. If he wasn’t mistaken, there had been photos too. Initially, he’d paid little attention. But the more he thought about it, the more mysterious it seemed. Why would Brian hide an envelope full of notes and photos in his room? An envelope bearing the logo of the Horn of Plenty?

  13

  Brighton had changed. Helen was almost certain the Ferris wheel hadn’t been there last time. The esplanade seemed busier, noisier; but up here in the city center, there were still the same narrow, bustling streets packed with small theaters, galleries, and cafés.

  Werner and Helen had ensconced themselves on a glassed-in terrace. They were surrounded by tourists speaking all manner of languages—everything but English. Helen heard a young couple speaking German, and behind them sat a group of girls who probably came from Sweden. A street musician was singing on the promenade and accompanying himself on a guitar.

  Helen lifted her face toward the sun and closed her eyes. It was unseasonably warm—and yet she struggled to enjoy it as much as she should. Her smile gradually faded from her face. A treacherous voice kept whispering in the back of her mind, ever louder and more insistently, until she was unable to ignore it any longer.

  “What’s up?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about that boy. Do you
know what his name was? He used to work for you, didn’t he?”

  Werner took a swig of his beer. He said nothing, merely fixed her with a reproachful look.

  “I don’t have any right to ask, of course. I know that. But—”

  “I’ll say it one more time: you need to let this go.”

  Helen took a sip of her wine. And then another. It smelled of rotten grapes, and the taste wasn’t much better, but the alcohol rising out of the glass was welcome.

  “It didn’t happen,” he said, as if talking to himself. A mantra. “It simply didn’t happen.”

  “I can’t think like that.”

  “It’s not a question of trying. You have to just do it. Flip the switch.”

  “I know that’s how it works with you, but is it really so strange that I want to talk about it? Who else am I supposed to discuss it with?”

  He looked at her in silence, almost pained. Sometimes she didn’t understand him at all.

  She leaned toward him and put her hand on his wrist. “What we’ve done, Werner—we can’t share it with anybody else. Never. You’re my partner. Don’t shut me out.”

  14

  Brian’s room still looked the same as an hour ago. Fragments of glass lay all over the floor. They sparkled against the synthetic carpet and crunched under Ralf’s sneakers. The white envelope lay half-concealed under a black panel, with sheets of paper protruding from it that were covered in blue handwriting. Photos too. Something that looked like a map. Ralf sat down on Brian’s bed and shook the contents out of the envelope. The map was a printout from the internet. It took a moment for him to realize that it was the district where Sara lived. Close to the edge of the neighborhood, next to one of the main roads, was an X. The number “23” had been scribbled next to it. Ralf cocked his head and rotated the map slightly. There was no mistaking it: Sara’s parents’ house.

  Next, he picked up the notes. On a sheet of square-ruled notepaper stood a list of abbreviations. The letters W, H, S, T, and E seemed clear enough to him: Werner, Helen, Sara, Thom, and Emma. Next to these were times—all in the evening—and yet more abbreviations. TC must be tennis club; those letters were written next to Thom and Emma. Ralf pursed his lips. Brian had used this sheet of paper to plan the robbery. It described where the members of the family would be that evening, and when.

  Another sheet of paper, written on in pencil, described the route that he and Brian had taken: along the embankment where he had parked the Polo, over the wall and past the swimming pool. It was all planned out. Ralf grabbed the photos from the bed. There were two, both of Helen Möhring. One of them was a passport photo, enlarged and printed on glossy paper. The other had been taken at the Möhrings’ home: a full-length image of Helen in jeans and a white blouse. She was standing in the kitchen, raising a glass and smiling at the camera. Ralf furrowed his brow and held his fist to his lips. He studied the images carefully, turning them over, but there was no other information. What was Brian doing with photos of Sara’s mother? He felt his heart throbbing in his throat. This was weird. Really weird. He looked inside the envelope, but it was empty. Then he gathered together all the notes, spread them out over the bed, and set about deciphering them with renewed interest.

  Inside 7:30 p.m., up to B -> find P

  B, he thought. Bram, Brigitte, Bastiaan? Or Brian himself? And then P. Who was P? The second sentence was easier to work out:

  Tie up + hit W, wait for H (about 8:00 p.m.), H 2 shots (chest)—Done!

  Ralf forgot to breathe. Did it really say what he thought it said? He read through the sentences again and recalled how Brian had cursed Werner from behind the shrubbery before entering the house. Werner had fled upstairs, and Brian had followed. Ralf rubbed his neck. Werner’s face had looked beaten up for a few days after the robbery. Tie up and hit Werner. So these cryptic fragments amounted to a plan? In other words, Brian had tied Werner up and beaten him, and then waited for Helen Möhring. Two shots in the chest . . .

  She was supposed to die.

  He shook his head, his mouth slightly ajar. He could hardly believe it. Brian hadn’t entered the house to rob Werner Möhring. It was merely intended to look like a robbery that had gotten out of hand with the husband bound and roughed up, the woman killed.

  But it wasn’t a robbery.

  It was a cold-blooded murder, planned in detail.

  Ralf recalled the moments leading up to the robbery—the things Brian had said and done. He had been extremely jumpy and had fortified himself with a good deal of blow—much more than usual. He’d been snorting coke all day, in fact, having already started using in Ralf’s shed that afternoon. Maybe because he was about to do something he didn’t want to do? Something he needed to suppress his emotions for?

  Ralf chewed on his thumbnail. Had this been Brian’s idea, or had he been hired to do it? But by whom? And what about the five thousand euros Brian had expected to make from the robbery—had that actually been his fee for the murder? Or had Brian simply made it up to persuade Ralf to be his chauffeur?

  Ralf’s head spun. He looked at the photos of Helen—a woman he barely knew, but whom he had liked from the moment he met her. She was unaware of any danger. Smiling trustingly at the camera.

  “You were supposed to die,” whispered Ralf. “But you didn’t. Brian did.”

  15

  “Bye-bye, Brighton,” said Helen softly.

  They left the coast behind them and drove north, heading inland. On their way out of the city, they had driven down streets lined with small antiques shops, fashion boutiques, and stores selling Asian goods. It was so different from home, where the shopping streets all looked the same in every town and every village.

  “Are we coming back to Brighton tomorrow? Or maybe on our last day?”

  “You don’t want to go shopping, do you?”

  “Just quickly. To buy something nice for the kids.”

  “No way.” He laid his hand on her knee. “It’s a waste of time. We’re only here for two nights.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You can always buy something on the ferry.”

  Helen recalled the shop on the boat. It mainly sold perfume, liquor, and tourist trash. Not an amazing selection, but he was right—they were here for such a short time, and if she did go shopping, they would easily lose half a day.

  Reaching for her bag, she noticed that the zipper was open. Strange—she was normally very careful about that. She opened it farther and peered inside. That was lucky: her wallet was still there. The only thing she didn’t see was her phone. She searched the main compartment, opened the zippers on the side, and felt around with the flat of her hand. To the left. To the right. No phone.

  “Huh?” she said out loud. Had she left it at the café? No, she was positive she’d put it in her bag.

  “What’s up?”

  “I can’t find my phone.” She took her jacket from the back seat and searched the pockets. Empty. “It’s definitely gone, Werner.”

  16

  A gentle rain had begun to fall. The drops fell onto the weed-choked parking lot outside Brian’s place. Ralf pulled up the collar of his jacket and hurried over to his car. He wondered who had put Brian up to it. Who wanted Helen Möhring dead?

  Sara hated her father, but he’d never heard her say anything negative about her mother. So, what reason could she have for getting her ex-boyfriend to—no. It made no sense. On the other hand, the image of Brian’s mother was still fresh in his memory: intimately entwined with Werner as they left the Horn of Plenty. Was she behind this? Maybe she was tired of playing second fiddle and thought it was her turn to live in a house with a swimming pool. Had Emily encouraged her son to eliminate her rival? Ralf gnawed on his cheek, slowing his pace. Or did the two of them cook this up together? He didn’t know Emily well, but she seemed like a spiritual type with her Buddhas, her cats, and her incense. He couldn’t see her coming up with a murder plot on her own. Then again, he had never imagined Brian would be willing to
murder somebody for money. A mother of three children, at that.

  The heartless piece of shit.

  Maybe Emily knew nothing about any of this, and Brian had planned and executed the whole thing himself out of love for his mother—or more likely, because he thought he would be better off himself with a wealthy stepfather like Werner.

  But in that case, how had Brian come by all this information? By staking out the Möhrings’ house for weeks on end? No. That wasn’t his style.

  As Ralf got into his car, he realized with a flash that Brian hadn’t had a pistol with him. The gun he’d been carrying was fake. A replica.

  Ralf plopped down behind the wheel, pulled the envelope out from under his jacket, and took another look at the notes.

  Inside 7:30 p.m., up to B -> find P

  Go inside at half past seven. Head up to the bedroom. Find pistol. That was it: the gun he was supposed to use to shoot Helen had been waiting for him in the bedroom. That meant there had to be a second person involved. Somebody who had access to the house, and who had either offered him help or put him up to it. Or both.

  Ralf suddenly felt cold, as if ice water were flowing through his veins. It couldn’t be Emily. That left only Sara and Werner. Werner had a girlfriend, and thus a motive. He wanted to share his life with Emily, so he had to get the current Mrs. Möhring out of the way. That would definitely save him a hefty chunk of alimony, what with those restaurants of his. But then why hadn’t he let Brian finish the job? He’d ended up protecting his wife and killing Brian. Ralf stared at the paper. The letters danced before his eyes as he strove to understand what it all meant. Sara could have planted a gun. She could have provided Brian with all this information. But what was her motive? He was missing something. Ralf held his face in his hands and thought carefully. Sara was a money-grubber; maybe she wanted to raid her inheritance. But then both her parents, not just her mother, would have to die. Is this part of a bigger plan? Is this . . . step one?