by Sue Star
They were all suspects in her mind, but she would’ve seen any of them enter Ozturk Bey’s shop before hitting her.
Fact: the only ones who were there besides herself, Priscilla, and the two shopkeepers were Yaziz... And Hayati.
She started at the beginning and rehashed all that she knew. Although, where was the beginning? When Umit was murdered, holding her letter to Rainer? Or much earlier... When Rainer went away to war, causing her to write the letter. Perhaps when Mitzi ran away from home and ended up joining the USO... Which led to her meeting Henry... And Anna’s being here...
She wasn’t sure if it was a fact, but one thing was certain: that Turkish detective—Yaziz—seemed utterly incompetent. He would never unravel this mystery, and even if he did, she suspected he wouldn’t share the information with her.
She would have to find the answers herself.
She would also have to find some suitable cocktail attire. Cora had been right to suspect that Anna didn’t own any. Anna had attended a few receptions before, but never a real cocktail party. She didn’t think her Sunday dresses would be appropriate for tonight, and she remembered that Mitzi had invited her to borrow what she might need.
She was getting nowhere with her reasoning abililties, and so she pushed her questions to the back of her mind and headed down the hall to Mitzi’s bedroom. Her hand hesitated on the cool brass of the doorknob. Everything she’d ever thought before was now wrong. Turned upside down, inside out. Her mind spun, and she couldn’t sort out truth from lies, fact from fiction.
Rainer.
She turned the knob and stepped inside her sister’s bedroom. Drawn blinds darkened the room and lowered the temperature several degrees from the rest of the stuffy house. She shivered, but it wasn’t that cool in here. Something about this room gave her an uncertain feeling, echoing and defining a hollow spot inside her. The room felt so...empty. As if it had once been alive but now had gone dormant in the absence of its owners.
But Mitzi and Henry were coming back!
Anna gave herself a shake and stepped with resolve across the throw rugs toward the closet, situated on the opposite side of the room beside the balcony door.
Inside, clothes filled the narrow space. Mitzi’s dresses occupied more than half the length of the closet, while Henry’s suits took up the rest. Anna wondered how it was possible that they owned this much clothing, and more. Besides these clothes, they’d taken enough with them for a three-month trip.
Anna riffled through the dresses, sliding them apart to examine them better. They were much too flamboyant in their bright colors, or too frivolous with lace and ruffles, for her taste. She was about to give up her search and choose one of her own sensible Sunday linens when she found a possibility. Tucked between two frilly taffeta dresses was a simple, black chiffon.
She pulled it out of the closet, brushing at some lint, and managed to knock one of Henry’s suits off its hanger. Reaching for the gray pinstripe jacket, she noticed a tiny scrap of paper on the floor. It must’ve fallen from a pocket.
She picked it up. It was one of Mitzi’s calling cards. Beneath her printed name, Mrs. Henry Burkhardt, a note was scrawled by hand. Anna recognized Henry’s chicken scratch scribbling.
Saturday @ 10
An appointment. Last Saturday? If so, it was the day before Anna had arrived.
Although, it could’ve been any Saturday in the past. She wondered why Henry had used Mitzi’s card instead of one of his own. Was it an appointment for him, or for Mitzi?
It probably didn’t matter.
And it was none of her concern.
Anna tucked Mitzi’s card back into Henry’s jacket pocket and hung the suit in the closet. Mitzi must own a clothes brush that would take care of the lint on the black chiffon. Anna’s gaze wandered to the shelf above the hangers, but there were no small items like a brush. Round hatboxes in bold, blue and white stripes, tied up with ribbons, lined the shelf.
Borrow what you want, Mitzi had said. Except...
Except, what?
I don’t care. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Anna assumed her sister was being overly dramatic. Having been a USO entertainer, Mitzi had always had a flair for drama. Still, Anna couldn’t get the calling card with Henry’s appointment out of her head.
If what Yaziz suggested was true—that the Burkhardts’ itinerary was fake—then Mitzi and Henry were deceiving her about something. Intentionally? What were they up to? Not that Anna necessarily believed the Turkish detective, but what was true was that nothing in her life was normal anymore.
Anna reached for one of the hatboxes, but her hand jerked back. They were closed. Tied up. And that made them private. They could be the “except” that Mitzi had mentioned. Privacy was something Anna valued above all.
Anyway, she didn’t need a hat with a cocktail dress. Looking in Mitzi’s firmly closed hatboxes would constitute snooping. Her sister was entitled to privacy.
No, Anna couldn’t, wouldn’t touch them.
* * * * *
The Wingates’ backyard later that night looked like a fairyland of Chinese lanterns hanging from the treetops. Turkish servers moved about the lawn in their crisp, white jackets. Crystal and china tinkled together, and the smell of grilling shish kebab filled the air.
Anna didn’t feel much in the mood for a party.
Someone bumped her elbow. “Here you are!” It was Cora, singing the words in a slurred fashion. “I saw Prissy running off to Tommy’s clubhouse, and I knew you had to be here somewhere.” She pushed a martini glass into Anna’s hand, then nodded at the children’s slip-shod assortment of plywood sheets that pretended to be a rocketship tonight.
“What’re you doing over here by yourself?” Waving her drink hand, Cora seemed oblivious to the way she sprayed both of them. “C’mon and join the party. I’ll introduce you around.”
So this was how Mitzi passed her time abroad, Anna thought, following Cora back across the lawn. They approached a small cluster of guests, and she only recognized two of them. Their host, Paul Wingate, looked deep in thought, and his assistant at the embassy, Fran Lafferty, looked bored. A cigarette in a meerschaum holder drooped from her mouth. Neither of them paid attention to the conversation of the group.
“Everyone,” Cora said, “I want you to meet our new arrival, Anna Riddle.”
The woman who’d apparently bored Paul and Fran paused her chatter and waggled white gloves, clutched in her fingers. A strand of hair curled around a beauty spot at the side of her mouth.
Then someone shifted from his hidden position behind Fran’s shoulder, a man dressed in a white suit. Hayati!
Amusement sparkled from his carefree manner as he stepped out from behind Fran. His face beamed and his gaze ran appreciatively up and down Anna’s length, leaving shivers along her spine. She drew her shawl tighter about the low cut of Mitzi’s black chiffon.
“Of course you already know Paul,” Cora continued, “and here we have Eve Matheson, Fran Lafferty, Hayati Something-or-Other, and Major Matheson. He’s from JUSMAT, not the embassy. I know, it’s confusing.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Anna said.
“And over there,” Cora said, pointing out a nearby group with heads lowered over someone on a chaise longue, “we have Viktor Baliko and his wife Tonya, who’re here recently from Hungary. That redheaded man with them is Don Davis, the kids’ teacher this year. A bachelor.” Cora rolled her eyes and elbowed Anna. “Yoo-hoo, Donnnnie! Oh dear, he’s not paying a bit of attention to me. Well, don’t worry, dear, I’ll find a way to fix you two up. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about.”
Eve Matheson flicked her gloves and said, “Did y’all cross by ship or air?”
“I came alone, and I didn’t have enough advanced warning for anything besides a plane.”
Fran tutted, then spoke in a husky voice. “Too bad you had to rush. Ships are much more civilized.”
“You’re quite right, Fran, but...” Eve blathered o
n about the speed and efficiency of modern prop planes in general and Pan American specifically.
Cora cut into Eve’s rambling praise. “Anna’s come here all the way from Colorado to take care of little Prissy while Mitzi and Henry are on their safari. It was all very last-minute, rush-rush, you know.”
The soft undercurrent of nearby conversation suddenly died. Ice cubes clinked over a low hum of ahhhs. Unknown faces peered at Anna, watching her. Always watching. She shivered, despite the warm breeze that rustled through leaves.
Cora leaned close. Her breath carried the sharp smell of alcohol as she whispered loudly enough for all to hear. “Miss Lafferty is here on her own, too. Single, like you.”
“Divorcee, she means,” said Fran, whisking the cigarette from her mouth.
Anna felt a charge ripple through the group from Fran’s bold pronouncement. Times were changing fast, but divorces were still not discussed openly. No more than Anna had been accustomed to talking about her lost fiancé.
Now all that was changing. Like the times.
“I’ve never been married,” Anna said softly, taking a sip of her drink. She nearly spat the liquid fire back into her glass. It was all she could do to keep from choking.
“A technicality.” Fran’s lips twitched with amusement in what might be a smile.
Major Matheson, a hefty man in a crisp military uniform, looked ill at ease as he spoke up. “How are you getting along so far, here in Ankara?”
Anna started to answer, but Fran beat her to it. “She’s already required the use of our diplomatic services.” The cigarette holder dangled from Fran’s lips and gave her words a tired sound.
“We heard they arrested you,” Eve said. The lock of hair kept bothering her mouth.
Heat rose to Anna’s neck. “No, they didn’t—”
“Everything’s fixed,” Cora said. “We have Paul to thank for that.”
“Thank Hayati, you mean,” said Fran, smirking at the quiet man beside her. “He’s the one who made most of the arrangements. Paul is just the one who gets the credit.”
Hayati stepped forward and took Anna’s hand. “It was a pleasure.” His chocolate eyes glittered under the light from the lanterns.
Surprise charged through Anna, as he continued holding her hand longer than felt comfortable. Not more than an hour ago, in her room, she’d put his name on her short list of suspects. Just because he’d been there. But she didn’t believe it. He was too caring to be guilty of such violence. She slipped her hand from his grasp.
Eve and Cora tittered together.
Fran chuckled. “Aren’t you just fed up with how stuffy our conventions can be? We don’t have to act like twits.”
Silence fell over the group. Then Cora let out a shrill cry. “Oh, that Fran! What a joker she is!”
Everyone’s attention turned to Anna with expectancy. Anna cleared her throat and summoned the steady voice she’d had to use in the classroom when a few ornery students tried to rile her.
“What I mean to do,” Anna said softly, smoothly, “is to take Turkish lessons. Perhaps you could advise me on finding a place?” She returned Hayati’s gaze with equal intensity.
“Turkish lessons?” Eve shrieked. “What on earth for?”
“I suppose she wants to learn the language,” Fran said, blowing a smoke ring.
Cora scoffed. “You don’t have to do that. Everyone you’ll ever want to talk to speaks English, anyway.”
Hayati beamed with pleasure. “Yes, I know a place where they help you learn.”
“That language is way too hard for us to learn,” said Eve. “For us adults, that is. The children pick up anything and everything.”
“Let the Turks learn English,” Cora said. “Viktor did, and he’s not even Turkish. He picked it up real fast. They have to, you know. Besides, we have interpreters.”
Fran rolled her eyes toward Paul. “Who are available for our personnel, not our dependents.”
Cora waved her wrist, fortunately not the one that controlled her martini. “Oh, la-dee-da. I’m sure special arrangements can be made for certain dependents in times of need.”
“I intend to learn it myself,” Anna said. They could stunt their minds if they wished, but not her. “If I start with language, then perhaps I’ll pick up bits of information from the local newspapers.”
Paul snorted. “You won’t find anything there. They don’t use newspapers for news the way we do. The Press Law has made reporters too afraid to print anything but propaganda. They only print what the party wants the public to know.”
Hayati shifted his stance and glanced around at the other partiers, as if looking for escape. Fran’s gaze darted back and forth between Paul and Anna, and her eyes glinted with amusement. Cora tottered away to her other guests.
“This country is a democracy,” Anna said, “thanks to Atatürk. How can the people allow suppression of information to happen?”
“Technically, we’re a republic,” Hayati said, then coughed. “The Democrat Party is in office, that’s all. They’re not the party of Atatürk, and they’re not democratic as you know it in the States.”
“It happens,” Paul said, “because you don’t say anything negative here. Atatürk himself set that law in place. So for instance, you can’t even report news about the worsening economy. They call this place Yokistan, the land of not. It’ll be interesting to see what happens in the upcoming elections next spring. We’ll see if the Democrats remain in power or not.”
Eve wagged her finger at Paul and gave a dramatic yawn. “Blah, blah, blah. Politics are so boring.” She turned to Anna. “You must come to our bridge club, dear, that’s much more interesting. I’ll bet you didn’t know about the woman who was giving us belly-dancing lessons. A schoolteacher, can you imagine that? Anyway, she stopped coming to our group, so that’s why we have a hole to fill. We think she had a tête-à-tête with her paramour in the Bolu Mountains, but she hasn’t come back yet. And school starts next week! Now, don’t you think that’s more amusing than politics?”
Speculation about a colleague must’ve drawn the redheaded schoolteacher—Don Davis—closer to Anna’s circle. His shift away from the Hungarians on the chaise left a clear view of the man identified as Viktor. Viktor lifted his head, and his gaze locked with Anna’s. Only...he wasn’t a Hungarian at all. Anna gasped. He was Rainer.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The tang of tobacco stained the air, lingering from meetings that held no end. Bah! Meryem thought, dancing before the general’s men. They lounged on their woolen rugs beneath the foul cloud that intoxicated this upstairs meeting hall, glowing with crystal.
This second night of dancing at the general’s pink palace would finally earn her payment, and she would get it, too. Even without the aid of Umit’s bartering skills.
She danced on, rippling her flesh, carefully exposed in all the right places. Naked between layers of gauze and rows of tinkling bangles, she danced closer. The general’s men twisted with desperate desire and rising anticipation. She swooped closer, jiggling and shimmying long enough to tease them with her offerings and entice them to collect their offerings of coins.
She danced on, until the general finally stood and clapped his hands and called his men to their nargiles. On, until the secret police, disguised as a server, ushered her out. On, until she faced the asker in the kitchen below. With his glass of raki, he would surely try to cheat her again.
“I promised you nothing,” he said as predicted.
“Then you are a thief. Shall I tell the general how you cheat him? How you take bribes that bring men to spy on him and invade his privacy?”
The asker rose so fast that the wooden legs of his chair scraped the stone floor, and the whole thing crashed over backwards. “Lies! That’s all you gypsies are good for!”
“We’ll see who lies.” She wheeled around, kicking up her skirts as she left the kitchen. Clearly, the asker did not intend to pay her anything additional beyond the tips she’
d gathered upstairs. They would have to do, for now.
“Wait!” His fist slammed against the table.
She did not stop. She fled down the hall toward the staircase to the grand hall above.
“Let’s talk!” More wood screeched against the floor. Then the thud of heavy boots, stomping out an erratic beat.
She was halfway to the second floor when he called up to her. “Hey, you can’t go up there.”
“The general will want to know how you cheat him.” She slowed her step, feeling caught between the asker below and the secret police above.
Neither the policeman in disguise nor one of the general’s servants appeared ahead, under the crystal chandelier. Her hesitation had given the old soldier enough time to lumber up the stairs.
“Come back here!” he called after her.
The sound of the asker’s heavy movement reminded Meryem of his physical strength, despite his age and his drunken stupor, and she ran on. She must hurry, since she had an appointment to keep.
Speed was in her favor, and she quickly reached the landing of the upper hall. Empty. No servants. She felt certain that the secret police lurked somewhere nearby, probably already aware of her presence. The double doors into the sitting room remained closed, sealing the general and his guests inside the place where she’d entertained them only a short while ago.
The old soldier thudded up the steps. She glanced first at the closed doors, then behind her. The general’s man meant to corner her in the manner of a guard dog. Feeling a flash of regret for perhaps the second mistake she’d made tonight, she darted down the grand hall. Beyond the double doors. To a glass door leading outside to a balcony that overlooked the garden behind the mansion. Another way out. Before the asker rounded the top step and could spot her, she slipped out, into the night. The night swallowed her, covered by the black of her garment.