by Tricia Goyer
Betty rose. “She wouldn’t have done that. Kat wouldn’t have killed herself. Something else must have happened.” She rushed toward Mickey. “I know she lost Edward. I know Kat—well, she ran off the stage, but there was something else. Something to live for.”
Betty knew that she’d promised Kat not to say anything about the baby, but things were different now. Betty wanted them to know, wanted them to understand that Kat wouldn’t have done this to herself.
She turned back to Irene and Dolly. “She was pregnant.”
“What?” Irene strode to her.
“Are you sure? How do you know?” Dolly gasped.
“She told me. That first night—actually she didn’t tell me, I guessed by the things she was saying.”
“You can’t tell anyone that.” Mickey grabbed her arm. “That does not leave this room—do you understand?” Mickey’s eyes were wide, wild. “First of all, who do you think you are to say such a thing? Kat wasn’t like the other girls. She never, never would have cheated on her husband. Do you want to slander her name in order to take her place? Is that it?” He squeezed harder. “You will never take her place. Never.”
Where is this coming from? Why is he acting this way? Pain shot up Betty’s arm, and she struggled to pull away.
“No, never.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “You’re hurting me, Mickey, you’re hurting me. I’d never do that.”
Dolly and Irene both rushed toward her.
“Let go!” Irene cried. “You can’t do this again, Mickey. Let go!”
Mickey’s eyes widened, and he released his grasp. Betty turned toward Dolly, as if hiding behind her could provide some protection. Her steps paused when she saw the angry look on Dolly’s face.
“Mickey’s right, Betty. It’s not possible.” Dolly’s voice was hard, sharp.
“Kat said when she was in Paris, Edward came and they had one night together.”
“We were in Paris with her, Betty. Edward wasn’t there. If this gets out—it’s even worse than her being dead.” Dolly stepped away, walking to Mickey, as if lining up on his side.
Betty’s chest ached, and she sucked in a shuddering breath. “Irene?” She turned to her friend. “You believe me, don’t you? I wouldn’t make that up. Why would I make that up?”
“I don’t know what to think, Betty, but they’re right. It’s sad enough with everything that’s happened, and this will only make things worse.”
“So do you really believe that she committed suicide?” Betty directed her panicked expression around the group. “That she walked to that pond, went in, and let herself drown?”
Irene shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe, but I do remember what Kat said when she exited the stage. We all heard it. She said she didn’t want to live like this. Maybe she came to the point where she didn’t want to live at all. You weren’t around her as much as we were. You hardly knew her—not like us. She’d lost her joy lately. She didn’t want to be performing, and she didn’t want to be doing that movie. She pushed us away—isolated herself from us. Edward was all that she had. He was the most important thing to her. Maybe she did kill herself, who knows?”
Betty felt the energy drain from her arms, and they dropped limp to her sides. She watched as Dolly walked Mickey outside to the MPs and the waiting jeep. After the door closed, Irene patted her shoulder and then climbed the stairs, heading up to her room.
Betty sat down hard on the stairs, not knowing what to think, not knowing what to do. She didn’t want to go to her room—all Kat’s stuff was there. She was too afraid to go for a walk. She didn’t have anyone to talk to.
Her arm still stung where Mickey had grabbed it, and Betty rubbed the sore spot.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Kat did that. Someone must have done that to her—but who? Nothing made sense.
Frank. She wished Frank were here. She could talk to him. He would believe her.
Footsteps sounded from above her, and even though Betty knew it was Irene walking around—most likely waking up the others to tell them what had happened—a wave of fear washed over her.
“Kat knew something was wrong. She told me things weren’t right. She told me she had a bad feeling,” Betty mumbled to herself.
Maybe none of us should be here—or in the opera house. Evil had dwelt in this place. Madness had walked these halls.
Maybe I should leave, go home. Betty stood and hurried to the window. I don’t belong here. We aren’t wanted.
Someone had made that perfectly clear.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A pounding on the door of their house had awakened Frank before 5 a.m., when it was still dark out. Had Art had forgotten his key and wanted in? He leapt out of bed, ran to the door, and opened it to find Howard there instead of Art.
“Frank, we need you up at the gardens near the Festspielhaus—they’ve found Kat.”
“Yeah, sure.” He rubbed his eyes, wondering why they needed him.
“Is she okay? Does Betty know?”
“No to both those questions.” Only then did Frank notice Howard’s red eyes, his weary face. “They found her body in the pond. We need you to take some stills—for evidence.” Howard lowered his head. “I knew something was wrong. She didn’t seem herself, and everyone knew she was unhappy about returning to Hollywood. And after what she said on stage, they’re all guessing it’s suicide.”
Suicide? The thought hadn’t crossed Frank’s mind, yet he had information the others didn’t. He had the letters. Of course they’d think it was suicide. Everyone around here thinks things are safe. Yet he’d have to check things out before he gave his opinion on the matter.
It took two hours for the sun to cast enough light on the scene for Frank to get good shots. He swallowed hard and tried to control his trembling hands as he photographed Kat, floating near the bushes at the far end. Another hour passed, while he took more photos of the area around the pond, and they waited for someone to get Mickey. A low fog hung in the valley, hiding the town below and chilling Frank to the bone. But even worse were his pained thoughts.
It’s happening just as the letters said. Why didn’t I do more? I should have stuck closer to those singers. Someone’s after them, all right. How come I let Kat go—running off without following her? It’s my fault. I could have stopped this…
Frank lifted his eyes and spotted Mickey walking up the trail, with his head hanging low. The older man was distraught when he arrived, and he hung back—not getting too close to the pond—staring in disbelief.
Every face mirrored Mickey’s. The five MPs on the scene had seen Kat at the show the night before. They’d discussed her words and the way she ran off the stage. They talked about the reasons why she’d want to take her own life. And their assumptions about suicide were confirmed in their own minds when Mickey told them about Edward’s death. Frank listened with interest, but he still wasn’t convinced. Marv has me here for a reason…
As soon as Frank heard about Edward’s death, he knew that’s what had bothered Betty yesterday. Frank didn’t know Betty’s reasons for not telling him, but he had two ideas. First, it was just the type of story the news would jump on, giving Kat no peace. And second, Kat needed time to process it herself. Frank only wished he’d known last night—it would have made more sense about why everything had happened as it had with Betty. More than that, he might have taken Kat’s disappearance more seriously. He might have acted sooner when Kat wasn’t at the estate.
There was also the matter of trust. A twinge of regret circled his heart, and he wished the innocent, sweet Betty could have trusted him.
If Betty had told me about Kat, and she told me not to tell, I would have kept it to myself. And maybe I could have proven myself to her.
Of course, while he knew keeping his word was something he took seriously, Betty didn’t know that. As much as they were attracted to each other, they hadn’t yet built any level of trust.
And he couldn’t be too hard on her when he also hid so much. Hi
s excuse was that he couldn’t tell her—just like he hadn’t been able to share any of the information the OSS had given him. Before now that hadn’t bothered him. Now it did. Frank wished he could talk to Betty about the letters. To warn her. Obviously there was some truth behind them. His only answer was that they all pack up and leave before anyone else got hurt. Maybe he didn’t need to figure it out. Maybe just getting everyone to leave would be good enough. But what would happen then? Would he ever see Betty again?
Frank looked toward the valley and the fog below, kicking at a stick on the ground.
We need answers. We need truth. He hoped time was on his side, and that no one else would lose their life while he tried to figure out what was going on.
They waited until Mickey had left, and then the MPs pulled the body from the water. Frank took more shots. He also waited around to talk to the officer from the special investigative division of the military police, who had driven up from Nuremberg. Frank assumed that once the MPs heard whose body was found, they’d decided to send in their bigwig.
“Hey, Frank.”
Hearing his voice, Frank turned and saw Howard approaching with an older MP. The man wore the familiar black armband with white letters. He was tall, with reddish blond hair. His jaw was tight, his eyes sharp.
“This is Officer Gordon Frey. I told him you got shots of the scene, and he wondered if he could get copies today.”
“Sure. I can develop them after I finish up here.” Frank looked to where a few of the other MPs loaded Kat in a large, canvas bag. “I told the other guys to try to disrupt as little as possible around the pond—said you’d want to get a look at it.”
Officer Frey waved a hand in the air. “I told them not to worry too much about that. From what I hear there were some sixteen hundred witnesses who heard Miss Wiseman say she no longer wanted to live.” Officer Frey turned, staring at the pond. “Sad, isn’t it. Someone with so much beauty, so much potential, not feeling like going on.”
“Can I talk to you about that?” Frank rubbed his brow, trying to figure out which concerns he wanted to talk about first. “I know the other MPs think it was suicide. Is that what you think too?”
“Well, I still need to look at the body before I can give an official ruling, but that’s where we’re leaning—off the record, of course,” Officer Frey said.
“Off the record—yes. I’m an Army Corps combat photographer, not a news hound. Writing the news isn’t my job.” Frank cleared his throat. “Would you consider other possibilities, sir, such as murder? I’m friends with Kat’s roommate, Betty Lake. I was with Betty when we first got to Wahnfried last night and discovered Kat wasn’t there. After Howard stayed around to assist Mickey, I hiked home, from the estate to town, and I passed this pond.”
“This pond?” The MP’s eyes sparked new interest.
“Yes. I was here—around midnight I think—and there wasn’t a body. The woods were still, and I didn’t see any footprints close to the bank.”
“You looked that hard? You actually stopped and looked around on your way home?” The investigator’s brow furrowed, and he pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, jotting down some notes. “Can you tell me more?”
“I took it slow and swept my flashlight over the whole path along the way. I’d been with Betty for a few hours by that time, you see, and we were worried because Kat hadn’t arrived home. Betty told me how Kat walked that trail home after the concerts, and how she’d been spooked a few nights ago—Kat thought someone was following her.”
“You know all this, and you didn’t come to the MPs?”
“The MP was there. Howard was there as we talked it through.”
“Yes,” Howard quickly jumped in, “but nothing told us there was a problem, sir. All we knew for sure was that Kat hadn’t arrived home. She could have been out with friends, or—”
The investigator eyed them again. Then his lips curled in a half smile. “I’m sure you couldn’t have known. No one could.” Then he turned his gaze and focused on Frank. “But I’d like to talk to you more—when you drop those photos off, maybe? You can be a big help.” Officer Frey’s smile widened, but the look in his eye was focused, intense.
Frank’s stomach flipped, and for some reason the request didn’t seem as simple as it sounded.
“Yes, sir, of course.”
Betty looked up at the trees, spreading like an umbrella above her. It was strange how this town was still under German control when the leaves first budded. Now, they were changing colors and falling to the ground. It made her wonder what her life would be like here by the time the leaves budded again.
She glanced at the fountain on the back patio of Wahnfried, imagining how beautiful it would have been when water actually bubbled and flowed. Then she turned her attention back to her friends, sitting around the patio with her, as they talked about their next concert. The idea of a memorial concert came up before it really sank into everyone’s mind and heart that Kat was gone.
“We should do it big—just like Kat would. We should sing all her favorite songs,” Irene said.
Betty listened and nodded, but it was the house—not her friend’s words—that drew her attention. She stared at the back of the large structure and realized that the bombing was more evident from this side. The back wall was crumbled, revealing interior rooms that had been looted. Even though she knew their part of the house had been walled off and declared perfectly safe, it still made Betty feel vulnerable to see everything exposed like that. She was thankful two MPs had been posted by the front door and two more at the end of the long driveway, but wondered if that was enough.
“I wonder what Mickey will think of our idea?” Dolly said, picking up a yellow leaf from the lawn and twirling the stem in her fingers. “He looked pretty crushed this morning when he told us the news. I wonder if he’ll stay around? Or if this will be too much for him.”
“Of course he’ll stay. He really doesn’t have much to go back to.” Shirlee shrugged. “Whether he likes it or not, we’re it.”
“I wonder if the band knows?” Pearl asked. “Do you think Mickey told them?”
“I’m sure he did—or found some way to let them know.” Irene lowered her head. “I just feel so bad. I mean if any one of us would have followed her—talked to her. She might have made a different choice.”
“But what if it wasn’t her choice?” The words were out before Betty had time to weigh whether she should say them.
“What do you mean?” Esther glanced over at her, eyes narrowed.
Betty shrugged, and then she pulled her crossed legs closer to her chest. “I don’t know. I just keep thinking about what Kat said the other morning—remember when we were at breakfast? She didn’t want to walk the trail up to the Festspielhaus alone anymore. She said that she heard footsteps following her.”
“Don’t talk like that.” Shirlee rose to her feet. “It’s bad enough being sad about Kat. You don’t need to get us all scared about living here too.”
“I’m sorry.” Betty shook her head. “I can’t believe Kat did this—to herself.”
“I can.” Pearl’s lower lip trembled. “She didn’t want to return to Hollywood—and now she didn’t have her husband. She had nothing to live for.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Betty saw Dolly and Irene’s gazes on her, and she knew what they were thinking. Mickey had demanded she not tell anyone about Kat’s condition, in order to save her reputation, but Betty wondered if it wasn’t to save his. Something had happened with Mickey back in Hollywood, and no doubt Kat’s death would add another stain to his reputation. Maybe the idea that Mickey couldn’t control his girls—that they were sneaking around with who-knowswho, doing who-knows-what—would be something he couldn’t rise from. That—and the fact that Betty was the only one Kat had confessed her pregnancy to. And who was she, a canteen girl who’d only been in Bayreuth for a few days. What did she know?
“I’m sorry I made you upset, Shirlee.” Bett
y stood. “I’m going to change and head into town. I need to stretch my legs—do something. Anyone want to come?”
No one commented. Instead, they averted their gazes as she looked around the circle. “Okay, well, let me know if you need anything at the PX. I’ll be happy to get it for you.”
Betty tried to keep her steps light as she walked past the boarded-up back door, around to the front of the house.
The MPs watched as she neared. One of them opened the door as she approached. “Doing okay, miss?”
Betty nodded. “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”
She entered the house and walked down the hall, preparing herself for what she knew she had to do. She’d be walking into her room for the first time after hearing of Kat’s death.
“I just won’t look at her things. I’ll only get what I need and leave,” she told herself.
As Betty approached her room, she saw that the door was open, and she paused. Her heart pounded in her chest and she was thinking about turning around and getting one of the MPs when she heard the voices of two men—one of which she recognized.
Betty walked to the doorway and peered in. Her gaze first fell on Howard, the MP who’d helped them so much last night—although he looked more official today in his full military uniform, including his helmet. Betty also noticed his pistol on his hip. She was sure it had been there last night, but now it took on a whole new meaning. Howard was talking to an MP officer, and both scanned the room, talking in low tones.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Sir, this is Betty Lake, Kat’s roommate—the one I told you about.”
The officer strode over, taking her hand in his. “Hello, Betty, it’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry we startled you, being in your room like this. We were just looking over Kat’s things.” He patted her hand then released it.
“I understand.” Even as she said the words, her brow furrowed. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Yes, in fact there is. First of all, we were looking for the telegram—the one that told her of Edward’s death. It’s a very important piece of evidence. Have you seen it?”