by A W Hartoin
“You’re the first person who’s asked me that.”
“I’m not surprised. So, are you uncomfortable?” I asked.
The first expression flickered in his eyes. “Yes.”
Then I got it and I managed to contain a smile. “You didn’t expect to be uncomfortable.”
“I expected to be dead,” he said flatly.
“You must be disappointed.”
He nodded and I went on to ask him all the things I was supposed to ask, exactly way Dad told me to ask them. Blankenship admitted nothing about Donatella. The only thing I was sure of, was that being alive was a grave disappointment to him. In a weird way, I started to warm up to the psycho. I’d expected him to lie, blame the victims, and scream obscenities. But there was none of that. I asked questions. He answered. Short and to the point. He had no interest in me. His eyes didn’t roam over my chest, and he didn’t throw out the Marilyn comparison. It was like talking to a dead person, whose body just doesn’t know it yet.
“Is that it?” he asked.
“Not quite,” I said. “Your parents are here and they asked me to tell you that.”
His face froze and his head dropped back to his chest. We stayed like that, me watching and his head down, for at least a minute. I couldn’t tell if he was having an emotional reaction to his parents or what. He looked dead. Maybe it was a good time to start again if he was emotional.
“Who was your partner?” I asked.
“I didn’t need a partner.” Blankenship didn’t look up.
Need. Need was interesting. And it was important to him. So what did he have that he didn’t need?
“Not to do what you did, obviously. But there was someone.”
The door opened and Shelley came in. “Time’s up.”
Under any other circumstances, I would’ve begged for more time. Maybe I could get him to look up, maybe I could see the answer in his eyes. But that was not happening. Shelley took me by the arm and marched me to the door I’d come in earlier. Another guard opened it and Shelley ushered me through. At the last second, I looked back at Blankenship and caught him gazing at me with a glint in his eye. A tiny smile curved the edge of his lips. When our eyes met, both vanished instantly. Then I was out the door and it bolted automatically behind me.
“Okay?” asked Shelley.
I nodded.
“So not okay.”
“I don’t know what I am right now.”
“He got to you.”
“No, he didn’t,” I said, walking back down the hall beside her.
She shook her head. “Don’t come back. Not even if Tommy wants you to. Don’t do it.”
The leaving process was much faster than the entering. I got my stuff back and was taken out through a different set of doors, so I didn’t see Blankenship’s parents again. That was a relief. I don’t know what I would’ve said to them.
Mr. Cleves put me in my truck and I drove through the two gates and turned onto the narrow road that led to the prison. When I was out of sight of the guards’ shack, I pulled over and dialed Dad.
“There was a partner, but he’s never going to tell us who.”
“How do you know?” asked Dad.
“I just know.”
“That’s my girl.”
Chapter Four
THE DOOR WHIPPED open before my knuckles touched the wood. Aunt Miriam glared at me and she had her cane in hand, ready to strike.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I’m not late. It’s five til,” I said a little more sharply than I intended.
“Did you bring wine?”
I suppressed a smile. “Was I supposed to bring wine?”
“You are a guest. You are supposed to bring wine or a hostess gift,” Aunt Miriam’s freckled cheeks flamed pink.
“Do people still do that? Wasn’t that over in 1963?” I held up my purse. “I have orange Tic Tacs and a used tissue.”
She slammed the door the way a silver screen diva would. Think Lauren Bacall, only meaner. I laughed a little, and it was tempting to walk away, but what would I tell Mom? In my family, leaving after Aunt Miriam slams the door in your face means that you didn’t try hard enough. I did not want to try harder. I wanted to go home and sleep before my shift, but that definitely wasn’t happening. Aunt Miriam would call Mom. Mom would call me. Dad would call me. Aunt Tenne would call me. There would be a whole lot of calling and no sleeping.
I sighed and picked up the wine bottle I’d hidden beside the door. I was a bad niece, but sometimes I couldn’t resist bothering the old crab. She sure bothered me. I held up the bottle in front of the peephole and knocked.
“Who is it?” hollered Aunt Miriam. I’m pretty sure hostesses aren’t supposed to holler.
“Who do you think?” I hollered back.
“Someone who ignores the lessons I’ve taught her.”
That was pretty accurate.
“I was born in a barn.” I continued the hollering thing. It was fun.
The door whipped open again and Aunt Miriam was mid-rant when she saw the bottle. She swiped it out of my hand and eyed the label. “Bordeaux?”
“It goes with meatloaf,” I said, dipping down my chin to look properly chastened.
“How did you know we were having meatloaf?”
Because we already had pimento loaf.
“It’s snowing. Seemed like a meatloaf night,” I said.
She stepped back and let me in like it was a real honor. “Sit down. I’m ready to serve.”
I sat, as ordered, and watched as she popped the cork out of the bottle with a slim little screw better than a man with bulging biceps. I had to have one of those special cork removing gizmos that take no arm strength whatsoever. Aunt Miriam poured me exactly one ounce of wine, because I was working later, and then plated the famous Watts meatloaf. It was famous because it was Aunt Miriam’s mother’s recipe from the depression. Meat was scarce, so Great Grandma Cecile filled her meatloaf with boiled eggs. At some point, whole olives got added to the mix. Nobody knows who did that.
Eating Aunt Miriam’s meatloaf was an art, one that depended on being visually impaired. Just eat it. Don’t look at it. I was lucky she didn’t make liver and onions. Gag. I really wanted the info on the Klinefeld Group, but I wasn’t sure I wanted it that bad.
After we finished and I washed the dishes, Aunt Miriam handed me the stepladder and pointed at the mustard on the ceiling. I was hoping she’d forget. Who was I kidding? She never forgot anything.
“Are you going to tell me about the Klinefeld Group?” I asked, while spraying the mustard and getting the mist in my eyes.
“Yes,” she said.
“Well?”
“Scrub.”
“I am.” Boy, did I scrub. The mustard had set. It did more than set. It stained the ceiling. I scrubbed so hard the paint came off, but the stain didn’t even budge. How was that even possible? “I can’t get it.”
Aunt Miriam sent the ceiling a scorching look. I’m surprised the mustard didn’t peel off in fear. “Alright. I was afraid of this. You will have to paint it. Touch up paint is in the storage cupboard. Sister Margaret Anne has the key.”
I nearly fell off the ladder. “Are you kidding me? I have to work tonight.”
She patted my calf and laughed. “I’m funny. Come down.”
Hilarious.
I climbed down and we settled in for movie terror night. Before she pressed play, I put my warm hand on her cold one. “Tell me about the Klinefeld Group.”
“After the movie,” she said, her eyes not straying from the small screen.
“I promise I’ll watch and be scarred for life. Just tell me.”
“Fine. His name was Jens Waldemar Hoff and he was extremely polite.”
It was the only time I’d ever heard Aunt Miriam call someone polite with disdain in her voice. She didn’t warm to Hoff, despite his good attitude. He’d come about The Girls, my godmothers Myrtle and Millicent Bled, and the Bled Collection.
Jens Waldemar Hoff came with a promise and a threat. He wanted me to get The Girls to give the Klinefeld Group all the WWII artifacts in the Bled Collection, or they would expose the family as thieving racists that stole from the Jews even as they were forced into the gas chamber. They would expose Stella Bled Lawrence as a collaborator with the Nazis. They would ruin the Bled family, my family by association, and get the artifacts anyway.
“He made it sound like he was doing us a favor by sparing The Girls the humiliation,” spat Aunt Miriam.
“That’s all ridiculous. They can’t prove any of it. Stella smuggled those things out of Nazi-occupied territory at the request of the families. She was a spy for Britain, for crying out loud.”
“The Klinefeld Group will say that she was a double agent and everyone was fooled by her pretty face.”
“They can say whatever they want. It’s stupid.”
Aunt Miriam frowned and put a hand on my leg.
“What?” I asked. “Stella was a hero, even if the world doesn’t know it.”
“The world doesn’t know it. Her records have never been declassified.” Aunt Miriam’s eyes got all misty. “She had to do a lot of things that could be construed in a negative light. She got close. She knew them.”
“Who?”
“Top Nazi officials. Stella played many roles and they never knew who she really was. She did things that she regretted. They can use those things against the family now.”
“She was a hero.”
“I believe that, but what will the public believe?” Aunt Miriam asked. “The Girls are old. Do you want them put through this?”
“They won’t give up those pieces. They swore to protect them. You know that.”
“I do know. I wanted to find out what you think about it. They are your godmothers and you know them better than anyone.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said.
She scoffed, “Don’t be silly. Everyone knows that you are their child and you know them best. Hoff wants to speak to you.”
“I have nothing to say to him.”
Aunt Miriam gazed at me, searching my face, and I waited. Asking what she was looking for wouldn’t help at all. There might be yelling or a pinched cheek. Aunt Miriam was the boss and I always knew it. Just when I was about to get nervous, she said, “I can see that. Good. I told him nothing and I’m glad you won’t either.”
“Of course, I won’t.”
She took my hand between hers and pressed it firmly. I could feel the bones under the thin blanket of translucent skin. “It’s not the collection that he wants.”
“Huh?”
“There’s something in particular he’s after. They’re only using Stella and the pieces she smuggled out to get it.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“He was asking questions about the size of the pieces.”
I frowned and planted my elbows on my knees, rubbing a bit of mustard into my skirt. “Like…how big are the paintings?”
“He wasn’t interested in the paintings at all or the sculptures. He asked about boxes and furniture.”
“What kind of boxes?”
“The kind that The Girls might not have opened. Do you know about anything like that?”
“No. Why would they have a box and not open it?”
“I have no idea, but he wants something, and he thinks it’s hidden within the collection. He thought he was too smart for an old nun like me. A fool to the marrow, he was.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“I know people, Mercy. I’m a nun.”
That didn’t sound like the greatest recommendation for knowing people. Knowing God, sure. People, not so much.
“Okay. I’ll look into it.”
“What’s your plan?” she asked.
“I guess I’ll figure out what he wants and keep him from getting it.”
She gave me a peck on the jaw. It was the highest point she could reach. “Good girl. Now to the movie.
We watched Annabelle and, for once, being totally exhausted worked out for me. I kept falling asleep, so I missed most of the horror. The horror in the movie anyway. I dreamt of Blankenship in the fishbowl with his smile. It wasn’t a nightmare exactly, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant.
When the movie was over, Aunt Miriam stood up and rummaged around, coming up with The Exorcist. “I’ll start it and make some popcorn.”
She was almost gleeful. Talk about creepy.
“I can’t. Work,” I said, stretching.
“That movie didn’t count. You went to sleep.”
“Well, I had a long day, and I’m about to have a long night.”
Aunt Miriam got pensive and then smiled. “American Horror Story: Asylum. I’ve been saving the season.”
“For when you really hate me?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly. We’re family.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but it was best not to inquire. I watched Jessica Lange chew up her dialog from behind a throw pillow. Aunt Miriam sat on the edge of her seat with her hands clasped in joy. When the first episode was over, she was genuinely sad that I had to go. I was, too. I had to go out in a frigid black-as-pitch night and walk through the grounds of an old convent. If that wasn’t a good opening for a horror movie, I didn’t know what was.
Once it was time to go, Aunt Miriam practically shoved me out the door with a meatloaf sandwich and a promise/threat that we’d do it again soon. Great. More movie nights with Aunt Miriam.
I walked alone through the silent half-lit halls of the convent, but it wasn’t the shadows that bothered me. It was my own thoughts. Blankenship wasn’t barred from sending or getting mail. He could have visitors. I might be right about him. What was to stop Blankenship from telling his partner about our little visit? He’d smiled, and I’d seen it. People knew me and now he did to. The feeling I had, while walking through those long corridors, was that I wasn’t alone. I was known and Blankenship was with me.
The visitor’s parking lot was empty, except for my truck and a Mercedes coupe. I stopped at the top of the staircase. Snowflakes whizzed by me and I squinted at the image of luxury below me. I didn’t know anyone who drove that car, and from what Blankenship’s bio said, he didn’t either. I got out my handy dandy pepper spray anyway and slowly walked down the stairs.
I found the Mercedes empty and let out a tense breath. Empty. Of course, it was empty. No one who drove that car was lying in wait for me in a convent parking lot. That was just stupid. It was some high-class donor meeting with the Mother Superior.
I relaxed and went around it to my truck. When I made it to the headlights, I saw a head, slightly bowed next to my driver’s side door.
“Mercy Watts. It’s about time.”
I knew that voice and I didn’t want to hear it.
Oz Urbani straightened up and grinned at me over my side mirror. I hadn’t seen him since August after I’d gotten back from Honduras. He was just as handsome with a light tan and soft dark curls waving back from his angular face. He rocked a scarf like no man I’d ever seen. Outside of GQ Magazine, that is. Oz was better than anyone that Blankenship might send my way, but I wasn’t thrilled. I’d done Oz a favor and he’d done me one in return. It had been a fruitful relationship, but I had hoped to never ever lay eyes on the nephew of Calpurnia Fibonacci again. Connections to organized crime wasn’t something I wanted on my résumé. But the Fibonaccis didn’t ask permission last time and they wouldn’t this time either.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Waiting for you. What took so long? Sister Miriam’s meatloaf can’t be that good,” he said.
“I don’t even want to know how you know about Aunt Miriam’s meatloaf.”
“Everybody knows.”
“Are you stalking me?”
“My cousin is Sister Mary Carlotta,” he said, grinning wider.
I tried to push him aside to put my key in the lock. “So you’re here to see her. Great. See ya.”<
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“I’m here to see you. Do you think I’d stand outside in this weather for a cousin?”
“I don’t know what you’d do, which is kind of the problem.” I used my shoulder to try and knock him off balance. No luck. Oz was slight, but strong. “Get out of the way. I have to go to work.”
“I’m glad to see I don’t scare you,” he said, crossing his arms.
“Why would I be scared? Our so-called relationship is over.”
“Well…”
I hip-checked him. “No way. Hit the road. This is not happening again. Forget you know me.”
The grin vanished. “I just want to know what Blankenship told you today.”
I stopped pushing him. “Oh my god. No. Don’t tell me you’re interested in him, because I’m not doing a damn thing for that psychopath.”
“It’s not Blankenship that I want to help,” he said.
“Who then?”
“Donatella Ameche. Look. I know you went out to Hunt today. I want to know what he said about her.” The snow picked up and he squinted at the blast.
“How do you know I was at Hunt? Do you have a cousin there, too? Which ward?”
“I have a friend. Several, actually. So what about it?”
“Who’s Donatella to you?” I asked, brushing the hair out of my eyes and pulling my stocking cap down farther over my ears.
“Old friend. I know the Berry family is trying to implicate her in the Tulio murders, and I don’t want that to go anywhere. Donatella is a good person. Truly kind and warmhearted. She would never arrange anyone’s death. You’re on the case anyway. You may as well share what you have with me.”
“I’m not on the case. It’s police business. Please get out of my way. I have to go. I’m going to be late,” I said.
“I can’t,” he said, his dark eyes pleading. “I have to know how much trouble Donatella’s in.”
I bit my lip. Dad would kill me if I said anything. On the other hand, what could it hurt? “Is this just between you and me?”
“I swear. My family doesn’t know I’m here and I won’t tell them.” Oz took my hands and pressed them between his buttery soft leather gloves. “Please.”
“Blankenship didn’t implicate her. He claims he doesn’t know her and appears to have no interest in screwing her over. But keep in mind that he’s a mass murderer, so pretty much all bets are off.”