The Heritage Paper

by Derek Ciccone

  “Did Carsten tell you about us?” Flavia got right to the point.

  Veronica was thrown off by the honesty. “No.”

  “We decided it was best not to tell anyone. It was too dangerous to involve others. So if Carsten held his end of the bargain, how did you find out?”

  The part he failed to live up to was their wedding vows. “I had you followed,” Veronica said and felt guilty about it. She didn’t know why—she was the victim here.

  Flavia took a seat behind her cluttered desk. “Wow, he really had you pegged.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Carsten and I spent a lot of time together. He opened up to me about a lot of things, including you. Said you changed over the years. That you weren’t the same girl he’d married.”

  “I’m surprised you had time to talk.”

  Flavia’s face turned quizzical. “What exactly do you think went on between me and your husband?”

  “Don’t try to play innocent—I saw the photos.”

  “I don’t know what photos you’re talking about, but I doubt they show me and Carsten engaging in inappropriate behavior … at least not the kind you’re thinking of.”

  Maybe not, but you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what went on once they entered those motel rooms together. Besides, what hurt Veronica the most was the way Carsten looked at Flavia in the photos. It was the way he used to look at her—when they were in love. What defines cheating has always been a big fat gray area.

  “What your husband and I were doing is none of your business. What is relevant is that I respect people’s marriages, even a complete unmitigated disaster like yours was.”

  Flavia stood and clanked around the office in her expensive heels. The rest of the ensemble didn’t appear to be cheap, either. It looked like she leaped off the cover of some fall fashion magazine—a shiny silk blouse and a beige, knee-length pencil-skirt.

  “So what inspired you to come face me, Veronica … after all this time?”

  It was obvious that Flavia had no idea as to why they were here. So Veronica played along, “I was curious about the change in my husband’s demeanor at the end of his life. And since he didn’t talk to me, I figured I’d go see the one person he did discuss things with. And I’m glad I did, because I learned that I was the one who changed, not him.”

  “Have you met your therapist’s benchmarks yet, so that we can end this meeting?”

  “Not until you tell me how you met my husband. And if you weren’t screwing, I think I have the right to know why he was sneaking around with you in those motel rooms.”

  “Like I said, it’s none of your business. Not that it would change anything, anyway.”

  “It might not be my business, but your business is art, correct?”

  She looked confused. “I own this gallery, so I think that goes without saying.”

  “Have you ever heard of a painting called Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael?”

  “I’ve heard of Raphael, of course, but not that specific painting. I’ve never claimed to be an aficionado. My gallery is made up mostly of contemporary work by local artists. Monet and Raphael don’t usually grace our walls.”

  “Portrait of a Young Man was stolen by the Nazis. It’s been missing since 1939. But today it came into my possession, along with this.”

  Veronica handed over the note that instructed them to come here. Flavia studied it, as if trying to detect a hidden meaning.

  “My coming here has nothing to do with Carsten and whatever you did or didn’t do. I didn’t even know your name before I arrived. I’m here because of Ellen Peterson—she’s responsible for that note.”

  “The woman who raised him? He talked about her a lot. How did she know about me?”

  “I was hoping you could answer that. She was found dead this morning at the retirement community where she lived. But not before she alleged to be a Nazi who was part of a group that had infiltrated America after the war. So how about you stop playing games with us, Flavia?”

  She returned to her chair, appearing to be troubled by the words. “I never met Ellen.”

  “But you know about her from Carsten.”

  “And she obviously knew about me.”

  “Why did Ellen send us to you? There must be a reason.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I don’t know, but there are people willing to go to great lengths to make sure this group Ellen speaks of remains a mystery.”

  “Who are these people?” Veronica pushed.

  “The same people who killed Carsten.”

  Chapter 19

  A dazed Veronica watched her children assist Zach and Youkelstein, carrying the painting into Flavia’s office like pallbearers.

  Veronica was trying to wrap her mind around what Flavia just told her. The first part—that Carsten might not have had an affair, not physically anyway. Even if true, Veronica didn’t take this as good news. The affair was the event that allowed her to distance herself from his death. Just because their marriage was, to use Flavia’s words, an unmitigated disaster, didn’t mean she wasn’t hit with an overwhelming feeling of loss when Carsten died. But the photos of him and Flavia entering that motel were like a force field that allowed her to exchange her pain for anger, which was a much more tolerable emotion.

  The other part was harder to grasp. The same people who killed Carsten. And while most thirty-six-year-old men don’t drop dead of a stroke, it’s not like it never happened, and foul play was never even suggested.

  After shutting the door, Zach and Youkelstein performed an “unveiling.” They removed the garbage bag that covered the painting. Flavia studied it closely, and pointed to the scribbled ink. “Is that really Hitler’s signature?”

  “I believe it is,” Youkelstein spoke up.

  Flavia locked eyes on him. “And you would be?”

  “Dr. Benjamin Youkelstein.”

  “What kind of doctor deals with Hitler’s signature?”

  “I’m a forensic pathologist. But I dabble in historical justice.”

  She chuckled. “I dabble in historical justice myself, Dr. Youkelstein. And I must confess that I do know who you are. I’ve read much of your work.”

  A satisfied grin came over his face. Veronica was once again reminded that boys might get older, but they never outgrow the urge to impress a pretty girl.

  “How do we know it’s not a fake?” Flavia asked. “The painting, the signature, or both?”

  “We don’t,” Veronica said, feeling a surge of competitiveness. “But I’d be willing to bet that it’s the original.”

  “Carsten mentioned you were an art history major. He wished you hadn’t given it up. People should never give up their passions,” she stuck Veronica with a few more needles, then added, “So if this is the real deal, it must be worth a small fortune.”

  Veronica took a deep breath, suppressing her urge to lash back. “Hard to tell if being underground has damaged it, and if so, how much damage there is. I also don’t know if the signature of such an infamous figure adds or subtracts from the value, but yes, it’s safe to say it would be worth quite a bit.”

  “I guess I’ll hang it with others,” Flavia said with a casual shrug.

  Zach joined the conversation, “You’re going to hang a stolen painting in your art gallery … are you mad?”

  Flavia looked at Zach like he had just walked into the room. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” she said and extended her hand. “Are you a member of the historical justice team like Dr. Youkelstein?”

  “No, my name is Zach Chester,” he said and clasped her hand. “I’m a journalist. I used to write for Newsbreaker.”

  “I used to fit into my prom dress. I’m only interested in who you are today.”

  “I’m just a guy telling you I don’t think it would be a good idea to hang a stolen painting in your gallery.”

  “I didn’t say I would hang it in the gallery. I said I would hang it with the others.”

>   Before anyone had a chance to grasp the comment, a man in a dark suit burst through the door.

  Veronica jumped—were they about to be busted by police for being in possession of the stolen painting? Or was it the Apostles, who were going to kill them all because they now knew too much? Veronica stepped in front of Maggie and Jamie—nobody was going to hurt her kids.

  But when Veronica’s eyes focused on the man, she realized who it was.

  It was Eddie.

  In a suit.

  Veronica had never used the words ‘dapper’ and ‘Eddie’ in the same sentence. But wow! And he brought with him a trail of cologne. His shaved head glowed like he’d shined it.

  He had told Veronica that he wasn’t going to follow a wild goose chase to Rhinebeck. But his protective instinct must have led him here.

  The kids looked thrilled to see him, but Flavia not so much. She had pulled out a handgun from her desk drawer and held it on him. The Nazi ghosts had spooked her more than she initially let on.

  Veronica mediated a peace settlement, “He’s with us—it’s okay.”

  Eddie smiled, seemingly oblivious that she had just been seconds away from putting a bullet in him. “I’m Lieutenant Edward Peterson—I’m in charge of security tomorrow for Jim Kingston, who if you haven’t heard, is running for president. I’m kinda a big deal.”

  “Am I a threat to the potential future president?”

  “You do pose a national security threat—nations have gone to war over women much less breathtaking than yourself.”

  “Does that line ever work?” Flavia asked.

  “Normally I would have clubbed you over the head and dragged you back to my cave. But you struck me as sort of a classy chick.”

  Eddie’s gaze finally left Flavia’s glow, and made its way to Veronica.

  “I have a meeting with Kingston,” he explained the suit.

  “You look good,” she told him

  “I think it really hugs my boobs,” he replied with a laugh, before morphing into Serious Policeman Eddie. “I stopped by to visit the girl who works the front desk at Sunshine, but she wasn’t home. Roommate told me that she often stays with her boyfriend in White Plains. I’ll stop by tonight.”

  Veronica nodded, but knew the answers they needed were far beyond the pay-grade of the girl who worked the front desk.

  Eddie returned his attention to Flavia. “So do I get a tour, or am I going to have to take out my badge and abuse my police power to get it?”

  “I would be honored, but only on the condition that I can take all of you to lunch.”

  “I stopped allowing beautiful women to buy me meals—it was taking up too much of my time—but I’ll make an exception this one time.”

  Veronica thought she was going to be ill.

  Flavia locked the precious painting in her office, and began leading them around the gallery. The men followed her like Picasso would a bird, and hung on her every word. Even Jamie, which broke his mother’s heart. Maggie must have sensed that Veronica could use some comfort because she clung closely to her as they toured the gallery.

  Veronica wished she could say that the gallery was tacky or cheap, but it wasn’t. It was the place she always dreamed of starting, but never had the guts. As the tour continued, she began to feel slightly better. She always had changed personalities when she was in an art gallery or museum. It gave her a sense of peace. But finding complete solace would be a challenge on this day.

  Maggie also seemed to decompress a little as she soaked in the many paintings and sculptures, hopefully her mind off Ellen and the Nazis. Veronica was proud of the love for art she’d passed on to her daughter. She grabbed her hand and they began discussing some of the paintings that lined the walls.

  But once they left the gallery, Veronica’s sense of peace vanished. Every motherly instinct she had began to scream that her children were in danger.

  Chapter 20

  Lunch would be at The Tavern at the Beekman Arms, located about ten minutes up Route-9, along the Hudson River.

  Despite the November chill, Flavia drove her Jeep with top down. Youkelstein, risked pneumonia to ride with his new BFF.

  Eddie took Jamie off her hands for another ride in the “cool” cop car—this was turning out way better than Career Day for him. The three cars lined up in a row like a funeral procession. Veronica hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.

  The restaurant was located on the vast grounds of a historic hotel, which displayed a collection of WWI fighter planes that attracted Jamie’s attention. The interior featured overhead beams, an open-hearth fireplace, and an intimate bar.

  The hostess provided a scripted speech about the extensive history of the Beekman Arms as she brought them to their table. Veronica thought about playing “top this” with the story of the Hitler autographed Raphael, but didn’t want to rain on her parade.

  When the hostess suggested a viewing of planes while they waited for their food, it set Jamie off. “Oh, Mom, can I please go see the airplanes … pretty please.” He folded his hands into praying formation. “Pretty please with sugar on it.”

  “Perhaps after we eat.”

  “I’m still kinda full from that great breakfast you made this morning.”

  “We had cereal for breakfast.”

  “Can I pleaaase go see the airplanes.”

  Veronica knew the kids needed a break. The tension was starting to rub off on them. Children take their cues from the adults, even if they act like they don’t know them sometimes. But at the same time, the warning signs about impending danger were multiplying. And Flavia’s words were still lodged in her mind.

  The same ones who killed Carsten.

  “Maybe Uncle Eddie can take you,” she said with a hopeful look in his direction. They weren’t going anywhere alone.

  “I think I should stay here,” he said.

  She’d hit his most touchy nerve. Eddie wore an eternal chip on his shoulder, always insecure about being good enough. And now she’d reduced him to babysitting duty while the “grownups” figured out how to save the world. She couldn’t believe she did that.

  Zach picked up on things. The observer. He volunteered to escort Jamie.

  Eddie suddenly changed his tune. Veronica wished he would pick a lane and stay in it, but then he wouldn’t be Eddie. One minute the childlike jokester, the next a raging bull.

  “I’ll go,” he grunted.

  “It’s not a problem—I need to stretch my legs anyway,” Zach said.

  Jamie was on board, but not Maggie. She felt ownership of this Nazi scavenger hunt. She was the leader, no matter how old she was. Ellen had picked her.

  But Veronica also knew that behind those old eyes was an unnerved twelve-year-old. Even Harry Potter needed to be twelve once in a while. Since Carsten’s death, it was like she was caught in limbo between childhood and adulthood.

  “Mags, why don’t you go play with your brother,” Veronica prodded.

  She didn’t budge.

  “Mags—I’m talking to you.”

  “I need to be here—why don’t you go look at airplanes.”

  It wasn’t so much the words, but the jolting tone that almost knocked Veronica off her seat. But before she could respond with words she’d likely regret, Eddie jumped in like the chubby, infantile angel he always defaulted back to. He got up and said, “C’mon, Maggot, I’ll race you.”

  “You run like you have a refrigerator on your back, Uncle Eddie.”

  He grabbed her and slung her over his shoulder. She fought at first, but then let out a smile. The look on her face was priceless.

  Thanks, Eddie … again.

  But before they exited, Zach made one last attempt, “Why don’t you stay, Eddie. It’s better that you’re involved in these conversations. Being a cop, you might be able to decipher this mess.”

  Eddie’s smile turned to a competitive scowl. “Who’s going to protect the kids … you?”

  Chapter 21

  Since Ed
die and Zach couldn’t properly determine who the alpha male of the group was, they compromised, deciding to both accompany the children.

  It left Veronica and Flavia together, with Youkelstein acting as the referee. Before the bout could begin, a friendly waitress took orders for appetizers. Youkelstein got the onion soup gratin, while Flavia ordered the prosciutto and melon with extra virgin olive oil. Flavia seemed to Veronica like one of those people who would breezily order for the group in a trendy Manhattan restaurant. Even when they lived in the city, the Petersons were always more of a pizza delivery family.

  Flavia ordered a bottle of Pinot, and Veronica finally found something they had in common—they both needed a drink.

  As their appetizers arrived, and more importantly, the wine, Flavia stared them down with a look of mistrust. But her skepticism might have been prudent. For all she knew, they could have been the ones who “murdered” Carsten and were trying to elicit information from her before delivering her the same fate.

  As Youkelstein sipped his soup, he shared the details of what Ellen had said on the video during Maggie’s presentation. Hearing it out loud made Veronica choke on her crab cake, and she needed a gulp of wine to wash it down.

  But Flavia didn’t seem a bit surprised. She turned to Youkelstein. “It makes me think of your book, Ben: Smoking the Doppelganger. A very catchy title, I might add—very sixties.”

  Youkelstein proudly mentioned that the book was still a hit on Amazon, despite being published over forty years ago.

  “So did you find it informative?” he asked, unsteadily raising a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

  “I would have if you had remembered to finish it.”

  “What do you mean?” he replied, a bruised ego showing through.

  “I was impressed by the detailed forensic analysis. And I was very open to your theories, especially since I’d never thought of what happened to those dead Nazis. I went in with no preconceived notions—I didn’t even know who most of them were. And you made an overwhelming case based on evidence, which swayed me to your thinking.”