Death Drinks Darjeeling (A Helen and Martha Cozy Mystery Book 4)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  “Yes,” the chief agreed. “But I’ve got some ideas and…” he paused and considered the situation. “Could I buy you a pint this evening? I’d rather discuss it at the pub, if you are up for drink.”

  The other man nodded in that way a person will do when they understand the necessity of patience.

  “About seven, then?” Perigrine asked.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  Johns shut the window. The chief wasn’t ready to retire anymore than he was ready to be bamboozled out of his constabulary by a bunch of bureaucrats who had trumped-up an audit to sully his reputation so they could have what they want. In this situation, it was best to fight fire with cold hard facts. He was taking a risk, but something told him, Clark was one of the good guys. A bit tarnished, but none-the-less a decent chap.

  Chapter 11

  Lake Constance, Germany

  The previous February

  The sky spat thin, stinging bits of sleet upon the three men as they moved as quickly as possible towards the only form of shelter, a frail shed on the north side of the island. Normally, the beautiful gardens of Mainau would be a fairytale place for the tourists and horticultural enthusiasts from all over the world, but today no one trod the winding paths due to the terrible weather.

  As the men huddled close to one another, it might have appeared that they were friends, but nothing was further from the truth. One, the youngest of the group, Jorge Kirchner, worked the shed door’s handle frantically. He was practically freezing and he hoped that once inside, the other two men would listen to what he prayed would change their minds from their threat of killing him.

  “There!” he said against the howl of the windstorm, flinging open the shed’s door which banged against the outside wall. All three hurriedly crammed into the enclosure. Jorge pulled the door shut and flipped on the one-bulbed light overhead.

  Once the tiny room was illuminated, the two older men squared-off in front of the younger one. Jorge had requested meeting on the island thinking more people would be around which unfortunately had turned out to be wrong. The shed, on such a bad-weather day, was the only private indoor refuge. It would have to work for their business transaction.

  “Where is it Kirchner?” Jack, the more brutish of the two men, demanded. He pulled a knife, keeping it close to his right leg.

  Jorge swallowed hard and answered. Making the mistake to address Jack, he didn’t realize it was Damon, Jack’s brother, who was the real threat in the room.

  “I don’t have it all but… but,” he stammered, his voice strained with fear. “I have a plan to get the rest.”

  “You owe us fifty-thousand euros, Kirchner. What have you got with you?” Jack snarled like a barely restrained wolf.

  Jorge quickly pulled a thick brown envelope from his coat and handed it to Damon who had let Jack manage the terrorizing and intimidation tactics. They liked to keep their job roles well-defined. Damon was the brains and Jack was the brawn.

  Damon counted the money. There was over ten thousand euros. He gave a trifling head gesture to Jack who countered it with a gut punch to Jorge’s mid-section, sending the young man against the shed’s wooden wall. Jorge crumpled to the floor with a moan.

  “When we let you borrow from us, Kirchner, you promised to repay us in less than six months. It’s been a year. I think my brother and I have been more than patient. How do you intend to get the rest of our money? Any ideas?” Damon asked in a polite business-like tone.

  Jorge sucked air into his lungs and panted until his diaphragm began to operate again with some consistency. To save his life he offered up the only bargaining chip he had left.

  “I may know where something,” he tried to breath, “something valuable is. Only my mother knows where it is might be. I’ll get it and bring it to you. You can sell it. I’ve read her diary. She thinks it's worth a lot of money.”

  Damon and Jack exchanged looks and shrugs. Their operation always kept an open door to opportunity. Again, Damon gave his brother the signal to indicate to Jorge the importance of not misleading them. Jack gave Jorge another kick to his middle. This time the only sound was a horrible ‘oomph’ and Jorge lay completely still. The standing pair waited for the one in a fetal position to answer. Nothing. Jack nudged the man on the floor, but there was no response.

  “I think he’s passed out,” Jack said.

  “I think you killed him,” Damon replied in an indifferent tone.

  They checked the lifeless body. Jorge was indeed dead. Best to get rid of the body. Either burning or dumping in water was the best way to remove any traces of their DNA being connected with the killing. Checking outside the door for any passersby, they took the body to one of the rowboats tied to a private dock not far from the farm shed and dropped Jorge into its bottom.

  Damon took out his thermos and poured out a warm cup of tea into the lid while watching Jack dowse the boat with gas they’d found in a container by the dock.

  “Should we wait until it gets dark?” Jack asked.

  Pulling out a paper cup from his pocket, Damon shook his head like he had been put upon to always think of everything for his brother.

  “No, better do it now.” He poured some of the hot, floral smelling tea into the cup and handed it to the beast of a man.

  “Here. Drink up. We need to get going. I’m cold,” he said, sipping the warm fluid.

  Somewhere inland, loud barking began and Damon instinctively guessed that soon they would have visitors, probably of the canine persuasion.

  “Light the damn thing and let’s go,” he commanded. They both threw their paper cups into the boat beside Jorge’s body.

  “I can’t get the matches to catch,” Jack growled back. “Everything’s wet.”

  “Give it to me.”

  The snow and sleet had made the matches soggy and neither man had a lighter. The barking was closing in on them.

  “Help me push the damn thing out into the water!” Damon yelled.

  Both men put their backs into the job and soon Jorge’s boat floated free from the dock. Damon and Jack were more interested in getting away from the scene than dwelling on how a corpse would look to the authorities once it showed up completely frozen on either Switzerland’s or Germany’s shores.

  Returning to the car, they saw the woman was out of a car and walking around, seemingly to stretch her legs. As they approached, she asked, “Where is he?”

  Damon shrugged.

  “It didn’t go like we thought. He’s dead. He did have some of the money though.”

  She stood there for a moment without expression. The sleet coming down in diagonal dashes hitting her hair and coat.

  “We’ll have to make it work,” she said finally. “It’s cold. I have something hot to drink in the car.”

  They all three sat in the woman’s car and divided up the money. After their business was finished, she opened up a thermos and poured a cup of the strong smelling tea, offering some to the men.

  Damon smelled the scent.

  “What kind is this?” he asked.

  “Darjeeling,” came her response. “Don’t come to Tübingen for a few months. I’ll need time. She's going to be upset. When I’m ready for you, I’ll call,” she said after finishing her drink. “Don’t use the phone. Meet me near the train station.”

  Once she was gone, the two brothers headed to their own car out across the bridge. It wasn’t necessary any longer to call each other Damon and Jack. They’d always used the aliases to keep anyone from connecting them to their crimes in America. Inside the car and beginning to thaw out from the warm heater, Haimon Keenes poured himself more tea from the thermos the woman had given them while Max drove.

  “Why do you drink that stuff, Haimon?” Max, his brother, asked.

  “I like it. Maybe I should ask why you had to over-use your foot and kill the goose who was about to tell us where the golden egg was hidden, Max?” Haimon asked rhetorically.

  His brother didn’t answer, but kept dri
ving with the windshield wipers slapping rhythmically back and forth, trying to rid the glass from the constant onslaught of snow and sleet.

  “Kirchner’s mother knows where something very valuable is, and I’m tired of running. If we don’t hear from the girl like she said, I’m going after Jorge's mother myself. The girl might double-cross us. Something about her tells me she’s not loyal.”

  The driver grunted and nodded. He always did what his brother, Haimon, told him to do. Haimon was Max’s only family and if there was one thing Max understood it was that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he wouldn’t do for Haimon… even if it meant killing someone.

  He’d done it so often for Haimon, it was like second nature. A bad nature to be true, but in his opinion, a loyal one.

  Chapter 12

  Healy House

  Present Day

  In spring, the wind can shift abruptly, changing a sunny day to one full of grey, ominous clouds that scud rapidly overhead. People seek the chair next to the fire, the cozy chat with an understanding friend and the comforts of hot tea, warm scones and delicious clotted cream to lift their flagging spirits.

  Helen and Martha walked with arms entwined towards the library. With George’s cologne still lingering in the air of the library like the remains of an unholy ghost, the girls entered the room and sat down at the tea table across from Alistair and Piers.

  “George is gone?” Piers asked.

  Helen heard a vein of annoyance running through his question which sounded like more of a statement than a question.

  Martha answered first. “Gone and good riddance! I think these anger management classes may have kept George’s left eye from needing makeup.”

  “What does an anger management class have to do with George Ryes’ left eye?” Alistair asked, with a marked amount of amusement in his voice

  Martha flicked her gaze at him and back to Helen who was sipping her tea, straight backed and with cool dignity.

  “Well, I’ve been threatened with incarceration, if I don’t quit man-handling murderers and lunatics,” Martha answered, her tone blasé while staring indifferently into the fire. She picked up her own cup and slumped back into her comfy chair. “What’s the point of knowing all these great moves, if you can’t practice occasionally on people like… well, if you don’t mind me saying so, Helen, like your ex-husband, George.”

  Helen shrugged and nodded in acknowledgment.

  Standing up, Piers walked over to the fire to throw another log into the crackling, happy blaze. Helen’s eyes watched him over the brim of her cup.

  “Personally, I would have liked to see him tossed off the front steps of Healy,” she said putting down her cup, “but even you with your Krav Maga techniques, Martha, couldn’t have budged George if he didn’t want to go and that’s what I’m worried about.”

  “What do you mean?” Piers asked from where he stood by the fireplace fender. The tightness of his jaw line told her he wouldn’t have minded using Krav Maga himself on her ex.

  Helen attempted an explanation.

  “If nothing else, George is tenacious,” she said in an even tone. “He usually gets whatever he wants. He will stick to it until he has it. He’s left Fiona, and he says he wants to come back home. When I didn’t throw open my arms to that, he insinuated he wanted half of our client list. I’d say George is in need of money. His next stop will be a solicitor. I’ve always felt he left England with Fiona too quickly. It was, at the time, like he was running…away.”

  Piers’ and Helen’s eyes locked. She’d never seen malice in those blue eyes, but it flashed there now.

  Martha reached for the decanter of sherry sitting where Chef Agosto had put it on the teacart. She poured an indifferent amount into a Waterford tulip glass and sipped it thoughtfully.

  “George sounds like he’s been up to some dirty shenanigans,” she offered.

  No one spoke.

  “Besides,” Martha continued, “let’s not dwell on this for now. Focus on the positive. We’ve a wonderful time planned in London for your dress fitting in a couple of days and then there’s the Germany trip.”

  “Piers mentioned your trip. Is it Stuttgart?” Alistair asked, suddenly joining the conversation.

  “Yes,” Helen answered. “We’ve been invited to talk with Heinrich Gotts about the upcoming auction for the Shakespeare manuscript. I haven’t been to Stuttgart for at least five years. I’m looking forward to it. I’m taking Martha to my favorite restaurant. It’s in a village called Höfingen.”

  “There’s a schloss there with a wonderful restaurant. I believe it has a three star Michelin rating,” Piers said, rejoining the conversation. He appeared to have his thoughts and feelings back in order and turned away from the fireplace to sit back down with the other three. Reaching over, he took Helen’s hand and kissed the top of it softly.

  Lifting his delicate tulip glass to propose a toast, he said, squeezing his bride-to-be’s hand and said, “Helen, Martha, Alistair, may this wedding be the bright start for a fresh beginning and may we each find the truth and the love that gives us peace.”

  “Here! Here!” they cheerfully responded and clinking their glasses together, they communally sealed Piers’ petition with a sip of wine.

  Chapter 13

  St. Paul, Minnesota

  April

  Tom Lawrence, finished with packing his suitcase, sat down on his bed and stared out through his apartment’s bedroom window. It seemed a miracle to be going to the other side of the world on the invitation of a woman who believed she might know how to find his father.

  Annalena Kirchner had contacted him out of the blue saying that she was looking for the son of Patricia Keenes. It had only been a few months since he, himself, had finally learned the complete truth of his mother’s death. A local church near Emerson, Manitoba, had arranged for him to come and they held a service for her. The entire experience had brought back so many memories, some he’d believed were only nightmares from childhood. Come to find out, they’d been actual experiences.

  The authorities held no hope out that Tom’s father and uncle would be found. Since no one had any photographs to put on the FBI’s wanted sheets, bringing the two men to any form of justice may have become a moot point with the police, but not for Tom.

  He was going to Germany to meet another victim of Haimon and Max’s psychopathy. Annalena Kirchner had lost a son and she, too, had been told the police had reached a dead end but she wasn’t giving up. Her desire for justice had planted a seed in Tom and he was ready to put some ghosts to rest.

  As he turned the key in his apartment’s front door and headed down to the taxi waiting for him in the street below, he thought about what his adopted mother, Eloise, told him all those years ago. The right time had come. All things done by man circle back on themselves sooner or later.

  Chapter 14

  The Traveller’s Inn

  Marsden-Lacey

  “What’ll you have, Clark?” Johns asked Perigrine as the two men worked themselves into one of the more private booths of the old inn. The Traveller’s was the quintessential English pub. Low dark beams with two burning fireplaces at different ends of the multi-roomed public house and a convivial publican and his wife who understood the value of community and hospitality. On any given night, no matter the weather or the calendar, The Traveller’s always had a cheerful, homey feeling for the considerable numbers of guests who crossed its threshold.

  “Give me a Guinness,” Perigrine replied, making himself comfortable in a corner where he could best see the movements of the bar’s patrons.

  Johns soon returned with his own Fuller’s Porter and put Perigrine’s foamy, chocolate-colored drink in front of him and sat down. Taking a long swig from his own glass, Perigrine waited to hear the chief’s reason for inviting him out tonight.

  “When you and Alistair worked on the constabulary’s gardens you were still prisoners,” Johns began, “and there’s going to be an audit conducted to ascer
tain if operating funds were misused.”

  Perigrine nodded once. He had already seen the lay of the land, but Johns continued.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong except use your free labor. All the monies came from either the constabulary’s discretionary fund or the annual fundraisers. I think it’s more a question of,” Johns looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was to close to hear his next statement, “of certain politically motivated people seeing something they want for themselves and having the right connections to see it through.”

  “Why come to me?” Perigrine asked. Johns would be watching his initial expression. You don’t get to be DCI, without having a natural instinct for people’s responses. Perigrine waited.

  “I need someone no one will suspect to look into why the commissioner wants our building. I think the audit is trumped up and, if they can, they’ll move our entire office to work out of Leeds.” Johns finished and took another drink from his glass. He never took his eyes off Perigrine’s face.

  There’d been numerous times since Alistair and Perigrine’s incarceration at the Marsden-Lacey jail that Johns had tried to learn more about their previous work experience. They knew he’d requested information but his enquires had led to dead ends. For the last five years, they’d managed to stay out of the way and off the grid, living their lives free from the machinations of social, political and even military upheavals.

  The years of working in one of Britain’s top secret service agencies meant Perigrine and Alistair knew it was critical to never share information about themselves. This always led to complications and sometimes deadly ones at that. He had to make a decision. A new loyalty had sprung up for the place he called home, the people he’d grown to care about and the love for his work.

  “Why me, Merriam?” he asked.

  The two men considered each other.

  “I’ve always thought you might have the amateur detective about you,” Johns offered. The statement was delivered in a casual way. Perigrine knew the cut of a man and Merriam Johns was a truly good one. He’d gone to bat for Perigrine and Alistair to keep them from having to go to a much bigger and more institutionalized prison. At the time, they’d only been living in Marsden-Lacey less than a year. Johns had given them a home. Sure, he’d asked questions about their past but had always contended that they were good men.