“Yes, ma petite,” the much older woman replied, putting down her electronic tablet. She briefly let her eyes rest on the young face across from her and smiled with the tenderness of a mother for a daughter.
And legally that was what they were, but only through marriage. Annalena was Sabine’s mother-in-law. Her son, Jorge, had married Sabine fresh out of university but it didn’t last. Jorge’s gift for finding trouble had dealt him his final hand. His death had come as a crushing blow to the young bride of only three years. As a mother, Annalena, had tried in every way to put her son on a strong path to success, but Jorge had always looked for the quick fix, the fast money or the easy out. In the end, she loved him and he was her child. That was all that she could do.
When they found Jorge’s body in a boat floating on Lake Constance in the early morning of a terrifically cold day last February, Annalena’s heart had broken. The police officer had asked her to identify the body and she, along with Sabine, had gone down to the morgue. A deep, soul penetrating numbness had enveloped them both and over time it had receded incrementally, leaving Annalena and Sabine with a heightened awareness of how much they needed each other.
Jorge had died from a blunt force trauma to his stomach. The killer had intended to burn the body, but must have been frightened away and left Jorge in a boat, setting it adrift. The only clue as to who might have killed him were two paper cups found beside his body with tea leaves the forensic officer had said were Jasmine.
Jorge had never been interested in drinking tea, not if whiskey could be found. The forensic team hadn’t found fingerprints, but they did have a DNA sample from the cup. Unfortunately, there wasn't a match to the DNA in the system and because millions of people drink Jasmine, it turned out to be a dead end.
Annalena and Sabine stayed together. Sabine was the daughter Annalena had always wanted and Annalena, the mother Sabine needed. Neither one had anybody else to go to. They’d become very close. Over the last couple of months Annalena's search for answers about who had killed her son had led her to of all places, America. Another victim of the murderers was the young man named Tommy. He’d lost his mother at their hands and he’d come to Germany to meet Annalena. She’d offered him a place to stay while they tried to find Patricia Keenes’ killers and he accepted.
“What are those two women talking about with Heinrich Gotts?” Annalena asked, reaching for the television remote control and pushing up the volume. Annalena liked to match people up with their movie star look alike. It gave her a sense of connection with her past.
“They look different in some way,” she said, studying the two women closely. “The redhead reminds me of that lively actress from the thirties, Joan Blondell, even though she’s not a blonde and she’s got more meat on her bones. The other one is a Hedy Lamarr, cool, composed and elegant. Probably a snobbish type, but conscientious and honest.”
Intrigued now to see if Heinrich’s guests’ personalities measured up to her assessment, Annalena turned up the volume again while Sabine stood up yawning.
“Okay, I’ll make some hot chocolate. Come on Tom. Help me in the kitchen,” Sabine said.
The young man tossed his paper on to a stack of others and followed the pretty, young woman. “Do we have some of the cake still?” he asked, his voice hopeful.
“I think so,” Sabine said as they disappeared into another part of the house.
Voices from the television filled the living area with the increase in volume.
Annalena didn’t see them leave. Her entire focus was on the two women being interviewed by the splashy talk show host.
They were talking about an exciting find. A lost play by William Shakespeare had been found in an old library somewhere in England. Annalena leaned in to hear better. This was her kind of story.
Hedy Lamar, or the brunette with impeccable taste in clothes, was answering Heinrich about how the play was buried in a forgotten library not far from where Shakespeare lived in Stratford-upon-Avon.
“Mrs. Ryes,” Heinrich was saying, “you and your colleague, Mrs. Littleword, are both Americans, correct?”
Helen and Martha smiled and exchanged quick glances, but it was Helen who answered.
“Yes, we met only last summer, but our working arrangement is well suited to our talents and interests. Mrs. Littleword and I are both from the US. In fact, we are both from the same state, Arkansas, but married English men and have lived in England for many years.”
Heinrich nodded with enthusiasm and turned his attention to Martha who, from her expression, was enjoying every minute of her first television interview.
“Mrs. Littleword, when we spoke earlier back stage, you mentioned your work may sometimes be dangerous. Would you mind explaining?”
If Heinrich’s viewers had known Helen better, they would have seen the momentary tightness play at the corners of her mouth. She swerved her head slowly towards Martha who was smiling brightly and looking every bit like someone about to give Heinrich’s audience what they so eagerly wanted… a bit of shock and awe.
Helen smiled weakly as Martha drew breath to begin what was likely to be her gothic version of their near death experience during their night in the lime kiln at Greenwoods.
“Well, Heinrich,” she began in a confidential-gossipy way, guaranteeing that everyone at home was searching desperately for the volume button on their remote controls.
“Helen and I escaped what most likely was to be a fiery death last Christmas after being abducted by a homicidal lunatic from a parking garage in London’s Piccadilly Circus.”
Heinrich’s eyebrows shot up twice at the mention of “fiery death” and “homicidal lunatic”. The show’s producer, knowing when he had an opportunity at a ratings boom, asked for a quick tight-angle on Martha’s face.
“We were spirited away to a lonely, ancient manor house and dragged into a dark, abandoned lime kiln. The snow was thick on the ground, Heinrich, and we were close to freezing. No one knew where we were and our only hope was for a miracle. Our would-be murderer intended to…” Martha paused for effect. The television screen tightened more intensely on her face as Heinrich’s anticipation for the finale was heard in his sudden intake of breath off camera.
“Burn us alive!” Martha said, making her final three words staccato, her voice raspy and thrilling at the same time.
The studio audience came alive with gasps and exclamations of wonder, horror and yes, even pleasure.
“Mrs. Ryes,” Heinrich blurted with astonishment and turning his attention back to Helen. His joy radiating across his face reflected his inner knowledge of how good this episode was going to look at tomorrow’s board meeting regarding the continuation of his contract. “How did you escape?” he gushed.
Helen looked a bit astonished herself and her mouth opened, but for a second it appeared she was having difficulty finding the right words.
“I… I… We, I mean, managed to access a door with the help of our abductor’s henchman, I mean henchwoman, and crawled through a low hatch to the outside,” she said in an almost robotic tone.
Then quickly changing the subject, she said, “We did end up finding the lost play…”
But Heinrich wasn’t buying her angle and besides he wanted to finally have that house in Cannes he’d been eyeing for the last two years. It all depended on ratings. The only way he was going to pull the first off was to punch up the second, so he turned his attention back to Martha who was looking particularly pleased with the effect her story was having on Heinrich and his studio audience.
“Mrs. Littleword, after you freed yourself from the pit, did you have to fight off the madman who wanted to kill you?”
One corner of Martha’s mouth turned up into a mischievous smile and a charming dimple appeared.
“Heinrich, I don’t know if I should even tell the rest of the story. It can be a bit frightening and I don’t want to upset anyone in your audience or the good people at home,” she said in a concerned tone.
; As for Heinrich, he could have kissed her. This was the stuff that made vacation houses in Cannes a reality.
“Oh, Mrs. Littleword,” he said solicitously, “I think my viewers want to know how two brave women survived a terrifying ordeal.” He turned to look beseechingly out at his audience, who responded in the affirmative with a torrent of excited applause.
Martha, taking her cue and deliberately ignoring Helen’s stiff upper lip, plunged into the fray. Her intonation was one of breathless suspense.
“Once we climbed through a moldy tunnel, we came to an ancient shed of sorts. As we looked around, we saw fresh wood stacked up into the furnace. It was obvious the lunatic was going to fricassee us, Heinrich.”
The talk show host leaned in, nodded eagerly and made sympathetic, but encouraging facial expressions.
“Helen and I made a plan. We hid together on either side of the door and when he came in,” Martha paused, then making a gesture of smacking her fist into her other hand, “we cold cocked him!”
The audience and Heinrich made exciting exclamations, causing Martha’s eyes to twinkle with joy. She pushed on.
“I don’t agree with violence, of course, but one must protect oneself. Don’t you agree?” she asked looking out into the audience.
Heinrich nodded righteously and the crowd shouted their approval.
“Well,” she continued. “Helen tied his arms and legs. She was marvelously brave. Once we had him neatly restrained, the police showed up and took the psychopath into custody. It was something we’ll never forget,” Martha said demurely, “will we Helen?”
Helen nodded mechanically with an awkward smile and turned to look at Heinrich whose expression confirmed his belief in a ratings blowout success.
The audience applauded with gusto and Heinrich turned to his main camera and said with a brilliant, bleached smile that they would be back after a commercial break.
Annalena leaned back into her comfortable chair and after a brief moment of inner reflection picked up a notepad on the table beside her and scribbled down two names: Helen Ryes and Martha Littleword.
“They’ll do nicely,” she said softly. “In fact they are perfect, absolutely perfect.”
Chapter 21
Stuttgart, Germany
“That was cathartic! Thrilling! I think we were a real hit, Helen,” Martha gushed as she and Helen finally broke free from Heinrich and his studio crew’s congratulations at being such incredible guests.
The show taped in the afternoon, would be aired that evening and the girls were heading to the hotel to watch from the comfort of their beds. Heinrich’s producer walked them to the car and asked if they might be willing to come back again as a reoccurring special interest segment having to do with art, antiques and valuable works on paper. Helen smiled politely and said they would consider the idea.
A chauffeur opened the door of their Mercedes limo and they slid into the back. Helen wasn’t forthcoming with any sort of agreement to Martha’s earlier enthusiastic proclamation regarding their first media success. Instead, the stoic brunette sat perfectly quiet until the privacy glass panel was raised and the car was buzzing along the autobahn. Sensing a storm was brewing, Martha couldn’t stand it anymore.
“You must be in a tiff, Helen, because you’re not speaking. Get it off your chest.” Martha said.
Helen started her sentence stiffly, but built to a full-out attack. “You made us look like two unprofessional nitwits who ought to be anything but experts in a field that requires decorum, dignity and above all, respectability. Our professional reputation is completely shot! We’ve become the Lucy and Ethel of the rare manuscript world.”
“Helen, I never signed up to be some hoity-toity, pretentious snit. I thought it went marvelously. You can be such a…” Martha stopped short.
“A what?” Helen demanded.
Looking her full in the face, Martha said, “A prig. A snotty, prissy PRIG!”
Helen’s screwed up her mouth into a tight, pursed pucker and let loose. “I’m a prig? At least I’m not some hot-tempered, self-righteous know-it-all! You don’t see me tossing our business into the toilet by giving the entire world some kind of salacious, gothic version of one tiny, inconsequential event.”
Martha stared at Helen, her jaw dropped open.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! We nearly died in that hellhole and you’ve managed to make it sound like we went flower picking. You should be proud of what we did.”
“You know what,” Helen came back, but this time with an intense ferocity in her own spirit, causing Martha to steel herself for the blast. “I am proud of it, but I don’t want to share myself and my experiences with every person in the known world. I like my life to be private, not some sideshow for people to get their jollies. Don’t you know that about me by now? And you should know it, you really should. If you cared about me, you wouldn’t take me for granted. You wouldn’t walk all over me and expect me to always be good, little Helen, the one who always has to do the right thing, has to forgive and forget everyone else's screw ups. Always!”
Her voice had started low but crescendoed until at the end, she was almost screaming. Her fist was clinched and she was pounding it on the seat beside her. Martha had never seen her so enraged. As Helen’s last word finished ricocheting around the car’s cab, both women sat stock still, gaping at one another. Stunned into an atypical silence, Martha felt another sting of shock when Helen did a complete reversal and broke down into a sobbing mess.
Martha knew she had a problem with foresight, and felt terrible at what she’d done. She whispered, “I’m so sorry, Helen,” and she tried to reach over to touch Helen’s shoulder only to have a negative flinching response in return for her effort.
“Helen, I am sorry. You’re right. I didn’t think about you. I wanted… to give a bit of razzmatazz to everyone. I got caught up in the excitement. You’re right, I don’t think, but you have to know I would never want to hurt you. Never.”
Martha finished and was quiet. Helen stopped crying and, pulling out a handkerchief from her purse, blew into it violently and wiped her eyes, but didn’t speak.
Very softly, Martha said, “I know you’re mad at me, but perhaps that outburst is also about something other than what happened in the studio tonight? I get the feeling this has more to do with…”
“I’m terrified,” Helen interjected, whispering more into her hanky than to Martha. “George’s old attorney’s ex-wife called me right before we left. Brandi’s a friend of mine and she told me George had been talking to our old solicitor, Mitchell Oxney. Mitchell told her that George wants to revisit the verbal agreement he made to me about the business. He did just what he said he would and went to talk to a solicitor.”
Helen turned red, angry eyes on Martha.
“It’s like he wants to take the last thing that has always given me a sense of who I was, the one thing I had left when he ran off with a girl half my age. I feel like he’s come back to take our consulting business we’ve built and I… I…” she hesitated.
A look of confusion fought with some kind of dawning truth. As it took form, Helen knew what she wanted.
“For once in my life, I want to be like you and punch him right in the face and tell him to go back to Hell.”
Martha sunk back into the leather seat at a loss for words for the second time in five minutes. Once she was able to speak again, she said, “Not Hell, Helen. Florida. He needs to go back to Florida.”
“What’s the difference? They’re both hot and that’s not the point. Did you hear me?” Helen asked. “George has every intention of taking half of our business. Probably the best half. In the divorce settlement, his only request was that he’d be able to have half of our clients which until now, he’d shown no interest in whatsoever. All I’ve been able to think about for the last day is how to save it from him. With what you and I have brought to the company in the last year, he stands to gain substantially. That dirty, filthy…”
�
��Human crap ball,” Martha suggested, insinuating herself into Helen’s rant.
“Yeah, that crap ball,” Helen agreed and laughed through her handkerchief, “has managed to ruin my dress fitting, make me second guess my upcoming marriage to the most wonderful man on the planet because of my family and…”
“And?” Martha repeated.
“AND, he’s going to probably get half of the money we’ll make from brokering the play by Shakespeare.”
Helen sniffed and wiped her eyes.
“Getting angry isn’t going to fix it, Helen. We’ve got to get a plan together.”
Sounding dismayed, Helen said, “Those classes are really working. You're actually keeping your cool.”
“This is war. He’s going to play dirty so we’ve got to be smart. We should be getting our own solicitor.”
“I’ll ask Piers if he can suggest someone. The only one I have is Mitchell. Maybe Phillip Westmorland.”
“Good. It’s a start,” Martha said as the limo stopped in front of the hotel. “Looks like we’re here.”
As the sun was beginning to sink, the car came to a stop in front of a tall, medieval building made of stone and timber framing. Soon they were in their room and Martha had made Helen take a warm bath with lots of lavender smelling bath salts, a white washcloth over her eyes and her favorite spa music playing on a hamburger-sized, portable speaker compliments of the hotel.
They’d made a plan to watch the show that evening over room service.
“Bring up two of those croissants, some of the krautschupfnudelin, and a pot of hot chocolate, bitte” Martha said, using the German 'thank you’ to the hotel’s room service receptionist.
When the porter arrived and had settled the tray on a round table, Martha snatched up one of the croissants and turned on the television.
“Dinner’s here! The show’s about to start,” she called to Helen.
Surprisingly, the bathtub diva was quick to wrap herself in a terry cloth bathrobe and be seated before Martha finished pouring the delicious smelling cocoa.
Death Drinks Darjeeling (A Helen and Martha Cozy Mystery Book 4) Page 9