Death Drinks Darjeeling (A Helen and Martha Cozy Mystery Book 4)
Page 10
“I was starving!” Helen mumbled through a mouthful of croissant.
“You look renewed,” Martha observed. “Feeling better?”
“I am. I’ve got a plan to beat George.”
But before she answered, Heinrich’s show started.
“Oh my God, I need to lose weight!” Martha cried from her bed as she continued to eat the krautschupfnudeln, a hot, buttery noodle dish with tiny bits of ham, potatoes and sauerkraut, she’d ordered from the hotel’s menu. They watched the entire segment.
“Oh this is the good part, Helen, at the end. Heiny, that’s what he ask that I call him from now on, asks for the audience to give us his signature ‘Heiny's WooHoo’ for being heroes.”
Now it was Helen’s turn to roll her eyes.
“That man asked me to meet him in Cannes next week,” she said cringing, her tone full of disgust.
“He did? Why? Was it to attend the film festival? Oh, Helen, you should go. Can I go with you?” Martha asked, her mouth full of schupfnudeln.
“I’m getting married, remember? Besides, your Heiny is a scoundrel and when you weren’t looking, he tried to peep down your shirt.”
Martha shrugged, lay backward onto her bed and put her forearm over her eyes. “Helen, I’m a bit disillusioned. I’m not surprised by jackass George’s sneaky attempt to steel the business, but Heinrich Gotts totally fooled me. He seemed so friendly and nice.”
The phone rang, saving Helen from having to find something to say in response.
“Yes, this is Helen Ryes. Would you please describe it to me? Oh, my, that would be something we’d very much like to see. Tonight? I’m not sure. Would you give me a moment, please?”
Helen covered her phone’s microphone.
“It’s an older woman who saw us tonight on Heinrich’s show and found our number on our website. She was once a curator for a prominent library in France and believes she has a, get ready,” Helen said excitedly, but so the woman on the other end of the phone couldn’t hear, “one of Leonardo’s manuscripts.”
“What?” Martha exhaled the one word question forcefully.
“She wants us to come by tonight. It’s actually not very far only about ten or fifteen minutes. She’s leaving for Copenhagen early in the morning and wants our opinion tonight. If it’s the real deal, we’ll return to England with it and broker a sale. Martha, if it’s what the woman thinks it is, it's beyond valuable. Between the commission from the Shakespeare and this, we wouldn’t have to worry about money for a very long time.”
“You do know you’re marrying a man who’s a millionaire, right?” Martha asked dryly.
Ignoring the comment, Helen’s expression clouded and she added, “There’s the George question of course, but we should still go see what this woman thinks she has. Do you want to go?”
Martha hurriedly nodded her assent to go that evening and Helen returned to the phone call.
“What is your address? Yes, I have it. We should be able to meet you at seven o’clock at your home. Will that be an acceptable time for you? Fine. See you then.”
Helen tapped ‘end’ and threw her hands up into the air over her head.
“What do you think about that?” she asked, smiling ear to ear.
“Get dressed, buddy,” Martha said, jumping up from her nest among the pillows, “and keep your fingers crossed. It’s time to get to work.” She began rifling through her suitcase for something to wear. “Mama needs a new pair of shoes.”
Helen glided into the bathroom to get dressed and called out to Martha right before the door shut, “If this manuscript is what Mrs. Kirchner thinks it is, you can make that shoe order with Louis.”
“Louis?” Martha asked, trying to pull a bulky sweater over her head.
“Yeah Louis,” Helen said sticking her head back out of the door with a feisty smile on her face. “You know the guy?” She said playfully. “His last name is Vuitton.”
Martha grinned from ear to ear at the name so beloved by so many women.
“No, I’ve never had the pleasure of his acquaintance, but I’m sure we’d get along famously!”
Chapter 22
Marsden-Lacey
Garden-Centre
Alistair Turner lifted the pot lid gingerly. A waft of delicious scent bore aloft by hot steam escaped immediately. As Alistair breathed in the enticing aroma, a blissful, half-drunk looking smile drifted across his face.
“You are my one true love,” he whispered into the pot as he caressed the bubbling contents with a wooden spoon. “When I die, I pray, I’m greeted in Heaven by an angel offering you to me.”
“Cooing at the French pork stew, again?” Perigrine asked brightly, as he descended the stairs into the kitchen. “Better stop peeking or you’ll grump later about the flavor.”
The heavy lid was reapplied and Alistair turned around to see Perigrine dressed in a black turtleneck sweater, black pants and carrying his tool kit.
“Going out tonight?” he asked.
“Thought I might,” Perigrine said, digging through his kit to lay out a flashlight, a metal trolley, a collapsible crossbow, steel arrows and a cable.
Alistair noted the time on the wall clock, seven-thirty. The sun was completely gone.
“I wonder if you might be interested in a wager?” he asked, causing Perigrine to lift his head and regard Alistair with curiosity.
“Perhaps. It depends on what we’re competing for,” he said, putting all the tools into the tight sack and zipping it closed.
“It appears you’ve accepted a… job.”
“More like a favor,” Perigrine countered.
“Okay, a favor,” Alistair conceded and continued, “I, too, have a small favor to perform. Why don’t we say that whoever finishes their task first drives the last leg of the race at Le Mans?”
Perigrine slung the knapsack onto his back and, sticking a piece of the crusty French bread into his mouth, he offered a crooked smile and his hand for Alistair to seal the deal. In an uncharacteristic act, he talked with his mouth half full.
“You’ve been trying for two months to work a deal where you get to be the driver who crosses the finish line. If this will settle the question, I’m up for it, too. I’ll be back in the morning. Don’t wait up.”
Once the door shut behind Perigrine, Alistair said, “I won’t and with any luck, I’ll be home before you.” He turned off the gas under the French stew and, with an easy fluidity to his movements, put the pot in the refrigerator and let himself out of the back door into the chilly spring night.
Chapter 23
Tübingen, Germany
“This is the place,” Helen said as she turned off the car they’d borrowed from the hotel’s night manager. “Very quaint, isn’t it? I feel like we should break off a bit and eat it, don’t you?”
The old half-timbered house looked like something Hansel and Gretel would have happily called home. Like a Black Forest cuckoo clock, Annalena Kirchner’s cottage with its low, sloping roof, white waddle and daub front might have easily been the clockmaker’s inspiration. Already the spring planting of the quintessential red geraniums were beginning to peek over the edge of the green-painted flower boxes found at every window.
The girls got out of the car and pushed through the wooden gate and into a tidy front garden where even the crushed limestone walkway looked like it had been given a fresh sweeping that day. A solid brass lion’s head door knocker, polished to perfection, gleamed in the overhead entry light’s soft glow. Martha lifted the head and let it drop twice.
“I kind of half expect to see Snow White or the Wicked Witch open the door,” she said in a whisper, while giving Helen a playful grin.
The heavy, wooden door slowly creaked open upon its hinges and both women couldn’t help feeling a shiver of excitement to see what or who would be revealed. To their relief, it was a slender, young woman with dark hair who came into view.
Shyly smiling, she asked with a hint of hope, “Mrs. Ryes?”
“No, my name is Cara. I’m Mrs. Kirchner’s secretary.”
Opening the door wide, she said graciously, “Come in, bitte.”
As they followed Cara into the low-beamed hall, Martha nudged Helen and mouthed the words, “Snow White.” Helen gave her a low-lidded, exasperated look in response.
The short hall opened into a cozy living area resembling something out of a children’s fairy tale picture book. It was a jewel box of German craftsmanship. Honey-colored wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling with creamy white plaster in between them. Delicate stencils in bright greens, ochres and earthy reds were painted along the edges of the millwork and as decorative medallions around ceiling lights. The floors were made of hand-hewn wooden planks of enormous width and every window was paned with round crown glass.
Taking the two seats Cara indicated for them, they couldn’t help feeling like two Little Red Riding Hoods come to visit Grandmother’s house.
“If you would please wait here, Mrs. Kirchner will be with you in a moment.” Cara smiled sweetly and disappeared into another room.
“Don’t say it,” Helen said. She looked over at the bright-eyed mischievous face of her friend, who only raised her eyebrows and whispered back, “Who’s that nibbling at my house?”
As if on cue, the door reopened and a diminutive, elderly lady came through the door being pushed in a wheelchair by Cara.
“Good evening, I’m Annalena Kirchner,” she said, her English perfect. “I’m so grateful you were willing to come on short notice. I’m so pleased to meet you both.”
Cara left and quickly returned carrying a substantial tray holding a torte-type of cake, an elegant silver pot emitting a wonderful smell and four pristine white china cups with matching saucers. She situated the torte slices onto plates and arranged the other items onto the low table between them. Soon, plates were offered to them which they accepted while Annalena chatted about how much she enjoyed watching Heinrich Gotts’ program that evening.
“Thank you,” Helen said graciously. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mrs. Kirchner. Your home is so beautiful. May I ask what year it was built?”
“Doctor Peter Reiss, a French Huguenot, came here in 1602 and started his practice. He built the house.”
“Reiss? How like your own name, Helen,” Martha said.
Helen nodded saying, “That is a funny coincidence.”
“Yes, Dr. Reiss, lived up to his name,” Annalena said thoughtfully.
“In what way?” Helen asked.
“Well, you know, Reiss means ‘courage’ and Dr. Reiss, when the plague hit in 1617, needed a great deal of courage. Being a physician, he worked tirelessly seeing to those afflicted with the plague. Hundreds died and he was a source of succor to the sick and, by his own account, one of the first to begin to see a need for cleanliness in dealing with the disease. Of course, he later died from contracting the disease himself.”
Annalena waved off his death like it was to be expected from dallying with the Black Death. Helen and Martha’s eyes met. Helen’s own courage was being sorely tested of late, too.
“I’m eager to see your manuscript, Mrs. Kirchner. Do you have it with you?” Helen enthusiastically asked.
The older woman put her cup down into its saucer and appeared to weigh her next words before beginning.
“Simply put, the answer is no,” she said evenly.
The two Americans exchanged uncertain looks.
“You see, I do believe, however, that I know where it is and I need you to retrieve it for me,” Annalena said without missing a beat.
“Mrs. Kirchner, on the phone you said you had a Leonardo da Vinci manuscript,” Martha said gently.
With firmness in her voice, Annalena answered, “I do. I’ve spent my entire career hunting it down. You see I was a curator of fine and rare manuscripts at the Bibliothèque nationale de France and I’ve studied the history of the lost manuscripts. At one time, during the aftermath of the nineteenth century revolutions, the Bibliothèque lost many rare works to thieves. During my years there, I traced the loss of the Leonardo manuscripts and I believe I know where one particular work may be.”
“Where?” Helen asked.
“In the middle of the nineteenth century an auction took place in London of the master thief, Count Libri’s collection. He was known to have stolen multiple works by Leonardo from the Bibliothèque, and during the auction, I believe one was sold. I’ve narrowed it down to two possible purchasers from that sale.”
Neither Martha nor Helen were sure how to proceed, but it was Martha, with her years of working as a paralegal with lawyers, who began the cross-examination.
“So, to be clear, you don’t have the manuscript with you? Why exactly do you need us to locate it for you?”
Not seeming to be offended by the directness of Martha’s question, Annalena answered, “I’ve tried multiple times. The places I believe the manuscript to be are not places I’m physically able to go to.” She indicated the chair with a slight wave of her hand. “I’ve thought about sending Cara. She’s asked numerous times, but she’s trained to be a secretary and might never recognize it. For many years, I’ve considered different colleagues as possible options, but I never felt confident in their integrity. We’re talking about an impossibly large amount of money.”
Annalena shrugged, and lifting her cup, took a sip of the steaming chocolate.
“Why us?” Martha pushed on. “How do you know we have any integrity?”
“Simply because you’ve got all the qualities no one else had: expertise, fearlessness and by the looks of you,” she turned to Helen, “plenty of integrity.”
Helen took a deep breath, spread her hands and placed them upon each knee. “Mrs. Kirchner, I believe tonight’s television show may have been misleading in some ways.” She shot a stern ‘I told you so’ look in Martha’s direction. “Mrs. Littleword and I are not treasure hunters like it may have sounded. Our business is in assessment, conservation, remediation and brokering fine and rare works on paper. This request of yours sounds like a job for someone else maybe an attorney or the police.”
Mrs. Kirchner put her cup down and leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she held Helen in her gaze.
“You are a fool,” she said crisply.
Helen indignantly snapped back, “I beg your pardon?”
“I said you are a fool if you don’t consider taking this on and I cannot be certain it will be there in another week, if someone doesn’t search for it now. The police are going to disregard this and even Interpol isn’t going to take me seriously, because there hasn’t been a crime. Besides there may be lives at risk and…” She hesitated but steadied herself and went on saying, “I can’t go to the police with this. It has to be someone I can trust privately to find it, and do exactly what I say with the manuscript.”
Martha put her dainty cup and saucer down firmly and lost the tone of civil gentility in her voice. She sounded more like she was asking for correct change from a sneaky weeny vendor when she said, “You’d better come clean, Mrs. Kirchner. It feels like you’ve got something to hide or you’re involved in something messy.”
Annalena’s mouth compressed into a hard line. Cara reached over and put her hand on the older woman’s forearm. This gentle gesture of support appeared to give Annalena the encouragement she needed to continue.
“It’s been in the last year that I’ve narrowed the search down to what I believe are the two most likely places that the manuscript will be found. If I’d gone to the authorities with this knowledge, they’d have laughed me out of their offices. Besides, Sabine, my daughter-in-law, and I need the money. My son, Jorge, ruined me financially. All I ask, is if you find it, to return it to the Bibliothèque nationale de France with the request that they share ownership with the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana, in Milan, its original home. We would split the finder’s fee three ways.”
The girls sat quietly. After
a brief time, it was Helen who asked, “Why did you say there may be lives at risk? Is someone else searching for it? And who is the third party?”
“Last night Sabine, my daughter-in-law was followed by a man as she left the train station. He almost had her, but luckily a group of people intervened. That same night, I received a letter demanding I write out the location of the manuscript. It stated that if I didn’t answer, there would be some sort of retaliation. We told the police about the letter, but when they asked about the manuscript, I said I had no idea what it meant. I need the money from the finder’s fee. Whoever is after the manuscript wants my notes. I think Jorge must have told the worst kind of people about my work as a way to save his own life. It didn’t work and I believe they killed him.”
Helen and Martha were quiet for a long moment.
“These must be dangerous people. Are you intending to give them a third of the finder’s fee?” Martha asked gravely. “How will you be able to stay here without police protection?”
Annalena nodded. “I’m not staying here. We’re going to Copenhagen tomorrow to stay with an old friend of mine. We will be safe there. If you find the manuscript, we will use it as a way to catch them. They will pay for their crime of killing my son. As for the third party, when we find the manuscript, the current owner should receive recompense.”
She sat quietly for a moment and continued, “Mrs. Ryes, you and your colleague would be famous and the notoriety from such a find would catapult you into a lofty league of experts, not to mention a level of celebrity most people only dream of for their life’s work. I believe the manuscript, if it’s in one of the two places I’ve narrowed the search down to, is completely unknown to the owners. It may even be in such a state of deterioration, that if something isn’t done soon, it will be lost forever.”
“What if once we find it, the owners don’t want to part with it?” Martha asked.
“They will and by law they must. Both estates or families are in a deficit situation financially. I’ve done my research. Many times in the last months I’ve tried to make contact with the remaining family members or even house staff and each time the answer has been that they’ve found nothing in their collections, libraries, family attics, bank deposit boxes. In short they think I’m daft, but when I have been able to speak with someone, they’ve indicated they would be grateful for this kind of windfall.”