“She emailed me again last night.”
“Who?”
“Rita Brouwer. Her nephew scanned in five of the letters her dad sent her mother when they were in Venlo. They were heartbreaking to read; Philip Verbeet obviously loved his family. I can’t believe he would have taken the money and started a new life somewhere else, like Huub seems to think,” Zelda paused momentarily, almost tearing up remembering the tender words Philip had written to his wife and children.
She cleared her throat and changed the subject to keep her emotions in check. “I don’t think they’re going to help her claim though. In one he does write that he’s found the perfect place to store them, just as Rita said. But he doesn’t mention any names, and never explains where he got the ten thousand guldens from – only that he’d spent it. However, she did stumble upon another letter that might prove her father knew Arjan van Heemsvliet, at least casually.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her mother had written to several friends and acquaintances after the war, asking if her father stayed with them during the summer of 1942 or stored any art or supplies with them. Rita found the letter her mom mailed to Arjan van Heemsvliet, only because it had been returned as undeliverable. It’s not much, but it does indicate the two families knew each other.”
A whoosh of wings and screeching calls drowned out Friedrich’s answer as a flock of ring-necked parakeets passed low over the picnicking public and landed in a maple tree behind them, the same tree a group of French tourists were barbequing under.
Amsterdam was home to more than two thousand of these small green parakeets, presumably the result of captive birds being released into this very park in the 1970s. To Zelda, their presence was just one of the many unexpected delights of living here. She shielded her eyes with one hand to get a better look, admiring their florescent green color offset by orange beaks, and the light rings of blue and pink circling their throats like necklaces.
The birds squawked and whistled to each other as they took their positions in the large tree, its many branches heavily laden with ripened fruit. All at once, they fell silent and began feasting; tearing off the baseball-sized samaras with their claws, then ripping them open with their beaks to get at the savory nut inside. Moments later, empty shells began raining down on the unsuspecting tourists below. The French did their best to protect their heads from the spikey husks while quickly gathering up their grill and belongings.
“Must be payback for roasting their fellow fowl,” Friedrich joked when a few chicken wings fell off the BBQ as the tourists scurried away, their own shrieks mimicking the parakeets’ high-pitched calls. Before the French could find another spot to set up their picnic, the birds finished feasting, taking flight as suddenly as they had arrived.
“That letter’s existence, the one Rita’s mom sent to Van Heemsvliet after the war, means there’s still a chance her father asked Arjan to store his artwork for him, as a favor for a friend,” Zelda persisted, as soon as the birds had flown off and they could hear each other again. “It was addressed to his home so they must have known each other socially.”
Friedrich shook his head, “Not necessarily. Rita’s father probably worked with gallery owners all over the city at one time or another. If I was Karen’s lawyer, I’d argue that Rita’s mom took a shot in the dark and mailed every art dealer in Amsterdam.”
Zelda pursed her lips, frustrated that he refused to agree with her. “There is one upside to her email. Rita still wants to pay me to find the rest of her father’s art, or at least do my best.”
“That’s generous of her, especially considering the chance of you finding anything is virtually nil. And even if you do, it all belongs to Karen O’Neil anyway.”
“Irises surfaced, didn’t it?” she snapped, becoming as irritated with Friedrich as she was with the whole situation. “It’s not fair to Rita or her sisters; they deserve those paintings so much more than Karen. I wish I could find out what her real motive is. It can’t just be precedent; her lawyer’s pushing way too hard for it to be that.”
“That’s what’s he paid to do, isn’t it?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Yeah, I guess. I just don’t get why Karen’s so hell bent on getting her hands on Iris’s portrait right away. It doesn’t make sense. Why can’t she wait for the State Secretary to award her the title? Her lawyer doesn’t seem to think Gerard can hinder their claim. It’s not like she’s going to hang Irises in one of her many residences, it’s not important enough. And it can’t be worth much more than a few thousand dollars, if that. Something stinks, I tell you, and it’s not only her overpriced perfume.”
“We’ve been through all of this before: power, control, precedent, boredom; who knows why Karen wants Irises so badly? And more importantly, why do you care? As far as you’re concerned, the case is closed. The professional researchers have taken over, or will soon at any rate.”
She knew Friedrich thought she should leave the claims on Irises alone and focus on her own future. In three weeks she had her appointment with the selection committee; that was where her head should be. But she couldn’t seem to let Rita’s claim go. And because the old lady was offering to pay her to help find the rest of her father’s collection, she felt obligated to defend her to the bitter end.
“They won’t take Rita’s claim seriously either, I know it,” she said sullenly. “Since Karen O’Neil walked into the museum last week, Huub has rolled over and agreed with everything she’s said.” She felt her cheeks flushing just thinking about yesterday’s meeting. Karen had done her best to humiliate and belittle her, and Huub had finished off the job. Despite the overwhelming evidence she’d presented of Karen’s treachery, she and her high-priced lawyer had an answer for everything. They were probably at the Amstel Hotel laughing at her right now. If only she could be a fly on the wall of Karen’s room; that was probably the only way to find out what she was really up to.
“You know, there was something odd about the way Karen was acting at the meeting yesterday. She was so incredibly angry I’d gone poking around in her family’s records, almost like she was scared I’d find out something she didn’t want the museum to know about. I wish I knew what she was hiding. Maybe then I could prove once and for all that Irises really is Rita’s painting.”
“Whoa, you’re not going to prove anything. Bernice and Huub made it clear they don’t need or want your help. And thanks to Bernice’s recommendation you shouldn’t have any trouble getting into the master’s program next month. Why would you want to mess that up just because Karen hurt your feelings?”
“Because she’s no good and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Bernice suspects something; I could see it in her eyes. But her hands are tied by bureaucracy. No, if I don’t do anything, Rita’s claim doesn’t stand a chance.”
“So? It’s not your problem. You don’t owe Rita Brouwer anything, even if she does pay you to search for the rest of her father’s collection.”
Zelda wanted nothing more than to get Huub and that rich bitch back, but Friedrich was right; revenge wasn’t worth giving up the master’s program for, and it wouldn’t help Rita’s claim either. She zoned out, thinking about her options as her eyes focused on Friedrich’s quadrocopter resting on the grass between them, its little metal blades gleaming in the sunlight.
Suddenly an idea popped into her head. “Friedrich, could I borrow one of your planes tomorrow?”
He snorted loudly and shook his head resolutely. “No way – the Spitfire’s landing gear still isn’t working properly since you took it up.”
She went red as she recalled her feeble attempts to fly one of Friedrich’s easier to control model airplanes. After crashing the Spitfire five times in a row, he refused to let her try again.
“Some people have it and some people don’t. You don’t.”
Zelda looked up at her friend, bewildered.
“Good eye-hand coordination. Yours is appalling.”
“Fine, I’ll buy o
ne myself. Where do you get them anyway, a toy store?”
“Why do you suddenly need a model airplane?” Friedrich asked, keeping his voice even. She knew he never referred to his remote-controlled planes as ‘toys’.
“Because it might be my only way of finding out what Karen O’Neil is hiding from the museum.”
“Are you going to fly planes with her? Try kites, they’re easier to get off the ground.”
“No stupid, to spy on her. I didn’t hear that little drone thingy of yours until it practically ripped my cheek open. It’s warm today; she’ll probably have her windows open again. If we could hear what she says and see who she talks to, we might find out why she wants Irises so badly.” Zelda realized too late that she’d said too much. She didn’t want to admit to Friedrich that she’d biked by the Amstel Hotel every day this week to keep tabs on Karen. Zelda knew which rooms she and her lawyer occupied, and that the New Yorker kept her windows open when she was there.
Friedrich went white, apparently too shocked by her proposal to have noticed her slip-up. “By ‘she’ you mean Karen O’Neil.”
“Of course.”
“You want to spy on Karen O’Neil, one of the richest women in America? At the Amstel Hotel, one of the most expensive hotels in Amsterdam? The one where all the rock stars and Hollywood actors stay? Which is probably surrounded by a gazillion security cameras and beefy personnel?”
“Not Karen’s room. She’s on the left side of the hotel, far from the entrance. Your quadrocopter can easily avoid the only security camera on that end of the building. There’s even a park bench across the street from her room that’s partially hidden by some trees; it’s perfect.” Zelda explained, remembering how she’d sat on that very bench last night trying to see what Karen was up to.
“Perfect? Try extremely illegal. What if she sees you? Or my drone?”
“If you’re steering it, you could maneuver it up across from her window and nobody would be the wiser. You’ve got a few toy planes with cameras in them, right?”
“Try expensive model aircraft I built from scratch,” Friedrich raged. “And don’t you dare try and drag me into this. Driving you to Urk was one thing, but spying on Karen O’Neil is out of the question!”
“Fine, I’ll do it myself,” she pouted. “If I can’t use a model plane, I’ll pretend to be room service and hide my Dictaphone in her room. She’ll probably be leaving Amsterdam soon; I’ll have to move quickly.” She stood up and brushed the grass off her jeans. “With or without your help, I am going to do this.”
“Good luck to you,” he stoically replied.
“Fine,” Zelda spat the word at him as she stormed off.
“Oh, damn,” Friedrich grumbled, as he grabbed his drone and ran after her.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“If anything happens, you forced me to do this.” Friedrich groused.
“At gunpoint,” Zelda said, smiling as she patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. They were sitting on her park bench across from Karen O’Neil’s room in the exclusive Amstel Hotel. The massive nineteenth-century building stretched an entire city block along the edge of the river from which it lent its name. From their perch on the far left side of the hotel, Zelda could see the red-carpeted staircase in the center of the building, which led up to the elegant lobby.
A small bike path and sidewalk were the only things separating them from the imposing steel fence, shielding the hotel’s lawn from unwanted visitors. Though bikers whirled by every few seconds, none gave either of them a second glance. The few tourists wandering along the river’s edge were only interested in the fantastic views of the historic canal houses across the water, not Zelda or Friedrich.
The maple trees lining the fence shaded them from the sun and Karen O’Neil’s gaze, should she look outside. From their vantage point they could almost see inside the windows of her second floor suite.
“I told you no one would even notice us, didn’t I?” she gloated.
“Do you really think no one is going to notice a quadrocopter hovering above their heads?” he asked, keeping his drone’s hard-shell case resolutely closed.
“I’ve been sitting here for over an hour now and not one person has even glanced at me. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to have a clunky joystick in your hands. You use your tablet to steer it, people will think you’re just surfing the net or playing a game.”
“What about security guards and cameras?”
She pointed to a large camera bolted to the front of the hotel, positioned under the roof’s eaves. “That’s the only one on this side of the building and it’s aimed towards the entrance. Karen’s window is behind it, outside of its range of vision.” Sensing Friedrich’s hesitation, she rushed on, “The hotel entrance is almost a block away. And the way it’s been built, tucked up under the portico like that, we can’t even see the front doors from here. Which means the hotel staff won’t be able to see us either,” Zelda concluded, pleased with herself.
“Show me where her room is again.”
“It’s the one closest to the corner, on the second floor. See, her windows are already open,” she repeated patiently. “That tree next to the fence is taller than her room and the branches almost touch the first window. If you can maneuver your plane up there, you should have a clear shot inside.” She pointed to a series of branches close to Karen’s suite. The maple tree was obviously old and well cared for; its numerous branches heavy with broad green leaves and samara nuts. “Do you think the tree will be a problem for your plane?”
“Quadrocopter,” Friedrich sighed.
“Quadrocopter,” she re-stated.
“No, it shouldn’t be. But I’ll have to stand under it to get her into position.” He finally snapped his drone’s case open, adding, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Of course I don’t,” Zelda answered affectionately. She really didn’t know what she was doing, or if this little stunt would actually produce any results. But she was smart enough to know she wouldn’t be sitting here getting ready to spy on the New Yorker if it weren’t for Friedrich. Without his help she wouldn’t have dared to try, despite all her bravado yesterday.
If she was honest with herself, he was probably the only real friend she had made since arriving in Amsterdam. Her fellow students were interesting people, but she hadn’t really felt a click with any of them. Besides, the rest of her classmates were already focused on going home; returning to the jobs, houses and loved ones she was determined to leave behind. And Pietro had been gone all summer; he wouldn’t be back until September, only a few days before classes began. Sure, they texted every few days but it wasn’t the same. Without Friedrich, Amsterdam would have been pretty lonely this summer. She was lucky to have someone like him in her life; it was too bad he was still infatuated with her.
Zelda checked her watch then wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. “Karen and her lawyer got back about a half-hour ago. She opened her windows almost immediately. That’s when I called you.”
Her friend started up the flight steering app on his tablet, double-checking that both the aircraft and its built-in audio and video feeds were working properly. His concentrated frown lessened only after he finished his pre-flight checklist. “Okay, she’s ready to go. Don’t forget, I can record fifteen minutes of video before the battery runs out. Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? We don’t have to, you know.”
“And not even try to find out what Karen’s hiding from Rita and Bernice?”
“If she’s hiding anything.”
“She is. Let’s do this before you talk me out of it.” She jerked her head towards the hotel, signaling for him to get on with it.
Friedrich sprinted over to the old maple’s wide trunk and laid his drone gently onto the sidewalk. As the quadrocopter rose silently into the air, he guided it towards the tree branches closest to Karen O’Neil’s room. It’s four tiny rotors hummed slightly as it wafted into position. Watching his mo
nitor carefully, he maneuvered it within ear shot of anyone who might be talking inside. Satisfied with its placement, he locked the aircraft into the hover position and sprinted back to Zelda.
“There they are,” Friedrich grinned as he showed her his video monitor. Karen O’Neil was pacing back and forth in front of her lawyer, who was seated in a large wingback chair facing the window, smoking a cigar.
Zelda hugged him briefly, ecstatic they could see anything at all. Friedrich turned a bit crimson as he pulled away. He put one earphone in his right ear before handing her the other.
“I want this claim wrapped up, as soon as possible!” Karen’s voice was high and whiny, but otherwise clear as day.
“As do I,” Konrad Heider soothed.
“If that stupid intern hadn’t gone poking her nose around where it didn’t belong, this whole nightmare would have been over by now. I’m sure the director was about to cave in and give me Irises, after my last surprise visit interrupted his meeting with potential sponsors.” Karen stepped in and out of frame as she circled the large room. Zelda smiled in delight, happy to hear she’d gotten under Ms. O’Neil’s skin.
“All she did is prove you are the rightful owner, not Rita Brouwer. Nothing she found can derail your claim. Your mother’s birth certificate will ensure that,” her lawyer said.
“And what about the brother – Gerard? What are you going to do about him?”
“He’s nothing to worry about. Once we prove your mother was Arjan van Heemsvliet’s daughter, he will have no claim on the paintings.”
“And how exactly are we going to do that?” Karen replied angrily.
“I have people working on the documents. With enough money you can buy – ” the lawyer’s sentence was interrupted by the shrill calls of ring-necked parakeets landing on the maple tree’s thickly laden branches. Their piercing whistles and screeches sent a jolt through Zelda’s body. She jerked the earphone out, sure she’d gone deaf.
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