Keeper of the Mill

by Mary Anne Kelly

  “Well,” Puffin sniffed. “I’m glad that’s over. You had me worried there for a minute, dears.” He fanned his face with one of those cardboard beer-stein coasters. “The whole yard was warming up. Well, well, I suppose it was bound to happen. Still, I’m glad it’s over now. No harm done, what? Sounds like the American hour, doesn’t it? First the Viennese hour and then a little limber-them-up with the Yanks. Let them think they know how to dance by putting in a couple of black-and-blues.”

  “Out of the night the light is shining, it’s twilight time.” The song filled the garden. Claire and Temple sat like book-ends, trembling, as Puffin chatted gaily on.

  Claire, oblivious to Puffin, was thinking. Temple made her realize she was more given to wondering than other people, maybe, but it was okay, he wanted her that way. She even, if she wasn’t mistaken, cheered him up.

  Temple thought, she likes me because I am Irish, something no one ever did. Her I could handle, he thought. This one I could persuade to the point of not minding a thing.

  So they sat, Puffin between them, unsure, waiting for a chance, fearing what would happen only a little more than what wouldn’t. Finally, Claire thought, this is silly. I’m a married woman. She didn’t think about Johnny, just that she was married to him. She stood up abruptly, and Temple stood at the same time.

  Propriety! she berated herself as she walked away with finality. Oh, you fool. You’ll never have the chance again. You fool!

  Halfway across the dance floor, Fräulein Bibi Wintner in her snazzy glamour jacket harrumphed onto the scene. “Uh-oh,” Claire said and turned and bumped into the very arms she would have gone upstairs to dream about.

  “You won’t get away this time.” His lips touched her ear.

  “Okay,” she said, and he danced her away.

  7

  He led her by the hand away from the lights and the Mill. They scarcely made it into the cover of trees by the stream before he turned and kissed her. He seized her by the waist, lifting her toward him. Her arms went down, out and open. Then she took his beautiful face in her hands and pulled it in to her, drawing his lips in and in. They fell to the soft, damp ground in a swirl of mystical vertigo. He raised himself up, his small teeth glinting in the moonlight. He lifted her wall of hair and attached his face to the back of her neck. Her mouth opened, the small flowers in the grass, their petals, closed for the night, touched her tongue. She closed her lips and broke them off; Angelica Arch Angelica. “It brings back a night,” came the song from the crackling speakers, “of tropical splendor. It brings back a memory evergreen.…”

  The clouds moved, and a trail of stars swept the sky.

  They picked each other up. “There’s a wee chapel up ahead,” he whispered. She took the hand he held behind him and followed the sure black step of his boots.

  The chapel stood open. They blessed themselves and hurried in. He turned and put his arms at last around her. A sniffling sound came from the dark blue of the corner. “Who’s there?” they cried out together, holding on.

  Another low, unhappy sniveling sound while they strained to adjust their eyes.

  “Ich bin’s,” came a small voice. “It’s me, Dirk.”

  “Dirk!” she cried.

  “Aw, Christ,” Temple swore.

  “It’s all right,” Claire told the little boy, moving toward him, trembling still. “You poor kid.” She felt his shoulders in the dark, imagined if it were her own son, Anthony, all alone with strangers. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong? You ought to be at the party.”

  “No one missed me,” he said, his fist against his dripping nose.

  “All right, all right.” She helped him up. “And no one will. We’ll get you back before the Kindermädchen knows you’re gone.”

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  Thank God, Claire thought, they’d noticed him now instead of later.

  Temple crouched down next to him. “Ya know,” he spoke softly, “I hated being a kid.”

  Dirk said nothing.

  “Yah. I really did. I thought, you know, if it doesn’t get better, I’ll go to America. It was that or jump off the cliff, you know what I mean? So I thought, here, I’ll just wait till I get a bit bigger, get myself a passport and skip off. And I did, you know. I did just that,” Temple chatted as they left the chapel and escorted the boy firmly to the Mill. As they neared the dwindling, but still raucous, party scene, Temple stopped Claire with one hand. “Look,” he whispered, “if you go back in there, something will happen, and we’ll never get to be alone.”

  “Well, I can’t very well not deliver the boy to the au pair now, can I?” She brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead. “And anyway, what could happen?”

  He hesitated. “I’ll just go attend to something, then.” He released her. “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour, all right?”

  “You don’t have to be so mysterious.” She smiled lopsidedly at him. He’s going to find me a gift, she thought. Or, oh my God, protection.

  “One hour.” He changed their meeting time.

  “Fine.” She shrugged, disappointed. She went in and turned Dirk over to an inappropriately tipsy, but appropriately frantic, au pair girl.

  She went outside and started for the trees where she’d left Temple, then decided to sit instead near them but at the edge of the party. She wanted a cup of something hot to clear her mind. He would find her if he wanted her. She sat with Friedel the gardener. He was so drunk he was beyond making conversation, let alone a pass, and he was big enough so she could position herself behind him should Fräulein Wintner or her policemen come looking. Everyone, in fact, appeared to be drunk. Even the waiter, when she finally got him, staggered away in a dignified decksawash. One lubricated throng wove a reeling conga line in front of and behind her. There was no sense in appearing civil toward them, they were that shellacked.

  Claire was just finishing her coffee, wondering if she ought to give up on Temple, when she felt him watching her through the forest of woozy people.

  “Well, I’d like to thank you for your charming company,” she said to Friedel, who stared unblinking into his own beery world as they left.

  “It was good of you,” Claire said to Temple as they fell into step, “the way you talked to Dirk. You were so good.”

  “Ah, he’s only as big as a minute, poor thing. I hope Blacky will know how to treat him.”

  “He will, he will,” she assured him. They spoke like strangers now, the spell quite broken.

  “What now?” he said.

  “Let’s walk,” she said. “It’s almost light anyway.”

  “It breaks your heart it is so green,” he said. He put his arm around her, and they stood together looking at the sweep of the lightening hill.

  “Let’s watch from the Roman Bridge,” she suggested. “I want to see if there’s a way to climb up underneath it.”

  “And just what is it you hope to find?”

  “Treasure.” She grinned.

  “Oh. In that case.”

  “I’m serious. I’ll need you to hoist me up,” she said.

  They trudged up the dell and made their way under the bridge’s lip, sinking into the pebbly, groggy soil. The magpie spotted them and took off. She watched the ledge he came from and counted the stones she’d have to pass to reach it.

  “It’s a good thing you’re here,” she called above the water as he hoisted her heels up with his hands. “I’d never get up here on my own.”

  “Not that far! Don’t go up that far! Come on down! Let me go up,” he shouted, pissed.

  “You won’t fit.”

  “Just be careful!”

  She reached the ledge and wedged her foot in one of the worn parts between the stones to steady herself.

  “What do you see?” Temple called from the ground.

  She had known how old the bridge was before she’d gone up, but she hadn’t felt it. Now here she was. She looked up, and the crazed stillness of a cave, unexplored e
xcept for amphibious hoveling, sent a chill right through her. It must be the wrong stopping place she’d seen the magpie come out of, though, because there was nothing, no droppings, just cold rock, and, below, the slimy clean green of the Isar in a hurry.

  “Don’t fall,” he called, and she almost did, her hand grabbing on the chink in a stone that let loose when she held it.

  And then there it was. A ransom of shiny things: bottle caps, nails, an earring; a recent acquisition—her camera battery—pay dirt! She put her fingers through it, riddling the private estate of nature’s pirate, feeling like a pirate herself, an interloper. A brooch was on top. No, wait, it was a medal. Some sort of religious medal. Oh dear, yes. A miraculous medal. She put it in her pocket. She swept the lot of dust-covered glittery things into her scarf, knotted it, and folded it into her belt, stopping to hear what Temple was shouting, but just as she was about to turn, the bird came home. With an almost comic show of surprise, he reared up and screamed.

  She screamed at just the same moment, and the two of them tumbled. The bird recovered halfway down and took off. Claire lurched in a series of free falls and rolling hits along the side of the bridge’s leg. “I’m all right, I’m all right,” she said over and over. “My camera’s all right. It’s okay.”

  “The hell with the camera.” He was on top of her, testing her for broken bones, searching her eyes for unfocused concussion.

  She was practically in tears. “I dropped the treasure,” she cried. “I can’t believe I did that. Where did it fall?”

  They looked together at the churned-up stream. “Great.” She shook her head and rubbed her arm. She must have banged it hard. It started to ache horribly. “Where are you going?” she called to his back.

  “I’m going on top of the bridge. Maybe I can see where it’s headed.”

  “I’ll tell you where it’s headed,” she grumbled, “it’s headed downstream.” Her arm throbbing, her hip hot with pain, she hobbled after him, knowing, even as she did, that the diamonds weren’t in that lot. She would have seen them through the dust, felt them with the tips of her hungry fingers.

  They leaned across the rail of the bridge and traced the curving trail of it.

  “No luck,” he sighed.

  “There,” she cried, pointing. The sun, just rising, spangled like a bevy of stars across the water under a leaning willow.

  They ran, falling over each other, down the banks to the other side of the water. He was faster, and she shuffled behind him while he made his way out of the tangled part in his black boots. The berry bushes riddled the path, sticking to them both. He stopped suddenly, and she almost ran into him. “What is it?” she asked.

  He leaned toward the raging stream. “It’s a stick, a fine one, stopped by the reeds. It’s Hans’s.” Temple pulled back, shocked, recognizing the carved magpie head. “It’s his walking stick.”

  He clung to her ankle as she leaned way over the rushing water. “Let me lower,” she said. She wouldn’t want to fall in. The Isar was deep and icy and swift. Many a good swimmer told tales of its treachery. “Don’t let me go,” she called above its whooshing clarity. She got hold of it and he pulled her back.

  “It’s cocobolo,” she said. Then, “My father works in wood. It must be hollowed out to let it float like that. Cocobolo doesn’t float unless it is. It’s too dense. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s too expensive to make anything but ornaments from it. Or pharmaceutical mortars and pestles.”

  Temple fondled the dripping cane thoughtfully. “We’ll bring it back for Cosimo. Now, about letting you go,” he started to say, but the bells from Saint Hildegard’s pealed out. “Ah,” he said. “The King is dead. Long live the King.”

  “Probably Blacky showing off his new manor.”

  “More likely Isolde.”

  He drew her to him. “No, wait,” she said, “let me still see if we can get the bird’s hoard first.” He let her go and pulled the rattling cane handle. The beginning of a glinting sword came out. He shivered and tightened it back in.

  Claire ran the rest of the way to the willow, excited. Here she had been sure there were no diamonds, and if she hurried—

  She stopped as though slugged.

  “Are they sunk?” he called from behind. “It’s so clear we might still find them if they are.” He came up beside her. They looked at Fräulein Bibi Wintner sitting upright under the cold clear water in a place of tangled willow bark and reeds. Her eyes were opaque. It was her glittering party jacket that had sparkled so. Her one hand was up, as though she were on the phone. She looked at them, as if surprised. Little fish darted through her undulating hair.

  The bells from Saint Hildegard’s chimed up and down the cool, still-sleeping valley.

  8

  There’s a dreadful lot of press outside.” Stella peered through the curtains in the family room.

  “Isn’t it lovely,” Puffin exclaimed. “Marvelous for the film. All this advance publicity.”

  “Puffin, you are a sick puppy,” Temple said, looking apologetically from face to face.

  “Could go the other way, you know,” Puffin reminded him. “Such and such a film, doomed from the start. Happens all the time.”

  “Oop. There goes the ambulance. They’ve taken the body away in the ambulance.”

  Father Metz puffed on his beloved, strongly forbidden meerschaum pipe. “It is hard to believe Frau Doktor von Osterwald is arrested. It is not possible. Not possible.”

  Claire sat huddled in the red wing chair, her feet pulled up under her skirt. She shivered as she turned the pages Cosimo had given her. Seymour’s Garten Brevier. She couldn’t even see the print. Isolde being questioned for murder! Of course it wasn’t so. It was a mistake. Isolde couldn’t kill anyone. On second thought, she admitted to herself, Isolde very well could. But not these people. Not Hans. And now Fräulein Wintner. Not when Isolde had so much going for her, she wouldn’t. Isolde was full of surprises, but even those usually made sense. At least to her they did, and Claire could usually piece the logic together. This was absurd. Isolde would never care for either of them enough to kill them. Even if they had been blackmailing her—which seemed farfetched enough, considering Isolde was about as notorious as a body could be and still be in Bavarian society—Isolde would have certainly found a more clever way to do it than this! This was so weird.

  “Where’s Doktor von Osterwald?” Stella pushed the rattan dessert cart to and fro, peeling the ends and poking the splinters into a doll’s fence around the potted orange tree.

  “He’ll be right back, my dear,” Father Metz soothed her.

  Claire blurted out, “Stella, what did you mean when you said, ‘Es war Cosimo! It was Cosimo.’ What did you mean?”

  “Oh, he told me to cut my hair. He said, ‘Go ahead. Just do it.’”

  Puffin said, “Temple, don’t sit there looking like you were hit with the bloody porridge dish. Your mouth is open. You’ll catch the odd bug.”

  Temple stirred. He’d been off in another world. He looked to Claire.

  “Nice,” Claire said, “the way you talk to people, Puffin.”

  “Moi?” Puffin splayed his fingers across his silk shirt.

  “Don’t mind him,” Temple said wearily. “He’s got more songs than the radio.”

  I can’t take another minute of this, Claire thought. She got up and went outside. She hardly felt anything but shock. The car was standing on the pebble drive out back. It was a perfect afternoon. She took the grand key out and opened the door. There was a rich, well-oiled feel to an old Mercedes. When you shut yourself in, there was a silent, raised-up sense of privilege that set you away from everything and everyone. And that was just what she needed, to be away from all of them. To think. The idea that Isolde might be a murderer was boggling.

  Of course, the idea that it was somebody else of them was equally horrifying. Temple Fortune hadn’t been with her when Fräulein Wintner was killed. He’d been off on his own for a good hour. And there wa
s something else. When she’d first come to Saint Hildegard’s, Temple had referred to “sixty blue-white diamonds” as the treasure. No one else she’d heard had known the treasure was of diamonds, let alone sixty. How would he know there were sixty? Good Lord, she berated herself, she was becoming paranoid. Temple Fortune had had nothing to do with Saint Hildegard’s Mill years ago. She really must relax! Anyone might have been told tales of the Mill treasure. People talked about it all the time. She sucked a loud breath of air through her nostrils and held it in. She closed her eyes. She blew out her mouth and took another loud, lifting breath in her nostrils. And out. At last she breathed deeply. The passenger door opened and she heard herself scream.

  “Lord.” Temple climbed in and shut the door behind himself. “Don’t do that! There are reporters all over the front yard. They’ll all come running.”

  “My nerves must be shot.”

  “No rest for the weary,” he said.

  “Yes.” She smiled, remembering last night. A reporter burst from the big hydrangea bush. They ducked below the dashboard. The reporter scurried off. Still sunk down, Claire said, “May I ask you something? Why do you let Puffin speak to you the way he does?”

  “Oh, that. I don’t mind, really. He doesn’t mean it.”

  “He does too. And even if he doesn’t, either way it’s demeaning.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand no one has a right to say things the way he does. No matter what you’ve done—”

  “It’s not what I’ve done. It’s what I haven’t done. And, by the way, I wouldn’t be anywhere without Puff’s connections.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “It’s true. You of all people should understand how important it is to know the right people. Doesn’t matter how good you are for a minute if no one sees your work. You know that. Puffin hooked me up. I’ll never be able to thank him for that.”