The Wife of Riley (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 6)

by A W Hartoin

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The Sorkines were Jews.”

  None of us said anything for a couple minutes.

  “But…” said Chuck, “nothing was happening in 1938.”

  Monsieur Masson laughed a bitter laugh. “It had begun. Our people were harassed in the streets. The Germans weren’t the only ones to hate us.”

  “You’re Jewish then?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How did your family escape deportation?”

  Monsieur Masson put his eyes on the letters and didn’t raise them to meet mine. “Not all of them did. My grandparents sent my father and his sisters to the free zone with forged papers in 1940. What we now call Vichy. He was fourteen. My grandparents owned a small printing shop. They thought they had to protect their property. They were deported in La Grande Rafle.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  He looked up. “My father and his sisters survived.” Then he looked down again. “The Sorkines didn’t.”

  I joined Chuck at the desk. “Well…they never returned from wherever they went, but the Nazis didn’t invade until 1940.”

  “You don’t think it was the Nazis?” Monsieur Masson’s face reddened.

  “It probably was,” I said. “But November ’38 was pretty early. I want to know what happened to make them abandon their home.”

  Monsieur Masson shuffled through the letters. “They had friends in Berlin. Perhaps they went to them after the Kristallnacht.”

  I clapped a hand over my mouth and then said, “The Kristallnacht. I totally forgot about the date.”

  “Kristallnacht?” asked Chuck. “What’s that?”

  Anger flashed across Monsieur Masson’s face. “The Night of Broken Glass, when the Brown Shirts attacked us. They destroyed synagogues and shops. Men were rounded up and sent to camps. The Nazis released most of them, but many died.”

  “When was that?”

  “November the ninth, 1938.”

  Chuck looked at me. “A lot of things were happening that November.”

  I nodded. The Sorkines abandoned their elegant home forever. My great grandparents met Stella and Nicky in a café. The Kristallnacht. There had to be a connection, but I had no clue what it was.

  Monsieur Masson looked up and frowned. “I don’t understand what this has to do with a German policeman murdered in Berlin twenty-four years later.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But Werner Richter knew about this apartment. It was important to him.”

  “Perhaps he knew what happened to the Sorkines.”

  “Or perhaps he knew about ‘A’ and the package.”

  “That’s a leap,” said Chuck.

  “This whole thing is bizarre, so why not?” I asked.

  Both men shrugged at me and then Monsieur Masson stood up, “I will help you.”

  “To do what?” asked Chuck.

  “If they were deported, I will find the evidence,” he said. “I know the correct people.”

  “Who are the correct people?” I asked.

  “I have a dear friend with the Mémorial de la Shoah. He will know what to do,” said Monsieur Masson. “Do you know the Mémorial de la Shoah?”

  He sounded doubtful, but I did know it. Of course I did.

  “I’ve been several times,” I said. “But not on this trip.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “That is unusual, unless you have a…connection.”

  “She does have a connection,” Chuck said quickly before I could deny being a Bled.

  I bowed to the inevitable. “My godmothers’ cousin was involved with the Resistance. We always remember those who were lost.”

  He took my good hand in his rough one and his grey eyes reddened. “It is good to remember. Who is this cousin?”

  I glanced at Chuck, unsure how much we should divulge. He gave me a slight nod and I said, “Stella Bled Lawrence, but I don’t think you’ll find much, if anything, on her. I’ve looked myself. Her activities during the war are still classified by both our governments.”

  “Memories are not classified,” said Monsieur Masson. “Thank goodness or much would be lost. Are there any other names you would like to know about?”

  I shook my head. “Monsieur, I don’t know. You could be putting yourself in a dangerous position helping us.”

  “1965 was a long time ago,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Chuck. “But like you said, the memories are still around.”

  Monsieur Masson got to his feet and smiled, his eyes lighting up as he gestured to the mess. “This is a mystery that begs my attention.” Then he frowned. “Whatever happens, it will be nothing compared to what the Sorkines must have endured.”

  “It will be safer for you if you don’t tell anyone about this,” said Chuck.

  Monsieur Masson put his finger to his lips. “I will tell no one about you or this apartment. I learned from my father how to keep a secret.”

  He put the stack of letters back on the desk. It felt kind of strange to leave it neater than we found it, but we could hardly toss the letters into the air. Chuck took a picture of the telegram and then placed it where he found it, under the desk. We went through the rest of the apartment, looking for more names, diaries, anything, but, if there was anything, it was long gone. I did find one thing. A slip of paper under one of the tea cups. If I hadn’t been putting the other cup back into position, I wouldn’t have noticed it. The yellow paper with curling edges had a list of times and numbers.

  I held it out to Monsieur Masson and Chuck. “Train schedule?”

  “Could be,” said Chuck. “I don’t think they stayed in Paris, considering the rush to get out.”

  “No destination,” said Monsieur Masson. “That would have been a help.”

  I smiled. “It can’t be easy.”

  He patted my shoulder as we went out of the apartment. “My father said to me that an easy life is a boring life.”

  I could stand some boring right about now.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  We didn’t say much on the way back to Elias’s apartment. I don’t know what was going on in Chuck’s head, but my brain was in a whirl. I couldn’t imagine the reason to keep the Marais intact for seventy plus years, but it had to be the Bleds. Who else would have the will and the money to do it? Nobody. That’s who. Who were the Sorkines? Did they know Stella and Nicky? Or maybe my great-great-grandparents, Amelie and Paul?

  I pushed through the metro exit gate and the wind from above made me glad I had sunglasses on. Chuck put his hand on my back as we jogged up the concrete stairs. Pont Marie was a pretty small stop in the scheme of things, but even it was bustling. The traffic was bumper to bumper and the tour boats were churning up the Seine. The Angela incident hadn’t slowed down trade one bit.

  “I don’t remember it being this crowded before,” said Chuck.

  “It wasn’t. There must be something going on and it is summer in Paris,” I said.

  We crossed the street and stepped onto the bridge. Its pleasing arches extended over the Seine and a tour boat glided under the center one with a dozen people pointing at a man leaning over the low railing on the bridge. The man didn’t make a move, but the tourists ran for cover anyway.

  Chuck took hold of my arm and held me back. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Think about what?” I asked. “He didn’t do a single thing.”

  Chuck stared straight ahead. “Look at him.”

  I looked and he did seem odd and out of place. He wore a heavy, black, knee-length coat more suited to the dead of winter than Paris in June, even it if was a high of seventy that day. There wasn’t anything particularly odd about the rest of him. He was fairly young with brown shoulder-length hair brushed back from his pale face, decorated with a short, rather thin beard and mustache.

  “Knock it off,” I said. “He’s just a guy and I need a painkiller.”

  The man heard me and turned in our direction. Our eyes met and I gasped. It was the
man from my dreams. He smiled wanly, waved, and turned to walk away across the bridge.

  Chuck squeezed my arm. “What is it?”

  “I’ve seen him before.” I watched the retreating back.

  “Where?” Chuck looked from me to the bridge. “Hey, where’d he go?”

  The man was gone. I didn’t see him disappear. It was like he waited for me to blink and then he wasn’t there anymore.

  “Mercy?” asked Chuck.

  Did that just happen?

  I started walking again and Chuck kept trying to pull me back. “Mercy, who was that?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Tell me,” he demanded.

  “I think that’s my line,” I said, stepping onto the sidewalk and looking left and right in case I was wrong. I wasn’t. He was gone.

  I trotted across the street, putting on speed, but Chuck caught me easily with his long legs. “How about please tell me?” he asked.

  I thought about making some kind of snide comment about how I’d say please if it’d get the info I wanted, but I didn’t. Being petty takes so much energy and the Marais apartment had taken most of mine. “Elias.”

  “Who?”

  I hung a left to walk beside the elegant apartment and he matched my pace. “You don’t mean…”

  “I do and don’t say it’s crazy, because you saw the cat in New Orleans.”

  He laughed nervously. “That was just a cat.”

  I jolted to a halt and looked up at him, my eyes boring into his. “Don’t even.”

  “Okay. How do you know it’s Elias?”

  “I just know. I can feel it.” I headed down the street in silence, not seeing anything but Elias’s face or maybe I was crazy. I’d have to see a picture of him to know.

  “Holy crap,” said Chuck. “What is up with that?”

  “Huh?”

  Chuck pointed ahead at a limousine parked up on the sidewalk next to Elias’s building. The back half stuck out into the road and the front bumper was up against a lamp post. Chuck and I looked inside. No one was in the driver’s seat and the limo was locked.

  “Did they hit it?” I asked, peering at where the bumper touched the lamp post.

  “I don’t think so. There’s no dent,” said Chuck.

  “Weird.”

  “Somebody’s getting a ticket and a tow.”

  “No kidding. What kind of chauffeur would do that?” I went to the big door and typed in my code and unlocked it with the enormous black key. Before I could open it fully, Monsieur Barre flung the door open. “Mon dieu. Mademoiselle Watts, thank goodness you are here.”

  I stepped back. “Why? What happened?”

  Monsieur Barre glanced over his shoulder like a hunted man and there was a sheen of moisture on his wrinkled forehead. I’d never seen the prim little man sweat before. I didn’t know he could. Sweat wasn’t in his job description.

  “She’s here,” he said in a breathy voice.

  “Who?” asked Chuck.

  “Madam.” He said ‘Madam’ like it was a name, not a title. He ushered us in to the empty foyer and then looked out at the limo. “Mon dieu. You must get her to go and take that thing with her.”

  “But who is it?” I asked.

  Monsieur Barre was so flustered, he ignored the question and practically ran for the elevator. He pounded on the button, it opened, and he literally pushed me inside and reached in to push the floor button.

  “Make her go. Things happen when she is here.” The doors started to close. “Mon dieu. She talked to me. She wants to go to dinner.”

  “But who—” The doors closed and the old elevator creaked upward.

  “Any idea?” asked Chuck.

  “Not a clue.”

  “It has to be a Bled. Who else would come here?”

  I shook my head. “None of the Bleds are scary.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  The doors opened and I peeked out. The circular foyer was empty as expected. Then he took the key from me. “I’ll go in first.”

  “Monsieur Barre wouldn’t send us up if she was dangerous,” I said with an eyeball.

  “You never know.” He opened the door and we crept in.

  I was wrong. I’d completely forgotten about the one Bled relative that was scary and she was sitting in the living room with Blackie on her lap. She stroked the cat and he twitched his tail as he stared up at us, unblinking.

  “Marie.” Now I understood Monsieur Barre’s reaction and he was right. Things did happen when she was around.

  She smiled at us, wrinkles turning her face into an origami of age. “I heard you wanted to see me.”

  I glanced at Chuck, who stared at her hand rhythmically running down Blackie’s back. I could see him, but Chuck didn’t. He was going to think she was crazy and he wouldn’t be the first.

  “Who told you that?” I asked.

  “The Girls, naturally.”

  Marie held up a thin hand to Chuck, laden with large rings of emerald and ruby and a set of diamond bangles that clinked together loudly. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said. “I would get up but you know…” She gestured to Blackie and Chuck took ahold of my arm like Marie might leap out of the chair and bite me.

  “Mercy,” said Marie.

  “I’m sorry.” I took her hand and we exchanged cheek kisses. She smelled lovely, like Provence lavender and buttery pastry. “It’s great to see you. I can’t believe you’re here. We had no idea you were in Paris.”

  Her wicked old eyes twinkled. “And who is this handsome devil?”

  I stepped back. “This is Chuck Watts, my Uncle Rupert’s adopted son. Chuck, this is Marie Galloway Laurence Morris Huntley Huntley Smith.”

  “Stella’s…” Chuck trailed off, trying to think of the familial connection.

  “Sister-in-law,” said Marie. “Briefly.”

  “Forever,” I said automatically.

  Chuck looked back and forth between us, confused.

  “My Lawrence died during the war. Our marriage was short lived,” said Marie.

  “I’m sorry,” said Chuck.

  “It was long ago.” She extended her hand to him and he took it, clearly unsure of what to do. In the end, he exchanged cheek kisses like me. “Pull up a chair and let’s have a talk,” she said.

  Chuck and I obediently sat on the settee and waited as she fussed with the red cape her thin body was swathed in.

  “Have you seen Elias?” she asked. “You have the look.”

  “Elias?” I asked.

  “Ah, now I know you have.” She laughed and twisted a heavy emerald ring into its correct position.

  “What makes you say that?” asked Chuck.

  “The expression in your eyes. Shock, dismay. Seeing a ghost has that effect on people. Let me guess …he was on the bridge?”

  “Er…” I bit my lip, unwilling to admit anything. “It could’ve been someone else. I mean…ghosts don’t interact, do they?”

  “Who told you that rubbish?” Marie cocked her head to the side. “He spoke to you?”

  “He waved,” said Chuck. “But it could’ve been anyone.”

  “Anyone who looks like that?” She pointed at a small portrait on the wall in a plain frame. I hadn’t noticed it before amidst all the bigger ones with their brighter colors.

  I got up and took a closer look. It was him, the man from the bridge. A shiver went down my back. It was definitely him.

  Chuck came up behind me. “Holy crap.”

  “It’s him,” I said.

  Marie waved us back to the settee. “Of course it is. Did you think you’d be the only Bled not to see him?”

  “I’m not a Bled.”

  She snorted and tugged on Blackie’s tail, making him twitch. “There’s no use in arguing. I’m right and you’re wrong. Elias communicated with you.”

  “He waved,” I said.

  “That’s more tha
n I’ve gotten.”

  “How many times have you seen him?” asked Chuck.

  Marie scratched the cat’s head and Chuck elbowed me. Marie gave me a look as she realized he didn’t see the cat and she shooed him off her lap. “I’ve seen Elias every time I’ve been in this apartment or on the island. Dozens of times. He’s hardly discreet.” She narrowed her faded brown eyes at us. “But that’s not what’s troubling you. Elias is just Elias. He won’t bother you.”

  I was bothered by seeing a man dead for over a hundred years, but the woman in front of us would scoff at such weakness. After the horrors she’d been through, I could hardly blame her.

  “Why did you want to see me?” she asked.

  I glanced at Chuck and he shook his head. I ignored the ‘No’ and said, “Can you keep this between us?”

  “You mean, don’t tell The Girls,” said Marie.

  Chuck put his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face. “Or anyone. This is sensitive.”

  “Sensitive is my favorite kind of secret and the answer is yes. I can keep secrets. My life once depended on it.”

  “Have you ever heard the name Sorkine?” I asked.

  She thought about it for a moment and, to my great disappointment, said, “No. It’s not familiar.”

  “Never? Not even during the war?”

  “If I did, I’ve forgotten it. Why?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath and told her about Werner Richter, his death, and the suspicious death of Jens Waldmar Hoff in Berlin.

  “We got into the apartment today.” Chuck gave her his phone and showed her the pictures from the apartment.

  Marie swiped through the pictures, her long red nail tapping the screen. “Fascinating. It’s a time capsule. November 1938. A terrible month. Grynszpan murdered Von Rath and then Hitler took revenge on the Jews with the Kristallnacht.”

  “What murder?” asked Chuck.

  “A young Jew named Grynszpan murdered a German diplomat, Vom Rath, right here in Paris,” said Marie. “Perhaps there is a connection, but that doesn’t explain why the Bleds would preserve it like this. It must be something to do with Stella.”

  I agreed, but I asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “She was in Europe on her honeymoon at the time,” she said.

  “We have evidence that she was here in Paris in November of ’38,” said Chuck.