“I practice immigration law, Mitzy. I know this one solid,” Frankie said.
“How many people did the WTCU sponsor?” Mitzy asked.
“Dozens, I’m sure. Anyone who wasn’t family. The Simonite’s could sponsor their family but the rest needed a non-profit organization. We sponsored friends of the family and friends of Dorothy.”
“The Mayor?” Mitzy asked.
“Oh yes. She was educated largely overseas in a Naval family. She had any number of friends who needed to get out of Eastern Europe and into America.”
“But this must be what the Feds want to know! It was all illegal and now they want to get to people who have been in the country for over 50 years!” Mitzy was horrified.
“It was not illegal. Please don’t make me repeat myself,” Frankie said.
“Then explain.”
“Happy to. The Displaced Persons Act of 1948 allowed non-profit volunteer agencies to sponsor refugees. Family could sponsor refugees as well. You couldn’t let boat-loads of people without a sponsor into the U.S. or they were likely to become ‘a public charge.’ As long as the refugees had a sponsor, entering the country wasn’t a problem. Relatives in the U.S. sponsored some 400,000 refugees during the post-war years. Truman tried to establish restrictive legislation but the McCarran-Water Immigration Act of 1952 shut him down,” Frankie said.
“Okay. I get it. You know immigration. So if it was legal, why does the FBI care?” Mitzy asked.
“You are starting with the right question now,” Enid said. “You were asking ‘How do I get them to leave me alone’ and that was not the right question. What did they care the most about?”
“The papers, the furniture. They were on the roof the other day,” Mitzy said.
“What do you know about the papers?” Enid asked.
“A lot of dates and Russian names. I took notes. It really is a lot. And they were hidden,” Mitzy said.
“Are you sure they were hidden? Is it possible they were just stored?”
“In the floorboards of a bedroom? I’d say they were hidden,” Mitzy said.
“Then perhaps,” Enid said, “They are not the names of the people we sponsored.”
“Maybe not,” Mitzy said.
“And the furniture, what do you know about it?” Enid asked.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” She held Mitzy in her gaze, her watery blue eyes not wavering for a moment.
“I might know one thing.”
“I thought you seemed to,” Enid said.
“It’s just this.” She pulled the box out of her bag, regretting that Frankie was there to see it and Alonzo wasn’t.
She slid open the lid and pulled the papers out, setting them gently on her desk.
“That is a very beautiful box. I’d say that James probably made it,” Enid said.
“Really?” Mitzy asked, turning it over in her hands.
“Oh yes. He loved beautiful wood and made very simple, but lovely things with it.”
Frankie thumbed through the papers. “Old docs here. I wonder if they used them as models.” He whistled through his teeth. “Nice list of names. I know one or two of these guys. All legal though.”
“How do you know them?” Mitzy asked.
“Some immigration cases are famous enough with us lawyers. Feds tried to get a couple of these guys via their papers. But they were all legal.”
“And why did they try to get them ‘via their papers’?” Mitzy asked.
“Because they didn’t have quite enough evidence to get them on racketeering. They got Al Capone on tax fraud. With some guys, you try anything.”
“So it is a mafia thing,” Mitzy said, her voice low.
“My dear, you knew that all along, didn’t you?” Enid asked.
“I knew it was possible.”
“Hey, what’s this?” Frankie said, holding up the carbon copy of the receipt. “Someone’s been shopping at the state penn.”
“What’s that?” Mitzy asked.
“This is a receipt from the Department of Corrections,” Frankie said.
“Guns?” Mitzy asked, her face white.
“Um, no. Prisoners don’t make and sell guns. It’s for soap, or furniture or something.”
“Why do you say that?” Enid asked.
“Because prisoners do make and sell soap and furniture. And a few other things. But this receipt is pretty old. Handwritten. And it says ‘pieces’ so I’d say it’s furniture. They’ve been making furniture there since about…1949, 1950.”
“So now, my dear,” Enid said, “You know that the furniture in question is linked both to the mafia and to the prison. I’d say you know quite a lot about it.”
“I guess I do. I sent the FBI after the furniture before I knew it though.”
“I’m glad you did,” Enid said. “That will make them more interested in helping you. But I think it is time that you gave them this box.”
Mitzy turned to Frankie, “You don’t know anything about a Mrs. Baker do you?”
He looked at the note about Mrs. Baker wanting to write ‘the story.’ “Nope. Probably not important.”
Mitzy bit her tongue. Frankie had just resolved a number of questions for her but she still wanted to tell him that her piece of paper was more important than he was. Greta’s reaction alone proved it was important.
“Can we talk about Walter’s house now?” Frankie asked.
“I don’t think we need to,” Mitzy said. “I believe my allies are going to get this project stopped. But,” she coughed a little, “Thank you for all your help. It has been invaluable.”
“No prob,” Frankie said. “How’s Teresa after her brush with the law?”
Mitzy wanted to slam her head into her desk more than she wanted to discuss poor heartbroken Teresa with this man.
“She’s recovering from her shock. But you know what’s odd,” she said by way of turning the topic, “I still haven’t heard from Ben.”
“That is rather odd,” Enid said. “I think you should take your missing friend seriously. If the FBI is interested in the mafia connection to your inn, it isn’t because of what went on there in the 1950’s.”
“He’s called three times,” Jenny said, streams of tears running down her face. “But every time he calls, I can’t tell what he’s saying. It’s like he didn’t even mean to call me.” She gulped and sobbed.
“Like pocket calls?” Sabrina asked. She had Jenny over at her apartment to cheer her up. Jenny had called the office every fifteen minutes all day. Ben hadn’t shown up at the cake thing or at work, or the movie they were supposed to go to after work. He didn’t answer his phone or respond to her texts. He wasn’t on Facebook.
“Why does he hate me?” Jenny wailed.
“He doesn’t hate you sweetie. Did you report him missing?” Sabrina asked.
“No, because he keeps calling. He’s not really missing. He’s not at home but he’s somewhere.”
“I think you should report him missing. He wouldn’t miss a cake testing.”
Jenny looked up at Sabrina, eyes red and swollen from crying.
“He’s a talker, Jen. He wouldn’t just walk out on you. He’d want to talk. A lot.”
Though in reality, Sabrina had her doubts as well. The wedding seemed to be driving Ben batty. She could easily see him skipping over the border to do some snowboarding in Whistler, just to get away from the planning. But he’d probably come back in time for the wedding.
“I should call the police,” Jenny said.
But she didn’t. She just melted back down into a crying blob on Sabrina’s couch. Sabrina got her a glass of water and listened to all the fun things Ben and Jenny used to do. It made her want to call her own man, Bruce.
Sabrina wrapped a Snuggie around Jenny and went to her room with her phone. Just hearing Bruce’s voice would make her feel better.
The gathering at the inn the next morning was thorny. Carmella sat at her reception desk, scratching at
a notebook violently with her pencil. Every few minutes she would bang her pencil down and flip through a heavy catalogue, doing violence to the pages.
Alonzo was in the kitchen yelling at a sub contractor.
Mitzy was pacing. “Do you think I should do something about this business of the city council man’s house?” She asked Carmella.
“Why don’t you call the Feds on him?” Carmella said, her voice tight and sarcastic.
“I don’t think I have enough evidence of wrongdoing,” Mitzy said. She stopped in her pacing and scratched her head. “Or do we?”
“You had more evidence of wrongdoing when you called the Feds on my mom?” Teresa said, slamming the cover of her catalogue shut.
“What?” Mitzy’s jaw dropped. She spun to Carmella.
“You called the FBI on my mother, Mitzy. Did you have evidence against her?” Carmella said, her voice quiet, but as sharp as a knife blade.
“I didn’t call the FBI on Teresa. Of course I didn’t.” Mitzy said.
“Oh so you accidentally sent federal agents to arrest my mom?” Carmella crossed her arms over her chest.
“I was trying to help find Diego Jr. He was missing. I thought I was helping.” Mitzy said. She shook her head in frustration
“You would have known where he was if you hadn’t run off.” Carmella said.
“You were freaking out and screaming at me! You didn’t want me to stay!”
“Oh you would have been much calmer if your kid was missing, huh? Oh that’s right. You don’t have any kids. Don’t judge me Mitzy Neuhaus.”
“I’m not judging you Carmella. I was scared too. I don’t have a kid, thanks for reminding me. The closest thing I’ve got is Diego Jr. I don’t know what I would have done if something had happened to him.” Mitzy’s face flushed and she could feel the tears beginning to well up.
“Why should you care so much?” Carmella said, turning away from Mitzy’s tear-filled eyes.
“Because I love him. And I love you. And I love Alonzo and Teresa. I love the whole daft Miramontes family.” The tears spilled down her cheeks as she spoke. “And for your information, as soon as I learned that Diego Jr. was with his Grandma I called Backman’s office and left a message for her.”
“But they didn’t stop, did they?” Carmella’s voice was calmer now. She turned to look at Mitzy again.
Mitzy was shaking, her nose red and swollen, the tears rolling freely down her cheeks. Her shoulders were shaking. “I made a huge mistake, Carmella. But I couldn’t just sit there. Not while your boy was in danger. I tried my best, but I didn’t try hard enough.”
Carmella took a deep breath, “You are in way over your head Mitzy.”
“I am.” Mitzy agreed.
“I guess you are family now.” Carmella said, trying to smile.
Mitzy tried to smile back. “Yeah?”
“Family always gets the worst of my temper. Alonzo might as well make it official now.” Carmella said with a rueful smile.
“It’s because family matters more to you.” Mitzy said, the heat leaving her face as her tears subsided.
“That’s the truth.” Carmella said.
Mitzy debated hugging Carmella, but Carmella’s posture was still stiff and standoffish. Mitzy held the word family close to her heart. She joined Alonzo in the kitchen for a just a moment to tell him she was leaving. She didn’t have anywhere to go but wanted to preserve the family peace by not saying or doing the wrong thing.
She got in her Miata with the intention to buy three coffees when her phone rang. It was Greta Baker.
Mitzy met Greta at the park blocks in downtown Portland. Greta was sitting on a park bench, her purse on her lap. She clenched one hand around the handle of the bag while her other hand fidgeted with the cuff of her jacket.
“I’m so glad you decided to talk to me,” Mitzy said, as soon as she got close enough to be heard.
Greta shook her head and frowned.
Mitzy got all the way to the bench and sat down. “What is it?” She asked.
Greta spoke in a quiet voice, her words spilling out on top of each other. “You were right. What we saw in the notebooks can’t hurt my grandmother, she passed away years ago. But my mother is still living and it could hurt her. We are all so proud of grandma and what she did. I just, I just couldn’t bear the thought of my mother having to hear such awful things.”
“What was awful, Greta? Your grandmother was uncovering corruption. You should all be very proud of her.” Mitzy said, dropping the volume of her voice to match Greta.
Greta shook her head. “It’s not what you think. That notebook…it wasn’t about news articles.”
“How can you be sure?” Mitzy asked.
“Because I know who X is.” Greta dropped her purse handle and covered her face, turning away from Mitzy.
Mitzy didn’t speak. She took a deep breath, counting to ten.
“She always called him Mr. X or the Mystery Man when she told us stories.” Greta paused again. Her voice was almost a whisper. She didn’t look at Mitzy while she spoke. “He died before I was born and all we had were the stories. They were exciting, thrilling adventures. But she never explained who he was or what he did. He was just the Mystery Man. He had nerves of steel. He never missed a target. He…he… ‘always got his man.’ She worshiped him. We all did.”
“Who was the Mystery Man, Greta?” Mitzy asked.
“My grandfather.”
Mitzy leaned back on the bench. “Mr. Baker.” She said in a whisper.
“No. Not Mr. Baker. That was my mom’s step-dad. Well, he adopted her when she was a teenager and we all have his name. But the Mystery Man…my mom’s dad. Grandma’s Mr. X. He died, or disappeared. I didn’t even know his name.” Greta was looking down at her bag as she spoke. “But I read more of the notes. I read them all. The whole box. And X was all over the place. Was he a blackmailer Mitzy? Or could it have been something else?” Greta asked.
“It could have been anything.” Mitzy said.
“No. I don’t think it could have. You never heard the stories. I think I know now that he wasn’t a hero.” Greta said.
“But do you know who he was?” Mitzy asked.
Greta opened her purse and pulled out a document. She carefully unfolded it and handed it to Mitzy. It was a marriage certificate.
Mitzy read the certificate carefully. She looked at Greta. Her face mirroring that of her new friend. Their eyes wide with apprehension. Margaret’s first husband was a man called Yuliy Maximovich Mikhaylechenko.
Greta turned her eyes away. “If it was blackmail then it was him. It was Grandma’s Mystery Man.”
Mitzy folded the paper and held it out to Greta. She spoke carefully, giving each word thoughtful consideration. “If her husband was blackmailing his cousins then why would she have wanted to write the story of it?”
“I don’t think this was the story she wanted to tell.” Greta said. “What if she didn’t want to write a story about them at all? She was very sophisticated. What if she wanted them to collect the evidence so she could get rid of it?”
Mitzy looked at the brown leaves of the oak tree in front of her. It filtered the light of the September sun so that the ground in front of them was dappled with shade. There was no warm, sunny place on the grass, just small spots of shadow and sun mingled together. “If she wanted to get rid of evidence it was only to protect her children,” she said.
Greta nodded.
“But they aren’t children anymore. Do you think you need to protect them?”
Greta turned to Mitzy and shook her head. “No.”
“Can I give this information to the FBI?” Mitzy asked.
“It might be devastating to my mom,” Greta said. “And it was so long ago. But I think you might need to.”
“I agree.” Mitzy said.
Mitzy was still holding the marriage certificate. Greta looked at it with hungry eyes and then turned away. ‘I’ll give you that. If your detective wants an
ything else she will have to ask me for it herself.” Greta stood up, her purse clenched in her hand again. She walked up the park, in the shadow of the tree, away from Mitzy.
The paper crackled in Mitzy’s fingers as she tucked it into her purse. She was downtown already. She’d go to Backman’s office without waiting.
The detective took the paper without a word. She dismissed Mitzy with a nod.
“That’s it?” Mitzy said.
“Yes.” Detective Backman said. “I know you think that you and your inn are the only work I have to do, but that just isn’t the case.”
“You aren’t the only work I’ve got to do either.” Mitzy said. She frowned and tapped her toe. “But I’m here now so it seems like a good time to get something done.”
“You want to have a chat?” Detective Backman said. “Then call a chat line. I’m busy.”
“The Simonite family was being blackmailed for years by the Russian Mafia. By the Mikhaylechenkos. What did they have on the Simonites? Why did the Simonites gain from the silence? What did the Mafia gain?” Mitzy asked.
Detective Backman put her reading glasses on her desk and looked up at Mitzy. She rubbed her eyes for a moment. “The Mafia gained money and power. The Simonites preserved their reputation. Blackmail is as simple as that. Thank you for the paper. You can go now.”
“But what specific thing were the Simonites keeping secret? How exactly was their reputation threatened?” Mitzy said.
“If I knew that specifically we’d have a closed case, wouldn’t we?” Backman said. She stood up. “You need to leave now.” She walked around her desk and forward.
Mitzy backed up. “Just one more thing.”
“No.” Backman kept walking forward, pushing Mitzy through the door.
“But—”
Mitzy was through the door. The Detective shut it.
Mitzy raised her voice, “Is this going to help at all?” she asked.
She only got silence in answer.
“I want to order our stationery,” Carmella said, a print shop catalogue open in front of her. “I liked your referral Mitzy, but the company I’ve been looking at specializes in the hospitality industry.”
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