“Because—?”
She stared at me, a molten suffering breaking through her forged iron eyes.
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. We belonged to a club, a club we never wanted to join. A club we could never leave.
“The maids always work in pairs. But Esther worked alone. Because she liked to be alone. And because she came in later, after school. My husband gave her all the deep-cleaning jobs, when a room isn’t being turned over right away for another guest. Esther was thorough. My husband used to say she was his best worker.”
“She sounds unusual for a teenager.”
“Highly unusual.” Martha Keller sighed. “But that was true from the moment she was conceived. Three boys, I really didn’t want another kid. But …” She shrugged. “So I started praying this last kid would be a girl. Prayer answered. And a star was born.” Her gnarled hand wrapped around the entire cup. “After she cleaned the rooms, Esther would go straight for the kitchen. More work, more pay. We serve our guests a German breakfast every morning. Sweet rolls from scratch. They take all afternoon to make and have to rise overnight.” She shook her head. “Those stupid sweet rolls. Esther would work on them because they’re such a pain. She was patient.”
Mrs. Heller’s eyes glowed, remembering. I waited.
“The other maids didn’t see her cleaning cart in the hall. But they didn’t think twice about it. They punched in their time cards and went home. Esther didn’t show up at dinner that night either.” She set the cup in the dish. It rattled. “She was found in Room 412. The room she was cleaning. The bathtub was red.”
Words scraped up my throat. “Who found her?”
She stared at me. The molten grief spilled over.
My heart clenched.
“Hey!”
It was a voice upstairs. It jolted me.
“Hey, you!”
Madame raised her head, growling again.
“They cut her throat,” Martha continued. “They drained all her blood.”
I gave her a moment. “Did someone tell you how Annicka—”
“Sheriff’s deputy was here yesterday. Asking me questions. Told me not to say anything.” She leaned forward. “The last time, I obeyed their instructions about keeping quiet. Now I want answers.”
“No suspects in Esther’s death?”
“None.” Her gnarled hands turned into fists. “Somebody literally drained the life out of my baby girl and got away with it.”
Every footstep above us felt like a kick to the heart.
“You need anything else?” she asked.
“Not at the moment.” I stared blindly at my notebook. I needed the autopsy report, the evidence files. “But if I have more questions—”
She pushed back her chair. “You know where to find me.”
I hoisted my pack and tapped my leg. We followed her down the grotto-like hallway. All those cloudless painted skies, the pristine scenes in pastel. Only now I saw something else in the scenery. A girl. She stood in the far corner of each panel, her back to the viewer. She was a small figure with dark hair. She seemed to be looking at the scenery. The flowers, meadows, bunnies. The skies that never clouded.
Martha Heller waited by the door.
“Thank you.” I held out my hand.
Her swollen knuckles felt like pebbles. I thought of the paint brushes by the sink.
“You painted the walls?” I asked.
She almost smiled. “You like them?”
I hated pastels. And most landscape paintings bored me. But it was that dark-haired girl in them. And the twisted knuckles of the mother who found her in Room 412. She recreated Esther, gazing into eternity.
“I think they’re beautiful,” I told her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Heading back to the Waterhaus, Madame trotting beside me, we shifted around the tourists like a stream bypassing boulders. It all seemed unreal—all the sunshine and schnitzel, chatty guests and cheery accordion music, going on right above Martha Heller’s grotto of grief.
And the reality of it all … a killer walked among them.
A tourist?
I stopped at one of the beer gardens. Inside the cordoned area, a red-faced man wearing a Seattle Mariner’s cap hoisted a blue stein and grinned. Would somebody come here and kill, then wait six years before killing again? And blood-letting? That required knowledge, planning. Expertise. Especially for a killer to leave almost no clues.
I started walking again. Half a block from the Waterhaus, I saw Jack. He was standing outside the inn talking to Johann, and before I could stop it, something tripped inside. My heart. So full of grief, sadness, even a little scared … and there stood Jack. Solid and strong and sure of things. Sunlight fell on his broad back and shoulders. His hiking shorts were dusty. He didn’t see me approaching, and as I moved closer, the breeze brushed over him. I smelled pine and trail dust and man. Rugged man. My heart flipped again. I wanted to lean into him, feel his muscular arms curl around me. A safe harbor in a wicked storm.
“—relationship was fine,” he was saying, “until she decided to—”
Johann’s gaze shifted.
Jack spun. “How long’ve you been standing there?”
“Not long.”
I couldn’t read his eyes. He wore those mirrored shades.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yes.” He smiled but it seemed uncertain. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
Back to business.
I turned to Johann, to ask some questions about Esther. But he was already walking toward a tour bus that had just pulled into the parking lot. He walked stiffly, his posture curved forward, like a man shielding his own broken heart.
* * *
We rode in the pickup, Madame sitting between us on the torn passenger seat. It was lunchtime and the Oktoberfest traffic had thickened. More crowds filled the streets. The truck crept forward at about five miles an hour.
“Sure you’re okay?” Jack asked.
“How long does it take for a body to bleed out?”
“That’s what you were thinking about?”
“Another girl was murdered.”
“When?”
“Six years ago.”
He stared straight ahead, but he wasn’t even blinking.
“You must’ve known about the other murder,” I said.
“Are you talking about the Heller girl?”
“Annicka’s death might be tied to hers.”
“How?”
“They were both bled out.”
He slowed at the corner of Ski Hill Drive and turned right. “Esther Heller was Leavenworth’s first murder in decades. It never got much publicity.”
“Thanks to tourism.”
“Don’t judge them, Harmon. Without tourism, this whole place dies.”
I turned away, gazing out the side window. We passed a farm, brown horses standing in fields of cut hay. “My source says law enforcement isn’t releasing the blood-letting information. But that’s how Annicka died, too.”
“They’re also withholding that detail for a good reason.”
“You have local connections here. You’re an FBI agent.” I turned to him. “Nobody told you about this blood-letting six years ago?”
“Harmon, you see things differently because of what your family’s been through.”
“Mrs. Heller looks like a ghost. I don’t think she’s seen daylight in years.”
Jack glanced at the road, then me. Then the road. Then me. Those mirrored shades reflected my sunburned face, tense with concern.
“And Johann,” I said. “The man’s literally dying inside. If the person who killed Esther hadn’t come back and killed again, his daughter might still be alive. If that person came back.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“How well do you know the Engels?”
“Family acquaintances. Why?”
“Her brother …”
“Fritz?” He
looked over at me. “You suspect Fritz?”
“He’s, what, ten years older than his sister?”
“So?”
“So whoever killed Annicka knew her running routine. And they knew her dog so well it ran home.” I pointed to Madame, sitting between us like a chaperone. “If I got attacked, would this dog run home?”
“Don’t even ask that.”
“Fritz also works in a hotel.” I described the storage shelves of housekeeping supplies, all that wrapped soap and paper products. “The person who killed Esther Heller knew housekeeping routines. They picked a time when the Hellers were too busy to check on her. And knew enough to hide Esther’s maid cart from the other maids. Who knows that kind of thing?”
“But … Fritz?” He shook his head. “He seems so…”
“Seems. That’s the key word.” I described Fritz’s reaction to my search of the basement bathroom. “Your sister gets killed, and you get mad at the investigator for doing a thorough job?”
He was quiet, and spoke softly. “No, you don’t.”
“And finally, Fritz made sure to tell me all about Annicka turning down a marriage proposal from her boyfriend. But my source says the boyfriend’s alibi holds. Plus, the boyfriend would’ve been in seventh grade when Esther was killed.”
“Who’s your source?”
“Remind me, what’s the definition of egregious?” I tilted my head.
“We’re two of a kind.” He looked over. “I keep telling you, Harmon—two of a kind.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jack parked outside a church.
I read the large wooden sign. “They can’t be serious,” I said.
“Why not?”
I read the church’s name aloud: “Our Lady of Snows”?
“Harmon, it’s an alpine tourist town.” He got out of the truck, then looked directly back at Madame, who waited expectantly on the bench seat. “The mutt can come, too.”
She jumped out the door.
Our Lady of Snows looked like the architect wanted to design a nun’s head-covering. Two long white stucco wings projected from a dark centerpiece. Positioned below the granite peaks, I fully expected Julie Andrews to burst out and remind me that the hills were alive.
Instead, a chubby priest stepped out. He wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a navy sweater with the white divinity collar. “Jack!” he called out.
They shook hands like old friends.
“Father Anthony, this is Raleigh Harmon. She’s the person with the hate-crime experience.”
I held out my hand, but Father Anthony squatted next to Madame. “Nice to meet you, Raleigh. Who’s this?”
“Madame.”
“What a tremendous name!”
She wagged. The priest scratched her back.
“Her full name is Madame Chiang Kai-Shek.”
“How wonderful!” Father Anthony’s chubby face lit up, and the dog moved closer for a really good rub. “Smart, is she?”
“Very.”
“Sorry to interrupt that mutt’s fan club,” Jack said, “but we need to get back to Seattle soon.”
“My apologies.” The priest stood. “Right this way.”
Madame stuck close behind him. He led us to the left, around one of the long white wings where a grassy slope tilted toward Ski Hill Drive. The grass was green. Which was remarkable considering the drought. Even more remarkable was the crime scene in black, beneath three flag poles.
“It scared a lot of people,” said Father Anthony.
The burn marks formed a six-pointed star. A huge star, at least ten feet in radius.
I told Madame to stay, then stepped on the grass and set down my pack. The fire had melted irrigation tubes that snaked through the soil. I took out a pair of fresh latex gloves, my camera, and a tape measure. I handed Jack one end of the tape and walked backwards along the black lines. “When did this happen?”
“The night before the Feast of St. Michael.”
I stopped. Father Anthony was kneeling down, petting Madame again. “September twenty-ninth?” I asked.
“Was it the twenty-ninth?” His hand paused. Madame lifted her face, urging him to keep scratching. “By George, you’re right. The twenty-ninth!” He glanced at Jack. “Do we have another German Catholic among us?”
“No, sir,” I said. “I know the date because Annicka Engels went missing the day after the feast.”
“Oh, dear God.” He looked at Jack. “Could—could these things be connected?”
“I doubt it,” Jack said. “Do you see any connection?”
“The Engels are members of the church.”
“Just about everybody in this town’s a member,” Jack said.
The priest seemed lost in thought. I wrote down the burned star’s measurements, took photos, and wiped down my trowel with a sterile alcohol pad, soberly removing the soil from Annicka’s grave.
“Did you see it burning?” I asked.
“No.” The priest shook his head, hard, as if dislodging a thought. “I was home, preparing for the long weekend. We have three services on holy days, plus the feast. The sheriff’s office called.” He pointed to the road. “Someone drove up the hill and saw the flames.”
“What time?”
“Oh, it was past midnight.”
I pinched the ground, lifting the soil to my nose. It smelled foul, bitter. Just like the motivations behind it. “Did the local fire department investigate?”
“Yes, but …” He seemed to consider how to say it. “They’re a volunteer company.”
“Good enough to save lives,” Jack said. “But not trained for arson investigations. Or hate crimes.”
I dug a chunk of soil out of the ground and placed it in a plastic bag, sealing the top and writing the location on it with the Sharpie. “Anything about this feast of Saint Michael that might cause someone to threaten your church?”
“That’s just it.” The priest stared at the burnt grass. “I could see this coming from the Oktoberfest crowd, some drunken prank. But Saint Michael—the angel of God? That’s what we’re celebrating.”
“And no threats leading up to it?”
“Well.” He glanced at Jack again. “You know about those.”
Jack nodded and looked at me. I was close enough that I could see my reflection in his shades. Three flags behind me flapped in the wind. And there I stood, one solitary woman, at the foot of a burned-out star. My life in one picture.
Jack said, “Father Anthony isn’t exactly the most traditional Catholic.”
“How so?”
“Oh.” The priest chuckled, a little nervously. “People never like it when their church changes. I keep telling them, the church’s best days come when we break with man-made traditions.”
“No kidding,” Jack muttered.
I snapped off my gloves, a sound that echoed the flapping flags. “What kind of traditions did you break?”
Father Anthony, the passionate type, went into a long discursive about the church’s beginnings. I took photographs of the charred star while he talked about the late 1800s, when a German priest invited local native tribes to worship here. And, in the early 1900s, women were given positions of authority. During World War II, Our Lady of Snows helped bring orphans from Nazi Germany to America. During the 1960s, parishioners flew to the South and marched for civil rights.
I laid my wooden ruler next to one of the sooty streaks. I zoomed in the camera’s focus. “And what did you do to upset people, Father Anthony?”
“Oh, nothing like that.”
I lowered the camera.
“Really.” He pinched his sweater, then the jeans. “I got rid of formal dress codes.”
“And,” Jack nodded at Madame.
“Yes, twice a year I bless the animals. In the name of St. Francis of Assisi.”
“Patron saint of mutts,” Jack muttered.
“What would it take, Jack.” Father Anthony smiled. “To get you back in church?”
Jack said nothing.
“Father, has anyone threatened you personally?” I asked.
“You mean, threatened my life?”
I nodded.
“No, but.” He glanced at Jack. “Our numbers are dropping. When I proposed casual dress, I lost about ten percent of the congregation. No matter how many sermons I preach about God looking at the inside, not the outside. Or how we want people to be comfortable in church. I’ve even pointed out that Jesus didn’t wear formal robes like the religious leaders.”
“We’ll be classifying this arson as a federal hate crime,” Jack said.
“Yes.” The priest sighed. “And I’ve already forgiven whoever did it.”
“Good for you,” Jack said gruffly. “You do your job, we’ll do ours.”
I packed up my equipment and gave the priest my card. “If you think of anything else,” I said, “call me.”
“Certainly.” Father Anthony gazed at the charred grass. His cheerful demeanor was gone. He seemed cloaked by something heavy, painful.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s a terrible thing when I can think of too many people who might do such a thing to my church.”
Human nature. It taught such hard lessons to everyone. But people working in law enforcement had nothing on the clergy.
CHAPTER TWENTY
It took all of three minutes.
“Harmon.”
“What.”
Jack’s plane lifted off Lake Wenatchee, sunlight sparkling on the water like we’d tossed glitter out the windows.
“What’s going on with you?” Jack asked.
“I’m fine.”
An updraft hit the wings. The plane bumped higher. My stomach lurched. Madame circled my lap, and quivered.
“Anything you want to talk about?” he asked.
I shook my head. There was too much to talk about. Annicka and Esther and ruthless killers of innocent girls. Hate crimes. And why Jack froze as soon as he realized I was standing behind him at the Waterhaus. But I was too tired for all of it. We’d left Seattle at dawn, and now I was heading into another visit to the insane asylum.
The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Page 9