Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist (12 page)
Authors: Duncan Whitehead
“So you see, Mother, everything is going to be just fine…”
Heidi was no longer listening. She hadn’t been listening for the last twenty minutes. Everything Steven was saying simply floated over her. It was as if she was in a dream…or a nightmare. Her thoughts were lucid. Her memories were real. What had she done? Her whole life spent despising her own people? She knew she was crying but could not feel the tears, and Steven hadn’t noticed that she was crying. Too interested in his findings, and no doubt the wealth he was soon to inherit, thought Heidi as her tears continued to flow. She knew now, now she could not communicate it, that she had been a bad mother. Pulled and swayed by hatred, she had been bullying and controlling. Her husband had loved her and she had used him. She had so many things to say, so many things to do, so many wrongs to right and now that she knew the truth, she couldn’t.
The brain is a complicated organ. Strokes can lead to increased brain function in one area and decreased function in another. Memories stirred, familiar names mentioned…there was no telling what had prompted Heidi’s recollections. There was no way to decipher what had finally cured her of her delusions. How ironic, she thought. If she could have stopped the tears and been able to move her mouth, she would have smiled; she would have probably laughed out loud.
“Steven, I think your mother has heard enough for one day,” said Sarah Launer, “I think she wants to rest. I think she is crying.” Sarah walked over to her mother- in-law’s bedside and gently wiped the tears away from Heidi’s face. Despite her disdain for Heidi, she could not bear to see her suffer. It was obvious that the old woman was upset and it was the first time Sarah had ever seen Heidi cry. “I think we need to go. We can come back tomorrow, dear. After the parade.”
Steven nodded, indicating that he agreed with his wife. He leant over his mother and kissed her on the forehead. “I love you, Mom,” he said, “We will see you tomorrow afternoon.”
Thank you Sarah; thank you for your kindness. Please forgive me, forgive me for all I have done. Forgive me for not being the mother I should had been to you and my son, forgive me for not being the grandmother I should have been to your children. Oh, I have so many regrets. I have so many wrongs to right, so many bridges to mend. Please don’t go. Please sit with me. Please stay a while a longer.
But it was too late. A nurse, an orderly, and the doctor replaced Steven and Sarah as they left Heidi’s room.
“Okay, I am going to give you something that will help you sleep,” said the doctor, “Jane here,” he indicated to the nurse, “is going to make you comfortable, and Max,” referring to the orderly “is going to clean you up a little, and change your diaper. So you just relax, okay?”
Heidi though, was already back in 1937.
1938 Austria Vienna
“We will see you very soon, my angel, once you are feeling better,” said Siegfried Launer as he kissed his daughter on the cheek.
“Feeling better? What do you mean
feeling better
? I am fine, look what he gave me,” Heidi pulled a toy luger from the travel bag that sat in her lap. “He gave it to me, my uncle, it is his. He used it once, in the Great War. He gave it to me at the dinner party last night, when you were all sleeping. He loves me. That’s why he is sending me away. Away from you. You are imposters. He will punish you for what you have tried to do to me. You tried to trick me and confuse me. But it hasn’t worked.”
Siegfried smiled at his daughter as his stomach clenched with the nausea of heartbreak. He wanted to shake his head, and he wanted to cry out loud. He wanted to hug his child. Heidi had taken the toy gun from her brother’s toy box. Her delusions were getting worse, and the sickness had now completely engulfed her. He stifled his tears and continued to smile at his daughter.
“One day. I will use this gun,” said the child as she held it aloft, admiring it, and twisting the fake weapon in her hand. She smiled at the man at the side of the car, who talked to her as if he knew her. “Who are you again?” she asked. “You seem familiar? Did he send you, to make sure that I am fine?”
Siegfried once again smiled, though behind the smile, his heart was breaking. It was obvious that there would be no cure for her madness, not yet at least, and maybe even never. But he did have hope. There was always hope. He had arranged passage to England, then on to New York at short notice, and the Muller’s would accompany Heidi on her journey. They had agreed immediately when their friend had asked them to act as Heidi’s wards, and, for appearances, her parents. Ida and Franz were good people. Franz was tiring of business and Ida had one passion and one passion only: baking. Childless, they had nothing to keep them in Austria, apart from the prospect of a war led by a man who they did not support. They had not hesitated at the chance of a new life, and the moment Franz’s Jewish employer had proposed the idea, they had agreed. They were compassionate and understanding people who knew of Heidi’s affliction and they could be trusted, even though they were not Jewish. The Launers considered the Mullers to be among their closest friends.
Savannah seemed as good as any place to Siegfried; it was quiet and on the coast, and the sea air could do nothing but help Heidi. A large city such as New York, full of picture houses and newspapers filled with stories from Europe, would not be conducive to her recovery, Doctor Schumacher had advised.
Siegfried would send money via his bankers in New York, who would arrange the necessary transport to Savannah. There, the Mullers would open a bakery business with their niece Heidi, who they would eventually adopt as their own child. Siegfried had considered obtaining false documents for his daughter and changing her name, but he had chosen not to. She was Heidi. Heidi Launer. She was born with the name and maybe she would die with that name.
“Yes, that’s right, he sent me,” said Siegfried, “to make sure you are safe, and to make sure you make it to America safely. In case anything happens,” his voice crackled with emotion as he nodded gently to his daughter.
“I knew it!
He
would have been here himself I am sure, but I expect
he
is just too busy. And these people, they are pretending to be my parents?”
“Yes dear,” said her father, as he nodded in the direction of his daughter’s chaperones, who both smiled reassuringly at him. “Yes dear, for your safety. It is very important that you keep your identity secret. That you tell no one.
He
told me to tell you that.”
Heidi smiled. She knew it. This was all part of the plan. She knew that
he
loved her. Wasn’t he the one who gave her the gun? Wasn’t he the one who read her those stories? She would pretend for him. Pretend that these people were her mother and father. She stared at the other woman, and the man who had been talking. They were crying. She did not know why. She had only just met them. Hadn’t she?
As the car carrying his daughter crunched into gear and slowly crept from the driveway of his large home, Siegfried hugged his wife. Both were now emotionally drained, tired and saddened, and they would tell Heidi’s siblings that she had gone away for a holiday; that she would return soon and not to worry. Their sister would be back one day. Siegfried had plans. Later that year, he would visit Savannah. He would see his daughter, check on her condition. He and Anne would see Heidi again, he just knew it, and if she was cured, they would bring her home.
* * * * *
On the day the Nazis arrived at his home and took him and his family to the train, they had asked Siegfried where his other daughter was, as according to records, he had two daughters. They had searched the house, convinced that the girl was hiding, but when they found no trace of her, they shrugged their shoulders and led the family away, allowing them to take a few possessions with them. That memory though, of the car driving his beloved Heidi away, driving her away to a new life, safety, and away from the evil that had arrived at his home…that memory would one day bring him great comfort. The knowledge that at least one member of his family had been spared and hadn’t suffered with the rest of them had seen him through the darkest days and nights. That memory carried him through the horrors of Auschwitz, through the knowledge that two of his children and his wife were already dead. That image, the irony of it all, his daughter saved by the notion that the man who would have snuffed out of her life in the blink of an eye was her uncle, gave him some solace. And maybe, just maybe, before they led him to the gas chamber to meet his death, he had managed one last smile.
St. Patrick’s Day
She needed to somehow communicate. The regret, the sorrow she felt, the pain, and the agony of the truth was just too much. Her beliefs had been shattered in an instance, her memories now tarnished. Heidi Launer stared at the ceiling of her hospital room as she lay paralyzed, desperate to somehow get a message to her son, to anyone. She guessed it was early morning, by the beams of sunlight that peered through the center of the closed curtains. Steven and Sarah would be on their way to the parade, if they wanted to secure a good view. Oh how she wished she could be with them.
She heard someone in her room, someone who opened the curtains fully, allowing the sunlight to flood her room. It was her nurse, the kind nurse who had fed her soup the night before.
“Good morning. It’s early I know. I will be back with some juice and something you can eat. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.”
Yes dear, thank you. Happy St. Patrick’s Day to you also. I am sorry you are working and that you are going to miss the parade. I regret not ever going to one. They seem like so much fun. My son Steven…
The nurse had already left. She hadn’t heard the undistinguishable and garbled sounds coming from Heidi’s mouth.
What of Betty? Poor Betty...she should have been kinder to her, and she wished she could tell her how sorry she was. She wanted to tell Betty that the car was hers, to take anything from the house, and that she was the best friend Heidi ever had. And Fuchsl? What would become of him? The dog she had named after
his
dog. She did not care about the room. It was all fake, from the Luger that hadn’t killed her three years previously to the flags, movie reels, and medals. All those items were purchased from collectors and auction houses during her madness; it was all lies and make-believe. She had never been to Berlin, she hadn’t been to any Olympics, and she hadn’t sat with anyone in the VIP area. She’d even gotten the year wrong, so corrupted was her mind, that easily-checked facts had been ignored by her delusions.
Her madness was finally cured, she knew that now. She knew who she was. Who she really was. It had taken eighty years and a stroke for her brain to finally rid itself of the delusions. Her delusions had led her to pursue a man who had done nothing wrong; Elliott Miller was innocent, he was a good man, he was…one of her people. If only she could sit up. Write a note, do something.
Heidi took one last breath, and as she drifted towards death. As she died, alone, paralyzed, and confused, as her heart finally stopped beating and her organs shut down, she could hear her father’s loving voice once again, whispering gently into her ear. She heard him telling her the old folk tales, known and loved by children throughout Austria, loved by her brother and her sister, passed down from generation to generation. Tales of witches, castles, and of boys lost in the Bavarian woods…and of course, the dragons…
One Month before St. Patrick’s Day
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
Doug Partridge was suffering, and like it always was, his suffering was wholly self-inflicted. Once again, he had drank too much, smoked too much, and not slept enough. His head was throbbing and he felt nauseous. His mouth tasted like stale cigarettes and alcohol. He looked at his watch and saw that it was already three in the afternoon. He was relieved. At least he still had his Rolex and the previous evenings ‘guest’ hadn’t removed it from his wrist as he slept. He shifted his bloodshot and bleary eyes and saw that his wallet was still on his bedside table. He couldn’t remember if he had paid her or not. If he hadn’t, he was sure he would see her again, as the girls always knew where to find him.
Sunlight flooded his apartment. He really needed to get around to putting up some blinds or curtains. He curled over and thought about sleeping some more. Instead, he rose naked from his bed and headed to the bathroom. He hoped today that there would be hot water coming out of the showerhead, but he was so hung over, maybe a cold shower would do him good.
After showering, he made his way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. All it contained was a bottle of water. He took a swig from it and placed the plastic bottle back it back into the poorly stocked cooler. He yawned, and then proceeded to dress himself.
The apartment was barely even an apartment; it was a one-bedroom efficiency, with simple amenities and sparsely furnished. Eight stories up, the only window looked down onto a courtyard. Ten stories upwards, a peak of sky formed the shaft of light that informed him it was daytime. It was a dismal place. But for now, and the past six months, it was home.
Once dressed, Doug exited his apartment and headed to the elevator, which he took to the ground floor of his building. He passed the doorman, who also acted as caretaker and nodded towards him as he stepped through the iron security gate and onto the bustling street.
“Bom Dia,”
said the doorman, who Doug remembered was called Carlos or Juan. He could never remember, “Or should I say
boa tarde
?”
“Morning or afternoon, neither is particularly good,” replied Doug.
As he exited the covered courtyard of his apartment building, the mid-afternoon heat hit him immediately. He was dehydrated and hungry. He needed a drink and a sandwich. On the corner of the avenue was a small bar, a bar he frequented often and usually on days like this, when he was hung over but in need of more drink. He ordered a beer, a Brahma, lit a cigarette, and drank the bottle in less than half a minute. He ordered another, which he drank a little more slowly, paid for his drinks, and then headed towards the promenade.
Living in Rio, as he had done for the past six months, had its advantages. Doug had money, plenty of money, and money bought him alcohol and women. He despised the heat though; it was a different kind of heat than Savannah’s. While Savannah was humid, the heat in Rio was burning. He didn’t sweat, he burned in Brazil. His bar of choice was named, The Balcony; it was located along the promenade in Copacabana, about a quarter of a mile from his apartment. He spent more time there than he did in his dingy room, and it was to there he was headed, after his quick fix me up. He intended to drink all day, hire a prostitute for the night, and then inevitably sleep again until three the following day. He would continue the cycle as he had done for the past six months, and for as long as he could continue it. This was his life now, but he knew it was only a matter of time before they found him, or got close enough that would warrant him leaving, forcing him to assume yet another identity and head somewhere else. Sooner or later, he would run out of false passports, fake identities, money, and the will to keep on running but that was a long way off. Right now, as he arrived at The Balcony, all he could think about, all he wanted was another drink.
Though Doug spoke Portuguese well, the bartenders, waiters and waitresses spoke English, as this bar was primarily designed for tourists. And, of course, they all knew Doug.
“You are a glutton for punishment, Chris,” said Pedro as he entered the bar. Pedro was one of the many bartenders who knew Doug well, or as well as anyone could know a man who assumed multiple identities, “Your liver must be exhausted.”
The Balcony had no door, and as such, the inside of the establishment opened onto the promenade where the restaurant and bar extended further, with tables and chairs placed outside under a white canopy, increasing the capacity of the normally crowded bar.
“Just get me a
brahma
and a whiskey chaser,” smiled Doug, “I don’t need any sermons, thank you. I think I’m beyond saving.” Pedro obliged and Doug drank the whiskey immediately before raising the bottle of beer to his mouth. It was early, and apart from Doug, there were just three other patrons at the bar. Outside, under the canopy where food was being served, it was equally deserted, with only two tables containing diners. Despite being known as a ‘seedy bar’ populated by prostitutes, drug dealers, and sex tourists, The Balcony also served food, good food; the combined menu included Brazilian food as well as dishes from Germany, England, and America. In Doug’s opinion, The Balcony served some of the best food in Rio.
Doug’s rumbling stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten yet, and he made his way outside of the bar. He found a seat at one of the empty tables under the canopy, and a few seconds later, his waiter appeared.
“Hello Chris, how are you?” asked the waiter. He was an older man, one of the oldest waiters employed by the bar.
“I’m fine, Santiago,” replied Doug as he lit a cigarette, “You know me, I’m always fine.”
“May I interest you in a bottle of wine to accompany the steak that I know you are going to order?” asked Santiago, now speaking in Spanish. “I can recommend a fine Argentinian wine--a
Luigi Bosca
. A little expensive but worth the extra few
reais
.”
”You know my habits and routine very well. A long time ago, that would have been dangerous. Yes please, steak, wine, and another whiskey,” answered Doug in Spanish.
“Of course,” replied Santiago.
Though his Portuguese was good, Doug’s Spanish was even better and he enjoyed talking with Santiago. The practice helped to keep him up with the language, especially since Doug had no idea which country would be his next home. It was prudent that he keep his language skills well-honed, and as Santiago was an Argentine, it was also good for him to speak his mother-tongue once in a while.
Santiago always recommended the same bottle of wine, and Doug always drank it. Santiago had explained, a few months earlier, how he had once worked in one of the finest restaurants in Buenos Aires, a place named La Casa Verde. There, according to Santiago, the meat was cooked to perfection and the wine selection was unbelievable. Rows and rows of the finest Argentine wines filled the racks that adorned the walls. Many times, Santiago had told Doug he would have loved the place, in fact many foreigners had often dined there. It was gone now, though. Demolished and replaced with a fast food restaurant after the owner had died of a heart attack. But the memories of the place still lived on in Santiago’s mind, memories of his youth, memories of a life now long since evaporated with the passing of time.
Santiago returned to the table with Doug’s wine and told him his steak, though not as good as an Argentine steak of course, would be ready in five minutes. Doug thanked him and lit yet another cigarette.
“Those things will kill you one day,” said Santiago, “You need to quit, Chris,”
“I doubt cigarettes will be what eventually kills me,” replied Doug.
Santiago smiled. He enjoyed talking with Chris; he was a good tipper, he was popular with all the staff, and of course, he was very popular with the girls who plied their nocturnal trade at The Balcony once the sun went down.
“Oh, by the way, I nearly forgot. Your friend told me that your meal was on him this afternoon, and that he would cover all your drinks and anything else you consumed today.”
Doug stared at Santiago and suddenly, despite the alcohol he had drunk and his hangover, he was fully alert.
“What friend?” he asked, his tone serious and his face stern.
Santiago was surprised at the sudden change in his favorite customer. Chris was usually relaxed and easy-going, but he suddenly seemed like a different person, cautious, alert, on edge even, and slightly intimidating.
“Him,” replied Santiago, pointing towards one of the three occupied tables. The table in question was the one in the far corner of the canopied dining area that spread onto the promenade, but still remained inside the official boundaries of The Balcony. “He told me that, when you arrived, he would pay for everything. I thought he was someone you knew.”
Doug Partridge stared at the man, who appeared to be reading a newspaper. Doug could see that the paper was the Washington Post and he did not recognize the man. Doug, whose observation skills were well-honed, analyzed the man’s hands and guessed that his new ‘friend’ was old, probably in his seventies. He was dressed in a white flannel suit, his hair was grey, and Doug could see that he had a slightly receding hairline. Though Doug could still not see his face, he could make out his height even despite the fact he was seated. The man lowered his newspaper and smiled directly at Doug.
“How long has he been here?” Doug asked Santiago, his gaze still fixed on the stranger who remained staring at Doug, and still smiling.
“About an hour,” replied Santiago, who was confused by the situation.
“Has he been here before?” asked Doug.
“Yes, he has been taking breakfast here for a week now. I believe he is staying at the Copacabana Palace.”
Doug knew the hotel well; it was only 500 yards from The Balcony. It was a very expensive hotel, and considered to be the best in Rio, as well as one of the most luxurious in the world.
“I assumed he was your friend. Every morning he asks about you, ‘his good friend Chris,’ he says. Sometimes, he is here at night. I think that maybe you could be sometimes too drunk to notice him. But he is here, before you arrive and late in the evening.”
Doug stared at the man, his face showing no emotion. His eyes fixed on the stranger, who in turn, returned the stare. However, the stranger continued to smile.
“Santiago, I am going to dine with my friend,” said Doug eventually.
Santiago nodded that he understood, and told Doug he would deliver his food to the man’s table. Doug rose from his seat, and taking his bottle of wine and glass with him, approached the stranger’s table. As Doug drew close to his table, Peter Ferguson stood politely and indicated with his hand for Doug to sit down.
“So, at last we meet. I have read and heard a lot about you,” said Ferguson. “You have been a hard man to track down. I came close when you were in Budapest but missed you by a few days, in Hamburg by a few hours, and in Bangkok by mere minutes. But here we are, finally. How are you Doug? You seem to be having fun, if the ladies are anything to go by. You know you are smoking a lot…too much. Those cigarettes are bad for your health. You know that?”
Doug knew immediately the man in front of him was from the Organization. Who he was, Doug did not know, but he was important. He was one of the higher-ups, Doug could tell.
“Tell me,” said Doug calmly, “What is stopping me from smashing this bottle,” he indicated towards the bottle of Luigi Bosca, “Jabbing it into your neck several times and then disappearing again, leaving you here to bleed to death?”
Ferguson smiled again. “You wouldn’t do that, Doug. Not if you want to see your daughter again…alive that is. We don’t usually hurt children, but in your case, I might make an exception. She is with your late wife’s parents if I am not mistaken. Lovely couple. They are doing a good job raising young Katie.”
Doug felt himself flush with anger, but he controlled his reaction. The Organization knew everything, had people everywhere, and he had no doubt that they had been watching Veronica’s parents’ home, just waiting for the moment when Doug would return. That was just one of the reasons he hadn’t.
“What do you want?” asked Doug. “You have already killed my wife and made the world think that I am a murderer. If you’re going to kill me then fine, just do it and let’s get it over with. I am getting tired of all this. All this running and hiding. I did what you people asked. I carried out my contracts, and I did whatever the Director told me to do.” Doug took a large swig of wine and then poured himself another glass. He then offered the drink to Ferguson, who thanked Doug as he pushed his glass towards the younger man. Doug dutifully poured Ferguson a glass, and as he did, Santiago arrived at the table with Doug’s meal. Doug ordered a second bottle of Luigi Bosca, and Santiago nodded and left the men alone as he went to fetch a second bottle of the Argentine wine.
“Yes Doug, you did everything we asked. But you messed up. They found Tom Hudd’s body, and we didn’t kill your wife. That was your fault. You also put a very close friend of mine in danger. It was him who warned you, the Director that is. He had a soft spot for you for some reason. I don’t. But he saw something in you. And he liked your family.”
