Death of a Second Wife (A Dotsy Lamb Travel Mystery) (3 page)

“I certainly can’t. But Erin has lived her whole life with her! Surely . . .”

Patrick took his hand off my shoulder and leaned forward, his elbows digging into his knees. “Erin reminds me, sometimes, of that pathetic little monkey clinging to the wire surrogate mother. The one in all the psych books.”

“That will be over soon. She can cling to you now. You’re real.”

“Yeah.” Patrick turned to me, wrinkled his nose, and studied my face through his new glasses, as if he were seeing me clearly for the first time. “And I’m looking forward to that.”

“How do you like this, Babs?” I employed one of Marco’s Italian gestures to indicate contempt. “You
can
catch a man without make-up.”

“So how have you been, Mom? School going okay?”

“Like everyone else, we’ve been slammed by the recession.”

The college where I teach ancient and medieval history was on spring break until the end of the week. Patrick and Erin had scheduled their wedding to coincide with Patrick’s and my own time off. “We have a hiring freeze in effect, so natural attrition has loaded up our classes to the exploding point. I’ve had to take on an extra section of European history and we’ve all been forced to take a week’s unpaid sabbatical. That’s why it was so easy for me to get next week off. I can go back to Florence for a few days
, but my next pay check will be microscopic.”

“Sorry, Mom. This trip is a burden on you, isn’t it?”

“No problem.”

I diverted my eyes quickly, before Patrick had a chance to study them for clues as to whether that statement was true or not. I had already used a credit card to buy that jacket after vowing to limit myself on this
trip to the cash in my wallet.

Across the meadow north of the boulder where we sat, the trail curved upward and vanished behind a pile of boulders. In the opposite direction, a dense stand of conifers cast the slope in shadow, darkening to black a few yards in, like Hansel and Gretel’s forest. I glimpsed the corner of a brown structure, deep within the trees. A gingerbread house? I asked.

Patrick stood and shaded his eyes, peering in the direction I pointed. “Believe it or not, it’s an elevator. Juergen and his neighbors have had an elevator shaft dug through the mountain. Down below, it comes out near LaMotte. On this end, it’s disguised as a cutsy-poo little shack.”

“So that’s how you got up here from the church, you cheater! You didn’t hike up, you took the lift.”

“Uh-oh. Busted.”

“Why didn’t Stephanie tell me about this? I had to take a cab up the side of Sheer Terror Canyon.”

“When we have time, I’ll take you. But it’s complicated the first time you do it. Finding the entrance down below without divulging where it is—you have to know where to look. They don’t want just anybody using it.”

I had heard the Swiss were clever, but an
elevator through a mountain?

* * *
* *

The landing outside my bedroom door overlooked the living room where everyone had gathered for drinks before dinner. I took in the scene from my lofty perch as I inserted and fastened my hoop earrings by feel.
A real fire crackled in the stone fireplace. Upholstered furniture in a maroon plaid and a large leather armchair with a deep crater in the cushion sat angled toward big picture windows along the south side of the room.

Patrick and Babs stood at those windows with their backs to the rest of the room. They each held a wine glass. Patrick’s free hand swept across the panorama outside. He pointed to something in the distance and Babs’s head turned, following his finger. In profile, her face looked like a cameo.

At the fireplace, Stephanie was talking to Erin, my future daughter-in-law. Erin’s slight figure, in a loose knit sweater and black slacks, stood facing the fire, her arms folded across her waist, her head down. Stephanie, by contrast, faced Erin directly, her hand on Erin’s shoulder. I watched them for a minute. It seemed as if Stephanie was doing all the talking.

The third twosome in the room down below was Juergen and—who else—Chet Lamb. They each held glasses, but Chet’s appeared to be an old fashioned glass with amber contents, undoubtedly his usual scotch and soda. Chet looked small from this angle. He had lost weight. His jacket hung awkwardly from drooping shoulders and his cheeks looked flabby. His eyes darted restlessly around, as if he wasn’t paying attention to whatever Juergen was saying.

Ah, well. Deep breath.

It was hard not to make a grand entrance with the stairs from my little balcony leading down into the middle of the living room, and heads did turn toward me as I descended. I concentrated on not missing a step. Juergen asked what I wanted to drink and left the room to fetch it.

“Chet.”

“Dotsy.” He stepped forward and kissed me on the cheek. “How’s school?”

I told him the same story I had told Patrick earlier and asked about his business. Chet owns a John Deere franchise in the western part of Virginia, in farming country. Our son, Brian, has now joined him in the business and, I’ve heard, works harder and does more actual managing than Chet does these days. Brian has Sunday dinner with me almost every week, even though it’s a two-hour drive from his home to mine. I see more of him than any of my other four children, and he’s the one I imagine I’ll depend on most if I live long enough to need help. Brian was to be Patrick’ best man but he hadn’t arrived yet.

“When will Brian get here?” I asked.

Chet took a mouthful of his drink including at least one ice cube and crunched a bit before answering. “I don’t know. Stephanie probably knows.” Crunch. “Tomorrow, I think.”

“If only Anne and Jeffrey could be here.” Anne is our youngest child and our only daughter, now living somewhere in the Bahamas on a boat or something. Anne rarely contacts me, and any address I manage to get for her is outdated by the time I get it. Jeffrey is our adopted son, now performing with a famous dance troupe. A biracial child trapped between two cultures and neglected by both dysfunctional parents, he came to us when he was seven. The day we adopted him was possibly best day of my life. Unfortunately, Jeffrey’s troupe was booked solid through the month of April so he couldn’t be here
.

Chet nodded in response to my comment but glanced toward the stairs as if he was distracted. His mind was on something else, I
could tell.

Juergen sidled up and handed me a glass of red wine, his animated watch face dancing as his wrist turned. That’s when I noticed the compass rose built into the watch’s face, swiveling to keep track of north as he moved.

“I have to ask you something, Juergen,” I said. “Today, when you were driving me here in that little—thing, Gisele popped up out of nowhere. It was so strange. One second, no one was around and the next second, there she was. How did she do that?”

Juergen grinned, glanced at Chet. “The bunker.”

“The what?”

“The bunker. Air-raid shelter. Bomb-proof, weather-proof, impenetrable to nuclear radiation, biochemical attack, you name it.” Juergen straightened his back, his chest expanding.

“They’re all over Switzerland, Dotsy.” Chet interjected. “The Swiss don’t maintain a standing army because they are historically a neutral country.”

I decided not to remind him I teach European history.

“But that doesn’t mean we care to be vulnerable,” Juergen said, waggling a finger at me. “With mountains protecting us all around, we’re geographically insulated, but mountains don’t protect you from an air attack, do they? No. So during World War Two we built bunkers inside the mountains and disguised the entrances so they look like normal mountains.” He gestured toward the vista beyond the room’s picture windows. “But don’t let that fool you. These peaks can open up in a moment and out will come more artillery—ground-to-air missiles, tanks, guns—than you could ever want to face!”

“We went through a phase in the United States,” I said, “during the fifties, of building bomb shelters, stocking them with food, and putting school children through horrifying air raid drills. We don’t do that anymore.”

“
Ja.
We don’t either.” Juergen ran a wrinkled hand through his grey hair. “After the Cold War, there didn’t seem to be much point, but there they were. We had already built them and it seemed a shame not to use them for something.” He tilted his head to one side. “We use ours to store ski equipment and wine.”

“So that’s where Gisele came from. I knew there was a simple explanation.”

“But just because we keep our skis and the family silver in them now, don’t get the idea that you can invade Switzerland and get away with it. We also keep artillery there.”

“I wouldn’t think of invading Switzerland.”

“The family silver, eh?” Chet raised an eyebrow as if hinting that the bunker might be ripe pickings for theft.

“That reminds me.” I set my glass down on the nearest coaster. “I have a presentation to make.” I tripped up the steps, grabbed the box I had gift-wrapped an hour ago and returned, calling for everyone’s attention.

“I think this is as good a time as any. Patrick and Erin?” They both left their conversations and moved toward me. Erin’s sweater hung on her small bony frame, the sleeves covering most of her hands. Her black flats were too big for her feet, I noticed, forcing her to shuffle across the rug. “This is not exactly your wedding gift from me, but . . . well, open it. It’s self-explanatory.” I had intended to make a little speech welcoming Erin into the family, but I seemed to have skipped that part.

Erin, her big brown eyes wide, took the package, tore off the wrapping, looked at the needlepoint quizzically, and turned to Patrick. He lifted it and smiled. “Love is the essence of life,” he said, translating from the Latin.

My face flushed, I know, for in that moment I was certain everyone in the room thought that was it. My entire gift to my son and his bride. They were all thinking,
What a piker!

Erin read the enclosed note aloud. “The silver flatware service Grandmother Strait left to me is now yours. Sorry I couldn’t bring it with me. I wish you a life of happiness. Love
, Mom.” Erin stepped forward and hugged me. Her body beneath the sweater felt like a little bird.

“You shouldn’t have, Mom,” Patrick grinned as if he, too, was glad I was to be spared the embarrassment of having presented an inadequate gift. “Wow. That’s great.”

I pulled the second gift from behind my back and handed it to Patrick. “This is from Marco Quattrocchi. You remember him, Patrick? From Florence?” I let my gaze sweep past Chet’s face and noted the tiniest tightening of the jaw in response to that name.

Patrick slipped off the Florentine paper and handed it to Erin. He opened the box, looked in, pulled out a small note, and read it to himself. Tears welled up in both Patrick’s eyes and he dashed from the room.

We were all left standing awkwardly, speechless.

Erin and I looked at each other, jockeying for position. We were about to establish an important precedent. When Patrick needs a soft shoulder, whose shall it be? It had always been mine but now Erin, wife-to-be, appeared ready to throw down the gauntlet, shove me aside, and claim the spot for herself.

Incredibly, Stephanie stuck her pinched nose in before either Erin or I could react. “Since everyone else seems to be paralyzed, I’ll go and see what’s wrong with him.”

I grabbed her by the elbow as she flew past me.

Stephanie whirled around, defiant. Her green eyes flashed.

“Patrick would prefer to be alone now, Stephanie. Trust me. I’m his mother.”

Stephanie’s gaze darted toward Chet, but she stayed put.

I considered this minor skirmish won by Yours Truly.

* * * * *

Like a long-established evening protocol, Gisele appeared on the landing above us, nodded to Juergen, then turned back toward the dining room.

“Dinner is served,” Juergen announced in his high-pitched voice. “Dotsy? May I escort you to the table?” Very formal, but in this case very much appreciated. Good timing.

As I turned toward Juergen and his outstretched arm, I caught the briefest glimpse of a large shadow sweeping across the meadow beyond the living room windows.

* * * * *

Juergen and Stephanie sat at opposite ends of the rustic table with Chet and Erin on one side, Babs and me on the other. The dining room walls were of natural wood with big exposed beams overhead and a rough stone fireplace on one end. Casement windows along the two exterior walls looked onto a steep slope, now in shades of blue and pink with the setting of the sun.

We were all seated when Patrick slipped in and, with a self-conscious cough, seated himself between Babs and me. “Sorry I ran out like that, folks.” He glanced around the table, and I noticed his nose was red. “I’m all right now.”

“Super!” Juergen said, then raised his wine glass. “I’d like to propose a toast.”

Gisele appeared at a door on the far end of the room. “Telephone, Steph. In the kitchen.”

I happened to be looking straight at Erin in that moment, thinking about how innocent she
seemed with her elfin face and big brown eyes that bulged a bit in their sockets. At Gisele’s words, Erin froze. She looked across the table toward her mother and her eyes flashed cold fear.