In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (4 page)

Wick leafed through the piles of paper. “They went through pretty much every cabinet, closet, and drawer in the house, big and small. These drawers won’t fit anything but paper.” He looked up at me, his round face sweaty. “What was in here? All I got is receipts and some charity stuff.”
 

“The inventory,” I said. “There was an inventory of the entire contents of The Bled Collection.”
 

“Which would presumably have what they were looking for on it,” he said.
 

“We’ll have to call the rest of the family.”
 

“What for?”
 

“There are pieces in other houses. They have to be warned,” I said.
 

“And the list says which pieces are where?” asked Nazir.
 

“Of course. It doesn’t change much. The family doesn’t loan out pieces to museums as a general rule, but sometimes a family member wants a certain piece for an event. There is restoration work to be done from time to time, too.”
 

Wick closed the drawer and ran his beefy finger over the splintered mahogany veneer. “And you really have no idea what this Klinefeld Group is after?”
 

I shook my head. “I don’t and neither do Myrtle or Millicent. Aunt Miriam says they want a box or rather something that would be in a box.”
 

“Maybe your aunt is wrong,” said Nazir.
 

“Have you met Aunt Miriam?”

Nazir did an involuntary shudder and I laughed. Aunt Miriam wasn’t wrong. A couple of months earlier she received a visit at her convent from a man calling himself Jens Waldemar Hoff. He wanted information about The Bled Collection and specifically about some box that The Girls hadn’t opened. He threatened to out Stella Bled Lawrence as a Nazi collaborator unless the Bleds handed over all the pieces Stella smuggled out of Europe for Jewish families. The Bleds refused and The Klinefeld Group added their false accusations to the lawsuit. The Bled family was all over the news and not in a good way. Talking heads on CNN and Fox News were discussing what an evil traitor Stella might’ve been, but Millicent and Myrtle didn’t waver. They didn’t have to. The one thing The Klinefeld Group didn’t know was that our government knew all about The Bled Collection and the pieces Stella smuggled out. They were all labeled by Stella herself and there was a thorough inventory at the end of the war. All information about Stella’s activities as a spy for the US and Britain were still top secret and the courts weren’t looking on the lawsuit with a kind eye.
 

“I don’t know how we protect something if we don’t know what it is,” said Nazir.
 

“It’s enough to know that they didn’t get it,” said Dad.
 

“Do we know that?” I asked.
 

“They took the inventory. If they had it, they wouldn’t need the inventory.” He took the little key from my hand and placed it on the desk. “We have to call The Girls.”
 

“By
we
you mean me, don’t you?” I asked.

“I can do it, but…”
 

“But I’m their girl. I’ll do it. How much should I say?”
 

“Everything. This is their house and their collection. Tell them everything.”
 

I didn’t call my godmothers. That’s not the kind of news that should be delivered over the phone. I delayed by eating half a bar of Amedei Prendime dark chocolate. Millicent kept a stash for emergencies and this was definitely an emergency. Then I tried to call a cab to take me down to the cathedral. Dad caught me in the act and put me in a squad car. A uniform drove me down with strict orders not to let me out of his sight.
 

I’d planned on giving Officer Samson the slip, but when I caught sight of the cathedral all the wiliness drained out of me. Something about those solid grey walls, gothic arches, and green tiled roof made me want to be good. Maybe I expected Aunt Miriam to come charging out in full habit to catch me, but, for whatever reason, I just got out of the car and let Samson follow me.
 

The fête was in the school adjacent to the cathedral. It was a dull modern building compared to the cathedral it served, and I never liked it. Millicent and Myrtle were in the musty, cold gym discussing how much a primitive painting of an orchard would bring in. Not much in my opinion. The painting was atrocious.
 

I got their attention and told them what happened. At first they didn’t react. They were like statues wearing prim Chanel suits and little hats with netting pinned to their elegantly done silver hair.
 

Finally, Myrtle said, “Are you alright, dear?”
 

“Me? I’m fine. How are you?” I asked.
 

“I believe we’re ready to go,” said Millicent.
 

“Where are we going?”

“To the hospital, naturally.”
 

“Oh well. I called on the way over and they were taking Lester into surgery. There’s nothing for you to do,” I said.
 

“You’re quite wrong. The Hodges will be there and we must express our sympathy. You know that. We taught you what to do in times of crisis.”
 

I suppose they did, but I only listened with half an ear most of the time. I was a Watts and proper behavior didn’t come easily. I gathered their coats and put them in the squad car for the trip to the hospital. They talked Samson into using the siren and we made it in record time.
 

The Hodges family was there in full force. Millicent and Myrtle expressed their regrets and sympathy while I got the scoop from the attending. I’d worked with Dr. Gagnon several times. Since I was a PRN nurse I got around and knew everybody. Being a temp had plenty of advantages. Getting the real story from the source that day wasn’t one of them. Gagnon was upbeat with the family but painfully honest with me. If Lester made it out of surgery he had a chance, not a good chance, just a chance. The crack on the head had caused a significant bleed in the brain. They were going in to repair it, but the position made the surgery difficult and Lester’s age was a huge factor.
 

I left the hospital with a terrible weight on me. The Girls didn’t realize how bad it was and I didn’t enlighten them. I let them think it could all be fine. They didn’t need to know about the possibilities. I wished I didn’t.
 

Samson drove us back to the Bled Mansion and I introduced them to Wick and Nazir. Millicent produced another inventory from a hatbox in her closet and I was tasked with going through the house and verifying the location of every piece. It took me six hours. All the pieces were there, but The Girls had moved them around so they could be anywhere in the mansion, including bathrooms and the attic.
 

When I was done, I gave Dad the list and went upstairs to my room. The doors on the wardrobe were open and my clothes had been rifled through, but nothing had been taken or ruined. I laid down on the floor and scooted under the bed. The names were still there, printed in Stella’s handwriting on a yellowing label and pasted to the side rail. The Wahle family. It was their furniture that I lived with and slept on. I didn’t know what had happened to them after Stella took possession of their things in 1939 and I didn’t want to know. They hadn’t come to claim what belonged to them and that was more information than I wanted. Was it something that belonged to the Wahle family that The Klinefeld Group wanted?
 

I touched the label and knew that I was going to find out and it would bring no peace. Chuck wasn’t there to help. It was just me. What if this had to do with my parents? My godmothers had given them our house and it was an extraordinary gift. Something had happened to make them do it and I’d been searching for the reason ever since I found out. Dad had flown to Paris with Josiah Bled, The Girls’ uncle, the year before I was born and the old man had never been seen again. While Dad was gone The Girls’ signed over our house’s deed to my mom, a woman they’d never met.
 

The weight of those names, the break-in, the possibilities of what my parents had done to earn our house settled on my chest, pressing me into the thick Turkish carpet. I was about to wallow and there was only one thing to do when wallowing came to call; I had to make a salad or tofu or a salad with tofu, the ultimate cure.
 

I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and heard my door creak open wide. Pick’s fluffy feet scampered in and he followed my trail to the bed, got down, and belly crawled to me. His red tongue flicked out and touched my cheek.
 

“It doesn’t help but thank you,” I said, scratching him under his chin.
 

Beyond his panting head, a pair of pearl grey Prada pumps walked in, circled the bed, and then found a place at the Wahles’ rocker next to the full-length mirror.
 

“Don’t let them haunt you, dear,” said Myrtle. “They will if you allow it.”

I bit my lip and then said, “Who?”
 

“The Wahles. You shouldn’t be under there. They’ll take you to places you shouldn’t go.”
 

Pick sniffed the label and I pushed his snout down in case he smeared the old ink. “And where would that be?”
 

“Darkness.”
 

“You know that?”
 

She sighed, a sad and lonely sound. “I spent my life with these names surrounding me, weighing on me. My parents searched for the Wahles and when they died it fell to Millicent and myself.”
 

“But you never found any trace,” I said.
 

“Oh, no. We picked up the trail in 1986.”
 

I jumped and bumped my head on the slats. “So they’re dead.”
 

“I said I found the trail, not the end of it. Millicent and I found many clues over the years, but none led us to their fate.”
 

“What clues?”
 

“We found a man, who was eleven in 1939. He remembered the SS coming for the Wahles in the middle of the night in Hallstatt. He was reluctant to speak of it. His shame was deep.”
 

“He was a child.”
 

“His parents weren’t. They watched their friends being dragged out of their house and thrown in the back of a truck and didn’t lift a finger. He never saw the Wahles again. It was our first clue. It took six years to find another.”

My heart was pounding. They found a clue about the Wahles the year before I was born, the year Dad and Josiah Bled flew to Paris and took the train to Hallstat, the Wahles’ hometown. “And what was that.”
 

“No,” she said, her voice sharper than I’d ever heard it.
 

“No?” I whispered.
 

“It’s too hard.”

“You’ve given up?”
 

“Never and, in the future, the same will be expected of you.”
 

“Of me?”
 

“Naturally.”

A pair of Italian loafers walked in and Dad said, “There you are.”
 

Dammit, Dad. Go away.

He leaned over and peered at me in the gloom under the bed. “What’re you doing under there?”
 

“What do you think?” I asked.
 

“I don’t know. You were always a weird kid.”
 

Gee, I wonder why.

“Lots of people think I’m normal.”
 

He chuckled. “Name one.”
 

“Um…”

“That’s what I thought. Get out here. I’ve got a plan,” said Dad.
 

Oh, no. Not a plan.
 

“A plan for someone other than me.”
 

“Yeah, right. What did I say? Get out here.”
 

Pick belly crawled backward and I rolled out, away from his slurping tongue. “What’s your plan? Did the techs find fingerprints? Do I get to go kick somebody in the crotch?”
 

Dad crossed his arms and lowered his eyelids to half-mast. “Yes, that’s exactly it.”
 

“Really?”
 

“No. Think, Mercy. The Klinefeld Group aren’t idiots. There won’t be any fingerprints and we don’t kick men in the crotch.”