And then there were turtles. A week later, I was on a turtle hunt in the basement of the Bled Mansion. Why, you ask. Because The Girls stick by the old ways of pest control. In other words, turtle in the basement. In St. Louis, if you’re over the age of say…seventy and you’ve got bugs in your basement, you put a turtle down there to take care of it. You don’t spray poison or get useless roach motels. Turtles are the way to go. It’s a pragmatic solution to an ongoing problem. The Girls, being well over the age of seventy, had six turtles in residence. Since they thought it cruel to put a turtle in a basement in perpetuity—not wrong there—they’d devised a system of turtle swapping and since I was recovering from the attack with them, I got to do it, because I wasn’t doing much else. Thanks, Anton Thooft.
The mansion had two ginormous conservatories on either side of the house filled with palm trees and all sorts of tropical plants. Two turtles went in each conservatory and two went in the basement. Every month they were swapped out so the turtles took turns in the basement. I’m not sure how I ended up turtle swapping. I woke up that morning, Millicent handed me the turtle schedule, and then I was in the basement. Families are like that. We all have our parts and, for some reason, we play them. If I’d given it much thought, I would’ve seen me and turtles as more proof that I was family. You don’t have family friends swap your turtles, now do you?
So now I was in the basement on what seemed like a never-ending search for one particular turtle, Thaddeus. I know it sounds simple. Turtles aren’t fast, but the Bled basement wasn’t typical. It was huge. Bigger than the house actually. The Girls’ father, Nicolai, built the basement bigger with hidden doors to the secret section that extended beyond the foundation of the house. It was prohibition time and he wanted a place to continue to make beer and store his vast wine collection, so the basement was about fifty percent bigger than it should’ve been. That’s a lot of turtle territory.
Usually, it wasn’t a problem or so Millicent said. The Girls, ever concerned about turtle welfare, had rocks and heat lamps set up for comfort. It was a sophisticated system connected to a computer so the lamps came on with the sunrise and went out at sunset. Turtles have to know what time of year and day it is, don’t ya know? About fifty percent of the time they found the basement duo on their hot rocks having a good roast, but not this time. Valentino was there, but Thaddeus wasn’t. I expected to find him under the wine racks. That was supposed to be their prime hunting ground, but no luck and I’d been searching for hours. He had to be there. It’s not like he could get out.
I sat down at the tasting table in the third wine cave and stretched.
“Wherever you are, Anton Thooft, I hate you,” I said to the racks of dusty wine bottles.
My back hurt and my quads were burning, but I couldn’t come up without that turtle. It was just my luck that Thaddeus decided to go rogue on a day when I was there and everyone else was busy. Bastard.
I was trying to think of who I could hire to hunt that damn turtle when my phone buzzed.
Yes! Tell me I have to go somewhere. Tell me I have to go somewhere.
“Ah, crap.”
It was Detective Rich, my least favorite detective. But it wasn’t all bad news. Maybe he needed me to come in. Immediately. That very minute.
“Hello,” I said, trying not to sound hopeful.
“Miss Watts, this is Detective Rich.” He sounded kinda funny. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said nervous.
Since he didn’t say anything else, I said, “I know. Um…what’s up?”
“I…I have information I’d like to pass on to you.”
“Okay. Lay it on me.”
Rich didn’t say anything, but I could hear him breathing. If he wasn’t a cop, I’d have said it was creepy.
“Are you waiting for something?” I asked.
“No, but I’d like to talk to you in person.”
Yes! Yes! Yes! See ya, Thaddeus, you reptilian pain in my butt.
“I can meet you and Detective Campbell in say an hour,” I said.
“Actually, it’s just me.” He sounded oddly chagrined.
Swell.
“Fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Rich took a rather jagged breath and said, “Actually, I’ll come to you. Are you available?”
“I guess. When?”
Not too soon. Not too soon.
“Now,” he said.
Dammit.
“When is now?” I was thinking about my face. I still looked like I had a rancid case of Poison Ivy on the lower half. I could cover it up and I had to cover it up. I felt and looked disgusting. Worse than the hospital to be honest and he didn’t like me. I couldn’t be gross to boot.
“Now, now,” he said.
“Now?”
He hung up and the doorbell rang. I couldn’t hear it, but the lights flashed in the basement to alert The Girls in case there was no one up top.
“Holy crap,” I said, looking down at myself covered in dust, spiderwebs, and more than a little turtle poop. All that and a raging case of hideous face. Dammit, Thaddeus. I was going to take a shower after finding him and now it was too late.
Joy pounded down the stairs and peeked over the bannister. “There’s a cop at the door. What did you do?”
“How do you know he’s a cop?”
“He looks aggravated,” she said.
“It might not be about me,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Mercy, please.”
“Don’t answer it.”
The lights flashed again and Rocco Licata, The Girls’ chauffeur and Fats’ brother, yelled down the stairs. “I’ve got it.”
“No!” I yelled, but it was too late.
“Time to face the music,” said Joy.
“There’s no music.” I stood up. “At least I get to come upstairs for a while.”
“You still have to find that turtle.”
“How much would it take to get you—”
“You don’t have that much money. Besides, it’s in my contract. I do not hunt turtles at any price,” said Joy with a wrinkled nose.
“You put that in your contract?”
“I did.”
“May I ask why?”
She shivered. “Reptiles. I just can’t.”
I glanced at Valentino snoozing on his rock and wondered what the big deal was, but I guess everybody has a thing. “Should I talk in the library?”
She looked back and said, “Nope. Here he comes.”
I dropped back onto the bench. “What the…”
“Should I bring some coffee or tea?” Joy asked.
“Down here?”
“You have to find that turtle.”
I groaned and said, “Why not? Coffee, please.”
She started to go up and then stopped to ask, “Is it that one from the hospital?”
“The very same,” I said.
She scowled and went up squeezing past Detective Rich as he came down the stairs looking more nervous than he sounded. Joy’s scowl probably didn’t help. “Did she say turtle?”
“She did.”
“I don’t mean to state the obvious, but…” He pointed at Valentino.
“That’s Valentino. I’m looking for Thaddeus.”
“That turtle is named Valentino?”
“He’s the best looking one,” I said.
“I…uh…okay,” he said. “So I wanted to update you on your case.”
I sat up straight and tried to look dignified, which I certainly was not. “Okay. Go for it.”
“It’s closed.”
I waited. Nothing else was forthcoming. “That’s it? You came all the way here to say that?”
“It’s not that far and traffic wasn’t bad,” said Rich.
“You could’ve called.”
He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. “Yeah.”
“But you came all the way here?”
“Can I sit down?” he asked.
“Sure.”
Rich sat down on the bench across from me at the tasting table and was silent.
“You’re gonna have to tell me, ‘cause I’ve got a turtle to find,” I said with more patience than I felt. He could’ve gotten me out of the basement. Instead, he was wasting my time. Only The Girls got to do that.
“I wanted to update you on what we found out,” he said.
“And that is…bad news?”
“Not exactly.”
I’m so tired.
“Okay. What’s the bad news?” I started worrying that he’d run my DNA and found out I had a wacky genetic disease.
Rich took a breath. “First, I need to apologize.”
I’m awake.
“Do tell.”
“I behaved in an inappropriate manner at the crime scene and at the hospital,” he said.
“Did you get a reprimand or something?” I asked. “I didn’t make a complaint.”
Two spots of pink bloomed on his cheeks. “I know and I appreciate that.”
“I have to ask why you were hostile. I don’t think we’d ever met before.”
“We haven’t. It’s complicated.”
“Enlighten me,” I said.
“My uncle was Orson Imich.”
Orson Imich? It was the tiniest bit familiar, but it wasn’t ringing a big bell. “I’m sorry. Did I do something to him?”
“No, but I thought you did.”
Joy came down the stairs laden with a silver coffee service that she didn’t usually break out unless she or The Girls were angry. Rich was lucky she didn’t dump it in his lap. I heard a few stories about that happening, although I’d never seen it.
Then she did what she never did, she poured, like a servant on Downton Abbey, including sugar and cream. Joy was a servant, technically, but she certainly wasn’t servile or formal. She wanted to impress upon him my status and I had to suppress a smile. My status. A cop’s daughter and widely acknowledged nitwit, thanks to my face. Break out the silver.
“Thanks, Joy,” I said.
“You’re welcome.” She shot Rich a withering look and left without another word.
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“She thinks you’re here to hassle me again,” I said.
“I’m not.” He looked at his cup. “Should I drink it? I feel like I shouldn’t drink it.”
I laughed. “Go ahead. It’ll be great coffee.”
He took a tentative sip, like there might be hemlock in it and then smiled. “Wow. That’s good coffee.”
“She has a knack. Now tell me about your uncle. His name is familiar, but I can’t really place him.”
It didn’t take more than fifteen seconds to understand what Rich’s deal was. Orson Imich was a member of the Art Museum’s board involved with The Klinefeld Group’s attempt to get ahold of the Bled Collection, but he also died right before the lawsuit was filed by the board. Nobody knew why the board members got on board with The Klinefeld Group, but several died around that time and the others were now mum on the subject.
But they hadn’t been mum before. The board members that sided with The Klinefeld Group had been pretty loud about what they thought the Bleds were up to, hoarding art, hiding it from rightful heirs, and straight up accusing Stella Bled of stealing it. When Imich died, the papers said it was brought on by extreme stress over the Bled Collection situation, like he wasn’t part of the reason it was happening.
“Your uncle would’ve sided with The Klinefeld Group had he lived,” I said.
“I don’t know if that’s true. He was under tremendous pressure to vote with the others. He did think the museum was best to care for a collection that wasn’t purchased and he was open about his opinions,” Rich said diplomatically.
No kidding.
“Because he didn’t think we were still searching for the real owners?”
“The Bleds wouldn’t talk to the board members about the collection.”
Shocking.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “What about me?”
“You avoided his lawyer’s calls.”
“I instinctively avoid lawyers,” I said “and your uncle and the board were trashing us. They could’ve asked about what was happening, but they decided to attack and sue first. They only asked questions later.”
Rich squirmed and said, “I’m aware of that.”
“So you decided your uncle’s death was our fault?” I asked. “My fault. Is that it?”
Rich took a breath and said, “The situation, the stress was at fault, and you were a part of that situation.”
I took a big drink of Joy’s delicious brew and looked him over. “But you don’t think so now.”
“No, not anymore. I started asking around and got in touch with my uncle’s secretary. I’d seen her at the funeral and she also blamed his death on the stress. This time I asked about the Bleds in particular and what was going on right before he died. She reminded me that she was on maternity leave and Uncle Orson had a temp when it happened. I found the temp and she said that he’d talked about the Bleds in positive terms. He changed his mind and told her none of the accusations were true. Something about the Smithsonian and research. I guess he must’ve told the other board members and that’s why the lawsuit was ultimately dropped.”
That wasn’t why, but I let it lie.
He threw back his coffee like a tequila shooter and asked, “Mind if I get some more?”
“Go ahead.”
He was stalling, but I could afford to wait while he slowly poured in cream and added lumps of sugar while eyeing the writhing figures on the coffee pot with trepidation.
“So about the case,” he said.
“Hold on there, Jethro,” I said. “We’re not leaving that sleeping dog lie.”
He chuckled down into his cup. “SpongeBob fan, are you?”
“Not really. The Girls think The Beverly Hillbillies is hilarious and they practically raised me.”
“Really? Why?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. You were apologizing for being an asshat after I was assaulted and kidnapped. Let’s stick with that. I know there’s more to it.”
“Uncle Orson and I were very close. He was…like a father to me. I believed what he said about the Bled Collection completely. I didn’t know he’d changed his opinion and we’re Jewish. Did you know that?”
“No. Is it important?” I asked.
“Definitely. The art and whatever else the Bleds are holding onto, Uncle Orson said it belonged to our people. He thought that stuff about Stella Bled was true and he was convinced that the Bleds would sell if it suited them because they’re not Jewish, so they had no reason to be attached.”
“And?”
He frowned. “Now I’m wondering why he was so convinced.”
There it is.
I got up and snatched Valentino as he made a break for a wine rack. I put him on the table and he closed up his shell real quick.
“I’m sorry I talked to you the way I did,” he said.
“It’s alright,” I said.
“No, it’s not.”
We drank our coffee and I debated whether I should put a bug in the detective’s ear. He was already suspicious. Orson Imich’s heart attack seemed a little too convenient, considering the timing and if he wasn’t wholly on board with The Klinefeld Group…
“So my case is closed,” I said instead.
“Yeah, it is,” he said as he poured another cup.
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am, but it all fits.”
“Campbell called a couple days ago and said Thooft had been stalking me,” I said.
“He was,” Rich said, his frown deepening, “and it wasn’t a spur of the moment thing either. He bought the car he used with false identification immediately after he got here, so he had a plan.”
I waited for the troubled detective to say something else, but he didn’t.
“Do you…have a feeling?” I asked.
“I might,” he said. “You don’t? I’ve heard about those Watts’ instincts.”
“Nope. Nary a one. What have you got?”
Valentino started trucking toward the edge of the table and Rich turned him around. “Nothing, it’s just this Thooft character. Normal guy. No hint he’d do this. None.”
“But he had pictures of me, my address, etcetera…”
“We found more on his laptop and browsing history,” said Rich, but he didn’t look happy about it.
I drained my cup and asked, “What else do you need?”
“Something’s not right about it.”
“Anything specific?”
“It’s just wrong, but Thooft is dead and the case is closed.” He gave me a hard look. “I can’t do anything else.”
“You think I should look into it.”
“I would if I were you. The whole thing is off. Have that uncle of yours take a look at Thooft’s laptop. I heard he has a way with computers.”
I tipped my chin down and batted my eyelashes. “You act like he can get access to anything.”
Rich laughed and saved Valentino from nosediving off the table again. “I didn’t think I could ever like you.”
“Surprise,” I said, and he laughed again. “What does the family say?”
“Not much. If Thooft hadn’t had you in his trunk at the time he was shot, they wouldn’t have believed it at all. Even so, it was iffy. They wanted to see reports on fingerprints, fluids, the whole shebang.”
“And you have all that?”
“The phrase dead to rights was invented for this situation. Your blood was all over him.” He checked the time on his phone. “In fact, I’m due to meet with them in an hour.”
“How are they doing?” I asked.
“Interesting that you care.”
“I’m not sure if I care, but I’m curious about them. Who are they?”
“Regular as can be. We gave them a hard look because they’re so damn perfect.”
The Thoofts were a normal family. A hog farmer and his stay-at-home wife married almost sixty years with four kids, three boys and a girl. Anton was the oldest. No criminal history period. Nothing. No warning signs or indications that Anton was working up to kidnapping anybody, much less me.
“How are they acting?” I asked.
“Disoriented, like they can’t catch their balance.”
I grabbed Valentino and turned him around again. “Did he ever talk about me?”
“No. I think they were only vaguely aware of your existence. They’re not news junkies.”
“Did they know he was back from Germany?”
“No. He flew into Lambert and stayed at a Motel 6. From his cellphone pings we can tell he never went out to see them and spent most of his time during the week before lurking around the Central West End.”
“Looking for me, you mean.”
“I assume so, but you said you never saw him,” said Rich.
“I didn’t. My skills are highly overrated.”
“Tell me more about what you were doing that week? Did you remember anything else?”
“Not really. I was still recovering from St. Sebastian. I did some background checks for my dad, some wedding planning with Fats, went to the doctor with my mom.”
“Were you ever alone?”
“Sure.”
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “So leaving the Bled Mansion that morning wasn’t the first time you were alone? I had the impression that it was.”
“Well, I walked to my parents’ and to the mansion alone.” I slapped my forehead. “Wait a minute. I had Pick with me.”
“Pick?”
“Pickpocket. My boyfriend’s dog.”
“Pitbull?”
I pictured that big fuzzy goofball and laughed. “Giant poodle.”
“Are you kidding?”
“I am not.”
The drumming got harder. “And you didn’t have him that morning?”
I shook my head. “My mom told me to take him, but I didn’t want to mess with his coat and booties.”
“I’m not even going to ask about the booties. So that was the first time you were completely alone? No dog, no witnesses?”
“I guess so. I never thought about it. I was on the phone with Chuck,” I said.
“He told me. That’s why the alert went out so quick. He heard you screaming. I don’t know if he’s going to get over that,” said Rich with a softness to his voice that was new to me, but I suspected most victims got to hear it early on.
“Why do you think I’m living here and hunting for turtles? My dad and uncle did the security system.”
“I don’t blame them, considering what could’ve happened.”
“Do you know what he was planning to do? I mean, other than kill me, I assume.”
He shook his head with some frustration. “We don’t.”
I touched my bumpy chin. “How did he know how to make that concoction he put over my face?”
“Nothing has turned up on that.”
“Nothing?”
He shook his head. “How are you feeling?”
“I look bad, but I feel good. My bloodwork’s normal again, but the doctors have no clue about that stuff. What did you find out?”
“It was a form of insecticide, but the chemical makeup is unusual. Our lab thinks it may be a new compound recently discovered.”
“How would an AP Gov teacher get ahold of that?” I asked.
“We asked the same question. The Stuttgart Polizei searched his apartment and they didn’t find anything. It looks like he just got a wild hair and flew over to come after you. He was looking at several Incel sites detailing kidnapping and rape scenarios. Insecticides are mentioned.”
My chest tightened up and my vision got a little funky. It’d been happening less and less over the last week, but there it was again. Anton Thooft was one of those psychos that hated women and wanted to destroy us for not liking them.
Rich touched my hand gently. “Are you alright?”
“I didn’t know Thooft was an Incel. Your description didn’t sound like the kind of guy that builds bombs to blow up hot cheerleaders.”
“He visited Incel chatrooms, but he wasn’t active in terms of contributing.”
I put down my cup with a clank. Thankfully I didn’t chip the china. “Where was he taking me?”
“We don’t know. There was no indication from anything on his phone or in the car.” He frowned at me and looked like he wanted to say something else but was worried I couldn’t take it.
“What?” I asked.
“This guy was stable and six weeks ago he starts going to radical websites and decides to stuff you in a trunk. It doesn’t track.”
“But your investigation is done?”
“Thooft is dead. He did it without a doubt.”
“So there’s nothing left to investigate,” I said.
“There’s no need to get an exact motive when there’s not going to be a trial. I was reminded this morning that Campbell and I have other fish to fry.” Rich stood up.
“And I have a turtle to find, but I’ll walk you out,” I said, gathering up Valentino, who closed up tight.
Rich picked up the tray and smiled. “Do they usually use this set ‘cause it’s really something.”
We went up the rickety stairs and I said, “Not usually.”
“I’d have thought a cop would get the cheap stuff,” he said.
I opened the basement door, letting warm light and the scent of fresh flowers and cinnamon wash over us. “It’s not about you being a cop. It’s about you giving me a problem at the hospital.”
Rich brought the silver service into the back foyer next to the breakfast room, frowning again. “I was awful, so why’d she bring out the good stuff?”
“It’s not the good stuff. They hate that set.”
“I don’t understand. It must cost a fortune.”
“You weren’t intimidated by that?” I pointed at David on the coffee pot taking down Goliath. Even though it was all heavy silver, you could see the blood in the incredible detail. Don’t get me started on the dragon slaying on the sugar urn.
“It is a little…overwhelming.”
“The family, including Joy, like to get their points across in unusual ways.”
Rich looked over the scary silver. “So I’m Goliath and you’re David?”
I put Valentino down and took the tray. “You could be the dragon.”
“I’ll pass.”
I laughed. “You’ll keep me updated about the case?”
“I will, but I doubt anything will happen.”
“When it comes to me, you never know.”
Millicent came rushing into the foyer, wreathed in smiles. “I didn’t know you had a guest. You could’ve had the library for coffee and—oh.” She looked at the silver set and gave Detective Rich the once over.
“Joy thought that perhaps something was wrong,” I said quickly. “The detective and I had a bit of a tussle at the hospital but it’s all good now.”
Millicent relaxed. “Joy is very protective of our Mercy as are we all. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m beginning to,” said Rich. “Thank you for seeing me, Mercy.”
“No problem.”
“I’m sorry,” said Millicent. “I didn’t catch your name.”
He hesitated and then said, “Detective Rich. Dustin Rich.” He waited to see if she’d recognize the name, but she merely thanked him for handling my case.
“Millicent,” I said, knowing full well I couldn’t let the connection go unmentioned. She’d find out later who he was and I’d be in trouble. “Detective Rich is Orson Imich’s nephew.”
“Oh.” She threw up her hands. “That poor man. To die so suddenly like that. Such a shame. He was a great talent.”
“Talent?” I asked.
“Yes, of course. Mr. Imich was an art historian. He was one of the experts they called on when a piece of Nazi-looted art turned up. He was passionate about the Holocaust. His parents survived Buchenwald.”
Rich looked at her with pure astonishment. Millicent was guileless and sincere. The Girls didn’t hold grudges, which is more than I could say for me.
“He…” Rich stuttered. “I’m sorry he questioned your motives over the art.”
Millicent took his hand and patted it. “There’s no need to apologize. Your uncle already did so before his death.”
“You met with him?” I asked.
“We did. Myrtle and I decided it was churlish not to explain the situation directly and we had met Dr. Imich several times before so we thought he would be the most open to a meeting.”
“What did you talk about?” Rich asked.
“Everything to do with our cousin, Stella, and the pieces in her collection. We showed him our research, including our discussions with Dr. Wallingford. He’s researching the Kindertransport lists for us. We gave Dr. Imich a list of people to contact, but he died before he talked to most of them.”
“His temp secretary said he’d changed his mind.”
“I believe he did,” said Millicent.
“Do you know why he was against you in the first place?” Rich asked.
“Someone persuaded him that we were hiding something and that we intended to sell pieces from the collection. He staked his reputation on those false accusations.”
“Who told him that?” Rich asked.
“We asked him, but he declined to say,” said Millicent. “Such a shame that he didn’t have time to go public with his change of heart. He should’ve been honored by the museum for his lifetime of work.”
Rich got a little misty at that and appeared to be at a loss for words.
“Do you have an interest in art?” Millicent asked kindly.
“I do,” he said. “I spent more time at museums than anywhere else growing up.”
“Would you like to see the objects in question?”
Rich’s mouth dropped, but he recovered quickly. “You’d let me?”
Millicent patted his hand. “They’ve never been hidden. They’re right here, so we see them every day and don’t forget what happened and why.”
“I’d love to see them.”
Millicent took the tray from me. “Mercy dear, will you do the honors? Imogene is looking rather peaked. I must look after her.”
“Of course.” I led Rich into the grand foyer and started pointing out various pieces. Some were from the Stella Collection and others were regular Bled pieces.
“Who’s Imogene?” he asked when we stopped in the library and I handed him a small photo album belonging to the Hermann family.
“One of the turtles,” I said.
“How would you know if she was peaked?”
“Beats me, but I’m sure she is if Millicent says so.”
Rich looked down at the album. It wasn’t fancy with only a simple cardboard cover stamped with a diamond pattern. “What’s this?”
“A family album.” I took it back and flipped it over so he could see the label carefully pasted on the back.
“I didn’t know they had things like that.”
“It’s not a headliner. The museum didn’t care about things like albums and children’s toys. Stella brought out a lot of stuff nobody talks about. Other agents, too. It wasn’t just her. We also have objects that British pilots brought out with them after the resistance saved them.”
“Money?”
“Absolutely. It’s labeled the same way in the family vault,” I said.
“She was different than I thought,” he said.
“Most people are.”
Rich’s phone rang and it startled him. “Ah, shit. I have to go meet the Thoofts. Campbell’s pissed. Rain check?”
“Sure. The Girls won’t mind,” I said.
He took the album from me and tentatively opened it. A wedding invitation pasted on the first page. The beginning of a life together. The album was only half full.
“You don’t think it’s too late?” Rich asked gazing down at the wedding photo on the next page.
“We’ll never think it’s too late,” I said.
“No?”
“This album belongs to someone. We just haven’t found them yet.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start and that’s coming from a detective.”
“The library. Always start in the library.”
He laughed and then got serious. “Do you want me to tell them anything?”
“Who?” I asked puzzled. My mind was on the Hermanns who went into the Theresienstadt ghetto and never came out.
“Thooft’s family. I only ask because victims sometimes do.”
Victim.
I took a breath and put the Hermanns away on their shelf. “Like say that I forgive them or something?”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“It’s not their fault.”
“Do you want me to say that?”
I sighed. “Sure. Why not?”
“You don’t owe them anything. It’s fair to say they owe you,” he said.
I led him out into the hall and then to the front door. “I don’t want to point fingers like that. You can’t stop what you don’t know.”
“Have you gotten any help with this?” he asked.
“I have a therapist.”
“Helping?”
“I don’t even know,” I said. “I feel okay.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, you look a lot like the Thoofts. Unbalanced.”
“It’s just that he came out of nowhere,” I said.
“Except he didn’t. It happened for a reason.”
Exactly.
Rich took his coat off the ornate rack and I opened the door. I wasn’t going to do it. I wasn’t going to say it, but something about the way he came to the Bled Mansion to admit he was wrong, to apologize when he didn’t have to. He could’ve never laid eyes on me again. I’d never have known why he was nasty. He was just one more guy who thought he knew me and felt entitled to judge. But he showed up. He changed it.
“Rich?”
He stood in the open doorway and flipped up his collar. “Yes?”
“I don’t want to ruin this new rapport we have.”
He stopped and got that eagle-eyed look I knew so well from my dad, Grandad, and Chuck. “What?”
“Did you have an autopsy done on your uncle?”
You know how in novels they talk about the color draining from someone’s face? Well, that really happens. Rich looked at me and I watched the color drain out of his face. There was a line. I swear to God, a line where his rosy hue turned abruptly to printer paper white.
“He had a heart attack,” he said barely above a whisper.
“I know.”
“What are you saying?”
“Your uncle was going to side with The Klinefeld Group, but he may have changed his mind after meeting my godmothers. Millicent certainly thought he did.”
“Did you hear something?”
I hesitated and he saw it. His face went from pale to red and sweaty just like that.
“Yes, I did. Nothing concrete on your uncle though.”
“Who told you?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t like to say, but it doesn’t matter. A few board members died unexpectedly, didn’t they?”
“Accidents and a suicide.”
I bit my lip.
“Uncle Orson was old, really old and…”
“I’m not saying they killed him,” I said.
“Who’s they? The Klinefeld Group? They’re a charity.”
“If you use the word charity loosely.”
Rich shook his head. “I know you’ve got an instinct for these things, but this is way out.”
I crossed my arms and leaned on the door frame. “It really isn’t and I think you were already suspicious.”
“You think a charity murdered my uncle?”
“I think that if he was murdered, they did it. No question.”
He squinted at me, his flushed face full of doubt. “What makes you say that?”
“Because they’ve done it before.”
Det. Rich listened with increasing agitation as I told him about Lester, The Girls’ chauffeur, and my great grandparents being murdered. I hated to send him off to the Thoofts so unsettled, but it couldn’t be helped. I had to tell him.
Once he was gone, I helped Myrtle and Millicent down the basement stairs and led them through the warren of wine racks, whiskey casks, and beer barrels to the last door inside the prohibition extension. I closed the door and pointed at Thaddeus who, defying all expectations and reptilian norms, was in the corner behind the door next to a pile of dust and dirt. Visible inside the pile were eggs.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Myrtle.
“It’s a miracle,” exclaimed Millicent.
It wasn’t. I’d found the real Thaddeus dead about a week after Lester’s murder and there was no way I was going to march upstairs and say, “Hey, ya know that turtle you love and have had for fifty years, he’s dead.” Nope. Not doing that. Plus, Thaddeus was a common box turtle. Common. So I took myself out to country roads near St. Seb and drove around until I spotted a turtle crossing the road. I popped that sucker in the passenger seat and took him home. It never occurred to me that he might be a girl. The original Thaddeus could’ve been a girl for all I knew.
So I went back to the mansion and put Thaddeus II in the basement. Thaddeus I went to my parents’ backyard for a proper burial in a shoebox. Was it the wrong thing to do? Maybe. Do I stand by it? Absolutely.
“Yeah, well, miracles happen,” I said.
“Dr. Halifax said he was a boy.”
“Er…Dr. Halifax?”
“You know, Dr. Halifax. The curator of the Zoo’s reptile house.”
Crap on a cracker.
“We should call her,” said Myrtle. “This has to be rare. She thought Thaddeus was about seventy.”
“Maybe it was Valentino,” I said.
“Valentino is a boy. That’s why we named him Valentino,” said Millicent.
“I’ll call Dr. Halifax.”
“Do you know Dr. Halifax?” Myrtle asked.
I’m about to.
“Sure. He’s great.”
“She.”
“Right. Of course,” I said quickly.
Millicent didn’t notice the mistake, but Myrtle sure did. Her mouth turned into a frown, but as soon as her sister looked at her with shining eyes the frown was upside-down.
“Well, this certainly is a surprise,” Myrtle said, giving me a mild version of Aunt Miriam’s stink eye.
“We’ve never had eggs before,” said Millicent. “All these years and no eggs.”
“Because they were all boys.” Myrtle kept looking at me and I had a feeling my next coffee was going to be in the angry silver.
“Maybe we should go up,” I said. “It’s cold down here.”
“We can’t just leave them,” said Millicent. “They’re babies and Thaddeus is trying to keep them warm. We have to do something.”
If Thaddeus II was trying to do anything, it was taking a nap. She just happened to be next to the eggs, but Millicent was certain of her maternal instincts.
“Come on, dear,” said Myrtle. “You shouldn’t be down here. You know what the doctor said. You’re still recovering. Mercy will call Dr. Halifax and tell her about this interesting development.”
We got Millicent upstairs, not without a whole lot of protests, but we kept at her. Finding out how Sister Maggie had died so many years ago had been a huge blow to Millicent. Myrtle thought only the discovery of the liquor cabinet and me moving into the stable with Chuck kept her going, but she seemed so old. It’s stupid to say that. Myrtle and Millicent were old. They were old when I was born, for crying out loud, but I was having a hard time thinking of them that way.
I helped Millicent over the threshold and Joy spotted us, rushing over all in a tizzy. “What happened? Oh, Lord, why were you down there? Did you fall?”
“Eggs,” cried Millicent. “Thaddeus laid eggs.”
Joy stared at her and I could see what was going through her mind. Dementia. The worst has happened.
“He laid eggs,” I said. “I found them.”
Joy shivered. “There are eggs in the basement?” She said it like she was talking about rabid baby rats.
“Mercy will handle it,” said Myrtle. “But we should get Millicent up to bed so she can rest.”
“I don’t need to rest. I feel wonderful.” Millicent was beaming, absolutely beaming. “It’s a miracle.”
Joy looked at me and I said, “I’m going to handle it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. They’re turtles. How hard can it be?”
Myrtle and Joy walked Millicent up the stairs and I spun in a circle. What was I going to do? Bribe Dr. Halifax to say she made a mistake? How much would it take to bribe a reptile keeper?
When in doubt call your mom. I called my mother and she was not happy about it. I didn’t even get to ask her about the turtle situation.
“Where have you been?” Mom demanded.
“Um…here where you told me to be.”
“You haven’t answered for ten whole minutes. I thought something happened. I was just going to call Joy. What were you doing?” Mom said in an incredible rush of slurred words and irritation.
“Did something happen?”
“Yes. I’m delivering those turkeys to the mission with your father.”
“That’s…not exciting,” I said.
“The fact that the house is empty is,” Mom said. “Get over there pronto and don’t scare the Siamese. Chuck gave them a real start when he was in there. There’s your father. I have to go.” Mom hung up.
Get over to the house and don’t scare the Siamese. Like I could scare the Siamese. Chuck didn’t scare them. It was the other way around. Swish and Swat were up in Dad’s office knocking files on the floor when Chuck was talking to me. He’d discovered them just as Anton Thooft came at me. I don’t know if my screaming triggered it, but they came at Chuck like starving tigers, jumping onto his back as he ran down the stairs to find me. He had to shed his jacket to get them off and Mom was sure they were traumatized. As they’re her favorite children, she was very concerned. They’d been to the vet three times for stress and exhaustion.
I took a peek up the stairs and the coast was clear, so I whistled for Pickpocket. The poodle scampered down the hall, sliding on the area rugs and yipping for no good reason.
“Shush. We’re going out.” I grabbed his leash and my coat, trying to get a clean getaway.
I got the door open with one hand and had Pick’s collar in the other.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Rocco Licata came out from under the stairs, wearing golfing clothes and spinning a driver in one hand.
“Out,” I said.
“I don’t think so.” Rocco came over and neatly took Pick and his leash off me. “You’re going nowhere.”
“Says who and what were you doing under the stairs?” I asked.
“Waiting. I heard that ruckus about that turtle. I knew you’d try to book it.” He clipped Pick’s leash on and grabbed his jacket. “It ain’t happening.”
“Why do you care?”
“Since Chuck let my little cousin Wally walk on a prost bust with a warning. He asked me to make sure you don’t leave the house.”
I rolled my eyes. “Chuck wouldn’t do that.”
“Wanna bet? Besides, Wally’s only thirteen. What’s the harm?”
“You’re telling me Chuck found your thirteen-year-old cousin with a prostitute and he didn’t do anything about it?”
“Hell, no. Wally was just on the premises.”
“Doing what?”
“Stacking firewood.”
“At a…”
“Brothel,” said Rocco. “You act like you haven’t ever heard of such a thing. You’ve been to Amsterdam. I’ve seen the pictures.”
“They don’t have fireplaces.” Actually, I couldn’t swear to that. I’d been through the De Wallen area because if you’re a tourist you’ve got to do it, but I was looking as little as possible. It made me sad.
“It’s a nice place,” said Rocco. “The girls like a crackling fire.”
“Does Calpurnia know?” I asked.
Calpurnia Fibonacci was the local mob boss. Both Rocco and Fats worked for her on and off. I worked for her, too, but I was doing my best to forget about that.
“It’s not her trade,” said Rocco.
I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. “Why was Chuck there? He’s homicide.”
“One of the girls stabbed a guy.”
“So a super nice place.”
Rocco scoffed. “It didn’t happen at the house. He cut her off in traffic.”
“I don’t know how to talk to you,” I said, “if you think that’s normal.”
“Well, I know how to talk to you. Go into the library and call that turtle nerd ‘cause I’m taking Pick and you’re going nowhere.” He opened the door with a flourish. “You got that?”
“Maybe I’ll go without Pick.”
Rocco might not have the size or skill set of his sister, but he was no fool, which led me to wonder what the Licatas could accomplish if they went straight. “You won’t leave without Pick. He’s your security blanket.”
“I don’t like you.”
“Sure, you do.” Rocco grinned at me. “I’m good to The Girls. I would fuck anyone up if they messed with them and you know it.”
I did know it and it made me a little misty.
Rocco’s eyes narrowed again. “I don’t know what’s going on with that detective, but I don’t like it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody killed his uncle, you knew, but it was news to him.”
I pushed Rocco out the door. “Just walk Pick, will ya?”
“I’m going,” he said, stepping outside.
I went to close the door and he said, “But I want to know what you did to that turtle.”
Son of a bitch.