Charades (18 page)

     He wagged his finger at Mercy and Wulf. “There was nothing between them but friendship and respect,” Saul insisted. “I know these things. The older I get, the more I see with this.” He pointed to his eyes. “And this.” He pointed to his heart. “I can see things like your love for this man,” he said. “Your love is the stars in your eyes when you look at him.”

     Mercy turned red and Wulf smiled.

     Carefully, Saul opened the heart-shaped case. He looked quickly up at Mercy from under beetled brows. “This is the young man who came into the store with Merci. He is older, but I would recognize that face anywhere. He should have been a movie star, that one.”

     “That’s my father, Pedro Fuentes-Chamorro. The other picture is my mother, Lisa.”

     “Yes,” Saul nodded. “Yes, I see now. You have to remember the last time I saw Merci’s daughter she was just a girl, and it was a very sad time at Merci’s funeral. The young girl grew into a beautiful woman. May I show you my grandfather’s mark?”

     “Yes, please. I’d like that.”

     Using a special jeweler’s tool he drew from his pocket, Saul carefully pried the outer casing away from the inner casing of the old locket. “Yes, here it is. But,” he exclaimed, looking at the small yellowed piece of paper fluttering to the table top, “what is this?” He turned it over and showed it to Wulf and Mercy. “It has numbers on it. Is this important?”

     Mercy shook her head, but Wulf recognized immediately the numbers of a bank account. A Swiss bank account? He frowned.

     While Wulf put the small slip of paper in his wallet, Saul pointed out Jeanette Bisieux’s name and his grandfather’s mark to Mercy before putting the locket back together again.

     “What about my father?” Mercy asked. “Did you only see him that one time with my grandmother? What about his family?”

     “I know nothing about his family,” Saul said, shaking his head. “If his name was Fuentes-Chamorro, he may be related to the Chamorros here in Mexico City, a very wealthy family.”

     “What else do you remember about my father?”

     “Your father came back after Merci’s death and took all the money left for him. I never saw him again after that.”

     “What about my grandfather? What became of him?”

     “Erich disappeared not long after Merci’s death.”

     If Merci Stratton had hidden the money, Wulf thought, then Stratton and his brother were probably too poor to do anything. With the bank they were one step closer to finding the money. But they still had no idea where to look. The trail was so old… maybe Pedro’s family had more information. From the way Hazel described Adolph Stratton, they ought to avoid him at all costs.

     “Saul, do you know how Pedro might be related to the Chamorros?” Wulf asked.

     “Chamorro would be his mother’s family name, and as far as I know, Ramon Chamorro only resides part of the year in Mexico City. Most of the time he is in Chihuahua with his horses.”

     “Do you know anything about Erich’s brother?” Wulf asked. 

     “His brother, I think, still lives at the old Suarte estate outside of Mexico City, but the estate has fallen on hard times. I would be careful with him. I hear he is a very dangerous man.”

     “Thank you,” Wulf said, standing up.

     “Thank you for everything,” Mercy said, hugging Saul.

     Saul recommended a nearby cafe and they stopped there for lunch.

     Mercy pulled out her locket, a look of awe on her face. “I can’t get over it. This same locket belonged to my great-great-grandmother and now it belongs to me.”

     “How do you feel about being Jewish?” Wulf asked curiously. He’d been raised Jewish, but he didn’t feel Jewish. Hell, he hadn’t even been in a synagogue in over fifteen years.

     “It doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’m a little sad, though, that I’ve known so little about my relatives.”

     “Maybe your parents had a good reason for not telling you. Maybe they were protecting you.”

     “Protecting me from what?” Mercy asked. “I can’t believe that. Family is… well, family.”

     Wulf snorted and quirked an eyebrow. He ordered lunch then went to call Ramon Chamorro.

     “Don’t let anyone hit you over the head this time,” Mercy teased.

     Had her grandmother intended the money to go to her husband’s victims?

     Thinking about the money made Mercy shudder. Money seemed to have that kind of effect on people. Especially this kind of money. Blood money.

     “We have an appointment in an hour with Ramon Chamorro,” Wulf said, as he sat down.

     Mercy almost dropped her spoon. “How did you get an appointment so fast?”

     “Simple. I asked his secretary if Chamorro was related to Pedro Fuentes, the golfer. I got an appointment right away.”

     There was something she needed to ask Wulf. Something about his family and names. Names. That was it. His name wasn’t Wulfgar Rheinhart. It was Joseph Steinberg. Was it just a coincidence that Joseph Steinberg had the same last name as the jeweler, Saul Steinberg?

     “How do you know Saul Steinberg?” she asked.

     Wulf thought long and hard before he answered her. If only he wasn’t afraid she’d spook and disappear, like she did back at the cabin.

     “It’s a long story,” he began, letting out a long, drawn-out breath. He studied her face as he drank his coffee. “Saul Steinberg is my adopted father’s uncle. His branch of the family has managed the jewelry business in Mexico ever since the turn of the century. My father’s branch of the family manages it from The Netherlands and Germany. It made sense to see Saul first, particularly since I know him personally.”

     “Why didn’t you just say so?” Mercy said, throwing her napkin down on the table. “Why did you hide it? Can’t you do anything but lie?”

     “I wasn’t trying to ‘hide’ it, as you say, but to put our priorities in order. You were sleeping on the flight. When we got to the store, I thought it better to get straight to the facts about your grandmother. Saul was the most logical person to see here in Mexico. He knows everyone, and even though he’s old and rambling, there’s nothing wrong with his memory.”

     “Joseph Steinberg,” she mumbled, frowning. “The boy wonder.”

     “So, you recognized me. And here I thought I’d changed so much.”

     “You have. It wasn’t you I recognized. It was your habit of cracking your knuckles after sinking an extra long putt.”

     “Do I do that?” Wulf asked.

     “Yes, you do,” she nodded, rolling her eyes. “Why did you change your name from Steinberg?”

     “I was adopted as a baby. My father, however, was never aware that my mother adopted me. We didn’t learn of my mother’s deception until after her death. My father was devastated when he learned the truth and wanted nothing more to do with me.”

     “Oh, Wulf!”

     Damn! He didn’t want her pity or sympathy. He wanted her love.

     “I’m not sure whom my father felt more angry at,” Wulf continued, “me for not being his son, my mother for deceiving him all that time, or my aunt for telling him about it.”

     “It must’ve been awful to be rejected by your own father. How could he be so shallow?” Mercy reached across the small table in the cafe and clasped his large hand in hers. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “If your father were here, I’d give him a real piece of my mind.”

     Wulf smiled. “Sounds scary. What happened to my shy, retiring, little professor?”

     “Mousy Mercy is no more,” she said emphatically.

     He looked at their hands on the table. “I tried to show my adopted father that I was just as good as a real son, maybe even better. I was determined to succeed.

     “I dropped out of the golf circuit because I knew he thought golf was frivolous. I wanted him to be proud of me, you see. Not long after that, I met Anton. He and I are more alike than my adopted father and I ever were.” He shrugged. “Go figure, huh?”

     “Did the rest of your father’s family disown you, too?”

     “No,” he chuckled. “The Steinbergs are much too independent for that. Steinberg perversity, Aunt Martha calls it.”

     She gave him a speculative look. “Then you were raised Jewish? Didn’t you tell me you were Catholic? I believe that was also when you said you wanted four children. The more I’m with you, the more you remind me of a big jigsaw puzzle, each piece looking just like all the others and none of them fitting.”

     “I was raised Jewish, bar mitzvah and all, but I don’t go to temple any more. I don’t know what I am now. I would be Catholic for you if you wanted.”

     “I don’t want you to change. But why did you lie to me about it?”

     “I thought it would be easier to get you to agree to marry me if I said I was Catholic like you.”

     “God!” Mercy exhaled. “You lie so easily.” She shook her head. “Why should I believe anything you say?”

     “Mercy,” Wulf began. She had to believe him. “I know I told you only what I thought you wanted to hear then, but I’m not lying about my love for you. I—”

     Mercy slapped her hand on the table. “No more lies.” she demanded, her voice rising. “And no more explanations or excuses. What more haven’t you told me? What about the name you use now?”

     “Oh, that.” He waved his hand. “Rheinhart is my adopted mother’s maiden name. Wulfgar is an old, German mythological hero. I just liked the combination.”

     He’d tell her the whole story at the first opportunity. But now wasn’t the time. “If we don’t leave right now, we’ll be late for our appointment with Chamorro.” He beckoned to the waiter, paid their bill quickly, and hustled her out to a cab.

     After about ten minutes in the cab, Mercy clutched his arm tightly, her hands shaking and her eyes wide with fear. “Wulf? Something’s not right. I think we’re heading the wrong way.”

     Wulf hadn’t been paying attention to where they were going, but, looking outside, he saw they were heading away from the downtown area. “You’re right.”

     He tried to open the panel between the driver and the back seat. It was closed tight. He tried to signal the driver. The driver ignored him. The door wouldn’t open either.

     “
Ach, mein Gott
.”

     “Wulf, what’s happening?” Mercy asked.

     “I’m not sure, but it looks like we won’t be meeting with Chamorro any time soon. I don’t think we’re in any immediate danger, but just the same, follow my lead, okay?”

     Follow his lead? She’d done just that and look where it got her. Kidnapped. “Nothing you’ve done makes me want to follow you anywhere,” she snapped. She crossed her arms and leaned back, trying not to think about how scared she was.

     It took thirty-five minutes of hair-raising turns and speeding starts and stops before they were on a straightaway out of the city.

     Wulf sat grimly silent, obviously not any happier than she about the turn of events. All they could do was watch as they passed isolated, broken-down shanties, huts, and down-on-their-luck businesses.

     The cab continued for another twenty minutes until it turned onto a deserted, overgrown lane with lush foliage creeping up the trees on both sides. If she managed to live through all this, she thought with a note of hysteria, she would have a good tale for her grandchildren someday.

     At the end of the long, rutted lane, the driver began to slow down. It was a relief not to be jostled back and forth on the hard bench seat, even with Wulf holding her tight.

     They pulled up to an iron gate in front of an old hacienda. Many of the terra cotta tiles had fallen off the roof carrying along with them whole slabs of plaster from the sides of the building. Whoever lived here was definitely not in the first flush of wealth, yet the place somehow managed to retain an air of grandeur. It had obviously once been quite a showplace.

     The driver got out, unlocked the gate and drove in. He circled around a crumbling fountain before stopping the car. He unlocked their door, then waved a gun toward the oversized, double doors of the
hacienda
.

     “Stay close to me,” Wulf whispered, gripping her arm.

     Mercy nodded, not knowing what else to do.

     The driver clanged one of the old iron knockers, and a wizened old man opened the door. The old man’s eyes widened momentarily when he spied Mercy, but he lowered his gaze to the floor and waved them into the large foyer. The terrazzo floor, with its myriad of fissured cracks, led into an oversized room.

     Under different circumstances, Mercy would have appreciated the beautiful Spanish architecture and the faded hints of better times. As it was, all she could think about was the man behind them with a gun pointed at their backs.

     She turned to catch Wulf’s eye, but he stared straight ahead. Before them three chairs sat in a semi-circle in front of large plate-glass windows that overlooked an old garden patio. The garden was miserably overgrown.

     “Please come in and make yourselves comfortable,” she heard another man say over the back of the middle chair. “Would you like something to drink?” The voice speaking German held a sinister overtone she did not like. Not at all.

     Mercy sat down on a chair to the man’s right and Wulf sat on the one to his left.

     Wulf knew he had to take charge before Mercy did or said something to set off the old man. This had to be Adolph; the physical resemblance to Erich was faint, but still there.

     Adolph was eighty or so, about six feet tall, lean and wiry, with thinning steel gray hair and a pencil-thin gray mustache. His voice was as commanding and arrogant as Erich’s, but there was something else about him, something that was even more sinister. His dark, unblinking eyes reminded Wulf of a snake. A wave of fear roiled through Wulf’s stomach. Mercy didn’t recognize Adolph, but Wulf was sure Adolph recognized her.

          A cold chill wafted through Wulf as he saw the way Adolph studied Mercy.

     “We’re not thirsty for anything but answers,” Wulf said, determined to claim the man’s attention.