Edited for Death (22 page)

“My god,” I say. “I didn’t know American troops shot Germans like that.”

Clarice is quiet. “I didn’t either. Can you imagine coming across that, though? The first reaction would be to take revenge on anyone who could be that inhuman. I can’t say I blame them.”

I shiver. “This is getting deep up here. I met a guy last night who’s spent his life tracking down things the Nazis stole,” and I run down my conversation with Blomberg.

“How’d you manage to stumble into this?” Clarice’s voice is subdued. “What do you think it has to do with Stewart or Royce? Anything? It’s pretty farfetched that stuff that happened 50 or 60 years ago is still affecting people.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Are you busy today?”

“Uhhh....” Clarice knows I’m after something.

“I’m only asking because I don’t have a computer with me. Phil brought his laptop, but he’s off somewhere. I left him a voicemail message.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“You can stay there and use my remote access to work. I’d like to know if there are war records on either Robert or William. I mean beyond the medal stuff. Google probably has stuff but you can get onto Lexis-Nexis too. I don’t know how much Army records are public. Maybe the FOIA? Anyway, could you do some digging? I don’t know what to tell you to look for; I guess whatever looks interesting or hinky.”

I know that Clarice suffers from the need to know almost as much as I do. This may be a wild-goose chase where the Calverts are concerned and trying to link it to Stewart’s murder, let alone the other two, is knitting with cobwebs. I can’t get rid of a nag, though. So much about Stewart’s death touches the past, beginning with both he and his father being historians.

I begin to wonder if William’s war experiences, topped off with the liberation of Dachau, pushed him into his academic career. Probably.

“OK, Amy. I’m not going to start until later. It’s too nice hanging out in the pool, but I’ll spend my Saturday night tracking down your hunches and ghosts.”

“Did you have other plans?” I ask with a sudden twinge of guilt. This may be consuming me this weekend, but there’s no reason Clarice feels the same.

“No,” she says. “I’m just reminding you that I do sometimes have a life.” She snickers. “Actually, I was planning on renting a movie and staying here. It’s hecka cooler than my house.”

Well, I’d asked her to watch Mac. “That’s fine, Clar. Thanks. Thanks for all of it. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow sometime. We’re shooting to be home by late afternoon.”

“And how is ‘we’” she says. I can hear the grin in her voice.

“ ‘We’re’ fine,” I say. “If you’re a good girl I may fill you in later.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It feels better after I talk to Clarice. Brings me back to the here-and-now and puts some of the ghosts to bed. World War II has been over for more than half a century. There are few alive who were involved, few survivors from what Tom Brokaw calls the “Greatest Generation”.

I’ve found out that the Calverts were definitely part of that. It was common knowledge that Robert was a war hero, but finding out that William was also so involved is amazing. The war was over when Germany surrendered eight days after the liberation of Dachau and reading the Calverts’ diaries was painful and personal.

Robert and William were very different young men by May 1945. They wrote a joint letter home, telling their folks about their post-war plans. William was going back to Berkeley to finish his degree and planned to teach history as a way to remember. Robert was also going to school and he wanted to go into politics as a way to make changes.

I now have some answers about the family, and the book idea is looking substantial, but no information that might shed light on Stewart’s murder—or the others.

I start to pack all the papers into the boxes when a single sheet of flimsy paper floats out. The writing, in pencil, is Robert’s. It starts in the middle of a sentence. It says, “...told you about. I still have it. I can’t just toss it. I keep thinking about those people. Maybe it belonged to one of them. I’m taking it home. Maybe I can decide what to do then.”

There are no clues who he was writing to. The paper’s so flimsy it’s like tissue. It’s been folded, as though it was stuck in a diary. I guess Robert started a letter then never finished. What happened to the rest of it? It could have been to his folks, to his brother, to a friend. Whatever “it” was, it was some kind of war souvenir.

Thousands of things came home with GIs after the war. I’ve even heard that some guy just wrote his home address on a German helmet and it was delivered. I haven’t gone through everything, but I sure haven’t come across a helmet or bayonet or German uniform. And it’s possible, even probable, that it’s long gone.

Suddenly, I glance up and realize the sun is at an angle. I look at the clock on Stewart’s desk and it’s after four. I need to cut this short and clean up or we’ll miss dinner reservations.

I finish packing the papers in the last box and replace it. I’ll have to take another shower, but for now I strip off the white cotton gloves and go into the bathroom to splash my face and wash my hands.

There’s the sound of a door opening, the bathroom door swings shut and I hear people talking.

No, not people talking, someone talking. It’s a one-sided conversation. He’s on a phone. I didn’t hear Stewart’s phone ring or anything being dialed so he must be on a cell phone.

This is awkward. I don’t feel comfortable opening the bathroom door because he might think I’ve been eavesdropping. I sidle over to the toilet and balance on the edge of the seat. I’m stuck here until the caller leaves. I can’t place the voice.

“I’m telling you, somebody’s been here. The place is cleaned up. I know it wasn’t the maid, she hasn’t been allowed to get in here.”

A pause then, “How the hell should I know? This place was messy enough when Stewart was here. Things just got picked up. The books are on the shelves, the boxes...”

Another pause. “Wait a minute, stop telling me what to do. I have no idea what they found or even if they were looking for something. I know that nosy reporter has been hanging around. And that guy, Blomberg. He gives me the creeps. He’s always watching. His eyes look like they can see your soul.”

A longer pause now. “I know I’m jittery. This business is just too weird. I don’t think there’s anything here. I think you’re imagining things.”

I can hear steps now. The man is walking around Stewart’s apartment and his voice gets stronger as he comes into the bedroom. Oh my god, he’s heading for the bathroom door. I hold my breath and the steps veer away.

“This is just nuts. I just did another tour of his bedroom. I can’t tell what’s missing or here. If you’re right, it’s so small it could be stuck in a book. Do you have any idea how many books this guy had? It’s like a stinking library in here.”

I’m breathing again as the voice fades. The owner is back in the sitting room. I hear Stewart’s desk chair creak as the man sits.

“Look, I’ve been over this place from top to bottom. I spent better than two weeks going through the attics at night. I’ve even heard a rumor in town that this place is haunted. Somebody must’ve seen my flashlight even though I was really careful. It’s not in the attics—though there was a duffle bag, full of old hotel registers—and it’s not in any of the guest rooms. We haven’t done much work in the kitchen.”

Suddenly I realize that the voice is talking about the construction. Maybe it’s one of the workers. For sure, it’s someone who knows a lot about the old hotel and what’s being done on it. What’s the construction company doing? Maybe the guy is talking to Royce. Maybe the hotel owner hired them to find something that was lost.

That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he be talking to Royce on his cell when he could just walk downstairs and talk to him in person? Maybe this is in some kind of code? If I could hear both sides of the conversation, I’d understand a lot better.

“There’s just not that much more to do. We can milk this for another few days, but Royce is going to pull the plug next week at the latest. I know he’s almost out of money, even though Harmony’s given him a rock-bottom price. He’s probably losing money on it. I’ll keep it up for another day or two, but then I’m done. It’ll have to stay lost.”

The man snaps his phone shut. There’s no sound for a few seconds then the chair creaks again as he stands. It sounds like he’s gone out and the door closes with an audible click.

So, OK. He wasn’t talking to Royce.

There’s a knot of fear at the bottom of my ribcage. What’s going on? Something is lost. Something is valuable enough for Royce to spend a bundle on renovation, hoping it’ll turn up. Something is so valuable that the construction team seems willing to take a loss on the job in order to look for it.

My butt’s getting numb from the balancing act on the edge of the toilet seat and I gingerly push myself up. I tiptoe the three steps to the door and put my ear against it. No

sounds. I ease to the knob and slowly turn it, trying to make no noise. The door cracks open and I peek through to an empty room. I make a slow crossing of the bedroom, keeping to the edge and out of direct sight from the sitting room. Still no sounds.

Stewart’s apartment is just as I left it. If the visitor moved anything there’s no way of telling. He must have just looked the rooms over.

Uh-oh. He moved something. I’d stripped the gloves off and left them on the table next to the keyboard. Now, they’re gone.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I turn the shower off, step out and Phil’s right there. He looks at me speculatively. I acknowledge the look and shake my head. My best ideas always come to me in the shower but this one hadn’t sparked anything. I spent a good 15 minutes letting the water beat down, waiting for some flash, some omen, some signpost of what should come next. What I got was this great-looking guy giving me one of those looks. For the last couple of years, I would have jumped through flames for one of those looks. Now, right now, I can’t respond. The shower did unknot some of the tension; I feel better and cooler after the tepid water.

Now the elephant in the room is the construction guy’s conversation this afternoon. This is something I’ll have to share with Phil, but I need to let it braise until the meat falls away and I can clearly see the bones.

Seeing my tacit “no” after his look, Phil says, “I’d like to take a quick shower, too. We took the Porsche, with natural air conditioning. Great drive, but hot and wind-blown.”

Out of the shower, Phil tries again. “You look refreshed and ready for...” he wiggles his eyebrows and attempts a leer.

“Looks can be deceiving. I’m tired and hungry and I’ve got some interesting things to tell.”

“I’m ready to listen,” he says, “as long as you’ll listen to mine. You may think I ditched the research in favor of haring off around the countryside, but it was all in the name of, well... the name of something.”

He kisses me lightly on the forehead, heads back into the bathroom and I hear the hairdryer.

I’m not lying about being tired and hungry, but I also want to answer Phil’s looks. I’ll plan for later tonight so I pick out my laciest bra and panties and slip a bias-cut peach and slate-gray print silk dress over my head. The dress barely has more substance than a slip. The light fabric skims my body and flares out just below my knees. I’ve got a pair of sling-back flats ready to go. I plug in the hair dryer I brought and start trying to wrestle my mop into a smooth do that I can wrap up in a big clip. I’m putting the finishing touches on my hair when Phil steps out of the bathroom, barefoot but dressed in a pair of linen trousers and a casual silk shirt.

“Five minutes?” he asks.

“Perfect,” I say and slap on foundation, blush, shadow and mascara. I grab lipstick, mirror, wallet and phone and cram them in my purse.

Some locals have arrived and taken over several tables in the bar. Royce is looking frazzled, tending bar while one of the dining room staff carts cocktail orders. He waves and says “Can I get you anything? We’re not officially open,” gesturing to the plastic sheeting still hanging behind the back bar, “but we can sure pour you basic drinks. Or you can have wine, here’s the list.”

“White? Sauvignon Blanc?” Phil says to me.

I agree and we move to the quietest table we can find against the wall.

I can barely suppress my news but I’m chary about talking while in the hotel. I know the contractor’ crew is involved with something, but don’t know what or with whom. There are just too many ears around. The only ones I’m sure of at this point are Phil and Henry Blomberg because they were both gone. On second thought, Blomberg could have slipped away and used his cell when he and Phil were out.
Wait a minute, the guy on the phone said, “ And that guy, Blomberg. He gives me the creeps.” Scratch Blomberg.

“You first?” I say.

“You may have thought I was trying to get out of the dirty work, but something Henry said last night rang a bell with me,” Phil says.

“I remember that Robert won his medal in Heidelberg so I wanted to dig into Henry’s background a little more. Henry said as he tracked his family, and some of their looted possessions, he read a lot of Army records. He uncovered that Robert won his medal in an action at his, Henry’s family’s, house. The Nazis were using it as administrative offices and had some of their bureaucrats headquartered there. Churchill and Hitler had an agreement that the Germans wouldn’t bomb Coventry and the Allies wouldn’t bomb Heidelberg, so the High Command thought it was a safe place to put offices that worked with sensitive information. And offices that could be evacuated quickly.

“Henry said by the time he got back there, during the Nuremberg trials, the house was still standing but had been gutted and the entry and front staircase had been shot up. Henry wasn’t sure if it was a grenade, bazooka or what, but he took a few chips of marble with him as a talisman and felt he’d find more of his past.”