Secrets of Harmony Grove (50 page)

Nina looked as though she was just about finished, and though I felt guilty for pushing her much further, she still had one question to answer, so I tried again.

“What did he say to you about the diamonds, Nina? Did he bring them back to America with him when he came home?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“What did he do with them? Where are they now?”

Her cheeks began to flush, twin red circles on the pale skin of her face.

“I don’t know. But they’re real, Sienna. They do exist. I can tell you that for a fact.”

“How can you be so sure? Did you ever see the diamonds yourself?”

She looked at me, eyes swimming with tears.

“Just one of them,” she replied. And then she added, “The one your grandfather gave to me.”

This was too important to miss, but if we weren’t careful, Nina was going to pass out soon. She leaned back against the wall, closed her eyes, and explained. She said that two and a half years ago, after her daughter’s car accident and subsequent death, she had found herself in serious debt, with almost $40,000 in outstanding medical bills. When my grandfather found out about that, he had given her one massive, cut diamond that he said she should be able to sell for between $30,000 and $50,000. He wanted the proceeds to go toward her bills, no strings attached, as long as she promised to keep the source of the diamond confidential.

Nina had been shocked, of course, and though she tried to refuse, Abe had insisted. She finally relented once he told her that he had plenty more where that came from, that in fact he had an entire cache of diamonds tucked away for safekeeping. The diamonds had belonged to Emory’s mother, and Abe had held on to them all of these years, intending them to be used for the cost of Emory’s care and housing and other expenses once Abe was gone and could no longer provide for his son himself.

“I asked Mr. Abe if Emory knew about the diamonds, and he said yes but not where the diamonds were hidden. At one time, Emory
had
known where they were, but then Mr. Abe had caught him blabbing about it, so he chose a new hiding place, which he didn’t share with anyone. He said that once he passed away that hiding place would be revealed. But it wasn’t, and I’ve been wondering why ever since.”

Nina was right: Whatever great revelation my grandfather had intended
after his death had not taken place. Now it was anyone’s guess where he had put the diamonds and if they were still there.

“Was his estimate of the value correct?” I asked, wondering how many diamonds there were altogether and what their total worth would be now.

Nina nodded, eyes shining.

“God bless him,” she whispered, adding that she sold the stone to a private dealer for $46,000. “That covered every single one of my bills and then some.”

That seemed an appropriate point for ending our conversation. Nina and I said our goodbyes, and I went to the car, deep in thought. Obviously, Abe had wanted Emory to be well cared for after he was gone, so what had he done wrong? Why hadn’t the location of the diamonds ever been revealed? Was it possible that my grandfather’s lawyer had lied, that the diamonds’ hiding place had been specified in the will but that the man had somehow altered the document and stolen them for himself?

That didn’t sound likely, but just in case I would ask Liz how to look into something like that. In the meantime, there were other avenues to pursue. Slipping into the car beside Heath, I gave him the high points of my conversation with Nina as we made the short drive back to the inn.

He, in turn, told me about the journal, insisting that I read the final entry, one in which she predicted her own death. Dated February 12, 1946, it had been written near the end of her pregnancy.

Abe won’t let me talk about my fear that I will die giving birth to our child. Deep inside he must know I am not up to this. My health, sorely compromised in the camps, needs years yet to heal. But what can we do? Babies come whether we are ready or not. And so I go on. I pray for life, but I brace myself for death. Scribbling furiously every day, I have tried to write things down, every memory, every truth, wanting to leave something of myself behind for my child, who I fear will not otherwise know me
.

Is the tiny one inside my womb a boy or a girl? It matters not
.

What matters is that Abe keep his promise. No matter what, he will keep our child safe from harm always. Whatever it takes. Whatever the cost. This child must always have a place to hide
.

Daphne had been right about not surviving childbirth. Emory had barely survived himself, and during the birth he had been deprived of oxygen long enough to cause permanent brain damage. Perhaps one of the saddest elements of this tragedy wasn’t just that Daphne had died, but that her mentally limited son would never have the capacity to understand or appreciate the treasure of the journal she had left behind.

I had to blink away tears as I read the last line. But before I could even begin to gather my thoughts, I realized that the two witness protection guys were coming our way. They looked as if they wanted to speak with us, so we put the papers away for now and got out of the car.

“Is something wrong?” Heath asked.

“Yes, there’s something wrong. We thought you said Floyd was inside,” one of them told us.

“He was.”

“Not that we can see. We can’t find him anywhere.”

“Did you call out his name when you went in?” Heath asked.

“Called out his name, rang the bell, knocked, finally walked all over the entire place, inside and out, looking for him. He’s nowhere to be found.”

“That’s odd,” I said, certain there was a logical explanation. Floyd couldn’t have left the house completely because the two men had been walking up as we were walking out, so one way or another one of us would have seen him. “Let me see if I can find him,” I said, thinking maybe he had just gone down into the wine cellar or something and hadn’t heard everyone calling him from upstairs.

Heath stayed outside with the two men while I went inside and began calling Floyd’s name and walking from room to room. I checked the wine cellar, but it was empty. Thinking maybe he was out on the screen porch, I went there, but it was empty too, and the screen door was locked from the inside. After looking through the rest of the downstairs, I headed up to the second floor, checking the three rooms and their bathrooms in turn. There were no signs of Floyd anywhere.

This was so weird!

I came back downstairs, where Heath and the two men were just coming in the back door. I admitted that they were right. I couldn’t find him either.

“We didn’t see him outside,” Heath said, “which means he could be hiding somewhere on purpose.”

“That’d be my guess,” one of the men replied, looking at his coworker and snorting derisively. “He musta seen us coming.”

At Heath’s suggestion, all four of us fanned out to look, this time in a more systematic fashion. My job was to check every door and window for evidence of an escape. When I had finished making my way through the whole house, I was more certain than ever that Floyd was here somewhere, because everything except the back door was locked from the inside.

So where was he?

“Well,” I said as I met back up with the two men in the main room, “whatever part of the alphabet you guys come from—FBI, ATF, DOT, whatever—I guess the important question is, what do you do when your star witness goes missing?”

The two men looked at each other and then back at me.

“What do you mean?” one asked.

“I mean, how serious is this? I know Floyd turned state’s evidence, but does that mean you need him to testify against the mob and all of that, or has it been enough just to have him as an informant?”

The men looked at each other in alarm and then at me.

“Floyd turned?”

“He’s been talking to the FBI?”

“Yes. Of course. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Suddenly, both men began edging toward the door.

“No, look, we gotta go,” the first one said. “If you see Floyd, tell him we’ll be in touch, would you? Just say some old friends came by to see him.”

After that, the two men made a hasty retreat, practically running out the door and down the sidewalk. Once they were gone, it took me a minute to realize what had just happened. Those two hadn’t been feds at all. They were criminals.

More than likely, they were the mob.

Reaching into the pack at my waist, I pulled out my gun, holding the grip firmly as I moved swiftly to the back door and flipped the deadbolt so that it was securely locked. I knew that Heath wouldn’t be happy to see that I had the gun out, but that was his problem. Suddenly, I felt very, very violated.

Looking around me, the house was so quiet that for a moment I was terrified that Heath had disappeared too. Standing by the front door, I called out his name and was deeply relieved to hear a reply. It sounded as if he was in Floyd’s room, so I went there now, gun in one hand, digging in my pocket for my phone with the other.

“Did you hear what just happened?” I asked, and when he said he had not, I explained.

“And that gun makes you feel safer now?” he asked, eyeing it warily. “Because it’s not doing too much for me.”

“Deal with it,” I snapped, dialing with my other hand and waiting for Mike to pick up.

“Sienna? Hey, hold on a minute,” Mike’s voice said as he answered, and then I could hear him talking to someone else, just finishing up a conversation. As I waited for him to come back on the line, the enormity of the situation finally began to hit me. My stupid blunder had just clued in the mob that one of their own had been ratting them out to the federal government! Who knew what the fallout from that might be?

Beyond that, where was Floyd? Where on earth could he be hiding?

Suddenly, I thought of the final line from Daphne’s journal:
This child must always have a place to hide
.

“Sorry, this is taking longer than I thought,” Mike said suddenly through the phone. “Can I call you back in a few?”

My mind racing on this new possibility, I told Mike yes, adding that he should just come right over to the B and B because we had some important new developments to share.

“Will do,” he said.

Hanging up, I looked at Heath, puzzle pieces clicking into place.

I thought of Abe’s papers, of the plans for what looked like a small studio apartment.

I thought of what Nina had said about Abe being obsessed with Emory’s Jewish heritage and the chance of some future Holocaust.

I thought of Abe’s promise to Daphne to always keep their son safe, no matter what.

I thought of the words on those plans he had drawn, FIRST TO GO.

In Germany, the ones who were first to go weren’t just random Jews.
They were what Hitler considered the most “defective” Jews of all: the mentally or physically handicapped.

“I think I know where Floyd is,” I said. “Or at least I know how to find him.”

Soon Heath and I were at the kitchen table, the drawing from my grandfather’s papers spread out in front of us. And what a difference it made, to look at the drawing in the right context! Heath and I studied it together, considering the shape and dimensions, and it didn’t take long for us to figure out that the hidden room had been built under a flight of stairs at one corner of the house. There were three staircases in this place, one on the main floor, one that led to the basement, and one that led to the wine cellar. Judging by the placement and shape of the room, we both felt like the wine cellar was the only logical choice.