Show Business Is Murder (23 page)

I will tell the children Daddy is already working in the study, mustn't be disturbed, feed them breakfast. Never skip a beat of the normal routine. Tyler will help with the newspaper inserts, then curl up in the minivan for a bit more sleep as I fly through the paper route in record time. He won't tolerate a kiss when I drop him off at preschool, but he might grudgingly accept a hug.

Just another morning. No reason to panic. Deep breaths. Play the role of the perfect wife. Once more with feeling.

Cameron's Volvo will pull out of the garage at exactly the same time as any other morning. By the time his partners realize he didn't get to work, I will have taken care of all the messy little details.

Just this once, I will give thanks that I'm not a perfect size two. Better to have the bulk and the strength to do what must be done.

I will bury Cameron at the top of the hill. Maybe under a tree. Maybe not. Wherever the soil is soft enough to dig and wherever there's enough loose brush to cover up my handiwork. No lie of a eulogy. No mourners. Just me, and Sasha sleeping soundly in her baby seat. I will be ever so careful to
leave traces of Cameron's blood in the trunk of the Volvo. Maybe I'll even leave the sheets and buy new ones in the kind of ritzy linen emporium worthy of a prominent attorney's wife. Nobody would ever suspect the K-Mart sheets and blankets belonged to us.

No need to wipe fingerprints from the Volvo. Everybody knows Cameron insists that I drive it at least once a week so he can do God knows what with the minivan. I will wear gloves when I drive the Volvo one last time so there will be smudges on the steering wheel.

Just in case Cameron was wrong about how close crime is sneaking up on us. Just in case nobody steals the Volvo after I park it at the bottom of the hill on the far side from home, leaving the keys in the ignition.

Sasha isn't that heavy yet. We'll be home long before anybody misses us or Cameron.

Even if they discover Cameron's body, nobody would dream of suspecting his grieving widow. Loyal wife. Mother of his three beautiful children. So brave to sleep alone in the cavernous bed in the big house so far away from any neighbors, so courageous to pick up the pieces and move on.

If there's ever a knock at the door, ever a detective with Columbo's raincoat and Ricky Ricardo's hat, Lucie will have some 'splaining to do. I will tell him what I remember, tell him how Cameron pushed me over the edge by admitting our Hollywood happily-ever-after marriage was nothing more than an icy business arrangement, carefully crafted with Papa.

Cameron told me more than I ever wanted to know, repeating Papa's opinion that it would be a waste of time and money for me to go to college. “She's a headstrong filly who needs a firm hand.”

After all the questions, surely the detective will come to understand who's really responsible.

I will bury Cameron at the top of the hill.

LIBBY FISCHER HELLMANN

HERR HESSE SHOULD
never have stayed for the last number. Indeed, some expressed shock he was there at all. A physics professor at the University of Berlin. Well-dressed, a touch of gray in his hair. Why would Friedrich Hesse visit
Der Flammen,
a seedy cabaret tucked away on a side street?

It came out later that Ilse had asked him to stay. Ilse—the star performer at
Der Flammen
. Ilse—with the sad brown eyes and short blonde hair and a black sequined costume that stopped at the top of her thighs.

He sat in the audience that night, a glass of schnapps in his hand. Elbow to elbow with the riffraff, all of them vying to be decadent. The life of the genteel Prussian had vanished, replaced by the ennui of the jaded. No one pretended to innocence in the Berlin of Thirty-two. What counted most was scandal. It masked the pain and despair.

He suffered through buxom women in skimpy costumes and the men pretending to be. He turned away from the animal parade. But when the orchestra sounded a drum roll, he twisted back toward the stage. And when Ilse appeared in the wavering beam of the spotlight, he brightened like a man glimpsing salvation.

In her first number she flounced across stage as a mountain girl, long braids pinned to her head. She wore a leather
vest laced tight across her breasts, but not much else. It wasn't until the shepherd boy unlaced it and forced her to ride the goat that Hesse looked away.

Next she marched onstage in an Imperial Regimental jacket, a rifle slung over her chest. She sang and crawled and shot and saluted her superior officer, who relieved her of her jacket and threw it into the wings. The randy shouts of the audience drowned out the last verse of her song. Through it all, the professor politely sipped his schnapps, as if Ilse were reciting poetry in a salon.

In the finale, she sang a sad ballad, wearing black sequins, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels. A stray lock of hair fell across her face, throwing her profile in shadow. As her final note hung in the smoky air, the professor rose, put on his hat, and walked out. Skirting the bank of snow on the street, he cut through a narrow alley and knocked at the stage door.

The janitor found his body the next morning, half-hidden behind the stage in a corner. A pool of blood, now congealed, had seeped across the floor. The police found entry wounds in his chest and bullet casings that had come from a Luger.

ILSE SLOUCHED AT
the manager's desk wearing a silk robe with oriental pretensions. The smoke from her cigarette floated above her head like a halo.

“When did you meet him?” The burly detective asked. His weary eyes said there was nothing more that could shock him.

“Several months ago. At a cafe on the Kurfürstendamm.” She smiled prettily. “We were both having tea.”

“He was alone?”

“Not then. But he returned the next day. Alone.”

The detective took off his coat and slipped it over a chair. He knew her type. Arrogant. Smug. Confident in her charm. “What happened when he came into your dressing room?”

Crossing one leg over the other, she dangled her foot in front of him. “He paid me a visit.”

“And what was the nature of this visit, Fraulein?”

“Must I be so indiscreet, Herr Inspektor?”

The detective shifted. The office wasn't much bigger than a closet. He felt too big for the room. “You knew, of course, that he was married?”

“Aren't they all?”

“What did he give you in return for your—favors?”

“What I expect from all my lovers. Kindness. Passion. A gentle touch.”

“And perhaps a few thousand marks, conveniently wrapped in a white linen handkerchief?”

She fluffed her hair. A whiff of cheap perfume drifted his way. “You presume,
mein lieber
.”

“When did he leave?”

“When we were finished.”

“And you made sure your friends were waiting for him, yes? Ready to roll him for his cash. What was your cut, Fraulein?”

“Inspektor. You are unkind.”

“But he put up a fight, didn't he? Your friends didn't count on that. He struggled, and things spun out of control.”

She drew herself up and tossed her hair. Even in the dim light of the office it gleamed. “I do not know what happened when he left my room. I had nothing to do with his death.”

FRAU HESSE POURED
tea from a Chinese teapot on a cloisonné tray. A small, birdlike woman with brown hair swept back in a bun, she sat primly on a flowered sofa, flanked by two men who she said were colleagues of her husband.

The detective sat on a silk-covered chair, his bulk spilling over the seat. He would have preferred to question her alone, but she was the wife of an important man. Fumbling his
teacup, he was loath to ask the key question, and was taken aback when she preempted him.

“I knew Friedrich was unfaithful,” she said, her face bland and composed. “I've known for years. But you must understand. He was an excellent provider, and in these times, when inflation bleeds the value out of everything, I was grateful.”

Hoping his face didn't reveal his surprise, he asked about Hesse's work.

“He was a professor at the Chemical Institute. He was experimenting with radioactive elements.”

He frowned. “Radioactive elements?”

“Uranium.”

His frown deepened. “It is what—this uranium?”

Frau Hesse and the men exchanged glances. “He studied neutrons, protons, and electrons.” Frau Hesse said. “Subatomic particles.”

He shrugged. He was a police officer. Not an educated man.

Patches of red flared on her cheeks. “They are tiny particles. The elements of all matter. Together they form atoms. My husband theorized that under bombardment by neutrons, an atom of uranium would split in half. Much of his time was spent stripping protons from neutrons in an attempt to verify his hypothesis.”

“And did he?”

Again the wife and the men exchanged glances. “He was close,” the wife said. She bowed her head.

The detective made another note. “You seem very knowledgeable about his work.”

“We met at the University years ago. I am a scientist as well.” A tiny shrug fanned her shoulders. “But there was only room for one in the family. I was content to be his wife and the mother of his children. He is—was—a brilliant man.”

He set his teacup down.

Clear blue eyes gazed at him. “Indeed, he
was
a man.
With a man's flaws. Yet, he always came home to me. I loved him beyond description.” She looked away, then, and her jaw tightened, as if she was struggling to control her grief.

One of the men laid his arm around her delicate shoulders. “If that is all, Inspektor . . .”

“Of course.” The detective took the names of the colleagues and rose from his chair. “Auf Weidersehen,” he said with a slight bow.

As he stepped outside, he noted the mezuzah on the door frame.

TWO DAYS LATER
the Inspector stamped his feet, shaking the snow off his boots. The manager of
Der Flammen
led him into the office. A little man with a sparse mustache, the sour smell of fear rose from his skin.

“She's gone,” he moaned, wringing his hands. “She was due here an hour ago. I sent a boy around to her apartment near the Nollendorfplatz, but she was not there, and all of her things are gone. The show begins in thirty minutes. What shall I do?”

A bevy of women, their cheeks rouged, eyelids darkened with kohl, filed past the open door. “It would seem you have replacements,” the detective said.

“Nein.”
The manager threw his hands in the air. “You do not understand. They demand her. If they do not see her, they will hold me responsible. They are not patient men.”

“What men are these, Herr manager?”

“You know of whom I speak. They come in their brown shirts and boots. Almost every night, now.”

“Were they here the night Hesse was killed?”

“I do not know.”

The detective scratched his cheek. “Herr manager, I hear rumors about
Der Flammen
. Many rumors. I am sure you do not want trouble with your license.”

“You would not. You could not.”

The manager hesitated, then took a step back, seeming to shrivel against the wall. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. His face grew pinched. “Yes. They were here that night.”

IT WAS NOT
difficult to find her. A street urchin in need of a meal, a hundred marks exchanged; it was done. Entering adark, shabby building, he mounted rickety steps. The stench of urine hung in the air. A yellow cat hissed.

On the third floor, a woman answered the door. Her eyes, suspicious and hard, widened when he showed her his badge. She was wearing Ilse's oriental robe. “Ilse, you have a guest.”

Ilse came to the door, dressed in a tattered robe and slippers. Her hair was lank, her face haggard.

The detective wasted few words. “Fraulein, did you know Professor Hesse was a Jew?”

Ilse looked at the floor.

“I do not hear you.”

She looked up, her brown eyes rimmed in dark circles. “Yes, I knew.”

“So that is why they killed him.”

“Who?”

“The men who have been visiting you at
Der Flammen.
The ones in the brown shirts and boots.

“Why do you wince?” The detective went on. “You did your part. Lured the dirty Jew into a trap. Softened him up with your favors. Made him weak and defenseless. He was no match for them.”

“No. You are wrong.” Her hands flew to her face.

“How much did they give you to set him up?” She turned away. “How much, Fraulein?” She shook her head. “You are aware that I can make your life most unpleasant. A charge of lewd behavior or accessory to murder will not sit well. Even in Berlin.”

“You do not understand, Inspektor. If I tell you, I sign my death warrant.”

“And if you do not, you go to jail.” He circled a chair, letting the weight of his words sink in. “But you see, Ilse, you have another problem. You see, these men—these Brown Shirts—they will never believe you did not confess. So when you leave jail, as you eventually will, they will find you.”

She stared at him, her eyes vacant and dull. “So I am
fickt
. No matter what I do.”

He shrugged. She pulled her robe tight and started to pace. He waited. It wasn't long.

“They wanted to know what Friedrich was doing at the University.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“The truth. I did not know. We did not talk about his work. We had—other matters to discuss.”

He folded his arms.

“They didn't believe me either. They—they forced me to service them. One at a time. Like dogs in heat.” She spat on the floor. “They said they would kill me if they found out I lied.”

He studied her. Not just a whore. A pathetic, used-up whore. “And so they killed him because he was a rich, powerful Jew.”

“No. They did not like him, but they did not kill him.”

“How do you know?”

Her sad eyes burned with a curious light. “They did not come until the night after he died.”

“The night after?” The inspector stiffened. “You are lying, Fraulein. The manager said—”

She snorted. “He will say whatever you want him to.”

“Perhaps you are mistaken. The stage lights are harsh and blinding. Perhaps they were there. But you didn't see them. They hid at the back of the theater until he left your room.”

Her eyes tracked him up and down. “No. I told you.
They came the night after. Demanding to know if he was the Jew who worked at the University.”

The detective leaned his hands on the back of the chair.

“Please, Herr Inspektor. I beg you. Do not tell them I told you. They will surely kill me.” She covered her face with her hands.

ILSE NEVER CAME
back to
Der Flammen
. For weeks the detective sifted through the reports of bodies that washed up from the river, or were found in the alleys, but none matched her description. He went back to the woman Ilse had stayed with, the cabaret manager, even the urchin he found on the street, but no one knew where she was.

He read up on uranium at the library, then, late one afternoon, met with a Berlin physicist. Afterwards, he took a walk. An icy wind slicing through him, he trudged down the Nollendorfplatz, ignoring a come-on from a young boy with eyes as heavily kohled as a woman's. On the Kurfürstendamm he gazed at a church as if its gothic spires might tell him what to do. And on his wintry hike, he thought about the professor, his wife, his colleagues. The Brown Shirts and what they were doing. His own job, his family, his country. By morning he had made his decision.