“Actually, I didn’t intend to blackmail your family,” I said as I sidestepped the stool and eased my way back against the worktable. “I just wanted to make you squirm awhile until the police arrested you.”
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she said with a hiss. Her cheeks were turning an angry shade of red. “You didn’t call the police. You’re a grasping, greedy bitch, trying to make money off the pain of others.”
“I take it Abraham tried the same thing.” I was stalling, leading her on, waiting for a miracle. To keep her talking was all I could think to do.
“He tried-and failed miserably.”
In Gretchen’s letter to her sister Sigrid, she’d bemoaned the fact that Heinrich was putting his own family in jeopardy with his grandiose schemes to save mankind. “Jews, Sigrid, can you make sense of it?” Gretchen had written. “He risks our lives to help Jews!”
Gretchen had gone to Heinrich, insisting that he stop. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. In the letter, Gretchen had suggested that the gardener’s shed held everything she’d need to complete a certain unpleasant but necessary task.
I’d Googled the details of Heinrich Winslow’s death and discovered that he’d died of arsenic poisoning. The date of his death was three days after the date of Gretchen’s letter. The poison was traced to a box of weed killer. Wikipedia claimed that Heinrich’s grieving wife and children went to live with her sister Sigrid in Denmark after his death.
Somehow, Gretchen’s letter had found its way into the secret pocket inside Faust. In my heart, I liked to think her sister Sigrid wanted the truth to be revealed someday.
“I guess it wouldn’t help Heinrich’s heroic reputation,” I said, “if the world knew his wife had been a cowardly anti-Semitic murdering bitch.”
“You think?” Sylvia said snidely. “Oh, I don’t blame her for what she did, but the world would consider her evil. My family’s honor and reputation would be ruined. We would be persona non grata everywhere we went. I can’t allow that.”
“No, that would be unacceptable. Much better just to kill off a few people and hide the truth.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “The man didn’t care about his own family. He had to be the big hero, saving all those Jews.”
“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”
“What if he’d been caught? He would’ve been killed on the spot or sent to a camp. Gretchen would’ve been shunned, ridiculed, and left alone to raise four children. Or who knows? Maybe they would’ve sent her to the camps with him. He left her no choice.”
“But to kill him?”
“Yes, and good for her.”
“But she was still left alone anyway,” I said.
“But this way,” Sylvia argued, “her husband died a hero and a good citizen instead of being gassed to death as an enemy of the state. Her reputation was saved.”
“And reputation is everything,” I said.
“Despite what you and my daughter think, yes, reputation is everything.”
I straightened my shoulders. There was no need to be insulting, bunching me in with Meredith. But it was disappointing to know that Meredith was actually a pillar of dignity and honor compared to her mother.
“So if you already read the letter,” I ventured, “why didn’t you destroy it?”
Her nostrils flared like an offended little bull’s. “I didn’t read the letter,” she conceded as she strolled calmly through a patch of sunlight coming through the blinds. “Karastovsky read it over the phone to my husband, then demanded money.”
“And Conrad…”
“Panicked. He told me what the letter said and I told him to calm down. I had to take care of everything.”
“A woman’s work is never done.”
“Exactly,” she said with a sneer. “I called Karastovsky back and told him I’d bring the money the night of the opening.”
“But you didn’t bring money. Just a gun.”
“Right again,” she said. “That big, stupid ox. Did he think I’d allow my family to be shunned and ridiculed because some loathsome cobbler thought he could manipulate us?”
“Cobbler?”
“Oh, whatever.” She waved her gun hand impatiently. “You work with leather. Your hands are dirty. You’re low-class craftspeople.”
Craftspeople. Ouch.
Beyond the insults, none of this made sense. Abraham was wealthy. He didn’t need the money. Why would he resort to blackmail?
A thought sprouted and grew. According to Minka, Abraham and Enrico had begun a collaboration shortly before Abraham was killed. Had Abraham revealed the contents of the letter to Enrico? Had Enrico been the one to attempt blackmail, using Abraham’s name since he’d already burned his own bridges with the Winslows?
The scheme had Enrico’s name all over it.
I wondered.
“So, when you confronted Abraham with the gun the night of the opening, when you accused him of blackmail, what did he say?”
“He denied everything,” she said scornfully. “Said he’d never made the phone call, never demanded money. He whined and cried like a big baby girl. It was disgusting. I’m glad I could put him out of his misery.”
My hands bunched in fury. Abraham had talked about Enrico betraying a confidence. It had to be about Gretchen’s letter. I was virtually certain Enrico had found out about it and hatched the scheme without Abraham’s knowledge or approval. Which meant Sylvia had killed Abraham for no reason at all.
I could see the whole scenario clearly. Enrico had wanted to get even with the Winslows for cheating him out of his source of easy money. He really was a scumbag, but even he hadn’t deserved to die.
As she spoke, I continued to face her but carefully, gradually brought my arms back and leaned against the worktable. I reached farther back to feel around for a weapon. My fingers wrapped themselves around something long and thin. A bone folder.
“I assume you sent the guy with the snake tattoo after me.”
“Willie,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “He’s a little fellow who occasionally does odd jobs for me. Not all that dependable, but it was worth a shot.”
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll implicate you?”
“I give him little gifts and he’s thoroughly devoted to me,” she said. “Besides, he’s completely off his rocker. Who would believe him?”
She had a point. Then something else occurred to me. “Do you own a dark SUV?”
She gazed at her fingernails. “My housekeeper drives one but I borrow it occasionally.”
“And the rose on my pillow?”
She chuckled. “A tender gesture, wasn’t it? I overheard your gorgeous male friend telling you he’d call you ‘soon.’ ” She grinned. “Boy, if I had a nickel for every time I’d heard those words. Am I right?”
Was this girl talk? Was she kidding?
She sighed, continued. “You came home sooner than I expected, so I was stuck in your coat closet for a while.”
I was stymied and finally blurted, “How in the world do you know how to break into houses?”
“It’s a gift,” she said with a cocky grin. “I didn’t always live on Nob Hill, you know. I grew up on the streets, learned to survive. Otherwise, I would’ve died out there.”
I clutched the bone folder more tightly.
“Hey,” she said, taking notice of my movement. “Back away from the table.”
I took a step closer to her, then threw the bone folder. It was absolutely useless as a weapon-but very effective as a diversion. Sylvia screamed and pulled the trigger at the same time. The bullet went wildly off course. We fell against each other and I pushed the gun away. She grabbed my chin and raked her nails down my neck.
“Ouch!” I knocked her back and reached for the gun. She tried to aim it toward me, but I grasped hold of her wrist and we fought for power.