“Could you… would you stay for a while?”
“I had no plans to leave.”
I awoke slowly, opened my eyes and was completely disoriented. I recognized the red chair, but why was it cockeyed? My table was out of whack, too. Plus, I hurt everywhere and wanted to cry.
But wait, I smelled bacon. Maybe life was worth living after all.
I pulled back the fuzzy blanket and sat up. And immediately lay down again. My head was about to explode.
“Oh, that’s not good.” The night before came back in a rush. The attack. Derek. The police. The kiss.
Oh yes. The kiss.
I let out a breath and tried to sit up again. So far, so good. I waited a few seconds, then pushed myself up to stand. I had to hold on to the arm of the couch for a minute, but I took halting steps and finally made it across the room.
I checked the kitchen and found bacon strips wrapped in paper towels and aluminum foil, sitting inside the warm oven. Coffee was made. A yellow sticky note was stuck to the refrigerator that read “Stay home and recuperate.” It was signed “The Hawk.”
I smiled as I poured a cup of coffee, then padded to the bathroom, where I took two pain relievers and stepped into the shower.
The hot water revived me enough to dress myself. The Hawk-Derek-was right. I’d already planned to work at home today, finish the Faust restoration and maybe get a head start on some other projects that I was behind on.
I dressed for comfort in jeans, a T-shirt and a warm sweater. Wool socks and my Birkenstocks completed the ensemble.
As I munched on bacon and read the paper, I couldn’t help smiling. The Hawk kissed like a dream. Remember the hawk, he’d said. I wasn’t likely to forget him any time soon.
“Remember the hawk,” I said, and chuckled as I took another bite of bacon and turned to the sports page.
Remember the devil. The words popped into my head unbidden.
“Whoa.” Something clicked and I jumped up. A spasm of pain vibrated across my skull and I sank back into my chair and clutched my head in my hands.
“Oh God.” I had to breathe through the pain. But the words began to spin around. Remember the hawk. The devil. Remember. Remember.
Remember the devil.
“Oh, you dimwit.” I stood more slowly this time, then walked as fast as I could to the studio, straight to the bookshelf where the blue leather cover shone like a beacon.
Wild Flowers in the Wind.
I pulled it from the shelf. The soft leather felt cool in my hands. I splayed the covers and the book fell open to page 213.
Pilosella aurantiaca. Hawkweed, otherwise known as the devil’s paintbrush.
Remember the devil.
Old memories came rushing back as I groped for my desk chair and sat. I was eight years old and I’d chosen the wildflower book from a shelf full of decrepit tomes Abraham kept for the purpose of practicing craft. He’d scoffed at my choice and had begun reading out loud the descriptions of some of the more noxious flowers as I’d gathered tools to start my work. I’d laughed with him, agreeing that it was silly that someone actually considered these ugly-looking plants to be flowers. But I’d still wanted to work with this book because the title was so pretty.
Wild Flowers in the Wind.
Abraham had regaled me with the shortcomings of the dreaded Pilosella aurantiaca. Its stiff leaves and petals were covered in short, rigid hairs, its stems and leaves were black, and the flower itself was the color of rust. And it smelled bad.
“No wonder the devil uses it for a paintbrush,” he’d said with a laugh, and succeeded in charming his too-serious, rather needy eight-year-old apprentice.
The poor devil plant hadn’t deserved our derision, I supposed. But it was one of those shared moments between teacher and student I would always treasure.
“Some treasured memory,” I said, mentally flogging myself, wondering why I hadn’t remembered it until this minute.
My mother would’ve told me the truth wasn’t meant to be revealed until this moment, but that dubious bit of wisdom didn’t assuage my remorse.
I shook it off. My feelings didn’t matter. The fact was, I’d just found what I’d been searching for since Abraham was killed.
Chapter 18
I ran my fingers over the aged, deckled paper. There, wedged between pages 212 and 213, next to the fuzzy photograph of the devil’s paintbrush, were several pieces of notepaper, thinned and yellowed with age.
My hand shook as I pulled the pages out and unfolded them. It was a three-page letter, written in German.
The date written on the first page was 8 September 1941. The ink was faded but the handwriting looked feminine to me. I checked the last page and saw that the letter was signed “Gretchen.”
This had to be what Abraham meant by GW1941. But who was Gretchen?
Perhaps after reading the letter, I would know. Beyond excited, I found my bag, pulled out the English-German dictionary I’d bought to help translate Faust and settled down at the worktable to decipher the correspondence.
The letter was addressed to “Sigrid” and at one point in the text, Gretchen referred to her as “liebe schwester” or “dear sister.”
Forty minutes later, I closed the dictionary and pushed away from the table. My excitement had turned to distress. I powered up my laptop and spent a few minutes online, Googling additional information. Then I walked around the room, lost in thought. After a few minutes, my stunned silence grew to vocal anger and I pounded the worktable a few times.
“Gretchen, you stupid coward.”
Saying the name aloud gave me a jolt. In Goethe’s Faust, Gretchen was the virtuous young woman destroyed by Faust, but her real name was Marguerite. As I’d just learned, “Gretchen” was a common German diminutive for Marguerite. A nickname.
Heinrich Winslow’s wife’s name was Marguerite. Also affectionately known as Gretchen. But unlike her fictional namesake, Heinrich Winslow’s wife was all too real and completely responsible for so much destruction.
And no wonder someone was willing to kill to keep these papers hidden.
My translation abilities weren’t perfect, but they were close enough. I hadn’t mistaken the words or the sentiment.
It definitely explained why Abraham had been killed. Not that the explanation was fair or acceptable, but it certainly clarified things.
Such as, who the killer had to be.
I’d always considered myself a good judge of human character, but obviously my judgment was flawed. I’d actually spent time with and liked the killer. I rubbed my arms against the chills that skittered across my skin. Maybe I needed my head examined. Or maybe I needed my Vata-Dosha tweaked. Maybe when this whole nasty episode was concluded, I would take my mom up on the chakra cleansing day at the Ayurveda spa. I might spring for the deluxe mani-pedi while I was at it.
I shoved the personal grooming issues out of my head. I needed to call Inspector Lee. But first, I wanted the person who’d destroyed the life of my friend and mentor to suffer, just for a little while.
I owed that much to Abraham.
I searched my bag for the right business card, then stared at the name of Abraham’s killer for several long moments. Could I do this? Could I call this person, this killer, and actually sound calm and assured as I made my accusations?
I needed a minute.
I was scared, really scared. I wasn’t sure I could do it. I looked at my worktable. Pieces of Faust were scattered about, waiting for me to put them back together. Maybe if I worked for a while, buried myself in the book, I could trick myself into casually picking up the phone and making the call.
For courage, I opened a small bag of candy corn, then blocked out everything but the Faust restoration. The individual repaired pages were dry, so I pressed the text block together and stitched the signatures back together. I applied a coat of PVA glue to consolidate the text block. While that dried, I affixed the cleaned and polished black leather cover to the new boards.