Authors: Duncan Whitehead
Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist (16 page)
Kelly and Elliott had attended Heidi Launer’s funeral not in any official capacity, but as her friend. Elliott, just as he had known Cindy Mopper, had known Heidi Launer for nearly thirty years. Spencer and Gordon had been pals with Heidi’s son Steven since they were teenagers. They had been neighbors for what had seemed an eternity. Again, just as Cindy had been, Heidi had been one of Thelma’s closest friends, and together with Cindy, they had walked their dogs, gossiped, and laughed. Heidi had been a tough one though, thought Elliott. The first time he had met her, he had an unnerving feeling, but that soon evaporated once he had gotten to know her and her friendship with Thelma grew. Often though, he had caught her scowling, even muttering to herself…only to immediately stop and smile whenever she realized she had been spotted. Many times he had noticed her curtains twitching, from a room on the second floor of her house that overlooked his garden. Sometimes Elliott had the feeling that Heidi was watching Thelma, or him, or both of them. But she was a harmless old biddy. Sharp of tongue maybe, territorial definitely, especially when it came to the park and she had not been one to mince her words. She said it as she saw it and hadn’t given a hoot what anyone else had thought, but deep down, thought Elliott, it was all bluster and show.
The times Elliott had seen her berate outsiders who had dared enter the park were numerous. He had watched as she had cursed them, warned them of legal repercussions, and threatened them with arrest if they dared set foot on Gordonston private property again. She had been a fierce woman, often full of anger, and at times even frightening.
Thelma, though, had often told him how witty she was, how quick and sharp she could be, as well as wise and astute. But Elliott had rarely seen that side of her. In fact, in retrospect, she had been quite a nasty old woman on occasion. Elliott shrugged as he and Kelly approached the graveside. Dissecting Heidi’s character traits could take him forever.
Heidi’s funeral was far better attended than Cindy’s had been. Her son, Steven, and his wife, plus their two children who had flown in from New York, had been in attendance. Other relatives, with whom Elliott wasn’t acquainted, stood at the graveside next to her coffin. Neighbors from Gordonston, who Elliott knew well, had shown up to say their last goodbyes, and of course there was Betty. The ever-faithful Betty Jenkins, dressed all in black and wore a hat covered with a veil. Elliott had nodded at Betty who in turn had politely smiled back at him. Maybe now, Elliott had thought, he could convince her to come and work for him.
Steven Launer had said a few words about his mother. How she had been a loving parent, always there for him, how she had been a good wife to his father, how she had loved living in Savannah, and how much she would be missed.
It was when Steven turned to the priest, after his eulogy, that Elliott received his first surprise. Standing behind the priest was a rabbi. Elliott hadn’t noticed him at first, it was only when the priest had to step forward to bless the grave and offer his own words and prayers that Elliott had spotted him. What the heck was a rabbi doing at Heidi Launer’s funeral?
“As many of you know, my mother was not a deeply religious woman. Though she attended church as a protestant, she didn’t really follow the faith. I am sure she had faith, and I am sure that she believed in many things,” Steven Launer spoke purposefully as he stood in between the priest and rabbi, clearing his throat, he continued to speak.
“My mother, as you all know was not born in this country. She emigrated here as a child, from Austria, a place I have visited many times with my mother, as have my family. She was never shy about reminding us of our heritage, of where we came from. She was proud to be an American, I know she was, but she was even prouder to be Austrian. Recently though, I made a discovery. A discovery about my family, about my mother, and about a tragedy that even she wasn’t aware of,” once again Steven cleared his throat before he spoke. “My mother came from a respected family, a prominent family of jewelers actually, from Vienna. For years we had thought her real parents had been bakers, but that, that was not the truth.” Steven paused and took a deep breath before speaking again. “My mother’s father and mother, my grandparents, and her brother and sister, who would have been my aunt and uncle, were victims of the holocaust. Their possessions were stolen, their home stolen, and their lives stolen. They were victims of one of the most evil and vile men the world has ever known. My mother never knew this.”
Neither had Elliott, and by the look on her face, neither had Betty Jenkins. Though a dark veil covered it, Elliott could see the surprised look on her face. She stared back at Elliott and he guessed she saw the same look of surprise on him.
“You see, my mother was Jewish. She was born Jewish, and I hope she understood me the last time I saw her. I told her the story of her family. I will never know if she understood or if she remembered them. That is why, and I am sure many of you noticed him, I asked Rabbi Notrica here today, to say a few words for my mother. Rabbi Notrica…”
Elliott Miller was shocked. He was Jewish, that was no secret, but he had never known about Heidi, he would never have guessed. He turned to face Kelly, who seemed oblivious to what was happening or what had just transpired. Once Rabbi Notrica had finished speaking, Steven Launer spoke again.
“When I was a child I used to have nightmares. Bad dreams. Often I would be unable to sleep or wake up in the middle of the night. One enduring memory I have as a little boy was my mother comforting me when I woke from these nightmares. Yes, she would call me a baby and tell me that I was silly for being scared of the dark and the shadows, or the monsters that didn’t really live under my bed. But she was also my mom. And I was her little boy. When I was scared, frightened, and sobbing in bed, my mother would tell me stories, stories she told me were told to her as a little girl. Wonderful stories that she had memorized, stories she told me her uncle had told her when she was a little girl. They were fantastic tales and I would make her tell them to me again and again and again. I remember one in particular, The Little Boy Lost in the Magic Wood. It was about this boy, lost in a Bavarian forest, who encounters two bears, a woodsman and comes upon a wishing well. Here he can make three wishes…”
Elliott Miller froze and his palms began to sweat. He felt himself flush and for a moment, he thought he might even faint. Steven Launer’s words flew over him, and all he could see were his lips moving. Not that Elliott needed to hear the story. He had heard it before, word for word virtually, over forty years before.
“Are you okay?” whispered Kelly “Your hand has gone sticky.” Elliott remembered he was holding his wife’s hand. He removed his hand from hers and wiped his sweating palm on his jacket. “I am fine, honey,” he lied, “I am fine.”
“…And in the end, the boy made his last wish. He returned home, to be with his family, and the evil witch was never heard from again.” Steve Launer smiled and his wife put her arm around his waist. “So, that was my mom. I never met her uncle, the one she said made up the stories, but he sounds like a great man. I want to thank you all for coming and of course, there will be drinks and food at my mother’s house, so you are all welcome. Thank you.”
Elliott Miller had been silent during the short drive from Bonaventure Cemetery back to Gordonston. He assumed, correctly, that Kelly would put this down to tiredness. He really needed time to think and it had been a blessing that on their return home, when Kelly had collapsed on the sofa.
Elliott finished his scotch and stretched before leaning back on the porch swing, gently rocking forward and back. There was no mistaking that the story recounted by Steven had been the same story told to Elliott by Kurtz all those years before in Buenos Aires. No doubt at all. There was also no doubt that the books he had written, based on those stories, were almost exactly the same. It meant many things. Firstly, if anyone did find a copy of his now out-of-print books and had also heard the stories Steven claimed were told to his mother by an unidentified uncle over seventy years ago, then he stood the chance of being accused of being a liar, a fraud, a plagiarist, and heaven only knew what else. That possibility, though, seemed remote. The chances of anyone discovering his books and then hearing Heidi’s or Kurtz’s stories were highly unlikely, in fact, virtually impossible, he was sure. And now, so many years later, with no copyright law in place, who would care? No one. And if anyone who did care, anyone petty enough who wanted to cause a fuss, then all he would do would be to dispute his or her claims. He would tie them up in legal injunctions and court rulings. It would never be made public, he was positive. This was the only skeleton in his closet and compared to other politicians, it was nothing. No, this wasn’t a concern to Elliott, or something to worry about.
The second thing that mystified Elliott though was this ‘uncle’ of Heidi’s. Was this Uncle Kurtz? He had mentioned a niece, hadn’t he? It was so long ago that Elliott couldn’t recall exactly what the old man had told him all those years ago in Argentina. What Elliott did know was that he had a copy of a book, which Kurtz said he had written, signed by one of the most despicable men to have ever walked the earth. But Heidi’s family was Jewish according to Steven’s graveside eulogy, so it couldn’t have been Kurtz. Or was it all a lie? Was everything a lie? Maybe Heidi wasn’t Jewish. Maybe she had never told these stories. Maybe Kurtz had lied. Maybe he hadn’t written any book. Maybe Steven was on to him. Was Steven Launer going to blackmail him? It was just too confusing. A coincidence? Who knew?
Elliott stood from the swing and picked up his empty scotch glass from the ground. He was tired and, like Kelly, he needed a nap. With the scotch now flowing in his bloodstream and the events of the day, as well as the warm sun on his face, Elliott felt weary. He was just about to return indoors when he heard a voice.
“Mr. Mayor. Mr. Mayor, do you have a moment?”
It was Betty Jenkins.
“Of course Betty, of course I do.” At last, some good news thought Elliott. Betty obviously was going to ask about a job. At last he would have the legendary Betty Jenkins cooking for him. No more of Kelly’s cooking; though he loved her, she was no expert in the kitchen. Elliott could almost taste the Brunswick stew, the fried chicken, the biscuits, and the delights for which Betty was renowned.
“These are for you,” Betty handed Elliott a box. “I found them, in her things, I wasn’t snooping, but they were there. Of course I recognized your name.” Elliott took the old shoe box from Betty, and while looking utterly confused, opened the box. There they were. His books. All three of them. He looked up at Betty. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Luckily for Elliott, it was Betty who spoke for him.
“Obviously this is where she had heard those stories. She read your books. I couldn’t let Steven find them. Especially not after his speech today. Poor boy, he truly believes that some old uncle told his mother these stories years ago and I think it is better things stay that way. Don’t you?”
Elliott nodded.
“I read them by the way, your books. They were good. But I guess you lost the inkling for it. Anyway, let this be our secret. You take them Mr. Mayor. I think it is for the best.”
“Elliott. Please, Betty, call me Elliott.”
“Elliott then. You take them. They belong to you anyway, I guess. But promise me, you will never breathe a word of this to anyone? Promise?”
Elliott Miller took a deep breath and looked upwards. If there was a God, he was certainly watching over Elliott Miller.
“Of course Betty, of course. You have my word.”
Forty Years Ago, Buenos Aires, Argentina
The old man was exhausted and it seemed that each passing day he was getting tired far more quickly than he once had, and as a consequence, everyday seemed longer than the day before. Maybe because the talks he was having with the young American were lasting longer and becoming more in-depth, resulting in later evenings and less sleep. Not that he minded, he was extremely fond of Elliott Miller. But it was time now for it all to end. He would miss their chats, as he would miss many things, La Casa Verde most of all. Oh, the wine, those meats, the smells, and the flavor. And of course the waiters, Santiago especially and old Cardasso himself. All of it. He would miss it all.
He had enjoyed the past few months. He had taken an immediate liking to Elliott, and he was sure that one day, he would appreciate the joke he was playing on him, especially as they had struck up such a close friendship, though brief. It was a friendship, thought Kurtz, which Elliott would remember for the rest of his life.
Holsten Kurtz had been well known for his practical jokes, his mischievous nature and of course, his fantastic acting skills. Not here though, not in Argentina, but in his country of origin which wasn’t Switzerland, as he had told the people of Belgrano, Cardasso, his housekeeper, everyone, including Elliott. It was Belgium. In fact, he had never even been to Switzerland, which of course would have been obvious to anyone who knew that there was no such language as Swiss. A clue he had added sublimely during conversations, a clue no one had spotted. He always added clues when he was acting, or in character. He found it amazing how willing people were to believe anything, even when blatant falsehoods were uttered. It seemed to just pass over them – as though they either didn’t know or did not care – or maybe they were just too engrossed in his story to realize or notice.
Some of what he had told Elliott Miller had been true. His wife was indeed dead, along with their still born child, and he did indeed have a niece, whom he never saw. However he knew where she was; she was living in Brussels with her husband, happily married with three grown children and five grandchildren. They had exchanged the odd greeting card, at Christmas and the occasional birthday, but the truth was they were never close. He really did not desire to remain in touch with his only brother’s daughter, and he was sure that feeling was no doubt mutual.
At one time, Kurtz had been quite famous, especially in Belgium and Holland. He had been quite an accomplished actor, and had even appeared in a few movies, black and whites of course. Though not well known outside of the Low Countries, he had been held in high regard for his stage work and had often received critical acclaim for his performances, especially as a character actor, and he was lauded for his method acting abilities
But, that was many years ago, before he had met Gissell, who fortuitously for him, had not only fallen in love with him, but was also extremely wealthy. She owned several estancias in various parts of Argentina. He had not hesitated to leave his homeland, and return to Argentina with her after she had confessed her love for him. They had married and settled on one her many properties in Mendoza where they had planned to raise a family together, and maybe he would return to acting once he had mastered the Spanish language.
Gissell’s death during child birth had been devastating for Kurtz, and after burying his wife and stillborn son, he had considered returning to Europe. However, he had fallen in love with Argentina, and of course he had inherited his wife’s fortune, which meant he could live how he pleased. He could become anyone. He could act again. What harm could it possibly do?
The act he had put on for Elliott, the staff at La Casa Verde, and indeed the people of Belgrano had been one of his greatest performances. How they loved the kind old man from Europe, who spoke ‘Swiss,’ German, French, English and many other languages. How they loved his dapper style of dress, his immaculate manners, and his discerning and educated taste for fine wines. Oh, how they marveled at his generosity, his good deeds, and his mysterious accent. How they marveled at the speeches he had made…what a performance.
He was generous, though, and he had been a great benefactor to the people of Belgrano. Of course he could afford to be kind. He was rich, which allowed him to help others, and he enjoyed the acclaim and the notoriety. Fame and popularity were always something an actor craved, and he was no different. Why not spread joy and wealth rather than be alone and miserable? Helping Cardasso pay for his restaurant had only added more mystery to the ‘Kurtz’ legend, as did his socializing with politicians and high ranking military officers. He didn’t agree with their politics or methods, but it was good to be associated with them. It was all done for his ‘character’s’ development. What he was doing was hurting no one, it gave him pleasure, and this final act, his last joke, was his finest. It was a little prank on this American friend.
From the moment he had first met Elliott, he had decided that he was the type of man who was level-headed and who would laugh when he discovered the truth. A man who, for not one minute, would believe the curious coincidences of Kurtz’s life and its parallel to another life. Eventually, Elliott would realize the ruse, but when he didn’t, it proved to Kurtz one thing; the one thing that mattered more to him above everything else – he could still act. And he was good.
Now though, as he lay in his bed, his cane leaning against the comfortable leather chair in his bedroom, he knew the act was over. His doctor had warned him that his evenings spent eating red meat, and drinking even redder wine, would sooner or later bring on another heart attack. He had been ordered by his physician to remain at home, to take it easy, so there would be no meetings with Elliott at the Casa Verde for a while. Kurtz knew though that he didn’t have long, and when his heart did finally give up on him, which he knew would be before he saw Elliott again, he would add the final seal on the joke he was playing. The coup de grace, and it would be the final act in the play and his trump card would be his ultimate prop.
He had purchased the signed copy of Mein Kampf years before, at an auction in Mendoza before Gissell had died. She had, of course, paid for it and it had not been cheap. He had explained to her that he held no sympathy towards the book or the author, but it was a something he wanted; a memory of his life in Europe, and a reminder of what that man had done his country, to his people. Kurtz was certainly no Nazi. He had been appalled when they had marched into Belgium and dragged his people into a war that they were unprepared and unequipped for. The autographed book would just be a curio, a conversation piece, and those conversations discussing how it ended up at an auction in Southern Argentina would make dinner parties fun and maybe even lead to debate. But, along with many other things in his life, it had been forgotten. Left on a shelf gathering dust, it was the book that had given him the idea to fool someone into thinking he was…. someone the world thought was dead. He had rediscovered it in his vast library in the large home he had purchased once he had grown bored of Mendoza. The fact that Kurtz bore no resemblance to the man didn’t matter; they were roughly the same height. If
he
had survived the bunker, which Kurtz believed he hadn’t,
he
would be an old man, and would have had probably had plastic surgery anyway. In any case, it was all just a joke.
Kurtz wasn’t sure if his joke was working, though. Was Elliott remotely intrigued? The book, the book though would convince him. He would write a note, alluding that he had written it. He would have his housekeeper deliver it, should his heart indeed stop beating before he saw Elliott again. If he recuperated, he would deliver it himself. Either way, it would be a great finale.
Kurtz also wondered, as he lay on his bed, if Elliott actually believed that the old folk tales he was reciting were actually created by him. Of course they hadn’t been; they were stories he had heard in Europe from a fellow actor, a German man by the name of Karl. They had appeared together in a play in Amsterdam, and during their acquaintanceship, had spent many hours together. Karl had told him that the stories were well-known in Austria and Southern Germany, and that parents would tell them to their children. There was no author, just stories passed down from parents to children and then onto their children. Kurtz had memorized them. He had found the stories to be quite entertaining, but of course he would never dream of writing them down. No, they would just be part of the act, a way to ensure that even the children of Belgrano adored the mysterious, yet kind old man. He enjoyed telling them and to anyone hearing them for the first time, they were original and they were his.
He had wrapped the book in brown paper, and he had left instructions, should he not recover from his latest illness, for his housekeeper to seek out Elliott and deliver the package to La Casa Verde. He wished he could see Elliott’s face, and Cardasso’s, when they saw the book and read the note. What a prank.
Holsten Kurtz yawned. He had so many memories. Gissell. How he missed her. How he was sure she would be enjoying his acting and his mischievous practical joke. He closed his eyes and suddenly felt a pain in his chest, a tight gripping pain that then traveled down his left arm. Yet another heart attack, just as his physician had predicted, but this one felt stronger than the others and he could feel himself getting weaker. He was dizzy and his breathing began to shorten. His pills were close by and if he stretched he could probably grab them. If he banged his cane on the floor, his housekeeper would come and fetch his doctor. She could reach for the pills and he would be fine. But he did nothing. This was it and he was not afraid. He would be with Gissell again and their unborn child. Before he died, before he exited the great stage that was his life, before his final curtain fell, Holsten Kurtz allowed himself one final smile.