“To throw who off?” Veronica asked. “We were the only people there.”
“Oma said I shouldn’t trust anyone, even those closest to me.”
“Ellen said you shouldn’t trust
us
? She was a Nazi for God-sake,” Veronica lashed, immediately regretting the comment.
“Maybe so, but she was also right,”
Maggie fought back. “Oma was trying to keep us safe. But knock yourself out … go dig up our backyard. And then we can go tear apart her old room at Sunshine Village, or maybe we can get a court order to dig up the grounds. I’m just a kid, you geniuses can figure it out.”
Veronica did another slow burn. She remembered something she preached to Maggie and Jamie about if they didn’t have anything nice to say, not to say anything at all. And since nobody had anything remotely pleasant to communicate at the moment, no more words were uttered until they pulled into the small Victorian downtown of Rhinebeck.
With a quick check of the rear-view mirror, Veronica noticed that Maggie was staring blankly ahead and gnawing on her lower lip. It was her pet move to indicate anxiety. Jamie pulled on his ear,
Picasso
batted his tail against the floor, and Maggie gnawed on her lip.
“Mags, it’s not too late to turn around and go sell the painting on eBay. Hitler autographed … I’ll bet that would pay for a lot of double sprinkle ice cream cones at Carvel,” Veronica attempted to comfort.
Maggie smiled. Not at another poor attempt at humor by her mother, but it was a smile of relief—knowing there might be another living organism on the planet who believed her, or at least had her back. It was the best response Veronica could hope for these days. Not those big belly laughs from when Maggie was a toddler that she missed so much.
She parallel-parked the Tahoe on Main Street and entered Flavia’s Art Gallery, not sure what to expect. Maggie and Jamie trailed her, carrying the Raphael, one on each end like it was a couch. A clerk pointed them to Flavia.
When Veronica saw her, she almost fell over.
Veronica had never felt such rage pulsing through her veins. And she wasn’t sure why. At the end she made up any excuse not to be with him. Their love had long fizzled and they’d entered that zone they never thought they would enter—staying together for the kids—even if they never had an official conversation about it.
Flavia appeared older than Veronica, probably in her mid-forties, but it was only a small victory. She was a striking beauty.
“Can I help you?” she asked, and flashed the most perfect smile that Veronica had ever seen. Although, it probably wouldn’t look so good with a few missing teeth, she thought.
“I’m Veronica Peterson … Carsten’s wife.”
Flavia took a step back and froze. They stared at each other, remaining as still as the many sculptures that filled the gallery.
“Do you two know each other?” Zach asked the obvious.
“Yeah,” Veronica began, “Flavia was the one who …”
She caught a glimpse of Maggie and Jamie, still holding on tightly to the priceless painting, and looking intently at their lunatic mother. They worshiped their father, and she wanted them to hang onto that myth for the rest of their lives—no different than Santa Claus, even if Santa ran around behind Mrs. Claus back and once socked her in her rosy cheek.
“Why don’t we talk in my office?” Flavia read the situation perfectly.
There would be no winner in a public display.
Veronica followed her into a cramped office and closed the door behind them. Flavia offered Veronica a seat, but she chose to stand. If she asked her to stand, she would have sat. The return of her old stubbornness made her feel nostalgic.
Even the name Flavia sounded exotic—just the opposite of Carsten’s simple family life with the cookie-cutter wife and two kids. At least she didn’t have to wonder what he saw in her.
When Veronica hired that investigator to follow Carsten—she still couldn’t believe she did that—the PI asked her if she wanted him to dig further, such as name, address, and whether or not she had a spouse. But Veronica declined. The pictures of the two of them sneaking into motels was enough. Veronica didn’t want revenge—just a boring divorce. But before she could summon the strength to address him, their split became permanent.
“Did Carsten tell you about us?” Flavia got right to the point.
Veronica was thrown off by the honesty. “No.”
“We decided it was best not to tell anyone. It was too dangerous to involve others. So if Carsten held his end of the bargain, how did you find out?”
The part he failed to live up to was their wedding vows. “I had you followed,” Veronica said and felt guilty about it. She didn’t know why—she was the victim here.
Flavia took a seat behind her cluttered desk. “Wow, he really had you pegged.”
“Excuse me?”
“Carsten and I spent a lot of time together. He opened up to me about a lot of things, including you. Said you changed over the years. That you weren’t the same girl he’d married.”
“I’m surprised you had time to talk.”
Flavia’s face turned quizzical. “What exactly do you think went on between me and your husband?”
“Don’t try to play innocent—I saw the photos.”
“I don’t know what photos you’re talking about, but I doubt they show me and Carsten engaging in inappropriate behavior … at least not the kind you’re thinking of.”
Maybe not, but you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what went on once they entered those motel rooms together. Besides, what hurt Veronica the most was the way Carsten looked at Flavia in the photos. It was the way he used to look at her—when they were in love. What defines cheating has always been a big fat gray area.
“What your husband and I were doing is none of your business. What
is
relevant is that I respect people’s marriages, even a complete unmitigated disaster like yours was.”
Flavia stood and clanked around the office in her expensive heels. The rest of the ensemble didn’t appear to be cheap, either. I
t looked
like she leaped off the cover of some fall fashion magazine
—a
shiny silk blouse and a beige, knee-length pencil-skirt.
“So what inspired you to come face me, Veronica … after all this time?”
It was obvious that Flavia had no idea as to why they were here. So Veronica played along, “I was curious about the change in my husband’s demeanor at the end of his life. And since he didn’t talk to me, I figured I’d go see the one person he did discuss things with. And I’m glad I did, because I learned that I was the one who changed, not him.”
“Have you met your therapist’s benchmarks yet, so that we can end this meeting?”
“Not until you tell me how you met my husband. And if you weren’t screwing, I think I have the right to know why he was sneaking around with you in those motel rooms.”
“Like I said, it’s none of your business. Not that it would change anything, anyway.”
“It might not be my business, but your business is art, correct?”
She looked confused. “I own this gallery, so I think that goes without saying.”
“Have you ever heard of a painting called
Portrait of a Young Man
by Raphael?”
“I’ve heard of Raphael, of course, but not that specific painting. I’ve never claimed to be an aficionado. My gallery is made up mostly of contemporary work by local artists. Monet and Raphael don’t usually grace our walls.”
“
Portrait of a Young Man
was stolen by the Nazis. It’s been missing since 1939. But today it came into my possession, along with this.”
Veronica handed over the note that instructed them to come here. Flavia studied it, as if trying to detect a hidden meaning.
“My coming here has nothing to do with Carsten and whatever you did or didn’t do. I didn’t even know your name before I arrived. I’m here because of Ellen Peterson
—she’s responsible for that note
.”
“The woman who raised him? He talked about her a lot. How did she know about me?”
“I was hoping you could answer that. She was found dead this morning at the retirement community where she lived. But not before she alleged to be a Nazi who was part of a group that had infiltrated America after the war. So how about you stop playing games with us, Flavia?”
She returned to her chair, appearing to be troubled by the words. “I never met Ellen.”
“But you know about her from Carsten.”
“And she obviously knew about me.”
“Why did Ellen send us to you? There must be a reason.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I don’t know, but there are people willing to go to great lengths to make sure this group Ellen speaks of remains a mystery.”
“Who are these people?” Veronica pushed.
“The same people who killed Carsten.”
A dazed Veronica watched her children assist Zach and Youkelstein, carrying the painting into Flavia’s office like pallbearers.
Veronica was trying to wrap her mind around what Flavia just told her. The first part—that Carsten might not have had an affair, not physically anyway. Even if true, Veronica didn’t take this as good news. The affair was the event that allowed her to distance herself from his death. Just because their marriage was, to use Flavia’s words, an unmitigated disaster, didn’t mean she wasn’t hit with an overwhelming feeling of loss when Carsten died. But the photos of him and Flavia entering that motel were like a force field that allowed her to exchange her pain for anger, which was a much more tolerable emotion.
The other part was harder to grasp.
The same people who killed Carsten
. And while most thirty-six-year-old men don’t drop dead of a stroke, it’s not like it never happened, and foul play was never even suggested.
After shutting the door, Zach and Youkelstein performed an “unveiling.” They removed the garbage bag that covered the painting. Flavia studied it closely, and pointed to the scribbled ink. “Is that really Hitler’s signature?”
“I believe it is,” Youkelstein spoke up.
Flavia locked eyes on him. “And you would be?”
“Dr. Benjamin Youkelstein.”
“What kind of doctor deals with Hitler’s signature?”
“I’m a forensic pathologist. But I dabble in historical justice.”
She chuckled. “I dabble in historical justice myself, Dr. Youkelstein. And I must confess that I do know who you are. I’ve read much of your work.”
A satisfied grin came over his face. Veronica was once again reminded that boys might get older, but they never outgrow the urge to impress a pretty girl.
“How do we know it’s not a fake?” Flavia asked. “The painting, the signature, or both?”
“We don’t,” Veronica said, feeling a surge of competitiveness. “But I’d be willing to bet that it’s the original.”
“Carsten mentioned you were an art history major. He wished you hadn’t given it up. People should never give up their passions,” she stuck Veronica with a few more needles, then added, “So if this is the real deal, it must be worth a small fortune.”
Veronica took a deep breath, suppressing her urge to lash back. “Hard to tell if being underground has damaged it, and if so, how much damage there is. I also don’t know if the signature of such an infamous figure adds or subtracts from the value, but yes, it’s safe to say it would be worth quite a bit.”
“I guess I’ll hang it with others,” Flavia said with a casual shrug.
Zach joined the conversation, “You’re going to hang a stolen painting in your art gallery … are you mad?”
Flavia looked at Zach like he had just walked into the room. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” she said and extended her hand. “Are you a member of the historical justice team like Dr. Youkelstein?”
“No, my name is Zach Chester,” he said and clasped her hand. “I’m a journalist. I used to write for
Newsbreaker
.”
“I used to fit into my prom dress. I’m only interested in who you are today.”
“I’m just a guy telling you I don’t think it would be a good idea to hang a stolen painting in your gallery.”
“I didn’t say I would hang it in the gallery. I said I would hang it with the others.”
Before anyone had a chance to grasp the comment, a man in a dark suit burst through the door.
Veronica jumped—were they about to be busted by police for being in possession of the stolen painting? Or was it the Apostles, who were going to kill them all because they now knew too much? Veronica stepped in front of Maggie and Jamie
—n
obody was going to hurt her kids.
But when Veronica’s eyes focused on the man, she realized who it was.
It was Eddie.
In a suit.
Veronica had never used the words ‘dapper’ and ‘Eddie’ in the same sentence. But wow! And he brought with him a trail of cologne. His shaved head glowed like he’d shined it.
He had told Veronica that he wasn’t going to follow a wild goose chase to Rhinebeck
. But his protective instinct must have led him here.