Read Online A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red by A.W. Hartoin - Free Book Online
Authors: A.W. Hartoin
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It’s not possible. I’m telling you. Donatella had nothing to do with Tulio or with the listeriosis.”
That was good enough for me. Job well done.
Chapter Six
TWO DAYS LATER Spidermonkey was waiting for me in his usual spot. He did like a good blaze and Café Déjeuner had a big fireplace with lots of crackling logs and a set of brass fireplace tools. My cyber spy spotted me over his Wall Street Journal, nodded, and went back to reading as I headed for the barista. She was blond, twenty-something with the unlikely name of Sally on her tag. I ordered a cinnamon roll and a latte and leaned on the counter, careful not to look at Spidermonkey. It wasn’t easy, but he liked to, for whatever reason, pretend we didn’t know each other and decided to sit together on a whim in a tiny café in Laclede’s Landing, because that would happen. Spidermonkey did have his oddities, but he was worth it. He was a high-level snoop and he’d been working for me since The Girls’ nasty nephew sued them in an effort to get control of the Bled Collection and their money. Oz Urbani was the one who had gotten Brooks off The Girls’ back, but the case hadn’t ended there. Brooks’ lawyers had implied that my dad had done something illegal in order for The Girls to give him our house. So far Spidermonkey had discovered that Dad had taken a mysterious flight to Europe that coincided with the disappearance of Josiah Bled, The Girls’ uncle and a multimillionaire. That had led us to The Klinefeld Group, a not-for-profit trying to get control of the Bled Collection through the St. Louis Art Museum.
Sally gave me my latte and cinnamon roll and I pretended to be unable to find another place to sit in the empty café. Spidermonkey offered me a seat at his table, like the white-haired old gentleman he was.
“So…” I said.
“So the name is fake. Jens Waldemar Hoff doesn’t exist. Sloppy. He never thought we’d look as far as Germany. The name was unusual enough for me to trace easily. There have been two real, or shall I say possibly real, Jens Waldemar Hoffs residing in Berlin. One died in 1963 and the other is four.
“How do you know this Hoff isn’t real? Maybe he moved and they didn’t update the website.”
“Because he told your Aunt Miriam that he just flew into St. Louis and there’s no one by that name on any flight manifest for the last six months. Plus, I found a woman in Vancouver who made a complaint to the German embassy in Canada about a Jens Waldemar Hoff of the Klinefeld Group because he was harassing her.”
“So what?”
“Her description doesn’t match Aunt Miriam’s. Different ages, hair color, build. It’s two different guys using the same name.”
Why do I feel so nervous?
“What was that Hoff bothering her about?” I asked.
Spidermonkey smiled. “Guess.”
“Artwork, circa WWII?”
“Bingo.”
“Who is she?”
“A pharmacist with absolutely no artwork from the war or any other era. Her name is Amber Patterson. Ring a bell?”
“Not even a little bit. Why would he bother her if she doesn’t have any artwork? She has to be something more than a pharmacist.”
“You’d think so, but no. Amber is who she says she is. But according to her statement Hoff was threatening and insistent. He left the country and the embassy dropped it.”
“I don’t get it. What the heck does this have to do with our house, my parents, and the Bled Collection?”
“I don’t know yet, but I will.”
“So we’re nowhere,” I said, wanting to put my head down on the table.
“Except…” said Spidermonkey.
I raised an eyebrow. “Except?”
“The one that died in ’63 had a wife with the maiden name of Klinefeld. What are the chances of that?”
“What did you find out about him?”
“Nothing yet. His records are inconveniently missing.”
“Define missing,” I said.
“As in, he doesn’t exist before 1950.”
That was good enough for me. Job well done.
Chapter Six
TWO DAYS LATER Spidermonkey was waiting for me in his usual spot. He did like a good blaze and Café Déjeuner had a big fireplace with lots of crackling logs and a set of brass fireplace tools. My cyber spy spotted me over his Wall Street Journal, nodded, and went back to reading as I headed for the barista. She was blond, twenty-something with the unlikely name of Sally on her tag. I ordered a cinnamon roll and a latte and leaned on the counter, careful not to look at Spidermonkey. It wasn’t easy, but he liked to, for whatever reason, pretend we didn’t know each other and decided to sit together on a whim in a tiny café in Laclede’s Landing, because that would happen. Spidermonkey did have his oddities, but he was worth it. He was a high-level snoop and he’d been working for me since The Girls’ nasty nephew sued them in an effort to get control of the Bled Collection and their money. Oz Urbani was the one who had gotten Brooks off The Girls’ back, but the case hadn’t ended there. Brooks’ lawyers had implied that my dad had done something illegal in order for The Girls to give him our house. So far Spidermonkey had discovered that Dad had taken a mysterious flight to Europe that coincided with the disappearance of Josiah Bled, The Girls’ uncle and a multimillionaire. That had led us to The Klinefeld Group, a not-for-profit trying to get control of the Bled Collection through the St. Louis Art Museum.
Sally gave me my latte and cinnamon roll and I pretended to be unable to find another place to sit in the empty café. Spidermonkey offered me a seat at his table, like the white-haired old gentleman he was.
“So…” I said.
“So the name is fake. Jens Waldemar Hoff doesn’t exist. Sloppy. He never thought we’d look as far as Germany. The name was unusual enough for me to trace easily. There have been two real, or shall I say possibly real, Jens Waldemar Hoffs residing in Berlin. One died in 1963 and the other is four.
“How do you know this Hoff isn’t real? Maybe he moved and they didn’t update the website.”
“Because he told your Aunt Miriam that he just flew into St. Louis and there’s no one by that name on any flight manifest for the last six months. Plus, I found a woman in Vancouver who made a complaint to the German embassy in Canada about a Jens Waldemar Hoff of the Klinefeld Group because he was harassing her.”
“So what?”
“Her description doesn’t match Aunt Miriam’s. Different ages, hair color, build. It’s two different guys using the same name.”
Why do I feel so nervous?
“What was that Hoff bothering her about?” I asked.
Spidermonkey smiled. “Guess.”
“Artwork, circa WWII?”
“Bingo.”
“Who is she?”
“A pharmacist with absolutely no artwork from the war or any other era. Her name is Amber Patterson. Ring a bell?”
“Not even a little bit. Why would he bother her if she doesn’t have any artwork? She has to be something more than a pharmacist.”
“You’d think so, but no. Amber is who she says she is. But according to her statement Hoff was threatening and insistent. He left the country and the embassy dropped it.”
“I don’t get it. What the heck does this have to do with our house, my parents, and the Bled Collection?”
“I don’t know yet, but I will.”
“So we’re nowhere,” I said, wanting to put my head down on the table.
“Except…” said Spidermonkey.
I raised an eyebrow. “Except?”
“The one that died in ’63 had a wife with the maiden name of Klinefeld. What are the chances of that?”
“What did you find out about him?”
“Nothing yet. His records are inconveniently missing.”
“Define missing,” I said.
“As in, he doesn’t exist before 1950.”
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