loud,” Mama once told me, “your papa doesn’t hear my name right. That whole first night he thought I was called Enid. It was only when he asked if he could see me again that I corrected him.”
We took in the room where a smattering of people ate their lunch. Waitresses toted large platters of food and beer on trays they hefted high above their heads. None of them wore name tags—this was the kind of place where the clientele most likely knew their names and when to use them.
One passed by us with an empty tray she slammed onto a counter.
“Excuse me?” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. This was my invitation to go on.
“Is Anna Mueller working today?”
“Who wants to know?” Her accent was as heavy as the tray she’d just dropped.
“My mother is a friend of hers and she asked me to stop by and say hello.”
The eyebrow stayed raised. “What is your mother’s name?”
“Ingrid Anderson. They knew each other at the White Swan.”
She made a noise like a snort. “The White Swan? There’s a memory to dredge up. I’ll see if she’s busy.” She walked away. Instead of going into the main hall where the other waitresses were, she disappeared behind a door marked “Private.”
“What was that all about?” asked Benny.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Barely a minute passed before the waitress returned. “She’ll see you. Through the door and up the stairs.”
I went cautiously through the door, half expecting to find another man with a gun waiting for us. There was no one there. At the top of a dark staircase was another door, this one open. A blond woman was seated at a desk, typing figures into an adding machine.
As we entered, she stopped her work and stared at us. “So she was right: you really are a couple of kids. What business is Ingrid Anderson of yours?”
“She was my mother,” I said.
Though her accent was lighter than the other woman’s, there was no denying her heritage. “So this wasn’t a lie?”
“Of course not.”
She cocked her head toward Benny. “And who is he?”
“Her boyfriend,” Benny said. Just like at the hotel, he wrapped a protective arm around my waist. A blush burned its way down my face.
“How did you find me, daughter and boyfriend?”
“We went to the White Swan. There was a man there who said he was your ex-husband. He said you were working here as a waitress.”
She removed a cigarette from a wooden box and lit it. “A waitress? The swine is still charming as ever. Someday he will open his eyes and realize that all this is mine, no thanks to him.” She tweaked her mouth to the right and exhaled a stream of smoke. “So why are you here?”
“Because the papers said you were the one who found her,” I said.
She continued smoking, showing no sign of saying anything in reply.
I dug my nails into my hand, hoping the pain would give me courage. “I’ve seen the crime-scene photos. And I’ve seen the room it happened in. There was blood everywhere. That was no suicide.”
She stared at me in silence for so long that I started to think she was never going to respond. Then, “No, it wasn’t.”
My face twitched into a momentary smile before the joy at finally hearing the truth was overtaken by the enormity of what she was saying. “Then why did everyone say it was?”
“When your mother checked in, she was with a man. I never talk to them, but I see them come and go.” She flicked ash into a silver beer stein. “When I find her dead, I call the police. They come and so does the man. He takes me aside and explains to me that I need to forget everything I saw in that room. To help forget he will give me money.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He paid for my ignorance so I did not ask.”
“So he bribed you so you would lie to the police?”
She laughed and a stream of smoke escaped her nose. “I’m not the only one who got fat pockets that day. Make no mistake about it.”
I’d never felt like
We took in the room where a smattering of people ate their lunch. Waitresses toted large platters of food and beer on trays they hefted high above their heads. None of them wore name tags—this was the kind of place where the clientele most likely knew their names and when to use them.
One passed by us with an empty tray she slammed onto a counter.
“Excuse me?” I said.
She raised an eyebrow. This was my invitation to go on.
“Is Anna Mueller working today?”
“Who wants to know?” Her accent was as heavy as the tray she’d just dropped.
“My mother is a friend of hers and she asked me to stop by and say hello.”
The eyebrow stayed raised. “What is your mother’s name?”
“Ingrid Anderson. They knew each other at the White Swan.”
She made a noise like a snort. “The White Swan? There’s a memory to dredge up. I’ll see if she’s busy.” She walked away. Instead of going into the main hall where the other waitresses were, she disappeared behind a door marked “Private.”
“What was that all about?” asked Benny.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Barely a minute passed before the waitress returned. “She’ll see you. Through the door and up the stairs.”
I went cautiously through the door, half expecting to find another man with a gun waiting for us. There was no one there. At the top of a dark staircase was another door, this one open. A blond woman was seated at a desk, typing figures into an adding machine.
As we entered, she stopped her work and stared at us. “So she was right: you really are a couple of kids. What business is Ingrid Anderson of yours?”
“She was my mother,” I said.
Though her accent was lighter than the other woman’s, there was no denying her heritage. “So this wasn’t a lie?”
“Of course not.”
She cocked her head toward Benny. “And who is he?”
“Her boyfriend,” Benny said. Just like at the hotel, he wrapped a protective arm around my waist. A blush burned its way down my face.
“How did you find me, daughter and boyfriend?”
“We went to the White Swan. There was a man there who said he was your ex-husband. He said you were working here as a waitress.”
She removed a cigarette from a wooden box and lit it. “A waitress? The swine is still charming as ever. Someday he will open his eyes and realize that all this is mine, no thanks to him.” She tweaked her mouth to the right and exhaled a stream of smoke. “So why are you here?”
“Because the papers said you were the one who found her,” I said.
She continued smoking, showing no sign of saying anything in reply.
I dug my nails into my hand, hoping the pain would give me courage. “I’ve seen the crime-scene photos. And I’ve seen the room it happened in. There was blood everywhere. That was no suicide.”
She stared at me in silence for so long that I started to think she was never going to respond. Then, “No, it wasn’t.”
My face twitched into a momentary smile before the joy at finally hearing the truth was overtaken by the enormity of what she was saying. “Then why did everyone say it was?”
“When your mother checked in, she was with a man. I never talk to them, but I see them come and go.” She flicked ash into a silver beer stein. “When I find her dead, I call the police. They come and so does the man. He takes me aside and explains to me that I need to forget everything I saw in that room. To help forget he will give me money.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He paid for my ignorance so I did not ask.”
“So he bribed you so you would lie to the police?”
She laughed and a stream of smoke escaped her nose. “I’m not the only one who got fat pockets that day. Make no mistake about it.”
I’d never felt like
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