across the grass.”
Pia grinned at this allusion. At her home in Birkenhof, some animal was always where it wasn’t supposed to be: the dogs in the duck pond, the horses in the garden, the ducks and geese on a reconnaissance mission through the house. The last time her chickens had escaped, Pia had spent a whole afternoon removing the greenish deposits they’d left in all the rooms. Good thing that Christoph wasn’t very finicky about things like that.
Bodenstein parked the car near the steps of the manor house. As they got out and looked around, a man came around the corner of the building. He had gray hair and melancholy Saint Bernard eyes in a long, narrow face. Obviously, this was the gardener, because he was wearing green overalls and held rose clippers in his hand.
“May I help you?” He eyed them suspiciously. Bodenstein pulled out his police ID.
“We’re from the criminal police in Hofheim and would like to speak with Mrs. Kaltensee.”
“I see.” He took his time fumbling with a pair of reading glasses, which he had retrieved from the breast pocket of his overalls, and carefully studied Bodenstein’s identification. A polite smile then suffused his face. “The craziest things happen if I don’t close the gate immediately. A lot of people think this is a hotel or a golf club.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Pia, glancing at the beds of blooming shrubs and rosebushes and the artistic boxwood topiary. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Do you like it?” The man was clearly flattered.
“Oh yes!” Pia nodded. “Do you do all the work yourself?”
“My son helps out occasionally,” he admitted modestly, although he was enjoying Pia’s attention.
“Tell me, where can we find Mrs. Kaltensee?” Bodenstein interjected before his colleague got involved in a technical discussion of lawn fertilizer or the care of roses.
“Oh, of course.” The man gave an apologetic smile. “I’ll tell her you’re here. What did you say your name was?”
Bodenstein handed the gardener his business card, and the man left, heading for the front door.
“Compared to the grounds, the house seems rather shabby,” said Pia. From up close, the building didn’t look quite as manorlike and magnificent as it had from a distance. The blotchy plaster was in disrepair and had started to flake off; in many places, the brickwork was visible.
“The house isn’t as significant historically as the rest of the structures here,” Bodenstein explained. The estate is best known for the mill, which was mentioned in documents in the thirteenth century, if I remember correctly. Until the early twentieth century, it belonged to the Stolberg-Werningerode family, who also owned the Eppstein Fortress, until they donated it to the city of Eppstein in 1929. A cousin of the Wernigerodes married a daughter from the house of Zeydlitz, and that’s how the estate came into the possession of the Kaltensees.”
Pia stared at her boss in amazement.
“What is it?” he asked.
“How do you know all that? And what do the Wernige what’s their names and Zeydlitz have to do with the Kaltensees?”
“Vera Kaltensee was born into the Zeydlitz-Lauenburg family,” Bodenstein informed his colleague. “I’d forgotten to tell you that. The rest is common knowledge if you know anything about local history.”
“Ah, naturally.” Pia nodded. “Among the blue bloods, you probably learn that sort of fundamental detail by heart, along with the Gotha directory of German nobility.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice?” Bodenstein asked with a grin.
“Good Lord, no!” Pia raised both hands. “Ah, the mistress herself will soon come rushing to greet us. How should I address her? With a formal curtsy?”
“You’re impossible, Ms. Kirchhoff.”
* * *
Marleen Ritter, née Kaltensee, looked at the simple gold band on the ring finger of her right hand and smiled. She still felt dizzy from the swift tempo of the
Pia grinned at this allusion. At her home in Birkenhof, some animal was always where it wasn’t supposed to be: the dogs in the duck pond, the horses in the garden, the ducks and geese on a reconnaissance mission through the house. The last time her chickens had escaped, Pia had spent a whole afternoon removing the greenish deposits they’d left in all the rooms. Good thing that Christoph wasn’t very finicky about things like that.
Bodenstein parked the car near the steps of the manor house. As they got out and looked around, a man came around the corner of the building. He had gray hair and melancholy Saint Bernard eyes in a long, narrow face. Obviously, this was the gardener, because he was wearing green overalls and held rose clippers in his hand.
“May I help you?” He eyed them suspiciously. Bodenstein pulled out his police ID.
“We’re from the criminal police in Hofheim and would like to speak with Mrs. Kaltensee.”
“I see.” He took his time fumbling with a pair of reading glasses, which he had retrieved from the breast pocket of his overalls, and carefully studied Bodenstein’s identification. A polite smile then suffused his face. “The craziest things happen if I don’t close the gate immediately. A lot of people think this is a hotel or a golf club.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Pia, glancing at the beds of blooming shrubs and rosebushes and the artistic boxwood topiary. “That’s what it looks like.”
“Do you like it?” The man was clearly flattered.
“Oh yes!” Pia nodded. “Do you do all the work yourself?”
“My son helps out occasionally,” he admitted modestly, although he was enjoying Pia’s attention.
“Tell me, where can we find Mrs. Kaltensee?” Bodenstein interjected before his colleague got involved in a technical discussion of lawn fertilizer or the care of roses.
“Oh, of course.” The man gave an apologetic smile. “I’ll tell her you’re here. What did you say your name was?”
Bodenstein handed the gardener his business card, and the man left, heading for the front door.
“Compared to the grounds, the house seems rather shabby,” said Pia. From up close, the building didn’t look quite as manorlike and magnificent as it had from a distance. The blotchy plaster was in disrepair and had started to flake off; in many places, the brickwork was visible.
“The house isn’t as significant historically as the rest of the structures here,” Bodenstein explained. The estate is best known for the mill, which was mentioned in documents in the thirteenth century, if I remember correctly. Until the early twentieth century, it belonged to the Stolberg-Werningerode family, who also owned the Eppstein Fortress, until they donated it to the city of Eppstein in 1929. A cousin of the Wernigerodes married a daughter from the house of Zeydlitz, and that’s how the estate came into the possession of the Kaltensees.”
Pia stared at her boss in amazement.
“What is it?” he asked.
“How do you know all that? And what do the Wernige what’s their names and Zeydlitz have to do with the Kaltensees?”
“Vera Kaltensee was born into the Zeydlitz-Lauenburg family,” Bodenstein informed his colleague. “I’d forgotten to tell you that. The rest is common knowledge if you know anything about local history.”
“Ah, naturally.” Pia nodded. “Among the blue bloods, you probably learn that sort of fundamental detail by heart, along with the Gotha directory of German nobility.”
“Do I detect a note of sarcasm in your voice?” Bodenstein asked with a grin.
“Good Lord, no!” Pia raised both hands. “Ah, the mistress herself will soon come rushing to greet us. How should I address her? With a formal curtsy?”
“You’re impossible, Ms. Kirchhoff.”
* * *
Marleen Ritter, née Kaltensee, looked at the simple gold band on the ring finger of her right hand and smiled. She still felt dizzy from the swift tempo of the
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