The Tulip Eaters Read online

  Nora nodded numbly as she held the silver orb in her hand. It felt smooth and delicate. She turned it over. Inscribed on it, in fine, ornate script, was the letter A, but barely visible, as if Anneke had rubbed it so often that it had almost vanished into the silver. Nora smoothed the metal until it was warm, as if it had lain only moments ago upon her mother’s skin. Her suprasternal notch, thought Nora. The beautiful hollow in the front of her throat. Nora fastened the chain around her neck, tucked it into her blouse and felt it swing gently into place. It emanated grief and loss, but also love and remembrance.

  Nora walked to the window and stared into the backyard. She couldn’t bear the men picking over her mother’s body, like vultures over their kill. Marijke followed and put her arm around Nora’s waist.

  Richards finally nodded at the M.E. and Nora watched as two police officers raised Anneke’s body, her limbs hanging askew. Her head lolled to one side, her hazel eyes wide, staring at nothing. Struggling, they got her into the chasm of a black body bag. Another sickening wave of grief rushed through Nora. It was impossible! Marijke held her while she cried and then released her with a soft kiss on her cheek.

  Richards moved closer. “Can you think why someone would hack off your mother’s hair like that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Richards took her arm and walked with her across the room where the dead man lay on the floor. “And you’re sure you’ve never seen him before?”

  Nora forced herself to study the crumpled form and then shook her head. She watched as one of the officers traced a crude, white chalk outline on the carpet around his body. She glanced back to where her mother had lain. That empty space now encircled by the rough drawing struck her like a hammer blow. It was all that was left of her mother.

  Nora turned to the dead man again and shuddered. His navy sport jacket, white polo shirt and khaki pants struck Nora as weekend golf wear, not the attire of a killer. He still lay as she had first seen him, his black, hawkish eyes staring up at nothing, his body sprawled, right arm outstretched. Where was the gun? She scanned the room and saw it in a plastic evidence bag on top of the sofa, next to another bag that contained the scissors. She walked over and stared at the gun, fighting a compulsion to pick it up. Maybe if she held it in her hand, felt its heft, then she might accept that her mother was really dead.

  After a long moment, she turned back to the officers, who now had formed themselves into a U shape around the stranger’s body. She joined them. Someone had removed the black glove on the man’s right hand. Then something caught her eye. “What is that?”

  “Fingerprint ink,” said Richards.

  She felt her breathing quicken. “Will you be able to identify him?”

  “If he’s committed a previous crime, there’s a good chance. Or if he was ever arrested. His prints are already on their way to the lab. They’ll find a match if there is one.”

  She saw one of the investigators now walk in, an older man with a bone weariness about him. Nora wondered if years of seeing mutilated bodies had scored those wrinkles on his face. He stuck his sun-spotted hands into the worn pockets of his uniform and then raised bloodshot eyes to Richards. “Here’s what we know so far,” he said in a raspy voice. “No evidence of forced entry or defensive wounds on the victim’s body.”

  Richards nodded. “So she let him in.”

  “Them. There’s another set of footprints besides the dead guy and the victim.”

  “But my mother would never have let strangers into the house,” Nora gasped. “She was always careful, especially when she was alone with Rose.”

  The investigator nodded at one of the other officers, who brought over a bouquet of large, broken tulips, brilliant red and yellow, their petals hanging pitifully over shiny, silver wrapping. “He apparently posed as a delivery man,” he said. “We found them in the dining room, behind the door.”

  Richards nodded. “Bag it. What else?”

  He nodded toward the sofa. “The gun. We’re taking it to the station.”

  “Let me look at it,” said Richards. The older man walked to the sofa and returned with the pistol. With gloved hands, Richards opened the bag and took it out. He peered at it, turning it over and over. Nora noticed that now both his eyes were steady and focused. “Second World War, German. Looks like a Luger.”

  Nora squinted at the black gun. “How do you know?”

  Richards shrugged. “My father was a collector. He was in the war.” Nora saw Richards turn it over with an admiring look. “It’s in great condition. Looks like the original finish.”

  Nora stepped back, repulsed. She couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. She stared at the dead man on the floor. “Do you think he’s German?”

  Richards shrugged. “He may have gotten it in the war. Or could have been a collector, too.” He peered down the barrel. “Doesn’t look like it’s been fired much.” He opened the chamber. “Only two bullets missing.”

  Nora winced. Her stomach threatened to betray her again.

  Richards put the gun back into the bag and handed it to one of the officers. “Put it with the other evidence. Once the CSI guys are finished, take it to ballistics. Confirm the make and model.” Richards turned back to the investigator. “What else?”

  He shrugged. “We’ve searched the entire house, dusted all the prints we could find and looked for anything that would indicate a struggle.” He pointed at a lamp near the stairs that had fallen to the floor. “That’s all there is on that score.” He exhaled. “I think the killer got in fast, killed her fast. We bagged everything we could, but my gut tells me we haven’t found much to help us.”

  “Anything that indicates who the second perp might be? The kidnapper?”

  The investigator shook his head. “The dead guy wore gloves. I assume his partner did, as well.”

  “What about the child?” His voice was grim.

  Nora held her breath. Please, she thought. Let there be something.

  The investigator slowly shook his head. “Nada.”

  “Nothing at all?” she cried.

  “At this point we got zilch.” Then seeing the look on her face, he spoke more gently. “But in a while we’ll be getting back stuff on the prints and fibers from the lab.” He made a note on a grimy notepad. “By the way, could you look around and see if you notice anything unusual? Furniture misplaced, valuable objects missing—anything like that?”

  A thought struck her. “What about by the pool? My mother usually swam with Rose in the afternoon.”

  He shook his head. “Looks like they never made it there.”

  Richards bent over and studied the dead man’s body. “Have you searched him?”

  “You told us to wait.”

  Richards looked at Nora and Marijke. “Don’t touch anything and stay back.” They nodded and huddled a distance away. The man lay as Nora had found him—on his stomach, right arm outstretched, head twisted to the left. Richards put on new gloves and knelt, as if genuflecting. With gentle fingers, he folded back the front of the man’s jacket and felt the inside pockets.

  After a few moments of probing, he slid something out—a small photo. He studied it and then rose and handed it to Nora. She looked at a worn sepia photo and stared at a slender young man holding on to the handlebars of an old bicycle, smiling boldly into the camera. He had dark, expressive eyes. Nora turned the photo over. Only a date: 1940.

  “Ever seen him before?” asked Richards.

  “Never.”

  “Anything strike you at all?”

  She flipped the photo over and looked at the man again. “No.”

  He nodded at the investigator, who slid the photo into an evidence bag. Richards then dug into one of the man’s back pockets and pulled out a folded card. “Shamrock Hotel, room 1154.” He handed it to one of the officers. “Get
over there. Find the manager and search his room. Find anything you can that might tell us who he is and who was with him. Maybe they left something behind.” The officer turned on his heel and left.

  Richards searched the other back pocket. He shook his head. “No wallet, no driver’s license, nothing,” he muttered. “Damn.” Moving to the side of the body, he lifted the man’s left shoulder up and rolled him onto his back. His head bobbled to the right, the dead eyes now staring fixedly upward.

  Marijke clutched Nora’s arm and pointed at the stranger. “Nora! Kijk eens!”

  Nora followed Marijke’s index finger to the man’s left front pants pocket. Something glittered gold and yellow, barely visible. “Lieutenant, there, in his pocket!”

  Richards turned from the officer he was speaking to and stared. He slid the piece of paper from the pocket. It tugged a little before coming free. Richards stared at the bill with its bright colors and odd gilding and then looked up. “Some kind of foreign money.”

  Marijke stepped forward, her cheeks flushed. “It isn’t just any money.” She and Nora exchanged excited looks.

  Richards looked at Nora. “You recognize it?”

  Nora nodded, stunned. “It’s a Dutch twenty-five guilder note.” She looked down at the dead man’s face. “He was Dutch? Why would some Dutchman want to kill my mother? Or kidnap Rose?”

  “Hold on,” said Richards. “He could be anyone. Dutch, German, American—who knows? Maybe he’s just someone who traveled there recently and that’s why he had guilders in his pocket.” He handed the bill to the investigator, who bagged it. “Check it for prints.”

  Nora leaned closer. She pointed. “Lieutenant, what’s that?”

  Richards dug farther in the man’s right pants pocket. As the item came free, Nora caught a glint of silver and saw shock on Richards’s face. Her heart quickened as she stared at Richards’s upturned hand. A pistol. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I can’t believe this.”

  He turned it over and examined it. He held it up, looked down the barrel, sniffed and shook his head. “Looks brand-new. And it hasn’t been fired today.”

  Marijke and Nora gave each other confused looks.

  “If this is his gun...” began Marijke.

  “Then whose gun is that?” finished Nora, pointing at the black gun on the sofa.

  4

  Anneke de Jong grasped her trowel more firmly as she peered through the bay window into the sunken living room. She could see Rose sleeping peacefully in the wicker bassinet Anneke had bought when she was born. It stood close to the window so Anneke could check on her frequently while she worked in the garden, as she did every afternoon. She peered at her watch. Twelve-thirty. Rose would sleep at least another hour.

  As she straightened, she felt a pain in her back. Sixty. The thought amazed her. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself as forty—not a day older. She knelt next to the pool and glanced at her reflection. A slight woman with shoulder-length silver hair stared back. In the calm water, she could even see her hazel eyes and the wrinkles etched in their corners. What had happened to the young girl with jet-black hair and endless possibilities?

  Walking back to her garden, she refused to think of the different choices she could have made. It doesn’t matter. At least the cancer is gone. She remembered the look in the doctor’s eyes when he’d told her that she had malignant tumors in both breasts. Gone, she now thought. All gone. She still felt the phantom of their softness until her silver locket brushed against the empty places where her breasts used to be.

  She held up the trowel to shade her eyes. The sun was blinding, the humidity oppressive. Even after all her years in Houston, she had not gotten used to the searing summers, the air swarming with mosquitoes that increased tenfold after every rain. Here it was, early November, and the afternoon temperature was still seventy degrees. She closed her eyes and imagined Holland’s rows of brilliant tulips in the spring. She was that girl again—laughing on her bicycle with her girlfriends as they rode down green-leaved lanes, the air so crisp. Or swimming in the shocking cold of the North Sea in January when no one else dared go in. She opened her eyes and sighed. The past was the past.

  She knelt, dug a small hole in the hard ground and reached for one of the rain lilies she had bought yesterday, flowers that could withstand the blistering Texas sun, blooming only after a rainstorm. She’d bought them in honor of Rose, who had also come after a great storm, one in Nora’s life. Anneke put the plant gently into the ground, filled the hole with potting soil and tamped it firmly with the trowel. As she reached for the next flower, she heard the doorbell.

  “Verdomme,” she muttered as she took off her dirty gloves and walked inside. Deliciously cold air hit her at the door, causing her to shiver slightly. She stepped to the bassinet and bent to give Rose a kiss. Her baby scent made Anneke smile. It was even better than the rain lily’s blooms. The doorbell rang again.

  “Coming!” She hated her quiet afternoons with Rose to be interrupted. It was a golden, sacred time, not to be broken by some lost deliveryman who needed directions or, worse, a zealot who wanted to lead her to Jesus. At the door, she looked through the peephole, opened it and clapped her hands. “Flowers! Oh, how wonderful!” She saw a tall man with white hair and a craggy face holding a brilliant arrangement of tulips—yellows, reds, whites—looking as if they would burst from the silver paper wrapped around them.

  As she reached for them, the smile on the man’s face disappeared. He threw the flowers inside and lunged for her. In seconds, he had gloved hands around her neck. He kicked the door shut and forced her backward.

  Terrified, Anneke opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. His hands were tourniquets. She couldn’t breathe. She felt herself passing out, but then he released his grip. She stumbled, fell to the carpet and took deep, hacking gulps of air. Her mind reeled in horror. Who was this monster? What did he want?

  The man stood over her. “Look at me, you bitch!”

  Gasping, Anneke slowly hauled herself up and stared at the furious man, his white hair and black eyes. Dutch! He was speaking Dutch!

  “Don’t you recognize me?” He grabbed her shoulders and then shook them—hard. When she did not respond, he shook her again in a wild rage.

  “Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know you.”

  “Speak Dutch to me, you bitch. Or have you forgotten that, too?” He yanked her toward him and then shoved her down onto the living room floor. She tried to scramble away, but he was quick and kicked her fiercely in the ribs.

  Anneke screamed and writhed on the white carpet. Her heart slammed in her chest, her legs would not obey her. “Stop!” she cried in Dutch. “Take what you want. My purse is on the counter! Just please, please, don’t hurt the baby!”

  As if she knew what was happening, Rose began wailing. Anneke held up her arms, as if to ward off another blow. The man moved quickly to the bassinet and picked up the baby, swathed in a soft yellow blanket, and stood grinning at Anneke. “And who is this? The grandchild of a whore?”

  “No!” He had the baby— Oh, God! She struggled to her feet and tried to wrest Rose from his arms. Rose’s screams became screeches. Every cry was a spike into Anneke’s heart. Rose! I have to get her—now!

  The man blocked Anneke with one arm, holding the baby just out of reach of her desperate arms, taunting her with crazed black eyes. He thrust the infant high above him. Rose howled even louder, her face a florid red as the blanket fell to the floor. He then yanked off the baby’s yellow hair band and threw it onto the carpet.

  “Stop!” Anneke fell upon him, her fists pummeling his arms and head, but her blows were futile. The man struck her across the face. It was as if a hammer had slammed into her jaw. God, he wasn’t going to stop until he killed them both!

  “Get out of my way.” He pushed Anneke aside and dumped
Rose in her bassinet.

  Anneke rushed to the baby, who was purple from screaming, and clutched her precious Rose to her breast. I have her safe—in my arms! She whirled around and felt fury rise in her. “What is it you want! If it isn’t money, then what?”

  He smiled at her, a twisted grimace. “I’ve waited for this moment for over thirty years.” His voice was soft and cruel. “You know me from the war. Can you guess now?”

  Anneke quickly laid Rose in her bassinet, trying to breathe. Who could he be? “I don’t—really, I—”

  He glared at her. “Isaac.”

  Feeling shocked and confused, she stared at him. And then it hit her. “Isaac? Can it be?”

  He smiled at her, a twisted grimace. “Remember me now?”

  Her hand went to her throat. “Abram’s brother,” she whispered.

  “Don’t even say his name, you Nazi! You and your husband.” He laughed. “What a shame he’s already dead. Killing him would have been a true pleasure.”

  “What are you saying? I loved Abram—”

  “You’re a goddamned liar!” He shook his fist. “You’ve always been a liar. Hiding here like the assassin you are, Mrs. de Jong. Your filthy name is Brouwer. And your husband—his was Moerveld.” He strode closer and stopped a foot away. “You ran away. You knew you’d be arrested for the traitor you are. Your neighbors would have hacked off your hair, marched you down the street in disgrace and thrown you into prison!”

  “No!” she cried. “That’s not true!”

  He pulled out a pair of scissors from his jacket pocket. “And that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you now.”

  Anneke ran, but he thrust his foot out and tripped her. When she hit the floor, she screamed and scrabbled to fight him off, but he knelt on both of her arms. She was a pinned butterfly, desperate to escape.

  With one hand, he grabbed her hair. With the other, he clutched the scissors and began savagely slicing off clumps of her fine, silver hair. With each cut, he threw the locks up into the air like a madman.