Cut and Run (15 page)

“Mother?”

“You should be in Vermont, Juliana. You need rest.”

“I wish you'd talk to me. Look, don't I have a right to know what's going on?”

Still not looking up, Catharina banged the rolling pin on the counter.

“Mother, what is it?”

“Rachel,” she said at last. “She's dead.”

“Oh, my God—I'm so sorry. What happened?”

Still Catharina didn't look up, still she continued to work. “She fell outside Lincoln Center and hit her head and died. It was in the papers this morning.” The words came out machine-gun style, but more heavily accented than was usual for her. “The police say it was an accident. That Rachel slipped on the snow and ice.”

Juliana worked at controlling her breathing, a relaxation technique she often used before a performance. “How awful,” she said. But something inside her told her not to believe it. Did Stark know? Had the bastard been playing games with her?

With the top of a bent wrist, Catharina brushed wisps of white-blond hair off her pale, sweaty forehead. A bit of flour stuck in her eyebrow. The tight anger seemed to disappear all at once, and Juliana watched the pain and grief descend, filling the soft eyes with tears and drawing out the lines in the attractive face. Her lower lip began to tremble, and then her hands. She quickly began to smooth the flattened, ruined dough with her fingers.

“Go to Vermont,” she said. Finally, she looked at Juliana but didn't even see the hair or the coat. “Please.”

“Mother, what aren't you telling me? I wish you'd be honest—”

“I am being honest!” Her head shot up, and more curls fell into her face, but the tears hadn't spilled out from her eyes. They shone in the dim light. “I've lost a good friend, Juliana. I don't want to burden you with my sadness.”

“That's bullshit, Mother,” Juliana said quietly.

Catharina picked up the rolling pin.

“You just want to get rid of me. You don't want me in town. Why not? Is it because of what happened to Rachel?”

“Don't be silly.” Catharina tried to smile, but there was too much fatigue and sadness—and terror—in her face. “Rachel's death was a tragic accident.” Her voice cracked. “She was a childhood friend, Juliana,
my
friend. I know I'm not being myself, but—her death has nothing to do with you.”

“Why did she come to New York?”

Catharina sighed. “To see me.”

“And Senator Ryder?”

“I know nothing about that. Rachel knew many powerful people, including senators. Now she's dead. Whatever business she had with Senator Ryder is none of our affair. Take your vacation, Juliana. You look tired.”

“You hadn't seen Rachel Stein in a long time, and she shows up in New York just like that?”

“It's easy to lose track of people as you get older.”

“Mother—”

Catharina abandoned her ruined dough. “That's the end of it, Juliana. It's finished. Did you see I made chicken pies today?” She brushed back a fallen curl. “Something new. Take one with you to Vermont.”

“Mother, dammit.”

But under the best of circumstances Catharina Fall was closemouthed—discreet, she called it. At the moment, however, Juliana wasn't sure she had much room to criticize. She had never told her mother about Uncle Johannes's visit backstage seven years ago, about his gift—if one wanted to call it that—of the Minstrel's Rough. Her mother knew the Minstrel existed, knew the four-hundred-year-old tradition. All the Peperkamps did. But Uncle Johannes had advised her not to mention the Minstrel to her mother, and she never had.

My God, where will this end?

“What about Father? Does he know any of this?”

A dumb question, she thought. Catharina Peperkamp Fall told her husband as little as she did her daughter—unless he'd been feigning innocence all these years.

“Know any of what?” Catharina countered. “There's nothing to know.”

“Well,” Juliana said in a falsely cheerful voice, “I suppose the Dutch don't have their reputation for stubbornness without foundation.

“Go to Vermont,” her mother said. “And wash your hair first.”

Of course she wouldn't ask why it was lavender to begin with. Juliana said goodnight. On her way out, she didn't take a chicken pie.

M
atthew took the shuttle back to Washington and headed straight to the
Gazette.
It wasn't the first time he'd shown up in a newsroom after hours, but his colleagues on the
Gazette
didn't know that. He ignored their curious looks and went over to Aaron Ziegler's desk.

“Burning the midnight oil, Ziegler?”

The young reporter looked up at Stark and nodded, his expression betraying a mix of eagerness and nervousness. “I've got your information. I didn't tell Feldie, but she knows I'm doing some research for you.”

“She around?”

“No.”

“Good. Give me what you've got.”

“I haven't written anything up yet.”

“That's okay. Just spit it out.”

Ziegler, his rep tie loosened, consulted a steno book on his neat desk. Stark remained standing. He didn't know what to do to make the kid less nervous, so he didn't do anything.

“The world's largest uncut diamond naturally varies from time to time because it doesn't stay uncut for very long—unless you're talking about the Minstrel's Rough.” He glanced up, his eyes questioning Matthew.

Stark said, “I don't know if I am or not. Give me what you've got.”

“Well, it sounds pretty farfetched.”

“Don't worry about that. If it's not what I'm looking for, I'll just keep digging.”

“All right. Supposedly ‘the world's largest and most mysterious uncut diamond' is the Minstrel's Rough.”

“Supposedly?”

“That's just it: no one's ever been able to verify the thing even exists. It's been
rumored
to exist for the last four or five hundred years, and there have been a number of unconfirmed sightings of it. Nothing can be substantiated, but I gather it's not supposed to be. Part of the legend—the mystery—is that the Minstrel can never be proven to exist. That way no matter how big the current biggest uncut diamond is, people will always wonder if there's one bigger.”

“The Minstrel.”

“Right.”

“Sounds like a lot of bullshit, Ziegler.”

“I know. But the mystery surrounding the Minstrel adds to its symbolism. Supposedly it's in the hands of caretakers who'll never cut it, in remembrance of those who have suffered persecution and hatred. In other words, it's a reminder that no story is more important than human life. Which brings me to the Minstrel's ‘alleged' potential as a cut and polished stone. Not only is it huge, but it's an ice white.”

“What's that?”

“The highest grade of diamond, as close to pure and colorless as possible. If the Minstrel does exist and ever is found and cut, it could be worth millions. Over the centuries there've been countless sightings and loads of attempts to track it down, but still no Minstrel. But the material I've read treats it strictly as legend.”

Matthew's thoughts were already racing. Just who the hell was Sam Ryder planning to buy off with those millions? Because Sam, of course, was enough of a dumbass to go after a mythical diamond. The Weaze was right about that, no doubt. “Shit,” he muttered, then sighed. “Okay, Ziegler, thanks. Anything on the other business?”

“That was considerably easier,” Aaron said, looking more relaxed, if not at ease. “Rachel Stein came from Amsterdam; she was a member of an old diamond-cutting family that was wiped out during the Holocaust. She and her brother Abraham were the only survivors. Pretty grim stuff. I have a lot on her life in the U.S., but you were just interested in the Dutch connection, right? There wasn't much. They were hidden by a Dutch family through much of the war but were discovered in its last months and deported to the death camps. As I said, there wasn't a lot of detail. As for Juliana Fall—there was a nice, fat folder on her in the library.”

“I'll bet,” Stark said.

“As you said, the Dutch connection comes from her mother, whose maiden name was Peperkamp. She grew up in Amsterdam. There was a file on her—a review of her bakeshop. I went ahead and checked under Peperkamp. You're not going to believe this, but there's a diamond cutter named Johannes Peperkamp.”

Here a Peperkamp, there a Peperkamp. “Go on.”

“There wasn't much recent stuff. He started out in Amsterdam and moved to Antwerp after World War II, and he's cut a number of famous large diamonds, including the Breath of Angels, which is now in the Smithsonian. He's the last of the Peperkamp cutters, who apparently got into the business in the sixteenth century when they provided safe haven for Jewish diamond merchants fleeing the Inquisition in Antwerp and Lisbon, which until that time were the principal diamond cities.”

“Any relation to Catharina or Juliana Fall?”

“None mentioned, but that's not surprising. Juliana would have been just a kid when most of the material in the folder was published.”

“Any mention of Hendrik de Geer?”

“No. I couldn't find anything on him.”

“Any connection between this Johannes Peperkamp or Juliana and Catharina Fall and Rachel Stein?”

“None that I could find.”

“Okay. Thanks, Aaron. I appreciate it.”

Ziegler beamed. “Should I keep stalling Feldie?”

“By all means.”

Matthew went for coffee, pure rotgut but hot, and sat in the cafeteria for an hour talking sports with a couple of reporters. The Caps were playing the Bruins at home and losing in the third period. He wondered if Juliana Fall had ever been to a hockey game. They could go together, and she could get up on the organ and play the national anthem. Hell, that'd kill her reputation faster than getting caught as J.J. Pepper. Did she even know what the inside of a hockey arena looked like? He doubted it. Had she ever eaten a hotdog from a concession stand? Had she ever eaten a hotdog at all? Probably called them frankfurters.

He pulled himself up short, got a refill, and headed back downstairs.

His telephone was ringing. He picked it up. “What?”

“Oh. You are there.”

He recognized the liquid voice instantly and dropped into his chair. “Shall I call you Juliana or J.J.?”

“Usually I'm called Miss Fall—or Ms. Fall.”

“Still mad, huh?”

“That's irrelevant. Why didn't you tell me Rachel Stein was dead?”

“Because you would have said, ‘Rachel who?' I described her to you, if you'll recall, and you said you didn't know her. I didn't think there was any point in telling you she was dead.”

“You were trying to trap me,” Juliana said. “Besides, you didn't believe me anyway.”

“No, I didn't.”

“I might have told you more if you'd been honest with me.”

He felt himself grinning. “And I might have told you more if you'd been honest with me. Want to talk now?”

“There's nothing to say.”

“Then why did you call?”

“I only met Rachel Stein once, but I—well, I want to know more about this story you're half working on.”

“Why?”

He heard her take a breath, controlling herself; he irritated the hell out of her. “Curiosity, I guess,” she said stiffly.

“More interesting than painting your hair purple and dressing up in nutty clothes to play jazz? You're bored, Juliana Fall, and I've got better things to do than to unbore you.” Then again…he thought, but left it at that.

“Do you know why Rachel Stein was with Senator Ryder on Saturday?” she asked, her voice cool now, distant and very calculating.

“No, do you?”

“Of course not. You and Senator Ryder know each other, don't you? Why were you at the concert?”

“I like music,” Stark said. The woman was holding back on him, which was one thing. But holding back and expecting him to talk was another, and it pissed him off. “Let me ask you something, Ms. Fall. Are you any relation to a diamond cutter by the name of Johannes Peperkamp?”

Not a sound came out of her. Matthew leaned back, listening. Finally she said, even more cool, even more distant and calculating, “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity, I guess,” he said, mimicking her.

He'd pushed her too far. She called him a bastard and hung up. He'd memorized her phone number when he went to her apartment, and he reached for the phone to call her back. But he stopped himself. What the hell was he doing? Juliana Fall had no business getting mixed up in anything that involved Otis Raymond and Sam Ryder. She was a pianist, for God's sake. Let her get her kicks out of keeping Shuji from finding out about J.J. Pepper and Len Wetherall from finding out about Juliana Fall.

He put on his coat and went home.

 

Wilhelmina Peperkamp scrubbed a batch of clay pots in her tiny kitchen, oblivious to the bright morning winter sun screaming through her window. Her apartment was on the first floor of a restored seventeenth-century building in Delftshaven, where she had lived for the last forty years. Literally Delft's harbor, it was the quietest, most picturesque section of Rotterdam and virtually the only one that had escaped the 1940 German bombings. The rebuilt Rotterdam was pleasant enough—likeable, efficient, and convenient. But it was the cobblestone streets and centuries-old buildings of Delftshaven Wilhelmina had grown to love.

She was elbow-deep in water and had just begun to have some success with the stubborn mildew on one of her pots when her telephone began ringing. She considered not answering, but she received so few calls she changed her mind. Grumbling to herself, she put down her stiff wire brush and wiped her hands on her apron as she picked up the phone. “Yes?”

“Willie…”

She recognized the soft, unhappy voice at once. “Catharina, what's wrong?”

“I'm sorry, Willie, I don't mean to sound so upset—”

“Never mind,” Wilhelmina responded abruptly. She had spoken in Dutch, Catharina in English, automatically, as if it never occurred to her to speak in her native language. Ordinarily Wilhelmina would have remarked on her sister's thorough Americanization. This time she didn't. Catharina rarely called, least of all when something was bothering her, and Wilhelmina opted to speak in her own excellent English. “What is it, Catharina?”

“It's Rachel—Rachel Stein. She's dead, Willie. It was in the papers here.”

Rachel. Even after all these years, Wilhelmina thought, I can still see her lively, tiny face and the expressive eyes that had had no effect whatever on an officer of the Green Police. They were bastards, all of them. Nazis,
Dutch
Nazis. So filled with hate. That one had kicked Rachel like a dog and dragged her away—and Wilhelmina, too. But that was of no consequence; she'd failed to protect Rachel, and the Nazis had taken her away.

Now she was dead.

Wilhelmina reached for a cotton towel and dried her dripping forearms, cradling the phone between her shoulder and chin. She looked down at her hands, red and rough with work and age. They had never been pretty hands; she had never been a pretty woman. But her plainness hadn't bothered her; she had other qualities.

“Willie?”

“I'm here.”

Her eyes remained tearless. She hadn't cried in many, many years, although she had lost many friends. It was the worst part of growing old. Slowly, she sat at her small table where already a half-dozen of her clay pots were lined up, scrubbed and empty.

“I'm sorry to have told you so abruptly,” Catharina said. “I know it's shocking.”

“How did she die?”

“She fell on the ice—an accident, they say.”

Wilhelmina was instantly alert. “You have doubts?”

“I don't know. I—I don't know what to think.”

“Tell me everything, Catharina.”

Haltingly, Catharina related the events since Rachel's appearance at the bakeshop for tea, requesting corroboration of her story to Senator Ryder. Although she was alone, Wilhelmina refrained from showing any visible reaction to what she was hearing. Not since the winter of 1944—
Hongerwinter,
the Winter of Hunger—had she and Catharina discussed Hendrik de Geer or even spoken his name. There was no need. He was a man neither would ever forget. Wilhelmina had tried.

“I'm probably overreacting,” Catharina said. “But I don't know. It's late here; I haven't been able to sleep. Juliana came by the shop earlier, and she's asking so many questions. She—she's asked me about Hendrik. I wouldn't talk to her, I…Willie, how can I tell her? This doesn't concern her! It can't touch her—I won't let it!”

“You've never told her about Amsterdam?” Wilhelmina tried to keep the condemnation out of her tone, but it was there; she could hear it herself. And of course Catharina would be listening for it.

“No, I did not. Don't interfere, Willie. What I do or don't tell my daughter is between us.”