Sunshine Beach (28 page)

She broke off midsentence when she saw Joe Giraldi's eyes. Which were pinned to her face with a look of abject horror. “What happened?”

Her eyes blurred with tears. She'd been steeling herself against the first time she'd see him, had told herself to remain slightly aloof, not to get close enough for him to guess what was going on. But the horror in his voice and the concern in his eyes almost undid her. “I heard you were under the weather. That you'd ended up in the emergency room. But . . . who did this to you?” His tone of voice made it clear that whoever it was would be extremely sorry. And possibly not breathing.

“No one. No one did this to me. It was an accident.” She'd thought she'd keep her distance, but he came in without
asking. When he grasped her by her arms so that he could look more closely, the warmth of his hands, not the strength of his grip, made her whimper.

“Sorry.” He let go, but he didn't step back. She could see him cataloging her injuries, assessing the damage. “What the hell happened?”

“I was out on a sales call with Ray. And I, um, was apparently dehydrated. I just kind of passed out. I fell down in a parking lot.”

“You
kind of
passed out? Isn't that like being a little bit pregnant?”

She blinked at the comparison but was careful not to react. It was just an expression. Maddie was the only one who knew and she'd been sworn to secrecy.

“I take it you went down face-first?”

She nodded carefully, reminding herself not to offer too much information that might trip her up later. The man sweated confessions out of people for a living. He could read faces like some people read street signs. Luckily, hers was so messed up he'd have a hard time reading anything. Still, it would be best to stick as close to the truth as possible without revealing the one thing she didn't want him to know. This would be far easier if her brain wasn't moving so slowly and her heart weren't beating so frantically. His eyes dropped from her face to her body. She saw him taking in the wrinkled halter and the skimpy cutoffs. She'd had no appetite and was pretty sure she hadn't put on any weight. Surely it was too soon for anyone, even Joe, who knew her intimately, to be able to tell. Still, she couldn't keep standing here allowing him to examine her. “What are you doing here? Did you need something?”

His eyes moved over her face. “I'm headed down to Sarasota to talk with a retired agent. I'll be meeting with Renée and Annelise tomorrow to share what I find out. I thought maybe we could . . .” He looked into her eyes. She was careful
to keep her expression polite but neutral and her mouth shut so that she wouldn't have to lie to him. She loved him; she'd never been more aware of that fact than at this moment when all she wanted to do was throw herself in his arms and stay there forever.

But she was not a child. She did not need Joe or anyone else to take care of her. She would find a way to protect him from Malcolm and even from herself. Given her age and her past history, the chances that she'd carry and deliver a healthy baby were miniscule. Nothing had really changed. There was no reason to give him false hope or the promise of a family that she'd probably not be able to deliver.

“Never mind. I thought that you might . . . but clearly I was mistaken.” Now he stepped back. His brown eyes were shuttered.

She smiled politely and spoke as if to a stranger. “Thanks for stopping by. I know we all appreciate what you're trying to do for Renée and Annelise.” Nikki held on to the smile until he'd gotten back in his car and backed out of the drive. Only when she'd closed the door behind her did she allow herself to cry. The sound of her misery echoed through the empty house as she climbed the stairs and threw herself on the rumpled bed, pitiful and alone.

The boxes that sat piled on and around the conference room table at Franklin Realty reeked of the past. The young handyman who helped out on the rental properties they managed had hauled them down from the office attic, where they'd been stored since the Sunshine Hotel had closed. For the last few hours Renée and Annelise had been working their way through them in anticipation of Agent Giraldi's visit. Each time Renée opened one she was greeted with a none-too-subtle whiff of eau de mildew and a peek into memories she'd spent a good part of her life trying to forget.

“Oh, look at this.” Annelise held up a dinner menu from a long-ago New Year's Eve. “It's from the costume party Nana planned that year. I remember because Mama let me stay up late enough to watch everyone arrive so that I could see the costumes. Isn't that Mrs. Zinberg dressed like the Unsinkable Molly Brown?”

Renée reached out for the photo. “Yes, I think Mr. Zinberg came as her millionaire miner husband.”

“And here's Nana as Fanny Brice. Remember how she made Pop Pop dress like Ziegfeld?”

Their Nana had been a force. A “people person” who never knew a stranger, she'd been the beating heart and welcoming hostess who made sure everyone felt included. She had known every winter guest by name as well as their children's and their grandchildren's. Renée had mistakenly believed that it was their grandmother who had run things until their grandfather, a kind, quiet, and gentle man, died. Overnight, Nana had seemed to shrink in size; her brilliance dimmed like a star that had lost its solar system.

“The fashion shows are in here.” Annelise pulled out two shoeboxes filled with small black-and-white photos. “This is from the first time she let me model.” The photo was of the two of them—Renée with her shoulders back and looking far too self-important in a sundress covered in large poppies. Annelise, who wore saddle shoes and a bright pink poodle skirt, held her hand tightly. “I remember Daddy promised me a Hershey bar if I didn't get the outfit dirty.”

Convinced that although the guests should be treated like family, they could not be allowed to grow bored, Nana had planned each day with meticulous care. There had been ice cream socials, beach volleyball, and water skiing for teenagers. The fashion shows had been a part of card luncheons for the mothers—with guests modeling fashions from a local boutique. Overnight slumber parties once a month had allowed the parents who brought their children with them to have a “date night.” Renée and her girlfriends had made money babysitting and running arts and crafts classes for the younger children.

For the families there were sand-castle-building competitions, weekly sing-alongs and shell hunts as well as relay races and flag football. The goal had been to provide a fun-filled experience fit for all ages, and it worked. Families had
standing reservations each winter, favorite cottages that they thought of as “theirs.” In the summer a slightly different version of family fun was planned for the local members.

“Here's a stack of boxes labeled ‘Guest Registers.'” Renée reached for the top box, which was labeled with a number one. “I'll go through these. Are you doing okay with the photos?”

Annelise nodded. She'd been quiet but present in a way that Renée was afraid to count or comment on. “Do you think we're just wasting our time on all of this?”

“I don't know,” Renée said truthfully. “None of this pertains to Ilse's past and it doesn't look like we're going to find anything Joe would consider helpful, but it can't hurt to organize and consolidate.” The center of the table had been divided into piles: one for photographs they wanted to keep, one for hotel history and paperwork, others for family and guests, and even one for those things that defied classification. Precious little had gone into the trashcans she'd placed within reach.

Renée opened the box and extracted the first leather-bound register. It smelled its age and was far from pristine, the binding broken in from use, the wine-colored leather scratched and stained. The writing had faded but was still legible. The first entry was January 1, 1942. “God, it begins with the very first guests.”

Annelise smiled. “Before I was even born.”

An ache of loss flooded through her at the sight of her grandmother's handwriting. Nana had been mother and grandmother all rolled into one. When Renée's father had been in Germany during the war, Nana and Pop Pop had done their best to fill the void. Renée read through the first months, amused at the notes and comments her grandmother had recorded along, it seemed, with her observations about life in general. It was a good thing their guests had not been privy
to some of Nana's drier, less charitable entries. “Well, now we know how Nana had such a good memory.”

“What do you mean?”

Renée turned the register toward her. “Look at this. She not only registered each family with the dates of their stay and so on. She made notes about them.”

Pop Pop had kept the accounting and bankbooks. Nana had apparently used the guest registers to record what she thought mattered most. For forty-plus years until Nana, who had struggled on alone for five years after Pop Pop died, finally closed the hotel in 1984, she had written notes and comments about each and every one of their guests.

Annelise's laugh was rusty. “She was right about Mrs. Weiner's pug nose. And Myrna Lipschitz's cow eyes. But it's a good thing no one saw her notes about them.” She gave the register back to Renée and then held up a photo. It was a picture of the two of them standing in front of the big glass display window of the Corey Avenue Five and Dime. “Look at this. Do you remember all the time we spent there?”

“Of course,” Renée said. “We used to get to go there after the movies at the Beach Theatre.” She sat forward as something hit her. “We went there the day Dad died, didn't we?” She held her breath as images that she'd been careful not to think about for so many years rose in her mind, taking her by surprise.

Annelise nodded slowly, her eyes clouded with memory. “We saw Abbott and Costello. Do you remember? It was their version of
Jack and the Beanstalk
.” Her smile was sad. “And then you took me to look at the barrettes.”

For the first time in sixty-four years, Renée allowed herself to remember. She'd been in a hurry at the store and short with Annelise, wanting to get back to the hotel before John's lifeguard shift ended.

“I went swimming that morning,” Annelise continued. “Mother made me take a nap because I tried to scare the
guests again. But after that we got to go to the movies. And I got two barrettes at the dime store. They were pink and shaped like bows.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. Her lips trembled and Renée remembered how annoyed she'd been at her little sister's chattering, all the barrettes she'd insisted on trying on, when all Renée had wanted was to go home. But something had happened at the store. Something odd. She stilled as she tried to remember what it was.

A brisk knock sounded on the door yanking her back to the present. Joe Giraldi walked into the conference room.

“I hope you don't mind,” he said. “No one answered the front door, so I let myself in.”

“Oh. Of course not. Come in. We've been sitting here buried in the past,” she said, even as the long-ago images began to recede. “We were just going through our grandparents' papers and photos. Let me get us all some iced tea.” She went to the kitchen and returned with a tray of iced teas and spoons, then placed a sugar bowl and a small plate of cookies on the table where everyone could reach them.

“Thank you.” The FBI agent stirred sugar into his tea and eyed the photos and papers with interest. But Renée's mind was flooded with random images of the dime store. She stumbled over the pleasantries as it tried to retrieve and hold on to . . . something.

“So, what did you find out?” Annelise asked Joe softly. “Is there any further information about Heinrich Stottermeir and whether he could have come here?”

“I don't have anything concrete,” Joe said, settling back in his chair. “Fortunately, a lot of the files from that time have been declassified, so if we get to the right people we have a shot at getting real answers. The retired OSS agent I spoke to recognized his name. Stottermeir seems to have been working for more than one side during the war. When it became clear that Germany was losing, he began funneling information to the allies.” He took a sip of tea.

“Our father was in intelligence,” Renée said. “He was assigned to the American headquarters in Frankfurt.”

“That's how he met my mother,” Annelise added softly. Her eyes were fixed on the FBI agent.

Joe nodded. “The contact down in Sarasota knew Stottermeir's handler and is trying to track him down. He thinks he's somewhere out west. He might be able to tell us whether Stottermeir was in the United States in the years after the war.”

The flood of images had slowed and were now moving in an odd herky-jerky motion like an old film running through an even older projector. Without warning, Renée was hit hard with a freeze-frame of the odd man, the same man Annelise had recalled for the sketch artist. The man she'd recognized. “He was here. I saw him at the dime store.”

“Are you sure?” Joe asked as Annelise looked at her wide-eyed.

Renée nodded. “I don't know how I could have forgotten him. He was so . . . He looked so out of place.”

“In what way?” Joe's gaze was fixed on her face.

She closed her eyes, straining to see. The images sped up and unfurled. “He was dressed as if he was a tourist. But something was off. His clothes were too dark for the beach and . . . I don't know. He had a hat pulled down over his face but he just kept staring at Annelise.”

“At me?” Annelise asked.

“Yes.” Renée swallowed. “Like he was trying to figure something out.” She could feel Annelise's and Joe's eyes on her, but that was all she had.

“I tried to trace your mother, too, Annelise,” Joe said carefully. “I looked through what I could find to see if she might have traveled back to Germany. But there's no indication that happened.”

“I told you.” Annelise's voice quivered; the childish hurt and anger were back. “She would never have hurt my father. And she never would have just left like that.”

“If she was involved in the intelligence community, which isn't out of the question, she could have been moved.” Joe said this almost gently. “Or even given another identity. She might not have had a choice.” He reached for a cookie, examined it. Renée sensed he was trying to give them a chance to absorb what he was saying. To shift mental gears. “We don't really know how your parents met. Or whether there might have been a reason other than mutual attraction that brought them together.”

“Are you saying my mother was a spy?” Annelise asked with that breathless tone that Renée had begun to hope she'd never hear again.

“No,” Joe said. “I have no proof of anything of the kind. I'm just pointing out that there may be far more to this story than your parents would have, or could have, ever shared. Or that we'll ever know.”

“My mother and father fell in love with each other when he helped her after she got hurt! He stayed in Germany until they let him marry her!” Annelise cried.

Renée slid an arm around her sister's shoulders, but Joe's words had her thinking about Ilse. How standoffish she'd been at first, how uncertain she'd seemed even around the man who was her husband. She thought about all the things her father had explained away as the result of Ilse's losses in the war, the shock of moving to the United States, her difficulty with the English language, how unwelcoming so many people had been. Until Nana had come to her defense.

Could there have been another reason for Ilse's behavior? Could she have been more than a disoriented young woman who'd survived the war and the loss of her family before coming to America newly married and pregnant by her American soldier husband?

“Was the former agent in Sarasota able to translate the note Renée found?” Annelise asked.

“No,” Joe said. “But Officer Jackson is planning to show it to someone at the sheriff's office who speaks German.”

She didn't hear the rest of what Joe Giraldi said. She was too busy examining the puzzle pieces of her family's past and wondering if there was in fact some other way to fit them together.