Edward Ahern, The Will of the Wisp

excerpt

The Will of the Wisp

Author: Edward Ahern
Publisher:
Close to the Bone Publishing
Retailer: Amazon (Kindle)
Date: November 4, 2024
Length: 246 pages
ASIN: B0DHZBQFD1

Chapter Six

Karl Schneider called me during an early breakfast. “Hello, Tom. I hope you’re again enjoying the free room and board?”

“Hello, Karl. Are you surviving on your spousal pension?”

“True, we were both kept men. And as her former husband, I’m entitled to continued support. Angela’s lover Gisella has undoubtedly told you that I’ll sue if the instructions don’t provide me with a large chunk of the estate.”

“I expected you to say no less. And to save you a question, no I haven’t found a thing yet.”

“Manfred and I are aware of the family funds. Dependent on what you achieve I could perhaps see my way clear to provide an honorarium.”

“Ah, Karl, you always were such a gifted negotiator.” Unusual for an electronic game designer, Karl was good looking in a pretty boy way. I presumed he still kept personal trainers and gyms supported. I however, had gotten a bit pudgy, and I caught myself sucking in my stomach as we talked.

“You don’t deserve to be told this, Karl, but I doubt Angela left me more than a death bed curse. We didn’t part happily, but when I find her orders they’ll get followed rigorously. So no need for us to kiss and make up.”

“You always were so stupidly stubborn. You were just her rubber dildo replacement, with no legal standing. Manfred and I are family.”

I laughed. “Manfred was disinherited after his conviction, and you already failed at getting the prenup altered. The best of Teutonic luck to you both.”

Karl hung up just before I could. The sleaze twins might sue and hold up the estate settlement for months. Nothing to be done about that part of it. Back on problem- dredge up the hints.

When Waltraud came in to clear the dishes, I asked her to sit down. “Tell me, from when she got up to when she went to bed, what Angela’s day was like.”

It took encouragement, but she began to open up about Angela’s life-several hours a day spent in financial transactions, and monthly visits of a man she knew only as Herr Finkelstein. “She sometimes asked me to sit while she ate so we could talk. About me, about the house. Not much about her.”

“What did Finkelstein look like?”

“Shorter than you, and rounder, but like a plump cat, still able to move quickly.”

We resumed talking about Angela. Her expression opened and warmed. Waltraud was describing her own life as much as Angela’s and the loving symbiosis was apparent. Waltraud had no children of her own and no intimate relationships I knew of with another man or woman. Angela had been her virgin birth and holy child.

“Did she have medical problems? Seem depressed?”

“No, just very busy. But she did give me some jewelry last month. Wunderschön things, expensive. She gave me a letter saying I received this Schmück as a gift.”

“Did she ask you to hide anything for her?”

“Nein. She said I should not treat you too badly for leaving her, that she was the cause. She spent most of her time in the ground floor rooms and her bedroom, not Boden, not Keller.”

“Did she ever ask you for any tools? A hammer? A screwdriver?”

“Nein.”

“Did she use her phone to record messages?”

“I heard nothing like that.”

“Do you have her cell phone?”

Waltraud smiled. “I will get it once I clear. She said you would guess the passcode.”

We talked for another half hour as the residual egg yolk dried to a second glaze on my plate. I realized I was overlooking a chance for serious dietary sin. “Frau Munchen, would it be possible to have a proper German breakfast?”

She actually smiled. “Frau Fuchs did not approve of such a meal, but I think, yes, it can be done.” Waltraud removed the dishes and brought me Angela’s cell phone, which I put in my pocket without turning it on.

I glanced at my watch. “Getting to be time for the funeral. Would you like to drive over with me?”

She crossed her hands at her waist. “Nein, I will not go. I wish to remember her living. Also, I am a servant. Not my place.”

I knew better than to argue. “Very well. We’ll resume when I return.”

St. Stephen’s church was a twenty-five-minute drive. Manfred and Karl were front and center in the properly severe Lutheran chapel. Gisella was two pews back. We managed to nod to each other. The church was small, but ample for the forty-eight people attending. The urn was perched on an up-front altar table. Waltraud had told me it was Angela’s instruction in case of her death. “She say something- not wanting people dawdling over her, I think.”

Two blank-faced men sat in the second row from the rear. My guess was that they were from the group Angela and Waltraud had mentioned. My second guess was that the same group had bugged the house. I would have. I slid into a pew a little further toward the front, then turned around and took a cell phone picture of them. They didn’t smile back.

The vague eulogy was given by a gaunt woman, a minister who clearly had never met Angela. Karl and Manfred also each spoke for a few minutes, their drooling treacle almost visible. I’d begun to seethe. The last public mentions of Angela, as stroppy and vibrant a woman as I’d ever met, were lying platitudes.

“Would anyone else like to say a few words?”

Without thought I stood up and walked to the front, then turned around and stared at Karl and Manfred. The words spurted out.

“Thank you for asking. Angela Fuchs and I were lovers. She adored intrigue but hated pretense, so let’s not pretend any more. Angela was ruthless and cunning, but defended her herself and her friends like a wolf bitch.

“I loved her then and God help me I think I love her still. Don’t insult her memory with sanctimonious slop. She would have hated it. I’ve seen all hundred thirty pounds of her take down a bouncer, watched her thoughts crackle like lightning over water.

“Angela was so convoluted that I don’t think she knew what was at her core, but she was as decisive as a skinning knife in flaying asses. She was frustrating and maddening and irreplaceable. She never owned a Barbie doll, so don’t treat her like one. She’d rather you just hated her. Thank you.”

I stomped back to the pew. There was no applause, but also no jeers. There was no noise at all.

A review by distinguished novelist and memoirist Gabi Coatsworth:

Ed Ahern has pulled off a page-turning thriller with heart. In the vein of Raymond Chandler, the hard-boiled hero has a soft side that tends to land him in hot water. Among his other troubles, international intrigue, a high (but not graphic) body count, and double and triple-crosses abound. Meanwhile, the sassy women who complicate our hero’s life are not the stereotypical blonde beauties you might expect. Settle down for an exciting ride!