The Waves Break Gray (The Raleigh Harmon mysteries Book 6) Read online

  The door relented another inch. “I need to see your identification.”

  Keeping one hand on the door, I reached back and yanked out my cell phone. “Call the FBI. Or better yet, the Chelan sheriff.”

  His furry head shifted. “You’re with the police?”

  “And we know all about your stays.”

  Inside the apartment, a timer dinged. And dinged. And dinged.

  Neither of us let go of the door.

  “Sounds like dinner’s ready,” I said.

  “I’m going to call someone.” He lifted one hand from the door, holding it up in a gesture of good will. “But I want to use my phone. Is that alright?”

  “Sure.” I reached back, pocketing my cell phone and lifting the stippled gun butt from my waistband. But I held the gun behind my leg. “You want the number for the sheriff?”

  “No. What’s your name again?”

  “Raleigh Harmon and I—”

  His gun came up. But I was fast, too.

  We stood, barrel to barrel, with the door between us.

  “Mr. Sugarman, you do not want to shoot me.”

  He narrowed his dark eyes to slits. “Hotel association?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s called Hotelvereinigung.”

  “That just confuses people.”

  He shifted the barrel. I shifted mine, matching his position.

  “Who are you?” he said. “I want the truth.”

  “My name really is Raleigh Harmon. The FBI knows I’m here.”

  “You’re with the FBI?”

  I hesitated.

  “What?”

  “I’m a consultant.”

  One dark eyebrow lifted. “Like you’re a consultant for the hotel association?”

  “Look, Mr. Sugarman, we have records of all your stays in Leavenworth.” I took a quick glance at his gun. Smith & Wesson. Pristine condition. “What’s your business in Leavenworth?”

  “No. You give me the truth.”

  One more glance. The thumb safety was still on. I felt my whole body relax. “The Engels hired me.”

  “Hired you? They don’t have money.”

  “We worked something out.”

  The dinging timer kept going. And now I could smell the food. Roasting chicken. Salt. I licked my lips.

  “Don’t move.” He kept the pistol pointed at me but he was holding it the way someone holds a flashlight. I doubted he even knew about the safety. “Don’t make one move,” he said, holding up his cell phone. He thumbed the screen and tapped another button. It was on speaker phone because I could hear the ringing.

  Then: “Welcommen to Das Waterhaus!”

  “Helen?” He stared into my eyes. “This is Ezra Sugarman.”

  “Ezra! Are you coming back, so soon?”

  “No, I had a question for you. Do you know a Raleigh Harmon?”

  “Yes. Johann hired her.”

  “To do what, exactly?”

  “I didn’t want her to do anything. At first. But she just found …” She hesitated. “She found out who killed Annicka.”

  I watched as Ezra Sugarman’s entire expression changed.

  “Thank you, Helen,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “No. No problem. Everything’s fine.”

  “How do you know Raleigh?”

  “I have to go, Helen. We can talk another time.”

  “Alright,” she said, uncertain. “You’re sure everything is alright?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  He lowered the gun and disconnected the call.

  “Well,” he said. “I guess you’re staying for dinner, Raleigh Harmon.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  In the kitchen, Ezra Sugarman set the pistol on a black granite countertop.

  “My bubbie used to say, Worries go down better with soup. So we eat first, then we talk.”

  He turned off the timer and removed a casserole from the oven. I stared at the bread crumb topping. It had browned around the edges of the glass dish, while cream sauce bubbled through the center. My mouth watered.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Always.”

  From a cabinet, he took out two white dishes, but from separate sections. One section was marked K. I recognized the symbol. Kosher. He handed me the non-kosher plate and spooned a hefty serving of the casserole. I couldn’t stop staring at the food. My childhood was spent eating truly awful casseroles baked my mother in some delusional psychosis that she was Betty Crocker. This casserole? It was from another universe. I took a deep breath. My salivary glands were in overdrive.

  Ezra Sugarman held the kosher plate. “Are you waiting for something?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth.

  “Is it grace?” he said. “Do you say grace?”

  I nodded.

  He set his plate of food on the counter, and wiped his hands on the Schmutz Happens apron. “My people say grace after we eat. But my bubbie also said, You don’t bend, you break. Okay?”

  He closed his eyes and murmured words in a language I didn’t recognize. But I understood what he was saying. Prayers of gratitude—genuine gratitude—have their own four-part harmony. One part remorse for who we are. One part amazement that such goodness comes to the undeserving. And two parts joy in the receiving.

  “Now.” Sugarman picked up his fork. “We eat.”

  There was no table. No chairs at the granite counter. We stood in the kitchen and ate. After the first bite, my taste buds went into shock. The chicken was roasted so carefully the flavor seemed nurtured from the meat. The cream sauce was luscious as summer clouds while tarragon and salt danced through it all. My throat hummed.

  Neither one of us spoke, strangers with guns savoring every bite. It was warm food in a cold place in an otherwise empty kitchen. And when we finished, Sugarman set our plates in the sink and turned to face me. His eyes filled with agony.

  “I failed them.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Esther. Annicka.” He shook his furry head. “I failed them.”

  My right hand hitched back on my hip. Near my gun. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “They don’t know.”

  “Who?”

  “Helen. Johann. The Hellers.”

  My palm wrapped around the gun. “You just called Helen.”

  “Oh, they know me. I’m their very regular guest, as you apparently know. I’m the guest who tips at hundred percent. Of course they know me.” He leaned forward. My fingers closed around the gun. “But they don’t know why I’m there.”

  “Why are you there?”

  He sighed and looked around the empty room. “I never thought I’d need seating in here.”

  “Mr. Sugarman—”

  “Ezra. Please. Call me Ezra. Do you trust me enough to go into the living room? There’s carpet. Much better for the tuches.”

  Tuches. I knew that too. Yiddish for rear end.

  He left the Smith & Wesson on the counter. But I still made sure he walked in front of me. And I kept one hand on my gun. The living room was small. Green drapes covered what looked like a sliding glass door. Sugarman walked to a desk in the corner, and flicked on the light. He sat on spotless white carpet.

  “You know much history?” he asked.

  I sat down across from him, with my back to the wall. “I grew up in the South.”

  “Ah, yes, history.” He tucked his stocky legs into a cross-legged position. “But you’re aware of the Holocaust?”

  “Of course.”

  “Concentration camps?”

  I nodded.

  “Jewish children survived those camps—as orphans. Did you know that?”

  I shook my head, trying to follow him.

  “It was tragedy upon tragedy,” he said. “And after the war, poverty gripped all of Germany. The degradation, it was unspeakable. Butchers sold rats—rats! For people to eat!”

  “I can’t imagine.”

>   “No, you can’t. I can’t. But as my bubbie used to say, If charity cost nothing, the world would be full of philanthropists.”

  “You had a wise grandmother.” I shifted, stealing a glance at my watch. Madame was in the car. And maybe, just maybe, this guy was nuts. “Mr. Sugarman—”

  “Ezra.”

  “Ezra, I’m here because—”

  “I’m getting to it,” he said, irritably. “You must know the facts. After the war, immigration wasn’t like today. And Israel wasn’t recognized as a country for another three years.” He held up a hand. “Patience. It’s good for the digestion. So listen to me. There was a group of American Catholics. They came to Germany, late 1945. All of them former Germans. They offered to adopt the orphans who survived the camps. You can imagine, not everyone was pleased. Are you meshuggina? Send God’s Chosen to those people who follow the Pope? Oy, gevalt!” He lifted his hands, palms up. “But who else? Germans couldn’t feed their own kids, let alone a bunch of starving Jewish orphans. Better that these children live, than die. In the end, thirty-four orphans went to America. All got adopted. It was a great mitzvah. That means—”

  “Good deed.”

  “You knew bubbie, too.”

  “And tuches.”

  He smiled. “How does a nice southern girl know Yiddish?”

  “My best friend was Jewish.”

  “Mazeltov. Now, back to the orphans. One was named Saul Sugarman. My grandfather. Eleven years old in 1946, the oldest of the orphans. Saul had survived Dachau by working for those dreck Nazis.” His eyes narrowed. “You know dreck?”

  I nodded. Not a word that should be repeated. But in this case, it fit.

  “Saul was my grandfather. Are you following me?”

  “Yes.”

  “He comes to America old enough to know he’s Jewish. The Catholic family who adopted him didn’t try to convert him—another mitzvah. They lived in California. German immigrants. Hard-working. Nice people. But when my grandfather left for college, he joined a temple in Los Angeles. He told us that he prayed every day for these Catholics who saved his life. And he prayed for the other thirty-three orphans who came to America. You understand?”

  “Yes but …”

  “These Catholics, they were special.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And these orphans, they were special.”

  “Yes, but how does—”

  “You knock at my door.” His eyes seemed black as anthracite. “You lie to me. You threaten me with the police. You point a gun at my head. And you eat my food—but you won’t let me tell the story? What’s the matter with you?”

  “Sorry.” My face flushed with heat. “I’m just anxious to get some answers. For the Engels. And the Hellers.”

  “Desperation.” He shook his furry head. “It’s the devil’s workshop.”

  “Please, continue.”

  “That’s better.” He adjusted his position. “My grandfather worked hard. Very hard. He became a wealthy man. A manufacturer of industrialized plastics—don’t knock it. Finally, he was rich enough that he didn’t need to work every day. So he decided to find out what happened to the other orphans from the camps who came to America. He named them ‘the chosen among The Chosen.’ You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. He found about half of them. But never contacted them.” Sugarman wagged his finger. “Never. He did not want anything from these people. Not even their memories. Some of them were Catholic now.” He sighed, heavily. “But they were alive, some not so well. My grandfather started making donations to them. To their families. But never, ever letting them know where the money came from. Always anonymous. When he died, his will left orders for us to keep taking care of these special children. We were to take care of them to the third generation. It goes back to the Torah. In the Bible it says—”

  “Blessings and curses continue to the third generation. Sorry, I interrupted.”

  He studied me. “Christian?”

  “Yes.”

  “We can get along,” he said. “Because now we get to Leavenworth. And you look ready to plotz.” He smiled. Impishly. But quickly it changed to sorrow. “Four Leavenworth families adopted orphans like my grandfather. They belong to a church called—”

  “Our Lady of Snows.”

  “Oy! The impatience.”

  “I’m sorry.” I explained what Father Anthony told me about the church’s missions. And that I’d seen the orphan fundraising cookbook in the Stephanson’s cabin. And while Ezra Sugarman kvetched about the church’s name, the cold sensation went down my arms. Johann told me Fritz was adopted. He said adoption was important to his wife. Helen. Helen with those burning dark eyes. I stared at the man in front of me. His dark gaze. I waited for him to pause.

  “Mrs. Engels,” I said.

  “Yes, you understand now. Her mother.” Ezra Sugarman bowed his head. “And Mrs. Heller’s mother.”

  “That’s two. You said four orphans went to Leavenworth.”

  “One boy died of polio. More tragedy.” He sighed. “Can you see why grandfather wanted to help? These precious children. And the females.”

  “What about the females?”

  “It’s rabbinical law. The Jewish line carries through women.”

  “Even if they become Catholic?”

  “God’s law. Not mine.”

  “So Esther, Annicka …” That chill went through me again. “They’re considered Jewish, from their grandmothers?”

  He sighed, wagging his head. “I tried to protect them—”

  “Who else knows?”

  “About?”

  “What you’re doing?”

  “No one! My grandfather’s will swore us to secrecy. He believed real charity was anonymous.”

  “But you’re telling me.”

  “Oy gevalt!” He raised his open palms again. “You suspected me—when my job was to protect them.”

  The FBI’s computers were faster than the state or local authorities. But it was only a matter of time before more law enforcement zeroed in on Sugarman’s name. “No one else has contacted you?”

  “Listen to me. Nothing can be known. The money, it gets to these families. But it has no connection me, or my family. It must stay that way.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. The Kellers, they need little now. But the Engels? You saw. That Annicka, she was very bright. She wanted to be a veterinarian. She should go to college, get a good education.”

  “And she won a scholarship.”

  Sugarman made a see-saw motion with his hands.

  “What?” I couldn’t contain my fury. Something here felt like betrayal. “She didn’t earn that scholarship?”

  “Never—never!—tell that family. I want your word. Right now.”

  I gave him my word. “What happened?”

  “An anonymous donation was made to the University of Washington. An athletic scholarship. We made sure the language was so specific that the money could only go to one particular applicant. Female, cross-country runner, from rural Washington state. Not yet eighteen, and would major in pre-veterinary medicine. You see?” He smiled, but it disappeared again. “That scholarship was tailored for that beautiful, chosen child.”

  I stared at him. My emotions rioted. “And Esther?”

  “You’re angry,” he said. “Why?”

  “Because when Esther was killed, you didn’t come forward.”

  “Esther? She was killed. My heart broke. But all these orphans, their children, their grandchildren—they suffer. Leukemia. Car wrecks. Freak accidents.” He lifted his hands, pleading. “God’s choices are not my choices.”

  “But you can do something.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you did nothing.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Their murders are connected.”

  “By location.”

  I watched him. I wanted to trust him. I thought of Jack’s background check. Helen Engels’
voice when she heard it was him. And I needed to know. “You must know how Esther died.”

  “Her throat—what, no, are you saying Annicka?” His whole body tensed. “No. Not Annicka.”

  I knew Ezra Sugarman could keep secrets. But it was still a risk. “Give me your word. Nothing said tonight is ever repeated.”

  “You have my word.” He nodded, his eyes glistening.

  “The way Esther died. Did it mean anything to you?”

  “Shechitah.” He whispered the word.

  “What?”

  “Sheh-HEE-tah.” He wiped his eyes and drew a ragged breath. “Shechitah. It’s a Jewish ritual. For kosher.”

  Jewish law prohibited the ingestion of blood from slaughtered animals. So the butcher sliced the throat, bleeding out the animal.

  “Martha Keller told me how Esther died,” he said. “Someone had killed that precious girl like she was nothing but an animal marked for slaughter.”

  “You didn’t tell the police.” My voice almost growled.

  “What was I to tell them? That two generations ago, her grandmother was a German Jew who survived a concentration camp?” He stood up, abruptly, and grabbed a handful of paper from the desk. He shook it at me. “I come here to honor my grandfather. I promise silence. Who are you, telling me different?”

  I looked away. This barren room. It was depressing. And yet somehow noble. “And now that they’re dead, you just leave? That’s it?”

  His shoulders sagged. He set the paper back on the desk, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Four orphans went to Leavenworth.”

  That chill went down my back again. “Where’s the fourth orphan?”

  Sugarman shook his head.

  “What?” I felt a bolt of adrenaline. “Don’t tell me that one’s dead, too.”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But she’s close.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I let Madame out of the car. While she sniffed the grass around the apartment complex and emptied her bladder, I checked road conditions through an app on my phone.

  By the time I parked in Eleanor’s driveway, it was just past 9:00 o’clock. I felt weary from so much driving in one day, and from listening to Ezra Sugarman’s only-in-America tale. There other part of the fatigue was sleeping in Jack’s cabin, tossing and turning all night, and trying not to think about those love notes from the woman M.