Monday's Child (A Day to Remember Book 1) Read online

  Once more her nerves were pricked by the obvious: if he had been planted there to watch her, her little tactic to force eye contact may have been a mistake. She had gotten a clear look at him. That was always dangerous.

  With the tense moment in the bookshop over, Krista was soon her optimistic self again. She hurried on energetically into the opposing wind. It would be good to see Uncle Franz’s smiling face after being gone for two months. She always looked forward to returning to her roots, forgetting the flashing cameras, the fashion reporters, and the dozens of wealthy, powerful men trying to make lavish dinner appointments with her. Her automatic refusal was smiling but perfunctory. “Thank you, but I have another engagement.”

  Yes, it would be stimulating and spiritually edifying to talk with dear Uncle Franz in his comfortable apartment, all pretense of bright glamour far removed. She held the satchel closely against her side, her boot heels clicking.

  2

  The rolling green lawn in front of the graystone University was immaculately trimmed. The trees were well-rounded and the rosebushes were protected from cold temperatures, both waiting for the first new buds that would appear in early May. Krista followed the stone walkway toward the lodge behind the classrooms. The college porter greeted her and opened the private gate.

  “Professor Klossner sent word he would be in his apartment. Shall I ring him you’re coming?”

  “Yes, please.” She smiled her thanks and as he went inside his bungalow, she quickened her pace through the stone quadrangle.

  The two-story lodge stood in the back of the campus before a thick wall of fir trees, the branches casting shadows on the slanting roof. Krista walked to the last apartment on the ground floor and thumped on the double-thick pine door.

  Franz Klossner opened it quickly. Her friends were usually surprised when they saw her “old professor uncle.” “The way you talk about him conjures up visions of a sprightly old man with white hair.” They would always look at her surprised and whisper: “Why, he’s handsome. And he doesn’t seem old at all.”

  Franz always laughed at that. “Well I hope I’m not decrepit yet,” he would say. He habitually took long nightly walks about the campus or Zurich’s Old Town and refused to own an automobile. Each summer he went off alone to climb the Swiss mountains he loved, using his Cousin Henrich’s lodge, situated between the two famous ski resorts of ritzy St. Moritz and popular Davos, as his headquarters. He was of sturdy height and frame, with brown hair, just beginning to gray at the temples, and pleasantly handsome features. He looked relaxed in a comfortable rust-colored corduroy jacket and darker brown turtleneck sweater.

  Although he had never married there were rumors that he might consider changing all that. He was continuing to correspond with Trudy, the Christian woman that Cousin Henrich had hired to run the ski school connected with St. Moritz. Usually in a mellow mood, he had a passion for Swiss chocolate, coffee, old books, and French street paintings in oils. “I love the smell of old books,” he had told her when she was thirteen. “There is a wonder in musty white pages filled with black words. But the best Book of all is the Bible. His words never grow old. They offer hope and life to every new generation.”

  Yes, that was her Uncle Franz. A sometime cynic, but more often than not, an optimist. A man who loved to lounge in an overstuffed chair with old books and a pipe, but who had the physique of an out-of-doors-man. However, this morning Franz was not smiling.

  “Come in, Krista.” He kissed her forehead and drew her inside the warm room. “You look frozen. Warm yourself by the fireplace. Paul made coffee and Ursula dropped off a chocolate cake. Cake! This early!” he chuckled. “Leave it to my housekeeper, bless her heart. Too bad she won’t be here to clean up after us.”

  “Happy Birthday, Uncle Franz!”

  The modest living quarters were full of rich brown leather and heavy wood. It was a man’s world, a bachelor’s room, but one she felt welcome in and at home. A fire invited from the hearth. There were ponderous chairs on either side and tables stacked with newspapers and prestigious literary journals. The middle of the room was open for pacing, a habit both Franz and Paul appeared to enjoy. Recently, Krista had begun to cultivate the annoying habit. A large front window with heavy forest-green drapes drawn back faced outward onto the side campus lawn. About a hundred feet away stood an old oak tree with expansive overspreading branches.

  There was a wrapped birthday present from Paul sitting on the low table and a pot of coffee by the milk chocolate frosted cake.

  As she entered, Paul Gotthard came forward from the fireplace in a brown tweed jacket and wool trousers. His sandy-colored hair was waved, and his light olive-green eyes were cautiously veiled as he smiled but glanced momentarily at her satchel. He could have passed as a fellow instructor with Uncle Franz at the University instead of the wealthy heir of his own bachelor uncle, Josef Gotthard of Gotthard Enterprises.

  “Hello darling,” Paul said, taking her shoulders and barely brushing a greeting on her cheek. “You managed?”

  She knew what he meant, but Uncle Franz did not. She smiled cheerfully while pulling off her gloves and removing her hat. “It wasn’t difficult at all. I enjoyed the brisk walk.”

  Paul assisted her with her coat, checking his Swiss gold watch. You’re late, his glance suggested. A cause for worry.

  Uncle Franz did not appear to notice the wordless exchange. He handed her a steaming mug of coffee and refilled Paul’s, then removed her satchel from the chair, placing it on the end table. “Heavy…dear girl, did you carry this uphill from von Buren’s place? Feels like an encyclopedia. Did you buy me a book?”

  “Uncle Franz! You’re not suppose to ask that,” Krista teased.

  Paul shot a glance toward him.

  “I don’t suppose anyone is ready for breakfast,” Franz said wryly, looking at the chocolate cake.

  Krista sank into the comfortable chair. “Home sweet home, Uncle Franz.” She sipped her coffee. Then she noticed that Paul’s square jaw had tightened. What was wrong? Had she missed some exchange?

  Franz set the cake aside. He picked up the wrapped birthday present that Paul had brought and untied the ribbon. “Ah, a new Homburg. Just what I needed, Paul.” He tried the brown hat on.

  Paul looked down at Krista. “You have a present for Franz?”

  Krista set her cup down and picked up her satchel. She unbuckled the leather strap and her fingers brushed against both books. Her conscience was pricked by the thought of misleading her uncle, but she convinced herself that she wasn’t actually deceiving him. Since his Cousin Elsa’s book wasn’t meant for him, storing it in his collection was merely a safeguard, though she knew her excuse was a lame one. She felt a sudden irritation toward Paul for putting her in this situation, but knew the choice had been hers to make.

  She dug out the book she had bought in Venice, still wrapped in brown paper. “Not exactly birthday bright, and it has a small tear on the dust jacket, but I knew you were searching for this one so I bought it when Paul and I were working in Venice.”

  Krista stood and handed the small volume to Franz.

  His eyes twinkled as he removed the brown paper and tossed it into the fire. He then inspected it with pleasure. “A rare find, Krista! I didn’t think there were any left of this first edition.”

  “That’s probably the only one left,” Paul said. “Krista and I were lucky to run across it.”

  “Interesting.” Franz put on his glasses and carefully leafed through it. “It is in excellent condition. The collector I do business with in Vienna would pay handsomely for this, but it’s a gift I could not part with.”

  “So it’s best he never knows,” Paul said with a friendly laugh. “Some of those collectors are like bloodhounds. Once they pick up a scent they never give up.”

  “You’re right. This volume shall be our little secret—at least until Krista wishes to sell my collection when I leave it to her in my will.”

  “Don’t even talk of such things,” she scolded, looping her arm through his. “You’re more important to me than any book collection, even if it is worth thousands of francs.”

  “She’s right,” Paul said. “Nevertheless, Franz, I hope you took my advice and had the collection insured. Anything could happen besides burglary. Even a fire.”

  “No need to worry. Everything is taken care of. Krista, why not go ahead and cut the cake? I’ll put this book away until I can enjoy it.”

  She and Paul watched Franz take it to the little antechamber off from his drawing room. It was there that his rare collection was kept, some of them behind a glass book shelf under lock and key. Paul turned to her. Krista removed Elsa’s book from her satchel. Paul murmured in frustration about the wrapping paper. It took a moment to remove it. He handed it to her. She watched him go to the common bookcase where he slipped it unobtrusively into the lower shelf behind several others.

  “I don’t like deception,” she whispered.

  “Neither do I. It’s only for a short time. We’ll explain everything to him eventually.”

  “Why not now? What’s the secret? He can be trusted.”

  “Of course he can, but the less he knows the safer he’ll be.”

  “Safe? From what?” she glanced worriedly behind her toward the anteroom. Franz was still busy.

  “I intend to explain to him this morning about Interpol. But Elsa’s book is best kept a secret until this matter of Swiss cooperation with the Nazis has died down.”

  Mention of the Nazis sent a cold ripple along her nerves. So that was it. Cousin Elsa’s work in Berlin during the war. “You’re not suggesting that Elsa was a willing Nazi…”

  “No, but we cannot permit a rush to judgment. Any breath of scandal, though unfounded, will hurt Gotthard
Enterprises. It will do us all harm.” He looked at her, his olive-green eyes chilled. “Even you.”

  “Me!” she breathed, shocked, then unbelieving: “But…”

  He laid a firm grip on her arm, glancing toward the anteroom. “Not now!”

  Franz’s footsteps were heard returning. She moved quickly away from Paul toward the birthday cake. Paul was swiftly beside the fireplace warming himself when Franz walked into the drawing room. He looked cheerful. “There. The book is safe. A wonderful gift, Krista.”

  Any joy she would have felt over his pleasure was now gone. She avoided his eyes and cut the cake. She felt two warm spots in her cheeks. “Breakfast or not, we must taste it,” she managed brightly. “Ursula went to a lot of trouble.”

  “I’ll try a slice,” Paul said congenially, coming toward the table. “I’ll have a little more of that coffee too.”

  Krista noticed the morning paper that sat on an ottoman, along with the New York Times. The ominous black headlines stared at her, adding strength to Paul’s warning about scandal: SWISS BANKS ACCUSED OF HOLDING BILLIONS IN JEWISH ASSETS, “ZURICH MUST OWN UP,” JEWISH GROUPS ANNOUNCE, and SWISS BANKERS—HITLER’S WILLING PARTNERS?

  Krista handed the dessert plate with a slice of cake to Franz. The headlines’ probing questions made her uncomfortable. She had always been proud of being Swiss. Her ancestry conjured up thoughts of neutrality and humanitarianism. A white cross on a red banner was the emblem on the Swiss flag. And now—

  Perhaps she should have taken a few minutes to look at Elsa’s book before turning it over to Paul.

  With each tick of Franz’s heirloom clock on the mantle the mood in the drawing room grew more tense, or was it her imagination? By the time they had finished their cake, the birthday celebration was far from anyone’s mind. Uncle Franz surprised her with his statement: “Paul finds himself in an uncomfortable position. He appears to have gotten Gotthard Enterprises into a cloak and dagger espionage situation. Of course you wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Krista dear?”

  She glanced at her uncle and saw a rueful smile. She looked quickly toward Paul. Then he had already explained some of her ventures in Rome?

  “How much are you involved in this, Krista?” Franz asked gravely.

  “Espionage?” she repeated innocently, gaining time as she glanced again toward Paul.

  “She’s not involved,” Paul said. “And more correctly, Gotthard Enterprises stepped into trouble and Krista has supported me.”

  Krista was no longer resorting to innocence as she looked at Franz. “Anything I’ve done to cooperate has been quite small, Uncle.”

  Franz appeared to want to draw the curtain of secrecy aside. “Out with it, Paul. It’s no good trying to pad things by keeping me in the dark. Not if you expect our cooperation.”

  Our cooperation. What did he mean?

  Paul walked to the window, then back again as though he couldn’t keep still. He sat down in the nearest chair facing Franz at the fireplace. As he looked from him to Krista, she guessed he was making up his mind about how much he could explain. She realized suddenly that he had changed since their return from Venice two weeks ago. She had noticed yesterday on the phone, but only now fully grasped the impact. More than ever, Elsa von Buren’s little book of photography began to worry her.

  Paul appeared thoughtful. Perhaps worried too. Naturally he would be since he was managing the jewelry fashion business for Josef Gotthard. Paul was the heir of his elderly bachelor uncle who was related to Wilhelm von Buren through marriage. Both she and Paul had been raised by their respective uncles after their parents’ deaths. As for Josef, no one, so it seemed, had heard from him since he had departed for the diamond mine in South Africa five months ago, and Paul was carrying on as liaison.

  “You’re right, Franz,” Paul was saying. “The reason for my visit this morning has more to it than your birthday.”

  Franz retrieved his old pipe from among some others on the mantle. He reached for his tobacco can and filled it. “Does this trouble Gotthard Enterprises finds itself in have a connection with the banking scandal?”

  “No, why should it? Gotthard is completely separate from the Swiss banks. Uncle Josef would never approve. The banks are Wilhelm’s concern.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I sometimes get Josef confused with Wilhelm von Buren.”

  Paul looked at him. He laughed. “I don’t see why. They look nothing alike. There’s no blood between them at all.”

  “No argument there. Didn’t Wilhelm von Buren retire from the Bank of Zurich Corporation a few years ago?”

  Paul lifted his cup and drank. “Three years ago to be exact. Ehrlich has taken his place,” he said of Wilhelm’s son. “What made you think this might have a connection with the bank?”

  Franz struck a match and held the flame to his pipe. “No secret there. Everyone is talking about the scandal. It’s in the morning papers. Ehrlich will be meeting with Jewish representatives tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Paul said crisply. He began to pace.

  Although Krista was not related by blood to the von Burens or the Gotthards, she did have distant connections through marriage: Elsa was a cousin of her uncle, Franz Klossner. She sat stiffly, looking from one to the other, trying to guess what really lay beneath the surface of their questions and answers.

  “And this situation you mentioned before Krista arrived,” Franz said, “of what connection, if any, does it have with this scandal?”

  Paul shrugged carelessly. “Oh, none, since Gotthard Enterprises is separate from the von Burens. The client is interested in a diamond showing, which Krista is often assigned to.”

  Krista raised her brows. “This is the first mention to me of a new client, Paul. Is there to be a showing here in Zurich?”

  Paul looked at her. “Yes, I haven’t had time to inform you, darling. I just explained it to Franz earlier. Our newest customer is a very wealthy woman named Ava St. John. She claims to be an actress and the heiress of an American movie producer. Her lawyer called me yesterday. He’s one of those brash Americans, almost humorous. He fills in “double duty,” as he put it. He’s also her theatrical agent. His name is Jorden Keller.”

  There was a moment of silence. Krista looked over at her uncle. His pipe had gone out and he struck another match. He was staring at the clear, bright flame.

  “Are you suggesting Mr. Keller is not what he claims?” Krista asked.

  “We have only our suspicions to go on, but perhaps neither of them are what they claim.”

  “Oh? What makes you think so?” Franz asked, biting the end of his pipe.

  “A hunch I suppose. For one thing Ava St. John insists on speaking with Krista alone. We might wonder why.”

  “Yes, we might,” Krista said surprised. “What possible cause would she have?”

  “That is what we hope to discover,” Paul said.

  Franz was thoughtful. “Then you don’t know if their names are genuine, or who they might represent other than themselves?”

  “No. It’s important we find out. If she is who she claims, then Ava St. John is a tremendously important client. She’s interested in buying the South African diamond collection, the one you modeled in Venice that Prince Ahmed wants to see in Monaco this April aboard his yacht.”

  Krista stood from her chair and moved restlessly about the drawing room. She did not care for the Saudi Arabian prince. She had first met him for a showing in Venice. Prince Ahmed had sent his bodyguard afterward to ask her to join a number of rich European guests in his suite of luxurious rooms. She had not cared to go, but she had, only to regret the decision soon after arriving since neither Paul nor anyone else was there. Krista had been able to escape the prince’s attentions when a clumsy waiter had dropped a tray of caviar and champagne all over the prince. Before that incident had occurred, Ahmed had gone so far as to request her presence on a private cruise to the Mediterranean.