The Tulip Eaters

“Anything that indicates who the second perp might be? The kidnapper?”

The investigator shook his head. “The dead guy wore gloves. I assume his partner did, as well.”

“What about the child?” His voice was grim.

Nora held her breath. Please, she thought. Let there be something.

The investigator slowly shook his head. “Nada.”

“Nothing at all?” she cried.

“At this point we got zilch.” Then seeing the look on her face, he spoke more gently. “But in a while we’ll be getting back stuff on the prints and fibers from the lab.” He made a note on a grimy notepad. “By the way, could you look around and see if you notice anything unusual? Furniture misplaced, valuable objects missing—anything like that?”

A thought struck her. “What about by the pool? My mother usually swam with Rose in the afternoon.”

He shook his head. “Looks like they never made it there.”

Richards bent over and studied the dead man’s body. “Have you searched him?”

“You told us to wait.”

Richards looked at Nora and Marijke. “Don’t touch anything and stay back.” They nodded and huddled a distance away. The man lay as Nora had found him—on his stomach, right arm outstretched, head twisted to the left. Richards put on new gloves and knelt, as if genuflecting. With gentle fingers, he folded back the front of the man’s jacket and felt the inside pockets.

After a few moments of probing, he slid something out—a small photo. He studied it and then rose and handed it to Nora. She looked at a worn sepia photo and stared at a slender young man holding on to the handlebars of an old bicycle, smiling boldly into the camera. He had dark, expressive eyes. Nora turned the photo over. Only a date: 1940.

“Ever seen him before?” asked Richards.

“Never.”

“Anything strike you at all?”

She flipped the photo over and looked at the man again. “No.”

He nodded at the investigator, who slid the photo into an evidence bag. Richards then dug into one of the man’s back pockets and pulled out a folded card. “Shamrock Hotel, room 1154.” He handed it to one of the officers. “Get over there. Find the manager and search his room. Find anything you can that might tell us who he is and who was with him. Maybe they left something behind.” The officer turned on his heel and left.

Richards searched the other back pocket. He shook his head. “No wallet, no driver’s license, nothing,” he muttered. “Damn.” Moving to the side of the body, he lifted the man’s left shoulder up and rolled him onto his back. His head bobbled to the right, the dead eyes now staring fixedly upward.

Marijke clutched Nora’s arm and pointed at the stranger. “Nora! Kijk eens!”

Nora followed Marijke’s index finger to the man’s left front pants pocket. Something glittered gold and yellow, barely visible. “Lieutenant, there, in his pocket!”

Richards turned from the officer he was speaking to and stared. He slid the piece of paper from the pocket. It tugged a little before coming free. Richards stared at the bill with its bright colors and odd gilding and then looked up. “Some kind of foreign money.”

Marijke stepped forward, her cheeks flushed. “It isn’t just any money.” She and Nora exchanged excited looks.

Richards looked at Nora. “You recognize it?”

Nora nodded, stunned. “It’s a Dutch twenty-five guilder note.” She looked down at the dead man’s face. “He was Dutch? Why would some Dutchman want to kill my mother? Or kidnap Rose?”

“Hold on,” said Richards. “He could be anyone. Dutch, German, American—who knows? Maybe he’s just someone who traveled there recently and that’s why he had guilders in his pocket.” He handed the bill to the investigator, who bagged it. “Check it for prints.”

Nora leaned closer. She pointed. “Lieutenant, what’s that?”

Richards dug farther in the man’s right pants pocket. As the item came free, Nora caught a glint of silver and saw shock on Richards’s face. Her heart quickened as she stared at Richards’s upturned hand. A pistol. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I can’t believe this.”

He turned it over and examined it. He held it up, looked down the barrel, sniffed and shook his head. “Looks brand-new. And it hasn’t been fired today.”

Marijke and Nora gave each other confused looks.

“If this is his gun...” began Marijke.

“Then whose gun is that?” finished Nora, pointing at the black gun on the sofa.

4

Anneke de Jong grasped her trowel more firmly as she peered through the bay window into the sunken living room. She could see Rose sleeping peacefully in the wicker bassinet Anneke had bought when she was born. It stood close to the window so Anneke could check on her frequently while she worked in the garden, as she did every afternoon. She peered at her watch. Twelve-thirty. Rose would sleep at least another hour.

As she straightened, she felt a pain in her back. Sixty. The thought amazed her. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself as forty—not a day older. She knelt next to the pool and glanced at her reflection. A slight woman with shoulder-length silver hair stared back. In the calm water, she could even see her hazel eyes and the wrinkles etched in their corners. What had happened to the young girl with jet-black hair and endless possibilities?

Walking back to her garden, she refused to think of the different choices she could have made. It doesn’t matter. At least the cancer is gone. She remembered the look in the doctor’s eyes when he’d told her that she had malignant tumors in both breasts. Gone, she now thought. All gone. She still felt the phantom of their softness until her silver locket brushed against the empty places where her breasts used to be.

She held up the trowel to shade her eyes. The sun was blinding, the humidity oppressive. Even after all her years in Houston, she had not gotten used to the searing summers, the air swarming with mosquitoes that increased tenfold after every rain. Here it was, early November, and the afternoon temperature was still seventy degrees. She closed her eyes and imagined Holland’s rows of brilliant tulips in the spring. She was that girl again—laughing on her bicycle with her girlfriends as they rode down green-leaved lanes, the air so crisp. Or swimming in the shocking cold of the North Sea in January when no one else dared go in. She opened her eyes and sighed. The past was the past.

She knelt, dug a small hole in the hard ground and reached for one of the rain lilies she had bought yesterday, flowers that could withstand the blistering Texas sun, blooming only after a rainstorm. She’d bought them in honor of Rose, who had also come after a great storm, one in Nora’s life. Anneke put the plant gently into the ground, filled the hole with potting soil and tamped it firmly with the trowel. As she reached for the next flower, she heard the doorbell.

“Verdomme,” she muttered as she took off her dirty gloves and walked inside. Deliciously cold air hit her at the door, causing her to shiver slightly. She stepped to the bassinet and bent to give Rose a kiss. Her baby scent made Anneke smile. It was even better than the rain lily’s blooms. The doorbell rang again.

“Coming!” She hated her quiet afternoons with Rose to be interrupted. It was a golden, sacred time, not to be broken by some lost deliveryman who needed directions or, worse, a zealot who wanted to lead her to Jesus. At the door, she looked through the peephole, opened it and clapped her hands. “Flowers! Oh, how wonderful!” She saw a tall man with white hair and a craggy face holding a brilliant arrangement of tulips—yellows, reds, whites—looking as if they would burst from the silver paper wrapped around them.

As she reached for them, the smile on the man’s face disappeared. He threw the flowers inside and lunged for her. In seconds, he had gloved hands around her neck. He kicked the door shut and forced her backward.

Terrified, Anneke opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. His hands were tourniquets. She couldn’t breathe. She felt herself passing out, but then he released his grip. She stumbled, fell to the carpet and took deep, hacking gulps of air. Her mind reeled in horror. Who was this monster? What did he want?

The man stood over her. “Look at me, you bitch!”

Gasping, Anneke slowly hauled herself up and stared at the furious man, his white hair and black eyes. Dutch! He was speaking Dutch!

“Don’t you recognize me?” He grabbed her shoulders and then shook them—hard. When she did not respond, he shook her again in a wild rage.

“Please,” she whispered hoarsely. “I don’t know you.”

“Speak Dutch to me, you bitch. Or have you forgotten that, too?” He yanked her toward him and then shoved her down onto the living room floor. She tried to scramble away, but he was quick and kicked her fiercely in the ribs.

Anneke screamed and writhed on the white carpet. Her heart slammed in her chest, her legs would not obey her. “Stop!” she cried in Dutch. “Take what you want. My purse is on the counter! Just please, please, don’t hurt the baby!”

As if she knew what was happening, Rose began wailing. Anneke held up her arms, as if to ward off another blow. The man moved quickly to the bassinet and picked up the baby, swathed in a soft yellow blanket, and stood grinning at Anneke. “And who is this? The grandchild of a whore?”

“No!” He had the baby— Oh, God! She struggled to her feet and tried to wrest Rose from his arms. Rose’s screams became screeches. Every cry was a spike into Anneke’s heart. Rose! I have to get her—now!