“Yes. Of course,” she replied, swiping up another elegant cucumber sandwich. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was.
Iva looked at her as if expecting her to say more. When Fiona didn’t, she went on, “Well, didn’t you notice, my dear? You are the spitting image of Gretchen.”
“What?” Fiona took the paper Iva offered back and looked at the grainy photo.
“Wow.” The resemblance was uncanny, now that she actually realized it.
Almost unnatural.
How had she missed that?
“That’s what Valente said in his letter,” she said slowly. “That I reminded him of Gretchen. And so that’s why he left me the shop. Guilt, maybe?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Iva told her, her face grave. “Being intimately involved with a male senior citizen,” she said with a delicate blush, “I’m constantly surprised at the way his mind works.” She took another sip of the bergamot-scented Earl Grey. “What else is in that envelope?” She pulled out a piece of paper folded in thirds.
When Iva unfolded it, Fiona could see the impressions of a typewriter’s keys through the thin paper—the small dots where the sentences ended, an A and an F and other black marks as well.
As Iva read aloud, Fiona’s heart pumped faster.
“‘Hadn’t you better report to the 153rd Precinct, Mr. Valente? If not, you will leave $50,000 in unmarked bills in a plain paper-wrapped package under the stairwell on the third floor of 350 Arch Street. Tomorrow, by 3:00. Come alone, or I’ll be contacting the precinctforyou.’”
There was no need for either woman to speak when Iva was done reading. They just gaped at each other, unmoving, as Orbra came with a small plate of scones.
“What is it?” asked the Dutchwoman, sliding into a chair next to them.
Iva explained—she really was quite good at the brief rundown—as Fiona discovered the delights of Orbra’s blueberry scones.
“What’s the date on the letter?” asked Orbra.
“Why, it’s only fifteen years ago.” Puzzlement washed over Iva’s face. “Why drag up something like this so many years later?”
Fiona spread a good hunk of clotted cream on her scone as she replied, “Why indeed? Maybe whoever it is had just found out about it.”
“They could still be blackmailing him—or, I mean, they could have been before he died.” Orbra looked sharply at Fiona. “Do you know—was there anything odd about the way he died—like Jean, last summer?” Now she was looking at Iva.
“I thought Valente just died from old age,” Fiona said slowly. “I’m sure Gideon would know, but I don’t think it was anything sudden. I got the impression that he—Valente, I mean—had been declining and it was expected.”
“A blackmailer isn’t going to murder his golden goose,” said Iva.
“Right. That doesn’t make any sense,” agreed Orbra. “But Poirot always asks the questions, you know. And so does Helga!” She smiled proudly at the mention of her granddaughter.
“Here’s another envelope—very similar.” Iva didn’t seem to be interested in eating any longer. She pulled out a second letter with a very small scrap of newspaper just large enough to depict a very old, yellow photo of a man with his name imprinted under it.
“Josef Kremer.” Iva said his name aloud, pursing her lips as she frowned. “That name’s familiar to me, though I don’t know why. Josef Kremer.”
“What does the letter say?” Fiona asked, reaching to take the paper clipping.
Josef Kremer was a young man, not bad looking, with a thin, Hitler-like moustache and heavy brows. The photo was of terrible quality, and that in combination with its age, left much to be desired in the way of details.
“There’s a letter with it. Another blackmail note!”
“Read it,” Orbra ordered, snatching up a slender egg salad sandwich that had gone unnoticed on the tray and slipping it into her mouth.
“‘Another missing person, Mr. Valente? Tsk, tsk. I’ll look for another package of $50,000 as always. Tomorrow. By 3 pm.’” Iva looked up. “Dated almost a year later than the other one.”
“He was definitely being blackmailed,” Fiona said. “But by whom?”
“And what exactly for? The letters don’t actually say,” Orbra commented.
