Dark Light

heard the name?—before she continued. “The story’s become part of our family legend. I grew up hearing it, and now I want to know the truth. What happened that night? Was Marlissa the only one aboard who drowned? Those questions have never been answered. I’ve wondered about it for years. Fantasized, in fact, the story’s so romantic—I’m a sap for stuff like that.”

The woman gave me a look that was, at once, tolerant and scolding. “I didn’t lie to you last night. I will get fabulous stories from this. But I don’t expect you to find anything valuable. If you do, we’ll split the profit, whatever way you think is fair. But I’d want to keep a memento or two, that’s all. Some small thing to remind me of Marlissa.”

We were upstairs, standing at a wall that was a museum of photos. Nearly all black-and-whites. They documented the vacation activities of the three family branches—Dorn, Engle, and Brusthoff—who shared this beach house, Southwind.

“Marlissa was my godmother,” Chestra said. “I was an infant when she died, but she’s remained an important figure in my life. Why shouldn’t I get involved now? I can afford it. I’m not the kind of gal who sits back and expects the world to come to me. At this stage of life?” She left that out there, but didn’t seem to be fishing for compliments.

I said, “There’re a lot of wrecks in the Gulf of Mexico. What makes you think this is the one? Why would you associate your godmother with Nazi artifacts—”

“I’m not certain, of course. I don’t know…it’s a feeling I have. Legends invite all sorts of theories, from the silly to the possible. I’ll show you one possible explanation.” She had a scarf in her hand, and motioned for me to follow. We crossed before the open balcony to another section of wall, where she pointed to a photo of two men. One was dark-haired, with a pointed, ferret face. Beside him was a younger man, tall and blond, with a prominent jaw and nose.

Chestra touched her finger to a second photo: the same dark-haired man was there; the blond man behind him, a drink tray in one hand, a towel draped over his arm. The dark-haired man was sitting next to a good-looking guy wearing jodhpurs and a leather flight jacket.

Surprised, I said, “That’s Charles Lindbergh,” having already realized who the dark-haired man was.

Chestra said, “That’s right, and Henry Ford’s beside him. I live in Manhattan, so it isn’t snobbery when I say I don’t consider this area to be, well…metropolitan. In those years, though—these photos are from the 1930s and ’40s, I think—Sanibel, Naples, Sarasota were all small towns. Everyone knew each other. The famous and the not- so-famous. Saw each other in stores; went to the same dances.”

I almost asked, but stopped myself. She interpreted my uneasiness correctly, though, and answered. “No, I’m not telling you this stuff from memory. Kiddo, I’m well aware I’m not a girl anymore, but I’m not so blasted old that I was attending dances in nineteen forty.”

She touched her hand to my chest, silencing my apology. “I inherited Marlissa’s diaries. She was a marvelous writer, and I’ve read them all many times.

“That’s how I know that the handsome young blond gentleman in the photo worked as a jack-of-all-trades in the area, including some part-time jobs for the Ford estate. You’ve seen Henry Ford’s house, of course, next to Edison’s estate, on the river in Fort Myers.”

This was like listening to Arlis, but without the irritating jabber.

“The blond gentleman was German. From Munich, I think. His name was Frederick Roth.”

“I see.”

“He was also my aunt Marlissa’s lover—not something she revealed anywhere but in her diary. This was during an era, of course, when it wasn’t proper for young ladies to have lovers.

“Marlissa and Frederick met coincidentally aboard the ocean liner Normandie. They were both making the transatlantic crossing to America to start new lives. He worked in the ship’s kitchen; Marlissa was in a first-class cabin.

“The crossing took several nights in those days, if the weather was bad. And the weather was bad.” Chestra’s expression was dreamy and distant. “Have you seen photographs of the Normandie? She was the most luxurious ship of her time. Marble floors and rare wood; formal dances in halls with orchestras and ice sculptures. My godmother had a sly way of writing. Certain letters meant certain words. It took me years to figure out her…code, would you call it?” The woman smiled. “I gather that Frederick was a very good dancer…and a wonderful lover.”

She added, “The night my aunt was killed, when her boat sank off Sanibel, Frederick was aboard with her. That’s how the story goes, anyway. Marlissa’s body washed up on the beach. His body was never found.”

The woman looked toward the open balcony, hearing storm waves rumble ashore. Her smile became bittersweet: See? Isn’t it romantic?

I still didn’t know why she felt there was some connection with the artifacts. I also wanted to hear why her godmother and lover were twelve miles offshore at night, during a storm. It was a nice story, but it didn’t make sense.

“You’re saying that the Nazi medals we found belonged to Frederick Roth?” I found it improbable. Diamonds weren’t the sort of thing awarded even for combat heroics, and the man in the photograph was too young to earn medals for anything else.

“No. I’m not saying that at all. Frederick and Marlissa came to America a couple of years before the war started.”

“Then I don’t see the connection. He didn’t return to Germany?”

“They both remained in America. He worked, sometimes at the Ford estate, and Marlissa wintered on Sanibel. Sometimes spent the entire year. Here, in this house. They wanted to be married.

“According to Marlissa’s diary, Freddy—that’s the way she referred to him sometimes, ‘Freddy’—he was determined to make a fortune so her family would accept him.” Chestra’s tone became sardonic. “Money is the great unifier, is it not? It’s the only religion that offers heaven on earth.”

Roth believed that Florida real estate was the fastest way to get rich, she told me. During those years, fishing and farming were the main sources of income in the area, supplemented by tourism. Farmland was valuable, bay frontage less so, but it was still much preferred to beachfront.

Because I knew it was true, I nodded as she said, “Apparently, locals thought beach frontage was worthless. It was sandy, hot, buggy. A garden won’t grow near a beach, and you can’t dock a boat because of the waves.”

Tourists liked beaches, though, which is why Roth began to buy up inexpensive beachfront anywhere in Florida he could find it.

“In her diary, Marlissa wrote that Freddy owned ‘miles and miles of the stuff.’ He bought waterfront for as little as ten dollars an acre, and seldom more than fifty dollars an acre. Marlissa kept very accurate records.”

I said, “I don’t understand.”

“Marlissa wanted Frederick to become rich so they could marry. So she loaned him the money. That’s why she kept records. She had an inheritance, and our families have always been…comfortable. Fifty dollars for an acre of beach may not sound like much now, but Frederick was hired help. He made a buck a day.

“I see. He was a hardworking guy in love with an heiress. I still don’t understand, though, why you think there’s a link between the artifacts we found and your godmother’s lover?”

The woman shrugged, and swept her scarf through the air, frustrated. “Oh…I don’t know. Wistful thinking, I guess. Silly hopes? They are from the same era.” She looked toward the balcony again where wind moved the curtains, bare trees visible out there in the darkness.

Theatrical? Once again, I got that impression. The woman could be frank at times, but she also maintained a distance. Drama was an effective shield.

Chestra wasn’t telling me everything. Why? She seemed to lead me close to the truth in the hope I’d provide my own answers. Or that I would discover information that she possessed but didn’t want to share.

I provided her with a possible explanation now. “The fact that Frederick Roth lived in Florida during the war doesn’t mean he wasn’t a Nazi. He could have been a sympathizer. Or an operative sent to gather intelligence for the German regime.” I was referring to the brotherhood I know so well.

I looked at the photo again: an athletic young man serving drinks to two of the most powerful men in America. Add to the mix the famous names Arlis had mentioned: John L. Lewis, Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Edna St. Vincent Millay—all of them living or vacationing on the same rural coastline, in the relaxed atmosphere of palms and