Three hours later, a foggy Gage awoke, ate a light lunch and showered. He opened the airline app on his phone, double checking his departure time tomorrow morning. Yes, he’d done everything correctly, despite his fatigue. Tomorrow, he and Sheriff would depart Frankfurt at 9:55 A.M. He’d be home by dinner and was excited to see the Hunters, who he planned to surprise with his homecoming. Doing so would also prevent him from having to explain everything to Colonel Hunter on the phone. Gage would rather do it in person—and right now he didn’t have the energy or motivation to call.
Of course, he knew he was leaving behind a mess here, but what could he do? This wasn’t his family and he had no legal recourse whatsoever. He couldn’t even go to the police and tip them off that Claudia believed her husband had been murdered. Well, he could, but he’d be going against her wishes by doing so. He wasn’t about to do that. It was best that he leave the remaining choices to the Vogel daughters.
Perhaps his greatest regret was the fact that he would miss Claudia’s funeral. But Gage correctly predicted that the ceremony, even if there were one, would be riddled with dysfunction.
In his estimation, his only remaining move was departing post haste. The daughters and the estate could do battle behind their platoons of attorneys. None of that was Gage’s affair. He’d even been paid up through the weekend so, other than the last minute plane ticket he’d just paid through the nose for, he was owed nothing.
And if Karl Vogel had been in bed with some global pharmaceutical dealer/shitbag who went by the arrogant moniker of Il Magnifico, then, so be it.
It’s not my problem, he told himself. Not—my—problem.
Au contraire, mon ami.
Just as Gage thought about the first things he’d do back in North Carolina, he noticed the display light up on his silenced phone. It was the gate guard calling.
“Hello?”
“Gage, Boris Oppenheimer is here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Boris Oppenheimer. He’s one of Frau Vogel’s attorneys.”
“Jeez, that didn’t take long,” Gage said, raking his fingers back through his hair. “Is he here to meet with the daughters?”
“No, sir. He said he needs a private meeting with you. He said he’s called your phone several times. Says it’s urgent.”
Gage shook his head, exasperated. “Okay, send him to the manor house.”
Still a bit groggy, he put Sheriff into Claudia’s room, walked downstairs and prepared a pot of coffee. Gage had just flipped the switch on the Rancilio coffee machine when the deep bell reverberated through the house. Upon opening the front door, he was taken aback by the appearance of Boris Oppenheimer, esquire. For whatever reason, the man’s name had presaged an aged man in Gage’s mind. Boris wasn’t aged.
In fact, Gage wondered if the lawyer was 25.
He was short and squat, with a chubby face and a severe part extremely low on the left side of his head. His caramel hair shined with gel, and his brown eyes seemed quite small behind his round, smudged spectacles. Boris looked as if he’d just come from changing a flat tire. He wore a deep gray 3-piece pinstripe suit that appeared to have been poorly packed in a suitcase. His slate bowtie, patterned with a dash of red, was crooked and uneven. On his small feet were black oxfords, both of which appeared to have been shined with a Hershey bar. In his left hand was a matching black briefcase. It was so beaten it might have been thrown from the window of a fast-moving car. But from the neck up, with his flushed cheeks, Boris appeared bright and lively and rearing to go.
When he spoke perfect English, he sounded as if he were from London’s west end. “Mister Hartline, I presume?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Boris Oppenheimer,” he said, handing Gage what was once a white business card with shiny, raised ink lettering. The corners were dog-eared and there were several smudges on each side. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, sir, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Gage glanced at the card, noting that Boris practiced in Frankfurt. After sliding the card into his pocket, Gage shook Boris’ hand and invited him in.
“Coffee?”
“That would be splendid.”
“Anything in it?”
“Do you have cream?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll add it. Just bring it with the coffee, please.”
Gage seated Boris in the den. In the center of the room, there were four leather love seats in a square, surrounding a square table made entirely of copper. It was Gage’s second favorite room in the house. He went to the kitchen and retrieved two mugs of coffee from the still-brewing pot, mumbling to himself about having ever accepted this cockamamie job. Instead of putting the cream in the matching ceramic creamer, he wedged the unopened container under his arm, formalities be damned. Lastly, he pinched a spoon and napkin beside Boris’ mug. After returning to the den in precarious fashion, Gage placed one of the mugs and the cream in front of the attorney before taking up a seat across the square table.
“I’ve always found this an interesting room,” Boris said, glancing around. The room was decorated as if it were in a western United States lodge, with plenty of wood, browns and nature scenes. The den had a pool table and a bar in the far corner.
“Boris, have you heard about Frau Vogel?”
A sober nod. “Indeed. Please accept my condolences.” Boris then poured the cream toward his mug, spilling half the pour on the table.
“Need a paper towel?”
“I’ve got it,” Boris answered, using the napkin. He then proceeded to spill hot coffee on his shirt and vest.
Any other time Gage would have
