It had just been sitting in the drawer the entire time. While Gage knew it might be nothing, he felt as if he were on the verge of a significant discovery.
He opened the book, confirming it was indeed a diary. He thumbed through several hundred pages of Claudia’s thoughts, written in her elegant, near perfect Kurrentschrift script in black ink.
Downstairs, Gage brewed a pot of coffee and began to read.
* * *
Rather than skim the diary, Gage read it in its entirety. The diary only covered Claudia’s last two months of life, making Gage wonder where her other diaries were. There was precious little to be gained from the first half of diary. In fact, much of it was poetic, probably written as a release for the sick woman.
In one entry from a week before her death, Claudia openly lamented about her decision to cut her daughters from their inheritance, asking herself, “What if their claims are true? What have I done? Am I a monster? Do I somehow blame them for all that happened?”
Then, as Gage neared the end, he lost hope for anything else useful.
That was, until he turned to the final pages, reading her last entry, from the day of her death:
My American friend, Gage, has left for the day. He’s traveled to visit a friend of his, a career criminal who Gage claims is a “decent man.” Oh, how I adore such intrigue. Perhaps if I were morally upright I’d be revolted by such talk, but I cannot help but find such a rendezvous fascinating. I’ll readily admit, I’m jealous and wish I could be a fly on the wall.
Because I’m not, because I am here and alone with thoughts, today finds me struggling with a critical decision I made. Karl’s body suffered a mutilation at the time of his killing. It was a grotesque and vile wound, clearly enacted in revenge for something Karl did of a sexual nature. But I’ve always wondered of the veracity of the accusations against him. Such a purposeful wound seems almost too obvious, a clumsy sleight of hand. Could it have been enacted to turn the blame toward the girls?
Since it’s not come out by now, I’m confident the pathologist has kept this secret quiet. Olga isn’t a worry. She’s among the most faithful ever to work in our employ. I’ve never told another soul about what was done to Karl, nor do I plan to. If I did, I’d tell my American friend, if only to prove the murder was indeed a murder. But I’m rather proud that I was able to convince him without such a vile discussion.
For now, I shall correspond by telephone with several people. Michael Boden called earlier. I’m sure he wants something; he always wants something. (Ha!) Thomas has requested to see me, but I’m just not sure I’m up to it. The talk of his troubled daughter and his moribund wife is always so exhausting. I hope he’ll forgive me.
Today hasn’t been the best of days. Perhaps tomorrow will be better.
It will be if Gage gives me the nitty-gritty of his meeting with the career criminal…
Gage focused on the final entry, reading and rereading. So, the pathologist had been telling the truth. And Claudia had kept the entire affair quiet. What an amazing woman, despite the fact that Gage didn’t exactly agree with her actions. He touched the manuscript, allowing his finger to feel the indentations of Claudia’s final words. He could even imagine her penning this in—
Everything suddenly stopped. It was as if a guillotine sliced off time itself. Gage’s index finger remained on one single word.
Snippets of things said and done came back to him. Moments with Claudia…
Moments with others…
Sheriff picked up on the electricity of the moment, reading his master. The dog stood, eyeing Gage intently. Gage stood, too. He walked to the window and peered outside, eventually reminding himself to breathe.
After a check of his watch, Gage retrieved the Heckler P9 pistol. He chambered a round and left the hammer cocked. Then he slowly exited the manor house, leaving Sheriff inside.
Gage didn’t have to walk very far.
* * *
Adjacent to the barn was the workshop where Thomas the caretaker spent most of his time. Gage heard Thomas tinkering but still approached with caution. Pistol behind his back, Gage crossed the rear yard and the garden path, staying to the left so Thomas wouldn’t see him approach. When he reached the workshop, Gage peered through the window, spotting the caretaker at his workbench, his back to Gage. A radio played softly.
Gage stepped through the open door and spoke in a clear voice. “Thomas.”
The caretaker straightened and turned. In his hand was a screwdriver. He seemed to read the expression on Gage’s face. “What can I help you with, Gage?”
“You can answer a question for me.”
“Alright.”
Gage took a step closer. “First, Thomas, put down that screwdriver and turn off the radio.”
It seemed Thomas had forgotten he was holding the screwdriver. He gently placed it on the workbench, flipped the switch on the radio, and clasped both hands in front of his body. Thomas took a steeling breath as if he knew what was coming.
“Thomas, this is a big question.”
“Please, ask it.”
“Did you kill Karl Vogel?”
“Yes, Gage, I most certainly did.”
Gage couldn’t believe the words that had just touched his ears. He also couldn’t indulge himself right now—not at this precipice. With some difficulty, he moistened his mouth.
“Would you mind telling me why?”
“No, sir. Although I can’t fully explain my state at the time, I can say with certainty that I wasn’t in my right mind when I did it.”
“Explain, please.”
