The Heritage Paper

Chapter 17



Veronica pulled off to the side of the road. The sky was bleak and she even noticed a couple of snowflakes float by. It was as if it were a sign that she should turn the vehicle around and not stop until she was curled up beside a fire in her living room.

But Ellen had hooked her with the bait. The Raphael appeared authentic, and if it wasn’t, Ellen sure went through a lot of trouble to find a good knockoff. Not the work of your average dementia sufferer.

“I promised Oma that I wouldn’t discuss the memoir,” Maggie said, sounding like a prisoner of war.

Veronica realized the men were in over their heads in dealing with her daughter. So she took a deep breath and said, “Sweetie, Oma has gone to a better place, so nothing she told you can hurt her anymore. But if we don’t find out what is going on here, more people could get hurt, and that’s the last thing Oma would want.”

“Oma said the reason I can’t say anything is to protect her family, which if you haven’t forgotten, is also my family. We have to trust that she’s going to lead us in the right direction.”

Dead or not, Ellen Peterson was pissing Veronica off. “Trust a woman whose entire life was a lie? If she really wanted to protect her family then she wouldn’t have pulled this stunt!”

“It’s not a stunt. And so far everything she’s said has come true.”

Maggie had a point. But protecting her children was Veronica’s sole mission, and Ellen had compromised it.

Zach must have felt her angst spilling over because he stepped in, “Maggie, it’s very important we locate this memoir you worked on with her. It would help us a lot if you’d tell us where it is.”

“I don’t have it!”

“Maggie!” Veronica shouted out. “Where is the memoir!?”

“I swear I don’t have it,” Maggie squeaked and began to tear up. “There was only one copy and Oma didn’t tell me where it was. She even burned the computer I typed it on.”

The coffee pot fire. Crazy fox strikes again.

Veronica backed off, knowing that Maggie would just shut down if this turned into a screaming match.

Zach took over the questioning, assuming the good cop role, “I believe you, Maggie. But perhaps you remember some of the things she dictated to you when you typed it. Names, places … anything.”

“She didn’t use the real names. Or say what the plan was. And she left it open-ended; she said it would be up to us to write the ending. Hopefully a happy one.”

“I’m not following,” Zach said, his voice remaining calm.

“Oma was worried if I knew the real names and aliases of the Apostles, then it would put me and them in danger. So she dictated it to me in code.”

“So if the memoir is written in code, then Ellen and the other Apostles would be the only people who knew what it meant,” Zach followed up. “I’m not sure how it would be relevant to us, since nobody would understand it except for the inner circle.”

“No—I taught her how to use the ‘find and replace’ option on the computer, so she could put the proper names into the final version. She was able to convert all the code names to the real ones before she printed it. She said it would be a historical record that she’d release when the time is right. And like I told you, only Oma knows where the printed copy is or when she plans to release it.”

“You can’t release something when you’re dead!” Veronica interrupted.

“Everything she said has come true, so I’m not going to start doubting her now,” Maggie shot back.

“She’s not here anymore—I’m sorry, I really am, but this charade is over, Maggie.”

“If it’s such a charade then why are we going to Rhinebeck?”

Good question. “Maybe I’ll turn the car around and we won’t.”

Good cop Zach again interjected, “Do you remember any of the code names she dictated to you, Maggie?”

“I told her to assign a letter like X or Y to each person, but you know Oma, she had to be complicated. So she used her own set of code names—some were short like James and John, but others were weird.”

“Weird how?” Zach inquired.

“Long ones like Thaddeus and James the Less, or something like that.”

Zach and Youkelstein traded glances. Youkelstein began scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. He then held up his pad that read:



1. Peter

2. Andrew

3. James

4. John

5. Philip

6. Bartholomew

7. Thomas

8. James the Less

9. Matthew

10. Simon the Canaanite

11. Judas

12. Thaddeus



“Were these the names?” Youkelstein asked, showing Maggie the pad.

“How’d you know that?” she answered like he’d done a magic trick.

“These are the names of the original Apostles, the followers of Jesus Christ. Bormann had told us that Himmler’s code name was Thomas, but I didn’t see the context back then.”

Zach looked skeptical. “We can play the cryptology game all day, but what we really need to do is locate the memoir.”

Then something hit Veronica. “It’s in our backyard. Maggie buried it this morning. In the time-capsule, you told Eddie that the memoir was in there.”

“Let’s go back,” Zach said with eagerness in his voice.

Youkelstein seconded.

Maggie rolled her eyes, as if to indicate that she couldn’t believe the adults were of the same species as her. “Do you think Oma was that stupid? I didn’t bury an important historical record in our backyard like some dead bird. I just said that to throw people off the right track.”

“To throw who off?” Veronica asked. “We were the only people there.”

“Oma said I shouldn’t trust anyone, even those closest to me.”

“Ellen said you shouldn’t trust us? She was a Nazi for God-sake,” Veronica lashed, immediately regretting the comment.

“Maybe so, but she was also right,” Maggie fought back. “Oma was trying to keep us safe. But knock yourself out … go dig up our backyard. And then we can go tear apart her old room at Sunshine Village, or maybe we can get a court order to dig up the grounds. I’m just a kid, you geniuses can figure it out.”

Veronica did another slow burn. She remembered something she preached to Maggie and Jamie about if they didn’t have anything nice to say, not to say anything at all. And since nobody had anything remotely pleasant to communicate at the moment, no more words were uttered until they pulled into the small Victorian downtown of Rhinebeck.

With a quick check of the rear-view mirror, Veronica noticed that Maggie was staring blankly ahead and gnawing on her lower lip. It was her pet move to indicate anxiety. Jamie pulled on his ear, Picasso batted his tail against the floor, and Maggie gnawed on her lip.

“Mags, it’s not too late to turn around and go sell the painting on eBay. Hitler autographed … I’ll bet that would pay for a lot of double sprinkle ice cream cones at Carvel,” Veronica attempted to comfort.

Maggie smiled. Not at another poor attempt at humor by her mother, but it was a smile of relief—knowing there might be another living organism on the planet who believed her, or at least had her back. It was the best response Veronica could hope for these days. Not those big belly laughs from when Maggie was a toddler that she missed so much.

She parallel-parked the Tahoe on Main Street and entered Flavia’s Art Gallery, not sure what to expect. Maggie and Jamie trailed her, carrying the Raphael, one on each end like it was a couch. A clerk pointed them to Flavia.

When Veronica saw her, she almost fell over.