The Heritage Paper

Chapter 18



Veronica had never felt such rage pulsing through her veins. And she wasn’t sure why. At the end she made up any excuse not to be with him. Their love had long fizzled and they’d entered that zone they never thought they would enter—staying together for the kids—even if they never had an official conversation about it.

Flavia appeared older than Veronica, probably in her mid-forties, but it was only a small victory. She was a striking beauty.

“Can I help you?” she asked, and flashed the most perfect smile that Veronica had ever seen. Although, it probably wouldn’t look so good with a few missing teeth, she thought.

“I’m Veronica Peterson … Carsten’s wife.”

Flavia took a step back and froze. They stared at each other, remaining as still as the many sculptures that filled the gallery.

“Do you two know each other?” Zach asked the obvious.

“Yeah,” Veronica began, “Flavia was the one who …”

She caught a glimpse of Maggie and Jamie, still holding on tightly to the priceless painting, and looking intently at their lunatic mother. They worshiped their father, and she wanted them to hang onto that myth for the rest of their lives—no different than Santa Claus, even if Santa ran around behind Mrs. Claus back and once socked her in her rosy cheek.

“Why don’t we talk in my office?” Flavia read the situation perfectly. There would be no winner in a public display.

Veronica followed her into a cramped office and closed the door behind them. Flavia offered Veronica a seat, but she chose to stand. If she asked her to stand, she would have sat. The return of her old stubbornness made her feel nostalgic.

Even the name Flavia sounded exotic—just the opposite of Carsten’s simple family life with the cookie-cutter wife and two kids. At least she didn’t have to wonder what he saw in her.

When Veronica hired that investigator to follow Carsten—she still couldn’t believe she did that—the PI asked her if she wanted him to dig further, such as name, address, and whether or not she had a spouse. But Veronica declined. The pictures of the two of them sneaking into motels was enough. Veronica didn’t want revenge—just a boring divorce. But before she could summon the strength to address him, their split became permanent.

“Did Carsten tell you about us?” Flavia got right to the point.

Veronica was thrown off by the honesty. “No.”

“We decided it was best not to tell anyone. It was too dangerous to involve others. So if Carsten held his end of the bargain, how did you find out?”

The part he failed to live up to was their wedding vows. “I had you followed,” Veronica said and felt guilty about it. She didn’t know why—she was the victim here.

Flavia took a seat behind her cluttered desk. “Wow, he really had you pegged.”

“Excuse me?”

“Carsten and I spent a lot of time together. He opened up to me about a lot of things, including you. Said you changed over the years. That you weren’t the same girl he’d married.”

“I’m surprised you had time to talk.”

Flavia’s face turned quizzical. “What exactly do you think went on between me and your husband?”

“Don’t try to play innocent—I saw the photos.”

“I don’t know what photos you’re talking about, but I doubt they show me and Carsten engaging in inappropriate behavior … at least not the kind you’re thinking of.”

Maybe not, but you didn’t have to be a genius to figure out what went on once they entered those motel rooms together. Besides, what hurt Veronica the most was the way Carsten looked at Flavia in the photos. It was the way he used to look at her—when they were in love. What defines cheating has always been a big fat gray area.

“What your husband and I were doing is none of your business. What is relevant is that I respect people’s marriages, even a complete unmitigated disaster like yours was.”

Flavia stood and clanked around the office in her expensive heels. The rest of the ensemble didn’t appear to be cheap, either. It looked like she leaped off the cover of some fall fashion magazine—a shiny silk blouse and a beige, knee-length pencil-skirt.

“So what inspired you to come face me, Veronica … after all this time?”

It was obvious that Flavia had no idea as to why they were here. So Veronica played along, “I was curious about the change in my husband’s demeanor at the end of his life. And since he didn’t talk to me, I figured I’d go see the one person he did discuss things with. And I’m glad I did, because I learned that I was the one who changed, not him.”

“Have you met your therapist’s benchmarks yet, so that we can end this meeting?”

“Not until you tell me how you met my husband. And if you weren’t screwing, I think I have the right to know why he was sneaking around with you in those motel rooms.”

“Like I said, it’s none of your business. Not that it would change anything, anyway.”

“It might not be my business, but your business is art, correct?”

She looked confused. “I own this gallery, so I think that goes without saying.”

“Have you ever heard of a painting called Portrait of a Young Man by Raphael?”

“I’ve heard of Raphael, of course, but not that specific painting. I’ve never claimed to be an aficionado. My gallery is made up mostly of contemporary work by local artists. Monet and Raphael don’t usually grace our walls.”

“Portrait of a Young Man was stolen by the Nazis. It’s been missing since 1939. But today it came into my possession, along with this.”

Veronica handed over the note that instructed them to come here. Flavia studied it, as if trying to detect a hidden meaning.

“My coming here has nothing to do with Carsten and whatever you did or didn’t do. I didn’t even know your name before I arrived. I’m here because of Ellen Peterson—she’s responsible for that note.”

“The woman who raised him? He talked about her a lot. How did she know about me?”

“I was hoping you could answer that. She was found dead this morning at the retirement community where she lived. But not before she alleged to be a Nazi who was part of a group that had infiltrated America after the war. So how about you stop playing games with us, Flavia?”

She returned to her chair, appearing to be troubled by the words. “I never met Ellen.”

“But you know about her from Carsten.”

“And she obviously knew about me.”

“Why did Ellen send us to you? There must be a reason.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I don’t know, but there are people willing to go to great lengths to make sure this group Ellen speaks of remains a mystery.”

“Who are these people?” Veronica pushed.

“The same people who killed Carsten.”