The Heritage Paper

Chapter 57



The modern American family sat at the breakfast table eating eggs and slurping orange juice.

A widow and her mother. A father whose wife was in jail, along with his sweet but anti-social son. Not to mention Picasso, the eccentric feline who was displaying his “catitude”.

Then like the typical family, they’d spend their day trying to get their children back from the Nazis, and hope the ninety-something Nazi hunter didn’t crash Veronica’s car.

The first order of business was for Veronica’s mother to give the blow-by-blow details of Youkelstein’s maladies and how she heroically nursed him back to health. After what she’d just witnessed, Veronica thought she might have done too good of a job.

Youkelstein had filled her in on the details last night. She didn’t look like a total believer, but agreed to take TJ to school today, and watch him afterward until they returned.

TJ didn’t look thrilled by this. Like Maggie, he enjoyed his outcast status. And showing up as the personal guest of the school principal didn’t exactly scream rebel.

“Dad?” he pleaded for help, but got none.

Principal Sweetney stood and dragged TJ to his feet. He looked like a hostage as they headed off for school.

That left just Veronica and Zach. But any thoughts that she might get a brief moment to finish her eggs in peace, quickly evaporated. The election coverage took a small break to mention a story about the oldest living inmate in the state of New York dying last night.

“Rose Shepherd was ninety-nine years old, and had been confined to Bedford Hills prison since 1976 for the murder of Greta Peterson. No cause of death was provided,” said the helmet-haired anchor.

His female partner’s look saddened, and said, “That’s too bad,” totally glossing over the fact that the dear old lady once strangled another woman to death.

Veronica and Zach looked at each other. Sure, she was well past her expiration date, and if we’re all day-to-day, then Rose was minute-by-minute. But this couldn’t be a coincidence.

After scarfing down the remainder of their eggs, they headed to Zach’s car—a silver Audi—and took off for Long Island.

“A German car?” Veronica asked with a half-smile.

“All that stuff your friend Eddie said …”

“I was just teasing—I trust you. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. And for the record, I’m not sure I’d consider Eddie a friend at the moment.”

Zach drove, while Veronica manned the radio. She searched for news on Rose Shepherd, but it was election, election, election. Things were not looking good for Theodore Baer, and the talking heads were predicting a landslide for Kingston. “Amazing what a difference twenty-four hours can make,” one analyst said. “Tell me about it,” Veronica muttered.

They drove onto Sprain Brook Parkway, before merging onto the Hutch. An hour later, they arrived in the quaint village of King’s Point, which sat on the tip of the Great Neck Peninsula. It was filled with palatial estates, wooded parks, and breathtaking water views. It was also the home of the Heyman Funeral Home, which was located in an old colonial house with a white picket fence. Where suburbia comes to die.

While Zach was studying photo after photo last night, something had caught his eye—a photo from the funeral of Ellen’s “chosen” son Josef.

On the surface, it wasn’t very helpful—they didn’t know Josef’s alias, where he’d lived, and so on. But one of the mourners attracted Zach’s attention. Not who he was, or what he looked like. It was what he held in his hand. A paper program. In memoriam. Using a trick TJ taught him, Zach was able to blow the photo to a larger size, while still maintaining clarity, so they could read the writing on the program.

It didn’t give the name the deceased used, but it did give the next best things. Where it took place—the Heyman Funeral home. The city—Kings Point. And the date—September 18, 1972. When they checked, the place was still in business.

They were met in the lobby by a short, chatty woman named Maureen. When she inquired why they were interested in a forty-year-old funeral, Zach made up a story about finding photos in Ellen’s room at Sunshine Village after her death. They were from a memorial service, and listed the date and location of the service, but no name. They wanted to give them to the deceased’s family.

It was a flimsy story, but Maureen bought it. Funeral homes were probably not hotbeds for underworld conspiracies and she had no reason to be suspicious.

She led them to the Records Room, providing a quick tour along the way. Just in case they die today, Veronica guessed, which wasn’t looking that far-fetched the way things were going. There were three chapels, all empty. This made Veronica feel better. The less death today, the better.

They arrived at a small office full of metal file cabinets. Maureen disappeared into a sea of files, while Veronica and Zach waited outside.

Maureen returned about ten minutes later. She had a smile on her face, but Veronica was wary of it. It was similar to Maggie’s “gotchya” look.

“This isn’t about a photo, is it?” she said, eyes latched onto Zach.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”

He hemmed and hawed, before coming clean. “Yes, why do you ask?”

“Because the only funeral that day was for Joseph Kingston, and I’m guessing that you’re doing a story on his son, being what today is and everything.”

“I’m not following,” Veronica said.

“Joseph Kingston’s son is Jim Kingston—you know, the guy running for president.”