A Secret To Tell You

Chapter 3

Unable to settle down after Quinn Santini left, April spent a good hour mulling over why the man and his grandmother would even consider paying for property that belonged to them. Or at least, belonged to Norma.

As April had been the one to approach them about the letters, she would’ve thought Quinn was more likely to threaten to sue her for their return than pay her.

Eric’s boss—April understood his willingness to shell out the bucks. Knowing Eric as well as she did, she figured he’d probably built the letters into a promised scandal. The lengths to which Eric’s editor was willing to go was further proof that politics was a messy business. She’d checked the newspaper online and read back issues. There were editorials against Quinn’s platform and twice as many supporting his opponent.

So much for unbiased reporting.

But it was Quinn and Norma’s reaction that April found bizarre. It bothered her so much, she let it disrupt her plan to catch up on paperwork tonight.

Of the two Santinis, Quinn had been the one most visibly upset at the existence of the letters. Thinking back to when she’d blurted out the reason for her visit to their home, April recalled Mrs. Santini’s face. Unless her memory was completely off base, Norma had been shocked, but overjoyed, too. Then why had Quinn been so anxious to lay hands on the letters? He’d been willing to scrap what he’d declared to be an important previous engagement. Were the Santinis trying to protect themselves—or the identity of the letter writer?

April went back to her laptop. A college friend had located her birth mother through an Internet search. April didn’t know where to start. In France, perhaps. Darn, what was the name of that city?

It eluded her, and she didn’t own an atlas. Since she lived in the homes she remodeled, she never kept a lot of extraneous stuff. As a rule she scoured flea markets for a sparse quantity of furniture that would show well when she was ready to sell the house.

Scrolling through possible sites, April found a map of France. She hoped the city jotted on the back of Norma’s snapshot would jump out at her. But the print on the map was so small, she couldn’t place anything. And she’d forgotten her printer was on the fritz and that she’d dropped it off at the computer store for repair last week.

Giving up, she stored the map until she could remember the town. Instead, she Googled missing-person sites. Two that she checked out charged a hefty fee. And even to start, they wanted more information than a name, although one site said they’d work from a name and last-known location. Although disappointed that she didn’t seem to be making any headway, she typed in Heinz von Weisenbach’s name and requested a general search. No matches came up. She tried adding France. To her astonishment, two H. von Weisenbachs popped up. She bookmarked the site in case she wanted to go back at a later date. The first listing was a dud. It took her to a family-owned landscape-architect business in Mulhouse, France. April was positive that wasn’t the right city. The blurb listed a Web address should viewers want virtual examples of the family’s work. She scrolled on, muttering, “Sorry, folks. Your company’s a bit too far away to handle my landscaping needs.”

A double click on the second name took her to a U.S. military site with short paragraphs on medal recipients from various wars. Recipients were listed alphabetically. Her excitement quickly fizzled when she saw that this Heinz von Weisenbach, although in a correct age range, must’ve been an American. He’d been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal for meritorious service—a medal authorized by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Unwilling to give up, April returned to the professional search site. Muttering, “what the heck,” she typed in her credit card information, followed by von Weisenbach’s name and last-known location as simply France. Satisfied that she’d done the most she could toward solving the mystery of the man in the photograph, April exited the site, and set the laptop on her nightstand.

She’d wasted enough time for one day on Norma and Quinn Santini. Still too restless to dig into boring paperwork but wide awake, she decided to work on something more immediate than worrying about a stranger’s old love letters. She went back to sanding pieces of cove molding that needed to be stained and nailed back up in the dining room. After a light sanding and brushing, she rummaged around until she found a small can of stain mixed to match the built-in cabinets.

Her watch indicated nearly 1:00 a.m. before she finished the chore, cleaned her brush and set the molding on sawhorses to dry.

Her busywork hadn’t produced the hoped-for effect. Long after she went to bed, her mind wouldn’t shut down. She continued to fret over the letters so many people desired. Quinn and Norma Santini. Eric Lathrop. And Eric’s boss. Not for the first time, April wished she had a better command of German.

The last time she looked, her bedside clock read three forty-five.

In spite of an almost-sleepless night, April rose early the next morning. Refusing to ruin another day by dwelling on Santini, his family or the letters, April dressed and brewed a pot of her favorite hazelnut coffee. She prepared cinnamon toast and munched on it while the coffee finished dripping through the French press. The French press reminded her of those blasted letters.

Gazing out the window above the sink, she was glad to see that although the sky was overcast, the rain had apparently blown out to the coast before dawn. That was the usual pattern for fall storms sweeping up from the south. The squalls came and went quickly this time of year.

When she’d poured herself a cup of the rich, dark, nutty-tasting coffee, she strolled in to check the cove molding. The stain had dried and looked terrific. Balancing her cup on a nearby sawhorse, she got busy nailing the moldings around the newly painted and wallpapered, dining room. This was the stage of remodeling April loved most, when rooms she’d visualized for so long came together. In this case, she’d waited six months for Robyn to locate period wallpaper that closely resembled the paper she’d uncovered beneath three layers of newer wall coverings. The wait had been worth it. It was these extra touches that had buyers standing in line for one of her finished houses.

After her last project had been featured in the real estate section of syndicated papers in Virginia, Maryland and D.C., her mom finally began to pay attention to April’s enterprise. So much so, that at the last family gathering, Bonnie Trent had even ventured faint praise. Unlike the cutting remarks leveled by April’s snobbish sisters-in-law or the outright denigrating comments made by her brothers.

Midway through the painstaking task of fitting corner molding, the growl of a car engine forced April to scramble off her ladder, parting the plastic to peer out the living room window. The sight of a big black Lincoln Town Car idling in her driveway rattled April for a frantic second. Her immediate reaction, foolish though it might be, was that Quinn Santini had sent a hit man after her.

Her panic subsided the minute an elderly stoop-shouldered gentleman wearing a chauffeur’s cap climbed from the car and opened the back door. April identified the woman who emerged—and stifled the hysterical giggles as her exaggerated fear gave way to relief.

Still, seeing Norma Santini arriving here at all—let alone in such style—was a shock. Especially, dressed as she was today in square-toed boots, jeans and a rather ordinary car coat. April was caught off guard, and yet curiosity sent her scurrying to her door.

“Oh, good, you’re home,” Norma said brightly as she glanced up. She’d been taking in her surroundings, paying little heed to the mud puddles along the unfinished drive. “I expected to see this place crawling with workmen. Except for the new shake roof, the old place looks much the same as I remember it.”

“I generally work alone, except for a few specialized projects and for those I hire craftsmen,” April said, talking too quickly. “I stay true to the period of the home, but I do make some changes. For instance, I open up small, dark rooms and create larger ones with more light. Homes built back then didn’t have the open spaces we prefer now.”

Norma paused on the lowest step and made a second slow circuit to look around. “I see you also opened up the front and made the house more visible from the road than it used to be. I cleared the area near the house to plant a big garden. I liked the privacy provided by the trees between the house and the road.” She made a sweep with her right hand. “That’s where I hung at least a dozen bird feeders. A useless attempt to keep the pests from eating my corn and tomatoes. This land is on a flyway, so we were inundated with migrating flocks.”

“Oh, that explains the birds’ names on those papers stuck between the letters.”

Norma spun back around and gave April a quizzical look. “Ah…I believe one bird was the oriole,” April quickly mumbled. “I forget the other.”

“Hmm. As you might guess, the letters are why I’m here.”

“I’m sorry you made the trip across town for nothing. I don’t have them. I left them in town, Mrs. Santini. But don’t worry. They’re locked in a friend’s office safe.”

Wind ruff led strands of white hair around a narrow face that fell noticeably at April’s news.

That prompted her to add, “I plan to run into town this afternoon to visit a brick mason—I want him to enclose carriage lamps I bought to flank each side of the drive.” April’s gesture encompassed a muddy circle cordoned off for the drive. “If you think you’ll be home around…say, three,” she said, “I’ll bring you the letters.”

“So…I assume you’ve decided on a price?”

“What? No. Mrs. Santini, I tried to tell you yesterday, I don’t want anything. I realize I lost my temper. Twice—once with your grandson—and I apologize. But please understand…no one has ever accused me of attempted blackmail before. He also insinuated that I was a gold digger,” April said with a sigh. “I’m sure he repeated every word of our shouting match.”

Apparently tuning April out, Norma ran a hand over the brick-and-mortar siding. “I was wrong to send Quinn out here,” she murmured. “This farm has no place in his memories. Not the way it does for me. Perhaps you’re one of the few people who can appreciate how difficult it was for Anthony to scrounge the materials to build this house before the war ended. He did the majority of the work, since most builders were off fighting. This house was little more than a shell when we got married and he brought me here.” She shook her head. “We moved only five years later. I hated to leave.”

“Mrs. Santini, since you’re here would you like to have a look inside?” April jerked a thumb over her shoulder toward the partially finished interior.

“I’d like that very much. But please, call me Norma.”

“Norma, then. The carpeting hasn’t been installed, and I have no window coverings yet. I uncovered the most marvelous wood floors in the bedrooms when I pulled out the old carpet. The smallest of the three bedrooms has different wood from the other two. It’s lovely—quite unique. Perhaps you’ll know if it’s a local hardwood.”

Following April inside, Norma took care to scrape the mud off her boots, even though April assured her she’d have to clean many times before having new carpet laid.

Once inside, Norma stood completely still, saying over and over, “Oh my, oh my.”

“The wall I removed separated a tiny room from the living area. These days a lot of people need a home office, and I thought it’d be perfect as a work-space alcove. I’ll install beveled-glass French doors here.” April traced out an area. “This was the wall where I found the letters. Without it, I imagine the room looks very different from what you remember.”

April retrieved her coffee mug from the sawhorse. Lifting it, she spoke into the lengthening silence. “Could I get you some coffee, Norma?”

“What? Oh, I’d love some. I feel…light-headed. I’m afraid I simply wasn’t prepared for all these memories.”

“Do you need to sit? I’ll help you into the kitchen. That and my bedroom are the only rooms I’ve furnished in order to live and work here.” She led the older woman to the breakfast nook and pulled out a chair. Hurrying over to the carafe, April poured a mug full of coffee and returned to put it in Norma’s cold hands.

“You asked about the flooring in the smallest bedroom,” Norma said, after taking a bracing sip of coffee. “Yellow poplar. The only stand that’s left, I believe, is in Ramsey’s Draft Wilderness area.” She pointed out the window. “That room ended up being Brett’s nursery.” Norma set down her mug, crossed her arms and rubbed her sleeves as if warding off a chill.

But she’d never removed her quilted coat and she wore a turtleneck sweater underneath. Seeing the home had obviously been overwhelming. April urged her to drink more of her coffee.

That did seem to help Norma’s color. Rather than remain seated, however, she rose and went to examine the kitchen. “You’ve done a wonderful job with the cabinets. What I wouldn’t have given back then to have this kitchen.”

“You didn’t have a cook?” That surprised April.

“Heavens, no. Tony owned this land, but not much else. As I said, construction materials came at a premium. He had some savings when he retired as an army major and that’s what he used. We’d both left the OSS by then, so for a time we had no income.”

“OSS?” Slipping in behind Norma as she left the kitchen, April wondered what that was. She’d never heard of it before.

“Yes, dear. The Office of Strategic Services. But you’re probably too young to be familiar with it. The OSS was the forerunner to our current CIA. It’s how I met Tony. Of course, then I didn’t know his name, nor he mine. He was one of several officers picked to train agents. And I was one of a few select women who ended up wearing many faces, my dear.”

April gulped, afraid that Norma might be delusional. And as the old woman moved slowly from room to room, murmuring to herself, it was as if she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. She let old memories unfold in almost a whisper. “In 1943 I was a blissfully naive eighteen. I’d completed a year at Barnard, then attended finishing school abroad. I loved Europe. My father was an international banker, and throughout my teen years we spent a month here or there in France, Germany, Italy. All before the war broke out. When it did, my parents called me home. I was eager to do something to help the war effort—anything except fill cocktail glasses at the parties my parents held to raise money for the troops. I guess that made me the perfect OSS candidate.”

Pausing at the door to one of the empty bedrooms, Norma turned and walked back to the living room, April not far behind.

Nervous, April bit her lip, but said nothing to interrupt Norma’s soft flow of words. She was intrigued, but also wasn’t sure any of this was true. But…maybe it was.

“A general who often attended Father’s evening fundraisers was interested to learn that I’d traveled extensively abroad. And that I was fluent in several languages. At one party he pulled me aside and asked questions in French, Italian and German. I have an aptitude for languages. And before he left that night, he slipped me a business card. He said he had a job for me in Washington.”

Norma stopped in front of the massive fireplace and ran her fingers over the oak mantel, but continued to ramble. “The war changed everyone. Under normal circumstances my parents would never have approved of me working, other than at home for Father. But my older brother and his friends had shipped out to England. Mother’s women’s group helped by rolling bandages, which I found too tame.”

She crossed to stare out the side window. “At the time I put the general’s card in my pocket and agreed to an interview. I told my parents that at most I’d be answering phones, filing or typing in some moldy back office on Capitol Hill. It turned out the general was recruiting me to be a specialized support person in Europe. To be extra eyes and ears for a newly formed counterintelligence unit, he said. I wasn’t allowed to tell a soul, my parents included. Real names weren’t spoken aloud.” She turned toward April and sighed. “A dashing and very attractive officer, whose name I learned much later was Anthony Santini, assigned us code names. Mine was Oriole. He and our other trainers were older and far more experienced than I was. They were so impressive and very serious. I spent weeks in awe of them.”

April remembered the page tucked among the letters addressed to Oriole from Kestrel. April guessed Tony Santini might be Kestrel. So, if Norma’s story wasn’t a figment of her imagination, the scrambled letters on the pages she’d seen could be secret, encrypted messages.

April injected her first comment in a while. “When I was in college, I read a biography of the Countess Romanones, who supposedly worked as a clerk in a U.S. company with offices abroad. Part of her job was actually to decode intercepted enemy messages.”

Norma’s head shot up. “I did that for a few months. I was used to helping my father with his banking, and I discovered I was good at unscrambling codes. Things moved fast, though, and I was transferred to Morale Operations, later called psychological warfare. We disseminated propaganda, so I began delivering messages to field agents, as well. I was taught to kill swiftly and silently when necessary—but fortunately it wasn’t necessary, not for me. Still, a difficult lesson for a refined former debutante. It was far easier to act like a silly young woman out for a good time. In those situations I was expected only to store the conversations taking place around me in a number of languages. Although sometimes that had serious consequences, too,” she said, her eyes blanking momentarily.