what’s here. Also, two recent murders stoked my interest.”
Royce paled and caught himself. What is it, I wonder? Fear, guilt, compassion, anger?
“I’m sorry that it takes two murders to get the media interested in an historic California town,” he says. His tone is peevish and I realize he’s angry. “I wouldn’t have thought the Monroe paper would be in the ‘if it bleeds, it leads’ category.”
“It’s not just the murders,” I say. Now, quick, how to backtrack and get on this guy’s good side. It never helps to have any source think you’re part of the sensational tabloids.
“Ever since your grandfather died, I’ve spent time in the San Juan Room of our library, reading about the town and your family. I didn’t know that the Senator was from Marshalltown, and I’m sure our readers didn’t either. I’m still not sure what I want to do with all this information, but I’d like to have as much as possible. We may do a special section on the Senator and his Marshalltown background.”
It isn’t a lie, just a little quick thinking. I don’t know what I have in mind but I want to leave options. Anything for the Press will have to be run by the brothers so I can use them as the heavies for the decisions of what or what not to print. And anything I can glean for the possible book can be vetted later.
Royce relaxes and half smiles. “I didn’t mean to be cranky. I’ve been trying for the past three years to get some paper or magazine or TV show interested in coming up here to learn about us. No one’s come. Suddenly, bam. Two bodies and we’re on the tour.”
“We do want to know about the murders.” It’s Clarice, she’s back. “Both Baldwin and Boxer had ties to the hotel, right?”
“Joe Baldwin died in the hotel, that’s right,” says Royce, tensing again. “I let him sleep in the lobby area while it’s under construction. I called him the night watchman, but it was just so he didn’t think it was charity. He was usually too drunk to watch anything.
“Janice Boxer died after showing a cabin in the mountains. Her car went off the road. There’s a rumor going around that she was dead before that, so I guess the sheriff’s calling it murder. I knew her because she’s the one who helped me buy the hotel.”
Ha, now we’re getting there.
“One of the things I’d like to know is why you bought the hotel. Maybe even further back, why’d your family sell it?” I ask. “I know somebody else built the original, but your family owned it, and practically the town, for more than 100 years. What happened?”
“The Second World War happened,” Royce says.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Illinois, 1945
Henry Blomberg lied about his age. He was 17 when he joined the U.S. Army.
It wasn’t unusual during World War II, but Blomberg joined the Army in the fall of 1945. And Blomberg wasn’t an American.
Henry Blomberg had been born Heinrich Blumenberg in Heidelberg, Germany, in 1928. The Blumenbergs had lived in the city for better than 400 years and prospered through banking and trade. Heinrich’s father, Walter, was an academic, using his family’s money to pay for the big house below the castle.
It was a comfortable life. Servants took care of the family’s needs with the quietness of the fog off the river. The Blumenbergs tended to their art, music, philanthropies, friends and their children. Walter used some of his family’s vast art collection—including a Bruegal, a small Rembrandt and three Durer etchings—in his teaching. A Leonardo da Vinci working sketch held the place of honor in a drawing room and student tours always ended there
Heinrich was the baby and spoiled by everybody in the house. There was always someone around to read to him, play with him, take him down to the cathedral square for a frosted ginger cake.
When Heinrich was four, Germany got a new chancellor. Walter said that this chancellor was just an aberration.
“After all,” he said,
Royce paled and caught himself. What is it, I wonder? Fear, guilt, compassion, anger?
“I’m sorry that it takes two murders to get the media interested in an historic California town,” he says. His tone is peevish and I realize he’s angry. “I wouldn’t have thought the Monroe paper would be in the ‘if it bleeds, it leads’ category.”
“It’s not just the murders,” I say. Now, quick, how to backtrack and get on this guy’s good side. It never helps to have any source think you’re part of the sensational tabloids.
“Ever since your grandfather died, I’ve spent time in the San Juan Room of our library, reading about the town and your family. I didn’t know that the Senator was from Marshalltown, and I’m sure our readers didn’t either. I’m still not sure what I want to do with all this information, but I’d like to have as much as possible. We may do a special section on the Senator and his Marshalltown background.”
It isn’t a lie, just a little quick thinking. I don’t know what I have in mind but I want to leave options. Anything for the Press will have to be run by the brothers so I can use them as the heavies for the decisions of what or what not to print. And anything I can glean for the possible book can be vetted later.
Royce relaxes and half smiles. “I didn’t mean to be cranky. I’ve been trying for the past three years to get some paper or magazine or TV show interested in coming up here to learn about us. No one’s come. Suddenly, bam. Two bodies and we’re on the tour.”
“We do want to know about the murders.” It’s Clarice, she’s back. “Both Baldwin and Boxer had ties to the hotel, right?”
“Joe Baldwin died in the hotel, that’s right,” says Royce, tensing again. “I let him sleep in the lobby area while it’s under construction. I called him the night watchman, but it was just so he didn’t think it was charity. He was usually too drunk to watch anything.
“Janice Boxer died after showing a cabin in the mountains. Her car went off the road. There’s a rumor going around that she was dead before that, so I guess the sheriff’s calling it murder. I knew her because she’s the one who helped me buy the hotel.”
Ha, now we’re getting there.
“One of the things I’d like to know is why you bought the hotel. Maybe even further back, why’d your family sell it?” I ask. “I know somebody else built the original, but your family owned it, and practically the town, for more than 100 years. What happened?”
“The Second World War happened,” Royce says.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Illinois, 1945
Henry Blomberg lied about his age. He was 17 when he joined the U.S. Army.
It wasn’t unusual during World War II, but Blomberg joined the Army in the fall of 1945. And Blomberg wasn’t an American.
Henry Blomberg had been born Heinrich Blumenberg in Heidelberg, Germany, in 1928. The Blumenbergs had lived in the city for better than 400 years and prospered through banking and trade. Heinrich’s father, Walter, was an academic, using his family’s money to pay for the big house below the castle.
It was a comfortable life. Servants took care of the family’s needs with the quietness of the fog off the river. The Blumenbergs tended to their art, music, philanthropies, friends and their children. Walter used some of his family’s vast art collection—including a Bruegal, a small Rembrandt and three Durer etchings—in his teaching. A Leonardo da Vinci working sketch held the place of honor in a drawing room and student tours always ended there
Heinrich was the baby and spoiled by everybody in the house. There was always someone around to read to him, play with him, take him down to the cathedral square for a frosted ginger cake.
When Heinrich was four, Germany got a new chancellor. Walter said that this chancellor was just an aberration.
“After all,” he said,
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