“Hello, Sylvia,” I said. “This is a coincidence.”

“Hang up the phone,” she said, lifting her hand to reveal a small but lethal gun pointed directly at me.

“Uh, good-bye,” I said into the phone, and put it down on the desk. She followed me inside and nudged the door shut with her hip.

She glanced around. “You’ve cleaned the place up.”

“Yeah,” I said as I carefully backed away from her. “Some slob made a real mess of things.”

“You’re pretty funny for someone facing the wrong end of a gun.” She waved it for emphasis. “Give me the letter.”

“I don’t have it.”

“We both know you’re lying.”

“Why do you think I have it?” I backed up another step, closing in on my worktable where I knew I’d left at least one knife and several bone folders I could use as a weapon. Not that a flimsy bone folder would be much of a match against a gun. And I had no illusions that she wouldn’t use it, since she’d already killed at least two people.

“Because you left a clear message on my husband’s voice mail,” she said. “Must we play this game?”

“You screen your husband’s voice mail?”

“Yes, I do. Otherwise, nothing would be done on time or correctly.”

“Why did you kill Enrico?”

She sighed. “Why do you care? The man was a pig.”

“I’m just wondering what he did to you.”

“He stole from me.”

“You could’ve called the police.”

Her laugh was laced with contempt. “That was Conrad’s solution. Men.”

“Yeah, men are funny.”

“Brooklyn dear, just give me the letter.” She smiled tightly. “I might decide not to kill you if you cooperate.”

“Oh, right.” My heel grazed the leg of the stool. “I hand you the letter and you go your merry way. Why do I not believe you?”

“No, I don’t suppose you should.” She waved the gun in a blasé manner. “But can you blame me? I don’t like being blackmailed.”

“And I didn’t like seeing my beloved friend die in my arms.”

“Ah, your beloved friend, the blackmailer. You saw how far that got him and yet, here you are, trying the same thing.” She shook her head in disappointment. “Just give me the letter now and let’s be done with this nonsense.”

Staring at the gun, I could feel my knees shaking. I could barely swallow, my mouth was so dry. I backed up slowly. She wouldn’t kill me without getting her hands on the letter first, would she?

“Why should I give you the letter when you’re just going to kill me anyway? Besides, do you think I’d be dumb enough to keep it here in my house?”

“You’ll give it to me,” she said.

“But I don’t have it.”

“You’re lying. It’s what you all do. Lies and blackmail. Do you really think I’d allow my family to be blackmailed by the likes of you and that big ape, Abraham? How dare you try to ruin the good name of my family with your little scheme?”

“Actually, I didn’t intend to blackmail your family,” I said as I sidestepped the stool and eased my way back against the worktable. “I just wanted to make you squirm awhile until the police arrested you.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she said with a hiss. Her cheeks were turning an angry shade of red. “You didn’t call the police. You’re a grasping, greedy bitch, trying to make money off the pain of others.”

“I take it Abraham tried the same thing.” I was stalling, leading her on, waiting for a miracle. To keep her talking was all I could think to do.

“He tried-and failed miserably.”

In Gretchen’s letter to her sister Sigrid, she’d bemoaned the fact that Heinrich was putting his own family in jeopardy with his grandiose schemes to save mankind. “Jews, Sigrid, can you make sense of it?” Gretchen had written. “He risks our lives to help Jews!”

Gretchen had gone to Heinrich, insisting that he stop. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. In the letter, Gretchen had suggested that the gardener’s shed held everything she’d need to complete a certain unpleasant but necessary task.

I’d Googled the details of Heinrich Winslow’s death and discovered that he’d died of arsenic poisoning. The date of his death was three days after the date of Gretchen’s letter. The poison was traced to a box of weed killer. Wikipedia claimed that Heinrich’s grieving wife and children went to live with her sister Sigrid in Denmark after his death.

Somehow, Gretchen’s letter had found its way into the secret pocket inside Faust. In my heart, I liked to think her sister Sigrid wanted the truth to be revealed someday.

“I guess it wouldn’t help Heinrich’s heroic reputation,” I said, “if the world knew his wife had been a cowardly anti-Semitic murdering bitch.”

“You think?” Sylvia said snidely. “Oh, I don’t blame her for what she did, but the world would consider her evil. My family’s honor and reputation would be ruined. We would be persona non grata everywhere we went. I can’t allow that.”

“No, that would be unacceptable. Much better just to kill off a few people and hide the truth.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “The man didn’t care about his own family. He had to be the big hero, saving all those Jews.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing.”

“What if he’d been caught? He would’ve been killed on the spot or sent to a camp. Gretchen would’ve been shunned, ridiculed, and left alone to raise four children. Or who knows? Maybe they would’ve sent her to the camps with him. He left her no choice.”

“But to kill him?”

“Yes, and good for her.”

“But she was still left alone anyway,” I said.

“But this way,” Sylvia argued, “her husband died a hero and a good citizen instead of being gassed to death as an enemy of the state. Her reputation was saved.”

“And reputation is everything,” I said.

“Despite what you and my daughter think, yes, reputation is everything.”

I straightened my shoulders. There was no need to be insulting, bunching me in with Meredith. But it was disappointing to know that Meredith was actually a pillar of dignity and honor compared to her mother.

“So if you already read the letter,” I ventured, “why didn’t you destroy it?”

Her nostrils flared like an offended little bull’s. “I didn’t read the letter,” she conceded as she strolled calmly through a patch of sunlight coming through the blinds. “Karastovsky read it over the phone to my husband, then demanded money.”

“And Conrad…”

“Panicked. He told me what the letter said and I told him to calm down. I had to take care of everything.”

“A woman’s work is never done.”

“Exactly,” she said with a sneer. “I called Karastovsky back and told him I’d bring the money the night of the opening.”

“But you didn’t bring money. Just a gun.”

“Right again,” she said. “That big, stupid ox. Did he think I’d allow my family to be shunned and ridiculed because some loathsome cobbler thought he could manipulate us?”

“Cobbler?”

“Oh, whatever.” She waved her gun hand impatiently. “You work with leather. Your hands are dirty. You’re low-class craftspeople.”

Craftspeople. Ouch.

Beyond the insults, none of this made sense. Abraham was wealthy. He didn’t need the money. Why would he resort to blackmail?

A thought sprouted and grew. According to Minka, Abraham and Enrico had begun a collaboration shortly before Abraham was killed. Had Abraham revealed the contents of the letter to Enrico? Had Enrico been the one to attempt blackmail, using Abraham’s name since he’d already burned his own bridges with the Winslows?

The scheme had Enrico’s name all over it.

I wondered.

“So, when you confronted Abraham with the gun the night of the opening, when you accused him of blackmail, what did he say?”

“He denied everything,” she said scornfully. “Said he’d never made the phone call, never demanded money. He whined and cried like a big baby girl. It was disgusting. I’m glad I could put him out of his misery.”