Mahogany Row Studio

Fiction and other Writings

Posted by Rob Kempinski on Mar 27 2009

On occasion I’ll post musings and other writing, including fiction, in this area.

“I couldn’t put it down.” Larry Bond, best selling author of Red Storm Rising, The Vortex and many others.

If you like non-stop action and books dealing with contemporary issues like terrorism, the FBI and special task forces, the politics of multinational trade, the sickly American balance of trade, the Yakuza, and a global setting you might like the novel my brother and I just self-published. Here’s the synopsis:

“As Sunon, Inc., a Japanese multinational company, prepares to introduce a market winning sports car, terrorists strike in the United States. Detroit Fire Marshall, Joe Nicca, joins an FBI task force to solve the attacks before they ruin the company and threaten to topple the US industry. But Nicca is not alone in hunting the terrorists. The powerful Japanese company will do anything to stop the attacks, even if it has to take the law into its own hands.”

It’s available at Cafe Press

http://www.cafepress.com/Mahogany_Row.403035433

Authors’ Notes

“In 1990 the US was in the middle of its greatest transfer of wealth from one nation to the other. The country plummeted on this course and in the process its major industries gradually started to fade. Thousands of safety and environmental regulations, selfish unionism, management emphasis on next quarter’s financial results, militant consumerism and unabashed greed watched first as the steel industry disappeared, then the electronics manufacturers vanished and others. When the market assault on the American automobile industry intensified everyone thought it had enough market size and inertia to survive the onslaught. From the viewpoint of 2010 we know it really didn’t.

This book was written in the early 1990s. Some of contemporary allusions have faded, but what is interesting is the premise of the book hasn’t changed. What if some American’s tried to take matters into their own hands to solve these problems? It could still happen. ”

Here are a few pages from the beginning of the book.

“Chapter 1

DETROIT, MICHIGAN 1992
Fire Marshall Joe Nicca scanned the road ahead, his gaze drifting past the glare of the oncoming headlights. A stale taste reminded him of a half-finished cup of cold coffee wedged between his seat and the center console. He’d have to give up coffee – too much caffeine. He moved his eyes, absorbing the details and rhythm of a city coasting downhill into the dark night, when his eyes locked onto a woman entering a Taurus station wagon. His breath left him with a jolt. It was Joanne, his wife, wearing a red parka. He twisted his head to get a better look as he passed her car. The smile, the hair, the posture, it had to be Joanne. He strained to see inside her dark car when the impossibility struck home. He shook his head. It’s not her – - Joanne was dead. Three years, tomorrow.
Nicca exhaled through clenched teeth. A bead of sweat dripped down his neck onto his blue Oxford buttoned-down shirt.
Willy Jones, Nicca’s partner, threw a look from the driver’s seat. “What is it, Joe?”
Nicca looked out the front of the car again. “Nothing. I thought I saw someone. Don’t worry. It’s nothing.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
Nicca adjusted his moist collar with his finger and slowly scanned outside the car. “I’m fine.”
“How about if we stop for a doughnut or something?”
“I’ll pass, Willy. I’m not in the mood.”
“Eh, I don’t need one, either.” Jones yawned. “It’s been a quiet night.”
“Not for long.” Nicca lowered his eyes in the darkness. “I have one of those feelings. Can’t say when. Maybe now, maybe a little later, but there’ll be a scorcher. A bad one.”
“Cut it out, Joe. You’re giving me the creeps.”
“It’s been too long. Something about tonight. I can just feel it.”
Jones pondered the last remark then raised his chin with recognition, waved his hand and smiled. “I get it. You do this to all the rookies. Try to spook us as part of our initiation.”
Nicca let his face relax and grinned at his new partner. “Maybe so, but don’t discount your instinct. It can be your best weapon.”
Jones shrugged and drove the sedan toward Livonia. Shadows flickered across the dashboard with a pulsing cadence while Nicca continued to scan the roadside, trying hard to forget the woman in the car and his premonition.
Two miles down the road, the dispatcher’s voice crackled over the Motorola radio.
“Code 10-24, 1600 block of Wilson.”
Nicca listened intently.
The dispatcher continued. “Two alarm. One fatality.”
Jones did a double take and stared at Nicca.
Nicca made a slight nod. “Keep your eyes on the road, Willy, and step on it.”
On the notepad next to the radio, Nicca jotted the address while his partner reached up with his left hand and placed the removable emergency light on the roof of the unmarked sedan. Nicca grabbed the armrest as Jones flung the Ford into a sharp U-turn and headed for Wilson Avenue.
Detroit had lots of arson. On Halloween, or Hell Night, four hundred arsons lit up the downtown like a miniature Dresden. Roving gangs of hooligans ransacked houses, stores, or cars and used whatever they found handy to burn them. Even though the mayor’s office, the police, and the FBI had cracked down, burned-out shells of buildings still littered the cityscape.
The last year or so, the situation had improved, and Nicca prided himself on his contribution to reducing the arsons, but at what cost? He was the last member of his academy class still with the Detroit Fire Department. The rest had either left the dangerous city for the safer suburbs or succumbed as line of duty victims of violence. In the three years since Joanne had died in the car fire, Nicca had done plenty of thinking, wondering more and more about his future as a Fire Marshall. Tonight, he figured the city got lucky. Their most senior investigator was on duty to handle an arson homicide. He‘d give the city its money’s worth, and worry about his career later.

Even before arriving at the scene, Nicca could smell the fire. Raised by the draft, smoke blanketed the neighborhood, laying a surreal fog in the street light cast between battered row houses. The telltale odor, something like burnt pine, charred shingles, blistered paint and melted wires, made an acrid combination that etched itself on the inside of his nose. As his sedan approached the scene, he knew tonight, there’d be one more odor. One he couldn’t yet sense, the putrid stench of charred flesh.
Nicca closed his eyes. He pictured a flash of light and dense black smoke, tinted orange around the edge of billowing cloud. Then like always, he saw her. Joanne clawing, screaming for the door, her car exploding into a fireball. Her face disappeared behind a wall of flame.
Nicca had been working when his wife had the accident, but in a different jurisdiction. The news seemed like a cruel joke, but after he had buried her, the irony hit every time he responded to a fire. He saw the same scene, grasped the same helplessness.
Nicca rocked his head sideways and opened his eyes. He saw no fire, only Jones turning onto Wilson Avenue. Nicca stuck his index fingers on his eyelids harder than he meant and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, a cacophony of fire pumpers, hook and ladders, police cars and ambulances greeted him.
Jones parked the sedan behind a yellow Mack CF pumper. Nicca jumped out and strode over a tangled web of fire hoses and power cables, sizing up the smoldering fire as the uniformed firemen finished extinguishing the blaze. He straightened his tie and zipped up his leather jacket. A full head of hair and trim waist belied rapidly approaching middle age, but the lines surrounding his dark brown eyes projected a sadness beyond his years.
He turned his head from side to side and stuck out his chin inhaling the wafting fumes.
“Smell that?” Nicca turned to Jones.
“Smell what? The smoke?” Jones scrunched his face.
Nicca nodded. “You still got a rookie nose. Get a few years under your belt. You’ll smell it.”
“Smell what Joe?” Jones seemed confused.
“Gasoline.” Nicca paused. “Arson.”
“I don’t smell any gasoline.” Jones stretched his neck while wrinkling his nose.
“It’s there. Let’s get moving. I don’t want to waste time. The judge isn’t going to trust my nose. Get the camera and the sniffer. Start taking pictures and samples. I’m going to check the scene.”
Jones headed for the trunk of the sedan while Nicca approached the porch where a policewoman peered under a sheet at a body while holding her nose.
“Who is this?” Nicca asked the officer while flashing his badge.
“Don’t know. He’s pretty well toasted.” Her voice made a nasal sound as she continued to pinch her nose. “Judging by the shoes, I’d say pretty young. I haven’t found any ID.”
Nicca lifted the sheet and flinched when he caught a whiff of the remains. He’d never get used to it. The smell of burnt flesh turned his stomach. Nicca fought back the caustic taste of bile and inspected the body. He saw a tall, slim man, about six two, one hundred seventy pounds, in what looked like a Detroit Pistons jacket, shredded blue jeans and the remnants of Doc Marten boots. “There’s your arsonist.” He dropped the sheet.
The policewoman squinted. “What do you mean?”
“The body is badly burned, but really charred on the front. He must have been facing the source of the flames when they flashed. Now, take a look at the bottom of his boots.” Nicca pointed at the blackened feet. “They’re burned away to the skin. Rubber doesn’t burn like that unless there’s a catalyst. He must have been standing in the accelerant, probably gasoline. Nothing else on the porch has burned, except for him.”
Nicca stood up and gestured to the inside of the house. “He’s inside splashing gasoline. It backfires on him, flashing his front. He makes it to the front door but collapses here on the porch.”
“You know, you could be right,” said the crouching officer lifting her hat and running her hand through her hair.
Nicca twisted his lip. “Yep. One gang burning the enemy’s hangout. I’ve seen this before.”
Jones, returning with the equipment, started photographing the front porch. Nicca took the portable flame ionization detector and a flashlight. He entered the front room of the house. Embers crackled and steam drifted from the residue of the burned-out floor. A uniformed fireman selectively shot a stream of water at the few remaining glowing coals, while another fireman hacked at a wall with a fire ax making a tremendous racket. Nicca set up the portable detector on top of the charred wooden floor. With a shovel, he stirred up the ashes, hoping to release traces of the accelerant so the detector could sense it. The sniffer indicated hydrocarbons. Four more readings above the localized burn patterns on the floor confirmed gasoline.
“Don’t need a FID for this one,” he said flaring his nostrils. “A definite torch job.”
He picked his way around the burned out floor, until he found the stairs to the basement. He shined his flashlight down the steps. The spotlight illuminated a foot.
“Ah, damn, not another one.”
He descended the stairs, checking each step before putting his full weight on it.
At the bottom of the stairs, he found a crumpled body with the limbs splayed at impossible angles. Nicca shuddered when his flashlight lit up a head twisted around the torso of a young male. He crouched down for a closer look, careful not to disturb the body.
“Bullet hole right in the middle of his forehead and a broken neck too.” He squatted on his haunches and rubbed his chin. “He must of been shot upstairs, then tumbled down the steps. Such a young kid.”
With his light he searched the burned debris in the basement. As he examined the far corner of the room, he heard a loud crash behind him. He ducked as a ceiling beam fell to the floor.
“Hey, take it easy up there.” He yelled up the stairs. “We got another body down here.”
Then he hustled up the stairs to the porch and motioned to the police officer he saw earlier.
“Did the coroner show up?”
“Any minute now,” the policewoman said.
“Well, have him take a look in the basement. I found a body with a broken neck and a gunshot wound.” Nicca pointed to his forehead.
Nicca noticed Jones talking to a civilian near the curb. Jones used his flashlight to illuminate the street. Nicca jogged over to see what Jones had in the spotlight.
“Hey, Joe, get this.” Jones pointed over his shoulder to a man wearing a corduroy jacket over plaid pajamas. “This neighbor says he heard a car screech off around the time of the fire. I found these tire marks.”
“Tire marks, huh. Get a couple of photos and fax ‘em to Wilcox at the ATF laboratory in Phoenix. Maybe he can identify the brand.”
“Got it.”

By the time the coroner arrived, Nicca and Jones had collected more than enough evidence to prove arson. It was one hour past their shift.
“Hey, Joe, didn’t you want to leave early today?”
“Damn, that’s right. Doing this report, it skipped my mind. I can go later, I guess.”
“Where you going? ”
“Up to Greenlawn.”
“Greenlawn, the cemetery?”
“Yeah.” Nicca lowered his gaze and fiddled with his papers. “It’s been three years since my wife’s accident.”
Jones furrowed his brow forming a deep crease between his eyebrows that continued half-way down his nose, “Oh, I’m sorry, Joe. I. ..er… Why don’t you leave now?” Jones nodded toward the car. “One of the Blue and Whites can give you a ride back to the station. I’ll finish up the report. It’s all over.”
“No, it’s not over, Willy.” Nicca slammed his notebook shut. “Once we identify the guy on the porch, we may have more luck with the tire marks. Somebody left in a hurry. I want to find out who.”
“You don’t give up.”
“You never give up. Remember that.” Nicca stared at Jones, making no effort to mask the fatigue from the long night on his face. His dark hair fell down in front of his brown eyes and he moved it aside with a slow motion of his hand. “You saw what I saw. Some guy or guys in a car got away. We don’t stop until we nail ‘em. Then we nail the next one and the next one until we don’t have to do this anymore.”

After leaving the arson scene, Nicca hitched a ride to his office at the station headquarters. He leafed through the mail in his in-box, then left, driving his own car ten blocks to his two-bedroom apartment not far from Interstate 75. By the time he got home he was stone tired, so he stripped off his pants and shirt and lay down on his bed.
A noise from a city garbage truck woke him a little past noon. After a shower and shave he felt better but still ill at ease. He flipped on his stereo and listened to a Beethoven sonata on a CD while he ate a sandwich
The phone rang, interrupting his lunch.
“Nicca here.”
“Hello Joe. This is Dr. Rachael.”
“Dr. Rachael! What a surprise.”
“Just called to see how you were doing.”
“Not too bad. I had a rough night. An arson. Two fatalities. Two wasted lives. Like Joanne.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Nicca slumped on his couch. Dr. Rachael didn’t say anything.
“Well, maybe,” Nicca finally said. “I still see her, every time there’s a fire.”
“The same image.”
“The same as always.” Nicca leaned his head onto the back of the couch. “You know, maybe I’m getting too soft for this. Maybe it’s time to find a job in the suburbs. Get away from the hate and violence of the city.”
“Running away doesn’t solve anything, Joe.”
“I know that.” The hair rose on Nicca’s neck. He scowled at the phone. “I know why you called. You circled your calendar. ‘Three year anniversary for Joe Nicca.’ Well, I’m not counting. I’m getting over it.”
“I know, Joe. You’re doing fine.”
Dr. Rachael’s voice had its same soothing tone. Nicca slouched. “I’m sorry, Dr. Rachael. Look, I’m fine. Really. I’m dealing with it. It’s just tough.”
“Those feelings are natural.”
“I’m heading up to Greenlawn. I’ll bring some flowers. Joanne loved carnations.”
“Sure. That would be nice.” Dr. Rachael paused. “If you need to talk, please call. You have my number.”
“Thanks. Thanks for caring.”

At the cemetery Nicca placed two carnations by the headstone, then crouched on the grass. He sat there with his eyes closed, trying to think back to the good times with his wife. But he couldn’t. Images of the dead bodies from last night flashed by him. He put his hand to his head to wipe away the horrible scene, but it came back. The crime scenario replayed in his mind as if he had it on a VCR tape. Over and over it appeared. Each time he visualized more and more of the arson. Finally, he saw a pickup truck screech from the crime, the same truck he noticed driving past the scene at daybreak.
“That’s it.” He reached into his pocket for his cellular phone and dialed his partner, Jones.
“Willy, this is Joe. You’re not sleeping are you?”
“Nah, I’m awake. Getting ready to eat.”
“Hey, did you see a Chevy lowrider pickup drive past the scene around dawn?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, run a make on a late model Chevy pickup, greenish, with a two tone paint job. Michigan plate. Starts with a ‘WL’. I think our perps may have returned to check the scene.”
“Really? You think they would come back?”
“Sure. Amateurs always want to check out their damage.”
“Okay, Joe, I’ll see what I can do.”
Nicca shut his phone and looked at the headstone. After a second he said, “Well, honey, I have to go.” The wind picked up and whistled through the trees, blowing early autumn leaves across the grave. Nicca swept them aside. He turned and brushed a tear from his cheek.”

That’s it for now. If you want more, go to othe Cafe Press link. I know you’l like it.

Here’s a short story I wrote a while back. I had a Japanese friend that actually had an arranged marriage that ended poorly. His pitiful story formed the seed of this short story. Enjoy.

ARRANGED AFFAIR
by Robert Kempinski

Black smoke billowed from four mustard yellow stacks and slid past the deck of the passenger liner churning through the ocean swells. Forced by a strong quartering wind, North Atlantic spray mixed with the cold April air and peppered sparkling drops on the rivets of the metal chimneys. Passengers who had only a few hours ago waved to crowds on shore, scurried for shelter from the spray.
Below, the sitting room of the first class cabin on the 2E deck was much cozier, with oak paneling, blue patterned carpet, finely crafted French style furniture, and a log burning in a cast iron fireplace built into the wall. Carl Weatherby sat in a stuffed leather arm chair and puffed a hand-rolled Cuban cigar; barley scented smoke nearly as thick as that from the stacks danced around his head. A large man, at least seventeen-stone, his dark beard did little to hide his sagging double chin.
Across an octagonal mahogany settee, Baron William VonPeldt swirled a brandy in a crystal goblet, a monocle perched between his ruddy cheek and a bushy eyebrow. Short and thin, his stature contrasted sharply with Weatherby’s. The Baron pulled on his starched collar and squinted at the front page of The Irish Times, delivered by launch from Queenstown.
“It is kind of you to invite me to your stateroom, Mr. Weatherby.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Baron VonPeldt. It’s your hospitality I must acknowledge. A trip to New York, with so many possibilities, is a chance to settle my accounts and perhaps to finally get ahead. No, Baron VonPeldt, it’s you I must thank. This trip. This wonderful stateroom.” Weatherby raised his brandy toward the Baron. “To the generosity of the Baron and his esteemed trading company.”
“Thank you. As my guest, I hope you enjoy the cruise.”
They clinked glasses and took hearty swallows. Then Weatherby rose to attend to the fireplace. Baron VonPeldt scrutinized his newspaper.
Satisfied with the fire, Weatherby returned to his chair. “It will be a long cruise. I wonder what entertainment the captain has for us?”
“Oh, the usual. It is such a bore.” VonPeldt creased the newspaper in half with geometric precision and dropped it on the settee. “I have arranged a diversion for us.”
“Diversion?”
“Yes. Something a little different.”
“A little different you say…” Weatherby stroked his beard.
“Of course. How else to endure the endless miles of sea. But first, more brandy.”
Baron VonPeldt reached for the crystal decanter and refilled Weatherby’s eager glass. Weatherby downed nearly half the goblet then smacked his lips with relish.
“A diversion, eh. Baron, you’ve got my attention.”
The Baron shifted in his seat. Weatherby noticed he seemed to be holding his face in control.
“I know our relationship has been one of business, Mr. Weatherby, but I wonder what you know of my family life.”
“Baron, I haven’t the least knowledge.” Weatherby shrugged his large shoulders. “I assume you’re married. A large family I’d guess.”
Baron VonPeldt’s face tightened. “Yes, I have a wife. Twenty years of marriage. She is in her cabin, tending to her luggage.” He removed his monocle. “I have no children.”
“No children.” Weatherby said matter-of-factly. He leaned back and blew out cigar smoke in a precise jet.
“Yes.” The Baron gazed over the rim of the crystal goblet and focused his dark brown eyes on Weatherby’s face. Then he fell deep into his chair. “I have never known my wife.”
Weatherby jut out his chin and cocked his head as if to confirm the Baron’s last statement. “What?”
In a louder voice the Baron said, “I have never known my wife.”
“In twenty years of marriage. I’m astounded.”
“It was impossible.”
“Impossible?” Weatherby shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Baron VonPeldt took a long swig finishing his brandy. His tongue flicked the last drop of the sweet liquor from his lips.
“Now we are at sea. I shall have to explain.”
Baron VonPeldt poured himself another brandy and quickly downed it. A shadow passed over his face.
“My father set my life. He placed me in his company. The first few years, I traveled the globe, Asia, Africa, the West Indies, handling the trade — a perfectly suitable job for the owner’s son. My business acumen grew. I became a man of the world.”
The Baron paused and his eyes glazed over with a faraway cast as if conjuring some memory from a recess shelved in his past.
“Then while away, I received a cable from father. He said I should marry.” His lips pursed slightly. “I was enjoying life. Women of the world, eager to please the son of the company’s president, offered their companionship. Mr. Weatherby, if you could only know the morsels I have tasted.”
After studying Weatherby for a moment, the Baron let a long breath escape, then he abruptly shook his shoulders and continued.
“Father knew these things. It seemed like a reasonable request, though until then, the idea had never crossed my mind. I complied and a bride was found from a wealthy family. Royal blood. The epitome of social marriage. Of course, I had never met her.” The Baron paused while he refilled his goblet. The gurgle of the pouring liquid filled the room.
“The ceremony met all standards of elegance. Everything perfect, except for the wedding night. Unfortunately, that evening, dire business circumstances called me away to India. Barely out of the church, I found myself on a ship steaming east.”
“How dreadful.”
VonPeldt nodded. “In three months, I returned to find her established in my household. She had her routine. I….” VonPeldt raised his eyebrows. “I had my dalliances. We never developed an intimacy.”
“Baron, I understand. No need to continue. This is too personal.”
“You have to know, Mr. Weatherby. You have to understand.”
Weatherby squirmed in his chair. How to change the subject?
“The diversion? Baron, what about that?”
Baron VonPeldt did not answer. He stared at Weatherby long enough to make him look at the carpet. Then Baron VonPeldt circled the room to the wash basin. He tossed water onto his face. After toweling off, Baron VonPeldt said, “This is the first time she has traveled with me. I am taking her to America.”
Weatherby lowered his chin and stared into the Baron’s eyes. “You make it sound as if you are going to leave her there.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You’re a mystery tonight,” Weatherby said.
Baron VonPeldt sighed. Then he said, “I’m tried of the charade. It is over. There is nothing more to be gained.”
Baron VonPeldt threw the towel onto the washstand and slid toward Weatherby. He reached into the pocket of his wool jacket and withdrew a small vial containing some brownish liquid.
“Here is the diversion.”
“A curious bottle. What is it?”
The Baron looked past Weatherby. “One evening, she will perhaps have some brandy.” He made the motion of pouring liquid from the vial.
“Then some wine. It will be at dinner. The crew will see her stagger. She will need fresh air. She and I will leave the dining room. You will accompany us, out of concern, as my friend, of course, to the covered promenade near our cabin. At the railing she will breathe in the salty air. She will feel nauseous. As she leans over the railing, you will help me dump her overboard.”
Weatherby jolted upright in his chair.
“VonPeldt. Did you say dump her overboard?”
The Baron face’s turned gray and he nodded. “Yes, I need your assistance. She is too large to handle by myself.
Weatherby felt a wave of bile crest near the back of his throat. “I don’t know what to say. I… I… can’t do such a thing.”
“Of course you can Mr. Weatherby. Or do you not remember that matter of fifty thousand pounds.”
He must be mad. Why else would he even say such a thing. After a second Weatherby stammered. “That is an honorable business matter. A debt to be paid when my affairs come round. This…” Weatherby twisted his head around his ramrod stiff body. “This is absurd. I will not. No, I can not do such a thing.”
“There is nothing to do. It is arranged.” VonPeldt pushed close to Weatherby. His hot breath stung Weatherby’s face. “We will say she slipped. You and I tried to save her.” The Baron backed off. “In vain I will add.”
Weatherby felt his face flush. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped across his brow.
He can ruin me. If I don’t go along I’m finished.
“Well Mr. Weatherby, will you join me?”
Weather’s thoughts raced as he tried to conjure a response. “Baron, is this necessary? Must you resort to murder?”
“It is not murder.” VonPeldt scowled. “She! She murdered me! Twenty years ago. She. Her family. Their twisted deceit. They murdered me, as sure as if they used a knife.”
“Murdered you twenty years ago? You are standing here.” Weatherby rose. “You are not feeling well, Baron. It must be the rolling of the ocean. I shall summon the ship’s surgeon.”
Baron VonPeldt pushed his hand into Weatherby’s chest. “You don’t know it all. Sit and let me finish. When you understand, you will join me.”
Weatherby flopped back in his seat under the pressure of the Baron’s hand.
The Baron walked to the fireplace and spoke to the burning logs. “I could accept no intimacy with her. That was not an issue, but an heir, a son, a VonPeldt. I needed a son. I called her to my bedroom and placed my demand.” He swallowed a mouthful of brandy then wiped his lips with his sleeve.
“She resisted. I forced myself on her.” He spun and stared as if gauging Weatherby’s response. “She was my wife.”
Weatherby looked down.
“That is how I learned her secret.”
“Baron, this is too private. Please. I don’t need to know.”
“No. You have to know. You have to understand.” VonPeldt faced the fireplace again. After a long pause he said softly. “My wife is a man.”
Weatherby raised his head. “Your wife is a man?”
Baron VonPeldt twisted around, fire in his eyes. “What could I do? We married for stature not love. Her family. My business. We both had much to gain.”
“You called her ‘she’.” Weatherby shook his head.
“He is a she! Of that there is no doubt. An abomination of nature.”
Weatherby looked down. After a moment he glanced up again. “Baron, did you know?”
“Of course not. Don’t take me for the fool. It was a marriage of convenience. Afterwards it was more convenient to be kept secret.”
“This is preposterous.”
“This is the truth, Mr. Weatherby, but it was deceit. For her family to pass her off. For circumstances to pass as they did. For her to live this lie. Two decades I’ve had to suffer this burden. A passerby’s sidewards glance. A whisper behind my back. Do they know? Do they mock me? Like a creeping vine, it strangled me, tore at my very being.” VonPeldt slammed his fist on the settee knocking over Weatherby’s brandy. “It will finally end. We must dump her, and with her, all trace of the treachery.”
I’m lost. How can I do this?
“Consider this, Mr. Weatherby. After the cruise you’ll be debt free. Again a wealthy man.” VonPeldt stepped away straightening his back. “And I will have revenge. I will reclaim my honor.”
“But you said it’s been kept secret. No one knows.”
“I will know! It is my honor!”
Weatherby slumped in the chair. After along time he said “It’s too much to consider. I need time.”
“You have two days. Dinner on the fifteenth, as we near the coast of Canada. It will be done! You, in New York, will walk from this ship debt free.” VonPeldt turned to the fireplace and clasped his hands behind him. “And you will be the second happiest man on the Titanic.”

the end