The Zurich Conspiracy

parents know about the loan?”
    “Somebody told them almost as soon as it happened, might have been my aunt trying to stick it to them. From then on they never ever spoke to me again, not even my mother. A home? I didn’t have one from that moment on. Who gives a damn. At least I finally got to show them I could get along just fine without them. Some people you can simply leave behind.” Claire glanced at her. “What was your mother like?”
    Josefa watched the snowflakes dancing in the headlight beams. “I can’t really remember her much,” she said. “I was only fourteen when she died of cancer.”
    “I despise my mother,” Claire stated bitterly. The words sounded all the more bitter in Claire’s bright, bell-like voice.
    “Why don’t you despise your father? After all, he was the one who always put you down.”
    “She should’ve called him on it, faced up to him. She should’ve fought for me. But her submissiveness made her his accomplice—against me, against her own daughter.”
    Claire had worked herself up into such a rage that she hit the gas pedal too hard and the car skidded. Josefa seized the grab bar in fright, but Claire skillfully maneuvered the car back into her lane.
    “Sorry, I’d better concentrate on the road instead of ancient history. I’m not a little girl anymore. I’m a grown woman and I don’t have to take any more crap from anybody. I can take on anybody today, can’t I?”
    Josefa couldn’t tell if Claire was being ironic or serious, so she answered with a vague, “Mmmm.” She sensed that they had ventured into unknown territory; something had shifted in their relationship. Josefa was no longer the boss and Claire was no longer her subordinate. They were something else now, but what exactly that something was, Josefa couldn’t put a name to yet.

The beautiful weather was gone when Josefa went for a stroll by Lake Zurich the next day. It was two in the afternoon, but a thick fog had already darkened the sky. To top it off, it began to rain, and muddy water splashed on her new suede boots with every step she took. She walked past the Chinese Garden and turned into the Seefeld District where Paul Klingler had his consulting firm in a Biedermeier villa, where they regularly had their meetings. Today, though, she had something completely different in mind, and she’d already let him know it by phone.
    She pushed the intercom button at the back door, and Paul appeared in person. Hardly a Sunday went by that he didn’t spend at least part of the day at the office.
    “What sun were you lying in?” he asked, his gigantic figure leaning down to greet her. Josefa told him about her skiing trip with Claire but was unable to describe the way there or what mountain they’d climbed.
    “Can I offer you something?” Paul inquired, always the proper gentleman (at least when he was in the mood) as he showed her into an office with a view of Lake Zurich. While his secretary (obviously she had to work Sundays too) was getting Josefa some orange juice, Paul opened his electronic archive for her and retreated to another room.
    After two hours of on-screen searching, her eyes were burning. But she found what she was looking for.
    She closed the archive and asked Paul’s secretary for a phone book. Despite the popularity of the surname Meyer, the exact name she was looking for was easier to find than she expected. Evidently Athena Meyer-de Rechenstein was so proud of her name she had it helpfully printed in full. Josefa scribbled down her number, packed up her documents, and bid Paul a quick goodbye.
    The air seemed even colder than before. She took her cell phone out of her purse and entered the number she’d written down.
    “Hello,” a woman’s melodious voice answered at once.
    “This is Josefa Rehmer, a friend of Helene’s.”
    It was so quiet on the other end Josefa thought the connection had been lost. But then she heard Helene’s mother again.
    “Josefa, what a surprise! I may call you Josefa, yes? How are you?”
    This time it was Josefa’s turn to be startled. The lady spoke High German. Why hadn’t Helene ever said her mother was German?
    “Am I talking to Helene’s mother?” she replied.
    “Of course,” the friendly woman’s voice answered. “You have the right number, Josefa. When can you come to see me?”
    “Whenever it’s convenient,” Josefa replied in a wooden voice.
    “Do you have time today?”
    Maybe it really won’t be as difficult as I