Misfortune (and Gouda)

by Pierce, Blake

  Just one more person going about her job, London thought.

  When she felt a tug on the leash, she looked back and saw Sir Reggie had come to a halt and was staring at the spreading water. Her Yorkie obviously didn’t want to get his feet wet, so she scooped him up and carried him.

  London approached the woman shyly and spoke to her in Dutch.

  “Um … I wonder if you happened to hear about a murder that took place near here last night.”

  “Oh, yes,” the woman said, clucking her tongue with dismay. “Such an awful thing. I was at home at the time, but I’ve heard a lot of talk about it this morning.”

  “Did you happen to know the victim?”

  The woman tilted her head as she resumed mopping.

  “Meneer Schat, you mean? Only enough to say hi to him. He was a grouchy fellow, never said hi back. Still, it was a terrible thing to happen to anybody.”

  “Have you heard anybody say anything about … ?”

  “Who might have killed him?” the woman said, completing London’s thought. “Oh, nothing like that.”

  The woman paused mopping and looked at London curiously.

  “You must be English—or maybe American.”

  “American,” London said, aware that the woman had picked up on her accent.

  “Why are you asking about it? Are you a journalist or a writer or …”

  “I’m … just an interested foreigner,” London said, hoping not to have to explain how she’d found the body.

  “Well, if anybody around here knows anything about what happened, it’s probably Evert Cornellison.”

  Pointing, she added, “He owns the Zacht Coffeeshop just a few doors down that way.”

  “Thanks for the help,” London said.

  “Anytime,” the woman said. “You have a nice dog. May I say hello?”

  London gladly introduced the woman to Sir Reggie, who was happy to have her scratch him on the head. Then London picked him up and carried him as she continued down the block toward the establishment the woman had mentioned.

  It was impossible to miss—there was a sign that read Zacht Coffeeshop jutting out from the storefront. When she and Sir Reggie stepped inside, she saw several patrons seated at small tables and a few more with their elbows propped on a long counter. Some were snacking on treats that looked rather like banana cake and specials of the day were written in colorful chalks on a large blackboard.

  The place looked perfectly ordinary, but in at least one way this was distinctly different from any other coffeeshop she had ever visited.

  It was the aroma.

  She’d gotten more or less used to this particular smell on the streets in this area, but it was much thicker here indoors and she couldn’t help coughing.

  London rubbed her eyes, cleared her throat, and walked over to the front counter where a burly, smiling man stood by a cash register.

  “Welcome to the Zacht Coffeeshop,” he said in Dutch. Then he added with an amiable chuckle, “You look a bit confused. I’ll bet you’re a foreigner.”

  “Uh-huh,” London said, trying not to start coughing again. Sir Reggie himself sputtered a little bit.

  “Are you here to buy some coffee?” the man said with a broad, mischievous smile.

  “Uh, a cup of coffee might be nice,” London said.

  “That’s too bad!” the man said, letting out a peal of good-natured, teasing laughter. “Because we don’t sell any!”

  Several nearby customers joined him in his laughter.

  Most of them were smoking—and it was certainly no mystery to London what they were smoking.

  The man leaned on his elbows toward London.

  “Foreigners often make this mistake,” he said. “They think a coffeeshop is place where you buy coffee. But that’s not true here in Amsterdam. If you want coffee, you have to go to a cafe.”

  In a few moments, London’s eyes stopped stinging and she could see more clearly. The menu posted across the bar was divided into four lists—Joints, Weed, Hash, and Edibles. Under the last category were listed a variety of so-called “space cakes.”

  Suddenly the name of the place—Zacht Coffeeshop—made a lot more sense.

  After all, the word zacht meant “mellow” in Dutch.

  Although London already knew that hashish and marijuana were perfectly legal here, it hadn’t occurred to her that there were cafe-like establishments where those drugs could be purchased and enjoyed.

  London felt a bit dazed from the smoky atmosphere. For a moment she could barely remember why she’d come in here.

  “Would you like to sample some of our wares?” the man asked.

  “I—I don’t think so,” London stammered. “I was wondering if I could speak to the owner. His name is Evert Cornellison.”

  “You’re speaking to him,” the man said with a hospitable smile and a nod. “How can I help you?”

  “I was wondering what you could tell me … about a certain Meneer Schat.”

  The man’s jolly expression suddenly darkened. He looked positively angry now.

  “Who is asking?” he growled at London. “And why?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  For a moment London wondered whether she and Sir Reggie should just hurry away without further ado. As jovial as Evert Cornellison had seemed just a moment before, he certainly wasn’t the least bit zacht—mellow—now.

  And all the other faces in the coffeeshop were turned toward her with expressions ranging from curious to hostile.

  But then she reminded herself that this was the only lead she had at the moment.

  Trying to keep her voice steady, she asked in Dutch, “Did you know that Meneer Schat was found dead last night?”

  “Oh, I heard, all right,” the man said sharply. “The police were here about an hour ago. Hoofdinspecteur Braam asked all kinds of questions, caused me all kinds of inconvenience. He seems to suspect me, of all people. I half-expected him to arrest me. Worst of all, he upset my clientele. You’d think that Schat fellow was somebody important.”

  Cornellison took out a rag and started wiping down the counter.

  “Anyway, I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to answer about him. Who are you, anyway? What makes you think you’ve got any business giving me any more trouble?”

  London spoke slowly and carefully.

  “My name is London Rose, and I’m an American, and I work as the social director of a tour boat that is currently visiting Amsterdam, and …”

  She paused for a moment.

  “And the police have got some idea I might have killed Meneer Schat.”

  Cornellison stopped wiping the counter. His eyes widened, and London saw a flicker of that grin of his reappear.

  “So Braam suspects you too, eh?” he said. “Well, that makes things much more interesting. We’ve got something in common, eh? He has definitely cast a wide net for suspects. Why would he suspect a foreigner like you?”

  “Well, for one thing, I was the one who happened to …”

  Still in her arms, Sir Reggie let out a little “ahem”-like yap to correct her.

  “My dog and I were the ones who found the body.”

  “Sounds like a bit of bad luck,” Cornellison, no longer seeming angry.

  Oh, you’ve got no idea, London thought.

  “Bad luck is right,” London continued. “You see Meneer Schat’s real name was Pier Dekker, and he was a conservator working on ‘Operation Night Watch,’ the restoration of the Rembrandt painting, over at the Rijksmuseum. I happened to lead a tour group there yesterday afternoon, and he … well, he got rather unpleasant toward us.”

  Cornellison’s interest seemed to be rising.

  “And Braam suspects you on account of that?” he said. “That sounds pretty farfetched.”

  Of course, London knew that the Hooftinspecteur had more reason to suspect her than just the altercation at the museum. There was also the matter of the three other bodies London had discovered all over Europe d
uring the last couple of weeks. But she decided not to go into that.

  Cornellison reached across the counter and scratched Sir Reggie on the head.

  “What about this formidable little fellow?” he said with a chuckle. “Do the police suspect him too?”

  Reggie let out a soft growl, as if to warn the man to take him more seriously. Cornellison drew his hand back with mild surprise.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” London said. “Why does Braam suspect you?”

  “He suspects me because … what was the man’s real name again?”

  “Pier Dekker.”

  “Right, Dekker. He’d run up an outrageously big tab here in the shop. Once I realized he had no intention of paying up, I kicked him out. That was a couple of days ago. He made a big scene about it, calling me all kinds of names and overturning furniture and upsetting everybody. I had to forcibly throw him out.”

  London glanced around and tried to imagine the incident. Dekker had been a small guy, and Cornellison was large and muscular. She guessed Cornellison must have made short work of Dekker.

  Cornellison continued, “But did I kill him? That would be ridiculous. Now that he’s dead, there is not a chance in the world of my collecting the money he owed me. Not that I’m sad that he’s gone. He was no fun to have around here, believe me.”

  One of the customers nodded and said, “I won’t miss him.”

  Another added, “I never knew anybody else to get so grouchy around this place.”

  There was a general murmur of agreement from the others in the store.

  “Anyway, I told the police I had an alibi,” he said. “I was at home watching television with my wife when the body was found. There is no way I could have been the killer.”

  “Do you happen to know anybody else who might have meant him harm?” London asked Cornellison.

  The coffeehouse owner shrugged.

  “Anybody who knew him, I suppose,” he said. “I don’t imagine he had many friends—or any at all, for that matter. I can’t say we had any acquaintances in common.”

  A male customer who was seated nearby spoke up.

  “I can think of somebody who knew him. Kaneel Lied is her name—or at least the name she goes by here in the Rosse Buurt. I’ve seen Schat stop by her window where she works and go on inside several times. He was a regular client of hers, I guess.”

  London realized that the name Kaneel Lied meant “cinnamon song.”

  A sex worker, London thought.

  “I don’t envy that girl,” muttered one of the female customers.

  “I can’t imagine why she’d deal with a pig like that,” said another.

  London’s curiosity was piqued.

  “Can you tell me where I can find her, uh, window?” she asked.

  The male customer pointed.

  “Just take a left up at that corner. She works on Klaverstaat in window 14A.”

  London guessed that the customer had a good reason to remember the address. He probably had more than a passing familiarity with Kaneel Lied herself.

  “Thanks, you’ve both been very helpful,” London said to Cornellison and the male customer. She carried Sir Reggie out the door, then set him down to walk on his leash. As they continued on their way, London found herself thinking about the rather volatile coffeeshop owner.

  “So what did you think of Meneer Cornellison, Sir Reggie?” she asked.

  Sir Reggie let out a noncommittal growl.

  “I don’t know either,” London said. “I guess the police will check out his alibi. But it doesn’t sound exactly airtight. His wife wouldn’t be the first woman to lie to protect her husband. Still, if Dekker owed Cornellison money, why would he want him dead?”

  She sighed and added, “There are lots of possible reasons, I guess. I wouldn’t want to get Cornellison mad at me, that’s for sure. And I definitely got the impression Dekker wasn’t popular with any of the customers there.”

  London sighed. It seemed likely that the Rosse Buurt was just full of possible suspects.

  She and Sir Reggie turned onto Klaverstaat, where the street was lined with windows for sex workers. As she’d observed walking by earlier, some of the windows were vacant, while others were already occupied and open for business. In her travels as an adult, she’d seen sex workers soliciting customers before, but never quite so openly. As she thought about it, she realized that a prostitute was probably safer behind a glass window than she would be on most city streets.

  When she arrived at window 14A, she saw a pair of shapely legs wearing ultra-high heels, but she couldn’t see much else of the woman. She was holding a newspaper open in front of her.

  London rang a buzzer to get the woman’s attention. The woman peeked overtop of her newspaper, revealing a pretty face topped with short hair that was dyed in a rainbow of colors.

  The woman touched a button and spoke to London over an intercom.

  “Go away,” she said.

  The woman’s face disappeared behind the newspaper again.

  London was a bit startled by that gruff response. It was true that she hadn’t usually talked with women who lived this particular lifestyle. But now she really needed information about the murder victim.

  She pushed the buzzer again and spoke into the microphone.

  “Do you happen to be Kaneel Lied?”

  The woman looked over her newspaper again, this time with surprise and interest.

  “No, I’m Honingraat Hemel,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  London mentally translated the name, which meant “honeycomb sky.”

  She said, “I’m looking for anyone who might have known Pier Dekker—although probably not by that name. He seems to have called himself Meneer Schat whenever he was in the Rosse Buurt.”

  The woman who called herself Honingraat Hemel set her newspaper down.

  “I’ll buzz you in,” she said.

  The glass door opened at the sound of a buzz.

  London hesitated for a moment, glancing around and wondering if anyone from the ship might be watching. Then she cleared her suddenly dry throat and stepped through the opening. She followed the scantily clad young woman through a curtain into a plain but tidy little room furnished only with a couple of chairs, a small bed, and a table with a coffeemaker and a couple of mugs.

  Glad to be out of sight anyone gazing into that big window, London felt herself relax a bit.

  The woman slipped into a bathrobe.

  “You’re American, I take it?” she said in Dutch, obviously recognizing London’s accent.

  “That’s right, er, Mevrouw Hemel,” London said, also in Dutch.

  The woman chuckled and began to speak in fluent English.

  “You can call me Anouk. That’s my real name.”

  “My name is London Rose.”

  “Well, London, I take it this isn’t a professional visit.”

  “Oh—no, nothing like that,” she replied, hoping that her slight blush wasn’t visible.

  “I’m sorry if I seemed rude just now. I took you to be a tourist. I can’t stand tourists—the people who come around only to gawk and stare, I mean. I especially hate the picture takers. They’ve gotten to be a real nuisance in this district. They crowd out the real business. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, I—I won’t be long,” London stammered awkwardly.

  Anouk poured herself a mug of coffee and invited London to sit down.

  “Kaneel Lied is my business partner, so to speak,” she said. “That is, we pay the rent for this window together and work here in shifts. I work days, although there’s hardly any business at this hour, so I take things pretty easy during the early morning, as you can see.”

  With a wink, she added, “I don’t always just sit there reading a newspaper, if you know what I mean. Kaneel works nights. That’s when things get really busy.”

  “I don’t assume Kaneel—‘cinnamon’—is her real name,” London said.

  “No, it’s ac
tually Ingrid. Our hours are so different that I don’t see much of her, but I have heard her mention Meneer Schat. And a little while ago some cops came around asking me questions about him—and about her. Is it true that he got murdered?”

  “I’m afraid so,” London said.

  “That’s awful. I suppose Ingrid has gotten a visit from the cops herself by now.”

  “How much did she tell you about, er, Meneer Schat?”

  “Oh, hardly anything at all. He’s just one of the few clients I’ve ever heard her mention by name. He is—or I guess he was—pretty regular, I guess. A shame what happened to him. You have a nice dog, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” London said.

  Anouk leaned toward her and asked, “But why is an American like you interested in what happened to Meneer Schat?”

  London stifled a sigh.

  “It’s kind of a long story, but the police suspect me of the murder.”

  Anouk’s eyes widened with surprise.

  “Really?” she said. “Why?”

  “It’s because I … my dog and I … were the first to discover the body.”

  Anouk laughed as she took another sip of coffee.

  “Is that the only reason the police suspect you? Neither one of you strikes me as especially homicidal.”

  “I assure you, we’re not,” London said. “But I need to clear my name as soon as possible. You see, I work aboard a tour boat that was scheduled to leave Amsterdam yesterday. As long as I’m under suspicion, the boat can’t go anywhere. We’re going to wind up way behind schedule.”

  More behind schedule than we already are, London almost added.

  “How can I help out?” Anouk asked.

  “Could you tell me where I can find your, er, business partner? Ingrid, I mean?”

  Anouk stroked her chin thoughtfully.

  “Well, normally I am a stickler for confidentiality, but …”

  She paused for a moment, then said, “But you seem like a nice person, and you’ve a got a real problem, and you need all the help you can get. As it happens, Ingrid and I also happen to be roommates.”

  She opened a table drawer and took out a note pad and jotted something down.