Death (and Apple Strudel) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 2)

by Blake Pierce

  Taking her turn with the microphone, she announced, “This is our first destination—the Wiener Staatsoper, the Vienna State Opera. It was completed in 1869, and the opening performance was attended by Emperor Franz Joseph and Empress Elisabeth.”

  The enigmatic Cyrus Bannister raised his hand and asked a question.

  “What was the first opera performed here?”

  London felt a twinge of irritation at Bannister’s quiz-like tone. She was sure that he already knew the answer to his own question, but hoped to trip her up.

  No such luck today, Mr. Bannister, she thought.

  She said, “The first opera performed here was Don Giovanni, Mozart’s version of the story of Don Juan, the legendary womanizing rogue.”

  The stout, formally dressed Letitia Hartzer spoke up.

  “Isn’t Don Giovanni playing here right now?”

  “That’s right,” London said. “I believe tickets are available for tonight’s performance, if any of you are interested in attending.”

  A few people voiced their interest, including Ms. Hartzer.

  Everybody climbed out of the bus and walked toward the great building.

  London pointed upward and said, “Those two equestrian statues on the roof were created by the sculptor Ernst Julius Hähnel in 1876. The riders of the horses are the Muses of Harmony and Poetry.”

  Emil added, “Hähnel also created the five statues in the upper row of arches. They represent heroism, tragedy, fantasy, comedy, and love—all the necessary ingredients of great opera!”

  We really are a good team, London thought as she and Emil shared information with the group. She felt a momentary temptation to reach over and hold his hand as they continued along. But how would he react? And what might that lead to? She was sure it was best to keep some distance between them—at least for now.

  She realized that the towering opera house was stirring up some vague, long-forgotten memories, but she couldn’t bring them into focus.

  Emil gave her a friendly nudge as they passed through the arched entryway.

  “I have a little surprise waiting in there,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A “little” surprise?

  London couldn’t imagine that anything about the Wiener Staatsoper could possibly be “little.” As for the surprise that Emil had mentioned …

  What has he got up his sleeve?

  She could tell from the astonished gasps that the vast foyer itself was surprise enough for the passengers in the tour group. The gold-leafed interior glittered brightly under the glow of wall and ceiling lamps, even though the gigantic chandelier wasn’t lit. But she was sure that even this wasn’t what Emil was referring to.

  A uniformed gentleman greeted them with a smile.

  “Guten Morgen, Fruende. Good morning, friends.”

  With a nod of his head he added, “And you must be Herr Waldmüller. I’ve been expecting all of you. Would you like a tour of this great palace of music and drama?”

  Emil looked at him with a slightly haughty expression.

  “We will not need your services,” he said in German. “I know the building extremely well.”

  The man’s smile disappeared and he nodded curtly.

  “The ‘effect’ you requested is quite ready,” he replied sullenly in German.

  Effect? London wondered.

  Just then Gus Jarrett’s voice echoed through the vaulted lobby.

  “Did you ever see so much gold in your life? This joint is a regular Fort Knox!”

  Honey answered sharply, “Show some class, Gus. This is a place of great art and culture and stuff like that. Don’t be an uncouth jerk.”

  Some members of the group laughed, and Gus blushed with embarrassment.

  Even so, London understood why he was impressed. The spectacle took London’s breath away. But her memories of it were still vague and indistinct.

  Emil lectured on in a hushed, reverent purr.

  “This interior was created by the great Austrian architect Eduard van der Nüll. Now believe it or not, the design of the Staatsoper was not well regarded when it was completed. Even the Emperor didn’t like it much. Alas, van der Nüll took such criticisms quite personally. He committed suicide by hanging.”

  After letting his words sink in, Emil said in a significant tone, “Genius often goes unrecognized in its own time. And sometimes there is a steep price to pay for having it.”

  London was slightly jarred by this comment. True though it might be, she thought that Emil was sounding rather pompous.

  She followed as he led them up a flight of stairs and out onto a balcony into the theater itself. Nothing could prepare them for the sight that met their eyes. The horseshoe-shaped auditorium surrounded by four tiered balconies seemed almost too gigantic for the building’s palatial exterior.

  “The auditorium’s current capacity is two thousand two hundred eighty-four,” Emil said. “It used to hold more people, but it has undergone many changes over the years. Like much of the rest of Vienna, the Staatsoper building was badly damaged by Allied bombing during World War Two and had to be rebuilt.”

  Gus Jarrett looked positively pale with amazement.

  “How many, er, shows get put on in this place?”

  “‘Shows’?” echoed Emil with a condescending laugh. “Well, let me see. I believe there are some three hundred fifty performances every year, including many ballets and some fifty or sixty operas. It is one of the busiest opera houses in the world.”

  “Wow,” Gus murmured.

  Suddenly, Emil clapped his hands. As the noise echoed through the auditorium, the lights dimmed, as if a performance was about to begin. Because of the sheer size and emptiness of the place, it felt as though dusk was suddenly falling.

  So this is Emil’s “little” surprise, she realized.

  Although it was really quite simple, it hardly seemed “little.” She actually felt a bit woozy as the fading light cast an unexpected spell over her.

  Suddenly, her vague childhood memories became much sharper and more distinct. As she looked down at the stage, she could imagine it filled with color and movement, while her mind filled up with beautiful music.

  Emil touched her on the shoulder.

  “You seem to be rather entranced, my dear,” he said.

  London nodded silently.

  “A memory of something you saw here as a child?” he asked.

  London glanced at him in surprise. She had told Emil that she had visited Vienna with her parents, but she hadn’t expected him to pick up her emotional reactions to being here again.

  “It’s so vivid,” she said. “As if it were happening right now.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I see … a serpent chasing a handsome prince through a deep forest … a bird-catcher all dressed in feathers, his lips padlocked as he rings magical bells … a great ceremony in a mystic temple … and a beautiful but terrifying goddess all dressed in stars …”

  Her voice faded as the images kept crowding through her mind.

  Emil spoke in a soothing murmur.

  “Ah. The opera must have been Die Zauberflöte.”

  London looked at him.

  “Yes, that’s it. Mozart’s last opera—The Magic Flute.”

  Suddenly, a woman’s voice echoed elegantly through the auditorium, singing a familiar aria beautifully at a high pitch.

  “Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah …”

  This was no memory!

  London turned and saw that the singer was the stout, dignified Letitia Hartzer. Then the woman’s voice fumbled and she coughed with embarrassment.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I guess my voice isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Were you an opera singer?” asked one of the tourists.

  “I wanted to be,” Ms. Hartzer said, blushing a little. “I studied voice in college and performed in some college opera productions. I played the Queen of the Night in The Magic Flute—the goddess dressed up in stars.”
r />   “A very difficult role,” Emil remarked.

  “Indeed. I can’t say I ever came close to mastering it, but I did sing it much better way back then. Oh, I simply adore Mozart!”

  She added wistfully, “I just couldn’t resist trying out my voice in this wonderful place. I hope the ghosts of great singers past weren’t offended. If so, I offer them my sincerest apologies.”

  Emil clapped his hands again, and the lights rose back to their earlier brightness.

  He turned to the group and smiled.

  “I suggest we presently pay a little visit to the man who wrote that great opera,” he said.

  London knew exactly where Emil intended to go next.

  As the rest of the group left the auditorium, London paused to take one last look into the cavernous space. She remembered something else now—how good it had felt to sit in that audience as a little girl, with Mom and Dad on either side of her.

  Her throat caught a little as she followed after the group.

  *

  After exploring the opera house for a little while longer, London and Emil led the group outside for a short, brisk walk to the Mozart Monument in the Burggarten, the beautiful park at the city’s center. A few people were lounging about on the grass or sitting on park benches.

  And there was the twenty-five-foot-tall marble statue of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart himself, mounted on a handsome pedestal. In the grass in front of the sculpture, a huge treble clef was shaped in a garden of brightly colored flowers.

  “This statue was unveiled in 1896,” London told the group. “Like so much else in Vienna, it was damaged during World War Two, but it was moved here and restored in 1953.”

  She pointed to sculpted figures flanking the pedestal. “These cherubic-looking winged fellows represent the power of Mozart’s music. The two bas-reliefs at the base show scenes from Don Giovanni—the first opera ever staged at Wiener Staatsoper, and the one that’s playing there right now. Now let’s look at the back of the pedestal.”

  She led them behind the monument, where there was another bas-relief.

  “This shows Mozart as a child playing the keyboard, accompanying his father on the violin and his older sister as she sings. As you probably know, Mozart was a great child prodigy who spent much of his childhood performing for aristocratic audiences.”

  Emil spoke up, pointing to the child on the bas-relief and then the adult statue.

  “Let’s pause for a moment to compare these two likenesses,” he said. “Both of them, I think, hint at Mozart’s inborn genius, one an image from his childhood, the other of him in his full maturity—older and wiser, but still young. I believe they both suggest a certain perpetual youthfulness, appropriate for a master whose artistry was apparent from the start—an artistry that never grows old, no matter how many years may pass.”

  Well said, London thought.

  And again, she imagined she heard strains of music from The Magic Flute.

  She remembered vividly being here with Mom and Dad many years ago on a sunny afternoon, sitting right here on the monument’s semicircular railing for a pleasant picnic. She thought she could almost taste the Austrian pastry she’d eaten back then.

  What was it?

  Apple strudel?

  No, she was sure it hadn’t been that.

  What was it, then?

  One of the tourists interrupted her thoughts.

  “Is it true Mozart was murdered by a rival composer?”

  London heard Letitia Hartzer let out a scoff. Cyrus Bannister looked more than a little offended.

  “You should know better than to believe everything you see in movies,” Cyrus growled at the passenger. “Amadeus, for example.”

  London and Emil exchanged glances of concern. They knew that Cyrus could be brusque about his authority on music.

  “Then he wasn’t killed by Antonio Salieri?” another passenger asked.

  “No, and I can hardly believe any of you are entertaining such a foolish notion,” Cyrus snapped. “There was probably some rivalry between the two of them. But as far as anyone knows, Salieri and Mozart seem to have been mutually supportive and even friendly. They even collaborated on at least one piece of music.”

  Letitia Hartzer chimed in, sounding markedly more pleasant than Cyrus.

  “Of course there were rumors about such a murder, untrue though those rumors certainly were. But even while suffering dementia on his deathbed, Salieri very clearly denied the rumors to a friend, saying, ‘Tell the world that old Salieri, who will soon die, told you so.’”

  The group let out a murmur of appreciation.

  “How sad that Mozart died so young, though,” Ms. Hartzer added, “at only thirty-five years of age.”

  There was a collective sigh of agreement. But London noticed that Emil had crossed his arms and was scowling. She realized that he didn’t like to be upstaged in his role as the ship’s historical authority.

  It was time to move on. Fortunately she had made plans in advance.

  “Let’s go get some coffee and something scrumptious to eat,” she said.

  *

  London had made reservations for the whole group at the famous Café Landtmann. As they headed there along the broad, tree-lined boulevard called the Museumstrasse, the group passed the grand edifices of the Museum of Art History, the Natural History Museum, and the Austrian Parliament Building, which was fronted by a huge fountain with a statue of Athena standing on a pillar at its center.

  As they approached the broad awning of the Café Landtmann, Emil smiled with approval.

  “You made an excellent choice, my dear,” he said.

  London couldn’t help but agree. In a city that was famous for its cafés, the Landtmann looked especially attractive.

  Like all Viennese cafés, it was more than a mere eating place—it was a cultural institution, a place where ordinary people could rub shoulders with some of the most remarkable people of their times. Since 1873, the Café Landtmann had been a regular haunt of the likes of composer Gustav Mahler, psychologist Sigmund Freud, novelist James Michener, and even Paul McCartney.

  The tourists dispersed to their tables, and London and Emil sat down together on the outdoor terrace under the awning. They had a nice view of the bustling boulevard called the Ringstrasse.

  They both ordered espresso, then mulled over the pastry menu.

  “I believe I will have the Sachertorte,” Emil said. “Perhaps you would enjoy it as well.”

  London was familiar with the layered chocolate sponge cake coated on top with apricot jam and chocolate icing. She knew that it was perfectly delicious.

  But even so …

  She was trying to remember a pastry she had eaten with her parents all those years ago.

  “I’ve got something else in mind,” she said tentatively. “Something I ate when I was just a little girl. I really liked it, but I can’t remember what it’s called …”

  “Can you describe it for me?” Emil asked.

  London thought for a moment.

  “I think it was like a thin piece of pie with a crisscross crust on top.”

  Emil pointed to the menu and said, “You might be talking about Linzertorte. It is thought to be the oldest cake in the world, first made in 1696 named after the city of Linz where it was invented.”

  The name sounded familiar, so when the waiter returned, London ordered the Linzertorte, and Emil ordered the Sachertorte. When thin pie-like dessert arrived, London took a small taste of it. The crust was buttery and delicate, with hints of lemon, cinnamon, and hazelnuts. The filling was an uncommon blend of tartness and sweetness—redcurrant jam, London suspected.

  Yes, that’s it, she thought.

  And it was every bit as delicious as she remembered.

  She closed her eyes and took another bite, savoring the cluster of wonderful flavors. The taste was almost intoxicating, and London felt dizzy at the rush of memories it stirred up. A little alarmed, she opened her eyes.

  For a
moment, she thought she was dreaming last night’s dream all over again.

  There, in the midst of the crowd on the busy Ringstrasse, was a woman with reddish hair and a face shaped much like London’s own.

  London gasped and dropped her fork.

  “Mom?” she whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Overwhelmed by anticipation, London barely noticed Emil’s voice calling after her as she dashed away from their table. She rushed out of the café terrace into the crowd of people on the wide sidewalk.

  Mom, she repeated breathlessly.

  But now the woman she’d seen had disappeared in the sheer density of pedestrians. It was like being back in last night’s dream, with her repeated glimpses of a woman who vanished whenever London tried to approach her.

  I’ve lost her, she thought in despair.

  But then she caught a glimpse again—the same color and arrangement of hair that had gotten her attention before. The woman was now farther away, but she was definitely there, and definitely real. Then dozens of other pedestrians clustered and intermingled in the space between them.

  London pushed her way into the crowd, bouncing chaotically against other moving bodies.

  “Entschuldigen Sie,” she said, begging pardon as she bumped into a tall man.

  “Entschuldigen Sie, bitte,” she repeated as she pushed against a woman harder than she meant to. She heard murmurs of surprise, and wished she could stop and explain and apologize, but since that could be Mom out there, she needed to keep moving.

  The woman came into view again—very nearby. Now it was more than her hair that held London’s attention. It was her posture, her distinctive stride, her manner of movement.

  It’s Mom. It’s got to be.

  She reached out and touched the woman’s shoulder.

  “Mom!” she exclaimed.

  The woman stopped in her tracks, and so did London. Then the woman turned and looked at her.

  London’s heart sank.

  It wasn’t Mom at all.

  She knew it immediately because of the brown eyes. Mom’s eyes were a vibrant bright blue, like London’s own. And up close like this, there really wasn’t as much resemblance as she’d thought.