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

by Blake Pierce

  London gasped aloud at her mistake.

  Fortunately, the woman didn’t seem angry. She spoke to London with polite surprise.

  “Darf ich Ihnen helfen?” she asked. May I help you?

  London swallowed hard and struggled to catch her breath.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in German. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “That’s all right,” the woman replied in German with a short laugh. “Are you an American?”

  “Yes,” London said.

  “You speak German well.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Are you here as a tourist?” the woman asked.

  “Yes,” London said. She didn’t want to explain anything more.

  The woman seemed on the verge of introducing herself, perhaps of even making conversation. Under different circumstances, London would have welcomed the chance to chat with a Viennese local. But she didn’t want to explain the circumstances … and besides, Emil must be wondering where she’d rushed off to.

  The woman seemed to detect London’s reticence.

  “Enjoy your stay,” the woman said.

  “I will,” London said, still in German. “Pardon me for disturbing you.”

  “It was nothing.”

  London felt her whole body slacken with exhaustion and disappointment. The distance back to the café now seemed considerably greater than she thought she’d run. She made her way back through the crowd to the terrace and sat down again with Emil.

  “Are you all right, London?” he asked a bit anxiously. “What just happened?”

  “Nothing,” London said. “I thought I recognized someone I knew.”

  “Ah,” Emil replied.

  London knew he must be waiting for more of an explanation, but she’d never told him much of anything about her past, let alone her mother’s disappearance.

  Anyway, this is not the time to share, she decided.

  London picked up her fork and took another bite of the Linzertorte. Just as before, the pastry crust melted on her tongue and the filling was absolutely luscious. All the same, it no longer stirred up those uncanny memories of her childhood.

  *

  The next stop on the tour was just a very short walk from the Café Landtmann.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Emil announced as the building came into view, “welcome to Vienna’s celebrated Burgtheater, the National Theater of Austria—perhaps the most important German language theater in the world.”

  The majestic building with its swirling Baroque architecture and rounded facade wasn’t as overwhelming as the titanic Wiener Staatsoper, but it was still stunning.

  As they approached the entrance, Emil continued his lecture.

  “This building is from 1888, but the theater was founded almost a century and a half earlier. In 1776, Emperor Joseph II declared that all performances would be in German. Now, that may sound unremarkable to you, but at the time it was quite revolutionary.”

  “How so?” one of the tourists asked.

  London noted the pride in Emil’s voice as he replied, “Throughout Europe at the time, and even here in Austria, the German language was looked down upon in elite circles. French and Italian were considered the languages of high culture, but only the wealthy and privileged understood them. The German language gained respect from the emperor’s decree—and the plays became accessible even to ordinary people. In a sense, it was the true beginning of German drama.”

  She gazed upward at the sculptures placed high above the doorways. They were busts of great German playwrights, and she recognized some of the names.

  There was Goethe, Kliest, Schiller, and …

  Shakespeare?

  London blinked and looked harder.

  Sure enough, there was the familiar face with the name “Shakespeare” on a plaque beneath it.

  Emil patted her on the back and said, “You look a bit surprised to see your friend Will Shakespeare here.”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  Emil chuckled, but said nothing more as they continued on their way.

  When they entered the theater’s great foyer, with its chandeliers and parquet floors and marble columns and walls, they were again greeted by a uniformed man who seemed prepared to serve as a guide. And again, Emil waved him aside.

  London brought the group to a stop as they reached a magnificent stairway.

  “Have a look,” she said, pointing straight above them.

  The group gasped at the sight that met their eyes. A series of enormous and beautiful paintings stretched across the high vaulted ceiling.

  She said, “Those paintings were created in 1888 by the great Viennese painter Gustav Klimt.”

  Certain that Emil knew much more about the paintings than she did, she prompted him with a nod.

  He pointed to them individually. “That one is of the altar of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and drama. That one pictures the great ancient amphitheater at Taormina in Sicily. And that one shows Thespis, whom legend holds to be the world’s first actor, performing aboard his traveling stage. And the last picture …”

  He paused and grinned.

  “Well, perhaps some of you recognize the scene.”

  London almost laughed as she peered at the painting carefully. Judging from the collective murmur, others in their group recognized the scene, too.

  On a jutting theater stage, a young woman lay on her bier, with a young man sprawled dead beside her, while rapt spectators watched the performance. The painting was of the last moments of a performance of Romeo and Juliet at the original Globe Theater in London.

  Emil said, “Perhaps you also recognize at least one member of the audience.”

  “Why, that’s Queen Elizabeth herself!” one tourist said.

  “That’s right,” Emil said. “And although you probably don’t recognize their faces, Gustav Klimt and his brother are also in the audience watching the performance. This is the only self-portrait Klimt ever painted.”

  Without further explanation, Emil led the group to a great theater with a massive chandelier and four tiers of horseshoe-shaped balconies.

  He cautioned them, “I believe a rehearsal is in progress.”

  The hushed tourists filed into the auditorium, where three actors on the stage below—two men and one woman—were speaking in German

  The first few words London heard sounded oddly familiar.

  The two men stepped out of sight, leaving the woman alone onstage.

  Then another young man entered and remained silent for a few moments.

  “I believe you are familiar with this play,” Emil whispered in London’s ear. “Just listen!”

  Facing the empty auditorium, the actor spoke solemnly and dramatically.

  “Sein oder Nichtsein, das is hier die Frage …”

  London’s eyes widened as she understood the words.

  “‘To be, or not to be’!” she whispered to Emil. “Why, they’re rehearsing a production of Hamlet!”

  Emil smiled and nodded.

  As they all listened, the words wove a startling spell indeed. When the soliloquy ended, she and Emil quietly led the group out of the auditorium.

  “So,” Emil asked her as they left the building, “was that your first taste of Shakespeare in the original German?”

  Now London laughed aloud. She’d heard that Germans sometimes joked about how much better Shakespeare was “in the original German.”

  But Emil wasn’t laughing. He shrugged in an ambiguous manner.

  “We Germans like to think of Shakespeare as one of our own,” he said. “His plays are actually performed in Germany more often than they are in England. Did you know that?”

  “No,” London admitted.

  “His language translates into German with uncanny grace and beauty—or is it the other way around? We speakers of German sometimes wonder. Even during his lifetime, his plays were performed by Deutsche Wanderbühne—German traveling players. There is actually an early ver
sion of Hamlet that exists only in a German version. So which came first—Shakespeare in English, or Shakespeare in German?”

  London didn’t know what to say.

  There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that Shakespeare was English, and he wrote his plays in English. But what did Emil really think? Was that a note of wryness in his voice, as if he wasn’t being quite serious? His manner was so dry, she couldn’t be sure. Did he really think that Shakespeare wrote his plays originally in German?

  He’s a hard man to read, she thought.

  But as they left the theater, London heard that famous line echoing through her head.

  “Sein oder Nichtsein, das is hier die Frage.”

  She couldn’t deny that it sounded beautiful in German.

  *

  The visit to the Burgtheater brought the morning tour to an end. The group assembled in front of the building to discuss their activities for the rest of the day, now that they were free to go out on their own. Many wanted to spend the afternoon exploring the rest of Vienna, including the museums of art and natural history. Several asked Emil to lead them on a tour of the Austrian Parliament Building, which he gladly agreed to do.

  Several others wanted to return to the Nachtmusik to relax, or to rest up in preparation for a long performance of Mozart’s Don Giovanni that night at the Wiener Staatsoper. Since London had plenty of tasks awaiting her on the boat, she boarded the chartered bus along with them and returned to the riverboat.

  When they arrived and she went up the gangway and into the reception area, a charming sight awaited her. Sir Reggie was entertaining several passengers with his antics.

  London was especially pleased to see that Sir Reggie was sitting up and begging for a dog treat that Walter Shick held in his hand. She was the only one aboard who knew that Walter and Agnes Shick had been in a witness protection program for thirty years. The presence of police aboard the boat back in Gyor had been especially traumatic for them. She’d been afraid that the elderly couple might stay sequestered in their stateroom during the rest of the voyage. But here they were, enjoying themselves just like other people.

  Walter toss tossed the treat up in the air, and Sir Reggie jumped up and caught it.

  Seeing London, Walter said, “Bryce the chef gave us some of these a while ago. Sir Reggie will do anything for them.”

  Several other people showed London the treats that Bryce had given them as well. London couldn’t guess how many passengers aboard the Nachtmusik might be carrying dog treats by now.

  London wagged her finger at Sir Reggie.

  “You’ve got to be careful, or you’ll get fat,” she said.

  Sir Reggie let out a whine of protest, which made everybody laugh. Then, as the group broke up, London picked up the dog and looked him in the eye.

  “I mean it, Sir Reggie,” she said. “You’ll get sick if you eat too much. And don’t let all this attention go to your head. I don’t know what I’ll do with you if you get all conceited.”

  At that moment, London heard the elevator door open behind her, then the sound of a man’s voice.

  “Don’t you worry about it, sir. I’m on the case now. I’ll get to the bottom of this nasty little crime before you know it.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Nasty little crime?” London wondered, as she turned and saw two men stepping out of the elevator. One of them was Kirby Oswinkle, wearing his nautical cap and looking as disgruntled as always.

  From the slicked-back hair and mirrored sunglasses, she recognized the second man as Bob Turner. The last she’d seen that new arrival, he’d been lying fast asleep in the Beethoven suite earlier this morning. When he caught sight of London, he stepped toward her.

  “London Rose—I’m glad we ran into you. Did you know that this gentleman has been the victim of a robbery?”

  Before London could reply, Oswinkle spoke sharply.

  “Oh, she knows, all right—don’t you, Miss London Rose?”

  He’s talking about the musician doll, London realized.

  She’d almost forgotten about that. And she’d hoped she’d heard the last about it.

  Oswinkle continued, “You were right there last night when I discovered the theft. But you didn’t do a single thing about it, did you? Well, that’s about to change.”

  London was still holding Sir Reggie, who was starting to tilt his head again in apparent sympathy with Oswinkle. The last thing London needed was for Oswinkle to get irate at the dog again, so she set Sir Reggie down.

  Bob Turner gave Oswinkle a reassuring pat on the back.

  “You needn’t worry, sir. I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll get your precious keepsake back.”

  “And bring the culprit to justice?” Oswinkle said through clenched teeth.

  “You can count on it.”

  Oswinkle turned to London again.

  “It’s about time you brought some big guns aboard to deal with the shenanigans that have been going on.”

  Then he headed off down the passageway toward his suite.

  Bob Turner shook his head at London.

  “Poor guy,” he said to her. “He’s really bent out of shape about this.”

  “Yes, well—I’m not sure how seriously we should take it.”

  “Oh, we should take it very seriously,” Turner said, leaning toward her. “It’s our job. No problem is too small for us to tackle. It’s the little things that wind up turning into the big things.”

  London felt a flash of resentment. She didn’t like being lectured by this man about her duties aboard the Nachtmusik—especially since she really knew so little about him or what he was doing here.

  “Bob—may I call you Bob?” she said.

  “If I can call you London.”

  “Please do. The thing is, I’m not sure this is even a real problem. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Oswinkle just misplaced the doll. If you could only see all the stuff he’s got in his stateroom—”

  “Oh, I saw it, all right,” Bob said. “He showed it to me. It’s really an impressive collection. And he and I combed through every bit of it, item by item, to make absolutely sure the little conductor doll wasn’t hiding there somewhere. But it’s gone for sure. Somebody definitely stole it. And now it’s up to me to find the thief.”

  He shook his head and shuffled his feet.

  “And just a couple of days ago there was a murder. What next? We’ve got some real problems on this boat. I’m glad I got here when I did. Just in the nick of time. You leave all that to me.”

  He stood looking at her for a moment—or at least she thought he looked at her. With those mirror sunglasses, it was hard to tell.

  “Well, London, I’ll get right to work,” he said. “I’ll be seeing you tonight at dinner.”

  London stood staring at him as he headed away down the passageway. She found the security man more than a bit mystifying.

  And what was he saying about dinner? she wondered.

  She wasn’t aware of any dinner plans involving him.

  Who is this guy, anyway? she asked herself.

  She remembered what Jeremy Lapham had written in his email to Captain Hays.

  “He will assist you on security matters during the rest of your voyage.”

  So whoever Bob Turner was, he seemed to have been brought aboard the Nachtmusik as some sort of security expert. And although London thought the man was rather odd, she figured he couldn’t do any harm in that capacity. Actually, maybe he could be of help.

  Maybe he could even find Kirby Oswinkle’s missing musician doll. Apparently he’d already taken an interest in it, and that might keep Oswinkle happy—which would be an achievement in itself.

  Looking down at Sir Reggie, London said, “I guess I won’t have to worry about the doll anymore.”

  Sir Reggie let out a little yap of agreement.

  “But what did he mean about dinner?”

  Sir Reggie made no reply, and it was only when London went back to her stateroom to prepa
re herself for the afternoon’s activities that she found the answer.

  Perched on her table was a tent-folded card. She picked it up and read its attractive calligraphy.

  Captain Spencer Hays

  “respectfully commands” you

  to join him and a select group of colleagues

  for dinner at the Palmenhaus

  courtesy of Epoch World Cruise Lines.

  The invitation—or the “command,” as it styled itself—went on to state the time when the group would gather in the reception area.

  The Palmenhaus, London mused.

  She knew the restaurant by reputation, but she hadn’t expected to get a chance to eat there.

  I’m about to be pampered, she thought with a smile.

  Apparently Bob Turner had been invited as well. But who else would be coming along?

  Meanwhile, she had lots of work to do. She sat down at her table and began to make a list of what she needed to take care of and to check on.

  *

  London’s frantic afternoon flew by very quickly. Yesterday, she’d set up a suggestions box for activities that passengers might like to request. Now she found lots of interesting proposals, including a book club, a drawing class, and a meditation group. She introduced the prospective book club members to Emil in his library, and found locations for the other two pursuits.

  Next, she helped set up a particularly interesting little musical game called “Drop the Needle.” A passenger had even brought along a phonograph player and a large collection of classical music vinyl records. The game involved someone dropping the needle randomly on a randomly chosen record. Players scored points by being the first to recognize what piece was being played.

  London herself wasn’t much good at guessing whether the passages were by Bach or Vivaldi, Mozart or Haydn, Rachmaninoff or Tchaikovsky, Bartok or Stravinsky, much less at identifying the piece itself. Nevertheless, those passengers were having a good time with it.

  Her afternoon’s duties came to an end just in time for her to feed Sir Reggie and get ready for tonight’s dinner at the Palmenhaus. She surveyed her closet for something to wear. She had a traveler’s standard variety of black mix and match items, so she could put together a dinner outfit from those.