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

by Blake Pierce

  As they walked across a terrace toward the broad, modern facade with its row of glass entryways, Olaf told the group, “This building has gone through many transformations since it was first built on the site of some stables and a riding school in 1925. It was then called the Kleines Festspielhaus, the ‘Small Festival Hall.’ Above the entrances you can see three bronze reliefs showing scenes from Mozart operas—The Marriage of Figaro, Don Giovanni, and The Magic Flute.”

  The group continued on into the expansive, gleaming foyer.

  “The former festival hall is no longer so ‘small,’ as you can see,” Olaf said. “Its latest remodeling was completed in time for Mozarts two hundred fiftieth birthday in 2006, when it was renamed das Haus für Mozart—the House for Mozart.”

  The group murmured with awe at their surroundings, which included towering windows, bronze busts on marble pedestals, and enormous murals. Most impressive was a curving, gilded wall with horizontal openings through which could be seen a gigantic human profile.

  “Why, that’s Mozart himself!” one of the tourists said.

  “That’s right,” Olaf said. “His face is made out of Swarovski crystal. And take note of the construction materials in this lobby—a startling mix of glass, marble, concrete, and gold leaf.”

  “A most impressive piece of architecture,” Emil said as he took in the view.

  London happened to notice something much more prosaic farther along the marble floor—a yellow plastic sign that read “NASSER BODEN.” She was about to warn her charges that the words meant “wet floor.” But the warning seemed unnecessary as Olaf led them up a flight of stairs to a gallery that overlooked the lobby.

  The music aficionado Cyrus Bannister gasped aloud at the sound of piano music from inside the theater.

  “Someone’s playing Beethoven’s Hammerklavier sonata in there!” he commented.

  “Yes, one of the most difficult sonatas in the classical repertoire,” Olaf agreed. “It’s no mean feat. That’s a talented young pianist named Wolfram Poehler, practicing for a recital here tonight.”

  “He’s playing extremely well,” Cyrus said. “But I don’t believe I’ve heard of Herr Poehler.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Olaf told him. “He’s just now making his reputation.”

  “May we … go in and …?” Cyrus said, indicating an entrance to the auditorium.

  Olaf tilted his head thoughtfully.

  “I’d hate to disrupt Herr Poehler’s rehearsal,” he said. “But of course you will want to see the auditorium. That’s the main attraction here.”

  The group murmured in agreement.

  “Perhaps we can be very quiet,” he added, as he opened a door slowly.

  They all filed into the spacious auditorium, with its rows of red-cushioned seats and two balconies that wrapped around all the way around the auditorium to the stage itself.

  A young blond man wearing a T-shirt was on the stage playing on a grand piano. London was familiar with the indescribably complex Hammerklavier sonata, and she was impressed by the power and quality of his playing—and also by the hall’s perfect acoustics.

  Wolfram Poehler was in the middle of the thunderous fugue of the last movement when he noticed the arrival of visitors. He suddenly stopped, smiled at the intruders, and shut the lid over the piano keys.

  “Sorry,” he said quite pleasantly in German. “Rehearsal is over.”

  Then he left through a stage door.

  “Well, you can hardly blame him,” Olaf said, laughing. “If we want to hear his Hammerklavier, we’ll just have to buy tickets for tonight’s performance. Come on, let me show you the rest of the building.”

  *

  The visit to the House of Mozart brought the morning’s tour to a pleasant end. Only Emil and Letitia refrained from warmly thanking the tour guide for his services. With a final bow and a wave, Olaf turned back into auditorium while the visitors made their way outside.

  At that point, London’s passengers were free to spend the afternoon as they pleased, and most wandered off in various directions. She heard some mention that they planned to visit sights such as the Mirabelle Palace and Gardens and the city’s various museums. She saw that others apparently just wanted to go shopping, and they began checking out the nearby shops and stalls. London wasn’t sure where Letitia or Emil had gone, but they were nowhere to be seen.

  Just two passengers, Rudy and Tina Fiore, were still standing there in front of the House of Mozart.

  “I’m hungry,” Rudy announced.

  “London, we’d love for you to join us for lunch,” Tina added.

  London realized she was both tired and hungry, and also grateful for the company. They chose a nearby sidewalk café and sat down at a table with an umbrella. A waitress promptly gave them menus, but before they could even think about what to order, Tina let out an exclamation of alarm.

  “Oh dear,” she said, reaching around in her purse. “I seem to have lost my cell phone.”

  “Where do you think it happened?” her husband asked.

  Tina thought for a moment.

  “When we went into the auditorium I took out my cell phone to snap a picture. I must have dropped it then. I believe we were in the aisle right by the fourth row of seats.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” London said. “I’ll go back and find it. Just order me anything that looks good, and a cold drink.”

  London hurried back to the theater and was relieved to find the door still unlocked. She thought that Olaf might still be inside. As she crossed the lobby, she again noticed the plastic “NASSER BODEN” sign, now placed in a different area. She climbed the staircase and continued on inside the auditorium.

  She was startled to find the place was now quite dim inside. London turned on her cell phone flashlight, but before she could look for the missing phone, her beam fell on a large, dark object heaped over some chairs in a nearby row.

  London couldn’t tell what that object was, and couldn’t imagine why anything would have been left draped across those chairs.

  “Ist hier jemand?” she called out. “Is anyone here?”

  She heard no answer, not even the slightest sound in the cavernous space.

  She shined her flashlight around the auditorium and didn’t see anybody.

  Finally London walked up the aisle to the row of seats where the object lay, then made her way over to it. She shined her flashlight directly on the object, then leaped back with a cry of alarm.

  Her flashlight had revealed a pair of unmoving staring eyes.

  Olaf Moritz was dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  London stood frozen with horror and disbelief. Those eyes staring at her here in this vast darkness seemed like some horrible dream.

  This can’t be happening, she tried to tell herself.

  But it was happening.

  A man she’d seen so lively and smiling just a little while ago lay dead and broken right here over the backs of the theater seats.

  She heard herself shout “Help!” at the top of her lungs.

  Then, remembering she was in Austria, she shouted, “Hilfe!”

  Her shouts echoed through the auditorium. She felt as though all of Vienna must have heard her. And yet, how could anybody have really heard her in this cavernous empty space? Was there even anyone else in the whole building?

  I’ve got to find somebody, she thought.

  Using her flashlight to guide her, she staggered along the row of seats back into the aisle.

  “Hilfe!” she kept yelling. “Ein Mann ist tot!” A man is dead!

  Moving toward the entrance, she kept her beam focused on the floor in order not to stumble. Along the way, the light caught the reflection of an object on the floor.

  Sure enough, it was Tina Fiore’s cell phone—the very thing London had come back here to find. But finding it in these circumstances, at this particular moment, felt beyond bizarre. Nevertheless, she mechanically picked it up and dropped into her bag and continu
ed on her way.

  “Hilfe!” she cried out again.

  When she pushed her way out the door into the lobby, she was momentarily blinded by the bright lighting. She yelled again and this time a voice answered.

  “Was ist da los?” What is the matter?

  A figure was running toward her

  “We’ve got to call the police!” London cried out in German. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that it was a pretty, young blond woman, wearing a gray maintenance worker’s uniform. Remembering the “NASSER BODEN” sign, London guessed she must have been mopping a restroom.

  “Why?” the young woman asked.

  “An accident,” London replied breathlessly. “Inside.”

  Near the entrance to the dark auditorium, the woman stepped over to a little metal door on a wall and flipped an electrical switch.

  Lights came up in the auditorium, and the body heaped over the chairs was clearly visible.

  The young woman let out a bloodcurdling shriek.

  She ran toward the body.

  “Olaf! Olaf! Olaf!”

  When the young woman got near enough to see those open staring eyes, she burst into tears and collapsed into a seat.

  London struggled to overcome her own state of shock. No one here was going to be of any help.

  She fumbled for her cell phone. As she gripped it in a shaking hand, she briefly had to remind herself not to dial 911.

  I’m in Vienna.

  Austria.

  As always when she led tours, she had entered the local emergency numbers in her phone—133 for the police and 144 for an ambulance. She wavered for just a moment as to which to call. But there wasn’t a doubt that the man was dead. It was too late for an ambulance. She dialed 133.

  A calm, professional-sounding woman’s voice asked in German, “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “A man … a man is dead,” she stammered in German.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the auditorium at the House for Mozart.”

  “And your name?”

  “London Rose. I’m here with the tour boat Nachtmusik.”

  “I’ll send the police right over,” the woman on the phone said. “Stay where you are.”

  “I will,” London said.

  The call ended, and London became aware of the young woman sobbing as she sat near the body.

  She knew him, London thought.

  For her, this tragedy was clearly painfully personal.

  Meanwhile, London’s mind reeled as she wondered what she should do next. Did she need to call Captain Hays right away?

  And tell him what? she asked herself.

  She still didn’t understand what had happened.

  Instead, she dialed Emil’s number.

  “Emil, where are you right now?” she said when he answered.

  “Out walking,” Emil replied, sounding a bit startled by the question.

  “Are you still near the House for Mozart?”

  “Quite close, actually. Why?”

  “Emil … that’s where I am, and …”

  Words failed her for a moment.

  “Please come here right away,” she finally said.

  “I will,” Emil replied.

  They ended the call, and London made her way back along the row of seats where the body lay crumpled. She sat down next to the young woman.

  “Can I … help?” London asked.

  The woman just kept repeating the same name again and again.

  “Olaf … Olaf … Olaf …”

  Whatever its cause, the poor woman’s anguish was palpable. London knew that her own shock couldn’t begin to compare with it, although she was deeply shaken.

  But what happened to Olaf? she wondered.

  It looked as though Olaf had fallen from one of the balconies. From the way his head was twisted, he appeared to have broken his neck.

  But how?

  Had he fallen by accident?

  It just can’t be another murder, she thought miserably.

  Surely it’s not that.

  Soon the sound of police sirens pierced through the auditorium walls, and then a group of uniformed police officers swarmed into the building.

  Two officers briskly escorted London and the young woman back into the lobby and had them sit down on facing marble benches. London spotted a name tag on the young woman’s blouse—Greta Mayr.

  She said, “Greta … my name is London.”

  The woman didn’t reply, but her sobbing had subsided.

  “I take it you knew … the victim,” London said.

  The woman nodded.

  “Do you have … any idea …?” London began.

  “No, I don’t know anything,” Greta said. “I don’t know anything at all.”

  She said so with a strange tremor, as if she knew more than she could bring herself to say.

  A female police officer approached them from the auditorium.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you both to stay and answer a few questions,” she said.

  “What can you tell us right now?” London asked.

  “Just that you will need to answer some questions.”

  London didn’t like the evasiveness of the policewoman’s words.

  “Couldn’t you just tell us—?” she began.

  “The Landespolizeidirektor will be here momentarily,” the policewoman interrupted. “He will want to talk to you.”

  Landespolizeidirektor—the police director, London realized.

  Surely the police director wouldn’t be on his way here if the officers already on the scene didn’t suspect something sinister.

  The officer took a few steps away and stood nearby, alert and vigilant, as if keeping watch.

  Suddenly one of the glass front doors flew open, and Emil came rushing in.

  “London!” he exclaimed as he caught sight of her. “What has happened?”

  London got up from the bench and hurried toward him.

  “Something terrible … our tour guide …”

  “Yes? What happened to him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Emil’s eyes widened.

  “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  London opened her mouth to speak, but her voice failed her.

  At that moment, the front door opened again. A tall man wearing a dark blue uniform with insignias on his shoulders came striding into the lobby.

  “Is that the Landespolizeidirektor?” Emil asked London, looking alarmed.

  “I think so. I was told he was on his way here.”

  The policewoman who had just spoken to London and Greta hurried over to him. She spoke to him, pointing at London. The man glanced at London, but went on into the auditorium.

  “Please just tell me it is not another murder,” Emil said to London.

  London was startled by his query, which seemed weirdly inappropriate.

  Wasn’t he worried about the trauma she was going through?

  Why doesn’t he ask me how I am? she wondered.

  He didn’t seem concerned about her at all.

  “I don’t know … what happened,” she replied.

  “But you must know something,” Emil insisted.

  London felt a flash of anger. She had called on Emil for help, but now she wished she hadn’t phoned him.

  “I said I don’t know, Emil! All I know is … something terrible has happened.”

  Emil just frowned, almost as if he thought all this was her fault.

  “At least tell me how you happened to find—” he began.

  London interrupted sharply.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t think I should talk about it—at least not with you, not before I talk to the police.”

  London and Emil stood in tense silence for a few long moments. Then the Landespolizeidirektor came back out of the theater.

  “Come with me, please,” he said to London.

  He escorted her to a different section of the lobby and told her to sit d
own. Emil followed, but after a sharp stare from the police director, he kept his distance.

  The police director appeared to be about fifty years old. He had a white mustache, round-rimmed glasses, and an alert twinkle in his eye.

  “I am Landespolizeidirektor Fritz Tanneberger,” he said to her in German. “And you are …?”

  “My name is London Rose,” she said.

  “An American?” he asked, apparently noticing her accent.

  “Yes. I’m the social director aboard a tour boat …”

  “Ah, the Nachtmusik,” Tanneberger said. “Yes, I heard. You docked here this morning, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” London said.

  “A rather large craft, I hear. How many passengers?”

  London wondered why that could possibly matter.

  “About a hundred,” she said.

  “Then it was an impressive feat, navigating our narrow little Salzach River. The Nachtmusik must be very maneuverable.”

  “It is,” London agreed.

  He seemed to be genuinely curious about the Nachtmusik. If not, he was taking an indirect approach toward asking her questions.

  Emil suddenly stepped toward them and spoke up.

  “London and I brought a tour group into Salzburg shortly after the Nachtmusik landed.”

  Tanneberger squinted through his thick lenses at Emil.

  “And you are …?”

  “My name is Emil Waldmüller. I am the ship’s historian.”

  “And you are German.”

  “I am.”

  “Were you here when the body was found?”

  “No, but—”

  Tanneberger interrupted gently but sternly.

  “Then kindly let Fraulein Rose answer my questions, if you don’t mind.”

  Emil’s face reddened—London wasn’t sure whether from embarrassment or irritation. But he kept silent.

  “How many passengers did you bring ashore?” Tanneberger asked London.

  “About twenty.”

  Tanneberger tilted his head with interest.

  “A rather large group. And was Herr Moritz your tour guide?”

  London noticed that he seemed familiar with the name.

  “He was.”