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

by Blake Pierce

  Amy didn’t reply.

  “Uh, Amy,” London said, “are you still there?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said, then fell silent again.

  London fought down a sigh as she recognized one of Amy’s pouting spells.

  “You’re doing it again, aren’t you?” Amy finally asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard what the captain said over the PA. There’s been another ‘suspicious death.’ So you’re going ashore to play Miss Marple again.”

  London winced at the mention of Agatha Christie’s fictional spinster detective. The last person who had made that comparison was the bumbling police chief back in Gyor, and he hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

  Ignore it, she told herself.

  “I just need to go into town and check out a few things,” London said.

  “Hah. You’re going to have some big adventure while I stay here and do all the boring work.”

  That’s not true, London almost blurted.

  “Amy, please just let me explain—” she began.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll do what I’m told,” Amy interrupted. “I swear, I think that dog of yours gets to have more fun than I do around here.”

  Amy abruptly ended the call.

  London looked down at Sir Reggie, who was standing beside her looking as if he’d been listening in on the conversation.

  “I’m going into town,” London said to him. “You can stay aboard if you like.”

  Sir Reggie let out a yap of protest.

  “OK, you can come along,” London said. “You might even be helpful. But behave yourself. And I hope you don’t mind being on a leash.”

  London reached into her bag and took out Sir Reggie’s leash and attached it to his collar. They went down the stairs and headed out to the gangway.

  As she reached the top of the gangway, London pictured the eager guide standing down on the barge at the bottom of the gangway calling out to the tour group.

  “Willkommen in Salzburg, birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!”

  London felt a pang of sadness that the tour had ended so horribly for him. It occurred to her that she still knew almost nothing about him, including what friends or loved ones might be mourning his death.

  But as she continued ashore, she felt sure of one thing.

  Olaf deserves justice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  London and Sir Reggie began to retrace the tour’s morning route through Salzburg. As they passed the Mozarts Geburtshaus, London could almost hear the hushed, delicate sound of Mozart’s own clavichord as Olaf used it to play part of a sonata by the composer who had lived there.

  She and Sir Reggie continued on directly to the House for Mozart. There were still a handful of police officers posted in front, but London was glad to see that the building seemed to be open. An officer at door the politely took her name and allowed her to walk on inside.

  Again she found herself in the sparkling lobby with its blend of glass, marble, and gold, and its huge crystal profile of Mozart on its curving wall. London noticed that there was no longer a sign that read “NASSER BODEN”—“wet floor”—anywhere in sight.

  As London and Sir Reggie passed by the marble bench where she’d sat while waiting to talk to the police, she remembered the attractive young maintenance woman who had sat on the opposite bench weeping inconsolably over Olaf’s death.

  What was her name?

  Oh, yes. Greta Mayr.

  She also remembered her almost desperately emphatic claim when London asked her if she had any idea what had happened to Olaf.

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

  Hearing that voice again in her mind, London wondered—had she been lying? Did she really know the truth, or at least part of the truth? If so, what had she told the police?

  There’s a lot I don’t know, London realized.

  London walked back to the entrance of the auditorium. The door was wide open, but the way was barred by a thick rope. Sir Reggie started to go under the rope, but she pulled him back.

  She peered into the auditorium, which was dark except for the light spilling in from the lobby. She could barely make out something white on a row of chairs, and realized that it must be a taped outline showing where Olaf’s crumpled body had lain.

  London peered upward toward the two balconies.

  What must have happened here?

  All she really knew was that Olaf Moritz had fallen from the upper balcony, and now she could see for herself why the police were suspicious about the trajectory of the fall. He certainly hadn’t fallen straight downward.

  But had he really been pushed?

  Might there be some other explanation for why the body had fallen some distance away from the balcony’s edge?

  As her eyes adjusted a bit more, London could see that the balcony’s center aisle was steep. She wondered—might he have entered at the top when the auditorium was dark like this, only to trip and fall and tumble all the way over the rail and …?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a kindly voice speaking in German.

  “May I help you, fraulein?”

  London turned and saw an attractive, well-dressed, middle-aged woman smiling at her.

  “I’m not sure,” London said.

  The woman extended her hand and said, “I’m Selma Hahn, the theater’s managing director. I’d be glad to be of assistance in any way I can.”

  London stammered, “I—I just wondered if maybe I could go into the auditorium and have a look around. With the house lights on.”

  Selma Hahn tilted her head sadly.

  “Under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to say yes. But not today. The police have declared this to be an active crime scene. Perhaps you’ve heard about the unfortunate events of earlier today.”

  “Yes, I—I know something about it.”

  “Then you understand the situation. Sadly, tonight’s piano recital has also been canceled. Too bad, because everyone was so eager to hear Wolfram Poehler’s performance of Beethoven’s Hammerklavier sonata. He’s an amazing new talent. Even I hadn’t heard of him until recently. He seems to have appeared out of nowhere.”

  Selma Hahn looked as though she was about to escort London out of the building, but then she glanced down at Sir Reggie, who was sitting there quietly on his leash.

  “Is that a Yorkshire Terrier?” she asked. “My aunt has one, she takes it with her everywhere.”

  “Yes, he’s a Yorkie. I haven’t had him very long, but he’s a great little companion.”

  The woman’s expression softened a bit. She peered at London’s name tag.

  “Your name is London Rose, I see,” she said.

  “That’s right,” London said.

  Selma Hahn’s expression had turned oddly curious.

  She said, “And judging from your uniform, you must work aboard the boat that arrived today—the Nachtmusik, I believe it’s called.”

  “That’s right. I’m the boat’s social director.”

  The woman gasped a little.

  “Oh, then you must have been the one who discovered poor Olaf’s body,” she said. “Or so the police told me.”

  London nodded.

  “How awful that must have been for you,” Selma Hahn said. “I’m so sorry your visit to Salzburg was marred by such a terrible experience. But—why would you want to go back into the auditorium? I would think you’d want to avoid it like the plague.”

  London stifled a sigh.

  “I guess I’m—trying to make sense of what happened.”

  “I can understand why you feel that way, of course. But I really must obey police orders.”

  “I understand,” London said.

  They stood silently for a moment. London could feel the inquisitiveness of Selma’s gaze. She wondered—had the police told her that London might be a suspect? Possibly, but Selma Hahn seemed to be perfectly sympathetic.

  Maybe she’d be will
ing to answer some questions, London thought.

  “Did you know Olaf personally?” London asked.

  “Some. He was well known in Salzburg. He was always around town, showing our lovely town to tourists. He was very knowledgeable, especially about Mozart.”

  London recalled Emil’s theory that Olaf’s death was a suicide.

  “Were you aware of Olaf being … at all unhappy recently?” London asked.

  Selma let out a musical chuckle.

  “Oh, no, anything but! He was always happy. He had an outgoing personality, was extremely friendly. And funny, too. Everybody liked him. I can’t begin to imagine why anyone would …”

  Her voice faded and she shook her head.

  “Where were you when it happened?” London asked cautiously.

  “I was at home. I came right away when the police called me. I understand that there were only two people in the building when the police came—you and our maintenance woman.”

  “Yes—her name is Greta, I believe.”

  “That’s right. Greta Mayr.”

  London hesitated for a moment.

  “Greta seemed personally upset about Olaf’s death. Did she have some kind of a relationship—?”

  The woman gently interrupted.

  “I really don’t know much about our employees’ personal lives, and … well, I’m afraid I’m not comfortable talking about them in any case. I believe in respecting people’s privacy.”

  “Oh, of course,” London said hastily. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s quite all right. I wish I could be more helpful.”

  “It was very nice to meet you, Fraulein …”

  “Frau Hahn. But everyone calls me Selma. It was nice to meet you too. I just wish the circumstances weren’t so unfortunate.”

  London was about to say goodbye when Selma spoke again.

  “Your last name is Rose?”

  “That’s right,” London said.

  “And you’re American, judging from your accent.”

  “Yes.”

  Selma looked intently at London’s face.

  London wondered what she was thinking.

  Selma said, “‘Rose’ is a rather common name in Europe, especially in England, I believe. How common is it in America?”

  “I guess I never thought about it,” London said. “Not very common, I guess.”

  “There’s something about your face …”

  Selma’s voice faded for a moment.

  Then she asked, “Are you by any chance related to a woman named Barbara Rose?”

  London felt as though her heart jumped up in her throat.

  Mom! she thought.

  Selma knows Mom!

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  For a moment, London couldn’t breathe.

  She more than half-expected to wake up at any moment.

  Finally, she took a gulp of air and managed to blurt out a reply.

  “My … my mother’s name was … is Barbara Rose.”

  Selma nodded.

  “There’s a very strong resemblance,” she said. “The shape of her face. The sound of your voice. Even the way you stand and move.”

  “How … do you know her?”

  “I met her some months back. I … well, I liked her.”

  “Is she here in Salzburg?” London gasped, barely able to get the words out.

  “No, not anymore,” Selma replied, looking puzzled.

  London was starting to feel dizzy now.

  Seeming to notice her discomfort, Selma gently took her by the arm.

  “Let’s go talk about it in my office,” the older woman said.

  Sir Reggie followed along quietly as London unsteadily but gratefully followed her up the stairs to her office in the gallery. It was a large, pleasantly decorated office, much simpler and less showy than the lobby, with minimalist artworks on the walls.

  London and Selma sat down in deep upholstered facing chairs and Sir Reggie lay down on the carpeted floor.

  “You seem surprised that I mentioned her,” Selma said with a smile. “And I hate to pry but it seems clear … you don’t know where Barbara is. I mean, you had to ask …”

  London’s mind was reeling.

  “Selma, I hardly know where to begin. She and my dad both used to be flight attendants. She retired in order to raise my sister and me in Connecticut, while Dad kept on traveling. One day, when I was fourteen, she said she wanted to go on a little European tour all on her own, just to get away for a bit. The last we heard from her, she was in Vienna. Then she just disappeared without a trace. None of us saw her or even heard from her ever again.”

  Selma’s expression was deeply sympathetic.

  “Oh, how terrible for all of you,” she said.

  London swallowed hard.

  “Over the years, I guess I … tried to convince myself that something awful had happened to her, that she was no longer alive. I know that sounds awful, but in a way it seemed better than thinking she’d just … gone away.”

  “I can understand that,” Selma said with a nod.

  And from the look in her eyes, London could tell she really meant it.

  “Then you’ve just seen her … after all these years … so she’s still alive?” London asked.

  “As far as I know.”

  “What can you tell me about her? How did you know her?”

  Selma sighed and leaned back in her chair.

  “Late last year, she arrived in Salzburg looking for work as a tutor.”

  “Was that what she did for a living?”

  “Yes, she was sort of an itinerant language tutor. I think mostly she just loved to travel, and tutoring wherever she went was how she kept herself going financially. As it happened, my teenaged daughter was studying English, and a tutor was exactly what my husband and I were looking for. And she was a marvelous teacher! Mia learned so much from her, and they both had so much fun. In fact, Barbara was fluent in all sorts of languages, so Mia picked up bits of lots of them. It was a wonderful experience for the girl.”

  Selma paused again. London noticed a deepening sadness in her expression.

  “I got to know her as well. We often met for coffee, and we talked about one thing or another. She was very interested in my work here at the House for Mozart, and in all the wonderful talents we’ve got coming and going. She knew so much about music, and the other arts as well. She was a wonderful conversationalist. And she told me great stories about all the places she’d been—all over the world, it seemed.”

  London felt a lump of emotion rising in her throat. It seemed strange to hear Selma talking about Mom in the past tense.

  London asked, “Did she … ever talk about us? Her family, I mean?”

  Selma seemed a bit reluctant to reply.

  “She did, at least a little,” she said. “But she never mentioned any of you by name.”

  London felt a stab of sadness.

  She realized that Sir Reggie must have been disturbed by the tone of her voice, because he whined and looked as though he wanted to jump up into the chair with her. She shook her head no, and the little dog lay down again.

  “Why do you think that was?” she asked.

  “Whenever she tried to talk about you, she’d look like she was about to cry. I was curious about her family, but I never pressed her about it. I thought that perhaps she had somehow lost all of you. I didn’t want to add to her sadness. But now that you’re here, I wonder … if maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have asked more questions.”

  London wished she had. But she could certainly understand why she hadn’t.

  Selma continued, “She seemed very happy here in Salzburg. Although she didn’t exactly say so, I got the feeling she was really thinking about settling down here at last. I would have liked that, and so would my daughter. Barbara got to be like an aunt to her. But one day Barbara said she was going away, and she did the very next day. I’ve not heard from her since.”

  So it’s like she
left another family, London thought with a trace of bitterness.

  But why?

  “Did she say where she was going?” London asked.

  “Yes, she said she was on her way to Germany. I don’t remember her saying exactly where, and of course, that was many months ago. I don’t know where she is now.”

  London felt wave after wave of emotions rising up inside her.

  “What else can you tell me about her?” she asked Selma.

  “Only that she seemed … well, a little mysterious somehow. As though she just didn’t want to talk about herself in any detail.”

  London suddenly couldn’t contain herself.

  She let out a sob, and tears started to flow.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Selma said, handing her a tissue. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you …”

  London wiped her eyes and hastily pulled herself together.

  “No, no, I’m glad you did. You helped. You really helped.”

  “I hope so,” Selma said. “I wish I could tell you more, but that is all I know.”

  London nodded and said, “I’d better go now.”

  “Of course,” Selma replied. “But about that other matter … I suppose it would be all right for me to give you this …”

  Looking at her computer screen, she scribbled something down on a piece of paper. As she handed it to London she said, “The maintenance woman you asked about—perhaps this will help.”

  Glancing at the paper ,London saw the name “Greta Mayr” and a phone number. Unable to think about the maintenance woman now, she thanked Selma as she put the paper in her vest pocket and stood up to leave. Sir Reggie jumped up, ready to go along with her.

  “Auf Wiedersehen, then,” Selma told her. “Come back if you like.”

  “Thanks.”

  Trembling as she walked, London made her way down from the gallery and outside. She sat down on a bench in front of the building. She fought back her tears, determined not to let her emotions get the best of her. She had too much to deal with right now to let herself fall apart.

  With a soft whine, Sir Reggie jumped into her lap.

  London hugged the little dog, appreciating the sympathy. But her mind was reeling. What was she supposed to make of what Selma had just told her? And exactly what did she know that she hadn’t known before?