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

by Blake Pierce

  I might as well enjoy my breakfast, London decided.

  She took a sip of the deliciously strong black coffee, broke open a soft, piping hot roll of semmel—“small bread.”

  Sir Reggie was sitting up in his chair and staring at her food, so she gave him a bit of buttered bread. Then she spread another piece with strawberry jam for herself. The fluffy, steaming bread and the sweet, tart flavor of the jam were a perfect combination with the soothing creaminess of the butter. It was an exquisite breakfast.

  Then she wondered—might Mom have eaten in this very café while she’d been in Salzburg? Might she have sat at this very table, under this same umbrella?

  And where is she now?

  She’d told Selma that she was on her way to Germany.

  But where did she go in Germany?

  And why hadn’t she stayed in touch with Selma and her family?

  London remembered what Selma had said yesterday.

  “She seemed very happy here in Salzburg. I got the feeling she was really thinking about settling down here at last.”

  As London looked around at the cheerful, bustling street, she could well understand why. She wished she and Mom could enjoy this lovely little city together.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a young woman making her way toward the café tables. Even though she was wearing a colorful dress instead of her maintenance uniform and her hair was more freely arranged, London thought it could be Greta Mayr.

  The woman seemed to recognize London, then stopped and glanced around nervously. She looked as though she was having second thoughts about coming here and might go away.

  “Greta!” London called out in German. “Please, come sit with me.”

  With faltering steps, Greta Mayr came and sat down in a chair across the table from London’s table. When she saw Sir Reggie, she smiled and reached over to pet him.

  “I already ordered,” London said. “Please order something for yourself. I’ll pay for it.”

  Greta Mayr picked up the menu and said, “Thanks, Fraulein … what was your last name again?”

  “Rose. London Rose. Please call me London.”

  Greta nodded and peered at the menu, but London got the feeling that she was too preoccupied to really read it.

  When the waiter came by, Greta said, “I haven’t decided.”

  Greta again reached over and stroked Sir Reggie, who seemed to have gone to sleep in his chair.

  Then she spoke so quietly that she seemed almost to be talking to herself.

  “I’m still not sure why you want to see me.”

  London swallowed hard.

  “It’s like I told you over the phone—I want to help the police eliminate me as a suspect. Not just for my own sake, but to make sure the investigation gets on track. I want to make sure the police’s efforts are going in the right direction.”

  “How do you think I can help?” Greta asked, her eyes full of worry.

  It was a good question. London wasn’t sure just why she thought Greta might be able to answer some lurking questions, or even what those questions might be. But she remembered how horribly distraught she’d been when she’d found Olaf’s body and how she’d cried out his name over and over.

  “Olaf! Olaf! Olaf!”

  Unlike London’s own shock, Greta’s reaction had seemed wrenchingly personal.

  “What can you tell me about Olaf?” London asked.

  A flicker of a warm, fond smile crossed Greta’s face.

  “Oh, he was very kind, and happy, and funny too.”

  London remembered Selma Hahn describing him in exactly the same words.

  He must have been very likable, London thought.

  Surely Greta knew quite a lot about him. But she was obviously very reluctant to talk. London wondered how she could draw her out.

  “I only met him yesterday,” London said, “but he was a wonderful tour guide. He knew all sorts of things. He must have been very smart. And knowledgeable. Especially about Mozart.”

  Greta seemed to be letting down her guard slightly.

  “Oh, yes, he loved Mozart. And he loved living in the town where Mozart was born. He wanted the whole world to love Salzburg as much as he did. That’s why he worked as a tour guide. And he loved music.”

  “I could tell,” London said. “And he was talented. I heard him play a piece on Mozart’s own clavichord at the Mozart birthplace.”

  Greta’s smile widened.

  She said, “He was so proud to have permission to play that clavichord. It gave him such a thrill just to touch those keys.”

  Greta added, “He was also a composer.”

  “Really?” London asked.

  “Yes. I don’t know much about music, but I really liked the pieces he played for me. He even wrote a piece …”

  Greta hesitated.

  “Go on,” London urged. “Please tell me.”

  “He … dedicated a piece to me. A whole piano sonata. I thought it was beautiful. I don’t think he ever played it for anyone else, which seemed a shame. I suggested he show it to Wolfram Poehler, the pianist who was supposed to do a recital at the House for Mozart last night, and see if he might like to play it.”

  “Did he?” London asked.

  “He said he did. But apparently Herr Poehler wasn’t interested in it. I think Olaf’s feelings might have been hurt.”

  London felt a surge of interest.

  “Olaf must have cared a great deal about you,” she said.

  Greta gave London a startled glance, as if she’d said more than she’d meant to, and maybe more than she thought she should say. London sensed that she’d stumbled across an important issue. She wanted to keep Greta talking about it.

  “Can you tell me about your relationship?” London said.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Greta said. “We liked each other, and we were friends, but he told me he felt … and I felt too … well, I suppose we’d have become more than friends if it weren’t for …”

  Greta’s eyes filled up with tears. London realized she’d better be careful not to pry too much. Besides, other questions were starting to occur to her.

  “Greta, I take it you were the only employee working in the House of Mozart when it happened.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which means you and I were the only people in the building at the time.”

  London could see Greta bristle slightly, as if she were being accused.

  “The police questioned me,” she said. “I told them the truth. They believed me when I said I didn’t kill Olaf. I could never have done such a thing.”

  London had no doubt that this was true. Greta was a slight woman, and she seemed to be perfectly gentle and kindly. London couldn’t imagine her committing any kind of act of violence. The police officers who’d interviewed her surely felt the same way. Maybe they even knew her personally.

  I make a much more likely suspect, she admitted to herself.

  She leaned toward Greta across the table.

  “What I’m asking is … was it very common for you to be working in the building alone? Don’t you usually work with a partner or somebody like that?”

  Greta shrugged slightly.

  “Yes, usually I work with my supervisor, the maintenance chief.”

  “But he wasn’t there at the time?”

  “No.”

  “Where was he?”

  Greta looked increasingly uncomfortable.

  “I told the police yesterday,” she said.

  “What did you tell them?” London said.

  “That he left the building a little while earlier.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “He said … he didn’t feel well. He just wanted to go home.”

  London felt a strange tingle.

  For the first time, she sensed that Greta was lying.

  “What is your supervisor’s name?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

 
; “I wish you’d tell me—”

  Greta abruptly stood up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “This was a mistake. I’ve got to go.”

  London stood up and stepped in her path.

  “Greta, please—”

  “No. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  Greta darted out of the café and quickly disappeared among the other pedestrians.

  London felt stunned as sat back down. She looked over at Sir Reggie, who was sitting up and staring at London’s breakfast plate. She gave the dog another piece of bread and confided in him, “That young woman seems to be desperately frightened.’’

  But of what? she wondered, as Sir Reggie crunched happily on his snack.

  London hadn’t found out much from Greta—except that she and Olaf had been attracted to one another, and that the young custodian was very afraid of something she wouldn’t even talk about. Now she sat wondering where to turn next to unravel the mystery behind the murder of Olaf Moritz.

  “Greta did tell me one important thing,” she remarked to Sir Reggie. “Someone else was also working in the House for Mozart on the day that Olaf died.”

  Sir Reggie had swallowed his bread and was staring at the half-eaten meal on London’s plate.

  With a tilt of his head, he seemed to be asking her silently, “If you’re not going to eat that, could I have it?”

  “Sorry, Sir Reggie,” London said, patting him on the head. “We’ve got someplace to go.”

  London had lost her appetite now, and she was focused on that bit of information. Greta had said that her supervisor, the maintenance chief, was there that day. But when she’d asked Greta her supervisor’s name …

  “It doesn’t matter,” Greta had said. And then she had suddenly left.

  But it obviously did matter.

  And London needed to find out why.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  London wondered whether Greta’s supervisor might be working today. If so, she definitely wanted to ask him some questions. She left money for the bill and a good tip, and she and Reggie went out of the café and crossed the paved terrace to the House for Mozart. When they entered the glittering lobby, the building seemed eerily quiet.

  Selma is probably up in her office, London thought.

  Surely now the director would be willing to tell her something about the maintenance supervisor. But before they began to climb the gallery staircase, she was startled by a sound.

  Music was coming from the auditorium.

  London took a few steps in the direction of the music, then froze in her tracks.

  A pianist was playing the joyful final movement of Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. The spritely and light rondo always seemed to her like an exquisite Viennese pastry. It was, of course, the piece of music that the tour boat was named after. But it carried even more emotional significance for London.

  Is that Mom playing? she couldn’t help but wonder.

  Her mother used to play this very piece on the piano at home, her expression glowing with delight at every note. She knew that Mom had been in Salzburg just a few months ago. Could she be here now, enjoying herself at the piano all alone in one of the world’s great concert halls?

  With Reggie at her side, London stepped into the vestibule and stood before one of the entrances to the auditorium.

  Did she dare go through that door?

  Feeling weak in her knees, she pushed the door open, and she and Reggie stepped into the cavernous space.

  Her heart sank.

  It wasn’t Mom playing, but Wolfram Poehler, the same casually dressed pianist who had been here yesterday.

  Of course, she told herself. It was silly to think otherwise.

  Remembering that he’d cut his practicing short yesterday at the appearance of visitors, she thought she should probably leave. But she was too charmed by the music.

  She and Sir Reggie stood silently in the aisle until Wolfram Poehler played the final chords of the rondo with a triumphant flourish. Then London couldn’t help but break out in a round of applause. Reggie let out a yap of enthusiasm.

  The pianist’s boyish face turned toward them with a smile. He didn’t seem surprised or annoyed to see London and her dog.

  “It appears that there are two music lovers in the house,” he said in German. “I’m glad you both liked it.”

  “Oh, very much,” London said. She walked on down the aisle and sat in the row of seats in front of the stage. Sir Reggie jumped up in her lap.

  “But I’m surprised to find you practicing here today,” she said. “I thought your recital was supposed to be last night.”

  “It was—and it was canceled, of course,” Poehler said with a sigh. “Such an awful thing to have happen in such a wonderful concert hall. I’m catching a train to Bonn tonight.”

  “Bonn—the birthplace of Beethoven,” London remarked.

  “That’s right,” Poehler said. “I’m scheduled to play the Hammerklavier in the Beethovenhalle there tomorrow night. It’s going to be quite a thrill for me.”

  “And for your audience, I’m sure,” London said smile. “I heard you practicing just a bit of that piece yesterday. It sounded amazing. I wish I could have heard your recital here.”

  “I wish I could have played it here,” Poehler said with another sigh. “I couldn’t resist stopping in this morning, just to enjoy this hall’s marvelous ambience—and this excellent Steinway piano.”

  Casually and effortlessly, he began to play again.

  And again, London smiled as recognized the piece.

  It was Mozart’s Rondo alla Turca—the irrepressibly sparkling and cheerful Turkish March. But then the music took off in into unexpected jazz rhythms and blues harmonies.

  London chuckled with glee to hear one musical surprise after another.

  When he finished the piece with the same aplomb as before, London burst into applause again, and Sir Reggie yapped several times.

  “Not too irreverent for you two?” he asked with a laugh.

  “Anything but,” London said. “I’m sure Mozart himself would have loved it.”

  “I’d like to think so. Mozart could be quite irreverent himself.”

  “Did you make up these variations yourself?”

  “Oh, hardly,” Poehler said. “I heard the great Yuja Wang play them in this very auditorium. The variations … well, they kind of stuck with me.”

  “You seem so young to be able to play so brilliantly,” London said. “Were you some sort of prodigy?”

  “Actually I’m something of a late beginner,” Poehler replied. “I’m just now getting started on my concert career. But I do seem to pick up new sounds and techniques without much difficulty.”

  “I’m sure you’ll become very famous,” London said.

  “So people keep telling me,” Poehler said with a note of wistfulness in his voice. “I’m not sure how I’ll feel about that. It already feels strange, just starting to get in the public eye. Strange, and more than a little scary. I like the way things are right now—just traveling around and giving recitals in really special concert halls, not a lot of flash or publicity. Just staying ‘under the radar,’ as you Americans put it—playing for people who want to hear me play. That’s what I live for.”

  London was impressed by his attitude. It seemed rare and refreshing. She wondered how many talented musicians felt a similar reluctance to become celebrities.

  Poehler turned away from the keyboard toward her.

  “But I don’t guess you stopped by just to listen to me practice,” he said.

  London was a bit startled by this insightful comment.

  “No, I don’t suppose I did,” she admitted.

  He smiled a knowing smile.

  “I believe I recognize you,” he said. “You were here with the tour group yesterday. And if you don’t mind if I hazard a guess … you’re the one who found Olaf’s body.”

  London shuddered a little.

  “That’s right,”
she said.

  “And you’re looking for answers about his murder,” Poehler added.

  “Yes, I am,” London said.

  Poehler shook his head sadly.

  “I’d like to find out some answers myself,” he said. “The whole thing puzzles me. Poor Olaf.”

  “You say his name like you knew him,” London said.

  “Oh, not very well,” Poehler said. “I arrived here a couple of days early for my recital. I love Salzburg, and if I may say so, I’m something of an aficionado of human nature. I like to get to know people wherever I go, and I seem to be good at drawing them out.”

  London felt a twinge of interest.

  “What can you tell me about Olaf?” she said.

  “He was a very nice man, quite clever, very interesting to talk to. Unfortunately …”

  Poehler shook his head sadly.

  “He fancied himself a composer. The afternoon before yesterday, when I was practicing right here on this stage, he came and showed me his score for a piano sonata. He wanted to know if I’d play the piece he’d written.”

  “The sonata he dedicated to Greta,” London said.

  “Yes, Greta—the charming cleaning lady. He was quite in love with her. And he seemed sure she felt the same way about him.”

  Poehler chuckled sympathetically.

  “Well, I sat here at this piano and sight read his whole sonata, played all four movements for him. Sadly, it wasn’t very good. He had no talent at all for musical composition.”

  Poehler shrugged.

  “I didn’t tell him that straight out, of course. I congratulated him for his hard work and handed the score back to him.”

  A lull fell in their conversation. London was certainly grateful to have someone to talk to so openly about what had happened. She tried to process what she was hearing.

  London pointed upward and said, “He fell—or rather was pushed—from the balcony up there. Does that seem odd to you? Why would he be in the balcony at the time?”

  “Oh, I believe I can answer that question,” Poehler said. “He told me he liked to sit up there when he had free time, enjoying the feel of this whole wonderful space.”

  Poehler gazed all around the hall with a rapt expression.

  “I told him I feel the same way,” he added. “Even the silence has a special quality in an auditorium like this. In fact, I expect to spend a few more hours today haunting this place—or rather letting it haunt me, work its magic on me.”