by Blake Pierce
This was, of course, absolutely true. But Wolfram took one step closer to her, and she tried to back away. The platform suddenly seemed much smaller than before, and much more crowded.
“My boat will be sailing soon,” London said, trying to sound calmer than she felt. “I’d better go.”
But Wolfram stepped between her and the ladder that led back down to the stage.
“I think you’d better tell me more,” he said.
“About what?” London asked.
“About what Gunther knows. And what you know.”
What do I know? she wondered.
“I’d really better go,” she said again.
But Wolfram loomed more threateningly than before, and he showed no sign that he would let her pass. London’s skin tingled at the thought of trying to lunge past him and clamber back down the ladder.
If she slipped … or if he pushed …
It would be a very long fall to the stage.
Her mind clicked madly away, trying to make sense of things, trying to at least to keep the conversation going.
She found herself remembering the little impromptu performance he’d given her earlier that day—especially his performance of the jazz variations of Mozart’s Rondo alla Turca. She remembered what he’d said when she asked him if he’d made up those variations himself.
“I heard the great Yuja Wang play them in this very auditorium,” he’d said.
And then he’d added …
“The variations … well, they kind of stuck with me.”
A realization came over London.
He learned the variations by ear.
Just by listening to Yuja Wang perform the variations, he’d been able to play them perfectly, note for note and without a score.
But why did that matter? What did this ability say about him except that he was a uniquely gifted musician with amazingly keen ears, a quick and adept mind, and dazzlingly swift and skillful fingers?
Suddenly the truth crashed over London like an ocean wave.
“You can’t read music,” she whispered breathlessly.
Wolfram nodded slowly.
“I couldn’t let Olaf tell anybody that,” he said. “And I can’t let you tell anybody either.”
Now London knew that she was in serious danger. She still didn’t dare try to push past Wolfram to the ladder. And what if she screamed? She didn’t think anyone was there to hear her.
London could barely breathe now, but she had to keep talking.
“I don’t understand why it matters,” she told Wolfram. “This secret of yours, I mean. Why are you hiding it? Why don’t you just share the truth with the world? It sounds to me like you have a wonderful gift.”
“You don’t know what my life has been like,” Wolfram snarled. “I grew up orphaned and poor. I escaped my last foster home when I was fourteen, and I’ve been making my own way in the world ever since then.”
“You must have been … very brave,” London said.
“Not brave. Just cunning. I’ve never had the luxury of any kind of education, least of all in music. But one day when I was a teenager, I sneaked into a piano recital and listened to a true virtuoso play a Beethoven sonata—the Appassionata. Afterward I hung around until no one else was in the auditorium and sat down at the piano and …”
He shrugged.
“I played the Appassionata note by note. It was only then that I understood my uncanny ability—and my future. I listened to hundreds of performances and recordings, strengthened my hands and arms, taught myself to play masterpiece upon masterpiece. And neither you nor anyone else is going to spoil all that for me.”
“But—but if it’s important, can’t you learn …?” London stammered.
“To read music? To play from a score? I’ve tried. I can’t do it. Whatever bizarre providence gave me the ability to play like that also doomed me to musical illiteracy. It’s like some kind of sick, sad joke. Whenever I look at a score, all I can see are lines and dots and letters.”
“Lines and dots and letters,” London repeated. “That’s all you saw when Olaf tried to get you to play his sonata. And then you realized that he knew your secret …”
“No one must ever know,” he replied in a voice that had become raspy with fury.
“But why?” London asked.
“Don’t you understand? It would ruin me. I’d be jeered and scoffed at, regarded as some kind of freakish phenomenon rather than the inspired artist I know myself to be. The great concert halls of Europe would close their doors to me. I’d be forced to perform in clubs and dives like some trained sideshow circus animal under the mocking eyes of people who know nothing about great art. I won’t let that happen. I’d rather take to the streets again, like I did when I was a boy.”
London felt an unexpected spasm of pity for him.
“I won’t tell anybody,” she said, momentarily thinking she really meant it.
“You won’t?” Wolfram asked with a cynical sneer. “You really have no intention of telling the police what you know—that I killed Olaf Moritz? Somehow I find that very hard to believe.”
London shuddered to realize that he was absolutely right.
There was no way she could possibly keep his secret now.
Without another word, Wolfram seized her by both wrists and shoved her backward against the railing. He had a concert pianist’s powerful grip, and his hands felt like a pair of iron vises. He deftly avoided London’s feet as she kicked out desperately.
She was about to be pushed right over that railing to fall helplessly to the stage far below.
But then a man’s voice called out, “Hey! What’s going on up there?”
Wolfram let go of London’s wrists and leaped back, away from her.
She turned and looked down. The stage light was reflecting off of a pair of mirrored glasses.
“Bob!” she yelled back. “A man is trying to kill me!”
Bob yelled, “Whoever you are, buddy, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’m the law. And you’re under arrest.”
It seemed to London like a rather ridiculous thing to say. After all, Bob was a retired New York cop who had no jurisdiction anywhere, let alone here in Salzburg. Nevertheless, his very arrival might have just saved her life.
She heard Bob shout, “You just hold tight now. I’m on my way up there. I’m going to fix all this.”
“There’s a witness,” London said to Wolfram, who was standing as if frozen in horror. “You’ll never get away with it.”
Wolfram’s eyes widened as it dawned on him that London was right. With a roar of desperation, he wheeled and started down the ladder, obviously intending to make a run for it.
London realized, Bob’s on his way up that ladder!
She staggered over to the opening and looked down. Wolfram was descending rung after rung with animal-like speed and dexterity. And sure enough, he collided with Bob not far from the bottom. The two men fell in a heap together to the floor.
“Bob!” London screamed.
She ran back to the railing to see what was happening.
Wolfram had gotten to his feet, but then Bob tackled him to the ground with surprising agility. As Wolfram tried to get up again, Bob punched him in the jaw.
The murderous musician collapsed to the stage with a groan.
London clambered down the ladder herself as quickly as she could. By the time she got to the bottom, Bob was stooping over Wolfram, who lay moaning semiconsciously on the stage. The former cop strapped the killer’s wrists behind him with his belt.
“I guess I should start carrying handcuffs again,” Bob said.
Then with a laugh, he added, “I just hope my pants stay up!”
Flooded with relief, London took out her cell phone.
“I’ll call the police,” she said.
“Good idea,” Bob said. “But there’s no real rush. This guy ain’t going anywhere.” Then with a sheepish grin he added, “What I came over here for was to show you so
mething. Take a look in that bag over there.”
London saw a paper shopping bag lying on the floor where Bob had apparently dropped it.
She picked it up and reached inside and felt something soft and furry.
She took the object out and saw that it was a cute little teddy bear wearing a T-shirt that said “Salzburg” on it.
Bob grinned as he stood over his captive.
“I bought Sir Reggie a teddy bear!” he told her proudly.
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
Sitting in the Amadeus lounge at a small table with Bryce Yeaton, London finally felt like she was unwinding from the strange day. Sipping on one of Elsie’s superb Manhattans was certainly helping.
The Nachtmusik was in motion now, leaving Salzburg behind and making its way back to the Danube River to continue the tour. The police had taken Wolfram Poehler into custody, and although poor Tanneberger had been dumbfounded to learn that he’d arrested the wrong man earlier that day, he had assured London that he would sort everything out.
The Polizeidirektor had seemed more eager than ever to see the last of London Rose, and she felt exactly the same way about him.
That’s quite enough adventure for a while, she thought.
Glancing over at Bryce, she saw that he was amused by the activity at a table across the room. He was watching Cyrus Bannister play fetch with Sir Reggie, using a ball that Bob had bought in Salzburg. The teddy bear Bob had bought was seated on a chair right next to Cyrus. Most surprising of all, the usually sardonic man was laughing and obviously enjoying himself.
Then a familiar voice from a nearby group of people caught London’s attention. She smiled as she caught bits and pieces of Bob Turner’s account of how he’d single-handedly caught Olaf Moritz’s murderer and just generally saved the day. From the way he told it, it was thanks to him that the Nachtmusik was now sailing back up the narrow Salzach and Inn rivers on its way back to the Danube. Thanks to him, the Nachtmusik’s voyage to Regensburg wouldn’t be disrupted by further delays.
“Oh, I’ve got brains, all right,” Bob was saying. “But you see, it’s more than just a matter of brains. Pure ratiocination doesn’t always cut the mustard, nosirree. It’s also a matter of instincts. And sometimes a crack investigator is amazed even by his own instincts. He can’t quite put into words how he comes to certain conclusions. But somehow he knows what he knows …”
Bob was fairly holding court at a large table with Captain Hays, Letitia Hartzer, Kirby Oswinkle, Steve and Carol Weaver, and Rudy and Tina Fiore. His listeners appeared to be spellbound, understandably curious about how Bob could have tracked down a killer he’d never met in a city where he’d never set foot before, in a country where he didn’t speak the language—and just in time to save London from certain death by falling.
What London could overhear was quite fanciful. Bob had just followed his hunches, he kept saying, relying on raw intuition—a veritable gut-level sixth sense that led him right to the killer.
“That sounds like kind of a tall tale Bob is spinning over there,” Bryce said to London. “Have you got any idea how much of it is true?”
London let out a hearty laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Bryce said.
“Never mind,” London said.
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me?”
“What makes you think I even know how much of it is true?” London asked with an impish smile.
Bryce shook his head with a smile of his own.
“You’re really not going to tell me exactly what happened, are you?” he said.
“Not a chance,” London said.
Of course London knew perfectly well that Bob hadn’t been trying to solve a mystery when he’d stumbled into the House for Mozart. Fortunately, London had told him where she was going, and the only reason he’d stopped by the theater was to show her the teddy bear he’d bought for Sir Reggie.
But she couldn’t really accuse Bob of lying. He obviously believed every word he was saying.
Besides, it hardly matters, she thought.
For it was true enough that Bob had saved her life. Although he hardly seemed like a vigorous man, his police training had kicked in, and he’d successfully tackled and subdued Wolfram Poehler. It suited London fine for Bob to take credit for catching the killer. She knew he’d already called Jeremy Lapham to report his version of the story, which meant that Mr. Lapham surely felt like he’d made an excellent choice in hiring the former cop to work as a “security expert.”
And that was all well and good as far as London was concerned. If Mr. Lapham had any idea of what London had been up to and the dangers she’d faced today, he’d undoubtedly give her a severe scolding for continuing to play “Nancy Drew.”
Turning away from Bob’s performance, London saw that Amy and Emil were sitting alone at a table apart from other customers. She couldn’t hear their conversation, but she could see that Emil was doing all the talking—probably holding forth about his vast knowledge of European history. Amy was listening with a rapt expression.
Is romance in the air? London wondered.
She wasn’t sure how she felt about that possibility. Her recent altercations with Emil had dampened her feelings of attraction toward him, so she was far from jealous.
London’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a waiter she recognized from the ship’s restaurant. He placed a small dish with a silver compote in front of her, then lifted the compote to reveal a sweet-smelling and aesthetically pleasing serving of apple strudel.
“Compliments of the chef,” the waiter said with a wink at Bryce.
London laughed.
“How nice of the chef to think of me,” she said. “Be sure to thank him for me.”
The waiter said to Bryce, “The lady says thank you for the dessert.”
“I’m glad she’s pleased,” Bryce said.
London took a taste of the strudel, which she found almost unimaginably delicious.
“It’s beyond perfect,” she said to Bryce.
“Thank you for saying so,” Bryce replied.
London had to remind herself firmly that she had decided she wasn’t going to get romantically involved with Emil or Bryce, no matter how charming either of them became.
Just then she was surprised to see a familiar face coming into the lounge. It was none other than Stanley Tedrow, the solitary mystery writer. Instead of his usual pajamas, the elderly gentleman was rather dapperly dressed in a suit coat with a bow tie, and there was now a cheerful spring in his step. London had never seen him out of his room since he’d first boarded the Nachtmusik back in Budapest.
“Mr. Tedrow!” London called out.
He turned and saw London, smiled, and came over to the table where she was sitting with Bryce.
London made introductions.
“Bryce, Mr. Tedrow is a novelist and my next door neighbor. Mr. Tedrow, Bryce Yeaton is our head chef and also the ship’s medic.”
The two men exchanged an amiable handshake.
“What brings you out of your stateroom?” London asked.
“I’ve finished my novel!” Mr. Tedrow exclaimed. “I came here to celebrate with a drink!”
“You mustn’t celebrate alone,” Bryce said. “Pull up a chair and sit with us. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Mr. Tedrow thanked him, pulled up a chair, and ordered a double bourbon.
“So,” Bryce said to him, “tell us about this book you just finished.”
“Oh, no, I can’t do that,” Mr. Tedrow said impishly. “I must keep the story secret until publication. I don’t want to spoil it for my readers. I simply can’t be persuaded otherwise.”
“Of course, I understand perfectly,” Bryce said.
Then Mr. Tedrow blurted, “Well, since you insist—my story takes place aboard a Mississippi steamboat back in the nineteenth century. When a cabin boy is murdered, suspicion falls upon a colorful group of passengers …”
London smiled and listened with inter
est, and she saw that Bryce was enjoying the story as well.
I just hope he doesn’t give away the ending, London thought. Maybe things are more exciting when you don’t know what’s coming up next.
But what was coming up next?
What did the near future hold in store for her?
She found herself wondering—now that the Nachtmusik was on its way to Germany, was there even the slightest chance that she and Mom would find each other? It hardly seemed likely. Realistically, London could only assume that Mom had intentionally gone away for good all those years ago and didn’t want to be found.
I’ll just have to live with that, London thought.
But could she live with it?
Where are you, Mom? she thought.
Why did you go away?
In her heart, she knew she could never let go of those questions until she saw her mother again.
NOW AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER!
CRIME (AND LAGER)
(A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 3)
“When you think that life cannot get better, Blake Pierce comes up with another masterpiece of thriller and mystery! This book is full of twists, and the end brings a surprising revelation. Strongly recommended for the permanent library of any reader who enjoys a very well-written thriller.”
--Books and Movie Reviews (re Almost Gone)
CRIME (AND LAGER) is book three in a charming new cozy mystery series by #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose Once Gone has over 1,500 five-star reviews. The series begins with MURDER (AND BAKLAVA)—BOOK #1.
When London Rose, 33, is proposed to by her long-time boyfriend, she realizes she is facing a stable, predictable, pre-determined (and passionless) life. She freaks out and runs the other way—accepting instead a job across the Atlantic, as a tour-guide on a high-end European cruise line that travels through a country a day. London is searching for a more romantic, unscripted and exciting life that she feels sure exists out there somewhere.
London is elated: the European river towns are small, historic and charming. She gets to see a new port every night, gets to sample an endless array of new cuisine and meet a stream of interesting people. It is a traveler’s dream, and it is anything but predictable.
