Vengeance in Vienna

by Pierce, Blake

  But for how long?

  She pulled out her phone and turned it off silent mode. Immediately, a number of messages showed up. One from Bea: I think I’m going to have a separate reception in the States so that friends can come. One from Lily: Mom, look at the nightmare that’s outside the house! with a picture of a horrible pink unicorn sculpture the renters had put outside the Long Island home she’d lived in for thirty years, right in front of Diana’s favorite hydrangea bushes. And one from Evan: I’m confused—so you’re not back in the States?

  She groaned aloud, and typed in: FOR THE LAST TIME, I AM IN AUSTRIA.

  Just then, the door opened, and a large man with a boxy frame walked in. He had a definite Arnold Schwarzeneggar look to him—one that said, Don’t mess with me. His dress shirt stretched precariously around the muscles of his biceps and chest, threatening to tear with any wrong move, Incredible Hulk-style, and he had to duck so his head wouldn’t hit the transom. His face was just as emotionless and scary as The Terminator’s, too, all severe angles and points, from his jawline to his chin, to the tip of his nose, so her first thought was, I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.

  Then she remembered that she was probably a suspect, and was already on his bad side.

  He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. It was like an adult sitting on a child’s chair in Kindergarten class—it practically disappeared under his substantial body, and creaked a bit in protest.

  “Frau St. James?” he said, not looking up from his notepad.

  She nodded. “Yes. That’s me.”

  “I’m Detective Josef Moser, from the Vienna Police.” When he did look up at her, she withered a bit. His blue eyes were serious, icy enough to pierce right through her chest. You are terminated. “You are American, from what I hear?”

  He said it like it wasn’t a good thing. Would he count that against her? “Uh, yes.”

  “What brings you to Vienna? Vacation?”

  “Well, sort of. I was travelling through Europe for a year. This is my third stop on my tour.”

  “You arrived today? From . . .”

  “Yes. From Verona, Italy. I took the train.”

  “You went to the performance tonight, then?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I did. I—”

  “Alone?”

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Do you see anyone else with me? “Yes.”

  “Fortunate for you, you were able to get a ticket. How did that come about? It’s not very easy to get a seat here in Musikverein, from what I hear.”

  “Yes. I stopped by Theater an de Wien and inquired after a ticket. And they told me they’d contact me if anything became available. And one did. So I guess I was lucky that happened.” Or unlucky, now that I think about it . . .

  “All right. Can you walk me through what happened?”

  She nodded. “Like I said, I went to the performance earlier tonight and thought the soloist was very good. I wanted to tell him how good and perhaps get my program signed. So I went into the back of the theater, and that gentleman from the crew, the one who called you, pointed out his dressing room to me.” She felt her heart speed up in her chest as she recounted the next moments. “Anyway, the door was slightly open. I didn’t see him at first, because it was dark. I thought he wasn’t there, but I noticed some signed photographs on his vanity. I went to get one, and that’s when I noticed him. So I ran out and told the first person I saw—the crewman.”

  “Mr. Gruber,” he offered.

  “Okay.”

  “Hmm.” He looked down at his notes. “You didn’t touch the body?”

  “No. Well . . . I moved his hair away from his face. And I . . .” Her face heated. “I stepped on his hand when I was going in.”

  “Ah. That explains the heel-mark on his palm.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Yes. Um. Sorry about that. The crewman—Mr. Gruber, I guess—he moved the body. He turned it over to see if he was breathing. I wasn’t sure if he should, but before I could--”

  “And that’s all?” He stared at her expectantly, as if wanting her to say more.

  Was there any more? She shook her head. “Well . . . yes, that about sums it up.”

  “You didn’t have any other interaction with Herr Huber, prior to his demise?”

  “No . . .” Was he fishing for something? She withered some more as those blue eyes connected with hers. He seemed exasperated about something she’d said, bordering on angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.

  His eyebrows tented. “Mr. Gruber says you were in the back of Musikverein before that, and that you were one of the last people to see him alive?”

  She blinked. Right. She’d forgotten about that. “Yes. I did go there, prior, but then I left before getting his signature.”

  “You left?” He looked doubtful. “Why?”

  She paused. Should she tell him about the tense exchange she’d had with Huber? Did it matter? Wouldn’t that just put a target on her back? Thinking quickly, she decided to fudge it: “I don’t know. He was very busy with many of his female admirers. And I guess I got cold feet, waiting for it. I decided to go back because . . . well, I decided I really wanted it.”

  Moser started to go through his notes, and his phone buzzed. He picked it up. “Ja?” he spoke into it, sounding angry.

  So it wasn’t just her. He was angry with everyone. She relaxed a little as he listened to the person on the other end.

  Just then, her phone buzzed with a text. She took her phone out and glanced at it. It was her ex-husband. No need to shout. Then what is this bunk about the Music City? Are you trying to confuse me, Love?

  She gnashed her teeth. Cultured was never a word she’d use to describe Evan.

  She quickly typed in, I’m in Vienna. Austria. Vienna is ALSO called the Music City, Evan. In fact, it is the FIRST Music City, believe it or not. She thought about typing in, You narrow-minded fool. How did we ever stay married for nearly three decades? Go listen to Tilda’s pop-favorites playlist and leave me alone, but she’d decided she’d made her point.

  As she was typing, the detective ended his call and cleared his throat loudly. She looked up as he said, “Mr. Gruber said that you had some kind of confrontation with the victim?”

  Diana’s heart stopped. Had Mr. Gruber seen everything that happened? What was he, like the all-seeing-eye of Musikverein? And if so, why hadn’t she noticed him at all? It had been crowded there, but she’d have noticed a man among the sea of women, fawning over Huber, wouldn’t she? “No, not a confrontation, exactly.”

  The officer flipped back a few pages on his notebook. “It says here that you told Herr Huber, I’m surprised the orchestra was able to fit on the stage, with your inflated ego, you pompous jerk!” He raised an eyebrow for confirmation. “What is that, if not a confrontation, Frau St. James?”

  Yes, she had said that, word for word. Mr. Gruber had a remarkably good memory. “Yes, I had. Because he’d said some pretty vile things to me, propositioned me, and—”

  “And you . . .” He asked her another question, which she didn’t hear, because just as he was in the midst of it, her phone buzzed with another text from Evan. Wow. That’s interesting. Never realized it. Tilda might like to see that. She likes music. Where are you staying?

  Diana stared at it. Heck, no. If she told him that, they might show up on the next flight. That’s what had happened at Verona. Tilda and Evan had wound up following her through Italy because she liked that “Shakespeare guy.” Diana could just imagine how she’d be with classical music. She probably thought Handel was a department store.

  “Hmm?” she asked, as she looked up and realized the officer was staring at her, waiting for an answer. “I’m sorry. My ex is a bit n—”

  He gave her a look that said he didn’t care, freezing her vocal cords.

  And she really didn’t want to talk about Evan, anyway. “Could you repeat yourself? I missed that question.”

  He looked up at the ceiling before
settling those piercing blue eyes on her. “I asked, if you went back to the music hall, hoping to take him up on that offer.”

  Offer. Her mind had gone blank of everything except the vision of Tilda, clapping and wolf-whistling with wild abandon in between movements of a symphony, while the rest of the hall stared at her in disgust. Or even worse, falling asleep and snoring. Not that Diana had been much better, with her cell phone faux pas. “I’m sorry. What offer?”

  The officer looked irritated, now. She quickly pocketed her phone; thanks to Evan, she was treading on thin ice with the Terminator. “The proposition you referred to? I’m assuming, for sexual--”

  “Certainly not!” she cried in indignation. “What? No! Look, he was a chauvinistic pig. And he did have a huge ego, comparing himself to Beethoven. That much was obvious. But I had no reason to kill him. I just felt guilty about the exchange, wanted to apologize, and hoped I could get the program signed. That’s the only reason I went back.”

  He tapped a pen to his paper. “I find it very peculiar that if that’s all you wanted, you wouldn’t have just gotten that the first time. What stopped you the first time, and why come back?”

  She sighed. “Because, like I said, he propositioned me. I was flustered and embarrassed. But then I went and talked to Brahms, and I realized I really wanted his signature, even if he was a pig. So I was going to apologize, smooth things over, and see if I could get the signature, since this is a once in a lifetime trip and I didn’t want to regret it, later . . .”

  “Who is this Brahms? Can he corroborate your story?”

  She squinted at him. “No, he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” His eyes shot to hers in alarm. “What happened to him?”

  “The statue.”

  “You talked to a statue?”

  She nodded. “Brahms, the composer. In the park across the street. You . . . don’t follow classical music?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a fan. Why were you talking to a statue? Did it talk back? Are you saying it told you to come back here? Like . . . voices in your head? Are you under medical care?”

  Oh my God. I sound like a lunatic. I can just imagine the headline: Woman claims she murdered legendary musician Lukas Huber because the ghost of Brahms told her to do it. “No. Forget the statue. I just went for a walk in the park and had a change of heart. That’s all.”

  “Hmm,” he said again. “A couple of the security guards said that you left after the confrontation, and seemed rather flustered. So this was after he propositioned you?”

  She nodded miserably. “Yes! Right. He’d just asked me to meet him out back for a little fun. So I told him off. And then I left abruptly. But I came back when I had that change of heart. You see, I have this itinerary, and one of the things on it is to fo--”

  “You came back after you talked to this Brahms.”

  She’d been going through her evening bag for her itinerary, but she let out a groan. “The statue. Yes.”

  “And yet, as much as you disliked the man, you still wanted Huber to sign your program.”

  She sighed. A fact I’m regretting more and more by the minute. “He is—uh, was—the Next Beethoven, after all.” She pulled out her itinerary and showed it to him. “See? Forgive. Feel the calmness and clarity of letting go. That’s what I was trying to do.”

  Moser glanced at it with little interest, then fell silent, checking his notes. The thought suddenly struck her. Lukas Huber was dead. His career was over. His body of work would never be added to. Like a young Franz Schubert, he’d been cut off in his prime. He may have been a jerk, but he didn’t deserve death. And who knew what beautiful, yet-to-be-created masterpieces the world would lose out on, with his flame extinguished?

  Her heart twisted. As it did, her phone buzzed again in her pocket. This time, she didn’t bother looking at it.

  “I can’t possibly be a suspect. I was seen leaving, and coming back. And Mr. Gruber saw me go in the second time. There couldn’t be enough time for me to have killed him. Right?” she asked hopefully.

  He didn’t look at her. “We’re ruling nothing and no one out. All we know is that security was rather lax; there are no cameras in the vicinity, so it’s going to make our job all the more difficult. Apparently, this Huber fellow had some very well-connected friends, and I can guarantee we’ll be placing a lot of our manpower into finding the killer. Where are you staying, Frau St. James?”

  “The Hotel Beethoven,” she answered, knowing exactly what he’d say next. Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be in touch.

  “All right,” he said, standing up and handing her a business card. “Thanks for the information. We may be in touch with you, but if you have anything at all, please contact me. You may go, but please don’t leave the city until we’ve gotten this sorted out. All right?”

  Perfectly. What he meant to say was, I’ll be back. Likely, with her luck, again and again and again, until she was sick of him.

  Or until he’d pigeon-holed her as the murderer.

  She nodded and stood, then took out her phone. The first thing that greeted her was the text from Evan: I sent Tillie a link to Austria—she says it looks great! How are the beaches there? Let’s talk.

  Her stomach roiled.

  Now, it was after eleven. She was tired. She was hungry, since she hadn’t eaten much, thanks to Hans. But most of all, she was frustrated. She’d been through this drill before, and both times before, she’d been subjected to endless questioning and suspicion from the local police, so much of it that her tour of the area had been anything but typical. Was that going to happen again? If so, she didn’t know if she could take it.

  “It’s this dress,” she whined half-coherently as she meandered, toward the door. “I think it’s bad luck. This is the second time I’ve worn it, and someone has been murdered.”

  The officer tilted his head. “What? What did you say?”

  She whimpered miserably. “Someone was murdered when I was in Verona. Of course, the killer was caught. The killer was caught for the murder I witnessed in Paris, too. I helped.”

  “Are you saying you witnessed three murders? When were these?”

  “Oh. A few weeks ago,” she murmured absently, then took notice of the officer’s interest. Was this going to get her in trouble? Probably. How many people witnessed a murder in their lifetime, much less three, in one summer?

  Suddenly, she stiffened. This was definitely going to get her in trouble. Oh, no, what have I done?

  She quickly added, “They caught the killers, though. And in neither case, was it me.”

  That didn’t seem to faze him. He wrote something on his pad and underlined it several times. She couldn’t help thinking it was the word, GUILTY. “Just . . . stick around, Frau St. James. I am sure we’ll have more questions for you.”

  I’m sure you will, too, she thought as she headed outside, to go back to her hotel and try to sleep off the memory of this hellish night. Moved to tears by beautiful music?

  She felt near tears, but there was no music at all to be heard, even in the city known for it. Outside, in the cool air of near midnight, there was no sound at all. Nothing. And all she knew for sure was one thing—They were going to make the rest of her time in Austria just like her time in France and Italy—full of twists and turns.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Diana was so exhausted that she decided to take a taxi from Musikverein, even though it was a pleasant walk away from the hotel. An eerie mist shrouded the city, hovering over the shoulders like cloaks of the many statues of the renowned, making her shiver for lack of one. As the taxi whisked her away into the foggy night, she yawned and glanced at her phone.

  It’d blown up. Lily was still searching for her earrings, and was now wondering if she might have left them on the plane. Bea was still trying to plan the wedding of the century. And Evan wanted her tips for his next vacation with Tilda. Sure, at eleven in the evening in Austria, it was right around dinnertime in New York, but that didn’t me
an they could pepper her with all their troubles and problems. Couldn’t they handle anything themselves?

  Groaning, she decided not to answer a single one of their inquiries. It could wait until tomorrow, when she was feeling less tired. Less anxious. And when she didn’t have a massive headache pounding at both sides of her head.

  Ow, she thought, touching her temple. It had crept up on her, the migraine, and was a direct result of Lukas Huber’s murder. After all, the music had been so beautiful and calming—it was everything that happened afterwards that had made the evening go downhill.

  The cab pulled up in front of the hotel. As she paid the driver and stepped out, it’d begun to rain again. She slammed the door hard, and started to walk, only stopping when she felt a tug behind her and heard the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping. She glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the chiffon material of her dress hem caught in the door of the taxi, waving cheerfully, like a flag, in its wake.

  It drove away, taking a large part of the back of her dress with her.

  “Oh!” she shouted, as one of the valets came running to her assistance. Cool air rushed against the back of her legs, and she reached behind her, afraid of what she might find.

  Sure enough, her beautiful dress had become a mini-dress. A very mini dress. Luckily, it seemed to cover her parts, and she was still decent, but her dress had definitely seen better days.

  “Kann ich lhnen helfen?” the valet said to her.

  She didn’t know what that meant. All she knew was that she was very close to tears, and it had nothing to do with music.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said with a laugh. “I was planning on burning this dress, anyway. It’s unlucky.”

  He gave her a questioning look as he opened the door for her. “Gute Nacht, Frau.”

  “Danke schön.”

  She went inside and scrubbed a hand down her face when she got into the elevator. As it climbed, she looked at herself in the mirrored doors. She looked old and exhausted, a mere shade of the excited woman who’d entered this elevator, only hours before.