All those years we hadn’t seen each other. Such a long time. I’m there, she’s here. We were sisters. As good as. But in fact . . .
I didn’t know then. Never. Only now. I didn’t know she hated me at least as much as she loved me. I didn’t know that she suffered so much because of me.
Before, before Tonio, long before. I didn’t know that I tore her life apart, into the time before me and the time after me, and she had to get back at me when she had the chance.
I didn’t know that I was really never her sister. Life is compulsion. And rarely fair. But don’t we all know that?
The birds—at least the birds are beautiful.
13
No, she had not reappeared. Yes, she was still missing. A call to Peter Hansen at Missing Persons clarified that. Her husband had stopped by his office again the previous morning and they had opened a file. The wheels were set in motion, and now things were really moving.
“Is she the murderer?” Franza asked over a coffee in the office. “Or another victim?”
“Let’s hope neither.” Felix shoved the last bite of cookie into his mouth. They may not have had it down in black and white, only over the phone, but either way it was just as serious.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Franza picked up her purse and stood. “There’s nothing more we can do today.”
She took the photo that Hansen had quickly faxed over and studied the narrow face. It reminded her that she had wished for red hair herself when she was little. Not because she had found it particularly attractive at the time. No—because it would have been different. Made her stand out from the crowd. A counterpoint to the other girls.
The other photo. Gertrud. Also attractive, but in a different way. More reserved.
“When do you start to feel something like death approaching?” Franza stared at Gertrud’s face, into her brown eyes. “What do you think, Felix? Do you think you start to feel it’s time to go?”
He laid a hand on her shoulder, thinking it was typical of the questions she felt the need to ask.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” he said. “It’s not something you get to practice.”
No, it was not something you could practice: departing, dying. It was always new to those who did it, and the last thing they experienced. You could practice anything, all the things in the world, but not this.
“You’re right, smart guy,” Franza said with a smile. She looked at the photos again. “We need their histories. What else links them.”
“We do,” Herz said. “Herr and Frau Brendler will have to tell us more.”
They left the office. It was a mild September evening toward the end of the summer holidays. A small boy and a teenage girl had lost their mother. Two men were missing their wives. And yet . . . it was still a mild September evening.
It never ceased to amaze Franza that death never changed anything. That the days and the evenings were exactly as they had been before. Mild or stormy, cold or hot, rainy or sunny. She looked up at the sky, trying to see a slight darkening, a clouding over, even fleetingly—but there was nothing.
A young couple passed by on the other side of the street, their heads leaned in together.
“It could be Marlene,” Felix murmured, looking at them a little too eagerly and thinking of his eldest, about whom he knew so little.
“Yes,” said Franza. “She’s grown so pretty, your Lena. She takes after her mother.” She parried Felix’s raised eyebrows with a smile.
She thought of Ben, who had recently started writing song lyrics in the firm belief that he was going to make a career of it. Franza saw it as therapy for him and thanked God for Max’s lucrative profession and his patients’ perennial tooth decay.
The pair across the street were now kissing passionately. Franza and Felix watched them with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Franza thought about the early days of her relationship with Port. One summer’s day, they had met in town and it began to rain in buckets. They ran to the porch of a church, the air hot and close, their wet clothes flapping, and they’d looked into each other’s eyes, fallen into each other’s arms, and begun to kiss. As their passion reached its giddy heights, a group of teenagers strolled past with wolf whistles and wisecracks. Franza panicked. What if Ben had been among them and had seen her like that? In shock, she buried her face in Port’s shoulder, pressing herself against him as if to hide. She had sent up a quick prayer to heaven—not inappropriate, given their location.
She sighed and reached into her purse for a packet of cigarettes that she had bought three days ago and that was now half-empty. She lit up.
“Since when did you start smoking again? You’d stopped for so long. Three years, wasn’t it?” Felix shook his head in surprise.
“I don’t smoke,” Franza said. “Only now and then. And only a little.”
As she drew in the smoke, she imagined with a sigh how her lungs would be getting a little blacker.
“Since when?”
She shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Give me one,” he said. They smoked together in the twilight, puffing away in contented silence.
She knew. She knew very well by now. Since that night two weeks ago, when she realized.
She knew now that Max was not as mellow as he’d appeared for the last two years. On the contrary, he was jealous as a cat, which didn’t suit him. She’d known since that night two weeks ago: he was a lover who wanted her back in his arms, by his fireside, in his bed.
She’d known since she and Port had run into him and Max had put away a couple too many. She’d gone to meet Port after a performance at the theater. As usual, he’d wanted to stop at the bar around the corner—a meeting place for him and his fellow thespians. Who would have expected Max to be there?
But there he was, for whatever reason. He had a twenty-five-year-old on his arm and a glass of beer in his hand. From his eyes, Franza knew immediately it was not his first. He noticed Franza as soon as she opened the door, and, beaming at her a little drunkenly, he made his way toward her.
Shit, she thought. She stopped short and felt Port stumble into her, then throw his arms around her and lay his head on her shoulder. Shit, she thought again, frowning and wondering what Max was doing there. Until now they’d always respected one another’s territory.
“Franza!” Max said in honeyed tones. “My beloved, deserting Franza! Come to me, let’s go home!”
He embraced her and laid his head on her other shoulder. Port looked up at Max in surprise and said, “What the hell . . . ?” as they stared into each other’s eyes.
This was the first meeting of Franza’s husband and Franza’s boyfriend—and she was stuck between them like a piece of cheese in a sandwich, unable to move backward or forward. She was speechless and helpless—but only for a second. She extricated herself, grabbed hold of Max, and dragged him out the door. Port followed them.
“Is this . . . ?” he asked in amazement.
“Yes, this is . . .” Franza said.
“Does he always booze like this?” asked Port.
“No,” said Franza. “No, he doesn’t always booze. In fact he never does! I don’t know what’s gotten into him!”
“You!” Max snarled. “You’ve gotten into him, sweetheart! But sadly someone else has now gotten into you! Him! Him!”
And he lunged for Port, banging his hand against his chest, once, twice. Until Franza took hold of him, and pressed him against the wall.
“Ow,” he said. “Ouch! You’re hurting me!”
“Do I care?” she gasped, but loosened her grip slightly. “You’re being such an idiot!”
“Let him go,” said Port, getting hold of himself after Max’s sudden onslaught. “Put him in a taxi and come back in. I’m hungry!”
You’re an idiot, too, thought Franza. You’re a little egotistical idiot who thinks only of himself.
“I’ll take him home,” she said, caressing Port’s cheek affectionately. “I can’t leave him to hi
s own devices in this state. You understand, don’t you?”
“Oh.” Port was clearly affronted. “What about me? So you can leave me to my own devices, can you? No, I don’t understand!”
“What a shame,” she said, a slight smile twitching at her lips. “I really thought you were a big, grown-up boy.”
She thought once again, Yes, you’re an idiot, too. But a sweet one.
“Huh,” said Port, now edgy and huffy. “How big and grown up is he?” He pointed at Max, who stood staring dimly ahead of him.
“He isn’t at all,” she said, eyeing her husband. “No, for some reason he isn’t today.”
She laughed softly, shaking her head.
Port was offended. “I’m glad you find it funny.”
Franza shook her head, inwardly rolling her eyes.
“Of course I don’t,” she said, grinning in spite of herself.
“So, I see now,” Port said in an injured tone. “Well, that’s it for today! You know full well what you’re missing, and I guess I’ve no need to be jealous, as he’s not likely to get it up tonight!”
Max overheard that and turned in a flash. “You! You! I’ll show you what I can get up! Come here!”
“Out of here!” snapped Franza, shoving her husband in the direction of a taxi. “Out of here! Enough now. We’re going.”
But Max was not to be put off. “My wife!” he yelled, waving his arms around. “Look here, this is my wife! With whom I’m no longer allowed marital relations. It’s no fun anymore! No fun! No fun! No fun!”
“Poor bastard,” the taxi driver said as they got in. “Why don’t you give him a quickie?”
Franza gasped indignantly.
“Give me a blow job,” Max wailed. “You haven’t done that for ages.”
“Oh, that’s harsh!” the taxi driver said with a grin. “Go ahead. I won’t look. Promise!”
That was the last straw for Franza. She waved her police ID in front of his eyes.
“One more word out of you and I’ll have you both arrested for sexual harassment. Then I’ll sit you together in a cell and he can blow you—blow his stinking boozy breath in your face.”
“Oops, I see you’re not one to be messed with! Understood, Inspector! So, where to?”
As they drove along the Danube, Max sniggered to himself, disturbing noises escaping him every now and then.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” the taxi driver said, “if he hurls all over my car—”
“Shut it,” said Franza. “Just drive!”
The driver obeyed as Franza contemplated telling him to stop so she could tip him, his taxi, and her husband all into the Danube. But she was a police officer, and police officers didn’t do things like that. Police officers brought people safely home, heaved them into bed, and tucked them in. Or at least they did when it came to cast-off husbands and the like.
As Franza finally closed Max’s door behind her, she was torn between stopping for a bottle of wine or a pack of cigarettes. She went for the wine and a pack of cigarettes, and took them to Sonja’s.
The next day, Max came into Franza’s office full of remorse. He raised his hand in careful greeting to her colleagues and very carefully, as if the slightest movement would cause his head to explode, laid a bouquet of white roses on Franza’s desk. He left as quietly as he had come, white faced and nearly transparent.
“What was all that about?” Felix asked, dumbfounded, following Max with his eyes. “What have you done to your husband?”
“Nothing,” said Franza with a grin. “I don’t believe he’s feeling particularly well.”
“Well, if I didn’t know him so well, I’d say he was hungover. Is that possible?”
He looked knowingly at Franza, who smiled and said nothing.
Two days later, Port came out with the Vienna business.
14
Franza walked along the narrow promenade along the bank of the Danube. She did it regularly after work, especially if there was something she’d been unable to think through fully during the day. She didn’t want to take her unfinished thoughts home with her. She wanted her apartment to remain untouched, a peaceful haven free from death and crime. But it rarely worked, and this time was no exception. The new case had already gotten under her skin, into her thoughts and feelings. The face of the murder victim was burned behind her eyes, along with the face of the missing woman.
Two mature women, one of them a little younger than the other, but there came a time in life when any age differences vanished. There was the thirties club, the forties club—she didn’t like to think much beyond that.
What had Gertrud’s father said? You could say we had two daughters.
It sounded straightforward. It sounded nice. But things were not always as they sounded.
Franza turned toward home. There, she unlocked the door to the building, made her way upstairs, turned the corner to her apartment, and saw her sitting on the doormat. She was leaning against the front door, asleep.
Franza gasped in surprise and approached her cautiously, observing her. Her young face looked peaceful and relaxed as she slept, but it would soon change when she awoke to find tragedy still all too real. Franza touched her cheek.
“Lilli?”
Lilli jumped, banging her head against the door and wincing at the brief pain.
“How did you find me?”
“You’re in the telephone directory, Inspector.”
“No need for formality.”
Lilli nodded.
“Come, now.” Franza reached out a hand and helped Lilli up. “Come in.”
Lilli slipped cautiously into the apartment, like a cat on silent paws. Like she’s on the lookout for perfume, Franza thought, smiling to herself. She had two or three bottles in her bathroom cabinet. Would they still be there in the morning?
“Are you hungry?”
Lilli nodded.
“OK, let’s cook.” Franza unpacked her shopping bag. “Apple strudel or apple strudel?”
Franza’s love of baking knew no bounds. When she was in the middle of a case and came home tired, there was nothing like getting busy with complicated pastries and elaborate recipes. The next day the whole station would delight in the fruits of her labors.
As a change from the ubiquitous cookies, apple strudel was on the menu. The sweet-and-sour cooking apples on the grocer’s shelves had caught her eye. The shiny red little devils whispered shamelessly to Franza, Take us, take us, we’re the pick of today’s crop!
Franza had taken them at their word—after all, apples were healthy and stimulated the brain. Because clear thinking was essential right now, the station would all be eating apple strudel the following day.
“Apple strudel,” Lilli replied, tying on the apron that Franza passed her.
They worked in silent concentration, interrupted only by Franza’s instructions and explanations, as Lilli had never baked apple strudel. She was amazed and delighted as she rolled the pastry out to a thin, translucent skin, spread it with butter and sour cream, sprinkled it with toasted breadcrumbs and cinnamon apple, and finally rolled it up with the help of the strudel cloth.
She maneuvered it into Franza’s twenty-year-old casserole and placed it in the oven. Franza was pleased to see that the dark cloud hanging over Lilli had lifted a little.
As the smell of the strudel gradually spread through the apartment, they sat on the couch in the corner of the living room, drinking water and nibbling nuts.
“Why are you here, Lilli?” Franza asked carefully. “What is it you want to tell me?”
Lilli shrugged and remained silent.
“I don’t know,” she finally said. “I don’t know. Nothing, probably. It’s so confusing, so awful. I can’t stand it at home any longer. They’re all crying, they’re all wiped out. So am I, but . . .” She gnawed her bottom lip. “My grandmother was in a state about me leaving. She said the family has to stick together at a time like this.” Her voice had become scornful, wounded, angry.
“But we’re not a family!”
“No?” Franza asked quietly. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. We never have been, somehow,” Lilli said curtly. “Moritz is my family.”
“What about your father?”
“He’s not my father. I don’t know my father. I know nothing about him. She never told me anything. We were on our own for a long time, my mother . . . Gertrud and I. We had an apartment here in town. Sometimes she worked in a library, but mostly not. I think my grandfather supported us financially.”
Was it longing that Franza could hear in her voice? Or a mixture of sadness and impatience? Impatience about what? A longing for what?
“Why didn’t she work regularly? Especially when you were older, at school.”
Lilli shrugged. “It’s probably my fault. She got pregnant when she was just starting her studies. She never finished.”
“Why not? Arrangements could have been made, surely?” Franza was amazed. “With your family?”
“Yes. They could. But they weren’t.”
Franza waited.
“She was supposed to become a lawyer.” Lilli quickly corrected herself: “Or, she wanted to be a lawyer.” She shrugged. “What do I know? You know about that, don’t you? My grandfather and his law practice. A long-standing family tradition.” She raised her hands theatrically. “She was a great disappointment to the old man. And as for me . . .”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to disappoint him, too.”
Franza nodded. “He’ll get over it.”
“Yes, he probably will. In any case, he’s got one last chance.” Lilli grinned. “Moritz.”
“And after that?” Franza tried to bring the conversation back to Gertrud.
“What do you mean?”
“What happened with you and Gertrud?”
Lilli thought briefly. “Then Christian appeared at some stage.” She hesitated, thinking some more. “It was a good thing that he came. He liked her. Very much. She liked him, too. It . . . it did her good. She . . . needed it.”
“How old were you then?”
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 7
