Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2)

by Gabi Kreslehner

  Lilli had entered the bedroom and stopped as if struck by lightning. The bedclothes were rumpled, clothes lay around on the chairs, books on the bedside tables. Lilli carefully ran a hand over them. Yes, Gertrud could still be sensed here, in all her things. Yes, she was still there, like a breath of air, like a brightness, like dappled leaves.

  Lilli had suddenly had the feeling she was penetrating an inner order that was fragile as glass and shimmering like shadows.

  Her actions became slow and gentle so as not to disturb anything, not to move anything, not to chase Gertrud away. She’d sat down hesitantly on the bed, on Gertrud’s side, and it occurred to her that she had never lain there, never snuggled up to Gertrud in this bed. She’d been far too old for that when they moved to this house.

  Now, she’d thought. Now’s the time. She’d lain between the sheets, snuggled in, breathed in the scent that still permeated the pillows. She’d thought of Gertrud lying downstairs in the kitchen in a pool of her own blood, in the jelly, by the onion, by the knife.

  When Lilli eventually awoke from her daze and rose from the bed, she’d seen it. It was lying there. On the floor. Bound in red leather, tied up with a blue ribbon, its colors faded. Lilli had picked the book up, and her heart had begun to thump as she felt, as she knew . . .

  She’d untied the ribbon, opened the book, and begun to read.

  I have a sister now, Gertrud had written in a child’s handwriting on the first page. A sister is for life. My sister is called Hanna.

  Lilli had felt the cover in her hands, felt its firmness, and known she was entering a secret world, known it could be dangerous and that the dreadful reality could get worse, as unimaginable as that seemed.

  She’d quickly closed the book and started to put it back. Put it down, her inner voice whispered. Don’t read it, don’t do it.

  But she’d had to read it. She couldn’t do anything else. She opened the book again. I have a sister now. A sister is for life. My sister is called Hanna. She arrived like lightning. Her hair is like carrots. Her mother is a ghost. If you lift her arm, it falls back down. Her skin is like the white paper we have in the kitchen.

  It had slowly grown lighter outside. Morning was on its way. Lilli closed the book, opened the window, and looked out. The garden, the trees, the damsons, jelly in the kitchen. All so familiar. Only three days ago she had been helping Gertrud cook them. The smell, the heat, Gertrud bending over the oven, sweaty and tired but strangely happy.

  Forgive me, Gertrud, Lilli thought now. Forgive me, Mama. I love you. I always loved you, but you became such a stranger, so distant, like a glass doll sometimes. You were like the curtains when you washed and hung them out in the garden to dry. I ran into the curtains, felt them flapping around me, slapping their wetness into my face. And that’s how it was with you sometimes, Mama. You slapped my face with your panic at losing me. I didn’t know why, but it made me afraid, afraidafraidafraid. Now . . . I know a lot, but still not everything.

  Franza, Lilli thought as she bent over the apple strudel. You can’t help me, either, Franza. No one can. You have to help yourself. Always. Perhaps it’s the smell of apples. Perhaps that’s what I’ve always missed, apples mixed with butter and cinnamon. Perhaps. Perhaps it was also the smell of damsons, mixed with sugar and cinnamon, and I didn’t recognize it . . . No more, no more smell of damsons, no, no more.

  Eventually she’d left the house, stumbling out past the kitchen and out to her car, the red book in her pocket. Back into town, by the Danube, she’d begun to run, hurrying through the early morning—a shadow seeking herself somewhere in the world.

  As she’d leaned out over the water and seen the glittering outline of her face reflected in the pale morning moonlight, the contents of her stomach had risen up, a forceful fountain shot from her body and spattered into the water, shattering her face into a thousand wavelets.

  Later, in her apartment, the voice on the answering machine had made her shudder. The voice and the sentence that had driven her from the apartment almost three hours before, out of town and to her parents’ house, to Gertrud.

  She’d fled again from the voice, from the sentence, from the red book, fled into the bathroom and under the shower. She’d forgotten time and space as the water ran hot down her body and her head fell back, dragged down by the weight of her hair. All was full of steam. Eyes closed, Lilli had crouched under the shower, arms wrapped around her body as if to protect herself against life’s evils, against all the dreadful knowledge, every dreadful idea. When she’d finally emerged, it was as though she was waking from a deep sleep.

  She’d rubbed her softened skin dry, wound her hair in a towel, and gone out to the phone. Gertrud’s voice was still on the answering machine, distorted by fear, distorted by her own terror.

  “I’ve done something dreadful, Lilli. Come over, come to me, Lilli, my love. I’ve done something dreadful.”

  38

  It was easy to find Tonio’s family name. Arthur only had to call Renate Stockinger. Fortunately, the woman had an incredible memory. But that was where the good fortune ended. They soon found out that Tonio had no registered descendants; all they had discovered was a father, who had died not long ago, and some distant relatives in Italy.

  Oh well, Arthur thought, having cursed away his frustration, it’s time for some new ideas. Tonio’s old man must have had neighbors or friends. There’s always someone who knows something to move us a step forward.

  Or maybe the man had had nothing but a dog, or a cat, or, even worse, a budgie. Maybe he was a grumpy old man who’d scared off all his neighbors.

  We’ll see, Arthur thought with a sigh. We’ll see, as we always do.

  39

  Lars Beuerle, whose birthday Rabinsky and his friends had been celebrating, was a big man, a graphic designer who lived with his wife and children in a row house with a garden in the suburbs.

  “Actually,” he said, once he and Felix had sat down in the kitchen, “Gertrud was also invited. If only she’d come.”

  Felix nodded. Yes, he thought pragmatically, then I wouldn’t be sitting here, but at home with my twins in my lap.

  “Well, you never know about these things.”

  “No,” Beuerle said. “You certainly don’t. But why are you asking me? What do you think I can tell you?”

  He’s playing a little dumb, thought Felix. Acting as though he doesn’t have a clue.

  “We’re interested in Herr Rabinsky’s alibi.”

  Beuerle raised his eyebrows in surprise. “His alibi? Why? Surely you don’t suspect him? That’s laughable!”

  Felix shook his head. “Purely routine. We simply have to consider all the possibilities. You do want Frau Rabinsky’s murderer to be found, don’t you?”

  How often have I asked that question? he thought. That very question. And now for the answer . . .

  “But of course I do!”

  . . . the same answer as ever. Felix wanted to roll his eyes. How often have I heard that?

  He curved his lips into a tight smile. “There, you see! So, please, will you simply tell me how you spent that evening?”

  Beuerle scratched his chin.

  He could do with a shave, Felix thought. But so could I. He rubbed a hand over his own cheeks and chin, feeling the scratchy stubble and suspecting he wouldn’t be having any luck with Angelika that night.

  A noise came from the other side of the door, and a woman entered, tall, slim—her breasts accentuated in a tight T-shirt.

  A feast for the eyes, Felix thought, his hormones taking over momentarily.

  “My wife,” said Beuerle, turning to her. “Imagine this, Rieke, they suspect Christian in that business with Gertrud. Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?”

  “Well, well,” she said. “But he has an alibi, doesn’t he? Us.”

  She approached, greeted Felix, and sat down at the table with a smile.

  “So,” said Beuerle, looking slightly tense, “we were at FiftyFou
r from seven to ten and then at Jealousy, the night club in the town center.”

  Felix nodded. Extravagant, he thought. You were really treating yourself.

  “We were there until about three in the morning,” Beuerle continued with a shrug. “It’s not your birthday every day, after all.”

  Why is he apologizing? Felix thought. Partying all night isn’t a criminal offense.

  “And you’re sure that Herr Rabinsky was there the whole time?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Beuerle without hesitation, glancing at his wife. “Of course I’m sure. There were nine of us. They’ll all confirm it for you. All couples. Only Christian was alone.”

  “Why was that?” asked Felix. “Do you know why his wife wasn’t there?”

  “Hm,” said Beuerle pensively. “I don’t. Do you?”

  He looked at his wife, and she nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “I asked Christian, and he said Gertrud was getting ready for a trip to Greece. I must say I didn’t think it was seemed right. She could have done all that the next day. But that’s what she was like. You could never rely on her.”

  “Rieke,” said Beuerle a little brusquely. “Please don’t.”

  “Why?” she asked. “Because it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead? But it’s true!” She turned to Felix. “What do you think, Inspector?”

  “If it’s true, we want to hear it. What was their marriage like?”

  She thought for a moment. “No idea,” she said, looking at her husband. “You don’t see behind the scenes. Not with anyone. Don’t you think?”

  “You’re right, of course,” Felix said, deciding it was time to get to the point and bring the conversation to a close. “So, to clarify: You’re both quite sure that Herr Rabinsky was there the whole evening and that he didn’t leave the party at any time for an hour and a half or so? I mean, that would be a long time, so I’m sure you would have noticed.”

  Beuerle shrugged. “As I’ve already said.”

  “And you, Frau Beuerle, can you also confirm that?” Felix asked, allowing himself a final furtive glance at her assets.

  “As my husband said,” she replied with a smile.

  “You’re both aware that it would be a criminal offense to tell me anything but the truth?”

  Beuerle shrugged. “Why should I lie?”

  “Precisely.” Felix stood. “Why should you? Why do people ever lie?”

  Because there’s always a reason for it, he thought. Always. He smiled to himself.

  “Well,” said Beuerle. “That’s almost a philosophical question, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Felix replied. “And because it always takes much too long to answer philosophical questions, we’d better not go there. I’ll get going and not inconvenience you any longer.”

  “No, no, it’s no inconvenience,” Beuerle countered quickly, extending his hand to Felix and forcing a polite smile.

  “I’ll see you to the door,” said Rieke Beuerle, leading Felix down the hallway. She opened the door to let him out, but before he could leave, she leaned toward him, the smell of her slightly stale perfume tickling his nose.

  “Give me an hour,” she whispered. “I’ll meet you in the park by the ice cream shop.”

  He nodded in surprise. That’s one alibi smashed, he mused. He thought of Moritz and Lilli. He felt sorry for them.

  40

  Felix saw Frau Beuerle from afar, pacing up and down by the entrance of the ice cream shop.

  “Frau Beuerle,” he said, smiling as he approached. “Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

  She looked good. A bit of a bimbo, perhaps. She even carried in her handbag a fashion-accessory dog, as Marlene, Felix’s eldest, would have called the little yappy rat of a creature.

  “Yes,” she said. “Aren’t you going to invite me for a coffee? Are the police allowed that kind of thing?”

  “They certainly are,” Felix replied. “If I may have the pleasure.”

  She destroyed the alibi, which did, in fact, make it a pleasure. Or perhaps not. He thought of the children again. No, it wasn’t actually a pleasure at all.

  Over coffee Frau Beuerle told Felix that during the meal Rabinsky had been jostled by a clumsy waiter, causing him to spill a glass of red wine over his shirt and pants. She didn’t know precisely what had happened, as she’d been in the bathroom when it happened. In any case, the soaking eventually made Rabinsky uncomfortable, and he said he wanted to pay a quick visit to his office, where he could shower and change into a spare shirt and pair of pants. He was gone for about an hour, perhaps a little longer. They were at Jealousy by the time he caught up with them.

  When he got back, he was behaving strangely and got plastered, so drunk that by the end he was barely able to stand. Having said that, Frau Beuerle admitted that her husband had done exactly the same, as had the others. It seemed they had probably only taken their wives along to provide cheap chauffeurs for the drive home. Christian had ridden with them, and they’d dropped him off at his office, where, he said, he intended to spend the night because it would have been too complicated to go home at that time of night.

  She paused at that point, took a drink of her coffee, and looked at Felix thoughtfully.

  She hadn’t wanted to tell him in front of her husband, she said, because Christian had called and asked them to provide an alibi. He’d assured them that he’d had nothing to do with Gertrud’s murder, that he’d gone to his office, taken a shower, and changed, as they all knew, but he couldn’t account for that hour to the police. There was no witness, and everyone knew how picky the police could be about alibis. He’d asked them all to be kind enough to help him—things were difficult enough as it was for the children. If he were a suspect, it would be even worse.

  “Of course, we all believe him,” said Frau Beuerle. “Christian would never kill his wife. On the contrary—he wouldn’t harm a fly. But a lie is a lie!”

  And, of course, it wasn’t good to lie to the police, which was why she was now sitting here over coffee.

  Felix watched her in fascination as the words flowed; the nut torte vanished elegantly, piece by piece, between her narrow lips, and her low neckline revealed tantalizing cleavage whenever she leaned forward to smile at him.

  I’ll be damned, he thought. What had Christian done to warrant this kind of vengeance? Had she been trying to flirt with him with that arsenal in her blouse and he’d sent her packing, perhaps because . . . because she’d been a bit too pushy with him? Grinning to himself, he leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. This day had brought some results, at least, he thought with satisfaction. Not least a bit of eye candy.

  41

  “Max,” Franza said into the telephone. “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” he said, a little surprised. “You can hear that I’m here. What’s the matter?”

  “I mean, are you at home?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m at home. Do you want to come over?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’d like to. Do you have any food?”

  He laughed. “Ah, so that’s the way the wind’s blowing! Madame’s hungry and has forgotten to do the shopping. Your cupboards are bare, I take it?”

  “Yes,” she said, a little remorsefully. “We’ve got a new case and I didn’t get home till late yesterday and all the shops were shut. My stomach’s rumbling.”

  “Should we go out for a meal?”

  “No,” she said. “I feel like the peace and quiet of home. Is that OK?”

  He nodded, although she couldn’t see it on the phone.

  “Of course it’s OK,” he said. “Come on over.”

  She hung up, leaned her head against the headrest, and started the engine. She had been sitting in her car outside her building for a quarter of an hour, tired after a long day. She hadn’t a clue what to do with her evening, and she was disappointed that Christian Rabinsky’s alibi was thwarted.

  Arthur and Felix had gone home, where their women w
ere waiting for them with meals, probably pampering them a little. But there was no one waiting for her. All she could expect was an empty fridge, a vacant couch, and an evening’s TV. She had no taste for any of it that night.

  Port had a show, and afterward he wanted to go out with the company to celebrate the invitation to Vienna. Franza sighed. Yes, the Vienna business, that damned Vienna business.

  A farewell . . . it would only be temporary, but a farewell nevertheless. Franza thought of all the other farewells, the wandering from one country to another with her Austrian parents because her father, an engineer, was needed here, needed there. She had spent the longest period of her childhood some twenty miles from here, in a house with the rushing of a stream in the background. Sonja had lived in the neighborhood. Her family was also Austrian, also career nomads.

  Franza was twelve when her family returned to Austria. Her father had been promoted to a top position in his company, so for the next few years they lived near the capital, where they were from originally, by the Danube. As now. That was the same. The Danube. A constant feature. A fixed point.

  Then came her student years, and Franza had felt a desire to see the world—a year in London, then Frankfurt, where she stayed a while. She met Max and Borger, and then Felix. Great times. A great life. Small loves, then the big one—Max.

  Later came her final farewell from Austria. It was clear she wanted to stay with Max, that they would marry and settle in this town in southern Germany.

  A little later, Franza’s father died suddenly from a heart attack. Her mother grew lonely and spent a lot of time with Franza. As fate would have it, one day she discovered that the old house by the stream, where they’d lived when Franza was a child, was for sale—and she bought it. And renovated it. And moved in. She lived there until life on her own became too difficult, and then she moved to an old people’s home, where she lived until she died.

  Since then Franza had been the owner of the “little house by the stream,” as she called it. She would sell it one day.