by Blake Pierce
She lowered the bag to the pavement, and the little Yorkshire Terrier crawled out. He moved a bit stiffly after his long confinement, but London sensed that he was relieved to have at least a few moments of freedom.
She tried to keep the group moving toward the ship, but their progress was suddenly interrupted by a shrill outcry.
“Sir Reginald Taft! He’s gone!”
CHAPTER TEN
London was swept by a sudden wave of alarm.
Mrs. Klimowski’s dog had gone missing!
The woman’s eyes were wide with terror. She kept calling out in a shaky voice.
“Sir Reginald! Sir Reginald! Where have you gone?”
In addition to her own alarm, London felt a spasm of guilt. This wouldn’t have happened if she’d insisted that the woman leave her little dog behind in her stateroom.
They were on a brightly lit street, well within sight of the basilica. Like others in this area, the street was narrow and almost entirely used by pedestrians. At least Sir Reginald Taft wasn’t likely to get hit by a car. But there were plenty of people on foot, coming and going amid the shops and cafés, and there was still the danger that the tiny animal would get stepped on …
Or get kidnapped.
Or maybe bite somebody.
Which, when she thought about it, seemed likely if a stranger did try to pick up the grouchy creature.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Klimowski kept calling out frantically.
“Sir Reginald! Sir Reginald Taft!”
Then London caught a flash of movement on the street’s patterned stones. She stepped to one side to get a better look, and then breathed a sigh of relief.
Sir Reginald Taft was standing directly behind Mrs. Klimowski, looking up at his owner with apparent indifference as she kept calling out his name.
London had to stop herself from laughing. She saw that some of the other passengers weren’t even trying to hide their amusement.
She pointed and spoke to the distraught woman.
“He’s right there, Mrs. Klimowski.”
“Where?”
“Right behind you.”
“Is he, now? He’s being a very naughty creature, then.”
Mrs. Klimowski turned around to look for her dog. But in perfect synchronization with her turning, Sir Reginald moved to stay in position right behind her.
Mrs. Klimowski scowled at London.
“He’s not there,” she snapped.
Before London could try to explain, Gus Jarrett spoke up.
“Yes, he is, lady. He’s right behind you.”
Mrs. Klimowski turned around again, and again the dog deftly stayed behind her, moving in a full circle on the pavement.
Mrs. Klimowski put her hands on her hips and scowled at London and Mr. Jarrett.
“I think I can trust my own eyes. He’s not there, I tell you.”
The mysterious Cyrus Bannister was watching with crossed arms and an expression of sardonic amusement.
“Madam, you clearly don’t know how to call your dog,” he said.
Mrs. Klimowski let out a gasp of outrage.
“Whatever do you mean?” she demanded.
“You just keep saying his entire lengthy name over and over again.”
Agnes Shick spoke to Mrs. Klimowski in a more kindly voice.
“The gentleman is right, dear. Just speaking his name could mean anything to him.”
“It’s his name!” Mrs. Klimowski said. “And I can assure all of you, he’s exceptionally intelligent, with an IQ that’s higher than any of yours, I imagine.”
Bannister scoffed aloud.
“If you say so, madam,” he told her.
London realized that this dog might indeed be plenty smart. He certainly seemed to be hiding behind his owner intentionally. She’d had few pets in her life and didn’t know whether or not animals ever had a sense of humor.
Meanwhile, she had to figure out what to do. Should she simply walk over and try to pick the creature up? Might he run away with alarm and disappear among all the pedestrians?
Or might he just bite me?
The dog was small and mostly hair—just seven or eight pounds in all, she guessed. But he had pointy teeth and didn’t hesitate to display them.
Suddenly, Honey, Gus Jarrett’s red-headed, gum-chewing wife, came trotting forward on precarious heels in her super-tight skirt, speaking the first words London had ever heard her say.
“Oh, for crying out loud!”
She stooped down and called out to the dog pleasantly.
“Sir Reggie, Come here!”
Sure enough, Sir Reginald Taft trotted toward her.
“Good dog,” Honey said.
To everyone’s shock, Sir Reginald Taft jumped up into Honey Jarrett’s arms. She stood up, triumphantly holding the little creature.
“Yes, that’s a good boy!” she cooed, kissing and petting him. “Aren’t you a little darling?”
Meanwhile, Cyrus Bannister sneered at Gus Jarrett.
“So your lovely bride is allergic to dogs, eh?”
Gus Jarrett’s face was red with rage and embarrassment at how Honey had contradicted what he’d said earlier when they’d boarded. It was now pretty obvious that he’d only made that fuss about the dog just to make trouble, not because Honey had any real trouble with dogs.
“The dog’s hypoallergenic,” Gus snapped at Cyrus.
“Oh, yeah, I’d forgotten that,” Cyrus said, still sneering. “Anyway, she sure seems to like dogs a lot.”
Then Gus stared daggers at Honey, causing London to worry.
Mrs. Klimowski descended on Honey Jarrett with a look of horror and anger.
“Now, see here!” she said to Honey. “What on earth are you doing with my dear Sir Reginald?”
Honey stammered with understandable shock.
“I—I was only trying to—”
Snatching the dog back, Mrs. Klimowski snapped back at her.
“You took my dog away from me! What an unspeakably mean thing to do!”
As Honey kept trying to explain, her husband tugged her aside. London heard him whisper to her angrily.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, making a fool out of me like that.”
Honey snapped her gum defiantly.
“Gosh, I was just trying to be nice!” she said.
“There’s no point trying to be nice to a worthless old bat like that,” Gus whispered, holding her arm a little tightly. “And you sure as hell shouldn’t have made such a scene. You humiliated me.”
Mrs. Klimowski held her dog in her outstretched hands and tilted him jerkily about as she examined him. Sir Reginald bared his teeth and growled.
“Oh, my sweet creature, are you all right?” Mrs. Klimowski asked, almost tearfully. “That awful woman didn’t hurt you, I hope.”
Meanwhile, Sir Reginald wiggled uncomfortably for a moment. Then he went limp, apparently resigned to being restored to his former situation. Mrs. Klimowski stuffed him into the leather bag head first. The bag itself writhed as the dog managed to turn himself around so that he could breathe properly.
“I said it before,” Cyrus Bannister murmured. “That is a very unhappy dog, and he doesn’t belong in that bag. In fact, that woman has no business owning a dog at all.”
Then he added, “Someone should do something about it.”
London’s eyes met his for a moment, and she felt a chill at his grim, purposeful expression.
She shook off the eerie feeling. She had to get her group back to the boat right now.
“We have to hurry,” she told them. “If we’re late, the Nachtmusik could leave without us.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Bannister said.
“They could,” Honey replied. “Have you even read the rules? It says that Epoch World Cruise Lines is under no obligation to hold a ship for passengers who are tardy.”
Hearing that, most of the others hurried toward the dock. Emil offered an arm to Mrs. Klimowski and got her headed in the right direct
ion.
“If that ridiculous excuse for a dog has made us miss our boat …” Bannister growled as he strode ahead.
London had a terrible feeling that might have already happened.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Only when they rounded the final turn and saw the Nachtmusik still docked did London draw a breath of relief.
We made it.
The elegant ship was still in place, illuminated by an array of lights that reflected in the water around it. This was the first time she’d observed the yacht-like riverboat at night, and she felt privileged to have been chosen for a position aboard such a handsome vessel.
A crew was puttering about the gangway, so she trotted the final yards and signaled them to hold everything in place. Now she just had to be sure everyone got settled in for the night without any further drama.
London stood by the gangway and watched her charges board. They were all here, including the dog. As Emil gallantly escorted the tired, tottering Mrs. Klimowski up the gangway, she was grateful for his help.
She followed the passengers into the reception area and smiled and exchanged pleasantries with those who were inclined to be pleasant.
“Lovely evening,” one said.
“Fantastic meal,” said another.
“Most interesting,” said another.
She managed a bright smile at Mrs. Klimowski, who seemed anything but happy. Emil took care of getting the dour lady and her dog back to their quarters. In a short time, London was alone.
She still felt daunted by all the work that lay ahead for the rest of the cruise—especially dealing with Mrs. Klimowski and her dog. But the truth was, she felt pretty good about how she’d handled the group this evening.
The meal had been excellent, especially the rich and generous serving of paprikácsirke. London remembered Professor Kallay mentioning that the recipe could be found in some editions of Dracula. She thought that maybe she’d look that up and try it herself. Although she’d felt too nervous to eat dessert herself, the others had partaken of the most scrumptious traditional items on the menu—jam-filled sponge cakes, cream puffs, plum dumplings, and the like. Even that unpleasant waiter, János, hadn’t dampened the group’s enthusiasm.
Now London took the spiral stairs up to the open Rondo deck, where other passengers were gathering to witness the boat’s departure. She spotted her friend Elsie leaning against the port rail, looking out over the Danube and the hilly western part of the city glittering in the night.
London walked over and nudged her and said hello.
“Hey, where have you been all evening?” Elsie replied with a smile. “I thought maybe you’d show up at the bar.”
“I had to take a group on a little impromptu tour,” London explained.
“I guess you’ll be doing a lot of that kind of thing. How did it go?”
“OK, I think. Aren’t you supposed to be at the bar?”
“One of my assistants is giving me a break so I could come up and watch us pull out of Budapest. Nice of him, wasn’t it? Things had slowed down because everybody was coming up here.”
“You’re looking pretty happy with yourself,” London observed.
“It’s been a while since I worked as a bartender,” Elsie replied “I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Sure, it gets pretty hectic. But the more the merrier, as far as I’m concerned. I guess I’m just a people person.”
London smiled.
“I guess I’m a people person too,” she said.
She could hear the crew working busily now, separating the boat from the gangway. London felt a bit melancholy at having to leave Budapest so soon after she’d gotten here. But she looked forward to seeing Gyor. She couldn’t remember ever visiting it as a child.
Looking along the deck, London saw that Amy Blassingame was also leaning on the rail, looking out over the city.
Nodding in Amy’s direction, London said to Elsie, “I think maybe it’s time for me to make nice with her.”
“Why?” Elsie said with a shrug. “What did you do wrong to the River Troll?”
“Oh, let’s not call her that.”
“You don’t have to call her that if you don’t want to. Answer my question.”
“Well, I took her job, for one thing.”
“That wasn’t your fault. Jeremy Lapham just knew who’d be better for the job. He made the right call. Anyway, I’m sure glad he made the choice he did.”
“Even so …”
London’s voice faded. Then she silently made up her mind and began to walk toward the concierge.
“Good luck,” Elsie called after her. “I’ve got to get back down to my bar people.” With that, the bartender headed back down the staircase.
Amy glanced up at London as she approached, then turned her eyes away again.
“Lovely view,” London said.
Amy looked at her as if she hadn’t already noticed her.
“Oh, it’s you. Yes, it is nice up here this evening.”
Amy turned her view back to the city.
London swallowed hard and gathered up her nerve to speak.
“Amy, I thought maybe we should clear just a few things up. I really didn’t mean to step on any toes.”
Amy looked at her with feigned incomprehension.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean to say is … I got a call from Jeremy Lapham just yesterday, when I was back in Connecticut …”
With a half-smile, Amy locked eyes with London, waiting for whatever she was going to say next.
“I didn’t mean to—” London began.
“Step on any toes?” Amy said, repeating London’s phrase.
“Right.”
“Whose toes would you mean?”
London winced a little.
Then Amy’s smile broadened with mock realization.
“Ohhh, you mean my toes. I guess you may have heard that I was hoping to be the social director. Well, c’est la vie, as they say in France. You can’t win them all.”
Then Amy let out an exaggerated yawn.
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “I’d better turn in so I can get to work bright and early tomorrow. My, that was quite a list of passenger demands you put together. It’s going to keep me very busy!”
As if to punctuate the end of their conversation, the boat’s whistle went off, and the Nachtmusik jerked as it began to pull away from the dock. The deck was suddenly moving under everybody’s feet.
Without another word, Amy stalked away toward the elevator.
London gazed around and saw that the passengers scattered about the open Rondo deck seemed engaged with the view. She was about go and talk with some of them, when Emil Waldmüller approached her.
“I’m glad to see you,” London said. “I wanted to thank you for all your help this evening, especially with Mrs. Klimowski.”
“Oh, yes—Mrs. Klimowski. She is proving to be—what is an idiom in English?”
London chuckled again.
“‘High maintenance’ is one way of putting it,” she said.
Emil’s smile faded.
“‘High maintenance,’ yes,” he said. “I am afraid that woman may test my patience—she and her bothersome dog both.”
London was startled by his sullen tone. Because of his gallant behavior, she had begun to think of him as different from some of the others, sincerely more tolerant and accepting of other people’s faults and foibles.
Was she spotting a touch of insincerity in this attractive man?
Emil must have noticed her surprise, because he hastened to add, “Nevertheless, I do try to accommodate the passengers as best I can.”
With a slight bow, he turned away and also went toward the elevator.
As London watched him go, she was still a little disturbed by his tone. And she was well aware that her issues with Amy Blassingame were not over.
She silently scolded herself for letting any of it bother her.
Nobody’s perfect, she told h
erself. When you work with people, you have to deal with all kinds.
And she had a perfectly pleasant job to do here on the Nachtmusik’s beautiful open deck. As the ship moved out into the river, dazzling lights of the ancient city were spellbinding.
She hurried to a group of passengers at the railing and pointed out the Buda Castle on the shore. It was brilliantly lit and looked even more impressive than it had by day. So did the massive Szécheny Chain Bridge, which cast shimmering reflections on the water as they passed under it.
Then she realized that an important sight was coming up on the opposite shore.
“We’re passing the Hungarian Parliament Building,” she said. “Come, let’s have a look.”
The group followed London toward the opposite railing. Sure enough, a vast Gothic-style building came into view, its lighted edifice reflected and glistening on the water.
Remembering what the historian had said that afternoon, London told them, “It’s exactly the same height as St. Stephen’s Basilica, making them the two tallest structures in Budapest. They represent the city’s worldly and spiritual life.”
The passengers murmured their appreciation and London felt a glow of contentment. She knew she was exactly where she should be as she and this pleasant company stood together watching one of the world’s most beautiful cities slip behind them into the night.
*
By the time London made her final rounds to check on the ship’s passengers, most of them had turned in for the night. The few who were still up seemed happily occupied. Finally feeling the strain of a long day—one that had begun many hours ago on a different continent—she headed to her own stateroom.
When she opened the door and switched on the light, a reflection immediately caught her eye. A silver compote cover was right in the center of her little table. It definitely hadn’t been there before.
She hurried over and lifted the shiny cover.
There on a china plate was an oddly shaped piece of pastry.
Baklava, she immediately realized.
It was a dessert of Turkish origin, popular in Eastern Europe and much of Asia, especially in the Middle East.
And it had been London’s favorite pastry since …
