Murder (and Baklava) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 1)

by Blake Pierce

  London’s voice faded and she paused.

  Finally she said, “Let’s just take a moment to imagine this place as it must have looked some eleven hundred years ago. None of these houses, buildings, streets were here. The warlike Magyars, whose Hungarian descendants live here now, swept into this area from the mountains, putting up tents to live in, right where we are standing.”

  She breathed deeply, feeling as if the city’s past was filling her very lungs.

  “The Magyars were the last of many peoples who had settled here since the Stone Age, since the dawn of civilization—the Celts, the Romans, the Slavs, and the Lombards. The Magyars gave it the name it has now—Gyor. And their village of tents would be the beginning of the city you see before you today.”

  She glanced among the tourists and saw that they were listening raptly.

  “This city,” she said in a voice that became quieter with awe, “this city has been built and destroyed over and over again. It was raided by the Mongols, destroyed by invading Czechs, then burned to the ground by the Magyars themselves to keep it from falling into the hands of invading Turks, who crept away in defeat. Then those who remained here began centuries of building and rebuilding that continues to this very day.”

  She turned around and took in the scene again.

  “I think we’ve got something special to learn from this city, something important to our everyday lives. I think it has something to with … well, endurance and perseverance and tenacity and …”

  Then she couldn’t help but laugh a little at how her words were starting to border on the grandiose.

  “But how would I know?” she finally said. “I just got here myself.”

  Most of her listeners laughed as well, then gave her a little burst of applause for her introductory remarks.

  “Come on, let’s have a look around,” she said.

  As London began to lead the group among the twisting and irregular streets, Emil touched her on the elbow.

  “Well done,” he said. “Very well done indeed.”

  London smiled at how sincere he seemed. She sensed that he really did admire how she’d handled her remarks—as if he didn’t think he could have done better himself.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  No longer feeling defensive, she knew she’d be more relaxed about asking for his input once in a while.

  London brought the group to a stop in front of a stone pedestal with a grand statue of angels carrying a large chest by two long poles. On top of the chest was a golden lamb surrounded by sunlike rays.

  “Can anybody guess what this is?” London asked.

  Walter Shick spoke up.

  “Why, it looks like the Hebrew Ark of the Covenant—the sacred chest that held the Ten Commandments.”

  “That’s right,” London said with a nod. “The sculpture was a gift to Gyor from the Hungarian King Charles III in 1731—an apology for doing damage to the city while apprehending a fugitive.”

  Walter’s wife, Agnes, shook her head in admiration.

  “The angels look like they’re taking flight right in front of our eyes, carrying the Ark right along with them,” she said.

  London smiled at the observation. Indeed, the massive statue appeared to be both uncannily light and in motion. And she understood why. She looked at Emil, who of course understood such things better than she did. She thought it might be interesting to hear his explanation.

  “Could you tell us something about the style of this statue?” she asked him.

  Emil’s eyes twinkled.

  “Not just yet,” he said. “I will in just a few moments, I expect.”

  London tilted her head in slight surprise.

  Why not right now, while we’re looking at the statue? she wondered.

  She figured the Nachtmusik’s historian must have some good reason, so she nodded and moved her group toward their next destination—the Cathedral Basilica of the Assumption of Our Lady. London was a bit surprised to find the edifice not exactly stunning to look at—not nearly as large or decorative as St. Stephen’s Basilica back in Budapest. She wondered—was this going to be a disappointment?

  A well-dressed, somewhat potbellied doorkeeper stood watchfully next to the donation box, smiling in greeting at the new arrivals. In Hungarian, he said he was there to offer whatever assistance he could give during their visit to the basilica. London thanked him, and he opened the doors for them to enter as they put their donations into the box.

  As London walked on inside, the sight that awaited her took her breath away. Those images she’d studied hadn’t prepared her for the actual scene.

  The interior of the basilica—its paintings, statues, and architectural features—seemed to be as wild with motion as the statue they’d just seen, and radiating with dazzling color. Though this cathedral was much smaller than the one in Budapest, it was every bit its equal as a feast to the eye.

  London’s mouth dropped open, and she looked at Emil.

  He smiled at her, clearly understanding how she felt and why.

  “Would you like me to …?” he asked tentatively.

  “Yes, please,” London said, again eager to hear what he had to say to the group.

  Emil turned to the group and spoke.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ll find that much of this city is decorated in the Baroque style—the statue you just saw, for example, and the interior of this basilica. The style originated in the seventeenth century and was meant to appeal to the senses and the emotions through movement, richness, detail, surprise, and vitality.”

  He chuckled at the wide-eyed tourists.

  “And I can tell by your faces that this example of the Baroque has succeeded,” he added.

  The group laughed, and many nodded their heads in agreement.

  London added, “You can hear the same energy and movement in the music of the period—the works of Handel, Vivaldi, and Bach. As for Gyor, much of the city as it exists now was built during the height of the Baroque era.”

  As London led the group among the dazzling sights of the basilica, she saw that even Mrs. Klimowski was looking about the space with apparent pleasure. It was the first time she’d seen anything other than a frown on the woman’s features.

  When London led her group into a small Gothic chapel on the south side of the basilica, they were greeted by a shining face with large, penetrating eyes. The crowned and bearded silver and gold head was mounted in a large glass case.

  London said, “This is St. Ladislaus, a king of Hungary during the eleventh century, and one of the country’s greatest heroes.”

  Agnes Shick peered through the glass with rapt fascination.

  “Look at his eyes!” she said. “Why, I feel like he’s peering right at me.”

  “In a way, he is,” Emil said. “His actual skull is preserved as a relic inside this likeness.”

  “Oh, my!” Agnes gasped.

  London herself felt a spasm of awe. Of course, she’d read about the St. Ladislaus reliquary last night, so it came as no surprise. But looking at it right now filled her with some of the same awe that she’d felt looking at St. Stephen’s mummified “Holy Right” hand back in Budapest—a feeling that this city was under the watchful eyes of a kindly guardian.

  She led the group back outside, where they continued their walking tour. Wonders seemed to leap out at them from around every corner of Gyor’s twisting streets. There were more wonderful statues, including one of the Archangel Michael defeating Satan in battle, and another of the Virgin Mary atop a column flanked by the four Christian Apostles. They passed on through the beautiful, spacious Vienna Gate Square with its Baroque Carmelite Church.

  Finally they came to a pedestrian street marked by a startling sight—a bronze statue of a naked man paddling a boat over rocky waves.

  “This is probably Gyor’s most popular statue—or at least the most photographed,” London explained to her group. “The Boatman was put here in 1997 in memory of how the city had been f
looded in 1954. And I think it’s a nice place to pause our tour for a little while. I’m sure some of you are tired, and I for one am getting hungry.”

  Some of the group murmured in agreement.

  “As you can see, there are lots of cafés and restaurants around,” London said. “I even saw a McDonald’s on our way here, if any of you happen to be in the mood for it.”

  Some of the tourists laughed.

  London looked at her watch and added, “Let’s meet here again in an hour and a half to continue our tour. Meanwhile, please go and do as you like.”

  As the group started to disperse, Mr. and Mrs. Shick stepped toward her.

  “Say, didn’t that professor back in Budapest recommend a nice restaurant?” Walter asked.

  “Yes, he did,” Agnes said. “What did he say it was called?”

  Other tourists who had been with London yesterday in Budapest seemed to share the Shicks’ interest. London tried to remember. They had gone to the Duna Étterem for dinner and a friendly stranger … what had that professor’s name been, anyway?

  Oh, yes. Kallay—Vilmos Kallay.

  He’d been a charming, eccentric sort of man, and he’d said he was a poet whose “day job” was in the “dismal science” of economics.

  London now remembered the name of the restaurant that he had recommended in Gyor.

  “It was called the Magyar Öröm,” she said.

  “That’s right,” Gus Jarrett said. “He said it was ‘not to be missed.’”

  “Well, then, let’s not miss it,” London said.

  Emil already had his cell phone out and was searching for the place.

  “We are in luck,” he said. “Not only is the Magyar Öröm open, it is just a couple of blocks from here.”

  London reminded herself to call Amy during lunch to tell her the time and place of the rendezvous, so Amy could take over the tour from her. Then London and several others followed Emil toward the Magyar Öröm. They were pretty much the same small group of people who’d gone on London’s little outing in Budapest yesterday. Among them were the Shicks, Gus and Honey Jarrett, and the rather peculiar and somewhat disagreeable Cyrus Bannister. Looking somewhat perkier than she had a while ago, Mrs. Klimowski decided to join them as well.

  Definitely a mixed bag, London thought, not sure whether she was pleased or displeased with the group.

  As Emil led them around a corner, London observed how the twisting, narrow streets made it hard to see very far in any direction. London remembered what Emil had said just a little while ago about the Baroque style—how it appealed to sense and emotion through “movement, richness, detail, surprise, and vitality.”

  And now it occurred to London that even the layout of Gyor’s streets was Baroque in its way—filled with movement, vitality, and most of all …

  Surprise.

  She had to wonder what new surprises this ancient city had in store for them.

  She felt a strange tingle inside.

  Something tells me I can’t even imagine what’s coming next, she thought.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Magyar Öröm proved to be a surprise, all right—and a charming surprise at that. As London and her group rounded a corner and approached their destination, they saw that most of the restaurant was in an outdoor patio. That seemed just right for a warm and sunny day like this.

  Even better, they’d managed to arrive just before the afternoon rush, an especially busy time for Hungarian restaurants, so the host had no trouble putting several tables together for them. They were seated next to a low brick wall at the edge of the patio, overlooking a pedestrian street and giving them a delightful view of people’s comings and goings in Old Town Gyor.

  If the waiter, whose name was István, even noticed Mrs. Klimowski’s dog he made no comment about it. Sir Reginald was especially well concealed in the handbag at the moment and apparently asleep.

  István gave the group a few minutes to pore over their menus. A couple of people in the group were pleased to see the “Dracula dish,” paprikácsirke, was on the menu. London herself decided she was in the mood for a lighter meal. Even though she couldn’t quite pronounce the name, she managed to order the Hungarian-style stuffed crepes called hortobágyi palacsinta.

  Soon István returned with their drinks and a soup appetizer. London sipped a spoonful of the soup and was startled by the tart, sweet taste. Sitting next to her and noticing her expression, Emil explained.

  “It’s a fruit-flavored soup called gyümölcsleves.”

  London tried another spoonful.

  “It’s cherry-flavored, isn’t it?” she said.

  “Probably. That’s a popular flavor. Do you like it?”

  “Oh, yes, very much. I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

  Emil gave her a nudge.

  “It might be nice to have some pictures, eh?” he suggested.

  “Yes, I’m sure everyone would like that,” London said.

  As Emil got up and turned his cell phone toward the group, they were all startled by a strange and melancholy sound. On the other side of the wall, a strolling musician was playing a violin in the street right next to them. It was strange music, dissonant and harsh, but quite beautifully sad and touching all the same.

  When he saw that he had their attention, the musician turned and played directly to the group. London noticed that he was rather shabbily dressed in a muslin shirt with puffy sleeves, a scarf around his head, a vest, and trousers with patches on the knees. He sported a wide handlebar mustache.

  Although most of the group was listening in apparent enchantment, Mrs. Klimowski stirred restlessly. She reached into her bag, pulled out a smaller purse, and took out a handful of Hungarian paper money.

  “Is fifteen hundred forint a lot of money?” she asked.

  “It depends on what it’s for,” remarked Cyrus Bannister, who was sitting between the elderly woman and the low wall that separated them all from the street and the performer.

  Mrs. Klimowski held the bills toward Cyrus.

  “I want you to offer this money to that awful man,” she said. “Tell him he can have it if he’ll only stop it with that awful scraping and scratching and caterwauling.”

  Cyrus scowled sharply.

  “I can’t do that, ma’am,” he said.

  “Why? Isn’t it enough money?”

  “It’s about five dollars,” Cyrus said. “But my point is, he’d be deeply insulted.”

  Mrs. Klimowski let out a snort of annoyance.

  “Would he, now? I think I’m the one who’s being insulted, being forced to listen to such awful stuff. Give him the money, I tell you. Make him quit playing.”

  “I’ll do no such thing,” he said.

  “Well, pay him to play some real music, then. Something traditionally Hungarian—a Liszt rhapsody, or one of those dances by Brahms.”

  Cyrus crossed his arms and glared straight ahead.

  “I happen to know a few things about European folk music, madam,” he said. “Liszt and Brahms aren’t the least bit authentic when it comes to true Magyar music. What that gentleman is playing is as Magyar as you can get. It’s the sort of music Bartok collected when he and his friend Zoltan Kodaly wandered around Eastern Europe in the early 1900s recording peasant songs.”

  “Bartok, eh?” Mrs. Klimowski huffed. “Such dreadful modern stuff. Him and that Schoenberg fellow.”

  Cyrus looked truly offended now, and it was easy for London to guess why. She remembered that he’d specifically chosen the Schoenberg Suite aboard the Nachtmusik.

  “I’m sure I’m the only person who wanted it,” he’d told London.

  Cyrus said, “This man probably learned to play this music from his father, and his father probably learned it from his father, and … who knows for how many generations this melody has been handed down? You should show some respect.”

  As they argued, the musician seemed to give up hope on getting any tips. As he wandered on down the street,
Mrs. Klimowski turned her rage on Cyrus Bannister.

  “And I think you should show some respect, young man! I’ll have you know that mine has been a very tragic life! I deserve some consideration. But consideration is hard to come by nowadays.”

  Mrs. Klimowski reached into her bag for her colorful pillbox. She snapped it open, downed some pills with a glass of water, then dropped the box back in the bag.

  Just as István the waiter started serving the main course of their meals, Mrs. Klimowski rose up from her chair. Sir Reginald Taft peeped over the top of the bouncing bag, then growled and settled back out of sight.

  “I’ve quite lost my appetite, thank you very much,” the elderly woman announced. “I really must get away from all this agitation and discourtesy.”

  She laid the forints she was still holding on the table and announced, “Someone else can enjoy my meal. I’m heading back to the boat. Perhaps after a good night’s sleep, I’ll be able to forget this whole unpleasant episode.”

  Alarmed, London got up from her chair as well.

  “Why don’t you stay?” she said.

  “No. I won’t endure another moment of this.”

  “At least let me see you back to the boat,” London said.

  “No!” Mrs. Klimowski snapped at her fiercely.

  Then looking at the others, she raised her voice to a melodramatic pitch.

  “And the same goes for the rest of you. I don’t need your help, and I certainly don’t need your company. Mine has been a very tragic life. And merely to survive, I’ve developed an instinct to tell me who can be trusted and who can’t be. And I can’t trust any of you. I can feel it in my bones.”

  London saw that the others at the table were as startled and perplexed by this outburst as she was. Some of them—Agnes and Walter Shick—looked positively hurt by it.

  “I’ll leave here just the way I’ve gone through life—alone!” Mrs. Klimowski added.

  With a wave her hand, she swept out of the patio and into the street.

  London started to follow her, but Emil caught her by the arm.

  “London, please do not go after her,” he said. “She really does not wish for any of our company. You will only upset her further if you try to help.”