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

by Blake Pierce

  “All right then,” Amy said, looking both scared and disappointed. She pointed to the man in the nearby café and added, “Do you think it’s OK if I just go tell Sandor I’ve got to go?”

  London fidgeted as she tried to decide. It was dawning on her that she was losing precious time dealing with Amy. She needed to get back to whatever she was out here to do.

  “Do you promise to make it quick?” London asked.

  Amy nodded.

  “And do you promise not to change your mind about going back to the boat?” London added.

  Amy nodded again.

  “OK, then. I’ll see you later today.”

  “Be careful, London,” Amy said as she started to walk toward the café.

  “I will,” London said.

  Still restless, Reginald tugged at the leash as if he wanted to stay with Amy.

  “Come on,” London said, tugging him away. “Let’s keep looking.”

  Seeming to pick up the trail again, Reginald scurried onward. London began trotting after him again.

  Sir Reginald turned a corner, and London stayed on his trail. They were near the Magyar Öröm restaurant now, and the streets were all familiar. London wondered—had Mrs. Klimowski walked this way yesterday before she was killed? Her brain clicked away as she tried to guess what had happened.

  On a street corner a few blocks away, a familiar sight caught her eye. It was the vendor’s stall she’d seen yesterday—the one Sir Reginald had seemed interested in.

  And now he seemed interested in it again. In fact, he was tugging on his leash in that direction.

  The stand had been closed yesterday afternoon, but now an elderly woman was there selling flowers.

  London’s eyes widened as something amid the flowers caught her attention.

  That could be the clue I’ve been looking for.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  There it was, amid the profusion of violets, lilies, tulips, and other blossoms on the counter in front of the vendor.

  A batch of big yellow flowers in a tall vase.

  Sunflowers, London realized. Small ones, but sunflowers all the same.

  Exactly like the one she’d seen yesterday in an unlikely location.

  Sir Reginald was tugging at his leash emphatically, so London picked him up and walked toward the stout, white-haired woman tending the flower stall. When they reached her, Sir Reginald let out a friendly yap, and the woman let out a gasp of happy exclamation.

  “Oh, it’s you again!” she said in Hungarian to the dog. “It’s nice to see you!”

  Then she glared at London with a curious expression.

  “I don’t recognize you, though,” the woman said.

  She kept chattering away in Hungarian a little too fast for London to follow her words perfectly. But the gist of what she was saying was that somebody else had been there with this very dog yesterday.

  “It was an unhappy lady,” the woman said, slowing her speech so that London could understand her better. The vendor obviously dealt a lot with foreigners and knew how to speak with them. “She was actually crying when she came here. I gave her one of my sunflowers to make her feel better.”

  London felt a tug of emotion.

  She knew she shouldn’t be surprised to hear this, given how distraught Mrs. Klimowski had been when she’d left the Magyar Öröm.

  Still, hearing this made Mrs. Klimowski’s death seem all the sadder.

  The vendor took out a sunflower and gave it to London.

  “Sunflowers are my favorite this time of year,” she said. “Later in the summer you’ll see fields and fields of them out in the countryside. Big ones, not like these little greenhouse plants. Our sunflower seeds are a major Hungarian export.”

  She nodded proudly and added, “The lady’s tears kept coming but she seemed grateful for the flower. She let me pet her dog.”

  The vendor scratched Sir Reginald under the chin.

  “Please tell me … what else happened when she was here?” London said.

  The woman looked a little surprised at the question.

  “Well, she talked to me some, but it was in English, and I know only a little English, but I remember her telling me something like …”

  The woman paused, as if searching her mind for the English words.

  “‘I am in need of spiritual’ … spiritual something … I can’t remember …”

  “Solace?” London asked, remembering what Mrs. Klimowski had said back in Budapest before their visit to St. Stephen’s Basilica.

  “Why, yes. I believe ‘solace’ was the word. She said her life had been, eh, ‘tragic.’”

  Again, London felt a stab of sadness to hear Mrs. Klimowski’s familiar refrain.

  “What happened next?” she asked.

  “She left.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  A theory began to snap together in London’s mind. She didn’t need the flower vendor to tell her where Mrs. Klimowski was off to next. London knew perfectly well where she’d gone for “spiritual solace.” And the doorkeeper outside the basilica yesterday had been wearing exactly this sort of sunflower in his lapel—an odd, outsized sort of decoration to wear with a formal suit.

  It’s not a coincidence, she thought.

  It just can’t be.

  Before London could ask any more questions, Sir Reginald let out a small warning growl.

  London glanced around. Farther down the street she saw four police officers huddled together looking at a cell phone. One of them pointed at the phone, and then at London.

  London heart pounded with alarm.

  She’d been right to worry that Borsos had put out a police APB on her. The information on the cell phone might well have included a picture of her, or at least her uniform. And sure enough, these police officers had spotted her.

  If only I’d had time to change out of my uniform, she thought.

  But there was no turning back the clock. She had to act fast. She reached into her purse and took out about four thousand forint and set them on the counter.

  “Here,” she said.

  “What’s this for?” the vendor asked with surprise.

  “For the flower,” London said. “And your help. And for being such a nice person.”

  “But this is too much!” the vendor said.

  “Please take it. I’ve got to go now.”

  And London saw that she didn’t have a second to lose. The four police officers were now walking briskly in her direction. She glanced around anxiously for an escape route and spotted a narrow alleyway.

  Holding onto Sir Reginald and the sunflower, she darted into the alley.

  This is no good, she thought as she broke into a run.

  The officers had surely seen her duck into this alley. They’d catch up with her any second. Still, she had to lose them somehow. She climbed down a small stairwell behind a building and ducked out of sight.

  Sure enough, she heard the clatter of footsteps and the officers talking in Hungarian. Then the footsteps and the words grew fainter as the police officers continued on down the alleyway. She peeked up out of the stairwell and saw that they were gone, then stepped cautiously back into the alley.

  “We’re OK—for now,” she said to Sir Reginald.

  The dog let out what sounded like a little growl of disagreement.

  “They’ll be back—I know that,” she admitted to Sir Reginald. “And there will be others. We can’t keep dodging all the police officers in Gyor all day long. We’ll get caught soon, but if we can only get to the basilica before they do …”

  She trotted down to the end of the alley, looked around the corner, and didn’t see any officers in sight. Then she began to plot out a roundabout route to the basilica.

  If only I can get there in time, she thought.

  It suddenly seemed possible that Mrs. Klimowski hadn’t been killed by somebody aboard the Nachtmusik after all. And if London’s luck held out, s
he might soon confront her killer face to face.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  By the time London emerged from the alley onto a short, unfamiliar side street, she could hear the wail of a police car siren somewhere close behind her.

  The cops who had spotted her hadn’t wasted any time calling for backup.

  Still holding Sir Reginald in her arms, she struggled to remember the map of the city she’d studied in preparation for leading tours. She’d spent some time going over the map, memorizing as many streets and landmarks as she could. After all, there could be nothing as embarrassing to a tour guide as getting lost, and the twisting, labyrinthine streets of Gyor could be a challenge even under normal circumstances.

  But these aren’t normal circumstances, she thought.

  She was being hunted, and she would have to be quick on her feet to keep clear of the police. Could she weave and dodge her way from here to the basilica without getting hopelessly lost?

  She knew the way there from the flower stand at the far end of the alley, but she didn’t dare go back that way now.

  First she had to be sure she knew exactly where she was. She made her way to a street sign at the end of the block.

  As she’d hoped, the street was called Hó köz. That meant she wasn’t lost yet. She followed the street to a pedestrian lane that ran alongside one of the city’s many public squares. If she followed this lane, she knew she’d at least be heading in the right direction.

  But I’ve got to hurry, she told herself.

  She felt painfully conspicuous as she trotted amid other pedestrians in her Epoch World Cruise Lines uniform, carrying the mop of a dog in her arms. Then she spotted a police officer up ahead. He was talking to someone and hadn’t seen her yet, but she didn’t want to run right past him. Instead, she veered into a street called Káposztás köz. Visualizing the map in her head, she figured she still must be angling in more or less the right direction.

  Or am I?

  Tall, antique buildings with plaster walls and tiled roofs seemed to lean and crowd in around her almost teasingly, blocking her ability to see in any direction. The view cleared a little as she emerged onto another walkway along another public square, and again she felt reasonably sure she was on the right course.

  But she hadn’t gone far when a pair of officers came into view. Engaged in conversation, they were walking right toward her. It would be only a matter of seconds before they saw her.

  Where could she hide?

  London darted into a small, busy storefront café. She stood there amid the crowded tables, knowing that she was scarcely less conspicuous through the window than she had been on the street.

  Glancing around, she saw that the two officers she was trying to avoid had paused right in front of the café to continue their conversation. They were also looking up and down the street—for her, she felt sure. If either of them so much as turned his head in her direction, she’d be spotted for sure.

  The café tables were crowded with customers, and she was grateful that they were paying no attention to her at all. Seeing just one empty chair, she moved quickly and plopped down there.

  London found herself sitting across from a bulky, bearded man who looked surprised to see her. But then his features broke into a broad grin.

  In the best Hungarian she could muster, she said, “Do you mind if I sit here for a moment?”

  Leering across the table at her, the man replied, “You may sit here for much longer than a moment, my dear. You are as pretty as your flower—even prettier, I think.”

  He was referring, of course, to the sunflower London was still holding in her hand.

  “Please be my guest,” he added. “I’m in no hurry—and I hope you aren’t either.”

  London swallowed anxiously as she settled Sir Reginald onto her lap. At least she was facing away from the café windows and might not be especially noticeable from outside. And there was a mirror behind the coffee bar, so she could see the window from where she was sitting. But she wondered how long she’d be stuck sitting with this flirtatious and unattractive gentleman.

  She forced a smile and tried to think of something to say, but no easy explanation for her actions came to mind.

  “American?” the man asked.

  London nodded.

  “Ah,” the man said in English. “Then perhaps I can practice my skills. Conversation is the best way to learn.”

  London stopped herself from politely saying, “That would be nice.” She didn’t want to give this man any encouragement.

  “My name is Taavi Muszca,” he told her. Then he added with a chuckle, “I believe the name ‘Taavi’ means ‘adored’ in your language.”

  London forced herself to laugh a little, but it didn’t come out well.

  Muszca peered at the name pin on her jacket.

  “And I see that you are London Rose. I am pleased to meet you, London Rose.”

  “Likewise—Taavi Muszca,” London replied uneasily.

  Nodding at Sir Reginald, the man said, “Dogs are not normally allowed in here. But no matter. I own the café. I make the rules. You may do as you wish.”

  Now he’s trying to impress me, she thought.

  He wasn’t succeeding, of course. He was only making London feel more queasy and uncomfortable and anxious to get away. But as she looked at the mirror behind the bar, she saw that the two officers seemed to have settled down to watching out for her in front of the café, vigilantly looking in every direction except through the window. They didn’t look like they were going anywhere at that moment.

  “Perhaps you would like something to drink, London Rose,” Muszca said, sounding rather stiff and pedantic. “I am drinking plain fekete kávé—‘black coffee’ in your language. I would recommend something tastier and more traditionally Hungarian. Perhaps you would like a cup of bécsi kávé—coffee served with ice cream and chocolate and whipped cream.”

  It sounded delicious. But right now, London was only concerned about one thing—getting out of here and continuing on to the basilica.

  “I will order it for you—on the house, of course,” the man said.

  He raised a pudgy hand to snap his fingers to summon a waiter.

  “Wait a moment,” London said, stopping him.

  “Well?” Muszca said.

  Well what? London wondered.

  She had to improvise her way out of this situation. But she wasn’t sure how. And she could still see the cops in the mirror.

  “Does this café have a kitchen?” she blurted.

  “But of course,” Muszca said. “We serve meals here all day long. Have you had breakfast? We stopped serving breakfast a short while ago, but I’m sure I can persuade my cooks to make an exception for such a lovely young lady.”

  London’s stomach felt queasy now. But a plan was starting to come together in her head.

  “We are known for our rántotta, scrambled eggs,” Muszca added. “It is prepared with bacon and peppers and a sausage called kolbász.”

  “Yes, that sounds delicious, but …”

  “But what?”

  “I would love to see how it’s made. Your kitchen must be wonderful.”

  Muszca smiled proudly, his vanity obviously piqued.

  “But of course, London Rose,” he said. “I will make the rántotta myself.”

  He rose out of his chair and gallantly helped London out of hers. Then he offered her his arm, which she reluctantly took. The dog let out an annoyed grumble as she shifted him to one side and held him in the crook of her other arm. She was grateful that Sir Reginald was being so patient and not attracting attention by yapping his displeasure.

  As Muszca escorted her through the café, London noticed that his waiters were leering at her and nodding approvingly. They seemed accustomed to seeing their boss behaving this way with women.

  By the time he led her through a pair of swinging doors, she was starting to feel desperate to get this over with. The kitchen was small but well-equipped, wi
th ovens, stoves, and stainless steel surfaces. Several white-clad men wearing chef’s hats were hard at work. The air was hot and thick with delicious smells, and Sir Reginald’s head swiveled around as he sniffed with interest.

  Stay cool, Sir Reginald, she thought.

  She’d be in a real jam if he sprang out of her arms right here and now.

  “A special guest?” one of the cooks asked Muszca with a wink.

  “To be sure,” Muszca said, switching into Hungarian. “An American lady, new to our country and our cuisine—and also to our language. London Rose is her name. She would like to see me prepare a plate of rántotta.”

  Behind her back she heard a couple of the other cooks chuckling knowingly.

  “Fogadok, hogy,” one murmured.

  London knew what this meant: “I’ll bet she would.”

  She cringed sharply, then heard the other cook whisper, “Nagyon forró.”

  She also knew what this meant: “Very hot.”

  Muszca scowled at his indiscreet employees, obviously aware from her offended expression that she’d understood what had been said.

  He began speaking to London in English, “Pay no attention to these uncouth fellows …”

  But London tuned out his words. She saw exactly what she’d been hoping to see. Far back in the preparation area next to an electric slicer was a door that looked like it might lead outside.

  Or was it the door to a restroom or an office or …?

  She hesitated for only a moment, then shook off Muszca’s arm. Clasping the little dog tightly, she charged toward the door, threw it open, and dashed on through it.

  As the heavy door slammed behind her, London was relieved to see that she was in fact outside, standing in another alleyway, with no police in sight. And although she didn’t know exactly where the alley might lead, she knew approximately where the basilica was from here.

  As she broke into a run, she spoke to Sir Reginald.

  “You were a very good boy back there. I’m starting to think we make a good team.”

  Behind her she heard the back door to the café fly open. She could hear Muszca shouting at her in Hungarian. She couldn’t make out his words from this distance, but he sounded more confused and hurt than angry.