Death (and Apple Strudel) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 2)

by Blake Pierce

  Bob turned his mirrored sunglasses toward Elsie.

  “Were you working at the bar when this happened?”

  “As you know, I just now got back from the captain’s dinner,” she said. “But I’ve asked my bartenders and none of them saw anything unusual. Of course, they’ve been pretty much busy with customers.”

  Bob nodded sagely.

  “This is a tricky case,” he said. “Finding your lost treasures is going to take some special skills …”

  He was interrupted by a yap from Sir Reggie.

  The little dog was crouched beside the table, peering under the dark tablecloth that hung almost to the floor.

  “Did you find something, boy?” Bob asked.

  The sleuth leaned down and lifted the tablecloth, then reached under the table.

  “Aha!” he cried.

  Bob straightened up, holding the little trumpeter figure in his hand.

  “I believe this is what you’re looking for,” he said to Letitia with a note of triumph, as if he’d achieved some remarkable investigative feat.

  “Oh, goodness, yes!” she said as he handed her the doll.

  Most of those watching let out a sigh of relief in unison.

  “Obviously nothing to worry about,” Rudy Fiore said.

  “Yes, it must have just fallen off the table and gotten knocked underneath,” his wife added.

  The others murmured in agreement as Letitia put the musician doll back in its place among the others.

  “Thank you so much!” Letitia squealed. “It’s so nice to have an actual investigator on board.”

  Bob chuckled and stooped down to pat Sir Reggie on the head.

  “Well, I couldn’t have done it without the help of Sir Reggie the Wonder Dog,” he said.

  “So this was just a false alarm,” Kirby Oswinkle growled. “But don’t forget, there has been a real theft that remains unsolved! I won’t be satisfied until my little music conductor is safely returned to my collection!”

  Kirby stormed out of the lounge.

  “I suppose he’s got a right to be upset,” Carol Weaver said.

  “Oh, bother,” her husband, Steve, protested. “I’ll bet that man’s doll isn’t missing at all. He probably just misplaced it. Let’s try not to get upset over every little thing that happens—or doesn’t happen.”

  There was another murmur of agreement, and then the group headed to the bar for one last drink before closing.

  Bob drew London aside and spoke to her confidentially.

  “I don’t want to cause a panic,” he said. “But this was no false alarm.”

  London’s eyes widened.

  “Do you mean—?”

  “I mean there’s more to what just happened here than meets the eye,” Bob said, scratching his chin.

  “Please explain,” London said.

  “Not yet, not yet,” Bob said with a shake of his head. “Not without further evidence. Suffice it to say, there’s somebody aboard this boat who is up to no good. And I’ve got a pretty good idea of who it is.”

  “Then I wish you’d tell me—”

  “All in good time, London. All in good time.”

  Bob shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered out of the lounge, looking deep in thought.

  London looked down at Sir Reggie.

  “All I know is, it’s been a busy day and I’m tired,” she said to him. “And we’ve got another busy day ahead tomorrow. Let’s turn in for the night.”

  As she and Sir Reggie left the lounge, the songs London had danced to back at the Palmenhaus played in her head. She found herself moving and swaying to “Seems Like Old Times” as she walked toward her stateroom.

  *

  The next morning, London had just gotten up and dressed when her cell phone buzzed. She saw a command-like text message from Emil.

  Come quick to the Rondo deck!

  She had a pretty good idea of what Emil’s message was about, so she took a few bites of the breakfast she’d ordered, then left her stateroom and hurried up the stairway.

  When London stepped out into the warm morning sunlight, she felt a fresh breeze. The Nachtmusik was in motion, having departed from Vienna during the wee hours of the morning. For part of this day, the ship would be traveling the Danube through Austria’s beautiful Wachau Valley. Now they were passing a sight she hadn’t wanted to miss.

  Perched on the rocky hillside above a quaint medieval Austrian village were the ruins of a once-magnificent castle with sheer, high stone walls. Emil was at the starboard rail, pointing and lecturing a group of passengers.

  “… and there it is, Durnstein Castle, built by Hadmar the First of Kuenring during the early twelfth century. It was plundered when Hussite forces raided this area in the 1400s, and further damaged by the Swedes during the Thirty Years’ War. It hasn’t been habitable since 1679, when it was abandoned.”

  One of the passengers raised his hand and spoke.

  “I read that Durnstein Castle once hosted an interesting house guest.”

  Emil smiled.

  “I was just getting ready to tell that story,” he replied. “Although he was rather a reluctant ‘guest,’ to put it mildly. England’s Richard the Lionheart passed through this region on his way home from the Third Crusade. He was captured by Duke Leopold and imprisoned in this castle. He was eventually ransomed back to England for some one hundred fifty thousand marks—an enormous amount of money that staggered even the prosperous English economy. But the historical facts make for a rather dry version of the story. The legend is much more interesting.”

  As the boat glided past the village of Durnstein, another remarkable sight came into view. Built into the hillside were the large statues of two figures—a chainmail-wearing nobleman on horseback and a more humbly dressed man playing a stringed musical instrument, walking alongside of him.

  Emil continued, “That is a statue of King Richard the First, with his loyal minstrel, Blondel, at his side. After Richard was captured, it is said that Blondel traveled all over Europe looking for him, singing the first verse of one of the king’s favorite songs. Finally Blondel came this way, and when he sang that verse, he heard Richard sing the second verse from his castle cell. He had found his king at last.”

  The passengers let out exclamations.

  “Do you think the story is true?” one of them asked.

  Emil’s smile turned just a bit mischievous.

  “As a historian … well, I am not sure it is my place to say.”

  Another passenger spoke up.

  “As they say, ‘When the legend becomes fact, print the legend.’”

  Emil tilted his head with interest.

  “An interesting quote,” he said. “Who said it?”

  “It’s from an American Western movie starring John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart,” the passenger replied. “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.”

  Emil looked a little taken aback—and also a little embarrassed. London realized he surely considered that movie to be a lowbrow piece of entertainment. She looked around for a way to change the subject and saw that the ship was now gliding past the terraced hills of a vineyard. She knew they would see many such hillsides today, with vines planted in rows almost down to the water on both sides of the Danube.

  She moved over to the railing and began telling the passengers about those vineyards.

  “The story of how Wachau became a fine winemaking region goes back literally millions of years, to long-ago ages before human beings even lived here. First the Danube carved its twisting way through the rocky land, and then rock dust settled on crystalline slopes, making the soil perfect for raising grapes.

  “Back around 500 B.C.,” she continued, “the Celts were the earliest grape-growers in Austria. They were followed by the Romans, and then by Catholic monks who became the region’s first true master vintners …”

  She finished her little lecture by announcing the Wachau Valley wines that were available from the bar in the lounge or with mea
ls in the ship’s restaurant. Afterward, some passengers broke up into social groups and some plopped down into deck chairs to relax and continue enjoying the view.

  When Emil walked over to join London at the railing, she was glad to see that he seemed to be in better spirits now. But she felt a tingle of alarm at his next remark.

  “I have a marvelous tour planned for Salzburg tomorrow,” Emil said. “I’m exceptionally prepared.”

  “Uh, Emil …”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought you knew. You won’t be conducting tomorrow’s tour. Epoch World accepted the offer of a local tour guide to show us around Salzburg.”

  Emil let out a snort of anger.

  “What? Whose decision was this?”

  “I don’t know,” London said. “Someone high up on the company ladder—maybe Jeremy Lapham himself.”

  “This is outrageous!” Emil almost shouted, then stormed away toward the elevators.

  Uh-oh, London thought. I hope we’re not in for trouble about this tomorrow.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, Emil was nowhere to be seen when the group began to gather in the reception area for their tour of Salzburg. As London got things organized and checked off the passengers’ names, she heard someone calling from outside the ship.

  “Willkommen!”

  She looked out the glass doors and saw a well-dressed young man with ruddy cheeks and sandy hair waving from the bottom of the gangway. She opened a reception room doors and waved back to him.

  “Willkommen in Salzburg, birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!” he called with a broad smile. She heard the passengers clustered behind her calling back “Danke” and “Thank you.” Someone even replied with a cheerful, even if out of place, “Gracias.”

  It wasn’t an especially large group, just twenty of them, but they all seemed excited and ready to go. She knew that, as usual, some passengers had opted to do their touring on their own and others were just more interested in activities aboard the Nachtmusik than in visiting an ancient city.

  And one is writing a murder mystery, she thought, noting without surprise that Stanley Tedrow wasn’t with the group.

  London saw some familiar faces in the group, including Cyrus Bannister, Letitia Hartzer, and the honeymooning young couple, Rudy and Tina Fiore.

  But where was Emil? Surely he wouldn’t be skipping this trip out of vexation at not leading the tour himself.

  Meanwhile, Sir Reggie was trotting around London’s feet, looking eager to join her.

  “I’m sorry, old sport,” she said, “but it’s better for you not to come with us this time. We just got here, and we don’t know just how welcome you’ll be. Stay aboard and do your job—keep everybody safe.”

  Sir Reggie whined a little, then dashed away.

  As London headed down the gangway herself, she glanced back and forth along the narrow, swiftly moving Salzach River. She marveled at the versatility of the Nachtmusik to navigate just about any kind of waterway. During the early hours of the morning, the pilot had steered them off the Danube onto the smaller Inn River, then onto this still smaller tributary called the Salzach. It seemed that the Nachtmusik could travel almost anywhere.

  The guide continued his garrulous greetings as the passengers gathered on the barge that was moored at the bottom of the gangway so that they could cross the shallower water between the boat and the shore. He introduced himself to each one individually, and London sensed that he was quickly learning all their names by heart.

  “Willkommen, willkommen! My name is Olaf Moritz—please just call me Olaf—and I will be your guide today!”

  To London’s relief, Emil Waldmüller finally came walking down the gangway to join the tour. He nodded curtly to London and coldly shook Olaf’s offered hand. London was disappointed in Emil’s silent pettiness, but she was glad that he hadn’t snubbed the tour completely. There was still a lot she didn’t understand about the intelligent, handsome, but sometimes stiff and standoffish historian.

  On the other side of the barge, a flight of stairs led up a steep grassy embankment to the streets of Salzburg. Olaf guided them all into a town that looked like something out of a fairytale, with its Baroque buildings and the enormous medieval Hohensalzburg Fortress towering protectively on a hilltop above them.

  “We’ll reach our first destination before you know it!” Olaf said, leading them through stone-paved pedestrian streets flanked by quaint buildings, some of which had tunnel-like arches leading into the next courtyard or walkway.

  Sure enough, they soon arrived in front of a six-story building marked with the words Mozarts Geburtshaus—Mozart’s Birthplace—in graceful cursive letters across an orange-painted edifice. As Olaf continued explaining things to them, London was impressed by his fluent German-accented English.

  “This house was old and venerable even before Salzburg’s most famous son was born here. It was built in the twelfth century on what was once a garden owned by Benedictine monks. A whole book could be written about the people who lived and worked here over the years.”

  He pointed to an engraved image showing a serpent entwining a staff.

  “Perhaps some of you recognize this image.”

  One of the passengers chuckled with surprise.

  “I sure do,” he said. “I’m a physician, and that’s the Rod of Asclepius, a symbol of medicine.”

  “That’s right,” Olaf said. “This is guild sign of Chunrad Fröschmoser, the apothecary to the Austrian court who set up business here in 1585.”

  The tour began on the third floor, the apartment where the Mozart family had lived. There they visited Mozart’s study, the bedroom where he was probably born, and an authentic eighteenth-century middle-class kitchen with low-hanging ceiling beams and the place where food was cooked over an open fire.

  “Not much of a kitchen,” one visitor complained. “And someone had to haul firewood all the way up here.”

  But the others found it quaint and attractive.

  In the apartment, they saw countless paintings of Mozart’s family and friends and acquaintances, and also handwritten letters, original scores, and personal items displayed in museum cases. There was even a violin Mozart had played as a child.

  Then Olaf led the group down to the second floor, which was themed “Mozart at the Theater” and was devoted to his operas. The displays included models of set and costume designs and paintings and photographs of productions.

  But perhaps the most remarkable item on exhibit didn’t look all that impressive at first glance. It was a small keyboard that looked almost like an antique toy. What would have been the white keys on a piano were black, and what would have been the black keys were white.

  Letitia Hartzer gasped at the sight of the instrument.

  “Oh, my goodness!” she said. “Is this …?”

  “Yes, this is Mozart’s original clavichord,” Olaf said, “which I happen to have permission to play.”

  When he played a few notes, the instrument produced a soft and delicate sound, and London recognized a Mozart piano sonata. An enchanted hush fell over the group, and London fell under the same spell. For a moment, more than two centuries seemed to disappear, and they were transported to the days when Mozart had lived and worked here.

  “The clavichord wasn’t used as a concert instrument anymore in Mozart’s time,” Olaf explained as he played. “It was used for practice, and for composing. In fact, this was the very instrument on which Mozart composed …”

  Instead of finishing his sentence, he played a series of chords.

  Letitia could barely contain her excitement.

  “He composed The Magic Flute on this very instrument!” she cried.

  “So you’re familiar with that opera?” Olaf asked.

  “Familiar with it? Why, I played the Queen of the Night in a college production!”

  “Then perhaps you’d like to sing a bit of it for us,” Olaf said.

  Letitia blushed shyly as Ola
f began to play a few introductory chords.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” she said. “Those days are long gone.”

  “Try it. You might be surprised.”

  As Olaf accompanied her, Letitia began to sing the aria she’d attempted yesterday. Her voice sounded strong and full at first. But just like yesterday, she fumbled when she tried to hit some especially high notes.

  Letitia looked understandably crushed that her voice had failed her while she was being accompanied on this legendary instrument. But from the woman’s dark glances at Olaf, London sensed that Letitia was more than just embarrassed. She seemed furious at their tour guide for coaxing her into attempting the aria.

  As Letitia slunk away into the group, Emil spoke the first words he had said during the tour.

  “I’m sure we would all like to hear you play ‘Land der Berge, Land am Strome.’”

  “Austria’s national anthem?” Olaf asked with surprise. “I mean no disrespect, but—why on this instrument?”

  “Well, as I explained to some of these people yesterday, Mozart did write the melody. Perhaps on this very keyboard.”

  Olaf chuckled as he played a few notes of the anthem.

  “That’s a common longstanding misconception, my dear sir. It’s been known for quite some time that Mozart almost certainly did not compose the melody for ‘Land der Berge, Land am Strome.’ It was probably written by either Paul Wranitzky or Johann Holzer—with at most a very little help from Mozart himself.”

  As Olaf resumed playing the Mozart sonata, he seemed not to notice that Emil was glaring at him with his arms crossed. Emil was obviously mortified—and incensed—at having his expertise contradicted.

  London wondered how it was possible that the friendly and cheerful Olaf had, perfectly innocently, managed to enrage two of her companions on this tour.

  When the tour of the Mozarts Geburtshaus came to an end, Olaf led the group on foot to their next destination. The short walk took them among shops selling food, crafts, flowers, clothes, and of course cheap souvenir trinkets. They soon arrived at the House for Mozart, a theater devoted primarily to music and opera.