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

by Blake Pierce

  The group just stared at her, still obviously unsatisfied.

  London turned and headed toward Nachtmusik’s library to return the stolen booklet. As she walked away, she could feel eyes following her suspiciously. But since she’d just asked both Bob and Amy to keep Letitia’s thefts a secret, she couldn’t reveal the story of the drama inside that room.

  Still, the stares unnerved her.

  They don’t trust me, she realized.

  How could she do her job if passengers didn’t believe what she said?

  And to make matters worse …

  Polizeidirektor Tanneberger still hasn’t eliminated me as a murder suspect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Although it seemed kind of furtive, London half-hoped she wouldn’t find Emil in the library. The little booklet of artworks was clearly marked PROPERTY OF THE NACHTMUSIK LIBRARY, and she didn’t want to have to explain to Emil why she had it. She wasn’t ready to start spreading the news that Letitia Hartzer had stolen the booklet and a bunch of other items as well.

  But when she reached the Menuetto deck and went straight to the library, London was surprised to see that the door was closed. The library was usually open to anyone who wanted to use it except when Emil was giving a lecture, and she knew nothing was scheduled there at this hour.

  Then she heard music playing inside. Emil must be in there.

  She knocked on the door and there was no response. Then she knocked again and called out his name.

  She heard Emil’s voice say, “Come in.”

  London opened the door and stepped inside. There was Emil, leaning back in a swivel chair. His fingers were steepled together and his eyes were closed. He appeared to be immersed in the music—so much so that he seemed indifferent to London’s presence.

  London immediately recognized the music. An operatic soprano was singing the Queen of the Night’s aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute—the very aria that Letitia had fumbled while Olaf Moritz had accompanied her on the antique clavichord in Mozart’s Birthplace.

  “Emil—” London began.

  He silenced her with a wave of his hand. His eyes still closed, he nodded with pleasure as the soprano’s voice rose higher and higher.

  Since it was obvious that he didn’t want her company at the moment, London thought briefly about just putting the booklet down on the table and leaving.

  “Such celestial ladders of arpeggios!” he murmured. “How effortlessly, how intrepidly this singer climbs them! How she hits that rare dangerously high F again and again, as if it were as easy as breathing!”

  London sat down in a nearby chair and listened, finding herself enjoying the aria herself. When it ended, Emil opened his eyes and turned it off, still not looking at London. He spoke softly, as if to himself.

  “I have been listening to this aria again and again since yesterday—“Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen.”

  Hell’s vengeance boils in my heart, thought London, translating the title in her mind.

  “I have needed to hear it many times,” Emil said, “just to get that woman’s hideous voice out of my mind. To tell the truth, I was relieved that she could not get through it. We were spared the torment of hearing such great music defiled.”

  London was a little startled by the quiet intensity of Emil’s words. She hadn’t realized how bitterly he’d reacted to Letitia’s failed effort to sing this aria.

  “She said she was able to sing it in college,” London commented.

  “She was able to make a mockery of it, more likely,” Emil said with a scoff. “One is either born to sing this role or is not. It is either in a singer’s blood, or it is not. That woman is too … common to make any such attempt.”

  Not for the first time during the last few days, London was shocked by his judgmental, snobbish tone. She flashed back to how he’d lashed out at Bob earlier today.

  “You have got no case against me, you meddling fool.”

  But at least he’d had a reason to be annoyed with Bob, who’d been treating him like a murder suspect. His hostility toward people like Letitia seemed like a different matter—as if he considered himself superior to everyone around him.

  Remembering her reason for coming here, London set the booklet of Gyor statues on the table in front of him.

  “I brought this back,” she said, hoping not to have to explain any further.

  He scowled at the book, then at her.

  “I noticed yesterday that it was missing. Did you … borrow it?”

  London gulped a little.

  “Not exactly,” she said.

  “Where has it been, then?” Emil asked.

  London hesitated.

  “A passenger … borrowed it,” London said.

  She blurted out the little falsehood before she realized it. Letitia had clearly meant to keep the booklet as a souvenir.

  But what was I supposed to say? she wondered.

  A slight smirk crossed Emil’s lips.

  “It was borrowed, eh?” he said. “On a ship where little musician dolls go mysteriously missing? I somehow doubt that.”

  London felt her own anger rising.

  “I don’t really owe you an explanation,” she told him. “But maybe you owe me one.”

  “How so?” Emil said with a tilt of his head.

  “The way you’ve been behaving lately—you’re …”

  “I am what? Not like my usual self? And how would you know such a thing? We only met rather recently, after all.”

  London stared at him speechless for a moment.

  “I may not know you very well,” she said slowly, “but I do know that there are things I like about you. I like your keen intelligence, your knowledge of so many things, and how generously you share your knowledge with other people. I like your professionalism and … well, your manners, your sophistication, your gracefulness. I like the way you dance. I like how you helped solve Mrs. Klimowski’s murder. And most of the time I like how you behave toward other people.”

  “But not always?” Emil said.

  London felt as though she’d said too much.

  She also felt dangerously close to admitting that she was a bit infatuated with him.

  “I’ll just go,” she said, starting to rise from her chair.

  “No, not yet,” Emil said. “We must … ‘clear the air,’ I believe is the English expression. We will be working together professionally during the rest of this voyage. If you believe me to have any defects of character, now is the time to tell me.”

  Defects of character?

  The phrase struck London as stiff and peculiar. She almost turned and left without another word. But she had to admit, Emil was right—it was time for her to be honest.

  “You take things so personally,” she said. “Why does it matter to you so much whether poor Letitia can sing a Mozart aria or not? Why do you have to keep brooding about it a whole day later?”

  “I believe I just explained—I hate to see works of genius degraded.”

  “No, there’s more to it than that.”

  Emil’s lips twisted into a trace of a smile.

  “Vanity, perhaps?” he said.

  London took a deep breath, then plunged ahead.

  “Yes, vanity’s a good word for it. Back in Vienna, I saw you bristle with anger when Cyrus Bannister told the truth about whether Salieri really killed Mozart. You felt upstaged by him. You didn’t want to share the spotlight.”

  Emil seemed almost to enjoy what he was hearing.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “You also got angry with Olaf and Cyrus both when they contradicted you about whether Mozart wrote the Austrian national anthem—”

  “I have done some research since then,” Emil said. “It appears that the matter is up for scholarly debate. But it is highly possible—perhaps even probable—that I was right.”

  “That’s not the point,” London said.

  “Then what is?”

  London realized that Emil lo
oked genuinely baffled.

  What exactly am I trying to say?

  She searched her thoughts and recent memories.

  “I was surprised at how angry you got when you found out someone else would be leading the tour today,” she said.

  “You mean Olaf Moritz,” Emil said.

  “That’s right. And even after you met him, and he started leading us on a tour, you kept right on resenting him—as if the whole situation was his fault, as if it was his idea to do the tour instead of you. Your anger against him was …”

  “Palpable?” Emil said.

  “That’s right. Even after he was dead, you seemed to think ill of him.”

  Emil let out a sardonic chuckle.

  “I cannot say I have ever shared this notion that the dead deserve some special consideration, some immunity from criticism. How does death change who people were and how we should treat them? It quite escapes me.”

  He leaned forward in his chair, his dark eyes fastened intently on hers.

  “Let us get right to the point and talk about your real concern. You wonder if I am the one who killed Herr Moritz.”

  London stifled a gasp.

  “I didn’t say that,” she said.

  “But do you deny that you think it? Why would you not think it? I know a similar suspicion crossed your mind when Mrs. Klimowski was killed. And regarding Olaf Moritz, you would not be the only one to suspect me. That Polizeidirektor has got his eye on me, at least. So has our oaf of a security man, Bob Turner. Tell me if I am wrong.”

  London stood there speechless.

  She wanted to tell Emil that she suspected no such thing.

  But would it be true? she wondered.

  Emil frowned at her darkly.

  “So now I know the truth. You think I am—or might be—a murderer.”

  “Emil—”

  “I think our little chat should end here. Kindly leave me alone.”

  Emil touched the button for his music player, and the aria started again. He sat back again with his fingers steepled and his eyes closed.

  London felt a chill all over.

  Her head was flooding with uncertainties, but she did feel sure of one thing.

  Emil is right.

  We don’t have anything more to say to each other.

  She left the library and shut the door behind her. She leaned against the door for a moment, slightly dizzy and breathless with anxiety. What was she supposed to make of Emil’s behavior? Was it even dimly possible that …?

  No, it just can’t be, she decided.

  Emil was no murderer. She just couldn’t believe that about him. He was simply a difficult man who let his prickliness and vanity get in the way of his charm. She felt more than eager to put him out of her mind, so she was grateful to be distracted by the demands of her job.

  She hurried about, checking to make sure the night’s activities were running smoothly—an improv comedy class, a meeting of a creative writing group, another performance of the choral group, and a game of charades. Then she headed back to her stateroom for the night.

  She found Sir Reggie waiting for her inside the room.

  “I haven’t seen you for a while, buddy,” she said, putting out some dog food and fresh water. “I hope your day wound up better than mine did.”

  As Sir Reggie started eating eagerly, London remarked to the animal, “Now that I think of it, I haven’t had anything to eat myself since breakfast. I think I’ll order in a sandwich. Would you like me to order some of Bryce’s special dog treats as well?”

  Sir Reggie let out a happy yap. London texted the food order to the kitchen. Then she went to her bathroom to take a long, hot shower.

  The food was waiting for her when she got out of the bathroom, and although it was a fine sandwich, London was too exhausted to appreciate it completely. However, Sir Reggie obviously enjoyed his treats.

  When she finally climbed into bed. Sir Reggie snuggled alongside her and let out an inquisitive little whine.

  “So you want to hear about the rest of my day?” London said.

  Sir Reggie yapped in agreement.

  “OK, I’ll tell you all about it …”

  As usual, Sir Reggie was an attentive listener. Also as usual, it felt good talking things out to him. It helped clear her thoughts, but also brought her back to the mysteries still at hand—the missing doll figures, the unsolved murder, and …

  Where is Mom?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The next morning, London was up and struggling to get ready for a new day when her cell phone rang. She shook off the last bits of dreams she couldn’t quite remember and fumbled around for her phone.

  The voice she heard was Captain Hays’s, and he also sounded a bit addled.

  “Eh, London, I wonder if you could come to my quarters right now.”

  London checked her watch. As usual, she had gotten up very early, and she was a bit surprised to be summoned by the captain at this hour.

  “Of course, Captain Hays,” she said. “May I ask what this is about?”

  The captain said nothing for a moment. In the background, London could hear a familiar voice talking rather loudly, apparently to someone else.

  It was Bob Turner. What would he be doing in the captain’s quarters at this hour?

  The captain explained, “Well, Polizeidirektor Tanneberger stopped by bright and early to discuss the murder case. Bob Turner has been filling us in on his progress with his own, eh, investigation.”

  Investigation? London thought.

  She found it hard to think of whatever Bob was doing as an actual investigation. And from the captain’s tone of voice, she suspected he felt the same way. London couldn’t imagine what Bob might have been saying or what the Polizeidirektor himself might be making of it all.

  Captain Hays continued, “Polizeidirektor Tanneberger says he’d like to see you too.”

  “I’ll be right there,” London said. She had a feeling she’d better get there before Bob wore out Tanneberger’s patience, or worse, got the murder investigation headed off in some odd direction.

  Fully awake now, she finished putting on a fresh uniform and went to take one last look at herself in her bathroom mirror. With a sigh, she dampened a comb and tried to bring a bit more order into her unruly auburn hair.

  “This will have to do,” she told Sir Reggie. “We’d better get going.”

  With the little terrier trotting alongside of her, London hurried down the passageway past the elevator and stairs to the captain’s quarters. The door was open, and when she and Sir Reggie entered, she found Captain Hays seated at his desk, looking quite perplexed.

  Looking rather confused himself, Polizeidirektor Tanneberger was sitting in a nearby chair. Bob paced back and forth in front of him, mirrored glasses in place, talking and gesticulating with animation. Bob seemed to be wrapping up whatever he’d been saying.

  The conversation was in English, of course. Apparently the ship’s security man wasn’t able to converse in any other language.

  “So as you can see, I’ve cracked the case wide open. All you have to do is make an arrest.”

  Nobody said anything at all for a long moment. London sat down, and Sir Reggie jumped up onto her lap.

  Then Tanneberger stroked his white mustache and finally spoke.

  “So you’re saying this woman, Letitia …”

  “Letitia Hartzer,” Bob said.

  “Yes, Letitia Hartzer—you are saying that she had a motive to kill Olaf Moritz.”

  “I’m saying she actually did kill him,” Bob replied enthusiastically. “There’s not a doubt in my mind.”

  London shuddered at how sure of himself he sounded.

  Tanneberger must think he’s out of his mind, she thought.

  The Polizeidirektor leaned a little to one side.

  “And you think this because … Herr Moritz caught her stealing a pen from Mozart’s Birthplace.”

  “Exactly. She was afraid he’d call the police
. And of course there’s also the matter of the stolen musician dolls—”

  Tanneberger interrupted with a wave of his hand. Bob had obviously told him about the dolls already, and he didn’t want to hear about them all over again.

  “So you’ve told me,” Tanneberger said. “But the truth is … I’m having trouble seeing the connection between the dolls and … well, anything else, really.”

  Bob chuckled confidently.

  “I’m not saying there aren’t loose ends to tie up. But it’s all connected. Everything’s always connected. As a seasoned law enforcement officer, I’m sure you know that as well as I do.”

  Judging from his expression, London sensed that Tanneberger “knew” no such thing. But he seemed too polite to say so.

  London felt a need to contribute something to the discussion.

  “Polizeidirektor Tanneberger,” she said, “I’m very sorry about the theft of the pen. We’ve settled the matter with our passenger, and the pen will be returned to Mozart’s Birthplace soon, if it hasn’t been returned already.”

  Tanneberger nodded with approval. He looked relieved that at least some part of Bob Turner’s tale had been resolved.

  Then he said to Bob, “Herr Turner, yours is an … interesting theory. But as you say, there are a few … loose ends, and I cannot say that I feel ready to arrest the woman you speak of. Perhaps you could keep pursuing clues.”

  London was quite sure Tanneberger didn’t believe for a second that Letitia Hartzer was the murderer. But if Bob Turner stayed busy playing detective on the Nachtmusik, the Polizeidirektor probably figured it would at least keep him out of the way of his investigation. Of course Bob would still be a loose cannon around the Nachtmusik, which wouldn’t make London’s situation any easier.

  “You can count on me, sir,” Bob agreed with an enthusiastic nod.

  Tanneberger turned his attention to London.

  “Fraulein Rose, yesterday you told me that you were at a café near the House for Mozart at about the time when Herr Moritz was killed. I believe you also mentioned that somebody could confirm your whereabouts.”

  “That’s right,” London said. “I was just sitting down with a young couple, Tina and Rudy Fiore, for a snack. But before I even got a chance to order, Tina noticed that her cell phone was missing, and I went back to the House for Mozart to look for it.”