“I understand. You wouldn’t happen to know Pia Zimmerman? She’d be a third year student, I believe, in piano?”
He snapped the cello’s case closed and lifted it up. “I know her, yes.”
“Would you happen to know where she is? I met her last night, at the performance, and—”
“You were there?” His eyes bulged. “I didn’t know she was, but I guess it makes sense. From what I hear, he was one of her main influences.”
“Yes, and well, I wanted to ask her—”
“She’s probably just getting out of performance right now. She tutors first-years. In the main building. Theater.” He pointed across the street from the Musikverein, at a nondescript marble structure. There were a few banners outside, with the same crest that was on his t-shirt.
“Great! Danke!” she said, hurrying off, across the street.
She walked into the grand building. Several young students were there, carrying their instruments, chatting, or reading in the various nooks and benches around the main lobby. The theater wasn’t hard to find; there were sets of double doors, directly across from the entrance. No one bothered to ask her for identification, and she made it to the theater doors without being noticed by a single soul.
The second she opened the door, she heard it. Riotous piano music, lively and light, exploded from the front of the theater.
This theater was nothing like the one she’d been in last night. It was modern, sparse, and more utilitarian than decorative. Diana made her way down the aisle until she saw the blonde, so captivated by her performance, her body moving with each note, that she might not have noticed an earthquake shaking underneath her. It was a melody Diana had never heard before, but the piece seemed ridiculously fast and difficult. And yet the woman-- Pia Zimmerman—seemed to pull it off with all the grace that Lukas Huber had, but with none of the swagger.
When she finished, she sat there, still, for a moment, staring almost despondently at the piano keys, as if she wasn’t entirely satisfied with her performance.
Diana said, her voice echoing through the theater. “That was amazing.” When the girl didn’t look up, she added, “I wasn’t familiar with the piece, though?”
“La Campanella,” she said quietly, staring at the keys. “Liszt. It’d be better if I had bigger hands.”
“I didn’t notice. I mean, I’m no musician, but it sounded great.”
When she turned to look at Diana, it was obvious that she’d been crying, too. Her eyes were clearly bloodshot. Wow. The big ego broke hearts all over this town.
Her voice was cold. “This is a closed practice.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but I--
“What do you want?” She pulled her legs out from under the piano and stood up. “If you need the stage, I’m on my way—”
“No. I came to talk to you. Pia, right?”
She stopped. “Yes. About what?”
“Last night. You were at the performance, weren’t you?”
She froze. Swallowed. “Yes. Yes I was. I’ve been to every one of Lukas Huber’s performances in Vienna in the last two years.” She sniffed. “I was his biggest fan.”
“I’m sorry. You must be devastated.”
“I am. He was a genius. One of the greatest musicians known to man.” She looked at the piano. “I wanted to be like him. Did you ever hear him play La Campanella? He has the hands.”
That sounded a bit like jealousy. But was she jealous enough to commit murder over it? Maybe she’d snapped and killed him, even though he was her idol. “I heard his compositions have been compared to Liszt.”
She shrugged. “I don’t really see the comparison in their compositions. Huber’s work is far more polished, with a quality, a sensuality that can’t be explained. But Huber was more like Liszt as a person.”
“What does that mean?”
Her lips twisted. “When Liszt burst out onto the scene in Berlin in the mid 1800s, he was a virtual rock star. After his concerts, women began fighting over his cigarette butts, handkerchiefs and gloves. They’d wear his portrait on brooches and cameos, close to their heart.”
“Ah. I see. Huber definitely had his female fans, from what I’ve heard.”
She scowled. “Unfortunately.”
“How did you think he did last night?”
“Oh, so good. He was at his best. And his Jupiter Symphony?” Her lips trembled. “I’m sure it’ll be remembered forever. It’s a masterpiece.”
Well, I’m not sure I’d go that far. “I had a seat in the hall. I didn’t see you there.”
She nodded. “That’s because students of the university get free admission. Standing room. In the back. There’s a place for any of us who want to attend. That was one of the things Lukas made sure of.”
“But you were admitted into the back to congratulate him, last night? After the performance?”
She shrugged. “Security is notoriously lax during performances, but from what I hear, that’s Lukas Huber’s way. He never believed in having tight security, because he wants to be accessible to fans. I’ve always been able to get into the back if I leave right during the final bows. They never see me. So yes, I was there. I spoke to him.”
“You did?”
“I told him he was great. And he told me he was hoping I’d come. He was so sweet.” She let out a little sob. “He was really . . . an amazing artist. So selfless with his time. Always at the university, helping out.”
“He was?” Diana asked, genuinely surprised. The man she’d met last night didn’t seem like the type to be very generous with his time, unless a pretty woman was involved. Maybe I misjudged him?
She nodded. “That’s why it’s such a . . .”
She brought her hand to her face and started to weep into it.
Diana reached into her purse and pulled out a tissue. She went to the stage and held it up to the girl, who bent slightly to take it. “Thank you. Sorry. He just means a lot to me. To all of us at the university. I feel a little lost, now. He used to be a fixture on the campus. I can’t believe that I won’t go to the Opus café on the corner and see him there, in his window booth.”
That didn’t sound like the voice of a murderer. It sounded like someone who was deeply affected by the man’s loss. “When did you last see him?”
“Well, I . . .” Pia stopped and frowned. “Why are you asking? Who are you?”
“I’m someone who cares and wants to see justice done. Like you. I want to know what happened,” Diana said gently. “I think he deserves that much. So that his family and loved ones and all the people who cared about him, throughout the world, can have their peace.”
Okay, Diana, stop laying it on so thick.
But it worked, because Pia nodded. “Yes. I hope the killer is found. Where was I?” She looked up, thinking. “I guess I left pretty early. Like nine-thirty. I didn’t stay more than a few minutes. I saw him, spoke to him, and then I went home. I had an exam to study for.”
“Did you talk to anyone else?” Diana said, thinking of what Nina had told her about the threat she’d made.
She bit her lip, tossed her braid in front of her shoulder. “No . . . I don’t think so . . .”
“I spoke to a woman who said she thought she talked to you. A Nina Horvath? That’s why I’m here. She was dark-haired, pretty, a companion of Lukas’s, probably . . .”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, right. The distraction of the week.” She rolled her eyes. “Yes, I spoke to her.”
“She said you threatened her.”
Pia’s eyes went wide. “No, I didn’t. At least, I didn’t mean to. She thought she was something special, hanging onto him like she owned him. She’s wrong.”
“Is she?”
“Likely. Every performance, Lukas always has a certain number of seats in the front, set aside. For his many women. But he’s never been serious about any of them. Usually. He collects them. Makes love to them. It isn’t unusual to see them fighting over him, backstage. He loves it. That’s
why he doesn’t like security getting in the way. I think it’s his entertainment.”
Diana watched her talking, as if she was his best friend. She’s also talking about him like he’s still alive. Like she doesn’t believe he’s really gone.
“The thing is, everyone knows, the floozies are a threat to his music. His creation. He’s fond of telling people that he needs a woman to be his muse. Bach, Wagner, Stravinsky were all the same—the passion for music becomes passion for other things, and the two feed each other. But I promise you, for Lukas, it’s not the same. Five years ago, supposedly, he fell in love with one of the girls, and he didn’t create the entire time.”
This was news. She didn’t realize that man could love anyone but himself. But if he was volunteering his time and falling in love with women, maybe there was a gentler side to him she hadn’t noticed. Diana stared at the young piano student, waiting for more context. When it didn’t come, she said, “And that’s bad?”
“Worse than bad! Here’s a guy who was used to churning out a symphony in his sleep, at least once a week. He was seriously prolific. And then a floozy came along and ruined it for him,” she said with a shake of the head. “So the last thing that he needs is to fall in love with anyone else. Also, I kind of was hoping he’d take me under his wing, and I could study under him, learn his secrets, and I knew that wasn’t going to happen as long as he was chasing tail all around Vienna. So that’s why I told her she should get lost. But I didn’t mean him or the floozy any harm. I promise, I didn’t.” Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Did she say I did?”
“No, she didn’t,” Diana lied, not wanting to escalate. “She just mentioned that she saw you there. Do you have any idea who could’ve done this?”
She shrugged. “Other than Floozy A, B, C or D, no. Take your pick from them. They’re all winners.”
“Do you remember any of the other floozies—uh, I mean women?”
She shook her head. “Nope. He had a definite type, though. Gorgeous. Thin. Big boobs.”
That didn’t narrow things down much. Perfect. Pia and Nina were essentially both naming each other as the chief suspect. So that left Diana with a big sack of . . . nothing. No leads.
“Well, thank you for your time,” Diana said, nodding at her. “I’ll let you get back to your practicing.”
“Thank you,” said Pia, and as Diana headed toward the back of the theater, she began to play the Rondo Alla Turca, the Turkish March from Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 11. Another one of Diana’s most favorite pieces, she’d have loved to see the woman play.
But there were other things on her mind now, besides the music. Her mind twisted with theories and possibilities as she made her way out into the summer sun.
Diana wandered off the university grounds, nonplussed. Her investigation had come to a thudding halt. I suppose I could do some sightseeing now, she said, pulling out her phone. What should I see?
She’d just decided to stroll the gardens of Belvedere Palace when she looked up and saw a small café on the corner . . . Café Opus.
Something tickled in the back of her mind. She’d heard of that before, quite recently. But from who?
As she stared in the window, the answer came to her. Are you really suffering from short-term memory loss, Diana? You heard it a few minutes ago. Pia said Lukas Huber used to frequent the place.
Seizing the last threads of hope of ever finding out anything about this murder, she went inside.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The café was very small, and most of the people were probably no more than half Diana’s age. Even though she didn’t fit in, no one looked at her. They were all busy reading their music, sipping their drinks, and chatting, their music cases by their sides.
She found a free table near the counter and the pretty, waifish barista, probably a student herself with a short black pixie cut and a nose ring, looked at her. “Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen?”
Diana assumed that was some version of, Can I help you? Her stomach was still full from the Bratwurst, so she only ordered a mélange.
As the barista went to fill her order, Diana looked around. She noticed several copies of the newspaper, announcing his death, sprawled out on the modern tables and chairs, and someone had constructed a memorial to him, which was simply his picture, propped up near the sugar, creamer, and stirrers. His dark eyes gazed at Diana in a discomforting way. Help me, Diana. Solve the mystery of my death.
She looked away as the barista pushed a frothing mug over to her. The woman probably knew just as much as the next person about Lukas Huber, but Diana decided it was the only shot she had. She pointed to the photograph. “So. Sad news, huh?”
The girl shrugged. “Not really.”
Diana raised an eyebrow. “You’re not a music fan?”
She laughed. “No. I am. I attend the university. But he was not a nice man. He’d stay in his booth over there—” she motioned with her chin to a place in the corner “—for hours, demanding refills again and again, and then he’d leave pennies for a tip. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but he was not nice. No one here really liked him.”
Diana pointed at the picture. “But—”
“Okay, some people liked him,” she corrected. “He was obviously a talented man. The pride of the Vienna Philharmonic. So if they liked him, they liked him for that. Not for the person he was. He treated everyone as if he was better than them. And do you know how many times he squeezed my butt while I was pouring him coffee? I probably have permanent scars!”
Diana nodded and leaned in to sample her drink. It was steaming, so she braced herself for a burnt lip. The girl’s impression sounded very similar to her own perception of him—he was a complete ego.
Then the barista added, “But he wasn’t the most talented the Vienna Philharmonic had. That’s for sure. They could do better. They have done better.”
Diana winced as her lip hit the too-hot liquid, and pulled back, in simultaneous pain and surprise. “What do you mean?”
“Well, he grew up here, but he went away for most of his training, and when he came back, a few years ago, he took Vienna by storm. Everyone just adored him, so the Philharmonic used him more and more, casting their long-standing lead pianist to the side. He sold tickets, not that Musikverein needed help with that, but an in-demand act always gets more publicity. And he was clearly their golden goose. But most people forget that they had to sideline a very talented pianist in order to take him on.”
“Who was that?”
“My Uncle. Gunther Graf. You’ve heard of him?”
She shook her head. “Should I have?”
The girl snorted. “I guess not. He was only the Philharmonic’s principal pianist for three decades. He was incredible. And yet this hotshot Huber bursts out onto the stage, with all his flash and irreverence, and steals the seat out from under him. The excuse they gave him was that they needed fresh blood.”
Diana leaned forward, now keenly interested. I smell a motive. “When did this happen?”
“Oh, just about six months ago,” she said. “My poor uncle was absolutely devastated. He worked so hard to get where he was, and he felt like he was appreciated. Then, BANG. It was over.”
“That’s terrible.”
The girl’s face was now red with indignation. “Yeah. And the thing is, Lukas Huber wasn’t a very good pianist, really. He was sloppy. His technique was off. He didn’t put the right emotion in the pieces. He played every piece angry, coldly. My uncle interpreted the music far differently, and in my opinion, in a better way, with so much more emotion. Listen to their recordings side-by-side, if you get a chance. You’ll see what I mean.”
Diana already knew what she meant. Lukas Huber was handsome and charming and a joy to look at, but there was something missing in her music, a je ne sais quoi that hadn’t been able to deliver the perfectly immersive experience that would’ve pulled the tears from her eyes. “Your uncle was devasted, you say?”
She nodded, but then h
er eyes widened. “Yes, but if you’re thinking he was jealous and wanted to get some kind of revenge on Lukas Huber for taking his place in the orchestra, don’t bother. My uncle is the most gentle man on Earth. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“No?”
“No. He retired to a little place in the south of the city and is very happy with his quiet life and his vegetable garden. Trust me. Do you want another one?”
Diana looked down. Somehow, without knowing, she’d sucked down the rest of her drink. No wonder her tongue felt scalded, and the roof of her mouth was raw. “No. Thank you.”
The woman wrote the check and handed it to her as Diana thought. Growing up, she’d once had an uncle who was the fun-loving, life of the party at holiday get-togethers. He’d put lottery tickets under their plates at Christmas and make everyone play crazy card games for silly prizes. Every get-together was more fun with Uncle Lou. As a child, she’d loved him—he’d been her favorite uncle, by far.
And then Uncle Lou was arrested for embezzling nearly a million dollars from the company he worked for. Apparently, he’d played other games, ones that weren’t necessary legal.
The point was, sometimes, people thought the best of their family members. But the side a person showed one’s family wasn’t necessarily who they were to the rest of the world. Gunther Graf might have had a mean, jealous streak his niece knew nothing about.
She grabbed her purse and pulled out a few euros. As she set them down, she thought, Gunther Graf. I need to remember that name. That’s my next lead.
The barista took her money and turned to the cash register. As she did, Diana thought of another question. “Oh. Do you think it’s possible one of his female admirers might have killed him?”
She shrugged. “It’s possible. I heard he had a lot of those. He always had some of the female college girls flapping and preening around him as he sat in his booth. He liked it; encouraged it. I don’t get what people saw in him. He was a small man with a big ego.”
“Oh. Okay.” She shuffled her backside to the edge of the stool. “Th—”
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