Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2)

by Gabi Kreslehner

  “Twelve. Around twelve.”

  Wow, Franza thought, still a child and so perceptive?

  “They got married, and my grandfather gave us the house.”

  “That was generous!”

  Lilli laughed bitterly. “Generous? No, I don’t think so. He merely brought her a little bit more under his control.”

  “Oh,” Franza said in surprise. “That sounds harsh. How did you come to that conclusion?”

  Lilli shrugged. “Dunno. That’s how it is. Always has been. He pulls the strings and they all dance.”

  Lilli paused to think before qualifying her words. “It’s not so bad, though. At least someone cares. He’s just a bit . . . domineering.”

  “Was there anything worrying him?”

  “Isn’t there always?” Lilli sighed as she thought that she still hadn’t told him she wouldn’t be continuing her studies. She wouldn’t be his successor.

  “I mean, anything in particular. Anything . . . out of the ordinary.”

  Lilli bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean? What do you want? Are you pumping me for information about my family?”

  “I’m sorry.” Franza raised her hands in appeasement. “Calm down. I’m not pumping you for information, honestly. But I’ve got a feeling you want to talk. Why else would you have come?”

  Lilli shrank into herself. “I don’t know why I came. It was probably a mistake. I should probably be with my family right now. But . . .”

  She broke off and wiped a hand over her face. Tears. “Do you think it was one of us? Do you think we killed her?” She asked it quietly, barely audible, a tiny, horrified whisper.

  “No,” Franza said comfortingly. “No, I honestly don’t believe that.” She stroked Lilli’s hair. “But it must have been someone, and everything you tell me will help us find out who. That’s why it’s a good thing for you to talk to me.”

  Lilli jumped up in anger. “What kind of a woman are you? Always digging for dirt! You insist on bringing it all out into the daylight, spoiling everything! Don’t you ever think about the damage you’re doing?”

  “Of course I do,” Franza said. “Of course I always think about that. Always. Every time. But I have to do it. It’s a question of truth. Shouldn’t the truth be brought to light? Often you find that things can’t get any worse. And once something’s out in the open, bare and hurting, it has a chance to heal.”

  They heard a beep. The strudel was ready.

  Good, Franza thought as she stood and went over to the oven, we need a break. She pulled the casserole out, set it down on a wooden board, and went back to Lilli.

  “Don’t you want to know what happened to your mother?”

  “Ohhh,” Lilli snarled. “I hate you! Yes! Yes, I want to know what happened to my mother. I want to know, but perhaps it would be better . . .” She sank back on the couch and covered her face with her hands, whispering the last part of the sentence, “. . . perhaps it would be better not to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because . . .” She shook her head.

  OK, Franza thought, take your time, girl. I can wait.

  “Tell me about her. What was she like?”

  “Gertrud?”

  “Is that what you called her?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Why are you calling her that now?”

  Lilli shrugged, glanced up briefly, a dark flash in her eyes. “Dunno. I just am.”

  Franza nodded. “What was she like?”

  “Lonely,” said Lilli, the word shot out as if from a pistol. She nodded vehemently. “Yes, lonely.” She smiled sadly, swallowed. “I always felt bad that she was . . . she was so alone. I always felt guilty when I went away. Even when I was a child, when I went to school, because I knew she was alone. Even more alone. And she would always freeze up.”

  Lilli remembered when she came home from school and saw her mother in front of the TV, huddled beneath a blanket. There was always that quick glance out of the window, looking to see whether anyone else was there, that Lilli had not been followed.

  Lilli had once asked, “Mama, what are you frightened of?”

  Gertrud smiled. “I’m not frightened. What would I be afraid of? I’ve got you!” She drew the child to her, hugged her, and whispered, “No one, you hear, no one will ever take you away!”

  She intoned it like an oath, like a magic spell, and Lilli stroked her mother’s back, saying, “No, of course not. Why would they? You’re my mother.” But she always sensed the coolness, the iron ring Gertrud had formed around herself.

  Then Christian had come along. Things improved, but were never wonderful. Until Moritz was born—then things got much better. Even if only for short periods, for moments.

  But she didn’t tell Franza any of this.

  “Let’s eat,” Franza said.

  They ate, drank coffee. The strudel melted in their mouths. It was late, past ten, and darkness had long since fallen.

  Eventually, Lilli said, “She was always on guard.”

  Franza was surprised. “On guard? Against what?”

  She shook her head, shrugged, paused for thought. “I don’t know. I wondered about it often enough. But I’m right, she was on guard. Always. As if she were afraid. For me. For herself. I don’t know . . . Somehow she was never relaxed, never at ease, never happy and cheerful and relaxed. Like people just are sometimes. Like you have to be, or else . . .”

  Silence.

  “Yes,” Lilli whispered eventually, aware of the dismay in her own voice. “That’s the way it was. She wasn’t happy. She was a woman who was never happy. Somehow . . . she wasn’t free enough. Yes. Of course. She wasn’t free enough for happiness. Trapped.”

  And Lilli knew then what it was. She’d known since earlier that evening, since that morning. She knew what had kept her mother trapped her whole life long, why she had not been free to experience happiness, for herself, for life—why she always had to be on her guard.

  Lilli closed her eyes, thinking. Should she? Ought she? Tell Franza? Tell the police officer? So that she could use it? So that, eventually, the whole town would know?

  Lilli’s thoughts moved back and forth until, finally . . . she decided.

  No, she would say nothing to Franza. She would tell her nothing—she had already said enough, too much. She shouldn’t ruin the memory of Gertrud’s life now, when it was all meaningless and much too late. No, that was something Gertrud did not deserve.

  “Trapped by what? What do you mean? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Franza’s voice was gentle and enticing. She was offering a salve for her to sink into, to bear her up. Lilli considered it once again for a second, for a fraction of a second. It would do her good to tell Franza everything, it would be like a release. Franza would know what to do . . . but on the other hand . . .

  Lilli cleared her throat, shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  She wanted to go, wanted to stop talking, but she sat as if glued to this couch next to this woman who . . .

  What a pity, Franza thought. Lilli knows something, and she was on the point of . . . Such a pity! She gave a negligible shake of her head and stroked Lilli’s arm.

  “You were young when you left home.”

  “Yes.” Lilli nodded. “Straight after school. She kept me on a leash, but at the same time she looked at me like I was a stranger. She would hug me and I’d ask myself who she was.”

  Well, Franza thought, that’s not particularly unusual. I’m familiar with that. She thought of Ben growing up and how she had sometimes wondered, full of concern, who this person beside her was, this person whose thoughts and intentions she did not know.

  “I just went,” Lilli said with a shrug. “I couldn’t stand it anymore, the restrictions, the ties. And then . . .”

  She fell silent.

  “And then?”

  A quick glance, a rapid decision. Again. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Shit, Franza thought. What was s
he about to say? What have I just missed?

  “Lilli,” she began. “Lilli, tell me what you know, what you’re thinking! It could be important!”

  Lilli laughed angrily. “Oh, stop all your police tactics! You’re beginning to get on my nerves!”

  Franza suspected it was too late. Lilli was not going to say any more. She made another attempt. “Hanna?”

  Lilli jumped up and grabbed her coat.

  “I’m going,” she said, her voice cool and steady and full of arrogance. “I don’t know anything about Hanna. She’d already gone when I came on the scene.”

  “Oh, Lilli.” Franza stood. “Why don’t you stay? It’s late. You can stay the night here. I have a guest room. We don’t have to talk anymore.”

  Lilli nodded, a small smile. “True. We don’t have to talk anymore. So I’m going now.”

  And she went. Purple velvet coat, over-the-knee boots, a pretty, tough, sad-looking girl. Franza stood on the balcony and watched her walk down the street. The sky was dark, there was a rustling in the trees, the start of rain. September rain—you could hear it pattering on the leaves. You could hear the wind, September wind, and yet the night air was slightly warm, the balcony slightly warm. With a blanket around her, it was fine.

  Women were always cold in front of the TV and on the balcony, Franza thought. She was no exception. But she liked the quiet depths of the night, when the sound of a spoon stirring a cup of coffee sounded like a small, gentle circular saw. She liked sitting on the balcony at night, the lamp throwing a circle of light into the darkness. She felt shut away inside herself, shut off from the world, she could allow her thoughts to run free. If they would only continue, but they stopped as the night wind gradually penetrated through the blanket to reach Franza’s skin.

  Tell me, Lilli, she had asked. And Lilli had told her—but not everything. She had gone, the little rascal who stole perfume, who grieved for her mother because she had not caught hold of happiness with a firm grip.

  If Franza hurried, she could still catch hold of happiness that night. With a firm grip or even a lighter one—whatever she felt like. She had to grin as she imagined her happiness. It was made up of a taut, youthful torso, a firm backside, eyes that shone with a mischievous twinkle, and lips that managed to reached the most impossible places.

  Franza jumped up, all her tiredness vanished, and reached for her cell phone. Yes, she wanted this happiness. Now. Always.

  15

  They sat on the spacious terrace. The housekeeper had served coffee and then quickly withdrawn. It was September 13, the day after Gertrud was found.

  “My wife will be coming soon,” said Hans Brendler, who, they now knew, owned a large successful law firm in the town, where he employed a number of attorneys.

  Brendler cleared his throat, leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his eyes flickering as they sought out the coffee cup. He looked tired, at a loss, which surprised Franza.

  Perhaps it’s because he’s not in charge of this situation—clearly not in charge—and he’s not used to that.

  She arrived finally. Dorothee Brendler, his wife. She sat down with them, looking elegant, pearls at her neck. They gave Franza the impression they were choking her. She was surrounded by an aura of sadness, as immediate as autumn in the garden, and something else—Franza tried to sense what it was. Anger? Bitterness? Resignation?

  “Start where you like, anywhere,” Herz said.

  Franza was moved by the gentleness in his voice and once again felt a deep warmth for him.

  “Start where we like,” Brendler said with a slight nod, giving his wife a look to which she did not respond. He cleared his throat. “Start anywhere. That sounds so easy.”

  “We have time,” said Franza. “And we know how difficult this is for you both.”

  But of course it was not true—they didn’t have time. Not an infinite amount. The dead were dead and could rest in peace, but there was still someone out there with whom they were concerned—at least one person. The murderer. Man or woman. And possibly another victim. Whom they could maybe still save.

  Franza thought of the forensics team, who had returned to the crime scene to seek traces of another female, a red hair perhaps, lipstick on a glass that did not contain Gertrud’s DNA.

  Franza thought of Arthur, who had observed the forensics team when they searched the pottery shop and the surrounding area, and who was now feverishly on the lookout for anyone who had known Gertrud Rabinsky, anyone who had noticed anything strange recently—visitors, maybe, who had not been seen there before. Anything.

  “We have time,” she repeated softly, smiling a little. She turned her face to look at the pattern of shadows formed by the breeze in the leaves—sunny, shady, sunny, shady. It was still, so still. It was that early fall morning stillness that could calm the spirit.

  There was a small clink of porcelain. Dorothee Brendler set her cup down and interlaced her fingers. “You took her into your heart,” she said, and her voice was like porcelain. “More than your own daughter. I’ll never forgive you for that.”

  There was a further moment of stillness, and the pain reached his face, too. It was quite clear for the first time, and Franza knew this pain would last a lifetime. Hans Brendler opened his mouth to say something, his eyes imploring Dorothee, but she was unrelenting. And distant. And she raised her hand. “No,” she said. “Be quiet. I can’t listen anymore.”

  Dorothee stood, placing a card on the table.

  “You can reach me at this number if you need me.” She nodded to Franza and Herz and left. Into the house. Into the stillness. Then they heard a car departing.

  “She’s leaving me,” Brendler said emptily. “She’s leaving me, too. She told me this morning. She was only here for your visit.” He fell silent, and then said again, “She’s leaving.”

  He listened to his own voice and stared at the French doors through which she had disappeared, as if he could still see her. Not so much as a shadow remained, not a single trace.

  Franza looked up. The sky was blue, bluer than dreams of longing, bluer than the blue of memory.

  16

  Here again. I walk the old paths. I’ve been away for twenty-two years. Away from a life that, an eon ago, I thought would turn out well. But we deceive ourselves. Your world comes crashing down, and nothing can bring it back. I never hated you, Gertrud. I had forgotten you. That was far more effective. But perhaps I should have hated you.

  . . . dear hanna . . .

  That’s what a letter like that can do to you. An ancient scribbling that would have been thrown away if it weren’t for pointless sentimentality. Today people send e-mails that are quickly deleted so no one can find them, so they can’t invade the security of a future life.

  Here again. Walking the old paths. It was such a long time ago.

  The river is still the river, as is the terrace outside the café. We came here, and here, and here. The tables are unchanged, the same pictures on the walls. The bathrooms have been remodeled, something that should have been done even back then.

  So little has changed. The eyes of the young girls still sparkle on the dance floor, the lights shimmer. They feel light, as if they’re floating, just as we did back then, as I did, feathers in the wind as the lights shimmered. Our high heels clicked on the asphalt. We were young, young as the summer and just as radiant. Our hair shining, we were curious, everything was so distant.

  I stand here now. This is where it happened. My eyes are young, joyful, and shining. Tonio is holding me tight, sinking into me as I breathe in his breath that tastes of brandy and cigarettes. Everything is easy, everything is beautiful, love is a fountain, splashing but deep.

  . . . and if one day we have nothing left, it will have been plenty—a truth between the lines, between us, the trace of a love, a vast longing . . . dear hanna . . .

  Yes, I was dear hanna, and if I fell, Tonio caught me. But then he himself fell into the raging blackness of the sea, into the wind, into th
e storm, clear and direct, leaving no shadow, no shading.

  17

  “Do you have any children?” Hans Brendler asked. “Do you love them all equally?”

  The officers made no reply. He wasn’t expecting one. He sank into his memories, diving in and pulling one out: the story of his failure, his guilt.

  “She was . . .” he said, trailing off. “From the beginning she was so . . .”

  Hanna’s mother had been his secretary. Some people suspected she had also been his lover, but that wasn’t true. It wasn’t an affair, nothing of the sort. He had no need for affairs. He was married to a clever, attractive, lovable wife whom he loved and who loved him. They had the daughter they had always wished for, both had good careers, money, a beautiful house—what more could they want?

  But then something dreadful happened.

  “She simply collapsed,” Hans Brendler said. “She simply fell from her chair in the middle of a dictation and lay there. As if dead.”

  She wasn’t dead. She came round a little but not completely. She moved her head, groaned. Her face was a strange color, had a strange expression. He hardly recognized her. He called an ambulance.

  She survived but never fully recovered from the damage caused by the stroke. She was left mute and partially paralyzed, with no memory of her previous life. She was thirty-two and had no relatives. In recent years she had lived completely alone with the child, with Hanna.

  What was to be done with her? With the child?

  “My wife was the first to say it out loud. ‘We’ll take Hanna in,’ she said. Just like that: ‘We’ll take Hanna in. You’re a lawyer,’ she said, ‘you’ll be able to arrange it all.’”

  And he arranged it all. There was no registered father, no grandparents, no other relatives. The youth welfare office agreed immediately, and also to Brendler’s agreement to bear the cost of permanent care in a nursing home for his former secretary. It was only possible because the law firm was a long-established one that had brought in a lot of money for his father and grandfather before him.

  “And then?” Herz asked.

  “And then . . .” Brendler echoed, tapping into his memories. “Then it all started.”