Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2)

by Gabi Kreslehner

“Frau Rabinsky had an interesting visitor,” he said, enjoying being the focus of attention as he reported what the owner of the café had told him.

  “OK,” Felix said for the umpteenth time. “We now have quite a few leads, all in completely different directions. That’s not necessarily a good thing. It certainly doesn’t simplify matters. But that’s how it is. Can’t do anything about it.”

  He sighed. “We’ll divide up the work. Arthur, you stay with the café proprietor, get a composite picture and all that. Can you also check out Rabinsky’s alibi? Get the names of the people at that birthday party. Pump them for what they know. We have to determine whether there’s a window when he can’t prove he was seen by anyone. And whether that window was long enough for him to have gotten home, made certain discoveries, and committed certain acts.”

  Felix nodded to Arthur, then turned to Peter Hansen. “Peter, I’d like to ask you to speak to Belitz again. Find out if anything else has occurred to him recently. Any blind spots, skeletons in the closet, so to speak—you know what I’m saying.”

  Hansen nodded.

  “As for you and me, Franza, we’ll dig around in the past. Gertrud’s past. And Hanna’s. See whether there’s anything else that overlaps. There will be, I’m sure. Intersection math, I believe it’s called.”

  He grinned. Franza nodded, returning his smile. “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “So I’m closing the meeting,” Felix continued, stowing his documents away in a briefcase. “I wish you all a pleasant evening and a few new discoveries tomorrow.”

  He nodded, as if to confirm what he had just said, and stood up.

  “But it’s Sunday tomorrow,” Arthur said, looking aghast.

  “Hm? What about Sunday? It’s a Sunday. And?”

  “I just wanted . . . ” Arthur stuttered, a little at a loss. “We just wanted . . .” He fell silent.

  “Tut, tut,” Felix sighed. “Hasn’t she gotten used to it yet?”

  Arthur shrugged, stood, muttered a farewell, and left. They all rose, nodding to one another.

  “And you, Herr Brückl,” Felix said. “You have a good Sunday, too.”

  They went downstairs together. Franza and Felix stood briefly by the door as the others vanished in various directions.

  “Is it genuine?” she asked.

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “You know, the hair! The color.”

  A shake of the head. A frown. “Eh? What?”

  Franza nudged him in the ribs. She knew him too well and was perfectly aware he knew what she meant.

  “Don’t give me that, man! Hanna’s hair, of course. Natural or colored?”

  He laughed, waved his arms dramatically. “My goodness! Women!”

  She was unrelenting. “Just tell me!”

  He laughed again, tilted his head and looked at her affectionately. “Natural.”

  Franza sighed. “I thought so.”

  “I expect you’d like to drop by for a coffee again, my dear Frau Oberwieser.”

  He waved his hands in front of her eyes, the broadest grin he could conjure up spreading across his face.

  “He didn’t say ‘my dear Frau Oberwieser,’” she said, aiming a punch at him. “At least not ‘my dear’ . . .”

  He laughed.

  “In any case,” he said, fending off her attack, “the apple strudel was heavenly! My mother never made it better. You’ll have to make it again soon, sweetheart!”

  He punched her arm and then held on to it.

  “I didn’t make it on my own.”

  “No? Which of your men helped you? Port or Max?”

  “Neither of them,” she said. “Lilli helped me.”

  “Lilli?” He sounded surprised. “Lilli Rabinsky?”

  She nodded and told him about it. They both wondered about the significance of the visit, and Franza related how she had stood outside Lilli’s apartment that morning and rung the bell, but Lilli had not answered so she had simply left the plate of apple strudel outside the door.

  Franza sighed. “And as always, there could be a completely different explanation.”

  “I’m so glad I’ve got you,” Herz said. “My clever Franza!”

  “And as always,” she said, “I continue to wonder what on earth my friend Sonja’s doing with Brückl.”

  “Tsk,” said Herz. “There’s no accounting for love.”

  He gave her a hug, and she felt how warm he was, how much she liked him. He was truly her best friend.

  23

  Franza sat on her balcony in the evening air, sipping a coffee and resisting the desire to light a cigarette.

  She was thinking about Gertrud and Hanna, about the case. The two women were in the prime of life, barely younger than she was. The next decade milestone was still a few years away, but it was a milestone at least one of them would not reach.

  What could have happened? What had burst into their lives that had led to death?

  Franza intended to call on Borger in the pathology lab on Monday, to be alone again for a brief while with Gertrud, to see if anything happened. Something always did. In Franza’s thoughts. They softened, began to flow. Often in the right direction. She would see.

  A breeze arose, and beyond the bushes in the river meadow clouds were heaped up like mountains. You would sink into them if you tried to climb them. Franza had to laugh when she imagined it. She shivered and went into the apartment. In the bathroom she undressed, took a long shower, then slipped into her bathrobe. She glanced in the mirror before turning away, then turned back and took a good hard look. A little stubborn, a little resigned, but not unhappy.

  She was forty-five, and life showed on her face, had left its traces. But in fact . . . everything was good. Probably. She had no desire to be sixteen again. Or twenty. Not even thirty. This great freedom she felt, this calmness in herself and toward others, was a blessing of her forties. So life was good as it was. Mostly.

  Her face. There were fine lines that had not always been there. Her hair. Needed a regular trim. But that was what hairdressers were for. Her body. Everything about it was a bit too soft, a bit too full, but warm and full of calm, a reflection of her life, which was sometimes a bit too hedonistic. She would certainly never be another Heidi Klum.

  She sighed, turned back and forth a few times, and looked critically at herself. No, definitely not Heidi Klum, and if she were honest, she would never have managed it even before turning forty-five. It didn’t matter. Didn’t matter at all. She had never been sylphlike, and what was the point? Skinny women were probably no happier.

  Sighing, she smiled at her reflection, nodded her affirmation, and tapped her brow. What crazy thoughts she indulged in sometimes!

  Hanna Umlauf came into her mind. She was slim and svelte, and her hair—who would have thought it?—was still natural. But she had disappeared. Hardly ideal.

  Her cell phone buzzed. Port. I’d like to come over. She leaned against the wall, looked up at the light. If he came, she wouldn’t get much sleep. She would be tired in the morning and would have to bear Felix’s tactless glances. Yes, she wrote back. Come over! As soon as you can!

  As she waited for him, she lounged on the sofa, enjoying the peace, the softness, the warmth. The apartment was her retreat. Her oasis. It had been like that from the start. As soon as Franza had seen the high ceilings, the view from the windows, the balcony, the trees, the Danube that was shimmering a translucent gray on the afternoon of her showing, she had known then and there that it was her apartment and she would have no other.

  It was quite a ways away from Port’s apartment. Another district, another street, other trees outside the window.

  “What do you think of it?” she had asked him, hoping for enthusiasm, for affirmation, but he had merely frowned a little blankly and said, “Yes. Nice. But why don’t you just move in with me?”

  She had smiled briefly and shaken her head. She knew what he had not yet seen clearly—that she had to set boundaries, that she couldn’t
get any closer to him, because at some point . . . at some point he would go—to another city, another life, and she would not go with him. So she had to keep the pain, which would surely follow, as minimal as possible. But it would hurt nevertheless.

  No, Port understood nothing of all that and had suggested in all seriousness that she should move into his apartment with him, into the house with all the theater types, the artists, where someone was always singing an aria or practicing their lines or playing some instrument. It wasn’t that she didn’t like all that—on the contrary, over time she had come to like it more and more, had begun to let herself go and enjoy listening, smelling, tasting—but nevertheless, it was Port’s world, and she was never quite at home in it.

  “My apartment’s big enough,” he had said with a grin. “And I’d like to be able to snuggle into you in the mornings.”

  She had to laugh, gave him a playful punch. He raised his arms theatrically to fend her off, beginning a dramatic monologue at the top of his voice, something Greek or Roman—something ancient, in any case. As he spoke and gestured, he suddenly seemed so young to her, as in fact he was. Alarmed by the realization, she grabbed him, shook him, and silenced him.

  “Ow,” he said mockingly and drew away from her with a grin. “Are we feeling a little snappy today? A bit worried about something? Got out of bed on the wrong side?”

  At that moment she had hated him. Only briefly. Only a tiny bit. But she had hated him. Such was life.

  She heard the door, stood, went to him, and drew him to her. He buried his face in the hollow of her shoulder.

  “Mm, you smell good,” he murmured, pushing her in and shutting the door.

  As always they landed—somewhere. As always it was dirty, thrilling, wonderful.

  Wow, she thought, it’s been going on for so long now, two-and-a-half years or more, and I still love him and he still loves me and it was only supposed to be a few quick fucks, brief erotic dances, salt, chili, sugar all mixed in together.

  “You know what I love so much about you?” he murmured as his mouth explored her body.

  “What?” she whispered, briefly holding her breath. “What?”

  But he was busy. He had already latched onto her left breast, which was a tiny bit smaller than the right one, and which he therefore had to keep comforting, or so he said.

  But she didn’t forget what he’d said. As they were sitting on the balcony in their bathrobes, drinking coffee with whiskey, she asked him again.

  He thought for a moment. “The fact that you know what you want. And also what you don’t want.” He laughed. “And that you want me. And that you know why. And that you know why you know.”

  “Aha,” she said. “A bit complicated. What makes you think I know all that?”

  He looked at her with a mixture of caution and devilment, waggled his head, scratched his chin. She had to laugh.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “I don’t mean anything bad by it. I’m just saying how it is.”

  She stopped laughing and waited, suspecting what would come next and knowing she shouldn’t have asked.

  “Because you’re old enough to do that,” he said and looked at her in such a way that she thought she would melt. He began to nibble her earlobe. “Women of your age know exactly what they want. And that makes you . . . so damned sharp.”

  She pressed him away, this sweet man. Who was so young. A fact that had once again been brought painfully home to her. “I hate it when you refer to me as a woman of my age. And besides, do you know so many women of my age that you’re able to judge?”

  He grinned and rolled his eyes. “Oh, God, not that one again! No, darling, I only know you! You’re more than enough for me.”

  He jumped up and launched into an elegant bow.

  “Fool,” she said, and then sighed and let that sink into him.

  He laughed and gently bit her shoulder. “Let me have a nibble at you. You taste so good!”

  She sighed once again.

  “For your age.” He grinned.

  She jumped up and hit at him, but he had anticipated her and held her tight, laughing all the time.

  “There’s only twelve years between us,” he whispered in her ear later, “and I love you.”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes,” she said again as she felt the sweetness of his words and his fearlessness, and explored her own feelings, the caution she had not yet let go. Maybe, she thought, and had to smile at the notion, maybe, when I’m eighty-two and he’s a youthful seventy, if he’s still nuzzling around in my wrinkles, maybe then . . . “Yes,” she repeated with a rueful smile. “Because I’m old enough.”

  She thought how she sometimes hated being old enough, because every now and then it made her feel older than she actually was, but Port was unable to grasp that—only someone who was old enough could possibly know it.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s right.”

  She thought of the Vienna business and knew with that amazing, smart, lousy clarity of her forty-five years that there was more to it—that twelve years were not only twelve years, but . . . twelve years.

  24

  The Vienna business. That stupid Vienna business.

  Of course Vienna would appeal to him, you could bet your bottom dollar on that. Of course it would hurt. But such was life—the old saying that always rang true.

  “Would you come with me?” he had asked Franza two weeks ago, as she stood at his kitchen sink washing salad, cold water running over her fingers. “Would you?”

  She had known at the time what it meant. She managed to stay calm for a moment. Then she turned the water off and left the apartment, ignoring his calls after her, his attempts to keep her there. She stretched out her hands, and it was enough. He let her go, suddenly speechless.

  She drove along the Danube. It was evening, a Sunday, stillness hung above the river. She wanted the coldness of the water, so she undressed and went in. The waves gurgled around her, the cold gripped her, but none of it mattered. She stayed there a while, his Would you come with me? ringing in her ears, and she knew she wouldn’t, and she knew it would be over—perhaps not straight away, but sometime, sooner rather than later. She knew that she had always known it, and cursed herself for being such a dumb little kid who wasn’t capable of looking after herself or her heart.

  How old was she again? Almost forty-six? Shouldn’t she have finally learned to rise above things, to look down at the world from a distance as she went about her business?

  When she arrived home, shivering with the Danube cold, he was sitting on her doorstep, watching her approach. She sat down next to him, laid her head on his shoulder, and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  Later, he rubbed her hair dry, and they drank wine. He told her about the call from Vienna—a colleague had had an accident, they needed a replacement, and his name had come up. He was already familiar with the role, so it would not be difficult to step into the breach. In any case it would only be for a few weeks. His theater here was prepared to let him go, but he had to decide quickly. What did she think?

  She said, “Wow! That’s wonderful! A fantastic opportunity for you!”

  As she said it, she thought that Vienna might as well have been Alaska, with three oceans between them, but she didn’t say it out loud.

  She sensed his excitement and his despair. It comforted her a little.

  “Come with me,” he said again. “Get some time off. It’ll only be for a few weeks. Make some enquiries with the Austrian police. Police officers are in demand everywhere. Even in Austria. And you’re actually Austrian, aren’t you? Pay your homeland a visit.” He was delighted by this idea. He beamed. “Yes! Go back home! What’s keeping you here?”

  She smiled and was touched by his euphoria, his desire to have her with him, so she said, “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps I will.”

  But she already knew she wouldn’t. Her life was here and had been for many years. On these banks of the Danube, not the other o
nes, not the ones in Vienna. His life, on the other hand, would be there, because that was how it was meant to be.

  “I have to do it,” he said, and she nodded, because it was obvious, clear as day. “I simply have to. If I don’t take this opportunity, I might as well give up right now.”

  “Of course,” she said and laid her hand on his cheek. “Of course you must! I know. Of course you must do it.”

  Then they slept together, because it was the only thing that would give even a little comfort, and because it was the only thing that would make her even sadder.

  Then she froze for three days, wrapping herself up in woolen jackets, in blankets, freezing.

  “Are you ill?” Max asked when she visited him at his new apartment or his office.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’m not ill. What makes you think that? I’m just a bit cold. I’ve been swimming in the Danube. That’s enough to chill you through.”

  “Are you ill?” her colleagues at the station asked.

  And she gave the same answer: “No, I’m not ill. What makes you think that? I’m just a bit cold. I’ve been swimming in the Danube. That’s enough to chill you through.”

  But in fact she was a little ill, lovesick, sick from the love that should never have been but had materialized, creeping up unplanned, unintended. Not screwing, not fucking, not superficial eroticism—not anymore. Or not only that, anyways.

  How it had all changed. Her assertiveness had dwindled and her tenderness grown. It was clear. Simple. Nice. It would hurt.

  Later, while he was onstage, she spent some time in an Internet chat room. To distract herself. To arm herself. To defend herself.

  25

  Sunday. The third day since the body was found. September 14. Arthur cursed leaving Karolina’s arms. But duty was duty, even if he didn’t relish it.

  “Ciao, love,” he whispered in her ear, but she shooed him away like an irritating fly, rolled onto her other side, and went back to snoring softly. With a sigh of regret he tore himself away.

  The café owner was waiting. Pacing up and down outside the police station, smiling at him as he hurried up.