The Corpse with the Ruby Lips

by Cathy Ace

  It seemed I’d chosen a particularly busy time to descend the stone steps to the bus stops along the riverbank below. Shoals of tourists were being led up from their luxurious, heated coaches by guides waving flags, umbrellas, and, in one case, a cockerel on a stick. I wondered if that group might be French. I felt as though I was swimming upstream, even though I was walking down the steps. As I passed between two bustling groups I lost my footing and tumbled forward into open space.

  I caught a whiff of cigars beside me, felt the touch of a padded jacket beneath my gloved hand as my arms flailed, and saw the flashes of cameras out of the corner of my eye as I tumbled. I know I screamed—as did others about me. For an instant I was airborne—then something painful was digging into my arms and I stopped flying. I dropped to the ground.

  The first thing I was aware of was the searing pain in my right elbow. The second was a man with a stump of a cigar in his mouth bending over me, dropping ashes and screaming in Italian that someone should call an ambulance. The crowd was pushed back from me by a woman in her thirties wearing a sensible coat and shoes.

  “Okay?” she asked.

  I nodded. The motion hurt. It seemed I’d twisted my neck, so I reached around to rub it. The leather of my glove was torn, the flesh on my fingers scraped and bloodied, my fingernails ripped. I pulled off the remains of the glove, and felt the back of my neck. I’d make it. Some discussion ensued—loudly, and in several languages—about whether I should be helped up or forced to remain sprawled across two steps until a medical professional arrived. I decided I wanted to move, and chose to ignore the multilingual assurances I’d be too heavy to lift. A few men helped, and I made it upright. I placed my weight on each foot in turn, and moved each arm carefully. Then each wrist. Everything worked. Nothing was broken. My thumping heart slowed a little, and I asked who had grabbed me to save me from a much worse fall. A tall man wearing an impressive full-length sheepskin coat timidly raised his hand, and received a spontaneous round of applause.

  I declined all offers of help, and moved to the side of the steps so I could lean against the balustrade. It took me about ten minutes to feel confident I could make my way again, by which time all but the sensibly clad woman, who’d turned out to be a French nurse, had gone. I was lucky a nurse had been on hand, and she was confident I hadn’t knocked my head at all, so I was “allowed” to leave.

  I took my time descending the rest of the steps under the watchful gaze of the helpful Frenchwoman, and finally stood on the banks of the Danube looking back up toward the conical turrets of the Fisherman’s Bastion. I searched the crowds for the face of the person whose hand I was almost convinced I had felt in the small of my back just before I slipped. No one except the nurse was paying the slightest attention to me.

  I couldn’t shake my suspicion that someone had pushed me down those steps, but who? I also realized if it hadn’t been for the lucky grab a passing tourist had made, I could have been in much—much—worse shape than I was. As it was, all I was suffering was a badly grazed hand, a sore neck, and an acidic panic in the pit of my stomach. I turned up my collar, kept my eyes working the crowds around me, and headed for the bus. I had to get to a public telephone as soon as I could—only then could I get hold of Bud and tell him about my concerns, and plans.

  Stolen Conversations

  HUMAN BEINGS ARE FASCINATING CREATURES; the question of why we do what we do has been my chosen field of study for the better part of twenty years. Sadly, as I sat on a crowded bus that frigid November afternoon in Budapest, I realized I was still none the wiser. I’ve faced killers and accused them of their crimes. I’ve been in dangerous situations and have found my way out of them. I’ve watched police interrogations of people who have committed heinous acts and seen them smile as they admit to them. But I’d never felt as scared of every other person around me as I did on that bus journey.

  Back in September I’d laughingly said to Bud, “It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.” At the time I’d been referring to the cloak and dagger shenanigans in my department at UVan; now the words swirled around my brain for an entirely different reason. Was that all they were? Just words? I told myself to breathe deeply and think rationally: if “someone” was out to get me, then who? And why?

  I realized I’d lost track of where I was on the bus route, and the windows were so steamed up it was impossible to see what was outside. I decided to get off at the next stop, and head for the nearest hotel, whatever it was.

  It turned out I’d been on the bus a lot longer than I’d thought, and the nearest hotel was the Gellért. I told myself it was perfectly acceptable to believe that returning to a place I’d already visited would also make me feel just a little less vulnerable, and, on a more practical note, that it was certainly large enough to allow me the chance to find a public telephone.

  In the weeks since I’d first walked through the front door of the grand old hotel two things hadn’t changed—the uniformed doorman was just as glum, and the heat still hit me like a wall when I entered. On this occasion I found both things to be oddly calming. I felt my spirits rise as memories of family gatherings came to mind, summoned there by the scent of pine in the air. Then the sight of a massive Christmas tree, recently installed in the center of the lobby, made me feel almost festive. I scoped out the open areas, searching for a payphone, but I couldn’t spot one. Eventually I asked the concierge, and was told there weren’t any coin-operated payphones, only house-phones, which could be used to call up to guests’ rooms. He added—a bit snootily—that the public spa baths had several public phones. I thanked the man, and made my way to the baths, as I had when I’d visited Zsófia there.

  When I inquired at the front desk of the spa, I was directed to an area beyond the staff room where I’d chatted with Zsófia, and, sure enough, there were four little dark-wood booths with bifold doors housing old-fashioned payphones. I pulled open a door and was delighted to smell wood polish, and to note the entire booth was spotlessly clean. A tall stool allowed me to rest my aching body as I punched in the number for Bud’s parents’ house. I suspected I’d be waking people unpleasantly early on a Sunday morning, but I couldn’t wait any longer.

  Bud sounded sleepy when he answered, “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  Silence. “What’s wrong? Something’s wrong. What’s happened? Are you okay?”

  I knew I had to keep the call short, so I went for it. “Bud, I’m fine,” I lied. “Don’t talk, please, just listen.” I told him about my discovery of the message on the mirror, and what it had said. “I have to believe my apartment is bugged. Someone’s been listening to our Skype conversations. When we talk this evening, don’t pass me any more information about the Seszták case. Let’s just talk as though we’ve both packed it in.”

  “I thought we had.” Bud sounded angry and worried.

  “Of course, I know we have, but I want to make that clear to whoever is listening. Otherwise, let’s stick to family stuff, university stuff, that sort of thing. Keep it light, okay?”

  “I don’t like it, Cait.” I could picture his face. Grim.

  “Nor do I. But you’ll be here in less than a week. I’ll be fine.”

  The frustrated tut Bud let out in Canada almost deafened me in Hungary. “Cait, just move out. Get yourself booked into a hotel. That’s what credit cards are for. Move to a hotel, lock yourself in, and live on room service. It’s the only safe thing to do. That, or go to the cops.”

  “There’s nothing to go to the cops with, Bud. Nothing substantial. And I don’t want to tip them off by moving out of the apartment. I’m staying.”

  “Tip who off?” Anger bubbled in his voice.

  “I don’t know.” I tried my hardest to stop my voice from trembling.

  Bud cursed softly. “I love you, Cait. I can’t lose you. I lost my first wife, I won’t lose you too. Just stay away one night, tonight, in a hotel, I beg you.”

  I sighed. “It’s my final sessio
n with the students tomorrow before their exam on Tuesday. I don’t see what good it will do to not go home—I slept there just fine last night, but okay. I’m next door to the Gellért; I’ll find out if they can fit me in—and if I can afford it.”

  “Good. Put it on the card. Don’t worry about it. Your safety is much more important than money. Phone me and tell me what’s happening when you’re sorted. Call my cell.”

  “I’m only going to use public phones now. If the apartment is bugged, they might have some way of intercepting calls and texts from my cell. And yours. Landline to landline only from now on, if we want to have private conversations.”

  “Okay, but why not buy a pre-paid cell? Whatever version they have there.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  “Brain the size of a planet, with only half an ounce of common sense tucked into a corner. Buy a phone and only use it to call this number. Mom and Dad’s house. No one else gets your number, right? When you get any calls on your usual phone, believe every word is being listened to by someone other than the person who called you. Got it?”

  “Got it. And I’ll only use the Internet at Internet cafés. If I use the computer in my office, or the Wi-Fi on my normal phone, it’ll just be for work stuff.”

  “And we need a tip-off word, Cait. A word or phrase you can use to tell me you’re in danger—or that you know someone is listening. Something that sounds innocent, but something you can easily avoid during the normal course of our conversations.”

  I gave it some thought. “How about I ask how Marty’s doing?”

  “Good idea.”

  “How is he, by the way?”

  “He’s fine. Still enjoying doggie paradise with Jack and Sheila, and their dogs.”

  “Good. Now I won’t ask about him again, unless I need to use that as a code for other reasons. Though what you can do about anything from there, I don’t know. Anyway, I’ll see if they have a room next door.”

  “Where exactly are you now?”

  “Gellért Spa Baths.”

  “Where Zsófia works?”

  “Yes, but she isn’t here now. She only works in the mornings at the weekend. Besides, I really am off that case, and I don’t expect to see her until tomorrow in class, if she’s up to it.”

  “You should go, but I don’t want to stop hearing your voice.”

  “I know what you mean.” Silence. “This is silly. I’ll go and see if they have a room, and work out where I can buy a phone. I’ll ring you later.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  I hung up. I’d never known before that feeling isolated was an emotion with such depths. I didn’t care for the discovery.

  I wrangled my way out of the phone box, and headed for the exit. As I pushed open the door to leave, it was pulled open by Zsófia, entering.

  “Cait!”

  “Zsófia.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I needed to make a phone call.” I let my mind race. “My cell has a few issues, and I wanted to tell Bud so he didn’t panic if he couldn’t reach me. But that’s not your problem. How are you?” A red scarf, that exactly matched her lipstick, was swathed beneath her chin. I wondered if her uncle’s attack had marked her throat badly—the early signs had been that it would.

  Zsófia seemed to be aiming for “bright and cheery” when she replied, “Just fine, thanks. What happened to your fingers?” She looked at my scraped, bloodied hand with horror. I didn’t think it looked that bad.

  I tried to laugh it off. “Oh, I slipped on some steps, that’s all. It looks worse than it is. Maybe they’ll have some bandages in the little shop in the hotel. I’ll ask. So, no ill effects after yesterday’s incident?” I wasn’t going to let the question go unasked, or unanswered.

  The girl’s right hand rose, unbidden, to touch her throat. “I’m fine, really, thank you.” It seemed she wasn’t going to offer an explanation for the events I’d witnessed. Maybe there wasn’t one.

  “So—will I see you in class tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Professor, I will be there for class.” She didn’t make eye contact with me, and she licked her dry lips once too often for me to believe she was speaking the truth. “I must get on. I didn’t come in to do my shift today, and there’s something I need to collect from my locker.”

  I detected an underlying tone in her voice that suggested panic. Why? I weighed our rocky relationship and decided I had nothing to lose. “Something’s wrong. Can I help?”

  Her eyes darted furtively, then settled on my face. Tears welled. “I’ve lost Uncle’s manuscript.”

  “The manuscript for book six? The one I read?”

  “I’ve searched everywhere. I don’t usually carry it about with me, but my locker here is the only place I can think of that I haven’t looked.” Tears rolled. “It’s my last hope.”

  “You’ve misplaced that huge pile of paper?”

  She hung her head, shoulders drooping. Tears fell onto her scarf, making darker red blotches on the fabric. A picture of abject resignation, I felt I should hug her—so I did. I swear I haven’t a motherly bone in my body, but I am human, and Zsófia Takács was a person in need of comfort. “I tell you what, how about I come to your locker with you, and I can hold stuff while you empty it out to check what’s there. Okay?”

  The girl’s muffled voice close my ear was quiet. “That would be kind. Thank you.”

  Pulling back from each other, I followed Zsófia. Ten minutes later we’d emptied, searched, and repacked her tiny locker. The manuscript wasn’t there.

  Trying to be helpful I asked, “You said you don’t carry the manuscript about with you, as a rule. I can understand why you wouldn’t, but might you have? Are there any other places you visit regularly? Might it be in your locker at the HUB, for example?”

  “I’ve checked. I went there first, then came here,” was her bleak reply. A change in the light in her eyes told me she’d thought of something. “It might have been in a big bag I have that I took with me to Klara’s house.”

  “Your great-aunt’s home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you take it there?” I didn’t understand why she’d ever take it out of her own house at all.

  “Sometimes I need to get away. Mama has kept me away from Klara and Tamás all my life, but I go there anyway. It’s not like our house—it’s old, and out in the countryside. You can hear your heart beating if you listen. I stay over. Mama thinks I’m at a friend’s house. She doesn’t know I don’t really have any friends. She thinks I’m normal. It’s Klara and Tamás I spend time with, not people my own age. Young people are so—I don’t know, they just don’t seem to have much to talk about. Because they haven’t lived much, I suppose. And most of them don’t have the same interests as me. I really like the old music, and the stuff Uncle Valentin writes about. I know he dresses it all up, but a lot of it is based on historical Magyar stuff.”

  I agreed. “The seven turrets at the Fisherman’s Bastion representing the tribes that conquered the area in the ninth century are based on the shape of the Magyar tents, and your uncle used similar design ideas in his books; the battlefield scenes in book three are full of cone-shaped tents, I recall.”

  “You have a good memory. That’s one of the details all the Bloodliners pull out.”

  “Bloodliners?”

  “It’s what the hard-core Bloodline Saga fans are called. They have memes, blogs, game-boards online. I’m sure you know what I mean. The shape of the tents is only mentioned in one sentence—it’s one of their favorite bits of trivia. Why did that stick in your mind?”

  I decided I’d still prefer to keep my special memory secret from Zsófia. “Maybe seeing the same shape at the Bastion today sparked the thought,” I lied.

  She nibbled her lip. “I might have had the papers in my overnight bag when I visited Klara. I put it away in there sometimes when I’m working on it late at nigh
t and I don’t want to leave my room to store it. I don’t like Janis to see it.”

  “Who’s Janis?”

  “Just the cleaning lady.”

  I began to wonder how many people worked at Zsófia’s home in total. Maybe someone had sticky fingers?

  “A lot of people seem to come and go through your home. Do you trust them all?”

  Zsófia locked the little door to the long wooden cabinet that was her locker, and pursed her lips as she popped the key into her bag. “There aren’t that many. At least, it’s a number I am used to being there. A cook, with two helpers. A handyman. Janis, the cleaner. Uncle has four nurses on rotation. And of course there’s me, Mama, and Uncle. Uncle’s doctors change a good deal, and seem to come more frequently now. People deliver food and supplies all the time, of course, at the back of the house, but it’s only really Janis and the nurses who have the chance to wander about the place.”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “That’s a lot of people coming and going. I know you might not like to think about it, but could one of them have taken the manuscript? I’m assuming they, at least, all know your uncle is VS Örsi.”

  Zsófia looked surprised. “They do. They all had to sign legal papers when they took their jobs. Uncle pays them well, too. But why would they take it? What could they do with it?”

  My quick answer was, “Put it on the Internet. Sell it. Ransom it.”

  Her brow furrowed. “If they tried to sell it, or put it out into the public domain, everyone would think it was just a piece of fan-lit—there are all sorts of stories out there, often written by Bloodliners, about how they think the lives of the characters should move forward. Or end. Unless it’s coming from Uncle’s publisher, no one would believe it was real. Though I see what you mean about demanding money for its return. If we didn’t pay up they might—I don’t know . . . shred it, burn it? Then where would we be? I type it on an old typewriter. Uncle did that to start with. There’s no copy. That’s a terrible thought—but no one has demanded a ransom. They could ask for a lot. It’s not as though Uncle doesn’t have money. He has so much he doesn’t know what to do with it all.”