Murder (and Baklava) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 1)

by Blake Pierce

  “Have you been to the Basilica before?” Emil asked London.

  “Not since I was a little girl. I’d forgotten how tall it was!”

  “Yes, even taller than Buda Castle,” Emil said with a nod. “Exactly the same height as the Hungarian Parliament Building, making them the two tallest structures in Budapest. The two buildings are said to represent how spiritual and worldly concerns are of equal importance.”

  Then Emil laughed a little.

  “I do not mean to come across as—what is the idiom?—a ‘know-everything’?”

  London laughed a little as well.

  “Close again,” she said. “It’s a ‘know-it-all.’ And I don’t think you come across that way at all. Anyway, knowing this kind of thing is your job, after all. And right now I could use a bit of your expertise. Since I’ve had no time to prepare, I’m afraid I won’t be much use as a guide. Would you very much mind …?”

  “Leading a little tour? I’d be delighted.”

  London breathed a bit easier. She felt lucky to have met Emil just when she’d needed him.

  As the group gathered together, Lillis Klimowski stood apart from them staring at the mighty facade. Her dog was peering crossly out of his leather bag.

  As he began to talk, Emil took on an authoritative, Old World, professorial sort of air. But far from it making him seem to London like a “know-it-all,” she found him to be more impressive—and also more than a bit attractive.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “as we make our visit, I’m sure you will find St. Stephen to be a palpable presence inside the Basilica. And St. Stephen holds a firm protective hand over this great city—quite literally, as you will soon see.”

  London felt a strange chill at those words, “a palpable presence.”

  The words “protective hand” also triggered some distant memory.

  What was it that had held her in awe when she had visited here as a child with Mom and Dad? She couldn’t remember now exactly what it was that had touched her so deeply.

  As they stepped onto the porch, Emil pointed out a bas-relief of the Virgin Mary on the massive pediment that towered above them. The passengers dutifully put money into the donation box and continued on through the main portal and into the sanctuary, where London joined the others in a collective gasp of amazement. Some genuflected and made the sign of the cross, while others simply stood in stunned reverence.

  The interior of the basilica was staggering, with walls of dark marble, mighty columns, and great sculptures. The light was dim, but even so, London felt almost blinded by the elaborate gold leaf decorations, the countless paintings and mosaics, and the gigantic stained glass windows.

  And the sheer size of the place made her positively light-headed.

  Just like when I was little, she thought.

  Now she could remember how it had felt to walk in here all those years ago, with her parents right beside her. She remembered how glad she’d been that Mom and Dad were each holding her by the hand—because otherwise, she might have fallen down from dizziness.

  If only Mom and Dad were here right now to hold her hands again, to make sure she didn’t fall.

  But I’m grown up, she reminded herself.

  I can stand on my own.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Klimowski’s dog wasn’t proving to be a problem. Perhaps more than a little awe-stricken himself, Sir Reginald Taft’s face wasn’t even visible, and he looked like nothing more than a wig again.

  Mrs. Klimowski stopped at the baptismal font, touched the water with her fingers, and then made the sign of the cross and whispered in prayer before she continued on into the sanctuary and sat down in silence. London remembered what the woman had said before the group had left the ship.

  “Mine has been a tragic life. I have a greater need than most people for the comfort of prayer.”

  London had no idea what kinds of tragedies Mrs. Klimowski might have suffered.

  Maybe she just overdramatizes things.

  She also seemed to have a disagreeable tendency to blame others for whatever happened to displease her in life. Even so, for a moment London felt able to overlook the woman’s self-centeredness and sympathize with whatever was troubling her.

  Emil led the rest of the group on through the basilica. After they’d made a full circuit of the sanctuary, they took an elevator ride up inside the dome and stepped outside to see a panorama of the entire city spread out below them. The sun was descending toward the faraway hills on the other side of the river, painting the sky with brilliant colors and filling the city with a golden glow.

  When the group descended into the sanctuary again, Emil led them into a smaller side chapel where a glass cabinet held an elaborately decorated golden shrine.

  “This is a reliquary,” Emil explained in a reverent voice. “A while ago, I mentioned that St. Stephen still held a protective hand over this great city. Let me show you what I meant.”

  He slipped a coin into a slot, and a light came on inside the reliquary.

  London joined the others in a collective gasp of amazement.

  That was it, London remembered.

  In a smaller glass container was a man’s right hand, cracked and withered with extreme age. It was clenched into a mighty fist and encrusted with pearls and other precious gems.

  That was the object that had struck her with such awe when she was a little girl.

  Emil said quietly, “This is the ‘Holy Right’ of St. Stephen himself, the founder of Christian Hungary. It is said that, when he died in 1038 AD, St. Stephen’s whole body decayed and crumbled except for his right hand, which has been preserved ever since—a symbol to all Hungarians of his guardian spirit.”

  When the group returned to the sanctuary. Mrs. Klimowski was still in her pew, making the sign of the cross as she finished praying. She finally got up and rejoined the others, and they all walked out of St. Stephen’s.

  Before they headed out to the restaurant, London gathered the group together in the broad stone square in front of the Basilica, where she called out their names from the list she’d made before they’d left the ship. Then they headed away into the twilit city, where lights were coming on everywhere, adding a new level of enchantment to their surroundings.

  As they entered a lively, well-lighted pedestrian street where practically everybody seemed to be happy and smiling, London again remembered something that Ian had said to her before her flight.

  “Hungary sounds like a very depressing place to me.”

  London let out a small chuckle as she walked along with a spring in her step.

  How wrong you were, Ian! she thought.

  She breathed a sigh of relief at the sheer chance that had brought her here—a last-minute vacancy for a job that Jeremy Lapham considered her to be well-suited for. If this job hadn’t come along, she might be engaged to Ian by now. Flashing back to the chaos of her sister’s home, it occurred to her yet again that she’d narrowly escaped living exactly that kind of life.

  I really got lucky, she thought.

  At that moment, Mrs. Klimowski put her hand to her forehead and swayed a little.

  “Oh, I don’t feel well. I must sit down! I must take my medicine!”

  Emil stepped forward and offered her his arm with a gallant smile.

  “Do not worry, madam,” he said. “The restaurant is only a few steps away. We’ll make sure you are comfortable then.”

  “Thank goodness,” Mrs. Klimowski said to Emil, taking his arm. “You are most kind.”

  As the group followed after Emil and Mrs. Klimowski, London heard the elderly woman grumble to Emil, “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  They had arrived at a most unpromising edifice that bore the sign “Duna Étterem.” The brick facade had once been fairly elegant, with a jutting balcony and stone architectural motifs. But what appeared to be several layers of paint were peeling away, and the brick and stonework were positively crumbling in places. London couldn’t help but worry—h
ad Emil led them to a condemned building by mistake?

  Still escorting Mrs. Klimowski by the arm, Emil turned to London and smiled, as if to reassure her that this was indeed the right place.

  “Well,” Mrs. Klimowski grumbled. “I’m hungry enough, anyhow.”

  London thought the group looked rather glum as they entered, but inside, the restaurant was inviting and spacious, with low arching ceilings and candlelight everywhere. The tables were set with white tablecloths and perfectly folded napkins.

  “This will do,” Gus commented.

  “Very well indeed,” Bannister added.

  Fortunately, the Duna Étterem wasn’t busy at the moment, so the host was able to arrange three tables where the group could sit together. Once seated, they were handed menus by a waiter named János, who began to greet them in excellent English.

  Just then, Sir Reginald let out a sharp growl and poked his head out of the leather bag.

  János stepped back, startled.

  “Madam,” he said, “I’m afraid you can’t keep that dog in here.”

  London braced herself for the ugly scene she knew was coming.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mrs. Klimowski drew herself up, looking markedly less frail than she had a few moments ago.

  “I’ll have you know that Sir Reginald Taft is my emotional support animal,” she said in a growl not unlike her dog’s. “He is essential to my mental and physical health. Wherever I go, he goes too. If he leaves, I leave.”

  Mrs. Klimowski and János stared grimly at each other.

  London glanced around the table. The others in the group were looking intently at their menus, although she could detect a slight smirk on Cyrus Bannister’s features.

  “Well?” Mrs. Klimowski snapped. “It’s entirely up to you.”

  János seemed unimpressed by the woman’s furs and jewels and imperious manner. His expression darkened.

  “Very well, madam,” he replied in a clenched voice. “I’m afraid you must leave our establishment.”

  “Then you must force me to me leave,” Mrs. Klimowski replied.

  London had to admire the woman’s sheer stubbornness, but it was clear they had reached an ugly impasse. What if János bodily lifted Mrs. Klimowski out of her chair and hauled her away, perhaps with help from others in the restaurant staff?

  “No one is going to force anybody to do anything,” London said sharply, standing up and confronting the waiter directly.

  The man didn’t budge.

  Just then another customer stepped up and spoke to János quietly in rapid Hungarian. London had trouble catching much of what he said, but the gist of it seemed to be that the animal was hardly making any trouble, and the lady obviously needed its companionship, so why not let her and the dog stay?

  London breathed a sigh of relief when the waiter finally nodded in sullen agreement.

  She used her best Hungarian to thank the stranger who had intervened on behalf of the dog. She thought he cut an authoritative figure, with his jutting push-broom mustache, wavy gray hair, and kindly but intense expression.

  As János took everyone’s drink orders and went away to let them look at their menus, London sat down again. The stranger smiled graciously at the group and spoke in somewhat stilted English with a thick Hungarian accent.

  “I am Vilmos Kallay, and I am at your service. I am a poet, although I’m sure you wouldn’t have heard of me even if you were Hungarian. My ‘day job,’ so to speak, is as a university professor.”

  “Indeed?” Emil asked, looking pleased to meet another scholar. “What is your area of expertise?”

  “It is what some Scotsman once called, if I remember correctly, ‘the dismal science.’ I forget the man’s name.”

  Emil nodded with a chuckle.

  “Ah, economics, then,” he said. “The Scotsman was Thomas Carlyle, by the way.”

  “Thank you for refreshing my memory,” Professor Kallay replied.

  Emil introduced himself to the professor. Then the professor added to the whole group, “If you haven’t decided what to order for dinner, I highly recommend the paprikácsirke. It’s a traditional Magyar recipe—diced chicken prepared with sour cream and dumplings. It is by far the finest dish on the menu.”

  At that moment, János the waiter returned with everybody’s drinks. As he served them to the group, he eyed Mrs. Klimowski with scarcely concealed hostility.

  She ignored the man completely.

  “I thought that awful waiter was really going to throw me out,” she said to London. “It’s just been one crisis after another this evening. I don’t know how much more I can take. I should never have left the ship tonight.”

  “Fortunately, the kind Professor Kallay has settled one crisis for us,” London replied. She watched as Mrs. Klimowski pulled a brightly colored little box out of her bag and snapped it open. As she did so, she leaned forward so that her ruby pendant with its setting of diamonds and gold fell fully into view—not just to the people nearby, but to many others in the restaurant. London felt another spasm of worry.

  It’s like trying to keep a walking jewelry store safe, she thought.

  And she’s all dressed in furs.

  And she’s got a dog.

  London found it hard to imagine how the woman could be “higher maintenance.”

  Mrs. Klimowski took a couple of pills out of the box, swallowed them with water, and put the box away. Whatever medicine she was taking, London hoped it would settle the woman’s nerves.

  Still a bit sulky, János began to take their orders. Although Gus and Honey decided to order goulash, everybody else took Professor Kallay’s advice and chose the paprikácsirke. János nodded with approval as he jotted the orders down.

  “An excellent choice,” he said. “Ours is the best paprikácsirke in Budapest. You won’t find its equal outside of Hungary. Of course, we use only the best, authentic Hungarian paprika. There is nothing else like it.”

  Professor Kallay chuckled as the waiter left. He leaned over the table and winked at the tourists.

  “I’ll tell you a little secret about paprikácsirke,” he said. “It plays a certain modest role in literary history. In the first chapter of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Jonathan Harker orders it at a hotel on his way to his ill-fated visit to the count—only there it is called paprika hendl, or roasted paprika chicken. Mr. Harker quite liked it, as I remember, and even asked for the recipe, which is included in some editions of the book. Alas, he didn’t take the same pleasure in Dracula’s hospitality.”

  As everybody at the table laughed at this amusing anecdote, London was glad to see that they seemed to be relaxing and enjoying themselves. She noticed that Emil was using his phone to snap photos of the cheerful group.

  “Do pull up a chair and join us,” London invited Professor Kallay.

  Looking at his watch, the professor shook his head.

  “It is kind of you, but I’ve already dined, and I have a pressing appointment this evening.”

  “A pity,” Emil chimed in. “I would have liked to have heard your scholarly views on post–Cold War economics in Hungary.”

  “And I would enjoy hearing your thoughts on German reunification,” Professor Kallay said. “Perhaps another time. How long will your group be here in Budapest?”

  Emil glanced at his own watch.

  “I am afraid our tour boat is setting sail quite shortly,” he said. “We are leaving tonight for Gyor.”

  “Ah, Gyor!” Professor Kallay exclaimed, his bushy eyebrows rising with approval. “A lovely city! I know it very well.”

  “Do you have any suggestions for our visit there?” London asked.

  The professor scratched his chin.

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “There is an excellent restaurant that is not to be missed—the Magyar Öröm, I believe it’s called. I hope it’s still there. Alas, I haven’t been to Gyor for years, myself. I wish you all a splendid voyage. And thank you for indulging my faltering En
glish. It was a pleasure to have a bit of practice.”

  The group thanked the professor and wished him well, and he left the restaurant.

  As the evening continued, János performed his duties efficiently and politely, but without a lot of warmth or enthusiasm. He kept glaring at Mrs. Klimowski resentfully and said as little to her as possible.

  But there was no cause for complaint when the meals arrived. The paprikácsirke was every bit as delicious as Professor Kallay and János had said it would be. London enjoyed every bite of it. As the rich, creamy, slightly spicy dish rolled across her tongue, London realized János was right. Hungarian paprika was extraordinarily rich in flavor, but without overwhelming the chicken in the dish.

  However, the medicine that Mrs. Klimowski had taken didn’t seem to make her feel any better. She ate listlessly, saying almost nothing to anybody.

  London made a decision to try and give special attention to the crotchety elderly woman. But right now she had to get everyone back to the Nachtmusik in time for its departure. The group’s detour to St. Stephen’s Basilica had been enjoyable but had put them behind schedule. By the time everyone finished a leisurely dinner and settled their checks, she knew she had to keep them moving.

  But as they walked back along the way they had come, Sir Reginald Taft seemed to be trying to wriggle his way up and out of the bag that held him. Apparently oblivious to the dog’s discomfort, Mrs. Klimowski patted him admiringly on the head.

  “Yes, you were a fine little gentleman, Sir Reginald.”

  Frowning at the others, she added, “Now don’t you feel ashamed for thinking so little of him? He’s no mere animal, I tell you. I do believe Sir Reginald has more genuine humanity than some of you people.”

  Still wiggling, Sir Reginald growled at everybody, which rather contradicted Mrs. Klimowski’s observation as far as London was concerned.

  “I think your dog needs a little break,” Cyrus Bannister remarked.

  Mrs. Klimowski looked at him with a forced smile.

  “For once we agree, Mr. Bannister,” she said.

  Then she added to the dog, “Why don’t you stretch your legs and relax a bit, Sir Reginald?”