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

by Blake Pierce

  “It was János,” London said.

  “That is right, János. He told her no dogs were allowed in the restaurant. She was stubborn about it. She stood her ground, so to speak.”

  London remembered the moment well.

  “Wherever I go, he goes too,” Mrs. Klimowski had said. “If he leaves, I leave.”

  It had seemed like a standoff for a few long seconds.

  Emil brought up another picture that included a man with a push-broom mustache and thick wavy hair.

  “That was when this fellow came along,” Emil said.

  “His name was Vilmos Kallay,” London said. “Professor Vilmos Kallay. A nice man.”

  “Yes, I chatted with him briefly,” Emil said. “He talked János into letting Mrs. Klimowski’s dog stay with us at the table. He also recommended that we eat at the Magyar Öröm when we got here in Gyor.”

  Emil shrugged and added, “Well, there is probably not much else to see in these Budapest pictures. I do not know much about toxicology, but I find it hard to imagine Mrs. Klimowski was poisoned some twenty-four hours before she died. Even if such a thing were possible, surely a murderer would have preferred a faster-acting means of killing her.”

  “I agree,” London said. “And even though Mrs. Klimowski exchanged some sharp words with János the waiter, he had no serious motive to kill her, or at least none that we know of. Especially if she wound up dying in another city.”

  “Well, then, let us skip to the pictures I took in Gyor yesterday,” Emil said. “They are surely more pertinent.”

  He brought up a photo of the same group clustered together in the sunny sidewalk patio of the Magyar Öröm restaurant. London took note of exactly where the people had been seated at that table. She herself had been sitting directly to Mrs. Klimowski’s left. She felt a slight chill when she noticed who was sitting on her right.

  Cyrus Bannister.

  While Mrs. Klimowski apparently hadn’t inspired warm feelings from anybody aboard the Nachtmusik, the mysterious Cyrus Bannister seemed to have taken a special dislike to her almost from the moment they met.

  “Show me another picture,” London said to Emil.

  The next photo brought back a vivid memory. It showed the strolling violinist playing his instrument in the street just beyond the low patio wall. She remembered how bitterly Mrs. Klimowski had complained about his dissonant music.

  She pointed to Cyrus Bannister.

  “He and Mrs. Klimowski had a bit of a tiff about that musician,” she said.

  “A bit of a tiff? Is that a motive for murder?”

  “I suppose not,” London said with a sigh. “Show me the next picture.”

  The next photo showed the group again. It caught the moment right after Mrs. Klimowski’s tiff with Cyrus Bannister, when she took some pills with a glass of water. But something unexpected captured London’s attention.

  London felt a surge of excitement.

  She stared again at the image on the screen.

  That’s it! That’s what I’ve been trying to remember.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The object that London was staring at on the screen was small, flat, and brightly colored. Because it was cupped in Mrs. Klimowski’s hand, only part of it was visible. But that part gleamed with an intricate design.

  That’s why I felt like I was missing something, she realized.

  Apparently noticing London’s interest, Emil peered at her over his black-rimmed glasses.

  “Does something catch your attention?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes, I think so,” London said with excitement.

  She pointed to the image on the screen.

  “That’s the pillbox she had at the restaurant,” London said. “But it’s definitely not the pillbox I saw in her purse after she was killed. The one in her purse was a cheap-looking thing made out of plastic.”

  “Interesting,” Emil said. “I do not believe I noticed her pillbox. Of course, I was doing the best I could to avoid her when we were dining.”

  “I glimpsed it several times without thinking anything about it,” London said. She pointed to the ruby pendant hanging conspicuously from Mrs. Klimowski’s neck and added, “I was a lot more worried about this pendant and all the rest of her jewelry. She seemed determined to flaunt it, and I was afraid it would attract thieves.”

  “And you say she had a different one in her purse? It is not possible that she owned more than one pillbox?”

  “Of course. But I didn’t see any at all in her room. Just medications in their containers.”

  Emil peered at her more closely. “In her room?” he asked.

  London felt herself blush.

  “Well, it was my responsibility to check her room. To see if anything else was obviously missing. I wasn’t thinking about pillboxes at the time, but I am certain that nothing like this was there.”

  “We must take a closer look,” Emil said.

  He zoomed into the image. The edge of the box appeared to be decorated with a floral pattern worked in gold. The top looked like it might be an enameled portrait, but most of that was hidden from view.

  “That is no ordinary pillbox,” Emil said.

  “What is it, then?” London asked.

  “I would rather not speculate just yet,” he said.

  London felt a twinge of impatience.

  Why not? she wondered.

  She had the feeling they were on the verge of solving some remarkable problem. She didn’t understand why Emil couldn’t be more upfront about it.

  “I believe we have a bit of research to do,” Emil said. “Can you access the Nachtmusik’s manifest? I would like to know a little more about Mrs. Klimowski.”

  Emil moved aside and London scooted her chair in front of the computer.

  “I remember that she had a long name,” London remarked.

  She quickly brought up the passenger list. Sure enough, Mrs. Klimowski’s name really stood out from the others. London spoke it aloud.

  “Lillis Petrovna Ostrovsky Klimowski,” she said. “That’s a real mouthful, isn’t it? It sounds like something a lady like her might make up to impress people. Do you suppose it’s even real?”

  Emil let out a slight gasp.

  “It might very well be real,” he said. “If so …”

  His voice faded.

  “If so, what?” London asked.

  “‘Petrovna’ is a patronymic,” Emil said, pointing to the screen. “That means it identifies her father. In other words, the ‘ovna’ means that she is the daughter of Peter. Ostrovsky is her family name, and if I am right …”

  To London’s frustration, his voice faded again.

  “Perhaps I can find some genealogical information about Mrs. Klimowski,” he said.

  Emil’s fingers rattled over the keyboard.

  Soon he found the information he was looking for.

  “Yes, it is just as I suspected,” he said. “Lillis Petrovna Ostrovsky was born in New York City in 1930. She married Boris Klimowski, a millionaire industrialist, in 1954. But Klimowski died two years later. My guess is she inherited quite a fortune from him, which would explain how she came by her expensive furs and jewelry.”

  He peered closely at the screen, as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes.

  “But here is what becomes really interesting,” he said. “Her father was none other than Baron Peter Vasílevich Kirsánov.”

  London’s brow crinkled.

  “Should I find that name familiar?” she asked.

  “Probably not,” Emil said. “But to a, uh, toughcore historian like me …”

  London smiled.

  “I think the idiom you’re looking for is ‘hardcore,’” she said.

  “Yes, hardcore historian. As such, it means a great deal to me. You see, Baron Peter Kirsánov was a hereditary Russian aristocrat, and a personal favorite of Tsar Nicholas II.”

  London’s interest quickened.

  “The last Emperor of the Russian Empire,”
she said.

  “That is right. Of course, Tsar Nicholas and his family were assassinated during the Russian Revolution of 1917. But Baron Kirsánov escaped to America. He was then still a bachelor, and penniless, because the Bolsheviks had confiscated his fortune. He settled in New York and got married there. And it appears …”

  London’s eyes widened.

  “That he had a daughter,” she said, finishing Emil’s thought. “Lillis Kirsánov.”

  “Correct,” Emil said.

  London could hear Mrs. Klimowski’s words echoing through her mind.

  “Mine has been a tragic life.”

  Now London knew why she kept bringing up that theme. She’d been born into poverty, the daughter of an exiled Russian nobleman, and although she’d married into money, her husband had died after only two years of marriage, leaving her a bitter, unhappy, and lonely woman.

  And perhaps, London thought, this explained why she’d found no sentimental mementoes or pictures among Mrs. Klimowski’s belongings.

  She had tried to bury her past under furs and jewelry.

  “But what does any of this have to do with this box?” London asked.

  Emil scratched his chin.

  “I do not believe it was originally made as a pillbox. I believe it to be an antique snuffbox. And I have a, well, somewhat scholarly obsession with antique snuffboxes. I have collected quite a few myself. And I have studied their history, and I pay close attention to the market for them.”

  “Are they valuable?”

  “Yes, old custom-made snuffboxes can rather valuable. Quite a few of them are worth, oh, at least five hundred dollars, sometimes even a few thousand.”

  London squinted skeptically.

  “I’m no expert on jewelry,” she said. “But my guess is that the pendant she wore is alone worth more than that. But the thief didn’t take it.”

  “I believe this is no ordinary antique,” Emil said, tracing the design on the edge of the box with his fingers. “I’m familiar with that motif. It is seen on snuffboxes that were made by Ilyich Kuragin during the late nineteenth century.”

  London’s mouth fell slightly open.

  “You mean of the House of Kuragin?” London said.

  “That’s right. The firm’s founder, actually. This might be the craftsmanship of Ilyich himself.”

  London knew the name well. The House of Kuragin was world famous for its extremely valuable decorative objects, especially its starfish. Not many people could afford such precious things.

  Emil leaned back in his chair.

  “According to antique lore, Tsar Nicholas II once gave Baron Kirsánov a special gift—a Kuragin snuffbox with a portrait of his father, Tsar Alexander III, on its lid. The box is the stuff of legend among antiques dealers—especially because it was believed to have vanished along with the rest of Baron Kirsánov’s fortune. But now it appears to have remained in his daughter’s possession.”

  London exhaled sharply.

  “If so,” she said, “this snuffbox must be worth …”

  “Oh, hundreds of thousands of dollars,” London said. “Almost priceless.”

  Enough to kill for, maybe, London thought.

  She fell speechless for a moment.

  “Show us the whole group again,” London said to Emil, pointing to the computer screen.

  Emil zoomed away from the box to show the diners sitting around the table. London began to study their faces carefully.

  Emil said, “It is interesting that Mrs. Klimowski made casual use of such an antique—as a pillbox. She ought to have taken much better care of it. It is entirely possible that she had no idea of its true value.”

  “But somebody did know its value,” London said. “Somebody drugged her and took that box from her yesterday afternoon.”

  She added with determination. “And I think I know how to find out who that somebody was.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  London had to fight down a surge of doubt about what she had decided to do. She had had enlisted Emil and Elsie to help her move some tables and chairs in the Amadeus Lounge, but as she viewed the arrangement taking shape, she asked herself …

  Do you really think you’re a real detective?

  Her failure to solve the mystery of the baklava on her own still nagged at her. But it was too late to back out.

  “Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?” Elsie asked.

  “Yes, I would like to know that myself,” Emil said.

  “Not yet,” London said as she and Elsie pushed one table against another.

  She had good reasons not to share her plan. For one thing, it was hardly even a plan just yet, only the bare bones hint of one. She suspected there were some surprises in store for her, and she was going to have to think quickly on her feet.

  Be ready to improvise, she told herself.

  Soon she and her two helpers had the tables and chairs exactly where she wanted them, in a corner of the lounge apart from other customers. They had even wheeled a couple of potted plants into position to separate their setting from the larger area.

  “When are the others supposed to arrive?” Elsie asked. She had appointed one of her junior bartenders to take care of regular customers so she could stay with London.

  London looked at her watch and said, “In ten minutes.”

  After she and Emil had identified the snuffbox in the library, London sent texts to a certain group of people. Along with Emil, they were the ones most likely to have had opportunities to both poison Mrs. Klimowski and take her snuffbox. She’d asked them to come to the Amadeus Lounge at a precise, designated time.

  And that time was fast approaching.

  For the moment, she didn’t want any of those people to know why she wanted to see them—although from Emil’s rather dark expression, it seemed likely that he’d guessed what she was up to.

  He clearly wasn’t pleased.

  She couldn’t blame him. She didn’t want to think that the historian had been helpful only as a ruse, but she couldn’t discount that possibility. It seemed to her a rather striking coincidence that he just happened to be an aficionado of snuffboxes. Had he only pretended to be surprised that Mrs. Klimowski used an incredibly valuable snuffbox to contain her pills?

  One way or the other, she expected to soon find out.

  Now that they were finished with the furniture, she was ready for her guests to arrive.

  She was glad to see the first smiling face. It was Bryce Yeaton.

  “Am I on time?” he asked.

  London returned his smile. She couldn’t really consider him to be a suspect, but as a chef and a medic he had to be included among those under consideration.

  “Actually, you’re a few minutes early, but that’s OK,” London said. “I was hoping you could help me with a medical question.”

  She reached into her pocket for the medicine vial she’d taken from Mrs. Klimowski’s bathroom. But before she could ask Bryce anything about it, she heard a pair of voices approaching from the reception area. She sighed as she recognized one of those voices.

  Amy Blassingame swept into the lounge with a man on her arm—the same fellow London had seen her with on two earlier occasions. Seeing who was already present, Amy smiled broadly.

  “Hi, everybody! I want to introduce you to Sandor Füst. I met him yesterday, and …”

  Amy leaned toward Elsie and spoke in a semi-confidential whisper.

  “Isn’t he just … ?”

  Sandor looked more than a little flustered and confused.

  “I thought Sandor could help solve the case,” Amy said.

  “The case?” Bryce asked.

  London’s frustration grew. Of course Bryce had no idea what Amy was talking about. And this was hardly the way she wanted him to find out.

  “You know, the murder case—who killed Mrs. Klimowski,” Amy told him. “Sandor’s a pharmacist. He’s got special expertise that I’m sure will crack the mystery wide open.”

 
Looking rather embarrassed, Sandor spoke to Amy in clumsy English.

  “I am, eh, not sure I should be involved. It is really none of my—”

  “Nonsense,” Amy interrupted. “You’re exactly who we need right now.”

  Remembering what Amy had said in Mrs. Klimowski’s stateroom, she started to wonder.

  Maybe he could be helpful after all.

  Speaking to him in Hungarian, she said, “Amy says you are a pharmacist.”

  He looked downward shyly.

  “Well, I prefer to think of myself as painter. But being a pharmacist is what I do during the day. You might say that I make a living as a druggist, but I really live for—”

  “I’m London Rose,” she gently interrupted him in Hungarian. She didn’t have time to hear him chatter on and on about his hobby right now.

  He said with a nod, “Amy told me about you—or tried to. My English is not so good and her Hungarian is, well …”

  London searched her mind for the right word in Hungarian.

  “Nonexistent?” she said.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Sandor said.

  Looking annoyed now, Amy murmured to London, “I think it’s rude of you to talk in Hungarian like this. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  That might just be a good thing, London thought.

  At least it might keep Amy from interfering.

  Sandor continued, “On the phone Amy told me something worrisome—I couldn’t follow her words over the phone exactly. Something about a medication we Hungarians call prednizolon.”

  She held up the medicine vial for him to see.

  “I think this is what you mean. In English it’s prednisone.”

  Bryce stepped toward them at the sound of the medicine’s name.

  “May I see that bottle?” he asked.

  London handed it to Bryce, who read the label.

  “Good God!” he exclaimed. “This prescription is outrageous!”

  “What’s the matter with it?” London asked.

  Bryce looked at the bottle as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with prednisone as a drug, per se,” he said. “I prescribe it myself from time to time. It’s useful for treating rheumatism and allergies, and also more serious conditions such as leukemia. But these instructions …”