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

by Blake Pierce

  He read the prescription text aloud.

  “‘Take as needed for stress, tiredness, anxiety, panic, depression, nervousness, lethargy, insomnia, poor appetite, or overeating.’”

  Bryce shuddered.

  “Why, that’s simply insane,” he said. “The poor woman must have been taking the stuff almost constantly, for all the wrong reasons. If she’s been doing this for long, I’m sure that her adrenal glands must have atrophied and stopped functioning altogether. I’m even a bit surprised she didn’t die sooner.”

  London’s mouth dropped open. She knew she ought to have been expecting surprises.

  But this …

  It was the sort of surprise she couldn’t have anticipated.

  She said to Bryce, “Are you saying she was murdered by her doctor back on Long Island?”

  “Oh, surely not that,” Bryce said with a scoff. “There are certainly more efficient ways to kill someone. But he’s definitely a dangerous quack who was taking advantage of a rich and credulous woman. He ought to have his license taken away. In fact, he ought to be in jail, as far as I’m concerned. I’ll get in touch with the authorities myself.”

  “Then … then … maybe she wasn’t murdered at all,” London said.

  “Probably not,” Bryce said. “She was almost certain to die sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, she happened to die during this voyage.”

  London felt stymied. Then she spoke to Bryce again.

  “So you’re sure she wasn’t poisoned?”

  Bryce shrugged.

  “I’m probably not the right person to ask,” Bryce said, nodding toward Sandor. “Surely the pharmacist can give you a better answer. Unfortunately, I don’t speak any Hungarian.”

  Maybe Sandor can tell me, she thought.

  If only I can ask the right questions.

  She began to speak to Sandor in the best Hungarian she could muster.

  “You understand the effects of prednisone, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then suppose a thief who knew nothing of her medications intended to rob her of something—a piece of jewelry perhaps. Maybe he used something to sedate her—what in English we call a ‘knockout drug.’ He would have had no intention of killing her. Her death might well have been an awful accident.”

  “It makes sense,” Sandor said, looking quite interested now.

  “How soon before her death might she have been drugged?”

  “It’s impossible to say,” Sandor said. “The interaction between the knockout drug and the prednizolon would have been utterly unpredictable. The drug might have been administered a few minutes before her death—or it might have been hours. I don’t think there is any way to know.”

  London’s spirits sank. The whole mystery seemed to have suddenly gotten much larger, covering a greater period of time.

  “What kind of drug might a thief have used to knock her out?” London asked Sandor.

  “Oh, something very common, I imagine,” Sandor said.

  At this point, London knew she was only putting together some pieces of the puzzle that the official autopsy had surely revealed, but which Alezredes Borsos had refused to tell her.

  One, Mrs. Klimowski was probably taking too much of a drug called prednisone.

  Two, there was a second drug in her system—possibly a knockout drug.

  Three, intended or not, the interaction was fatal.

  Then Sandor added, “I’ve heard of thieves using certain types of benzodiazepine for that purpose.”

  London was startled. The possible knockout drug’s name in Hungarian was almost identical to a word she had heard just recently.

  And she remembered all too well who had said it, and to whom.

  Bryce had said it while offering a pill to Agnes Shick.

  “Clinically speaking, it’s a variety of benzodiazepine.”

  London turned to look at Bryce. So far, he’d seemed unable to understand the conversation. But did London note a telltale change in his expression since Sandor had said that that word—benzodiazepine?

  No, it can’t be, she thought.

  But she couldn’t help but shudder at the possibility.

  She remembered the busy scene this morning in the Habsburg Restaurant, when both she and Bryce had been dashing around taking care of breakfast diners. Mrs. Klimowski had been there for breakfast. Bryce could have slipped her the drug then. Since it hadn’t had an immediate effect, he could have left the boat and followed her until …

  She stood there staring at him, trying to decide whether to confront him about this grim hypothesis.

  But before she could make up her mind, the other people she’d been expecting started to arrive.

  Walter and Agnes Shick were the first to come into the lounge. London felt an unexpected pang of relief to see that Agnes was quite alive and even seemed to be feeling better, even after the dose of benzodiazepine Bryce had given her.

  Then Honey and Gus Jarrett arrived, followed by Cyrus Bannister.

  She welcomed them, then asked them to sit in specific seats where the tables had been moved together.

  “Would you mind telling us what this is all about?” Cyrus asked crossly.

  London hesitated.

  She had no idea how any of them might react if she told them the truth.

  But at that moment, a deep, Hungarian-accented voice boomed from the entrance.

  “I believe the lady is about to accuse one of you of murder.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  London spun around and saw Alezredes Borsos himself standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and with a smirk on his lips. Two of his officers were with him. They all appeared to be alert and ready for action.

  “You look surprised to see me, London Rose,” Borsos said. “Did you imagine I haven’t been following your movements ever since you and I came on board? My men have been watching all the security monitors.”

  He walked toward her with a jaunty gait.

  “Yes,” he continued, “I know that you and this other lady here went into the victim’s stateroom. I could have taken you into custody right then and there, but I thought I would give you ‘more leash,’ I believe is the English expression. I was curious as to what you might do next. I thought you might give yourself away. And now I find you right here, surrounded by the very people you listed for me earlier—the people who had been sitting with the murder victim at the Magyar Öröm, along with a few others.”

  Don’t let him intimidate you, London told herself.

  She crossed her arms and glared back at him.

  “I’ve found out something that you and your men didn’t find,” she said.

  “And what is that?”

  “The victim was robbed,” she replied.

  “Of what?” Borsos asked, looking startled.

  London had to stop herself from laughing and blurting out the truth about the snuffbox. She hoped that that bit of information might yet turn out to be a winning card.

  Instead she said, “Now you know what it’s like when people keep secrets from you, eh, Alezredes Borsos?”

  Borsos’s eyebrows narrowed.

  “I’m warning you …” he began.

  “Yes, well, anyway—I suppose you have to cross me off your suspect list. After all, why would I be rounding up suspects if I’m actually the killer?”

  The alezredes wagged his finger at her with a low chuckle.

  “You are clever, London Rose,” he said. “I shall not underestimate you. But as I like to say …”

  “Yes, I know,” London interrupted, echoing his words. “Hamarosan megtudjuk—we’ll soon see.”

  “That is right,” Borsos said. “For all I really know, what you are doing now is really just a charade to help conceal your own guilt.”

  Now London couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Oh, come on, sir,” she said. “Surely you don’t really believe that.”

  “Hamarosan megtudjuk,” Borsos repeated with a grin.
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  Meanwhile, London could see that the people seated at the table were looking quite alarmed, and some of them appeared to be angry. Even Emil appeared to be annoyed with her.

  “So we’re here because we’re murder suspects?” Gus asked London.

  “And you expect to find the killer right now?” Honey said.

  “This is outrageous,” Cyrus Bannister said, rising from his chair. “I refuse to take any part in this travesty.”

  “Stay seated, Mr. Bannister,” Borsos said. “I for one would like to see how this plays out. London Rose is suggesting, and I agree, that Mrs. Klimowski might have been poisoned by someone who was at the Magyar Öröm yesterday—someone who is here with us right now.”

  Possibly, London thought.

  Although after finding out about the unpredictable timing of the knockout drug, now she couldn’t be sure. Nevertheless, this was the only tactic she had going, and she needed to see it through.

  “I’m actually quite intrigued,” Borsos continued. “Miss London Rose has set up a scene worthy of, eh, Miss Marple, I think.”

  London bristled at hearing that name again.

  Nobody had better mention Nancy Drew, she thought.

  But she realized that Borsos’s presence had really raised the stakes for her. What if she couldn’t get the killer to reveal himself or herself? Where would that leave her? Surely Borsos could arrest her for, say, obstructing his investigation. She sensed that she needed help from someone else.

  But who could help me now? she wondered.

  Then she reminded herself—there was someone who might well know the identity of the killer, even if he hadn’t yet said so.

  She tugged Elsie aside and handed her the key card to her room.

  She whispered, “Go down to my quarters and fetch Sir Reginald.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it, please.”

  Looking a bit surprised, Elsie nodded and left the lounge.

  London walked around the table and spoke to the people already seated there.

  “As you’ve probably noticed, you’re sitting in the same positions where you were sitting at Magyar Öröm yesterday.”

  Cyrus Bannister scoffed noisily.

  “All of us except Mrs. Klimowski,” he said. “Apparently she couldn’t make it. Too bad.”

  Patting the empty chair right next to his, he added, “I see you saved her place, though.”

  “That’s right,” London said.

  Then, looking at Amy, she said, “Could you be Mrs. Klimowski for us, please?”

  Looking distinctly uneasy and maybe a little frightened, Amy sat in the empty chair.

  London took a look around the lounge. In addition to Borsos and his team, three people were still standing—Sandor, Bryce, and herself. She saw that Borsos had taken out his handcuffs and was fingering them eagerly, as if he expected to make an arrest at any moment.

  I hope I don’t disappoint him, she thought.

  She decided to take care of the most distasteful part of her questioning right away and get it done with. Walter and Agnes Shick were sitting farthest away from where Mrs. Klimowski would have been. Even so, London knew that it wasn’t entirely impossible for one of them to have found some way to slip Mrs. Klimowski a dose of something.

  As London approached the couple, she saw that Borsos stepped a few steps toward them as well, his handcuffs very much at the ready.

  Something was still troubling London about the couple—the way Agnes had called Walter “Brian” back in their stateroom. It had to have been more than a casual slip of the tongue. Was it possible that these two kindly, elderly people weren’t who or what they seemed to be?

  London searched for the words to ask them about it delicately.

  In a gentle voice, she said, “Mr. and Mrs. Shick, I have to ask …”

  Walter Shick raised his hand to stop her from saying more.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” he said, almost in a whisper. “You are concerned about what Agnes said a while ago. Please don’t speak about it in front of these others. Let me explain in my own way.”

  He took a small notepad out of his pocket and jotted something down on it, concealing whatever he was writing with his cupped left hand. Then he folded the paper and handed it to London. She unfolded it and read it silently.

  Agnes and I have been in a witness protection program for 30 years now. Sometimes we get confused and call each other by our original given names. I can’t explain further. But I must trust you to believe me, and not to tell this to another living soul. Our lives might still be in danger.

  London felt a chill as she read those words. She remembered what Agnes had told Bryce when he’d asked her what might have triggered her panic attack.

  “It’s all these police all over the place all the time …”

  Of course, London realized.

  Whatever had been the reason for the couple going into witness protection, it was no wonder that a murder and the presence of the police were enough to trigger terrifying memories.

  As she folded the paper, she heard the alezredes’s handcuffs rattle in his hand. She looked at him sternly and shook her head no. Feigning a casual composure, Borsos stepped back and fingered the cuffs as if he was only using them as a stress toy.

  London slipped the note into her pocket and nodded at Walter reassuringly. He looked back at her with an expression of deep gratitude.

  Then London stepped toward Emil, who was seated on the opposite side of the table from the Shicks. For a moment, words failed her.

  Then she said, “Emil, I’m afraid I have to ask …”

  Emil nodded at her with a slight smirk on his lips.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “You remember when I complained about Mrs. Klimowski. ‘High maintenance’ was the phrase we agreed upon, I believe. Well, it is pretty scant as motives for murder go. And I don’t believe I have the manners of a common thief. But I would be rather disappointed in your intellectual prowess if you did not include me among your roster of suspects.”

  London felt truly taken aback by his vaguely cynical tone.

  Borsos had moved closer to Emil. Now he shuffled indecisively, the handcuffs rattling in his hand.

  Emil continued, “I did not kill her. But I do not expect you to take my word for it. By all means, proceed with your inquiry. ‘Murder will out,’ I believe is the English expression, am I correct?”

  London nodded at him silently.

  Then she shook her head at Borsos—not so much to suggest that Emil was innocent, which she felt surprisingly unsure of, but to indicate that his guilt was anything but certain.

  “I guess we’re next,” Gus said with grunt of annoyance as London stepped toward him and Honey.

  Borsos also stepped closer to the couple, the handcuffs swinging freely in his hand.

  Honey sighed. “Oh, London, surely you don’t believe …”

  London didn’t reply.

  I’m not sure what to believe, she thought to herself.

  But she didn’t know what to ask the couple at the moment.

  Again she heard the rattle of Borsos’s handcuffs.

  And again, she shook her head slightly. Looking disappointed, the alezredes resumed his would-be casual air.

  Finally she came to Cyrus Bannister, who was sitting next to Amy, just as he had been sitting next to Mrs. Klimowski at the restaurant.

  Borsos again followed London’s lead, dangling the handcuffs just behind Bannister.

  “Don’t even start,” Bannister said in a sullen voice. “I know what you’re going to say. The woman and I argued before she went away. Can I help it if she had a hopelessly backward taste in music? She didn’t appreciate the wonderful gift of folk culture that sidewalk violinist had to offer. And she actually wanted me to pay him not to play. And the way she treated that dog! The nerve of that woman! It still irritates me to think about it. And to be perfectly honest, I can’t say I miss her.”

  London was irritated by his tone
of voice.

  But that was all she felt, just irritated.

  Her gut told her that this was a quarrelsome man, but probably not a murderer.

  But how can I know?

  When she heard Borsos’s cuffs rattling again, she shook her head again. And again Borsos fingered the cuffs awkwardly.

  London’s spirits sank as she realized she’d addressed everybody at the table.

  But what did I learn? she wondered.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then remembered something her dad used to tell her when they’d been playing chess.

  “Look at the whole board. But look at more than that. Look at everything else.”

  It had seemed like puzzling advice, and she’d never quite known how it applied to chess.

  But now she realized …

  It’s exactly what I need to do right now.

  Her brain clicked away as she replayed all the events that had led to this moment, starting from when she’d first arrived at the Nachtmusik and Elsie had greeted her. It all came back to her like a video on fast-forward.

  The whole board.

  More than the board.

  More than just the people who were at this table.

  I mustn’t leave anything out.

  Then something in her mind popped into place.

  She spoke to Sandor Füst in Hungarian, pointing to a spot on the floor.

  “I wonder if you could help us, please, Mr. Füst. A sidewalk violinist was standing right over there. Could you take his place, please?”

  Looking perplexed all over again, Sandor moved to that position.

  And now something about his face struck him that hadn’t before—something about his nose.

  Everything seemed to be coming together now.

  Without pausing to think things through, she turned toward Amy.

  Holding out her hand, she said, “I believe you have something quite interesting with you right now—a pretty little box.”

  Amy looked back at her with a curious expression.

  “Do you mean—this?” she asked.

  She reached into her handbag and held out a small box decorated with floral gold patterns, with the enameled portrait of a nobleman on the top.