Death of a Wandering Wolf

by Julia Buckley

  My thoughts had wandered. “You don’t happen to know who might have given him a Herend wolf, do you?”

  “What? No. I haven’t spoken to Will in more than a year. I’m not even sure which woman he was pursuing these days.”

  “Huh. I got kind of a lonely feeling from him. Sad, even.”

  My mother opened her mouth to say something, but the phone rang in the kitchen. She jumped and went back into business mode. “I have to get moving. Tell Falken you can meet him. Cleanup shouldn’t take too long today.”

  “All right, thanks.”

  She rapidly walked to the back room and disappeared.

  I put the final touches on my table, arranging some blue roses around the map of Budapest; perhaps the color would prompt people to think of the Danube. As a finishing touch, I scattered some battery-powered tea lights to add a warm glow to the table. The result was lovely. The whole room, in fact, looked beautiful as the sun shone on the gleaming teacups and the colorful flower baskets.

  Our guests were sure to experience what one had called, in a five-star online review, “the magic of Maggie’s Tea House.”

  * * *

  Falken was waiting for me in the cozy dining room of Eleanor’s Café, a restaurant where we’d shared the occasional pastry while discussing his latest antique finds. Falken knew that someday I’d like to have a shop like his, and I think he saw me as something of a protégé, someone with whom he could share his knowledge of antiques and business.

  Today he clasped my hand with the solicitous expression of someone at a funeral. “How are you doing?” he asked, peering at me over the top of his glasses.

  “Oh, fine. I didn’t know the man before today, but it’s still a shock. Katie and I had a nice conversation with him. I can’t tell you how thrilling it was, finding the Herend wolf, and then discovering his paintings. I’m so sorry you won’t get to see that treasure trove down there, Falken. He was charging twenty-five dollars per canvas, but my mother told me he painted her once for a charity event, and the painting sold for six thousand dollars!”

  He nodded. “I looked up Kodaly after you texted me. He’s a big deal. You’re right in thinking you stumbled across treasure. In fact, the paintings you bought are probably worth thousands.”

  “Wow. I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “I don’t really know if I’d want to part with them.”

  “No, I’d hold on to them. Meanwhile, let’s hope the police find this murderer. What a horrifying thing. A horrifying thing,” he repeated, staring at his menu with a distracted expression. Then he looked up at me. “And you say you spoke with him? More than just to say hello?”

  “Yes. We spoke about the wolf and various things. He knew my mother, but at first I assumed he meant my grandmother. I think every Hungarian in town has heard of Juliana Horvath.”

  I looked back down at my menu, and a figure appeared beside our table, casting a shadow over it. I looked up to ask the waitress a question and saw instead an older man, perhaps in his late sixties, hesitating at my table, smiling at me, his white mustache gleaming in the light. He had obviously been on his way out; his coat was draped over his arm. “Excuse me,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear you say the name Juliana Horvath. Are you related to her?”

  I sent an ironic look to Falken, who grinned. It was true: everyone knew my grandmother. “Yes, that’s my grandmother. Are you a friend of hers? Are you in one of the Hungarian societies?”

  He shook his head, still smiling. “I’ve only been in town for a short time. I knew she lived somewhere near Chicago, but I had sort of lost track of her.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “My name is Henrik Sipos.” He pronounced it the Hungarian way: SEE-pohsh. He held out his hand, and I shook it. “I am originally from Hungary, like your grandmother.”

  “Oh, so she knows you from the Old Country?” I asked.

  “Not exactly.” He shook his head as though to clear out cobwebs, and then beamed another smile at me. In fact, he seemed inordinately happy. “I knew her only indirectly, and her mother, Natalia Kedves. She was Juliana Kedves before her marriage, was she not?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” I was becoming annoyed by all of his questions, and I know my face had stopped attempting friendliness. He seemed not to notice.

  He set his coat down on a nearby empty table, took out his wallet, and retrieved a business card, which he presented to me with weird formality. “This is my card. Please—if you or your family ever need anything, anything at all, call me. I am in debt to you all, as is my mother.”

  “I’m sorry?” I said again, confused.

  “It’s been good to meet you, Miss—?”

  “Hana. Hana Keller,” I said. “And you are Henrik. I’ll be sure to tell my grandmother that we met.”

  “She probably doesn’t remember me,” he said, still smiling joyfully. “And I don’t really remember her. But she and her mother—they were much beloved in our household.”

  “Ah,” I said. My mouth was open as I tried to formulate a new question, but he had already picked up his coat and started moving away. At the door he sent one final wave and smile, and then he was gone.

  I looked at Falken, whose eyes twinkled with interest. “Well, that was odd. This day has officially been weird from beginning to end.”

  Falken looked at his watch. “It’s only four o’clock,” he said. “You’ve still got time for some other strange occurrences.” He grinned at me.

  I slapped at his hand. “Stop that. I’ve had enough.”

  His face sobered. “You have. I’m sorry.”

  I studied my teacup. “Did you have any idea what our friend Henrik was talking about?”

  “Not a clue. Interesting that he mentioned your great-grandmother, though. If she’s the one he knows, then how did he recognize the name Horvath?”

  “He said he knew them both, but—” Suddenly I was full of questions, and the elusive Henrik had gone. I looked at his card; it seemed for a moment to glow in my palm, and an image of my great-grandmother loomed up in my mind’s eye: she was smiling and holding my hand. I shook my head and scrutinized the card. “It says here he works at the chamber of commerce. With an office in the Treadway Building.”

  “Hmm.” Falken thought about this as the waitress appeared. He ordered coffee and I ordered hot chocolate. “And perhaps a croissant,” I said.

  “This seems like a chocolate pie sort of day,” Falken said, wearing a paternal expression.

  “François already gave me a pastry. I’ll be fat if I eat every time I have stress in my life.”

  He was still studying me. “I’m sensing that you have stresses other than today’s terrible event. Never mind, you don’t have to tell me. But I can distract you briefly from the stressful world. I brought you a gift.”

  “Oh, Falken, you didn’t need to—”

  He held up a hand. “Just a little something. You know I like to keep my eyes open for things you like. But this one is not for sale. It’s from Falken to Hana.” He dug in the satchel that he carried around like a Pony Express rider and produced a small box. He handed it to me, and I took it, too curious and eager to refuse.

  Inside the box, under tissue paper, was a small china sugar bowl. It looked like a Herend hand-painted piece; I flipped it over and saw the familiar maker’s mark. “Oh, Falken, it’s beautiful! The blue flowers, and this gorgeous bas-relief pink rose!”

  “It’s a little treasure. Not wildly expensive, but nice for your collection. I found it at an estate sale.”

  “You could make money from this. You should put it on your shelves.”

  He shook his head. “The size isn’t practical. This is a piece with your name on it. You know I’m not reluctant to make a profit, but I never intended to sell this one.”

  I ran my finger along the smoot
h porcelain. I lifted the tiny lid, with its pale pink flower, and peeked inside the white bowl. “You’re the best,” I said.

  “Yes, yes. Now.” He leaned back. “If you’re up to it, tell me about some of the treasures that I didn’t get to see in the artist’s basement.”

  * * *

  By the time I finished chatting with Falken, I felt better. It was five o’clock, and I knew my cats, Antony and Cleopatra, would be hungry and looking for some human company. I gave Falken a quick hug, thanked him again for the gift, and went to my car.

  The icy rain of the morning had disappeared, but a bitter wind was blowing, and I huddled inside my coat as I fumbled for my key and climbed into my Escort. As I drove toward my house, I realized that the cold was a two-sided coin; I didn’t like being buffeted by the bone-chilling wind, but I did think there was a certain poetry to a cold October night, especially because of the glowing jack-o’-lanterns and gold-eyed black cats that I spied in windows and on porches along my route. There was something pleasing, even hopeful, about lights in the darkness.

  I reached my apartment complex and pulled into my spot, musing that cars always warmed up right when one reached one’s destination.

  I climbed out of the car; my purchases from the garage sale were still in my backseat, but I didn’t have the energy, suddenly, to haul in the paintings. I locked them in my car and started walking toward the door. Erik Wolf’s familiar gray car pulled into the lot as I reached the stoop; surprised, I waited for him to join me. I admired, as always, the long-legged stride that brought him to my side in record time.

  He kissed my cheek. “Hana,” he said.

  “Are you finished already? Have you caught anyone?”

  He shook his head. “No. I’m going back to the office soon, but I thought I’d take you somewhere for a quick dinner.”

  “You don’t have time for that. Let me just feed you. I have székely gulyás.”

  “Oh, wow. That would be great,” he said. “Do you have enough?”

  That question meant he was hungry. “I have tons. In my family we always make large portions because of the Domo factor.”

  Wolf laughed. He had met my brother and knew of his predilection for simply showing up to demand food. “Well, now you have an Erik factor, too.”

  I opened the door and we climbed the stairs. “The cats are going to be mad at both of us. I haven’t fed them since morning, and they’ll just feel generally neglected.”

  “I’m on it,” Erik said. “You make food, I’ll make it up to the twins.”

  We went into my apartment and I turned on lights, bringing a happy glow to the space. I had my own Halloween decorations, including a string of orange lights on my fireplace, and I turned these on, as well. The cats mewed and circled our legs; Erik scooped them both up and talked to them as he moved toward the kitchen and their food bowls. He was already quite familiar with my apartment; it felt strange, all of a sudden, to see him looking so at home.

  I shook my head and went to the refrigerator. I retrieved a pot of székely gulyás, still fragrant with onions and paprika and crunchy with sauerkraut. The tender pork always warmed up nicely as a leftover, and the sour cream sauce gave it a delicious flavor and aroma and muted the bright orange paprika to a gentle copper color. I put the pot on simmer and found some bread and salad, arranging things quickly on the table.

  Erik petted the cats and murmured his apologies, then fed them. They crunched at their bowls, clearly in a forgiving frame of mind, and he came up behind me and touched my shoulders. “Need my help?”

  “No, it’s fine. Sit down. What would you like to drink?”

  “Just some water. I’ll get it.” He went to the tap, found a glass in the cabinet, and filled it at the faucet. Then he came and folded himself into a chair, smiling up at me. I was briefly overwhelmed by the sight of him; he grew more and more handsome to me as I got to know him. I bent to kiss his mouth, lingering there for a moment before I scampered to the stove and stirred my food. Moments later I brought him a full plate. He kissed my hand and then dug in; székely gulyás was one of his favorite Hungarian dishes.

  We didn’t talk much as we ate; I was afraid to broach the subject of William Kodaly, partly because it made me sad and partly because I didn’t want to put Erik in a difficult position. He finished his food and sipped his water, then looked at me with a smile and narrowed eyes. “So,” he said. “I have to leave soon, but I figured we should talk.”

  “About what?”

  He sighed. “The last few weeks—”

  “Have been wonderful,” I said, touching his hand.

  “Yes, they have. But you—you’ve been giving me a lot of long looks. Studying me, I guess. And looking sad. Maybe you should tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “What? I don’t—”

  He pursed his lips at me, and I deflated. There was no point in lying to Detective Wolf.

  “Okay, fine. It’s nothing, first of all. Just a silly thing. You know my family—my grandmother with her apparent psychic gift, and my mom with maybe the same ability, and so much superstition across the board—”

  His green eyes assessed me. “What does that have to do with anything? Are you trying to read me?”

  “No, no. I’m not interested in pursuing my—potential powers. Not right now, anyway. But—you’ll laugh—I’ve been thinking, because I’ve been enjoying being with you so much—”

  “Get to the point, Hana.”

  “Okay.” I sighed. “Remember what my grandma told you last month at the tea house? About how she knew my grandfather was the man for her because he had a gold light around him?”

  “Like a man emerging from the sunrise, she said.”

  “Yes. So romantic, right?”

  “Yes.” He smiled at me.

  “And my mother—she had the same experience with my father, the night they met. An amber light, she said. Of course, it was Christmastime, and there were lights everywhere.”

  His eyes narrowed again. “So you’ve been looking at me, trying to see this light?”

  “Uh—yeah, I guess so.”

  He pulled his hand away. “Does it really matter if you see it or not?”

  I sat up straight. “Don’t be offended. It’s a good thing. It means that I like you so much, I was just thinking that I should see it, too, you know—if I’ve inherited what they have. And maybe I haven’t. But it would be a beautiful sort of—validation of us.”

  His chair legs scraped the floor as he pushed away from the table. He stood up and brought his bowl to the sink, standing with his back to me. “And what happens if you never see that light, Hana?”

  “Well—nothing. I mean, I still want to be with you.”

  “And suppose you see your magical light around another man? While you’re with me?”

  “Erik, don’t be angry. And don’t throw hypotheticals at me. You know how I feel about you. And you asked me to tell you this, so I did, because I always want to be honest with you.”

  He turned around, his face pale and unsmiling. “And in all honesty, you’ve told me that you’re not quite sure about me because you don’t see a gold aura around me.”

  “Erik.” I held out my hands.

  He walked to the living room and grabbed his coat; I followed him. “I have to go. Lots to do at the office.” He went to the door, then turned to look at me. His face held more reproach than longing. “But I’ll tell you this, Hana. I was sure about you the first time I kissed you. And I didn’t need any supernatural sign to tell me that you were right for me.”

  He opened the door, slipped into the hall, and closed the door quietly behind him.

  Chapter 3

  Opening the Inner Eye

  I wanted to text Erik immediately, but I held off because I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say, and the wrong words at this point could only make t
hings worse.

  I brooded in my apartment, staring at Antony and Cleopatra while they took an elaborate post-dinner bath. Then, feeling restless, I ran back out to my car to retrieve the paintings by William Kodaly. I pulled them carefully from my backseat, locked the car, and ran back to the building. The air was frigid, and I had bolted down the stairs without a coat. Now I stood shivering at the door, fumbling for my keys and feeling cold in my bones.

  When I finally reached my warm apartment, I put the heat on under the kettle and set the paintings on my couch, where they were high enough for me to study them and supported by the back cushions. The landscape, still lovely and now even sadder, had rich colors that immediately added a luster and sophistication to my little room. I stood on the couch and removed the generic framed landscape that hung above it; I replaced it with Kodaly’s canvas, then stepped back to see the results. “Oh,” I murmured. I needed to find the proper frame, but even without one, this canvas was striking. In viewing the art on my wall, I was getting the full effect of his talent and his vision. It was invigorating. His work was a piece of his life that had not been destroyed, a living, vibrant thing.

  I put the poster in a corner; I decided I would offer it to my neighbor, Paige Gonzalez. If she didn’t want it I would give it to Domo, whose apartment walls were rather barren.

  Pleased with the painting and the newly splendid room, I turned my attention to the portrait of the woman at the fence. Her face, rendered with detail and emotion, was as delicate and lovely as the flowers in the field behind her. And now that I studied it more carefully, I realized her eyes looked familiar . . . On a whim, I grabbed my cell phone and snapped a picture. I sent it to my mother with the message, Does this woman look like someone you know? This is a portrait by Kodaly.

  I waited a few moments, wondering what to do with this second painting, when I got an answering text from my mother: That’s Cassandra! I wonder when he painted this.