Death of a Wandering Wolf

by Julia Buckley

  “Were they gentle with her?”

  “They were. All of the police were kind. They went inside with her and praised her house and helped her make some lunch, and asked where was the baby that they saw in the pictures all around the room?”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Hajna never hesitated. She said he had died, and she made him a satin bed and kept him close to her; she pointed at the back door. One officer went outside and found the sad little box.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “They took Hajna to her family. When my mother and father heard the truth, they said they would not prosecute. The girl was eventually brought to some kind of sanatorium. My mother kept track of her; she worried over her. She—understood the loss, she said. She told me, when I was about fifteen, that Hajna had married again, a late-in-life marriage, and that she was well and happy. She had a child, too, I think—a little girl.”

  I wiped at my eyes and half glared at him. “That is a crazy story, Henrik.”

  “Yes. Do you know, I really do think I remember the moment that I was reunited with my mother? Because I can see her face now: never have I seen such joy. Never again in my life.”

  “Stop making me cry.”

  He laughed softly, handing me another tissue. “My parents met your great-grandmother about a week after I was returned. Joe went to my parents and said he thought they should know the role she played. That she had given them the blue barn, and without it I might never have been found, and Hajna might have descended into madness.”

  “And so the women met? The two mothers?”

  Henrik smoothed his mustache. “My mother says that she held your great-grandma very tightly, for a very long time. That she had felt all sorts of things on that day she met her, leftover feelings that she didn’t know how to process—joy, grief, worry, regret, guilt, sadness—and that Natalia, in her embrace, touched my mother’s hair with her fingers; stroking, stroking her hair. Suddenly my mother felt peace—such peace, like she had never known even before I disappeared. And it stayed with her. They had coffee and palacsinta, and they talked and laughed together, and Natalia held me in her lap, and her daughter, Juliana, petted me and said that she knew I had missed my bear.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yes. You can see why your family is beloved by mine. My mother kept track of your family always. When Natalia’s daughter grew up and got married, my mother sent a wedding card. When Natalia moved to America with her daughter and her husband and their children, she made sure that they left a forwarding address. I think my mother wrote to Natalia until the day Natalia died. And my mother and I were at her funeral. We were in America by then.”

  Natalia’s funeral. I had been fifteen years old; it was hazy to me now, but I recalled a church full of people and my surprise that she would know so many in a country that was not her homeland.

  “Thank you for telling me this, Henrik.”

  “You are very welcome. Do you know, you look very much like young Natalia. I suppose you know this.”

  “I don’t have a ton of pictures of her from when she was young.”

  “My mother has one; someone took it of the two of them together, not long after I was returned to her. I’ll ask her for it. Truly, you resemble her.”

  Something like joy, warm and glowing, moved inside me.

  Henrik said, “In Békéscsaba, people jokingly called your great-grandmother the woman with magic fingers, because of her gift for sewing. But after this event, the name took on other connotations. They heard Natalia had touched the bear with her magic fingers and told young Joe where he would find that child. After that, she was revered. Revered. She wanted for nothing in that town.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said.

  Henrik’s eyes narrowed; he was looking back into a time that he barely remembered. “I remember something Joe Rohaly told me when I met him for lunch once in Budapest, long after I grew up. We talked about the case, and about Natalia’s role in it. Joe said, ‘I asked her after the baby was back home and all was well, how did she do it? How was she able to summon those details out of the air?’”

  “Yes? What did she tell him?”

  Henrik shook his head. “I’ve always remembered it. She said, ‘The mind is a forest with many paths. Sometimes, when you are lost and need to see the way, one of those paths will be illuminated. You just have to wait for the light.’”

  I took one last tissue and dabbed at my eyes. “There’s a lot to process in that story. Thank you for taking the time to tell it to me. I should let you get back to your job.”

  “But is that all? You came only to hear the story? I thought you mentioned a favor on the phone. For reasons you now know, I would love to grant it.” He smiled at me with a benevolent expression.

  “Oh—well, it seems silly and unimportant now. But I heard that there’s a dance this Saturday and that the tickets have all been sold. I also heard there will be a special tribute to a man named William Kodaly—”

  “Oh yes, Will Kodaly. My friend.”

  “What? You knew him?”

  He smiled. “All the Hungarians know one another—doesn’t your grandma tell you this? Will and I had much in common. I was very sad to hear of this crime that took his life.”

  “Yes. For a variety of reasons, I’d like to go to the dance, and I wondered if you’d be able to get tickets for me.”

  Henrik Sipos stood up behind his desk. He walked around and reached out his hands. I stood and took them, and he pulled me into a gentle hug. “I embrace you as I once embraced your great-grandmother Natalia Kedves, who saved my father from sadness, my mother from despair, and me from a life not meant to be. In her name I am happy to grant you this wish, and any others you bring to me in my lifetime, if it is in my power to provide.”

  * * *

  Henrik escorted me to the first floor, where he introduced me to a woman named Bailey, who looked slightly harried but managed a smile when she said, “How many?”

  I asked for four, and Henrik said, “Make it six. She might recall some friends she’d like to invite.” Bailey disappeared into her office and came back with the tickets. I thanked her, and Henrik escorted me to a little easel by a window at the end of the main hallway. On it was a picture of Will Kodaly, circled by a wreath someone had made out of roses and greenery. A little placard read “In memory of Will Kodaly, friend to the Riverwood community.”

  I looked at Henrik. “I had no idea Mr. Kodaly was so popular.”

  Henrik shrugged. “Not so much; he was a quiet man, liked to keep to himself. But he came here often because he knew us, and he, like all of us, supported small businesses. He was a small business, after all. And we know him here because he painted our mural.”

  “Which mural?”

  “Oh, you haven’t seen it? Come with me.” Once again he led me, this time to a room at the back of the building that said “Community Room” on the door. “We have meetings here with the public, so this was where we wanted Will to create something for us. It’s very popular.”

  We turned the corner and I saw that one entire wall had been dedicated to Kodaly’s vision of community: a rescue. In his scenario, an entire town had gathered below a building where a child was about to fall from a window, her little fingers digging precariously into the ledge. Below her, people were climbing onto each other’s shoulders with determined expressions, and they were calling to the child. Her face was not terrified but hopeful. It was a melodramatic painting but surprisingly moving.

  “I have to get out of this building,” I murmured.

  Henrik understood. “Lots of emotion. And do you know what? Will knew my story, too, about Békéscsaba. A few weeks ago, we shared a beer after my work, and he told me he painted it.”

  “Painted what?”

  “The reunion of mother and son. The way he imagined it. He said the story
had stayed with him, and he had painted it, but it had sold from a gallery; otherwise he would have showed it to me. He said he had a digital picture of it somewhere and he would bring it next time.” He looked at the mural and said, “Often life is unfair. But I cannot complain. Can you?”

  “No,” I said fervently. “And thank you, Henrik. For making time for me and getting me these tickets. I’ll let you get back to your busy day.”

  He bowed to me, formal as an ambassador, and kissed my hand.

  Chapter 8

  Dark Intentions

  I sat in my car for a while with my eyes closed, trying to process everything that I had heard.

  My great-grandmother had been psychic—not just intuitive, but psychic.

  I had talked with a man who had been kidnapped as a baby.

  My grandmother Juliana, at age four almost five, had known that the lost child was alive.

  My great-grandmother, at twenty-seven, had looked like me.

  The last idea had me feeling emotional, and I shook my head, not sure what I wanted to do next or if I wanted to talk to anyone.

  Fate solved that problem by making my phone ring. I dug in my purse and took it out. “Hello?”

  “Hana? It’s Mom.”

  My mother’s voice was concerned, almost agitated.

  “What’s up, Mom? I’ll be at the tea house in a few minutes.”

  “I just—I got the sense that something was wrong. Are you okay?”

  “Oh, for gosh sakes. It really is all of us.”

  “What?”

  I let out a slow breath. “I’m fine. Thank you for caring. I’ll be at the tea house in a few, and, boy, do I have a story for you.”

  “Oh—all right. As long as you’re okay.”

  I had a sudden memory of my mother’s face, twenty-some years in the past, when I was six or so and I’d decided it would be funny to hide in a rack of clothing at the department store. I was pleased with myself, feeling independent and figuring my mother would congratulate me on disappearing so effectively. Instead, I heard her voice, near tears, asking the saleswoman if she had seen a little girl in a red dress. “She was right here, and she’s not the type to wander off!” my mother said. Her voice had grown louder as her fears grew, and I slunk out of the clothing to reveal myself to her.

  The saleswoman pointed at me; my mother swung around; and her face, red with fear and impending tears, grew soft with relief and love. “Oh, Hana!” she cried. “You should never, never do that to Mommy! I thought someone took you away from me!”

  I had started to cry, shocked by her emotion, and she bundled me into her arms. “Oh, my baby,” she whispered. “Never leave me.”

  Now I felt her relief over the phone.

  “Hey, Mom? I love you,” I said.

  * * *

  At the tea house my mother and grandmother were already bustling around, getting ready for an evening event with the Riverwood Youth Symphony. The conductor treated her musicians once a year to a high tea in keeping with their elegant music.

  I ordered them both to sit down, and they did so, surprised. My grandmother still clutched a teapot, and my mother held a bottle of Windex and a cloth; she had been polishing mirrors. “You need to put that stuff down so you don’t drop it,” I said.

  They did so, sitting at a round table which was already set for the visitors.

  “You both said you never heard of Henrik Sipos.”

  They nodded.

  “But he knows us. I went to him to ask for tickets to that dance sponsored by the chamber of commerce. Long story. And I asked him how he knew you.”

  They looked at me, expectant and intrigued.

  “He knew you because when he was a baby he was kidnapped in Békéscsaba.”

  “What!” my mother cried.

  My grandmother sat up straighter; her eyes grew wide and luminous.

  “That’s not all. Great-grandma Natalia and her four-year-old daughter, Juliana, helped the police find him. They never would have found him without you, Grandma.”

  My grandmother closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “He had a bear,” she said.

  “Yes! And you helped your mother. Grandma,” I said, pulling her into a hug, “what a special little girl you were.”

  Grandma was remembering. “She got gifts, from everyone in town. Kolbász and jellies and a chicken that became my pet. A pretty fan made of feathers, I think. And a comb with rhinestones. Was like Christmas.”

  My mother leaned close. “What exactly are we talking about?”

  I sat down across from them and told them the whole tale: the disappearance, the police, the lack of clues, the suggestion that they talk to Natalia. And then the bear and the blue barn.

  My mother’s blue eyes were compassionate. “What a sad, sad story.” Then it seemed to dawn on her, our very real connection to the tale. She turned to her companion in surprise. “I can’t believe that little girl was you!” She slung an affectionate arm around her mother and said, “And that the town seer was my grandmother. My sweet Natalia.”

  I waited until my grandmother looked at me. “Henrik said that I looked like Natalia when she was young.”

  She nodded. “Oh yes. You do. Even the lovely color of your hair. And your big brown eyes. Yes, anyone looking at you would know you were related to her.”

  We sat together in the quiet tea house, quiet except for the occasional gust of wind that slammed against the windows. I’m sure we were all thinking about Natalia, the fourth woman in our little circle of insight.

  My mother suddenly looked at me and said, “Why did you say you needed to see Henrik? You spoke to him about the chamber of commerce dance?”

  “Yes. That’s related to a different mystery—Will Kodaly. They’re doing a special tribute to him at the dance, as you said, and since you told me many of his friends and acquaintances would be there, I figured I’d try to get tickets, and Henrik gave me six of them.”

  Grandma’s eyes were like laser beams. “You had a talk with your detective?”

  “Yes. We’re okay.”

  “Good, good.” She smiled.

  “So do you guys want to go to a dance?”

  My mother shook her head. “Take Domo and Margie and some other young people. You’ll have fun. Sofia told me the dance is always quite lovely.”

  “Okay.” I looked around the tea house. “So I guess we should actually do our job, rather than chatting about our fascinating family history.”

  My grandmother stood up. “I fix the microphone and select the classical playlist.”

  My mother stretched. “We’re doing the navy blue and white service—is that right, Hana?”

  “Yes. I think that service says elegant, and so does the symphony. I’ll go get the bags with the mini musical instruments.”

  We Horvath-Kellers loved our decorative decor, and we had plastic bags with all sorts of thematic decorations. I walked to the back and into the kitchen where a cubby sat against the south wall—something my father had appropriated when Riverwood High replaced the storage unit in their in-school daycare. The kindergarten cubby unit was perfect for alphabetized decorations. I went to the M square and rifled through the bags until I found “music.” I took this to the main room, where my mother had already put white cloths on every table and was currently putting a navy blue runner down the center of each one, then touching up any bent corners with her travel iron.

  I went to each table that already had a blue runner and put together a quick centerpiece of a bouquet of white silk roses and a silver and black ceramic cello, about six inches high. Against this I leaned a crisp white card that said “Welcome, Riverwood Youth Symphony.” I stood back and looked at the table—yes, that would do.

  The front door opened, and François slouched in, wearing a bomber jacket and carrying a leather mess
enger bag. He looked like a handsome postman from a 1940s movie. He tossed a newspaper on one of the tables. “This was outside,” he said.

  We got two papers delivered to the tea house: the Riverwood Review and the Chicago Tribune. My grandmother liked to read them in the kitchen/break room while she ate her lunch, and we liked to have them on hand in case any of our patrons wanted to borrow one for the ride home; this latter happened often when a bus full of retirees came for an event.

  “Thanks. I’ll tell Grandma.”

  He looked past me at the table decorations. “The Youth Symphony?”

  “Yes—I told you that yesterday. And it was on your schedule.”

  “Yes, oui. I don’t always remember—just what food I am to make.”

  “Fair enough. But make sure you do that thing where you paint musical notes on the petit fours. They were surprisingly excited by that last time.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, all right.”

  He made his way into his lair, his kitchen domain, a paradoxical cross between excited and disinterested.

  I laughed and went to the table with the newspapers. I picked up the Review and glanced at the front cover, then looked more closely. The headline read “Riverwood Artist Slain During Home Invasion.” Beside it was a picture of Will Kodaly, smiling into someone’s camera and making a peace sign. The background, a blur of milling people and helium balloons, made it clear that he had been at some sort of party. Despite the work I still needed to do, I sat down and read the story.

  Riverwood resident and renowned artist William Kodaly was slain in his home on Saturday morning. Kodaly was holding a garage sale in his basement; a potential buyer found him there at approximately nine thirty a.m., according to a police source. A Riverwood detective was already at the premises, and he was able to secure the scene.