Kodaly had lived in Riverwood for twelve years; he had previously lived in New York, where he taught at the renowned Pratt Institute. He emigrated from Hungary in 1995, and most of his family still lives there. His sister Juli Kodaly, who lives in Budapest, said that her brother would be interred in Riverwood, but that they would also have a memorial stone erected in Keszthely, where he had been born, and where, his sister said, he had spent his happiest years. “He grew up there; he began to paint there; and, later in his life, he even fell in love there. He loved the town, and the town loved him.”
Kodaly began his art career in Hungary and was invited to be a visiting lecturer at Columbia University in New York in 1995; he stayed on and later took the position at Pratt. Kodaly’s paintings hang in a number of art museums, including the Art Institute of Chicago and the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. His most famous work, according to Pratt colleague Arthur Ringold, is called Light Touches the Valley, which Ringold says “explores the nuances of morning light as it illuminates all living things in a Hungarian meadow.” The painting sold at auction in 2006 for $124,000.
Kodaly made the news just two months ago when one of his paintings was stolen from a display at the Riverwood Public Library. Kodaly had agreed to a gallery showing for the library’s Arts Festival Week events. The painting, titled Dark Intentions, depicted a predatory man looking at a woman through her window. In an interview about the library event, Kodaly had referenced Dark Intentions while talking about his art. “Most of my work is focused on positivity—on the bounty of nature or the beauty of women or the power of love. Sometimes, though, my darker soul rises. Dark Intentions was a warning to all women: don’t trust men.”
I put the paper down, thinking. Had I read something about that painting being stolen? I had been busy the past month, but I must have seen it somewhere. Riverwood wasn’t a town that normally had art theft as a headline. I had already been planning a visit to Cassandra at the library; this seemed like a good thing to discuss with her then.
I tucked the papers under my arm and walked them to the back room, where I set them on top of the storage cubby for my grandmother. While I was there I took out my phone and texted Wolf: Make sure you read the article about Kodaly in the Riverwood Review. Then I dialed my brother at work.
“Hey, Han Solo,” Domo’s voice said in my ear. As usual, he sounded cheerful and completely unstressed. That carefree nature was a quality I greatly envied.
“Hey. What are you and Margie doing this Saturday night?”
“Why? Do you have something good to offer?”
“I do. Riverwood is having a fancy autumn ball. I guess they have it every year.”
My brother snorted. “And you thought I would care about that why?”
“Because you have a girlfriend who loves dressing up, and because that girlfriend loves those movies where everyone is waltzing around in circles. This would be an opportunity to take Margie somewhere formal and nice for free, and it would be a way to get her out of the house.”
“Huh. That’s true,” he said grudgingly. “She is doing pretty well with the going out lately. You helped a lot, taking her here and there.”
Margie was an introvert that my extrovert brother wanted to draw out of her shell. “It should be a nice event. I’m bringing Erik, and I’ll probably invite Katie.”
“Okay, you convinced me. So—I have to wear a tuxedo or something?”
“A nice suit would be fine. You look good in a suit. Margie will swoon.”
“Yeah.” He sounded distracted. “So is this like prom, where I have to buy Marguerite flowers?”
I laughed. “No. But there are so many opportunities to impress your woman at an event like this. Soft lighting, romantic music, dancing in the gazebo . . . You could totally sweep Margie off her feet.”
“Hmm. You’ll have to be my romantic guide. My Sherpa of Love Mountain.”
“I’ll put aside a pair of tickets for you. Go design computer programs.”
“Okay,” Domo said. “I’m going to text you some pictures of suits. Tell me which one to wear.”
“Margie can do that, but okay.”
“Thanks, Han.” Domo ended the call and I dialed Katie.
“Hello?”
“It’s Hana. What are you doing this Saturday night?”
“Sadly, nothing.” She did sound sad, too.
“Well, come out with me and Erik and Domo. And Domo’s girlfriend. We’re going to the Autumn Ball in Riverwood; I’ve got an extra ticket.”
She sighed. “I don’t know. It sounds like I’d be a fifth wheel.”
“You can bring someone if you want. I actually have two extra tickets.”
“I don’t know,” she said again. This did not sound at all like my ebullient Katie.
“What’s going on?”
“I sound like Eeyore, don’t I?”
“No—just kind of bummed out. Are you—have you been fighting with Eduardo?”
“Fighting? No. He’s perfectly nice and respectful at work. He’s been a real gentleman. In fact, I would say he’s been more awesome to me in the last couple days than he was when we were dating.”
Good boy, Eduardo. “Well, that’s good, right? It means you’re still friends.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was distant, moody. “It’s weird—he’s been smiling at me at work, catching my eye, like we have some secret joke, but then he looks away, or even leaves the room. Yesterday I was working late and he brought me a sandwich from this shop that’s a mile away. He said he was there and he thought I’d like it. And then he just left.”
“So? That was nice.”
“I don’t know. He’s confusing me. He was talking to me, and he kind of absently touched his fingers to mine, and then he left. He’s got this new haircut; it makes him look different.”
“What does any of this have to do with you being sad?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just saying. I went to tell him something this morning, something that reminded me of a joke he told me once, and he was in his office with Sharon.”
That wasn’t good. Sharon was the office flirt, according to Katie. “So they were probably just working on a project.”
“I told myself that, but then at lunch Sharon asked me if he was back on the market.”
“I don’t like that expression, on the market. People aren’t beef.” I paused. “What did you tell her?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Not really.”
“No, that’s what I told her. I said it was complicated, like I was a Facebook status. She just sniffed at me and walked away.”
“Well, why does any of this matter? You don’t care if he dates Sharon, right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I do.” She sighed. “When I left, this guy who’s always in front of our building was kind of harassing me. I mean, he’s harmless, but he was telling me that I’d better watch out for the alien waves, or something, and I didn’t know what to say, and Ed just appeared out of nowhere and said something to the guy and steered him away from me. It was—gallant.”
“‘Gallant’! What a fancy word.”
“I’m confused. I wanted to break up. I should probably just stay with that, but—he’s got me all muddled.”
“Fine. Here’s the plan. Invite Eduardo to the dance Saturday. You can wear a sexy dress and be alluring. Or you can just use the time to figure out how you feel. You can ask him real casually, say I needed a sixth person for my table.”
“This is—a formal thing?”
“Yeah. Really fancy.”
“Okay. Okay!” she said, sounding happier. “I will. I’ll let you know what he says.”
“Hey, guess what?”
“What?”
“I met the women who own Ulveflokk.”
“You met the—what do you mean, you met them? How
do you just meet famous businesspeople?”
“They’re Erik’s sisters. His twin sisters. In Norwegian, ulveflokk means ‘wolf pack.’”
“Get out! That is so weird! We were just talking about them at that garage sale, and—”
“I know! Everything is connected, like we’re in some giant puzzle. It turns out Kodaly knew my mother and grandmother. And then Falken was coming to the sale, so he and I had pastries, and a guy overheard me talking, and he said he knew my grandma, too, and that he would love to do a favor for my family.”
“Why?”
“Long story. So he’s the one who gave me these tickets; he works at the chamber of commerce, where they also knew the artist Kodaly. And it turns out the woman in the painting I bought is the town librarian. Which reminds me—I need to go there.”
“And I need to get back to my cubicle. I’m in the break room right now, but I have work to do.”
“Okay. Go ask Eduardo. Play it cool, like you have a hundred other guys you can ask.”
“Right. Thanks, Hana.” She ended the call. I looked up to see my grandmother in the doorway.
“You finished with your chatty friends? Some tables still need work.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, standing up. “And I was telling Domo I had tickets for him and Margie, and then I told Katie the same thing. But I’ll get to work now.”
She nodded. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the screen to see that I had a text message from Runa Wolf. “What the—?” I said, and clicked on it.
Thyra told me you’re taking Erik to a dance on Saturday. Don’t worry—Thyra is going to be sure he looks good. And if you need a dress, text me your size. I have something in mind for you that will look perfect with that hair.
My mother peeked around the corner. “Hana, are you coming?”
François, who had been working silently in the room the whole time, looked up with a smirk. “And she says I am too much on the phone. Look at her, calling, texting. A regular teen.”
I made a face at him and marched out into the dining room, still distracted by the text. I wasn’t sure how to feel. On the one hand, it was neat to have the attention of a famous person who wanted to plan my attire as though I were an actress going to the Oscars. On the other hand, I wondered if Runa and Thyra were going to want to boss me around for the foreseeable future.
I sent a quick text back. I’m usually a size 8. Thanks for thinking of us.
Then I surveyed the room, found a spot that needed work, and made a beeline for the iron.
Chapter 9
Summoning Szépasszony
When I got home that evening I had two texts from Erik: Busy tonight, but I’ll miss you. He added about ten heart emojis, and I grinned like a fool. Then I read his second text: Send me whatever you hear about Kodaly.
I thought about this as I made my solitary dinner—nothing Hungarian this time, just a burger on a pretzel bun—and ate it with a certain solemnity in the quiet room, lighting an orange taper in a Zsolnay vintage ivory candleholder that Falken had found for me in a jaunt to Iowa. I traced the twenty-four-karat gold edging and felt the special glow that beautiful things always gave me. With a sigh, I returned to the idea of helping the police.
A month ago, I had been very helpful to a murder investigation by being observant. Feeling wide-awake and invigorated by a slight chill that crept into my room from the arctic winds outside, I got into flannel pajamas and warm socks, grabbed a legal pad and a pen, and jotted down everything I could think of.
Went to Kodaly’s sale. He was friendly but distracted. Seemed to have something on his mind.
I bought a Herend wolf, a sweater, and two paintings. Both paintings felt significant.
The owner told me he didn’t want more than five dollars for the Herend wolf. He said it had bad associations, asked me if I had ever disliked a gift giver. He mentioned a restraining order!
This last idea had just come back to me; I would need to send this whole list to Erik.
Had the gift giver been harassing Kodaly? If so, about what?
He reacted to the painting of Cassandra but even more to the landscape, and he called Keszthely the place of his heart.
Mom and Grandma both said he was a wolf, but I didn’t get that vibe from him. He just seemed tired and sad.
Why would he sell his paintings at a garage sale? They are in demand and he can name his price!
Henrik Sipos said that Kodaly had many friends—that Kodaly was his friend.
Kodaly painted a mural at the chamber of commerce, and now a small shrine stands near it.
Sipos said Kodaly was well-liked, but a loner.
Sipos said Kodaly had painted the reunion of mother and son at Békéscsaba.
Cassandra said Kodaly had flaws, but that he tended to stay on good terms with his exes.
Cassandra suggested that Kodaly was not popular with men.
My mom said that Kodaly supported charity events and painted her once to help raise money for the food pantry.
I thought for a moment, then wrote:
Try to find these Kodaly paintings, or images of them:
Dark Intentions (stolen)
Light Touches the Valley
The one he painted of the reunion between Henrik Sipos and his mother
The one he painted of Maggie Keller
Runa Wolf said she owns a Kodaly.
I got up from my bed and took a picture of my list. I sent it to Erik. Then I wandered into my living room and found the Old Hollywood channel, one of my favorites. I had learned, over a year or so, about old-time actresses and actors who had died before I was born but who had once been young, beautiful, and vibrant, and that vitality had been captured onscreen. Just as I was fascinated by tales of my own Natalia, I was intrigued by these stars of the early twentieth century. In the last few weeks I had discovered both Joan Fontaine and Lana Turner, along with Laurence Olivier and Clark Gable. Tonight’s movie was called Suspicion, and it starred Joan Fontaine and Cary Grant. A Hitchcock film. “Oh, nice,” I said to Cleopatra, who was chewing the toe of my sock.
My phone buzzed; I had a text from Erik.
I have a lot of questions. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.
I sent a heart emoji and the words “Good night.”
He sent a GIF of a bear blowing kisses.
I laughed and returned to my movie.
When it was over, I felt a bit chilled in my drafty living room. I got up and brushed my teeth. My cats were on the bed, waiting for me; they did not look pleased about my tardiness. I threw back the covers and climbed in, glad for their warmth, and of the two feline bed warmers, as well. I plumped my pillows and sat against the wall. “Okay, guys, I’m going to open my inner eye,” I said.
Snug in flannel sheets and using the sound of purring as my mantra, I focused on a photograph on my sprawling bookshelf. It was Natalia, already old, smiling at a family graduation. I squinted until she was just a blur, then closed my eyes and tried to retain her image. This worked momentarily, but she faded. I kept my lids closed, but pictured a giant eye in my center, a closed eyelid floating in my psyche. “Open,” I whispered, and I imagined the giant lid lifting.
My eyes flew open. I looked rather nervously around the room, half fearful that I’d unleashed some sort of uncontrollable psychic power and that objects would start careening against the wall. But no: a glance at the window showed the same gentle droplets and occasional flecks of ice that had sporadically returned throughout October. A look at the bed revealed my cats as they always were: fuzzy, relaxed, on the verge of slumber. I studied my hands; they did not glow, and they had not grown some sort of magical extensions that would a
llow me to cast spells. If my inner eye had opened, there was no physical evidence.
I sighed with relief and decided to try something different. I lay back against my pillows and stared at the white wall, pretending it was a wall of snow. From this whiteness I tried to make out the form of Szépasszony, the fairy lady. Centuries ago in Hungary she had been viewed as a goddess of love, but she evolved into an angry witch spirit who sought revenge. She was fascinating in any fairy tale, and I pretended now that I could see her emerging, her silver-white hair and her white, white skin. I imagined that I absorbed some of her power. I stared until I was convinced I could see her pale eyes emerging from the whiteness, eyes filled with vitality, intention. “Open, open,” I said softly. Her eyes, her eyes, becoming more real as I projected my image on the wall.
For an instant they were visible in my lamplit room.
Then the cats stood up and meowed at me, indignant or afraid.
“What?” I said, caressing them. “Was I making a noise? Did I squeeze you? I’m sorry. I’ll stop now. I’m trying to flex a muscle, guys, and I don’t know where it’s located. You see my dilemma?”
They did not. They seemed to forgive me, though, and they nestled back against my side.
I reached over and flicked off the light. Now the room was illuminated only by the streetlight beyond my parking lot. I tucked myself more deeply into my covers and said a Hungarian prayer my grandmother had taught me once, translating loosely to “Lord, let me lie down in peace and wake up in peace.”
Then every eye in the room was closed, including mine.
But the image of Szépasszony, as I had imagined her, hovered in a silvery light that I could see without opening my eyes.
Death of a Wandering Wolf Page 10