Death of a Wandering Wolf

by Julia Buckley

  Chapter 10

  The Eyes of Magdalena

  I was at the tea house by seven the next morning; we were hosting a breakfast tea for another ladies’ group. A half-dead-looking François served tiny croissants with egg and cucumber, butter and jam, cheese and pickle.

  The ladies ate every morsel and downed a great deal of hot tea; the weather was good for business. The women were initially loud and excited, but their meeting ended with a “guided reflection” from a self-help guru named Sonata Terry. She asked the ladies gathered to center themselves and to “find a place of contentment” while they relaxed in their chairs. I hovered in the doorway, holding a dishrag and eavesdropping. Ms. Terry had a soothing voice, and I found myself responding to it.

  “Go ahead and close your eyes,” she said. “It helps with the centering exercise. Now imagine a little carousel, going around and around. Everyone you care about is on the carousel. Watch them as they go around.”

  I closed my eyes and focused on the faces that bobbed up and down. My mother and father. Grandma. Domo and Margie. Katie. Erik Wolf, looking embarrassed to be on a carousel. A wave of feeling rose in me and my eyes flew open. François was walking past, still zombie-like, and he smirked. “You don’t like the meditation? It is too intense for you?”

  I shrugged, then went on the offensive. “You should get some sleep at night. I’m afraid I’m going to find you back here with your face in the frosting.”

  He looked wounded. “Normally we are not this early. It is an adjustment.”

  “Just half an hour more, and you can go back to bed.”

  “Oui,” he said hoarsely. He trudged past me, headed toward his workstation.

  I took my rag back into the main room and began to wipe off the buffet tables. The speaker was telling the relaxed congregation to breathe. “I can’t stress how important breathing is,” she said softly. “Breathe in deeply through the nose; exhale gently through the mouth. Become conscious of your own rhythm, and imagine it’s the rhythm of the universe: the winds, the tides, ebbing and flowing . . .”

  “Wow,” I said under my breath. And yet it was impossible to deny the calming effect of her voice.

  My grandmother appeared at my side. “You know who was on my carousel?” she whispered. So she had been doing the visualization, as well.

  “Who?”

  “You, Domo, Maggie, Mama. Your daddy and grandpa, of course. But then who bobs up?”

  “Who? François? Mr. Kalmar, the landscaping man?”

  “No.” She scowled at me. “Your boyfriend. And his partner.”

  “What?” I whispered, making sure the women at the tables couldn’t hear us. I grinned. “Wolf and Benton?”

  Her mouth was a grim line. “I put them both on one horse. No room for them.”

  This image brought me dangerously close to explosive laughter. I leaned close and spoke into her ear. “I know there’s room for Erik, Grandma. I know you like him. I can’t explain the Benton thing, unless you’re secretly excited by his mustache.”

  She sent me a scandalized look, and I scampered away, bubbling with mirth.

  My mother pointed at a tea cart and pantomimed that I should start loading cups. This was our subtle sign to the visitors that their event was almost over.

  I rolled my cart to the first table and began to unobtrusively pick up china. The women were obediently breathing along with Sonata. “In—and out. In—and out,” she said in her mellifluous voice. “Get in touch with your breathing, and you get in touch with yourself.”

  * * *

  After the contemplative morning event I drove to the library. It was one of my favorite Riverwood locations, tucked into an old, rambling Victorian house. Each genre was located in a different room, adding a touch of whimsy to the most mundane of research tasks. Today I had a multitiered agenda, and, since Cassandra happened to be standing at the circulation desk when I arrived, I figured I would ask her to be my guide.

  She waved and greeted me. “You look determined,” she said with a smile.

  “I am. I wonder if you could help me with a few different searches?”

  “Of course.”

  “First, in regard to Will Kodaly—”

  Her face took on a shuttered look, a slight flicker in the eyes, but she nodded. “Sure, what do you need?”

  I leaned on the desk. “Well, clearly he was a prolific painter, and I’m looking for images of some of his works, starting with the one that was stolen a couple months ago from this very place.”

  She frowned. “Oh God. Testament to our negligence.”

  “How did it happen, anyway?”

  She shrugged. “We still don’t have that figured out. Of course, the event has convinced the library board that we need security cameras, but”—she looked around and lowered her voice—“we had none. Will was philosophical about it, saying these things happen, but I think—he was disturbed.”

  “What do you mean, disturbed? Like, angry at you?”

  “No, no. Wondering at the motive of the thief. To act with such desperation and to take such a dark piece. The room was full of more positive images and more valuable paintings.”

  “How do you walk out with a painting? Kodaly’s paintings are huge.”

  She shook her head. “This one wasn’t. The size of a legal document, maybe.”

  “Ohhhh. I see. Well, I’d love a printed image of it, along with one that might be harder to find.”

  Her face brightened. Lord, librarians loved a challenge. “Bring it on,” she said.

  “My mom recently informed me that Kodaly painted her. A piece that was to be auctioned off for a charity event.”

  She looked disappointed. Clearly this was not that hard a task. “Sure, I remember that. I even know what he titled it: Magdalena’s Eyes. It was lovely. I actually bid on it, but it sold to some banker. I can find out his name, but I’m pretty sure I can upload the image from the program that day. No problem.”

  I stared at her. “Wow. You’re a miracle worker. Okay, then three other things. I would love to get more information about Hungary, especially a couple of towns there. Keszthely and Békéscsaba.”

  She held up a hand. “Whoa. I do not know what you just said. You’ll have to write those down.”

  “Of course. I’m also interested in newspaper coverage of a kidnapping that happened in Békéscsaba in the spring of 1960. A little boy was stolen from his mother.” I didn’t want to mention the name Sipos; perhaps Henrik did not want that story known to all and sundry.

  Cassandra took my arm and started leading me to the research room. “Now you have me intrigued. Old American newspaper clippings, no problem. Old Hungarian ones, a bit more of a challenge. But that’s half the fun.”

  We entered a quiet room lined floor to ceiling with reference manuals and periodicals. Two people sat hunched over individual desks, staring at monitors. One dusty-looking man sat in the corner, winding through a microfiche display screen.

  “Find a station there,” she said in a reference-room whisper. “You can play around online while I hunt in the library. Was there anything else?”

  “Just—anything you have on psychic phenomena. Like—encouraging a psychic gift.”

  Her brows went up, and I shook my head. “Just something I’m looking into.”

  She nodded once. “Great. You got it.” She waved and moved swiftly out of the room, apparently in quest of answers for me.

  I sat down at a computer and logged in as a library guest. I went to the search bar and typed “Békéscsaba, Hungary newspapers 1960.” Google made it clear moments later that in order to view an old Hungarian newspaper I would probably have to look at microfilm at the Library of Congress, or to request a copy of it. Since I had no idea which newspaper would hold my information, or even what information there was to be had, this seemed too risky and comp
licated an undertaking. I was able to see that there were newspapers with names like Békés Megyei Népujság (“Population of Békés County”), but I would probably need a Hungarian to help me negotiate the brambles of translation.

  I stared at the screen, tapping my fingers on the table. Then I Googled the search term “Hungarian psychic woman in America” on the off chance that someone had caught wind of the tale here and put it in a Midwestern features section.

  I got all sorts of weird articles, from tales of Gypsies to recipes for paprikás. I had just glimpsed a headline that read “Woman Grateful to Hungarian Immigrant” when Cassandra appeared at my shoulder.

  “Hey,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the other patrons in the room. “I’ve got your images. Here’s the one that was stolen.”

  She set a color-printed copy of a painting in front of me and I studied it. The piece was rather impressionistic; a dark shape of a house, a white rectangle of a window with the vague figure of a woman behind it. Everything was in shadow, suggesting evening light. A man hovered outside in the bushes, watching her with narrowed eyes. What made the painting shocking, and oddly satisfying, was that the man lurking in the bushes was the only finely detailed part of the painting: his features were entirely visible. In addition, he was in a spotlight, as though a helicopter (or the Furies) had singled him out for exposure.

  “Wow!” I said.

  “Yeah. It was a very popular piece at the show. It could easily have been a fan who stole it.”

  “Can I keep this?” I asked.

  “Yes. I made that for you. And here’s your other one. Isn’t it enchanting?”

  She set down a second painting, and I gasped. It was a portrait of my mother, painted by an admiring man. She sat in a chair in front of a window, looking out. It was her kitchen window; I recognized it instantly. Kodaly had captured the quality of the light and the way it brought out an eerie loveliness in my mother’s blue eyes, which were the central focus of the painting. I had always known my mother was a pretty woman, but Kodaly had made her beautiful. “This—is amazing,” I whispered. “I’m going to make copies and then frame it.”

  “It is great. I knew I wouldn’t get it when I bid, but I wanted to hang it in my foyer, which is painted blue. The blue of her eyes is just so compelling. Like two sapphires.”

  I nodded. What had my father thought, when he saw this beautiful image of his wife, painted by a man? I recalled what several women had suggested about men not liking Kodaly, perhaps because women did. Had my father liked him?

  An image returned, unbidden, of Kodaly smiling at me, admiring my hair, telling me it was like “fire at twilight.” Would he have wanted to paint me? Would Erik Wolf have been jealous if he did?

  Cassandra tapped my shoulder. “Any luck with your other search?”

  I shook my head.

  The dusty man in front of the microfiche sent us a wounded look. She lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “Come out in the main room so I can show you something.”

  “Sure!” Intrigued, I followed Cassandra out of the room.

  At a table in the nonfiction room she had laid out several books about psychic phenomena. At a glance, I saw titles about ESP, about “skeptics” who changed their ways, about “proof” that heaven existed. “Oh, um—this isn’t really what I was—”

  “That’s what I figured,” she said, studying me. “I’ve heard the rumors, you know. About your grandma. About all the women in your family. The Hungarian grapevine has been busy with talk of the Horvaths.”

  “Oh—well—I don’t really want this to get around.”

  “Of course not,” she said, brushing a piece of lint off her sleeve.

  She held up a volume called Am I Psychic? How to Tap into Your Perceptive Potential.

  “Okay, that’s closer,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  “Great! I’ll put it at the front counter. I might need more time to find your Hungarian newspapers. Can I call you with that information?”

  “Sure. I have some stuff to start with here, so that’s great. Thank you!”

  I followed her to the front, where she handed me a file folder for the printed images, then checked out my book. I thanked her again, then walked briskly out of the library, down the pumpkin-strewn steps, and toward my car.

  A face appeared before me so suddenly that I yelped and jumped backward; I shook my head and realized that no one was there. The face had appeared in my consciousness, a blot over my other thoughts, demanding attention. A man’s face, with dark, angry eyes, narrowed against the light.

  I reached my car and climbed inside, locking the doors after me.

  I opened the file folder and stared again at the painting called Dark Intentions. There was the man, lurking outside the window, his dark intentions illuminated by some cosmic guardian.

  This lurker, this man—his was the face that had loomed up just now, and I leaned my head back with a sudden terrible awareness: this image was based on a real man.

  And Kodaly had been sending a message.

  Chapter 11

  Interconnectedness

  The autumn ball was being held at the Riverwood Pavilion, a tubular building in a large field on the north edge of Riverwood. I had gone to my senior prom there, so I knew that it was actually a charming place, with an indoor gazebo at one end so that dancers could float out to dance under the stars, protected by a roof with a skylight.

  Erik and I had met briefly with Domo and Margie to find our table, at the center of which glowed a sparkling jack-o’-lantern, then gone our separate ways to get drinks, greet people we knew, and get the lay of the land. The room was loud with merriment, and I was flushed with what felt like the effects of wine but was really the result of the long exchanged looks between Erik Wolf and me.

  He had picked me up at my apartment an hour earlier and simply stared. “Where did you get that dress?” he asked.

  “Your sisters dropped it off. Like Norwegian fairy godmothers.”

  “It’s—you look—I can’t even describe that color.” He reached out to touch the delicate top in the palest cocoa, with soft rosettes against thin brown silk in a rather daring spaghetti-strapped bodice, a filmy thing that met with a full skirt made of tulle—an ethereal cloud of softness that made it look as though I were floating along the ground.

  “Runa said it’s called French Chocolate,” I said. His mouth had been moving closer to mine and was now about an inch away.

  “You certainly are delectable,” said his lips.

  I kissed him, luxuriating for a moment, and then said, “You look wonderful. I’ve never seen you so well-dressed. Your sisters are good at this.”

  His smile was rueful. “They made me their little mannequin all my life. It’s probably why I don’t care about clothes at all.”

  I stepped back to look at him: he wore a pale brown shirt with a dark brown silk tie underneath a dark blue suit. The tones were matched just right; he looked as though he had dressed to stand beside me, but he was a showstopper by himself, with his shock of blond hair above the elegant brown silk.

  “We need a picture,” I said. “Like prom.”

  He looked at his watch. “Maybe at the pavilion. I want to get going. Remember, I’m on duty tonight.”

  “Yes, yes.” I reached out to smooth his suit jacket and came into contact with the shape of his gun. “Oh, yuck. Violence descends.”

  He kissed my hair. “You’ll never see it.”

  I nodded and grabbed my little purse. Erik bent and said a soft good-bye to my cats, who stared unabashedly and occasionally tried to claw my skirt.

  Then we were on our way. If Erik thought he would escape without being photographed, he had underestimated Iris and her mother, Paige. They peeked out their window and saw us in the parking lot, then ran out with a camera, which Paige balanced on her pregnant belly w
hile she gave instructions. “Hold her against you. That’s nice! Now look down at her, and you look up at him, Hana.”

  Iris said, “You look like a prince and princess! My Halloween costume is a pirate, but I only get to wear it tomorrow.”

  “Be sure you come and get candy from me, Iris,” I said as Paige snapped another photo.

  It really did feel like prom, and Erik looked uncomfortable. I held up a hand. “Thanks, Paige, but we have to go. Send me copies when you get a chance.” I waved and tucked into the car while Erik held open my door.

  Inside, I told him about my visit to the library and the image of Dark Intentions. “He’s a real man, the guy in that picture. I feel it. So the question is, was Kodaly trying to send a message about this man? To this man? Did the man steal the painting, or did someone who recognized him do so? Or is it all a big coincidence?”

  Erik thought about this. “Lots of other paintings on display that day. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

  “It was a small painting. Highly portable. I suppose you could say the thief was looking for something small. But I guess there were other small works, as well.”

  “I’d like a copy.”

  “You can have mine. His face is seared on my brain for some reason.”

  “I don’t suppose you recognize him?”

  “No. But he’s important.”

  “Huh. Meanwhile, I found out that Kodaly has a son.”

  I swung toward him. “What?”

  “A child he had with one of his first girlfriends, when he was quite young. She’s American, and the boy is American. Well—not a boy, I guess. He’s twenty. I’m hoping to go see him tomorrow. He’s working at the pumpkin patch on Route 4, helping to earn college money, his mom said.”

  “Did Kodaly know about him?”

  “Apparently so. But he hadn’t been in the boy’s life very much until recently. They connected in the last year and had been spending time together.”