Death of a Wandering Wolf

by Julia Buckley

  Who could possibly appreciate Kodaly’s art more than this young man who was almost in tears over a painting’s beauty?

  “Let me talk to Falken,” I said. “See what I can do.”

  François shrugged. “Yes. Ask him if I can pay a dollar a year for five hundred thousand years.”

  I patted his shoulder and went back out, forgetting the compliment I had gone in to give. I found Falken in conversation with some women in one corner. I waited until he finished, then said, “You know who’s the most moved by this art today? My French chef. You know Francois, right?”

  “Yes. Good for him,” Falken said with his gentle smile.

  “There’s a painting he really wants, Falken. I’d like to give him the chance to buy it. Can you do that for me?”

  He shrugged. “You recall what the man was asking, back at his garage sale. No one else here needs to know that, but I suppose we can offer your François the original price. The art gallery in town is going to make me an offer on any that you don’t want to buy. And they’ll provide certificates of authenticity for all of the art that came out of his house.”

  “Beautiful. François wants the one called Morning Sun. Take it back to him, before someone else claims to want it.”

  “Will do.” He touched my shoulder, then loped over to one of the easels that held Kodaly’s paintings. He took down the amazing man-on-the-mountain painting, with its backdrop of light and sky, and he moved into the kitchen. I followed at a distance and peered into the room just in time to see François, dignified but tearful, pulling Falken into a heartfelt embrace.

  * * *

  After the food and tea had been served, my grandmother sat at a table with Henrik Sipos and an old woman I didn’t recognize. The three of them talked for a long time. They laughed often, and at one point I saw my grandmother wipe away some tears. I knew, without going closer, that they were talking about her mother. No matter how many years go by, the loss of a mother is a wound that never quite heals.

  At one point, Henrik caught my eye and indicated with a gentle wave that I should join them. I did so, smiling at him and my grandmother. “Hello, Hana. Thank you for hosting this nice event. I am glad to be able to honor my friend William,” Henrik said in his formal way.

  “Of course. We wanted to honor him, too.”

  He gestured to the old woman, whose white hair was bright as a halo. “I would like to introduce my mother, Stefania Sipos.”

  My eyes wide with surprise, I moved swiftly to her and took her hands in mine. “Mrs. Sipos, it’s so lovely to meet you.”

  Her voice was flute-like and quiet but firm. “You look so much like her. So much like the woman who saved my life. Let me kiss your cheek.”

  I bent down and received her soft kiss, then kissed her cheek in return.

  Henrik beamed. “Your grandmother and my mother and I have many happy memories of Békéscsaba. We have built a friendship on these shared remembrances.”

  “That’s wonderful. You’re always welcome here at the tea house,” I said.

  He acknowledged this with a bow of his head. “And now I have a surprise. Do you remember, I promised that I would bring you something?”

  “I can’t recall,” I said.

  “I told you I had pictures of Natalia when she was young and still living in Békéscsaba. I have brought one today, to show to you and your family. In fact, I have made a copy, so this one is for you to keep.”

  He reached into a little briefcase that sat on the floor by his chair and pulled out an envelope. “Juliana, this is your mother. The photo was taken in 1964.”

  My grandmother opened the envelope and smiled. “I recall,” she said. “I recall.” She handed the picture to me.

  There was Natalia, in a black-and-white photograph that didn’t reveal the color of her hair, and yet I knew it was very much like mine. She was not looking at the camera, but smiling at something off to the side—perhaps her daughter—and folding her arms casually against herself.

  She looked like me. I opened my mouth, then shut it. There was nothing to say.

  “You keep it, Haniska. Put it in a frame on your pretty shelf,” my grandmother said.

  “Thank you, Grandma. And thank you, Henrik.” I lunged forward and kissed his cheek. He turned slightly red and chuckled.

  “Of course, of course. For your family, anything.”

  Stefania smiled at him proudly. Time did not change some things: Henrik was still her baby.

  * * *

  Runa and Andy stopped by at the end of the event. Runa pulled me aside and said, “I was going to ask your grandma—did she think maybe that madman with his gun was the danger she had foreseen for my baby? But I’m afraid to ask. I hope that’s what it was. I hope that she’s fine now.”

  “Me, too, Runa. What did the doctor say?”

  “Things look good so far. I’m about two months along. Andy’s already picking names.” She smiled at her boyfriend, who was chatting with Domo.

  “Where’s Thyra today?”

  “She’s at the store. She has some flyers from your photo shoot. Wait until you see them. Erik will be fighting off the men.”

  “I doubt that.”

  I pointed at my grandmother. “Juliana is hosting a big Hungarian Thanksgiving. She wants you Wolf girls to come, and Andy and whoever Thyra brings. Can you attend?”

  She pursed her lips. “My mom does a traditional thing, too. You’ll probably be invited to that. So we might have to pick two different days.”

  “Grandma will be okay with that. As long as she gets to ply you with Hungarian food.”

  Runa smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Erik approached, and Runa waved. “Talk to you later, Hana.”

  Erik slid an arm around me. “Was it something I said?”

  “She wants to go be with Andy. They’re really excited.”

  “Yeah.” He kissed my hair. “My sisters like you. That is a rarity, I assure you. They tend not to like anyone. And weirdly enough, they like you even more since you almost got them killed.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Now he was playing with my hair, weighing it in his hands. “Come out in the lobby for a minute.”

  “Okay.” I followed him out of the loud dining hall and into the quiet of the foyer.

  He said, “Your grandma took me to the back room about an hour ago.”

  “Oh? To force-feed you Pálinka?”

  “No—she read my tea leaves.”

  “Oh my God. What did she tell you?”

  He smiled. “She said I am a shepherd, and that many other wolves were coming, but that I am strong and resolute and can keep the wolves at bay.”

  “But you are a wolf. That’s been her fear all along.”

  “She has resolved that by saying that I am a shepherd named Wolf rather than a wolf itself. And that this is how I am able to catch wolves—by posing as one.”

  “Wow.”

  “She has a complex mind.”

  “In a crazy sort of way.”

  “I like your grandmother, and your great-grandmother, and your mom and dad and brother.”

  “And do you like me?”

  “Haniska,” Erik Wolf said, lowering his lips to mine, “you have no idea.”

  But I had a pretty good idea. And the more he kissed me, the more sure I was.

  I relaxed into his arms, and into the gentle green-gold light that shimmered around us.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to all who read Death in a Budapest Butterfly, especially my new Hungarian friends Violet Markioly Barreto, Caroline Petercsák Booth, and April Grainey. Thanks also to book supporter Jill Wicklein and readers Elizabeth Laumas, Kate Kalas, Melanie Lievre Lorenscheit, Stephanie Ludwig, Taylor R. Williams, Elizabeth Holt Glazer, Holly Pirtle, Julie Carithers Overstre
et, Kavita Nauth, Nicole Garafolo, Bonnie Shadrake, Lynell Ahlstrom, and Deb Murphy for their support of the Hungarian series. Köszönöm!

  Big thanks to book launch supporters and friends Mark Andersen and Ann Marie Andersen; David Chaudoir; the entire Tan family—Jerica, Shira, Kian, Lit-Jen and Lara Pullen; Catherine Lawry, Cynthia Quam, Mia Manansala, Kimberly Cornwell, Michael Black, Alli Bax, Lori McGreal, Molly Klowden, Diane Cummings, Patti Williams, Rachel Meiner, Mary Beth Lavezzorio, Pam Costello, Susie Bedell, Terri Hanrahan; my dear neighbors Lisa and Burt Blanchard, and my sisters Linda Rohaly and Claudia Rohaly.

  Also to the delightful Margaret Jane Bedell, Haddie Bedell, Quinley Costello, and Olive Costello. I am always thrilled to see young readers who love books.

  Thanks to reading group friends Nubia Durazo, Midge Cogan, Bonnie Shadrake, Lynell Ahlstrom, and Linda Henson, and to the proprietors of Centuries and Sleuths, Augie and Tracy Aleksy.

  To my father, William, for his love and support, and his fascinating memories.

  A big and long-overdue thank-you to Jim Goulding, who has been supportive of my writing efforts from Day One!

  Thanks as always to Michelle Vega and Kim Lionetti, for your gracious help and wisdom over many years.

  Thank you to both Joe Rohaly my grandfather, and Joe Rohaly my nephew, for letting me borrow their lovely name for this story.

  Thank you to Jeff Buckley, who helps me with every book event without complaining.

  From Hana’s Recipe Box

  Hana’s Haluska

  (pronounced HOLL-ooshka)

  This is a side dish that takes about 40 minutes to prepare and serves 4–6.

  1 medium white onion

  1 medium head of cabbage

  1 half stick of butter

  1 tsp salt

  ½ tsp pepper

  1 box or bag of egg noodles (16 oz)

  1 pint of sour cream

  Dice onion and chop cabbage; sauté both in butter until tender. Add salt and pepper. Simmer for about fifteen minutes.

  Cook and drain egg noodles; add them to the softened onion and cabbage.

  Add more salt to taste. Fold in some sour cream just before serving. Reserve some sour cream and serve on the side with the finished dish.

  Juliana’s Palacsinta

  (pronounced pahla-cheenta)

  You can fill these delicious crepes with jam or with the cheese filling described below.

  2 cups flour

  1 tsp salt

  1 tsp sugar

  4 eggs

  2 cups milk

  Butter as needed

  Powdered sugar

  Heat oven to 350. Mix the flour, salt, and sugar. Beat eggs and mix in milk. Gradually add to the dry flour mixture until you have a thin pancake batter. Melt butter in a pan and pour a thin layer of the batter mixture and brown on both sides. This will take less than a minute.

  Put the thin pancake on a plate and add your chosen filling. Roll up and place in a buttered baking dish. Repeat until the batter is finished. Sprinkle powdered sugar on the rolled crepes. Bake 10-12 minutes. Serve warm; top with sour cream, fresh strawberries, or strawberry jam. (Apricot jam is also a popular choice.)

  Cheese filling

  1 lb dry curd (Dry cottage cheese—sometimes this is hard to find at the grocery store, but you can find it if you search!)

  1 egg

  ½ cup sugar

  Vanilla to taste

  Mix all of the ingredients, adding sugar and vanilla to the desired level of sweetness. Add to the recipe as indicated above.

  About the Author

  Julia Buckley is the author of the Undercover Dish mysteries and the Writer's Apprentice mysteries. She is a member of Sisters in Crime, Mystery Writers of America, and the Chicago Writer's Association. She has taught high school English for twenty-nine years.

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