Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) (18 page)

38

It was easy to find Tonio’s family name. Arthur only had to call Renate Stockinger. Fortunately, the woman had an incredible memory. But that was where the good fortune ended. They soon found out that Tonio had no registered descendants; all they had discovered was a father, who had died not long ago, and some distant relatives in Italy.

Oh well,
Arthur thought, having cursed away his frustration,
it’s time for some new ideas. Tonio’s old man must have had neighbors or friends. There’s always someone who knows something to move us a step forward.

Or maybe the man had had nothing but a dog, or a cat, or, even worse, a budgie. Maybe he was a grumpy old man who’d scared off all his neighbors.

We’ll see,
Arthur thought with a sigh.
We’ll see, as we always do.

39

Lars Beuerle, whose birthday Rabinsky and his friends had been celebrating, was a big man, a graphic designer who lived with his wife and children in a row house with a garden in the suburbs.

“Actually,” he said, once he and Felix had sat down in the kitchen, “Gertrud was also invited. If only she’d come.”

Felix nodded.
Yes,
he thought pragmatically,
then I wouldn’t be sitting here, but at home with my twins in my lap.

“Well, you never know about these things.”

“No,” Beuerle said. “You certainly don’t. But why are you asking me? What do you think I can tell you?”

He’s playing a little dumb,
thought Felix.
Acting as though he doesn’t have a clue.

“We’re interested in Herr Rabinsky’s alibi.”

Beuerle raised his eyebrows in surprise. “His alibi? Why? Surely you don’t suspect him? That’s laughable!”

Felix shook his head. “Purely routine. We simply have to consider all the possibilities. You do want Frau Rabinsky’s murderer to be found, don’t you?”

How often have I asked that question?
he thought.
That very question. And now for the answer . . .

“But of course I do!”

. . .
the same answer as ever.
Felix wanted to roll his eyes.
How often have I heard that?

He curved his lips into a tight smile. “There, you see! So, please, will you simply tell me how you spent that evening?”

Beuerle scratched his chin.

He could do with a shave,
Felix thought.
But so could I.
He rubbed a hand over his own cheeks and chin, feeling the scratchy stubble and suspecting he wouldn’t be having any luck with Angelika that night.

A noise came from the other side of the door, and a woman entered, tall, slim—her breasts accentuated in a tight T-shirt.

A feast for the eyes,
Felix thought, his hormones taking over momentarily.

“My wife,” said Beuerle, turning to her. “Imagine this, Rieke, they suspect Christian in that business with Gertrud. Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“Well, well,” she said. “But he has an alibi, doesn’t he? Us.”

She approached, greeted Felix, and sat down at the table with a smile.

“So,” said Beuerle, looking slightly tense, “we were at F
iftyFour from seven to ten and then at Jealousy, the night club in the town center.”

Felix nodded.
Extravagant,
he thought.
You were really treating yourself.

“We were there until about three in the morning,” Beuerle continued with a shrug. “It’s not your birthday every day, after all.”

Why is he apologizing?
Felix thought.
Partying all night isn’t a criminal offense.

“And you’re sure that Herr Rabinsky was there the whole time?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Beuerle without hesitation, glancing at his wife. “Of course I’m sure. There were nine of us. They’ll all confirm it for you. All couples. Only Christian was alone.”

“Why was that?” asked Felix. “Do you know why his wife wasn’t there?”

“Hm,” said Beuerle pensively. “I don’t. Do you?”

He looked at his wife, and she nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “I asked Christian, and he said Gertrud was getting ready for a trip to Greece. I must say I didn’t think it was seemed right. She could have done all that the next day. But that’s what she was like. You could never rely on her.”

“Rieke,” said Beuerle a little brusquely. “Please don’t.”

“Why?” she asked. “Because it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead? But it’s true!” She turned to Felix. “What do you think, Inspector?”

“If it’s true, we want to hear it. What was their marriage like?”

She thought for a moment. “No idea,” she said, looking at her husband. “You don’t see behind the scenes. Not with anyone. Don’t you think?”

“You’re right, of course,” Felix said, deciding it was time to get to the point and bring the conversation to a close. “So, to clarify: You’re both quite sure that Herr Rabinsky was there the whole evening and that he didn’t leave the party at any time for an hour and a half or so? I mean, that would be a long time, so I’m sure you would have noticed.”

Beuerle shrugged. “As I’ve already said.”

“And you, Frau Beuerle, can you also confirm that?” Felix asked, allowing himself a final furtive glance at her assets.

“As my husband said,” she replied with a smile.

“You’re both aware that it would be a criminal offense to tell me anything but the truth?”

Beuerle shrugged. “Why should I lie?”

“Precisely.” Felix stood. “Why should you? Why do people ever lie?”

Because there’s always a reason for it,
he thought.
Always.
He smiled to himself.

“Well,” said Beuerle. “That’s almost a philosophical question, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Felix replied. “And because it always takes much too long to answer philosophical questions, we’d better not go there. I’ll get going and not inconvenience you any longer.”

“No, no, it’s no inconvenience,” Beuerle countered quickly, extending his hand to Felix and forcing a polite smile.

“I’ll see you to the door,” said Rieke Beuerle, leading Felix down the hallway. She opened the door to let him out, but before he could leave, she leaned toward him, the smell of her slightly stale perfume tickling his nose.

“Give me an hour,” she whispered. “I’ll meet you in the park by the ice cream shop.”

He nodded in surprise.
That’s one alibi smashed,
he mused. He thought of Moritz and Lilli. He felt sorry for them.

40

Felix saw Frau Beuerle from afar, pacing up and down by the entrance of the ice cream shop.

“Frau Beuerle,” he said, smiling as he approached. “Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

She looked good. A bit of a bimbo, perhaps. She even carried in her handbag a fashion-accessory dog, as Marlene, Felix’s eldest, would have called the little yappy rat of a creature.

“Yes,” she said. “Aren’t you going to invite me for a coffee? Are the police allowed that kind of thing?”

“They certainly are,” Felix replied. “If I may have the pleasure.”

She destroyed the alibi, which did, in fact, make it a pleasure. Or perhaps not. He thought of the children again. No, it wasn’t actually a pleasure at all.

Over coffee Frau Beuerle told Felix that during the meal Rabinsky had been jostled by a clumsy waiter, causing him to spill a glass of red wine over his shirt and pants. She didn’t know precisely what had happened, as she’d been in the bathroom when it happened. In any case, the soaking eventually made Rabinsky uncomfortable, and he said he wanted to pay a quick visit to his office, where he could shower and change into a spare shirt and pair of pants. He was gone for about an hour, perhaps a little longer. They were at Jealousy by the time he caught up with them.

When he got back, he was behaving strangely and got plastered, so drunk that by the end he was barely able to stand. Having said that, Frau Beuerle admitted that her husband had done exactly the same, as had the others. It seemed they had probably only taken their wives along to provide cheap chauffeurs for the drive home. Christian had ridden with them, and they’d dropped him off at his office, where, he said, he intended to spend the night because it would have been too complicated to go home at that time of night.

She paused at that point, took a drink of her coffee, and looked at Felix thoughtfully.

She hadn’t wanted to tell him in front of her husband, she said, because Christian had called and asked them to provide an alibi. He’d assured them that he’d had nothing to do with Gertrud’s murder, that he’d gone to his office, taken a shower, and changed, as they all knew, but he couldn’t account for that hour to the police. There was no witness, and everyone knew how picky the police could be about alibis. He’d asked them all to be kind enough to help him—things were difficult enough as it was for the children. If he were a suspect, it would be even worse.

“Of course, we all believe him,” said Frau Beuerle. “Christian would never kill his wife. On the contrary—he wouldn’t harm a fly. But a lie is a lie!”

And, of course, it wasn’t good to lie to the police, which was why she was now sitting here over coffee.

Felix watched her in fascination as the words flowed; the nut torte vanished elegantly, piece by piece, between her narrow lips, and her low neckline revealed tantalizing cleavage whenever she leaned forward to smile at him.

I’ll be damned,
he thought. What had Christian done to warrant this kind of vengeance? Had she been trying to flirt with him with that arsenal in her blouse and he’d sent her packing, perhaps because
. . .
because she’d been a bit too pushy with him? Grinning to himself, he leaned back in his seat and stretched out his legs. This day had brought some results, at least, he thought with satisfaction. Not least a bit of eye candy.

41

“Max,” Franza said into the telephone. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” he said, a little surprised. “You can hear that I’m here. What’s the matter?”

“I mean, are you at home?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m at home. Do you want to come over?”

“Yes,” she said, “I’d like to. Do you have any food?”

He laughed. “Ah, so that’s the way the wind’s blowing! Madame’s hungry and has forgotten to do the shopping. Your cupboards are bare, I take it?”

“Yes,” she said, a little remorsefully. “We’ve got a new case and I didn’t get home till late yesterday and all the shops were shut. My stomach’s rumbling.”

“Should we go out for a meal?”

“No,” she said. “I feel like the peace and quiet of home. Is that OK?”

He nodded, although she couldn’t see it on the phone.

“Of course it’s OK,” he said. “Come on over.”

She hung up, leaned her head against the headrest, and started the engine. She had been sitting in her car outside her building for a quarter of an hour, tired after a long day. She hadn’t a clue what to do with her evening, and she was disappointed that Christian Rabinsky’s alibi was thwarted.

Arthur and Felix had gone home, where their women were waiting for them with meals, probably pampering them a little. But there was no one waiting for her. All she could expect was an empty fridge, a vacant couch, and an evening’s TV. She had no taste for any of it that night.

Port had a show, and afterward he wanted to go out with the company to celebrate the invitation to Vienna. Franza sighed. Yes, the Vienna business, that damned Vienna business.

A farewell
. . .
it would only be temporary, but a farewell nevertheless. Franza thought of all the other farewells, the wandering from one country to another with her Austrian parents because her father, an engineer, was needed here, needed there. She had spent the longest period of her childhood some twenty miles from here, in a house with the rushing of a stream in the background. Sonja had lived in the neighborhood. Her family was also Austrian, also career nomads.

Franza was twelve when her family returned to Austria. Her father had been promoted to a top position in his company, so for the next few years they lived near the capital, where they were from originally, by the Danube. As now. That was the same. The Danube. A constant feature. A fixed point.

Then came her student years, and Franza had felt a desire to see the world—a year in London, then Frankfurt, where she stayed a while. She met Max and Borger, and then Felix. Great times. A great life. Small loves, then the big one—Max.

Later came her final farewell from Austria. It was clear she wanted to stay with Max, that they would marry and settle in this town in southern Germany.

A little later, Franza’s father died suddenly from a heart attack. Her mother grew lonely and spent a lot of time with Franza. As fate would have it, one day she discovered that the old house by the stream, where they’d lived when Franza was a child, was for sale—and she bought it. And renovated it. And moved in. She lived there until life on her own became too difficult, and then she moved to an old people’s home, where she lived until she died.

Since then Franza had been the owner of the “little house by the stream,” as she called it. She would sell it one day.

It was funny that over the years they had all somehow ended up here: Herz, Borger, even Sonja, her childhood friend from the days by the stream, now the district attorney’s wife.

She and Sonja had never really lost touch, bound to one another like sisters. They had been in London together—Sonja had even stayed on for a second year. She studied languages and became a book translator.

Then, one day, she’d come to visit Franza, and while they were wandering around the town center, they’d bumped into Dr. Brückl, at the time about to launch into his illustrious career in the district attorney’s office. Sonja had said she wanted a coffee and Herr Brückl had said what a coincidence, so did he. So they had all gone into a café, and by the end of it Franza had come to feel slightly superfluous.

Dr. Brückl’s illustrious career had not taken off as he’d intended, and he was still chasing it, but he did find his partner for life—Sonja.

Franza was flabbergasted when Sonja announced she’d fallen head over heels in love, that he was the man she wanted to spend her life with, and that she was more certain of it than she had ever been about anything.

“You want to inflict that career-driven asshole on yourself?” Franza had asked her friend, aghast. Until that moment she had considered the whole thing a superficial dalliance. “You can’t be serious!”

“Don’t say that,” Sonja had begged. “He’s not like that. Not a career-driven asshole. You don’t know him. He didn’t have an easy childhood.”

Franza had rolled her eyes. Didn’t they all say that? Just an excuse for never growing up.

She didn’t voice the thought out loud to Sonja, but apologized for her outburst. She didn’t want to lose her as a friend. Besides, they had created a kind of Austrian enclave, which occasionally did Franza good in her German exile, as she sometimes jokingly called it.

When they were together, which they were often, they spoke in their dialect from back then, enjoying those small, special words that belonged to them alone. They still laughed when anyone tried to imitate them, especially when they failed spectacularly.

Yes, they were something like sisters, she and Sonja, so close. Fortunately they had never crossed swords when it came to their taste in men. Despite having so much in common, they had nevertheless always gone their own ways.

That was something that had obviously gone wrong with Hanna and Gertrud. You could have a sheltered childhood, Franza thought, with loving parents, money, a good education, and still be unable to find happiness, have no sense or gift for it. How sad that was, how painfully sad.

Max’s building came into view. She found a parking space, went to the main entrance, and rang the bell. In the elevator she wondered how everything would turn out with Port and Max. Port was sure to want a commitment sometime in the near future.

She didn’t want to think about it.

Would she become a fixture at Max’s place, perhaps? Or would he at hers? Cozy evenings in front of the TV? Max would make a bacon sandwich, his daily evening treat, and ask: “Do you want one, too?” Or something like that. She’d reply: “No thanks, it’s too late to be eating now.” Or something like that. He’d shrug. “Up to you.” Or something like that.

Then he would settle down on the sofa, switch on the TV, and begin to eat with relish. They would spend a while like that, Franza stealing an envious glance at Max’s slim body that simply refused to put on weight, and at the bacon sandwich, which he sometimes garnished with leeks or radishes or simply salt and pepper. But she would resist. At first. But just when he had almost finished and it was nearly too late, her mouth would finally begin to water and her hands would twitch restlessly. It always ended with Max slapping away her fingers, then giving in with a sigh, standing, and going to make another sandwich, or sometimes two.

There would then be coffee and Franza’s cookies, which were sometimes crunchy, sometimes moist, but always fresh and always perfectly decorated. There was always a moment of doubt as to whether they should be eaten at all, they looked so beautiful. But Franza invariably made sure there were plenty in stock, so they could be eaten without a guilty conscience.

It was no longer love, but friendship, a friendship that had grown from many years of living together. It was a friendship they’d only discovered once their mutual desire had faded and finally been extinguished.

This friendship consisted of TV evenings like that, of the wine they sometimes drank from a shared glass, both of them tired, both exhausted from a long, full day. They lay on the sofa, a movie playing, one of them nodding occasionally or jumping because the other had made a noise. Then they would grin, laugh, say, “Oh, you!” and soon drift back off to sleep.

Their friendship was made up of these little halfhearted phrases, the kind of phrases that belonged to the whole world, but also to them, those phrases such as “Leave it now!” or “Get on with it!” or “Calm down!” or “Get over it!” or “You’re really getting on my nerves!”

It was also made up of moments of hatred, like when Franza stood in front of the mirror, contemplating her hips with a sigh, and he would walk past and comment laconically, “Well now, darling,” which would make her want to hit him.

And it was made up of moments of remembering, the moments when she watched him secretly and remembered everything had been all right once.

It was the kind of friendship that came from being forced to live together “for the sake of the family”—no longer a couple but effectively sharing an apartment like in their student days. The other person’s weaknesses required tolerance—those moments when they still hadn’t showered, when their hair was in morning disarray, when mascara had run from too much crying or too much laughing, when tiredness furrowed their brows, when sadness consumed them and they wanted to capitulate before the harsh opposition of the world.

Each of them knew they could call the other if they needed help and the other would be there—perhaps not always or at all times, but mostly.

Franza had missed Max when she moved out. There had been those brief, empty moments of missing him, times when she had been about to turn round and call “Max!” and then realized he was no longer there. She would wonder as she stared into empty space whether she was in fact going crazy. Now that she was finally free of married life, how could she be missing her husband? After all, there had been many times when she’d wished him on the dark side of the moon. Not only the moon, but on Pluto at the farthest extent of its orbit. She suspected there were times when Max felt the same way.

Franza sensed that the time had come to take a further step, to create a little more distance from one another and from the things that had bound them, in order to finally gain her freedom. But those few last steps still seemed a ways off, and they seemed to give her a sympathetic smile, as if to say, “Well, come on! Take me! You still haven’t taken me!”

Franza shook her head at the remarkable image that had popped into her brain, pushed it aside, and stepped out of the elevator. She did wonder whether going to his house was right, especially considering Max’s behavior in the theater tavern only two weeks ago—but hunger had gotten the better of her.

The apartment door was open.

“Hi!” Franza called. “It’s me!”

She closed the door behind her.

“Come in,” he called. “I’m in the kitchen!”

“OK, on my way.”

He had raided the fridge and produced cheese, sausage, tomatoes, gherkins, eggs. Bread was already sliced into a little basket. No bacon today. He was standing at the table, laying out plates and cutlery. She watched him. He was tall and still slim, but his hair was thinning and gray and his shoulders stooped slightly. He fought against it, against gravity, against the pitfalls of aging that were irrevocably setting in. Not only for him, thought Franza wistfully.
It happens to us all.

“Hello,” he said, turning. “Everything OK?”

How amicable they were with one another these days. How relaxed and civilized. Friends. And yet it was clear to her that this was a fragile friendship.

What was that word that so perfectly described the vagueness between feeling and reason? Between that feeling in your belly and what your head told you?

Conflicting?

Yes, that was it. Who had said it? Frau Brendler? Conflicting.

Always. Everywhere. Everything.

Franza thought of the fights they’d had during their gradual breakup—those desperate attempts to find anything that might still hold the love of their early years.

They had been wild, those arguments, unpredictable, flaring up suddenly, flames that little by little burned up all they had had in common, including their feelings for each other. Despite all that, they had somehow managed to keep something, and she was proud of that.

She touched his back briefly. “Well,” she said. “You know what it’s like. A new case.”

He nodded, didn’t ask. He had never wanted to hear about the murders or the acts of violence that made up such a large part of her life.

“Wine?” he asked.

“I’d prefer beer.”

They sat in his kitchen, ate, drank, talked about Ben.

Later it was coffee and the cookies that she still called
k
ekse
in deference to her Austrian roots, to the homeland she still missed in occasional unexpected moments. Then she would go down to the Danube, allowing her thoughts to be carried away downstream, leaving her feeling calm.

“Where’s your sweetheart tonight?” Max asked as he stuffed another gingerbread cookie into his mouth.

“Show,” she said.

“Vienna?”

“In a few days.”

He nodded, and then grinned. “Do you remember how we met?”

“Of course I remember. It’s not the kind of thing you forget. Baking cookies. I had dough in my hair. You tugged it out for me.”

“That’s it,” he said. “Baking cookies. Your second passion.”

She had to laugh. “What’s my first, then?”

“Chasing after murderers.”

“Ah,” she said, a little disappointed. “And my third?”

“Ben.”

“Ah,” she said again. “And my—?”

“Men,” he interrupted, smiling at her, enigmatic, wily. She looked him in the eye for a beat too long.

“Time for some wine now?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I sometimes think you might be lonely,” he said as he returned with the wine and glasses. “More alone than before.”

She chuckled and repeated his words. “More alone than before. Did you just make that up?”

He shrugged, smiled, and looked embarrassed, to Franza’s amazement.

“Possibly,” he said. “For you. It seemed appropriate.”

“I’m not alone. Not even
more alone than before
.”

“Then I must have been mistaken.”