Vengeance in Vienna Page 18

  And if so . . . why?

  Then she picked up her phone and called the detective. The phone went right to voicemail. Sighing, the second she heard the beep, she said, “Detective Moser. I had an idea. It’s Diana, by the way. I have a feeling Dieter Hausman might be innocent. I’ll call you when I know more. Thanks.”

  The cab pulled up at the front of the hotel that housed the café. She quickly paid the fare and got out, dragging her luggage with her. When she went inside, the place was as empty as it was the first time she’d been there. Diana looked around, hoping that she’d be lucky and find Leonie Winkler, sitting there in the booth, just as she had been the day she met her. But no, the booth was empty. No Leonie.

  She went up to the counter, where a bored barista with a goatee was cleaning the coffee machine. He looked up at her and let out a grunt, clearly annoyed that she was interrupting his duties. “Ja?”

  “Hi. I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for a woman?”

  He rolled his eyes and wiped his hands on a dirty dish rag. “Aren’t we all?”

  Diana ignored his attempt at wittiness. “She was here a couple days ago. I thought maybe she frequents the place? Probably mid-thirties, dark hair, thin, very made-up, but pretty. Dresses very elegantly. You’d notice her.”

  He snorted. “Wish I’d seen her. All we get around here are old people, usually.” He squinted. “Wait. I do remember her. She was wearing a scarf around her neck, right?”

  “Right! That’s her. Do you know her? Her name’s Leonie Winkler. I’m trying to find her.”

  He shook his head. “Never saw her before that. Sorry. I don’t think she was a regular. But I only started here a few months ago.”

  Her thoughts whirled frantically. “Oh. Do you remember anything else about her? Did she tell you anything at all that might help me locate her?”

  He stared at Diana. Then he looked down. “Oh, ja. I have her last-known address, blood-type, and DNA sample right here.” When Diana frowned at him, he said, “I didn’t even talk to her. How am I supposed to know anything? I just remember the scarf.”

  Letting out a breath of air, Diana walked, dejected, out the door, checking her phone. Moser hadn’t called her back. And now, poor Dieter was probably locked up in prison. She’d put him there. An innocent kid who’d had nothing but hard knocks, his whole life.

  She tilted her head to the sky and let out a groan of anguish.

  When she looked down, though, she saw someone, standing behind a fenced tree on the sidewalk. Wearing sunglasses. Staring straight at her.

  It was Marius Ugbodu.

  She waved at him. Maybe he could help.

  He turned and started to walk at a brisk pace, away from her.

  “Wait! Wait, Agent Ugbodu!” she called, trying to catch up with him. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.

  He stopped, and stiffly turned around. “I’m not an agent. Interpol doesn’t have agents. I simply work with them. ‘Mr. Ugbodu’ or ‘Marius’ is fine.”

  “Okay, Marius,” she said carefully. “You’re clearly following me. Did Detective Moser tell you that they had arrested Dieter Hausman for the murder?”

  He nodded.

  “And yet, you’re still—”

  “Just because an arrest has been made, does not mean I can give up and go home. Besides, I saw Mr. Hausman. He doesn’t seem quite bright enough, to me, to have killed Huber.”

  “I know, right?” Diana said, throwing up her hands. “I think that, too. I actually think I know who the real killer is, this time.”

  “You do, do you,” he said, his eyes filled with doubt, and a bit of amusement she didn’t quite understand. “Moser said you were the one who—”

  “I know. I was wrong. But the thing is, I don’t know how to find the person. She’s the person who sold me the ticket. She used the name Leonie Winkler, but I don’t know if that’s her real name or not,” she babbled.

  “Leonie?” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his dark suit. He produced a rumpled piece of paper, which he quickly unfolded. “Leonie Winkler. She’s here.”

  Diana grabbed for the paper, but he held it firmly in his hands, she came around to look at it and realized it was a seating chart, for that night. There was Nina Horvath’s name, just in the seat near the front row. Underneath, it said, Floridusgasse 56. Her address. Diana quickly scanned the seat she’d occupied. Sure enough, the name there was Leonie Winkler, Lorbeergasse 12.

  Lorbeergasse 12. Lorbeergasse 12. Lorbeergasse 12. She repeated it in her head, over and over again, as he snatched the seating chart away from her.

  “Well, that’s it. That’s what I need. You see, I think that maybe she was in love with Huber, one of his women, and he broke it off with her, so she---”

  “You know what I think?” he said, his coal black eyes, intent on her.

  “No . . .” At that moment, she really didn’t care. All she cared about was getting a cab and taking it to Lorbeergasse 12. They had to move quickly. For Dieter’s sake.

  “I think you know that they’re going to find out that Dieter’s innocent, so you’re lining up your next victim to take the fall.”

  Diana froze. “What?”

  “These murders . . . it’s no coincidence, is it?” He said, eyeing her, stroking his chin astutely. “You’ve known, right along, just what you’re doing. You thrill in creating these murders that you can blame on an innocent person. Admit it. Admit that you’re the killer.”

  Her jaw dropped. She stood there, frozen, unable to get her mouth to form words. Finally, she was able to collect herself enough to respond.

  “Are you insane?” She took a step away. “I won’t admit that! It’s not true.”

  “I think I should have Detective Moser take you in for questioning. I guarantee all these murders will suddenly stop.”

  She could tell from the way he was standing there, his hand in his pocket, that he was ready to move. Arrest her, throw her in jail, do everything possible to convince the rest of them that she was the guilty one. Her eyes shifted from side to side. He began to advance.

  The second he did, she said, “There he is! Johann Strauss!” and pointed behind him.

  He whirled.

  She took off in a mad dash, running around the corner and into a marketplace filled with people, lugging her bag with her. Skirting around people in her way, she ran herself breathless, still unsure of where she was heading. When she felt like she could run no more, she threw herself flush against a wall and watched, in disbelief, as Ugbodu rushed right past her.

  Letting out a sigh, she quickly retraced her steps to the main road and held up her hand to hail a cab.

  Lorbeergasse 12. There was no time to waste.

  *

  The cab let Diana off on a small side-street in the middle of the city, in front of a stately, white brick home with black shutters that looked both elegant and historic. Leonie Winkler, if that was her name, had exuded sophistication, wealth and elegance, and this home fit her to a tee.

  Diana looked up and down the street, expecting to see a cab holding Ugbodu, heading toward her. But despite being central to everything, the street itself was quiet enclave, with mostly residential homes and little traffic.

  Diana took a deep breath and looked up at the home. She recalled being a bit envious of Leonie Winkler—she’d had beauty, wealth, and a young family, not to mention the means to visit Musikverein whenever she wanted. What could have driven the woman inside this house to murder? Was it even possible? Diana stood there, shuddering, hardly able to believe it.

  Ugbodu will be here any moment. You’d better go in and find out if your big idea is correct, soon, before he comes and arrests you.

  She climbed the steps and knocked on the door, her hand shaking. She was still determining what to say when she heard movement inside. Eventually, she settled on a story—she’d just happened by to thank Leonie for the ticket. That was believable.

  A moment later, the same d
ark-haired beauty who’d sat across from her in café Johann Strauss answered. She was wearing a pale pink blouse and slacks, her face and hair as made up as before, as if she was about to go out. Or maybe that was how she dressed all the time? Diana couldn’t imagine a moment when this woman wasn’t looking absolutely picture-perfect.

  And she was wearing the pendant, resting in the hollow of her throat. The gray-and-amber striped disc. From here, she could even see the great red spot on its surface. Huber hadn’t named that symphony for the god. He’d named it after the planet.

  Leonie clearly didn’t recognize her, because she frowned and tilted her head. “Ja?”

  “Leonie Winkler?” Diana blurted.

  “Ja?” She seemed even more confused. So that really was her name.

  Diana patted her chest. “It’s me. Diana St. James. You sold me the ticket for the concert a couple days ago at Musikverein?”

  “Oh, right.” Her pretty features seemed to wrinkle in confusion. “How did you know where to find me?”

  A car went by on the street behind Diana. She looked over her shoulder. Not Ogbodu, thankfully. She said, “I asked around! I was so happy to be at the concert—it really was a once in a lifetime opportunity, that I felt like I simply must thank you before I left Vienna. So, thank you.”

  “You . . . asked around?”

  Diana nodded. “The box office told me that the seat had been registered to you.”

  “Oh, it shouldn’t have been registered to me. It was one of—” She stopped and pulled at the collar of her blouse. “I mean, that’s nice. I’m glad you had a great time. No need to thank me. It’s a lovely theater.”

  She started to close the door, but Diana blurted, “I feel terrible that you missed such an amazing performance. I mean, the orchestra was wonderful. But that pianist! Oh, he was simply divine. I feel like I need to find out when his next performance is, so I can kill, steal, or beg to get a ticket for it.”

  The woman stared at Diana, her face a mix of astonishment and disgust. “Oh, dear. Did you not hear the news? It’s been all over Vienna.”

  “What news?” Diana said, feigning innocence.

  “Lukas Huber is dead. They say it happened right after the performance, that night.”

  “Dead?” Diana allowed her jaw to hang open for a beat. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Unfortunately, I am,” she said, absently fingering her necklace.

  “I can’t believe it! Did he have a heart condition? All that pounding the keys, I can imagine, would take a lot out of a person.”

  “No, he was murdered. In his dressing room,” she said rather tonelessly, as if such a thing happened all the time.

  Diana clapped a hand over her mouth. “Goodness! That’s awful. How horrible. Do they know who did it?”

  “I don’t—I don’t know,” she said, her eyes shifted awkwardly away as she started to close the door some more. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news. He was a talent.”

  There’s something she’s hiding, Diana thought immediately. I need to find out what it is.

  Behind her, a car turned onto the street. Diana couldn’t be sure, but it looked like a taxi. She felt jittery and anxious. Waving her hand in front of her face, she began to hyperventilate. “This is terrible. Oh, I feel faint.”

  The woman stared at her in horror. “Are you okay?”

  “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” she said, fanning herself more furiously.

  “Well . . .” The woman opened the door a bit more, allowing Diana to brazenly move her way through. Leonie shrugged. “Yes. Of course. Please. Come in.”

  Good, Diana thought, stepping through the threshold. Now maybe I can see who Leonie Winkler really is.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  Diana followed Leonie through a narrow foyer, and through double doors. “Have a seat,” her host said woodenly. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  Diana found herself in a sun-filled room with black and white striped wallpaper. While something like that would’ve normally made Diana think of a prison, Leonie had pulled it off. The room was homey and yet chic, with modern, comfortable blue denim sofas and a large brick fireplace. Diana sat on the edge of one of the ladder-backed accent chairs as Leonie went to fetch the water. Her eyes volleyed around the room as she heard the water running at the kitchen sink.

  They landed on a massive black-and-white picture, over the mantle. Diana had seen it before, carried by the many fans outside Lukas Huber’s dressing room, and during the vigil. It was the picture of Lukas Huber, looking as pompous as ever, arms crossed, sitting beside his grand piano. From his Sony recording, Lukas Huber! Live and Personal in Paris!

  She stood up and went toward it but stopped when something else caught her eye. There was a Bose sound system on one of the built-in bookshelves, and next to it, rows and rows of CDs. Diana went closer, expecting to see a wealth of different music from various performers.

  Instead, she saw only one.

  There was, obviously, a well-worn and loved copy of Lukas Huber! Live and Personal in Paris! But also, Lukas Huber in Berlin—Recorded Live! Lukas Huber plays Chopin’s Greatest Works. Lukas Huber and the Chicago Symphony Orchestra play Mendelssohn. The St. Petersburg Philharmonic and Lukas Huber—an Evening of Rachmaninoff . . .

  And on and on. In fact, there wasn’t a single CD that wasn’t Lukas Huber. Not one at all.

  Diana was so fascinated by it that she didn’t hear Leonie coming up behind her under a floorboard shifted in the entrance. When she whirled, Leonie was staring at her, a cautious look on her face. “Your water?” She held the glass out.

  “Thank you. Perfect.” Diana took it and sucked in a large gulp. “Whew. I feel better now. I see you were a big fan.”

  She nodded stiffly. “Oh, yes. That was why I was very sad I couldn’t go,” she said, taking the glass back from Diana. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Why weren’t you able to be there again?” Diana asked quickly, as something came to her. “Didn’t you—"

  “I just wasn’t—"

  “You’d said something about not being able to get a sitter for your child, right?”

  The woman swallowed. “Yes. That’s right.”

  Diana nodded. “Ah.” But as Diana looked around, she saw no toys. No discarded blankies. No sippy cups. No baby photos, anywhere. In fact, the only prominent photo in the room was that of Lukas Huber. Other than that, the place was like a museum, where children would be expressly prohibited.

  Leonie seemed to realize it at the same moment, because she laughed lightly and said, “We’re divorced. The child’s husband and me. The child is with him for an outing, so I have the afternoon to myself.”

  The child. It sounded so cold and impersonal. Phony. Diana said, “Boy or girl? I don’t think you told me.”

  “Girl,” she said quickly.

  “Right, I think you did tell me that. How old?” Diana blurted, getting more excited now.

  “Just under a year.”

  “Oh, lovely. What a wonderful age. Walking yet?” Her words were coming a mile a minute now, as if she was an attorney questioning a suspect, on the brink of getting a confession.

  Diana could sense that Leonie was getting defensive from the way she crossed her arms and stammered, “Uh . . .no.”

  Calm it down a little, Diana. She smiled widely. “It’s so cute when they’re crawling all over the place. What’s her name?”

  Leonie’s frown deepened. “What—why are you asking all these personal questions? I appreciate you coming by to thank me for the ticket, but like I said, it’s not necessary. I think it’s time that you left, now.”

  “All right, all right,” Diana said brightly, trying not to rouse suspicions. But the woman was clearly suspicious. And she still hadn’t gotten what she came for. She followed Leonie out to the hallway, her mind cycling through possible stalling techniques. Should she pretend to choke, now? No, she’d already used the “health emergency” ruse. Sh
e needed to think, quick.

  Her mind was still blank when Leonie put a hand on the front doorknob.

  Suddenly, she blurted, “That’s quite a collection. You must really love classical music!”

  She nodded. “Indeed.”

  “I mean, for you to go to Musikverein by yourself. When I was married, I never would’ve thought of doing such a thing without my husband. Even after we were divorced, it was really hard for me to go places, alone.”

  Leonie turned. “How did . . .” She paused, as something seemed to cross her mind. “Well . . . we weren’t married very long, so--”

  “Tickets to the music hall are hard to come by. Many of them are legacy tickets, passed down from generation to generation. Or they’re available as a subscription, to the entire season. And single tickets are often taken by the performers themselves, for guests. I learned that from the box office at Theater an de Wien. So you and your husband didn’t go to the symphony together?”

  She shook her head. “No. My husband was not interested in classical music, so—”

  “That necklace is really nice. It’s Jupiter, isn’t it?”

  Leonie’s hand flew to her chest. “Well, yes, but—”

  “Like the Jupiter Symphony. Did Lukas Huber give that to you?”

  She swallowed. “What?”

  “There is no husband, is there? The necklace, and the ticket were given to you by Lukas Huber, weren’t they? The seat was one of the many seats he secured to give to the women he wooed.”

  The woman’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, as if trapped. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that you killed Lukas Huber. You sold the ticket to me so that it wouldn’t appear that your name was anywhere near the music hall when it happened. Then you sneaked in the back, avoiding the lax security, and waited in his dressing room. You were there when he entered, and you killed him. But you didn’t know that Lukas Huber had added your name to the guest list. You thought it was just anonymous. Right?”