Death (and Apple Strudel) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 2) Read online

At the moment, she felt pretty happy with the job she’d been doing. For example, yesterday she’d suggested that Elsie set up a roulette table in the Amadeus Lounge. And just this morning, she’d helped Elsie and her staff set up a blackjack table there. A section of the bar was getting transformed into a sort of makeshift casino that promised to be extremely popular.

  “What can I get for you this morning?” Bryce asked London.

  “Coffee, of course. I’ve already had breakfast, so maybe something sweet to go with the coffee.”

  Bryce smiled at her—a bit flirtatiously, London thought, or maybe hoped.

  “May I suggest our apple strudel?” he said. “It seems fitting now that we’re heading for Vienna.”

  “Apple strudel would be nice,” London said.

  “Coming right up,” Bryce said. “What have you got planned for lunch?”

  “I may have to skip that,” London said. “I’m going to be on the run all day.”

  “How about a sandwich to go?”

  “That would be nice.”

  Bryce took a small bag out of his pocket and took out what looked like a small cracker.

  “I cooked up something just for you, Sir Reggie,” he said, holding the treat in front of the dog. “Want it?”

  Sir Reggie let out a yap, and Bryce tossed the treat to him. The dog caught the cracker in midair and gobbled it down.

  Bryce smiled at London.

  “I’m always prepared to please customers of all kinds,” he said.

  London felt her own smile broaden as he headed back to the kitchen.

  Elsie leaned across the table and said to London, “Do I detect some romantic sparks in the air?”

  London rolled her eyes.

  “Elsie, when are you going to learn to mind your own business?”

  “Never.”

  London stifled a sigh.

  “It’s too soon to tell. And besides …”

  “Don’t tell me, I already know. You’ve also got your eye on our ship’s German historian.”

  London felt herself blushing. Yes, the suave, intelligent Emil Waldmüller had gotten her attention. He’d also done his own share to help solve the mystery. But he could be strangely off-putting as well as charming, and London hadn’t yet decided what she really thought of him.

  “I’m not here for romance,” she said to Elsie. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Elsie replied.

  Before London could comment, a man stepped up to the table. He was wearing a nautical cap and a colorful silk shirt with a broad collar that spread over his jacket lapel.

  “Are you London Rose, our social director?” he said sharply.

  “Yes, how can I help you?”

  “My name is Kirby Oswinkle. And I’ve got a complaint to make.”

  London felt a tingle of apprehension. She could tell by his sour tone that this was going to be no ordinary complaint.

  Just remember, she reminded herself. The customer is always the customer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kirby Oswinkle, London thought, mulling over the name in her mind.

  Something about the arrogant way the man said his own name suggested that she ought to know who he was already.

  Of course, she realized.

  She’d met him briefly when he’d boarded the Nachtmusik in Budapest, and although he hadn’t made much of an impression at the time, she did remember that nautical cap.

  And also that he hadn’t been especially pleasant.

  Since then, she’d memorized every name on the ship’s manifest, and she knew that Kirby Oswinkle had a suite on the Menuetto deck—not a grand suite, but still very nice accommodations.

  “What can I do to help, Mr. Oswinkle?” she asked.

  “I think you know,” Oswinkle said, crossing his arms. “I brought it up with your concierge on the second day of our voyage. Nothing has been done to take care of the problem.”

  London squinted with thought.

  What problem?

  Then she recalled Amy approaching her about a passenger with a “small complaint” the day before yesterday.

  “Well, not a small complaint as far as he’s concerned,” Amy had added.

  Now she remembered. And now she was also pretty sure she knew who the maintenance chief had meant when he’d mentioned a passenger with an impossible demand.

  “Oh, yes,” London said to Oswinkle. “You were anxious about the temperature in your room.”

  “Anxious?” Oswinkle scoffed. “I believe I put it in stronger terms than that.”

  London nodded.

  “You want the temperature in your stateroom to stay at seventy-eight degrees,” she said.

  “Constantly at seventy-eight degrees,” Oswinkle said. “And I do mean exactly, not so much as a fraction of a degree higher or lower.”

  Bryce had come back from the kitchen. He placed a full to-go bag and a plate of apple strudel on the table in front of her, then stood listening quietly.

  “I’m sure our concierge is doing her best to—” London began.

  “No, she’s not doing her best,” he interrupted. “Your concierge came to my room and saw the problem for herself. But she hasn’t done anything about it.”

  “But are you sure the temperature varies—?”

  Interrupting, Oswinkle produced a digital thermometer from his pocket.

  “I know it for a fact. I don’t trust thermostats to tell me exactly what temperature it is. They’re too approximate. That’s what my personal gauge is for. It tells me when the temperature varies even the slightest. And it does vary—sometimes by as much as half a degree!”

  Half a degree! London thought.

  No wonder Archie Behnke had told Amy this particular task “just can’t be done.”

  Then London noticed that Oswinkle’s agitated manner was attracting the attention of people at nearby tables. Some were openly staring at him and others were smiling or even starting to giggle. Then she realized that Sir Reggie was also paying rapt attention to Oswinkle. Sitting on the chair next to London’s, the little dog kept tilting his head sympathetically at everything Oswinkle said.

  The other passengers were beginning to find the whole scene amusing, especially the dog.

  London started to worry.

  If Mr. Oswinkle notices …

  London stood up to talk with him more confidentially. “Is this due to, uh, health concerns?” she asked in what she hoped was a soothing tone.

  Mr. Oswinkle drew himself up and replied huffily and rather loudly.

  “I don’t see how my health is any business of yours, young lady. The fact that I’m asking for this temperature setting ought to be sufficient.”

  Still listening, Sir Reggie nodded emphatically, as if in complete agreement.

  The nearby customers were chuckling now. A man at a nearby table spoke up.

  “It looks like the dog is the only one here who takes you seriously, Mr. Oswinkle.”

  London was alarmed to see Oswinkle’s face redden with anger.

  Pointing at Sir Reggie, he snapped, “That animal is mocking me!”

  Before she could protest, Sir Reggie drew back sharply, then buried his head in her forearm, acting exactly as if he were crying with shame.

  Most of the surrounding people were laughing now.

  Oh, no, London thought.

  This isn’t good.

  Of course she was sure that Sir Reggie didn’t intend actual mockery with his behavior. He’d probably learned these gestures as tricks at one time or another, presumably before he’d come under Mrs. Klimowski’s tyrannical care.

  Oswinkle let out a growl of anger, then turned to walk away.

  London called after him, “Mr. Oswinkle …”

  Oswinkle turned toward her again.

  “We’ll do our best to solve your problem,” London said.

  Oswinkle took his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “I’m calling your maintenance chief rig
ht this minute,” he said. “It’s about time I personally got him involved.”

  He turned away again and stalked out of the restaurant, tapping a number on his phone.

  Relieved that the people around her didn’t break out into applause again over Reggie’s little performance, London sat down at the table again.

  She leaned toward Sir Reggie and murmured, “You might be too cute for either of our good.”

  He looked back at her as if he couldn’t understand how such a thing was possible.

  Then London gave her attention to the apple strudel that Bryce had brought her. When she took a bite, the flavor vanquished her anxieties over the fussy passenger and his room temperature. The filling was a perfect mixture of cooked apple, cinnamon, and sugar—exactly as sweet as it ought to be, no more, no less. The pastry itself was made out of astonishingly delicate, tissue-thin layers of flawlessly kneaded dough. Like the baklava Bryce had made for London earlier, the whole concoction melted deliciously in her mouth.

  “Um-m-m,” she said.

  “Take your time with it,” Bryce advised her. “Never rush through something that good.”

  He took his bag of dog treats out of his pocket.

  “I’ll bet Sir Reginald has lots of tricks in his repertoire,” he said, unsnapping the dog’s leash from his collar and handing it to London.

  As the other customers watched attentively, Bryce took four glasses off an unoccupied table and set them in a row in the aisle of the eating area, placing them about a foot and a half apart from one another. He coaxed Sir Reginald to sit at one end of the row of glasses, then stood himself at the other end.

  He held out a treat in one hand and snapped his fingers with his other.

  Sure enough, Sir Reginald deftly wove his way back and forth, snaking his way through the row of glasses, and receiving a treat from Bryce at the end. Then Bryce and Reggie switched places and repeated the trick again. This time several customers did applaud.

  Then Bryce stood with his legs apart, and Sir Reginald wove back and forth between them.

  “How did you teach him to do that so fast?” one of the customers asked.

  “I didn’t,” Bryce said. “Those are pretty standard tricks, and somebody may have taught them to him already.”

  “Or maybe he’s just smart,” Elsie suggested.

  “Maybe,” London agreed.

  She’d been struck by his uncanny intelligence during the last few days—especially how he’d led her along the path Mrs. Klimowski had walked through Gyor just before her death. He’d done more than his share to solve the mystery. If it weren’t for him, maybe they’d still be stuck in Gyor while the police looked in vain for the killer.

  “It looks like we’ve got a new ship’s mascot,” remarked Elsie.

  “Yeah, and he’ll have the run of the ship soon,” London said. “The maintenance guys are installing a doggie door in my room.”

  “So he’ll be able to come and go exactly as he pleases,” Elsie said. “How does that make you feel?”

  “What do you mean?” London asked, a little surprised at the question.

  “Well, he’s a high-spirited, independent little animal. He’s not going to want to go following you around all the time anymore. He’ll have things to do, places to explore, people to meet and entertain.”

  London felt an unexpected twinge of melancholy at the thought.

  “I guess I won’t be needing this,” she said, putting the leash in her handbag.

  Finally Bryce and Sir Reggie finished up their little impromptu performance, and they both took bows as the nearby customers applauded. Bryce headed back to the kitchen, and Sir Reggie hopped back onto the chair next to London.

  “So how’s your apple strudel?” Elsie asked London.

  “Beyond perfect,” London told her. “You should try it.”

  She offered Elsie a taste with her fork. At the taste, Elsie’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

  “Mmmm,” she purred. “I wonder if we’ll get strudel this good even in Vienna.”

  London wondered that too—although it seemed almost a blasphemous thought, considering Vienna’s reputation as one of the pastry centers of Western civilization.

  “I’m starting to see what you see in Bryce,” Elsie added. “I mean, it’s one thing that he’s easy on the eyes. If he keeps making desserts like this, I’m liable to develop a crush on him too. I hope you don’t mind having a rival.”

  London shook her head with an embarrassed smile.

  “You’re just impossible,” she said.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot,” Elsie said, getting up from the table. “Well, I’d better get back to the lounge. What are you going to do about Mr. Oswinkle’s temperature problem?”

  London suppressed a sigh.

  “Check in on him, of course. I guess he’s already called Archie Behnke about it. But Archie told me there’s nothing to be done. If Archie can’t fix it, I sure can’t.”

  “I hope you can work something out,” Elsie said.

  “Me too.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Elsie walked on out of the restaurant.

  London quietly enjoyed the last bites of her strudel and finished her coffee before getting up from her chair. She looked down at Sir Reggie, who was still sitting in the chair next to her.

  “I’m on my way to deal with a grumpy passenger,” she said to the dog. “You can come along if you like, but I’m afraid it won’t be much fun. It’s entirely up to you.”

  She was a bit relieved that Sir Reggie hopped down from his chair, apparently happy to join her on this errand.

  As she and the dog walked out of the restaurant together, London said to him, “Maybe you can help me deal with Mr. Oswinkle. I sure don’t know what to do about him. But still …”

  She paused for a moment, then said, “At least it’s not like solving another murder.”

  Sir Reggie let out a little, uncertain-sounding yap.

  “I know what you mean,” London replied as they took the stairs down to the Menuetto deck. “At least a murder can be solved. Maybe there’s no way to solve a problem like Mr. Oswinkle.”

  It irritated her more than she wanted to admit to herself. This seemed like such a mundane issue to have to handle after the excitement, mental challenges, and even danger of the last couple of days. Now that she’d gotten a taste of detective work, was it possible she actually missed “the chase”?

  As London mulled that question over, she and Sir Reggie reached Oswinkle’s room on the Menuetto deck. Oddly enough, the door to the suite was standing wide open.

  Even stranger were the words she could hear from out in the hallway.

  “What you want me to do is against the law.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  London recognized the voice as Archie Behnke’s.

  But what on earth does he mean by “against the law”? she wondered.

  As she hurried to the doorway, Archie’s voice went on, “You see, a stateroom can be thought of as a thermodynamic system. Which means we’re up against the second law of thermodynamics …”

  London stopped and leaned against the doorway, trying not to laugh out loud.

  Archie was standing inside the room pointing to the thermostat. He was delivering what sounded like some kind of scientific lecture to Kirby Oswinkle, whose eyes were glazed with perplexity.

  “Are you following me so far?” Archie asked Mr. Oswinkle.

  Oswinkle nodded uncertainly, and Archie continued.

  “The second law tells us that entropy takes over any system sooner or later. That means that your room temperature is always going to get cooler if it’s truly isolated from any other system—that is, if it doesn’t interact with anything that changes its temperature one way or the other.”

  Oswinkle scratched his chin. He was beginning to look a bit like a trapped animal, but London didn’t feel inclined to interrupt Archie’s lecture.

  Since neither man seeme
d to have noticed her, she took the opportunity to glance around the Bartok suite, which she’d never visited before. Like all the suites on the Nachtmusik, it was named and themed after a Danube-related composer. A large portrait of the twentieth-century composer Bela Bartok, looking serious and a bit sad, hung over the bed.

  The walls featured pages from music scores and images from the composer’s life, including photos of village scenes of when Bartok had toured Eastern Europe collecting and recording peasant folk songs. Although not as vast as the grand suite that the late Mrs. Klimowski had occupied, this one was twice as big as London’s stateroom and quite luxurious.

  London also noticed quite a lot of clutter. Scattered over almost every furniture surface were dozens of little souvenir gifts, presumably of places Oswinkle had visited at one time or another. There was a little brass Eiffel Tower, a figurine of a Beefeater at the Tower of London, a small plaster Rock of Gibraltar, a little Leaning Tower of Pisa, and many more such items.

  He’s a collector, London thought.

  Or maybe more of a hoarder. And he brings it all along with him.

  Meanwhile, Archie kept right on with his lecture.

  “Now, you can try to maintain equilibrium in your thermodynamic system—your room temperature, that is—by having it interact with other systems, say by pumping in warm air or cool air. Even so, the temperature can’t help but change just a little from its intended state, if only because of the law of entropy. Let me try to make that clearer …”

  Oswinkle waved his hands anxiously.

  “No, no! I think I get it,” he said.

  “You do?” Archie said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you sure? I’ll be glad to go over it all again.”

  “You’re saying it’s impossible to maintain the exact temperature of my room.”

  “Well, our system gets you pretty close—less than a degree of variance either way. Which is pretty good, considering that …”

  Oswinkle looked positively desperate for Archie to not start talking again.

  “No need to explain. Really, really, I get it.”

  “That’s good,” Archie said, shaking Oswinkle’s hand. “It was nice visiting with you, Mr. Oswinkle.”