Death of a Wandering Wolf Read online

  Praise for Julia Buckley

  “Julia Buckley’s delightful new series debut . . . includes three generations of strong, intelligent women, craving-inducing discussions of food, and a fascinating background of Hungarian culture along with a dandy mystery.”

  —Miranda James, New York Times bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries

  “Buckley’s pleasantly old-fashioned fourth is filled with credible suspects and a creeping sense of menace.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Awesome. . . . It is never a surprise that author Julia Buckley writes a winner.”

  —Suspense Magazine

  “With her Writer’s Apprentice mysteries, Buckley both delivers a solid new amateur sleuthing series and pays homage to marvelous old gothic and romantic suspense novels by Mary Stewart, Phyllis A. Whitney, and Elizabeth Peters.”

  —The Booklist Reader

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Julia Buckley

  A Hungarian Tea House Mystery

  DEATH IN A BUDAPEST BUTTERFLY

  DEATH OF A WANDERING WOLF

  Writer’s Apprentice Mysteries

  A DARK AND STORMY MURDER

  DEATH IN DARK BLUE

  A DARK AND TWISTING PATH

  DEATH WAITS IN THE DARK

  DEATH WITH A DARK RED ROSE

  Undercover Dish Mysteries

  THE BIG CHILI

  CHEDDAR OFF DEAD

  PUDDING UP WITH MURDER

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Julia Buckley

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9781984804853

  First Edition: June 2020

  Cover art by Sara Mulvanny

  Cover design by Vikki Chu

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  pid_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Julia Buckley

  Titles by Julia Buckley

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  From Hana’s Recipe Box

  About the Author

  To all the Rohalys

  All stories are about wolves.

  —MARGARET ATWOOD

  Wither’d Murder

  Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf, whose

  howl’s his watch . . .

  Moves like a ghost.

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, MACBETH, ACT 2, SCENE 1

  Chapter 1

  The Wolf

  My friend Katie called to me over several tables laden with wares at a Riverwood garage sale; we were there, at my insistence, at eight on a Saturday morning, when one might still find treasure. Since the October wind was blustery and held specks of ice, the sale’s host was displaying his wares in his basement, which made me feel that I was in some eccentric antique shop; and indeed the dim, white-walled room was bulging with items and with possibility. “Hana, look at this! What a gorgeous sweater! Come here. This would look amazing on your hunky boyfriend.”

  I strolled toward her, my eyes scanning dishware and linens. One wall that I had not investigated yet held unframed canvases adorned with original paintings, signed by the artist. Even at a glance I could tell they were very good—the work of a professional. I reached Katie, and she thrust the sweater into my face. “Look at this! It’s an Ulveflokk. I’m dying to visit their store. It’s right down the street from where I work, but I never have time. They were just featured on the Channel Seven news. Did you see them?”

  “No. What’s that weird name?”

  “Ulveflokk! They’re Scandinavian or something. But look at this!” The sweater was indeed lovely, a pale wheat color with a bright blue fleur-de-lis around the turtleneck, an elaborate dotted design in a lighter blue beneath that, and finally a solid wheat at the bottom. “Cotton yarn, very soft,” she said.

  “Why don’t you get it for Eduardo?”

  She looked away. “I don’t know if we’re dating right now. It’s not his color, anyway.”

  “What do you mean, you’re not—”

  “Hey, Hana!” she cried, thrusting the sweater into my hands and lunging toward something a few tables away. “Oh my gosh, I’m finding everything that you’re not today. You trained me well.” She jogged to a shadowy corner and said, “You are going to owe me a million dollars!”

  If people were punctuation, Katie would be an exclamation point. She came back, grinning from ear to ear. “I just found one of your Hungarian things. The company with the diamonds.”

  “What?”

  “You know.” She was hiding something behind her back; her eyes were wide with the joy of discovery. “That net covering.”

  “The fishnet design? Do you mean a Herend piece?” The Herend porcelain company in Hungary had a distinctive technique that set their figurines apart. Dating back to the 1800s, the method was inspired by a Chinese technique using a “fishnet” painted design meant to simulate the scales of fish. It ended up becoming a Herend signature look, and, of course, it made their figurines stand out.

  “Yes,” Katie said. “Tell me I’m the best friend.” Her dark ponytail fell forward over her left shoulder as she leaned toward me, her brown eyes alight.

  “You are, but first let me see what you have.”

  She revealed the figurine with a flourish: a small statue of a wolf, about seven inches long, covered with a chocolate-brown fishnet design.

  “Oh my God,” I breathed. “Katie, you are an amazing goddess of victory.”

  “Oooh, that’s better than what I said to call me.”

  I took the figurine to study it more closely. “It’s a Herend.” I checked the maker’s mark to be sure. “This is one of their wolves—they come in several colors, and this is the chocolate fishnet finish. God, it�
��s beautiful! I’ve never seen one in person, just in the catalog. Look at the detail!”

  Katie jumped around, eager as a child. “You have to buy it.”

  I hadn’t even paid attention to the tag. What would he want for this? Brand-new it was worth more than five hundred dollars, sometimes even more, depending on the source. I looked at the porcelain belly of the beast, where the tag said five dollars. “Oh no,” I said. “This would be like stealing. I have to tell him.” An unhappy feeling rose in me, threatened to engulf me, and then receded.

  “No, you don’t,” Katie whispered. “Finders keepers. Give him the five bucks and put it on your treasure shelf.”

  “I can’t. I have to be honest with him.” Katie murmured some protests as I walked up the aisle, past a few other browsers, and approached the man who sat in a lawn chair at the foot of the basement stairs, sketching in a book. I was momentarily distracted by the sketch—it seemed to be some kind of fairy, and the drawing was outrageously good for something he had tossed off in a dim basement.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’d like to buy some things. This sweater”—it would, in fact, look very good on my blond boyfriend—“and this.” I held up the wolf. “But I have to tell you something. You’re only asking five dollars, and it’s worth much, much more. It wouldn’t be fair of me to underpay that way. Can I make you an offer?”

  He looked to be somewhere between forty-five and fifty; his wavy brown hair tinged with gray made him look vaguely like a Romantic poet. When I spoke, his face, ruggedly handsome but sort of tired-looking and grizzled, didn’t change at all. No gleam of hope at the thought of a bigger sale. “Guess what, hon? It’s worth no more than five dollars to me. So if you want it, that’s all you have to pay. Frankly, it’s got bad associations. You ever dislike a person who gave you a present? Maybe even wanted a restraining order?” He made the last thing sound like a joke.

  “Oh, uh—”

  He smiled. “No, you’re not the type. You have that sweet little face. And hair like fire at twilight. You’d be a great subject for a portrait.” His expression showed the first glimmer of animation.

  “Oh, you’re the artist? Of all those paintings on the wall? I’d like to look at them, too. I’ll just set these down on your windowsill. Don’t let anyone else take them.”

  “Scout’s honor,” he said with a smoky laugh.

  I went back to Katie. “He doesn’t care! He’s going to give me the wolf for five dollars.” The joy of the collector surged within me, and for a moment I felt ready to jump along with my peppy friend. “But let’s look at these paintings. He’s the artist, and these are originals. I’m going to text Falken, let him know about this treasure trove.”

  Falken Trisch ran an antique shop called Timeless Treasures; it was one of the most distinctive shops in Riverwood. He and I had become friends over the last couple of years, and I regularly haunted the aisles of his lovely, whimsical store. I texted him: Just found a Herend wolf and a bunch of really good original paintings at a garage sale on Harrison. You should check it out! I think the ad said he’s here until two.

  Katie and I moved to the back wall, where the canvases were lined up thematically: on the left were landscapes; in the middle, still lifes; and on the right, portraits.

  “These are crazy good,” Katie said, moving toward the portraits. “Look at this old man’s face. He looks like some ancient prophet. How did the guy get this effect, with all the fine wrinkles? That’s amazing.”

  I nodded, then studied the landscapes on the other wall. They, too, were special, distinctive, with a subtle yet masterful use of color. I couldn’t recall seeing forests that looked so grand or mysterious. One of the pieces, a street scene, caught my eye. It was whimsical and nostalgic, yet also sad; the houses seemed to lean against the wind that blew down the street, their colorful rooftops shining bright against a heavy gray sky. It was the painting of a memory. At the bottom he had scrawled “Keszthely, Hungary,” and then his name: “William Kodaly.”

  “He’s Hungarian,” I murmured. I checked the back of the painting and saw that he was asking twenty-five dollars. Again, an undervaluing of what was clearly a valuable piece. Katie was gazing at a portrait of a man on a horse.

  “I don’t know why I love this, but I love it. I’m getting it, and this still life of roses. How do you pronounce his name, Hana?” she asked, quietly enough that he wouldn’t hear.

  “It’s pronounced KO-dye,” I said. “Like the composer.”

  “Oh, right. Well, I want to be able to mention him to visitors. These paintings are real conversation pieces.”

  I couldn’t fault her taste. I floated toward her, drawn by the magic of the things around us, to look at the faces on the canvases in front of Katie. Men, women, children, couples—faces made beautiful beneath the artist’s careful hand. One of them, a painting of a woman leaning against a fence in front of a summer sky, was particularly lovely. My gaze lingered on it for a moment, appreciating the rich use of color in the shading of her hair and in the flowers dotting the landscape behind her.

  My eyes returned to the street scene in Keszthely, and I felt a burst of emotion so strong I had to put out a hand to steady myself.

  “What was that?” Katie asked. Then, studying me more closely, she said, “Is this—are you having one of those insight moments? You said you might have some sort of hereditary ability, right?”

  “I—maybe. But this painting . . . it’s having a visceral effect on me. I can barely feel my body right now.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Katie asked, looking concerned.

  I didn’t know. What was I feeling? Was I being transported to a higher plane with the pleasure of seeing truly great art? Or was I sensing something?

  I tore my eyes away from the painting and looked at my watch. “Anyway, I have to go. Mom and Grandma are expecting me—we have a ladies’ luncheon tea at noon, and I’m supposed to meet Erik for a quick breakfast.”

  “Wow, how fun! I want to come to your tea house someday. I want to be a lady who has luncheon.” Katie stacked up her canvases, ready to haul them to the front, and added, “How are things going with you and handsome, anyway?”

  I sighed a little love sigh, and Katie laughed.

  “They’re going very well. We have—an undeniable attraction to each other. But we’re holding back on the physical stuff a little so we can get to know each other. I told him I want regular meals out during which we ask each other questions and get real information. All I know right now is that he’s a cop and his dad is full-blooded Norwegian.”

  “Well, that’s fine. Get to know each other, but keep on kissing each other, obviously.”

  “No way to avoid it. We can barely keep our hands off each other.”

  “Then why do you look bummed out?”

  I pulled out my wallet. “I don’t. I mean, if I do, it’s just for something stupid.”

  “What is it?”

  I shrugged. “You know how my mom and my grandma both have sort of—a second sense? My grandma especially, but my mom is coming around to the idea that maybe there’s something in her, as well.”

  “Yeah! And in you. Like with the painting back there.”

  I shrugged again. “The thing is—when my grandmother met my grandfather, she said she saw a gold light around him. That’s how she knew he was the one.”

  “Oooh, how romantic!”

  “My mom had a similar experience with my dad. She sort of—saw his aura or something.”

  “So?”

  “So, I haven’t seen anything around Erik. I would like to know that he’s the one.”

  Katie had been examining some embroidered handkerchiefs on a table, but now she set one down and put her hands on her hips. “Wait. You wouldn’t actually let this mess up your relationship, would you?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not saying I would break up
with him. I just—I wish I could have that—you know. Verification.”

  She snorted. “Well, wouldn’t we all? But we have to find out the old-fashioned way. Or at least the non-magical way. By getting to know someone.”

  “Yes, okay, fine. You asked, so I told you. Now what’s going on with Eduardo?”

  Now she shrugged at me. “Nothing. We just decided to go our separate ways, see other people for a while.”

  The last time I had seen Eduardo he had looked pretty hung up on Katie. “Eduardo wanted that, too?”

  “He was okay with it.” She wasn’t meeting my gaze.

  “So what you’re saying is that you broke up with him. Why?”

  She bit her lip for a moment, then said, “He’s a nice guy, but he does not have one romantic bone in his body. You know? The whole time we were dating—no presents, no surprises, no poems written to me, no endless comments about my beauty.” She saw my look and said, “No, I didn’t expect all those things, but one or two of them would have been nice. So I’m thinking maybe I should hold out for someone who’s more naturally a romantic.”

  I studied her and said, “Look at us. Making problems where problems don’t exist.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. We did get along, I’ll say that. But so do brothers and sisters, right? Shouldn’t I want something more?”

  I thought about Erik Wolf, and the way his green eyes darkened when he saw me enter a room. The way he moved swiftly toward me, eager to make contact if only to touch my fingertips with his or to place his lips lightly on my hair. I recalled that when I sat in my apartment, I always knew when he was arriving for an unexpected visit. I didn’t need to look out the window to see his car pulling into a visitor spot; the air changed somehow when Erik was near me, and I felt happier, the way one does when a spring breeze blows unexpectedly through the window.

  “You should definitely want more,” I said. And yet didn’t Katie and Eduardo have something Erik and I did not? A month ago, Erik had sought my help to solve a mystery. This allowed us to speak freely, inspired by a challenge, by the puzzle of human behavior. Now that the case had ended, our conversation was more labored, and this concerned me. Why did we have nothing to talk about?