Death of a Wandering Wolf Read online

  “Well, I do want more,” Katie said. Then she made a rueful face at me. “But I kind of miss him. And he keeps texting me, even though we agreed we wouldn’t do that.”

  “He misses you, too. Isn’t that romantic?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then she looked at her watch. “I have to get going, too. My mom is expecting me at nine. We’re cleaning out some of her closets because I have decided she’s a hoarder.”

  I laughed. “She is not. She’s sentimental. It’s not like she’s sitting on a giant pile of newspapers.”

  “Not yet,” Katie said. “But today the dumpster will be our friend. I’m going to take this stuff up and buy it.”

  “Okay.” My eyes went back to the Hungarian street scene. Something about it kept drawing my attention. I went to the wall and picked it up, along with the woman at the fence, and brought them to the front. I felt a little bit wealthy; my mother (and boss) had just given me a bonus after my work on a huge event that had made the tea house several thousand dollars. I had stowed the money in the bank, but some of it had gone into an account that I called “collections.” I drew from this to fund my artistic purchases.

  I walked to the stairs, where Katie was putting away her wallet. She pointed at me. “I’m going to put this stuff in my car. I’ll meet you out there.” She lifted her canvases and ascended the stairs, thumping into the wall now and then with her bulky purchases.

  The man smiled after her and said, “Nice girl.”

  “Yeah. She’s my best friend,” I said.

  He began taking tags off the items I set before him: the sweater, the wolf, the two canvases. He flipped over the first painting to see what I had chosen and contemplated the melancholy street scene. He said, “Keszthely. The place of my heart. Beautiful place, beautiful people.” He stared at the painting while he said it. He seemed to be appreciating not his own talent but some memory elicited by the visual.

  “You’re Hungarian?”

  He nodded. “Born there, but came here thirty years ago.”

  “I’m Hungarian, too. On my mother’s side. Her maiden name is Magdalena Horvath.”

  His eyes lifted, met mine with sudden interest. “I know Magda. And Juliana. The tea house ladies, right? We Hungarians always seem to meet each other here and there.”

  “Yes, that’s us.”

  He was still looking at me. “Your eyes have the shape of your mother’s, but the color is more like your grandmother’s. Do you have other things in common with her?”

  I shrugged. “People say we’re both hardheaded. I don’t agree, though.”

  He smiled. “People like to apply their labels. It’s difficult to really know a person, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled again, with that pleasant crinkling around the eyes, and he reached out to shake my hand. “And your name is?”

  “Hana.” I shook his hand; something opened up in my mind, a large space, full of light, but only for a second, and then it was gone.

  “I’m Will Kodaly. We should have coffee sometime; I am fascinated by your family.”

  “Well, that would make you the first,” I joked.

  “I doubt it,” he said, his face inscrutable. “In any case, let’s finish ringing you up here.” He turned over the other painting and paused briefly, his hand arrested in midair. He looked at the woman in front of the fence, the woman he had painted, and his gaze softened. Then his face showed regret, and the smile he flashed at me was grim around the edges. “Good choice,” he said. “One of my favorites.”

  “Why are you selling them?” I said. “I would think you could get a gallery showing and—”

  “I’ve got plenty more. These sales just help pay for art supplies, expenses.” He had all the tags now; he added up the total and said, “Seventy-five dollars.”

  I got out my checkbook; I couldn’t believe what I was getting for that price. A new-looking sweater that probably cost a hundred or more in the store, two original paintings by a professional artist, and a Herend wolf. I handed him the check.

  He chuckled. “You have the look of a woman who got what she wanted.”

  “Oh, more than I wanted! Thank you so much.”

  He reached under his little table and produced some bubble wrap. “In case you want to wrap that,” he said, pointing at the wolf. It was clear that he didn’t even want to touch it.

  “Oh yes. Thanks.” I wrapped it carefully and stowed it in my purse. He put the sweater in a plastic bag.

  “I don’t have any way to wrap the canvases. Do you want me to walk them to your car?”

  “I’ve got them, thanks. I hope you make a lot of money, Will. You’re very talented, and those paintings shouldn’t be hidden in a basement.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed his head at me. “Neither should you, Hana.”

  I blushed, not sure what he meant. I thanked him again and climbed his stairs, relieved to be out of the rather dark space which had become more and more redolent of sadness.

  On the street outside, Katie had finished packing her canvases away and was adjusting her silky ponytail. I gave her a hug and told her to call me soon.

  “I will,” she said. “Have a nice breakfast with your boyfriend. Stop looking for some magical light and just focus on how handsome he is.”

  She waved and climbed into her car. I went to my car and stowed the paintings along with the sweater behind the driver’s seat. The wolf, safe in my bag, accompanied me to the driver’s door. “You stay with me, my precious,” I said. Luckily, Katie was no longer there, or she would have mocked me.

  I pulled away from the curb and saw a gray car pull into the spot I had vacated. A man emerged from it almost immediately, and he seemed to be looking after my car in confusion. I studied him in the rearview mirror; he stood in the street, scratching his head, as though puzzled by my departure.

  “Can’t believe his good luck at finding a space,” I said to myself, but I wasn’t entirely convinced.

  With a shrug, I focused on the road that would bring me to Amelia’s Breakfast Nook, and Erik Wolf.

  * * *

  The freezing drizzle was still falling as I darted into the warm little waffle shop that Erik and I had made our place for stolen morning meetings. It was located midway between the police station and the tea house, and we tried to make time for each other every day, even when schedules were tight.

  Today I found him already seated, looking adorably rumpled and undeniably sexy as he studied the fine print on a sugar packet with his Wolf-like scrutiny. I stomped on the entrance mat a few times, and Erik looked up and caught my eye. Something in his face relaxed, and he smiled slightly and stood up at his seat, like some old-fashioned gentleman at a dance. I moved swiftly and tucked into his arms. “Hey,” he said, kissing my ear.

  “Hey.” I slid my hands over his shoulders and played with the hair that grew over his collar. “I brought you a present.”

  “Yeah? Besides you?”

  “Mmm.” I touched my nose to his neck, inhaling his sandalwood scent. “Something you have to try on. I left it in the car. You can give me a fashion show later.”

  He laughed. “Sounds good.” A waitress walked past us with a mumbled “excuse me,” and I realized we were blocking the aisle.

  “I guess we should sit.”

  “Yeah.” Erik stole a quick kiss, warm and soft, and I sat down with a slightly dizzy feeling.

  Then we faced each other across the table and a familiar chasm opened. Erik’s face took on a closed, shuttered look that said he resented being interrogated about his life, and I’m sure I looked assertive at best, leaning forward, ready to begin a new assault of “getting to know you” questions. “I know you hate this,” I said, “but we agreed that we’d share personal stuff. How can we be together without knowing anything?”

  He shrugge
d. “It’s worked for a month. Are you happy?”

  My lips curled upward of their own volition. “Yes.”

  “Me, too. Maybe the other stuff should just come when it comes.”

  “Just a few questions.”

  He took a sip of his coffee. “Fine. What are your questions, Hana?”

  I loved the way he said my name. It distracted me briefly, and then I shook my head. “Where were you born?”

  He scratched his cheekbone. “Chicago. My parents still live there.”

  “Okay, great.” A worry surged to the surface. Why had he not asked me to meet his parents?

  “Where were you born?” Erik asked, setting down his mug.

  “Riverwood. I haven’t left town much since then.”

  “Maybe I’ll have to whisk you away somewhere.” Again, his expression distracted me from my intentions.

  “Stop being sexy all the time. I’m trying to learn things about you.”

  He held up his hands. “I had no sexy intentions. Please proceed.” He was making fun of me.

  I ignored his grin and said, “You know more about my family than I do about yours. You know I have a brother. You’ve met him, you’ve eaten meals with him. You’ve met my parents and my grandparents. How many Wolfs have I met? Or Wolves? What’s the plural?”

  Erik Wolf shrugged. “I don’t even see them that much. They’re all busy, so it’s hard to coordinate schedules.”

  “And you have three sisters? Is that right?”

  “Two sisters and a brother.”

  I sighed. That was all he was going to offer. “That’s it? You’re a cop! Can’t you provide some detail? Pretend they’re suspects.”

  He pondered this, looking into his coffee. Then he said, “Mom and Dad run a camping equipment store. They’ve always been outdoorsy types. They keep very busy with the store, both the physical store and the online one. It’s called Trekker.”

  “I’ve heard of Trekker! I ordered a thermos from them once! I ordered a thermos from your parents!”

  He nodded, unimpressed.

  I sighed. “Fine. And your siblings?”

  “My sisters also live in Chicago. My brother lives in Washington. He went to school there and kind of never came back. We visit twice a year.”

  “Who’s the oldest of the kids?”

  “My brother. Felix.”

  “That’s a cool name.”

  Erik shrugged.

  “And your sisters?”

  “Runa and Thyra.”

  I sighed. “Like pulling teeth. I hope not every Wolf is as reticent as you—Oh! Guess what.”

  He looked relieved. “What?”

  “I found treasure. Real treasure. Look.” I lifted my purse just as a waitress appeared.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  Erik and I both ordered omelets, then she collected our menus and went on her way with a cheery promise to return.

  I carefully removed the beautiful Herend wolf from the bubble wrap and handed it to my boyfriend. “Remember the beautiful blue rose you gave me? That was Herend; so is this. Their fishnet design. Isn’t he gorgeous?”

  Erik nodded. “Very cool. The eyes are amazing.” He turned it over in his hands; I knew he was showing interest partly because he wanted to please me, and a little blossom of love bloomed within me. “I wonder how long it takes to—” Suddenly he froze. “Hana.” He looked up at me with wide eyes: alert, cop eyes.

  “What? What’s going on?”

  Wolf swept the room with his gaze, taking five seconds to assess everyone in it. “This is disturbing. Where did you get this wolf?”

  “At a garage sale. The guy was really nice; he let me have it for only five dollars, and it’s worth way—”

  “Have you been home? Have you gone to your apartment since you left there?” His eyes had the laser focus that I had only seen in early September, almost two months ago, when he had been investigating a crime.

  “What? No, I came straight here. What’s going on? What’s the problem?”

  He thrust my ceramic treasure at me, holding it belly up. “Look, Hana!”

  “What? At that little silver thing? I wondered what that was. I thought it just got added in the factory. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “It’s a tracker,” he said. “If you’re holding this wolf, someone can track your location. You’re telling me this guy sold it to you cheap?”

  “Yeah, but he was being nice. He said he didn’t want it—”

  “What’s it really worth?”

  “Five hundred, at least.”

  Erik’s face was grim, even angry. “We’re paying this guy a visit right now.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  He stood up and looked taller than I remembered. “We’ll take it to go.”

  Before I knew it, we were back in the cold, with a container of food and my Herend treasure once again wrapped up in my bag. The treasure had not lost its luster for me; I was sure that Erik would find it had all been a misunderstanding.

  A glance at his face, his clenched jaw, told me that he did not agree, and that he considered my lovely wolf a source of mystery and danger.

  Chapter 2

  The Man in the Café

  The house looked somehow different when we pulled up in front of it. The day had grown darker, and the mood of the street had changed from a happy fall avenue to a dark and brooding lane. Wolf turned to say something to me, but we were both distracted by the woman who burst out of the side door of the house that I had left not an hour earlier; she was pale, distressed, and crying.

  “Wait here,” Erik said. I opened my mouth to protest and he locked eyes with me; his green gaze was beseeching. “Please, Hana.”

  “Okay.”

  He nodded and got out of the car; he crossed the lawn in a few strides and showed his ID to the woman, who touched his arm with one hand while wiping at her eyes with the other. Then she pointed into the house. Erik Wolf drew his weapon and went through the door. I looked up and down the street. It felt quiet, like the eye of a hurricane. A black dog trotted down the sidewalk, trailing his leash behind him, and a small boy ran after him and scooped up the leash; even through my closed window I heard his little voice chiding, “No, Padfoot.” A Harry Potter dog, I mused. But then shouldn’t his name have been Sirius? I rubbed at my arms, then looked down to see that they were covered with goose bumps. “Oh no,” I said, and I looked back up to see Wolf on the lawn, his phone in his hand, his face grim as he spoke into it.

  A car pulled up and the distressed woman pointed to it, saying something to Erik. He put away his phone and spoke to her briefly, then waved her on. She walked unsteadily to the car and climbed inside. By the time Erik walked back toward me, I could already hear sirens. I rolled down the passenger window and he leaned on it, his mouth grim but his eyes gentle. “Hana—”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? The man from the garage sale.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. He’s been shot.”

  “Are—you sure he’s dead?”

  Wolf’s jaw tightened. “Yes. Can somebody come and get you? Or can I pay for an Uber to take you back to your car?”

  “Yes, all right. But—do you need information from me?”

  He scratched his head; he took a moment to wave to his partner, Detective Greg Benton, who had arrived at the scene with some other officers. Erik pointed to the door. “Basement,” he called, and Benton strode across the lawn and into the house. Then he looked at me. “How did you happen to come across the wolf that he sold you?”

  “Katie found it. It was buried on some dusty table. He wasn’t trying to force it on me at all. But he was glad to get rid of it. He said it had unpleasant associations.”

  Erik’s eyebrows shot up. “What else did he say?”

  “Just so
mething about not liking a person who gave you a gift. And how that made the gift have no value, or something like that. It’s why he was willing to give up the wolf for five dollars.”

  Erik nodded. “It seems that whoever gave him this gift had ulterior motives. That in fact your wolf may have led someone here to kill this man.”

  I gasped. “There was a man, right behind me.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, he pulled in behind me as I was leaving. He was looking at my car with a funny expression, like he was surprised I was leaving. He was staring after me when I drove away.”

  Erik’s face grew pale. “Hana. Oh, God.”

  “What?”

  “If he was following the wolf, that means he got there as the wolf was leaving. With you. What if someone told him to kill whoever possessed that thing?”

  I stared at him, my mouth open. Had that man been a murderer? “I—I don’t—”

  He touched my arm with his big warm hand. “I’m sorry. You’re fine, everything’s fine. What did this man look like?”

  “Oh—I only had a glimpse. He looked—sort of unkempt, with brownish hair. And a kind of parka. And his car was gray.”

  He nodded and stood up, looking around the street. “We might get lucky with some home security cameras.”

  “Erik.”

  He leaned back in and studied my face with his green eyes. “Yes?”

  “He was a nice man. He was Hungarian! And an artist, a professional artist.”

  “You know his name?”

  “Oh—yes. I’m sorry. His name is William Kodaly. Look at the paintings in his basement. You’ll see that he was so talented . . .” My regret threatened to overwhelm me. I had met him just that morning, exchanged words with him. He had told me that I would be a good subject for a painting. We had connected over our Hungarian heritage; he had looked healthy, sturdy, and good-natured. In the last half hour, someone had killed him.