expected. I’d imagined one of those sleek German girls, blond, buxom, thin, with a dark indoor tan, who was just beginning to thicken around the middle from years of cream-laden tortes. Even when Anna had said that Frigga was Gunther’s grandmother, I had merely done a little mental rearranging and added fifty pounds instead of ten.
But Frigga was old, eighty at least, with wrinkled, spotted skin and red-rimmed dark eyes. She was wearing a smart pink Chanel suit from the 1950s, with a black shawl over her shoulders, heavy support stockings and well-polished orthopedic shoes. When I arrived, she was sitting in the garden speaking in stilted English to Marco. There was no sign of Andrew, or of Bitten, but from upstairs came the mournful adagio Bitten had played this morning.
“I will not leave Venice until I find out who murdered him.”
From the expression on Marco’s face, I had a feeling that Frigga had said this more than once.
“Ah, Cassandra,” he said. “This is the grandmother of Gunther, Frau Hausen. We have been to the police station, and we have heard the results. Gunther died of water in the lungs, very sad. To date the police have no witnesses and no motives. So perhaps Gunther only had a misstep, they think.”
“I know he was killed,” said Frigga. “I begged him to be careful, always to take special precautions with his stomach when he traveled and not drink too much coffee. I tried to protect him, his whole life, just like I tried to protect his family. I failed. They all are dead. All dead. And I live on and on. I don’t understand.”
I didn’t really understand either. Gunther hardly seemed like the type to have enemies. Unless of course he’d been a drug courier or had a criminal past. But as far as I knew from his biography in the program, and from what Nicky said, Gunther had been playing and teaching the Baroque bassoon for the past ten years in Düsseldorf.
“I will not leave Venice until I find out who murdered him,” she said again, and Marco’s eyes glazed over. With an effort he said, “We go out to dinner now, yes? To the local restaurant with many Venetian specialty dishes. Have you ever had squid in its own ink, Mrs. Hausen? You will like to come too, Mrs. Reilly?”
In spite of my sympathy for Marco, I couldn’t think of many worse ways to spend the evening.
“I have a tremendous amount of work to do. But I’m sure Andrew would love to join you. Meanwhile, I’ll just have a quick word with Bitten.” I went into the palazzo .
It was difficult to believe that when I’d first met Bitten a few days ago, she’d seemed a lusty Swede, in ripe middle age, bursting out of her silk shirt. Now her skin was no longer soft and plump; she was like a slice of orange that had been left out overnight. She’d put her bassoon to the side and was sitting in a corner of the room with a glass of wine. I asked her if she’d like some dinner. She shrugged and gestured to me to sit down on the bed. I could see there were two suitcases in the room and wondered if one of them was Gunther’s.
“Did you know Frigga was Gunther’s grandmother?” I began, not exactly where I’d planned.
“She calls herself his grandmother, but she’s really his great-grandmother,” Bitten said. “Gunther’s mother was her granddaughter; she took her in as a baby and raised her. Gunther’s mother died when he was a child, and Frigga took him in.”
“That’s a sad story,” I said.
“Gunther’s was the third violent death in three generations. Unbelievable,” said Bitten, rubbing her forearms. “If anyone, you would have thought Gunther could have broken the spell. He had the spirit of an angel.”
“Do you think he was murdered then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said violent death.”
“No one goes into a canal easily. Unless they commit suicide. But why would he do that? He had everything to look forward to. We had everything to look forward to.”
In the face of her obvious
But Frigga was old, eighty at least, with wrinkled, spotted skin and red-rimmed dark eyes. She was wearing a smart pink Chanel suit from the 1950s, with a black shawl over her shoulders, heavy support stockings and well-polished orthopedic shoes. When I arrived, she was sitting in the garden speaking in stilted English to Marco. There was no sign of Andrew, or of Bitten, but from upstairs came the mournful adagio Bitten had played this morning.
“I will not leave Venice until I find out who murdered him.”
From the expression on Marco’s face, I had a feeling that Frigga had said this more than once.
“Ah, Cassandra,” he said. “This is the grandmother of Gunther, Frau Hausen. We have been to the police station, and we have heard the results. Gunther died of water in the lungs, very sad. To date the police have no witnesses and no motives. So perhaps Gunther only had a misstep, they think.”
“I know he was killed,” said Frigga. “I begged him to be careful, always to take special precautions with his stomach when he traveled and not drink too much coffee. I tried to protect him, his whole life, just like I tried to protect his family. I failed. They all are dead. All dead. And I live on and on. I don’t understand.”
I didn’t really understand either. Gunther hardly seemed like the type to have enemies. Unless of course he’d been a drug courier or had a criminal past. But as far as I knew from his biography in the program, and from what Nicky said, Gunther had been playing and teaching the Baroque bassoon for the past ten years in Düsseldorf.
“I will not leave Venice until I find out who murdered him,” she said again, and Marco’s eyes glazed over. With an effort he said, “We go out to dinner now, yes? To the local restaurant with many Venetian specialty dishes. Have you ever had squid in its own ink, Mrs. Hausen? You will like to come too, Mrs. Reilly?”
In spite of my sympathy for Marco, I couldn’t think of many worse ways to spend the evening.
“I have a tremendous amount of work to do. But I’m sure Andrew would love to join you. Meanwhile, I’ll just have a quick word with Bitten.” I went into the palazzo .
It was difficult to believe that when I’d first met Bitten a few days ago, she’d seemed a lusty Swede, in ripe middle age, bursting out of her silk shirt. Now her skin was no longer soft and plump; she was like a slice of orange that had been left out overnight. She’d put her bassoon to the side and was sitting in a corner of the room with a glass of wine. I asked her if she’d like some dinner. She shrugged and gestured to me to sit down on the bed. I could see there were two suitcases in the room and wondered if one of them was Gunther’s.
“Did you know Frigga was Gunther’s grandmother?” I began, not exactly where I’d planned.
“She calls herself his grandmother, but she’s really his great-grandmother,” Bitten said. “Gunther’s mother was her granddaughter; she took her in as a baby and raised her. Gunther’s mother died when he was a child, and Frigga took him in.”
“That’s a sad story,” I said.
“Gunther’s was the third violent death in three generations. Unbelievable,” said Bitten, rubbing her forearms. “If anyone, you would have thought Gunther could have broken the spell. He had the spirit of an angel.”
“Do you think he was murdered then?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said violent death.”
“No one goes into a canal easily. Unless they commit suicide. But why would he do that? He had everything to look forward to. We had everything to look forward to.”
In the face of her obvious
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