Had I felt the same twitch when I'd looked at the Venus, sitting in her spotlight at the Cottingham that first night, that signal that told me something was not right? I had not. This could be explained by the fact that I knew nothing at all about twenty-five thousand-year-old artifacts. Or it could be because the Venus, quite simply, was real.
But what, exactly, I had to ask myself, did this have to do with Anna Belmont's death? Nothing except that she'd been to the gala unveiling at the Cottingham, and she'd left, come back to the bar, and yelled at a group of people standing there before jumping off a bridge. That, and my dream of course, or should I say nightmare, of Anna floating over my back fence with the Venus in her hand. People said she was crazy. Maybe the crazy person here was a certain antique dealer.
Except—except that she had had her little spell, if that is what we could call it, when Karoly had mounted the stage and started talking about the diaries. I was certain that was when it was. Had she seen the Venus? I didn't think so. I knew she hadn't left the building, because she'd been in the women's washroom still in some distress, but I hadn't seen her filing past the Venus with the rest of us. After that she'd come to the bar, and she'd pointed to a group of four people, two of whom, Karoly and Frank, were intimately associated with the diaries. A coincidence, surely. But was there any evidence that it could have been Courtney Cottingham or Woodward Watson? I'd ask Morgan about the latter, but I was certain the answer would be no. Morgan had been unaware of the tragic events of Anna's life when we'd first met in the bar before the gala. That had been clear from her reaction, which paralleled mine. And I remembered that Woodward had asked Anna if he knew her. Courtney had not looked guilty, it seemed to me, but rather just plain baffled by it all.
These were not the kind of thoughts I wanted to have, given my present location, but they somehow seemed unstoppable. By about six in the morning, I decided that breakfast with Karoly wasn't something I wanted. I had a quick shower, gathered up the clothes that seemed to have scattered themselves about the room, and after a quick glance at Karoly, let myself out. I had a feeling he was awake, but he didn't say a word.
It was barely dawn, but when I crossed the lobby, I heard my name. "Good morning, Lara," the voice said. "Changed hotels, have we?"
"Hello, Frank," I said. "Not a bad hotel for a penniless publisher." He sounded a little peevish, and for a moment I wondered if he was jealous, although why he would care what his heterosexual acquaintances were up to, I couldn't imagine.
"I'm traveling on Karoly's tab," he said. "Cottingham official business."
"So I've heard."
"I was just going to pick up a coffee and take it out to the Fisherman's Bastion," he said. "Care to join me?"
"I don't know what that is," I said.
"Then you must come. We'll have the place to ourselves before the tourist buses get there. It's a bit chilly, but worth it."
It was. The Hilton is located in Buda, on top of the hill, a short walk from Buda Castle. The Bastion, a rather frivolous white colonnade, interrupted by turrets and towers, neo-Romanesque I guess you'd call it, runs right along the edge of Buda hill. Frank found us a couple of chairs from the cafe there, not yet open, and we sat high over the Danube. The dawn light was gray with just a hint of pink, and mist swirled around and under the bridges: the Lanchid, the Chain Bridge, almost directly below, farther away, to the right, the Elizabeth Bridge. To our left, Margit, or Margaret Island, in the middle of the Danube, looked like a magical ship, floating in the mist. Across the river, Pest was waking up, a yellow tram making its way along the Danube Corso, cars, headlights still on, edging along the streets. It was really lovely. I'd thought the previous day that I was in danger of losing my heart to this city. That morning I believe I did.
Hearts, lost and otherwise, seemed to be on Frank's mind as well. "Are you going to break his heart?" Frank said, bestirring himself at last.
"I don't think his is in any more danger of being broken than mine," I said.
"I'm very fond of Karoly," Frank said. "I think of him as this little lost soul, somehow, almost naive in his acceptance of people at face value. He sees in people what they want him to see. I think people like that are almost certain to be disappointed, if not betrayed."
"Is that right?" I said.
"Things are starting to go better for him now," he said. "He's had a difficult time, you know, with his divorce, and the rather abrupt departure from his job at the Bramley. I don't think he expects this winning streak to last, of course. He may have been raised in North America, but he is cursed with an acute case of Hungarian pessimism. It's a national characteristic, you know. It's in the DNA, I suppose. I suffer from it a bit myself."
"Frank, this conversation is a little byzantine for me. I'm born and raised in North America, don't have a drop of Hungarian blood as far as I know, and I need something a little more straightforward. So, forgive my direct approach, but what are you trying to tell me?" I said. "Is it stay with him forever, or is it buzz off?"
"I don't know," he said. "Now that you mention it, the indirect approach may be very Hungarian too."
"You're the one who told him where I was," I said.
"True."
"How did you find out?"
He laughed. "I've infiltrated the Divas. There is a mole in your midst."
"Who?"
"If I told you, she wouldn't be a mole anymore. You have a one in four chance of being right the first time."
"My guess would be Cybil. She knows you better than the rest of us. She thinks that maybe Karoly said something to Anna that would drive her to suicide."
"She what?" Frank exclaimed. "That's ridiculous! I knew Anna, you know. I went to see her a few times when she was holed up in that ghastly apartment with her equally ghastly mother. Cybil suggested I visit, and I did. Let me tell you: Anna was stark, raving bonkers. I told the police that, too. Some fellow who lived by the bridge told police he thought she might have been chased out on to the bridge and over the side. That is absolute bullshit. Losing her child was a terrible thing, but other people survive it. She locked herself up in that little apartment, with her dotty mother, and went quietly mad. She was always a little nuts. Think back to college. She did some really crazy things. Admit it!"
"I suppose," I said. "They seemed more like pranks, though. I remember she talked us into climbing over the wall to one of the men's colleges. We had to pile up garbage cans to do it. We got caught, of course. But the headmaster invited us for sherry."
"Did you happen to notice that she stole some of the silver?"
"No!" I exclaimed. "Well, yes, I do recall that, now that you mention it. You are exaggerating. She took a spoon or something, to prove we'd been there, but she returned it."
"No, she didn't," he said. "It was a silver soup ladle. Sterling, no less. I found it in her stuff when I went to help Cybil clear out the place after she died. The emblem of the college is quite clear. I sent it back to them with a note."
"It was still a prank," I said. "Although I suppose she should have returned it."
"I'm trying to tell you that Anna was nuts, and not just nuts, dishonest. I helped Cybil clear out her room. There were clothes in that closet with the tags still on them. I think she shoplifted, too."