“Nope,” Amber said. “The care and feeding of performers—especially you temperamental singers—is part of my job description. You’re starting to droop, but you’re not the only one. We’ll call it a day, and pick it up from there tomorrow. Now go home and drink some tea or coffee or a hot toddy or whatever to rest your voice. Git!”
Marla got, along with the others. Amber in full director mode was not to be gainsaid. And in truth, she was tired. Fatigued would be a better word, actually. But it was a good feeling.
Ever since the night she sang The Song (as she thought of it) at the Green Horse, she had felt different—more…something. Assured wasn’t the word, and neither was peaceful or well. Centered, now…that might be the right word. She still hurt from her loss, she still grieved at times, but she didn’t feel totally off-balance all the time, as if she was swinging from one extreme to another on an emotional bungee cord. It was like when she first met Franz, after the Ring of Fire happened and she’d lost her parents and her brother. She’d been more than a bit moody then as well, and he had given her a center to rest on. Now, in a very strange way, that performance had done the same thing for her.
Or maybe she was just a bit dotty, to use a phrase her Aunt Susan would say, and it was just that enough time had passed for her to turn the corner, or crest the hill, or pass through the valley of the shadow of death, or whatever metaphor was most appropriate. Either way, she was thankful for the change.
By now her musings had carried her through the front door of the Royal Academy of Music, where they had been rehearsing. She finished buttoning her coat, and shifted her load of books to her left arm.
She looked up as Klaus and Reuel stirred from where they leaned against the front of the building. “Ah, there you are, my faithful shadows.” The two men grinned at her, but didn’t speak. She pointed across the small plaza. “To the opera house, to find my husband. The orchestra is rehearsing today, and we got done early.”
* * *
“Yo, Karl,” Byron called out. Gotthilf tagged along with his partner as Detective Honister changed directions and came their way. “I hear the final report on the fire investigation was turned in yesterday. Did Dan say it was arson?”
Karl Honister shook his head. “No, he stopped just short of that. He listed it as the most likely possibility, but he also said that it might have been an accident due to carelessness. The oil can that we found was one that belonged to Schiffer, after all.”
Gotthilf snorted. “That is analogous to saying God is at fault because He created all things; therefore He created the wood, the oil, fire, and the idiot that brought them all together.”
Byron laughed out loud. “Good one, partner.” Gotthilf grinned in reply.
Honister smiled. “Indeed. Myself, I think the candle stub we found is probable proof of intent.”
“Yah,” Gotthilf replied. “I have trouble believing that that particular piece of evidence was there simply by random chance or negative serendipity.”
The other two men nodded in agreement.
“I think Captain Reilly agrees,” Honister added. “He told me to do more digging into this, see if I can find a suspect either way.” He looked at Magdeburg’s two best detectives. “Any advice for me on this one? I do not mind admitting it is somewhat outside of my experience.”
“Just one thing,” Byron said. He looked to his partner.
“You should know this one,” Gotthilf picked up the cue. “I learned it at my father’s knee, and you should have learned it at yours—follow the money.”
* * *
“Arson?” Andreas Schardius pinched the bridge of his nose. “They think that someone set the wood stock on fire on purpose?” He lowered his hand and stared at Georg Kühlewein and Johann Westvol. His stomach began to roil; not an uncommon occurrence when he was in the presence of these two.
“Not necessarily,” Kühlewein said. “They did say that it could have simply been an accident on the part of one of Schiffer’s employees.”
Schardius’ mouth twisted in reaction to that thought, but he didn’t say anything for a moment.
“Do you know who is doing the investigation?”
The other two men looked at each other, then Kühlewein said, “Someone named Honister, I believe.”
“Ah, Phillip Honister’s boy,” Schardius said. “He’s of good stock; he’ll do it right. At least it’s not Chieske and Hoch.”
He’d had contact with those two during the investigation of Paulus Bünemann’s death last year. Bünemann was a fellow corn factor, and the two detectives had had the temerity to consider him a suspect in the crime. Not respectful; especially since he hadn’t been involved in it at all. Not that he hadn’t thought about it occasionally, but he’d decided a long time ago that thoughts didn’t count, except in Sunday sermons.