The Zurich Conspiracy (25 page)

It was dusk when Josefa left the photographer’s apartment. After so opulent a meal she chose to go at least part of the way on foot. Maybe that would help her sort out her thoughts. She had reacted to the flattering portrait of her like a naïve schoolgirl. How could she be so stupid? She’d given in to the illusion that the photo revealed how Pius saw her: lovely, sensual, seductive. And yet at the same time he was taking pictures of other women. They were in his lens every day—impeccable, desirable beauties, absolutely sure about their effect on men. Women like Pamela Hartwell.

But how did Pius come to take those revealing photographs? Did Pamela ask him to? Did Colin Hartwell know about them? And why had she chosen a relatively unknown photographer? The cold brought tears to Josefa’s eyes. She picked up the pace a step or two and decided to catch the streetcar at Paradeplatz. Pamela liked to flirt, that’s what people at Loyn said, discreetly of course. She had just turned twenty-three and was fifteen years younger than Colin—an Australian beach bunny with beguiling green eyes. Every photographer’s dream.

Josefa needed some consolation. A hot chocolate with whipped cream in Confiserie Sprüngli was just what the doctor ordered. Weeks later it would dawn on her that it must have happened during that half hour in the Sprüngli. While she was unwittingly dipping her spoon into the whipped cream and wallowing in self-pity, Francis Bourdin took his life. And while she was taking the streetcar home, Francis’s wife must have discovered the suicide note and gone looking for her husband. At last she found him in the garage where he had pumped exhaust fumes into his Maserati. The police stated afterward that there were “no grounds for suspicion” that Bourdin was involved in Schulmann’s violent death; however, the investigation would be “intensified.”

Josefa dared not think how confused the state of affairs was at Loyn. Schulmann had been easy to replace, but what would they do without Bourdin, the “magician,” as he was known in the industry? Josefa wanted to phone Claire, but decided against it, realizing how busy Claire no doubt was. Maybe it would be better to talk to Marlene Dombrinski, since she planned to speak to her about Pamela Hartwell’s earring anyway. She sent her an e-mail asking her to call her but instantly received the automated reply that Marlene would not be back until January eighth.

Three days later Josefa wasn’t so sure if it was a good idea to remind her former team member about the earring. On December twenty-second, her birthday, she went to the mailbox to get her mail. Not that she was expecting any congratulations; nobody gave a thought to anybody’s birthday three days before Christmas. And it was the same this time too: no cards, no packages, no gifts. The little girl in her could have wept. Josefa didn’t even know who she was going to spend Christmas with. She had organized a dozen Christmas banquets, but she hadn’t been invited to one herself. She had no desire to see her father and his wife, and Helene had flown off to be with her boyfriend in Canada for a few days. Paul Klingler’s “Christmas party” wasn’t until the middle of January because his company was too busy before the holidays. So Josefa buried herself in work—at least she had plenty of that—and in a plan to rent at least four videos over the holidays.

The doorbell rang at four in the afternoon. She looked through the peephole expecting to see Sali’s bright face and saw a tangle of green instead.
Flowers!
When she opened the door, the delivery man from the flower shop presented her with a giant bouquet and a small package with a card. Josefa gave him a healthy tip and eagerly read the note.

I have wanted to thank you for so long for the great times we had together. I miss you and hope that life will treat you with all the best.
Lots of love,
Joan

Josefa had to take a seat.
Joan Caroll, of all people, remembered my birthday!
When Josefa quit Loyn, she’d notified Joan’s agent that she was leaving. But Joan had never called back. And now this.

Josefa opened the little package with trembling hands. It was almost as small as Sebastian Sauter’s gift. She opened the lid, and what she saw just about took her breath away: two earrings on white satin. Rubies in the shape of flower petals set in gold. Each had a transparent stone in the center. A diamond-like teardrop was dangling from it.

Pamela Hartwell’s earrings.

Christmas. The telephone interrupted her in the middle of
Fargo
.

It was Markus, calling from London. “We’re playing a club here. A real good gig, it’ll keep me alive at least to the end of February.”

Christmas in a jazz cellar. Not much celebrating there either.

“I wanted to wish you all the best for your birthday,” he continued. “How old are you now anyway?”

“Six years older than you,” Josefa shot back.

“Touché. Hey, I’ve got a hot bit of news for you. Apparently Hans-Rudolf Walther was seen here a few months ago in a gay bar. A friend named Pierre was visiting from Switzerland and he told me.”

“Oh, those are just nasty rumors, the usual gossip around the scene,” she replied. “Walther’s been married twice.”

“As if that means anything, Josefa, you can’t be
that
naïve!” Markus sounded crushed. “But you don’t have to believe it. I just thought it would amuse you.”

“
We are not amused
,” Josefa said, imitating the Queen of England. And deep down, she did
not
think it funny at all. At the moment she didn’t want to hear another word about Loyn. Nothing that she couldn’t explain and pigeonhole. But Markus didn’t have a clue about the turmoil Josefa had been experiencing lately. He lived in a completely different world.

After hanging up, she made some popcorn, adding butter and salt to the little white-and-yellow puffs before returning to the sofa.
Walther in a gay bar. How interesting.
Did the cops know?
If it were all true, then he could be blackmailed; he’d be on the defensive. Then he’d come crawling to her: “Frau-Rehmer-I’ve-made-a-huge-mistake,” and she’d answer: “Unfortunately-this-comes-too-late-for-me-Herr-Walther.” His picture would be all over the newspapers: “Well-known Swiss Businessman Outed.” He might have to retire from Loyn’s management. Whipped, destroyed, crushed. Just what he’d done to others—

The phone rang again. This time she let the answering machine take it.

“Hi, Josefa, this is Claire. It looks like you’re not home. I wanted to let you know that I’m still alive before I go off for a few days. We close over the holidays, but you know that of course. I’ve been stressed out for seventeen hours a day, but things are going well. No sense in panicking. We’ve got everything under control. We’ve got to find Bourdin’s replacement as fast as possible, and I think we will. I hope you’ll have a quiet time over the holidays, and we’ll certainly have a talk soon. All the best for the New Year.”

Josefa refused to pick up the receiver. She didn’t want Claire to think of her as a poor soul in a vale of tears. Besides, she couldn’t stand her busy, excited chatter at the moment. Claire had never asked her if she wanted to come back to Loyn, even out of pure politeness. Out of sight, out of mind, that’s how fast things move. But what did she expect? Claire didn’t need her anymore, and neither did Loyn.

I’m a female pariah,
outcast and alone. That’s how I’ll live, that’s my fate
, Josefa thought, taking a certain satisfaction in her wretchedness.

Josefa had just gotten back to the movie when she was interrupted yet again, this time by the doorbell. Josefa looked at her watch: half past nine. Who could it be? Hopefully not the Albanian family; they’d be shocked by her casual clothes. She tiptoed over to the door and peeked through the peephole.

Josefa opened the door. Her neighbor had on her little black dress. A gold ring held her dark hair back. “I heard you come home and thought I might share this with you,” Esther said, holding a cake in her hand. Josefa saw whipped cream and vanilla sauce and cone-shaped biscuits and capitulated. A St. Honoré cake!

“Come in,” Josefa exclaimed. “I’ve got a cold bottle of Sekt.”

They sat down on the sofa with plates, forks, and glasses—two lonesome souls on Christmas Eve. Apparently Josefa wasn’t the only one with worries; Esther confided that her last dance gig had been eight months ago.

“I’m getting older, and it’s harder and harder to get into a permanent troupe.”

“Have you any savings?” Josefa asked.

“Savings? What are you thinking! In my job you earn next to nothing.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“I’m living off unemployment insurance. And I keep looking.” Esther emptied her glass in two gulps. “And I do forbidden things. Things I’ve never dared to do before because I was afraid I’d get hurt.”

“What kind of things?”

“Skating, for example. This week I was on the rink at the Dolder.” She bit so hard into the piece of cake that cream spurted out the sides. “And who do you think I saw there?” She looked at Josefa in triumph. “The detective.”

“What detective.”

“The one you were with at the zoo.”

Sebastian Sauter. The lone champion of the good cause. But of which cause? What crime was he investigating?

For three evenings she’d done laps around the Dolder ice rink, and there was still no sign of the rusty-red ski jacket Esther had described. Maybe Sebastian Sauter didn’t come here regularly. Josefa felt ancient among all the girls and boys. A tall blonde, her hair blowing behind her, was skating just ahead. She obviously had great fun shaking off her admirers with daring caprioles. But it wasn’t long before her persecutors were snapping at her heels once again.

Josefa’s feet were tired. She decided to take a break and have a hot chocolate. She glided over to the exit, where a young man was just putting a foot on the ice.

“Hi, Josefa,” someone called to her. She had to look twice before she recognized him under his colorful knitted cap.

“Hey, Joe,” she replied with a grin. “You surf on the Web and on the ice too?” She held on tightly to the rail, thinking that Joe looked like a Nepalese Sherpa in that hat.

“Never thought I’d meet you up here,” was his rejoinder. “But it’s perfect timing. I was about to e-mail you anyway. Because of that business…”

Josefa had repressed “that business” with a mighty effort the past few weeks. The unknown e-mailer hadn’t sent one of his disturbing messages for some time. But remarkably, Josefa found the sudden silence just as scary.

“Were you able to find out anything?” she asked reluctantly.

“Yes and no.” Joe tried to scratch his head, unsuccessfully, given his gloves and hat. “The only thing I can safely say is that one sentence was a quotation from an English writer, Oscar Wilde. My friend Jack in England told me.”

“Oscar Wilde?”

“Yes, but it refers to men, not women.”

“So it’s a quotation, a well-known quotation.”

Joe nodded. “And Jack says a couple of the other messages sounded like quotations too.”

“That’s really interesting,” Josefa muttered.

Joe seemed happy about her reaction. “Are you going home already?” he asked.

“I really wanted to…” she began, but then a distinctive cap caught her eye.
Like hell it was a rusty-red ski jacket
—Sebastian Sauter’s ski outfit was dark blue. “…go around one more time,” she finished her sentence.

“Thanks, you helped me a lot,” she called to Joe. “You’ve got a good bottle of wine coming,” she promised before gliding away.

“Make that vodka,” she could still hear him say.

Josefa went on the trail of the dark blue skater, who was maneuvering rather shakily over the ice. “There’s something familiar about you,” she said when she caught up to him.

Sebastian Sauter was so surprised he made an unintended turn and almost lost his balance. “Yes, I know, the skates.”

“The skates?”

“Yes, you’ve got some too.”

Josefa laughed.
Not bad for a detective
, she thought.

“Come this way, we’re holding up people around us.” He took her by the sleeve and skated with her over to the rail. “And how long have you been admiring my clumsy attempts at slipping and sliding?” he asked, fishing out his handkerchief.