A meter-wide Sacher torte with an insignia from Café Demel. Imagining the price for such a confection, he shivered. His mouth watered.
Atop the massive confection posed a sugar figurine of a blond woman resembling Frau Goldfinch in her old ID photo, despite a multi-decade age difference. Either the cake decorators were being generous or her surgeons were skilled. The silver cake stand threatened to crush the chefs’ toes if they didn’t get it inside soon.
They both grabbed hold of the cake stand and helped the pastry chefs hoist it inside. After dusting off their hands, they greeted the butler. He offered a peeved smile, wrinkling his nose at their muddy shoes. A servant provided them with blue elastic shoe covers as if they were entering a crime scene.
The extravagant foyer’s grand staircase curved around an oversize chandelier. Thankfully, the marble floors had been spared the insult of being marred by their shoes. The vibrant art collection was garish. Bizarre sculptures. Technicolor paintings. Deliverymen shuffled back and forth with food platters and decorations. The detectives eyed each other, both aware the other would never have believed them if they’d recounted the details of this house.
The butler escorted them upstairs into an office big as a ballroom. A seating area was arranged on one end, by the doors. Across the expanse, a desk sat before tall windows whose electric-purple curtains draped onto pink and blue carpet. Like neon Versailles.
A trio of portraits decorated one wall, abstract caricatures of the couple on either side of an angelic baby boy, presumably David.Beate inspected the paintings, leaning so close it appeared she was attempting to sniff out the artist’s intention.
A mountain of pink covered the desk. Fabric swatches, a half dozen floral arrangements, towers of invitations and matching envelopes. All pink. An easel holding a poster faced away. Beate walked around it.
“Nice mood board,” she said.
Andreas had a feeling it was pink.
Maybe they were expecting a granddaughter. He couldn’t recall if Hedy’s preliminary autopsy mentioned a pregnancy.
Doors opened behind him. The butler announced Herr Doktor Doktor Goldfinch’s arrival.
Andreas froze as he entered. How this man in a simple navy suit lived in this baroque headache of a house was an unsolvable mystery.
Frau Goldfinch waltzed in next, her gold gown trailing after her, her white-blond bouffant so glued in place it could have survived a battle. It dragged the skin at her temples, imparting the taut appearance of someone trapped in a wind tunnel.
“What’s this about? I assure you, the permits for today’s celebration are in order,” she said.
Beate’s introduction was interrupted by the frantic arrival of an assistant, her face hidden by a massive bouquet of golden helium balloons printed with an assortment of numbers.
“Excuse me, Madame, we need a final decision on the number we’re using,” said a disembodied feminine voice emanating from behind the floating baubles.
Frau Goldfinch checked her reflection, pouting her fish lips. “Forty-nine.”
“Absolutely,” said the assistant, and darted out. Balloons thunked the doorjamb. The butler wrestled them out. A cascade of popping came from the hall as the assistant burst any offending digits.
“My apologies for the intrusion,” said the butler, exiting backward with a bow and closing the doors.
Andreas cleared his throat, and waved to the pair of couches in the seating area. “Frau Doktor Goldfinch, please have a seat.”
She pursed her lips, regarding him like a scuff mark she’d fire a servant for missing.
Beate saved him. “Excuse my colleague. He meant to say FrauDoktor DoktorGoldfinch.”
She sat across from them, beside her husband, hands folded on her lap.
“We’re here about your son,” said Beate.
“Is he in some sort of trouble?” asked Herr Doktor Goldfinch.
“When did you last see David?” asked Andreas.
“Last week, I suppose? We just returned from our chalet for my party,” she said.
Her husband squinted at her. A silent squabble passed between them that apparently she won. A sacred tradition of any marriage. He regained his composure. “Right. Yes, we were, um, skiing last week. Is David all right?”
Andreas and Beate broke the news with a gentle version of Austrian directness. They didn’t saymurder, only that there’d beena death. “We found a deceased man and woman at the Hotel Orient, we believe the man was your son, David.”
He slid an evidence bag across the coffee table.
