Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [58]
He made no mention of his late-night visit, so naturally I did not refer to it. Ann’s name was not prominent in our conversation, either.
Tony loved Emmeram’s icy beard and the wreath of greenery draped around his stony shoulders. “I’m glad I thought of this,” he said, as I pulled into the parking area reserved for hotel guests. “I always liked this place. Nice to see it hasn’t changed.”
“Herr Hoffman is dead,” I said.
Tony turned a blank, innocent face toward me. “Who?”
“Hoffman. The host—the owner.”
“Oh, the nice old guy who bought us a round the night before we left? Too bad. You know, this is a great place to spend Christmas. We can go to midnight mass at the church and…er…”
Freddy was not at the desk. There were a number of people waiting impatiently; the concierge, a stout middle-aged woman, kept poking nervously at the wisps of hair escaping from the bun at the back of her neck. When she got to me, she didn’t wait for me to speak, but shook her head and said rapidly, “Grüss Gott, I am sorry, but unless you have a reservation—”
“I believe Frau Hoffman is expecting me. My name is Bliss.”
“Ach, ja, die Dame aus München. Entschuldigen Sie, we are so busy—”
“Calm yourself, gnädige Frau,” Tony said soothingly. “We are in no hurry, and life is short.”
Tony’s German is schoolboy-simple, with a pronounced American accent that some Germans, especially middle-aged women, seem to find delicious. The concierge stopped poking at her hair and returned his smile. “You are very kind, mein Herr. You understand, this is a busy season for us and we are shorthanded; I am the housekeeper, not a clerk, and what we are to do, with so many people…”
Tony listened sympathetically. Basking in his boyish smile and melting brown eyes, the woman would have gone on indefinitely if I hadn’t cleared my throat and reminded her that customers were piling up again. She handed a registration form, not to me, but to Tony. It’s a man’s world, all right, especially in country villages. I took it away from him and filled it in. There was no bellboy; Tony allowed me to carry my own suitcase.
If Friedl was planning to murder me, she had taken pains to soften me up for the slaughter. The room was one of the best in the house—a big corner room, with an alcove furnished with sofa and chairs, and a wooden balcony offering a breathtaking view of the mountains. I was distressed to observe that the balcony was decorated with plastic geraniums.
Tony didn’t comment on the geraniums; he was more interested in the bed, a massive antique four-poster.
“Don’t worry about getting another room,” I said generously. “You can sleep on the couch in the alcove.”
“It’s only five feet long!”
“There’s always the floor.”
“Now, Vicky, this is ridiculous,” Tony began.
“It certainly is. But I wasn’t the one who established the rules. I suppose we could put a naked sword between us, the way the medieval ambassadors did when they bedded their royal masters’ brides. Ann would probably love that one.”
Tony picked up his suitcase and stalked out. When I went through the lobby, I saw him flirting with the concierge. He was so intent on the job he didn’t see me, which suited me fine.
By the time I reached Müller’s shop, I had worked myself into a state of idiotic apprehension; finding the place dark and the door locked, I banged and knocked for some time before I noticed the sign. It read, “Closed for the holidays.”
I was about to turn away when there was a rattle of hardware inside. The door opened a crack; a narrowed blue