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“That seems reasonable,” Tony admitted. “But you’ll never prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove it. I said this wasn’t a storybook ending…. In fact, I don’t believe Friedl meant to kill Hoffman. She knew he was about to communicate with me, and she ordered Freddy to stop him. Freddy goofed—or perhaps he misinterpreted her orders. Neither of them was very bright. It was sheer bad luck for them that Müller found the envelope before one of them could retrieve it. When Dieter learned what had happened, he decided he had better come to Bad Steinbach and supervise matters in person. They weren’t sure that I had received the photograph until I showed up, along with Schmidt; but Dieter had already taken the precaution of sending similar photos to all the others. He didn’t have copies of the one of Frau Hoffman, so he had to settle for Frau Schliemann.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Tony admitted. “He wanted an excuse for being here, if one of us spotted him—”

“And it got Jan Perlmutter here as well. Jan was supposed to be the fall guy in case things went wrong. That’s why he got a clue you and the others didn’t get. Dieter never meant you to show up; and he only brought Elise along as camouflage.”

“It’s an awfully complicated, convoluted plot,” Tony said.

“Dieter had a complicated, convoluted mind—as evidenced by some of his practical jokes. We’ll never know for certain why he killed Freddy, but Freddy was a danger to him all along; he knew Dieter’s identity and wasn’t above a spot of blackmail. Tossing the body into my garden was just another little spot of confusion. Then Friedl started to crack. Her nice simple little plan of finding the loot and peddling it through Dieter had taken on alarming dimensions and the treasure was still missing. She was jealous of him—look at the way she flew off the handle after she found out he had come to my room—and more than a little afraid of him. She was ready to confess, I’m sure; he realized it too, and got rid of her; called both of us, imitating her voice, to set us up. The more suspects, the better.”

“I guess that clears most of it up,” Tony said.

“Not quite all.” I folded my arms. “I didn’t have a chance to give you my Christmas present, Tony, and now I can’t find the card—Clara must have chewed it up. So I will eschew subtleties and say straight out, What the hell is the idea of lying to me about imaginary Annie?”

Tony blushed. “Oh,” he muttered. “I was afraid you had figured that all out.”

“You were right. Well?”

Tony sprang from his chair and wrapped his arms around me. “You know why, Vicky. Damn it, you’ve been putting me off for years. I thought if you thought—”

“A little reverse psychology?”

“Right. Vicky, I’m crazy about you. You know that. I always will be. Won’t you—”

“No. I’m sorry, Tony.”

I didn’t try to free myself. After a moment, his arms relaxed their hold. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“He,” I said, without thinking.

“Dammit, don’t criticize my grammar when I’m baring my soul to you,” Tony shouted. “And don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, Tony.”

“Are you in love with him?”

“Oh, sure. Not that that has anything to do with it.”

Tony flapped his arms. “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t try. It doesn’t even make sense to me. Let’s get going. We’ll have a nice, friendly, belated Christmas Eve tonight, before you leave for Turin in the morning. I hope and trust that by this time the police have removed Freddy; his presence might cast a certain pall over the celebration. We’ll stop by Carl’s and pick up Caesar and introduce him to…What’s taking Schmidt so long?”

“‘Peace! Break thee off,’” said Tony; “‘look where it comes again!’”

He had recovered sufficiently to smile and to quote Shakespeare, so I decided my refusal hadn’t broken his heart after all. “‘Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” I agreed. “What happened to you, Schmidt?’”

As Schmidt pointed out, at some length, the answer was self-evident. He had Clara clamped under one arm, and his other hand held her jaws closed. Both hands were crisscrossed by bleeding scratches. Clara’s blazing eyes and muffled growls indicated that though temporarily overpowered, she was not subdued. She didn’t scratch me or Tony. She bit Tony, and she squirmed and howled when I tried to free her from the red ribbon tied around her neck. The bow was under her chin, and so lacerated I had to cut the ribbon off. It took all three of us to cram her in the carrier I had bought that morning.

“Cats hate bows,” I explained to Schmidt, who was sucking his wounds. “It was a pretty thought, Schmidt, but—”

“Do you think I would be so stupid?” Schmidt demanded. “I did not put the ribbon on her. I thought you had. She was in the wardrobe; that is why it took me so long to find her, and when I did, she—”

“I see what she did.” I turned the ribbon over in my hands. A small package had been tied firmly to the bow. Clara’s teeth had penetrated, but not destroyed it. I ripped it open under the curious eyes of Tony and Schmidt.

Inside was a small golden rose, enameled in scarlet and crimson, with green leaves. An attached ring enabled it to be worn as a charm on a bracelet or as a pendant. It wasn’t the sort of thing one could pick up at a local shop; the exquisite workmanship and soft colors showed the hand of a master goldsmith, probably a long-dead master, for it was old—Persian work, at a guess.

“How romantic,” said Schmidt.

“Isn’t it?” I agreed. Actually, I found the paper wrapped around the trinket even more romantic—it was a receipt from a famous antiquarian jeweler’s in Manhattan, and it was marked “Paid.” Nice to get a present I would not have to return to its rightful owner…. But I think the thing that touched me most was my hero’s gallantry in taking on Clara singlehanded.

I tucked the packet into my pocket. “Let’s go.”

Schmidt seemed to feel that some further ceremony was called for. He couldn’t decide in which direction to face, to address the absent and admired one; after spinning around a few times, he settled on the window. Raising one hand in solemn respect, he declaimed, “Ave atque vale, Sir John. The memory of your gallantry will live, green in our hearts—”

“You sound like a funeral sermon, Schmidt,” I said.

Tony was still in a Shakespearean mood. “How about ‘When shall we three meet again?’” he suggested sarcastically.

I don’t think Schmidt recognized the source. “Yes, yes,” he exclaimed. “Very appropriate. How does it go on?”

He and Tony went out together, Tony reciting “‘In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won…’”

They had left me to handle the carrier. I picked it up and followed them. The quotation was more appropriate than Schmidt or Tony knew. I had won this battle, and John had lost something more important to him than Trojan gold. Served him right…. I wondered how the next round would turn out.

About the Author

Elizabeth Peters was named Grandmaster by the Mystery Writers of America in 1998. She earned her Ph.D. in Egyptology from the University of Chicago’s famed Oriental Institute. In addition to the Vicky Bliss mysteries, Elizabeth Peters is the author of the bestselling Amelia Peabody mysteries.

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