Misfit Girl: Death of the Blue Flower by Roxann Hill

Author:Roxann Hill [Hill, Roxann]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-04-08T00:00:00+00:00

43

I closed the passenger door. Silence and heat. Chris rolled our windows down.

“Falk,” I said. “It keeps coming back to the Falks.”

“Hmm.”

“Not hmm. First off, Maximilian Falk wants nothing more than to see Miriam dead. Then it turns out he’s the sponsor of our professor’s department. And besides that, Mrs. Falk put that nonsense with the lost diamonds in Professor Fembach’s head.”

“Hate and money—if that isn’t a successful combination,” Chris said.

“We have to go back to Berchtesgaden and cross-examine them. Whatever has come of Miriam, Mr. and Mrs. Falk are the key. They’re behind the entire thing.”

Chris took his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen, and held it to his ear.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

He signaled me with his hand to be quiet. “Winkler here, Inspector Winkler,” he said after a few moments. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Falk. Mrs. Falk, circumstances have arisen that make it necessary for us to meet again.”

He listened to her response and then said, “No, it cannot be handled over the phone. We should clarify this in person. Just tell me when my colleague and I can visit you in Berchtesgaden.”

Again, silence. Then Chris said, “Oh! That works out well . . . Yes, I know it . . . Today, nine p.m.? . . . That suits us. We’ll be there.” Without saying good-bye, Chris ended the call and stashed his phone away.

“So?” I said.

“Mrs. Falk wasn’t very pleased about my call, but we have an appointment with both of them. Today at nine.”

“Can we make it to Berchtesgaden by then?”

“As luck would have it, Mr. and Mrs. Falk happen to be in Munich right now. At the Hotel Kempinski.”

“How truly convenient.”

Chris grinned. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes. Because I’m hungry. Let’s go by your place first and eat something.”

Chris’s gaze seemed derisive. “It’s a summer evening, the weather is beautiful, and you’re in Munich. You’re not going home.”

“No?”

“On your island, you probably sit around on summer evenings, locked up in your kitchens, and suck down liters of tea before you go to bed at eight thirty. Here in Bavaria, we do it differently.”

“And how?”

“Beer gardens.”

“And that’s supposed to be fun?”

“Cool breezes under chestnut trees, an ice-cold wheat beer, and a platter of cheese and sausage. That has some appeal.” Chris grinned again.

“All right. You convinced me. But listen—you haven’t tasted really good beer until you’re on my Hallig, sitting with your feet dipped in the sea, and looking into the horizon.”

“We can try that later as well,” he said.

I did not answer.

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