Featured Excerpt: Death by Misadventure by Tasha Alexander

Chapter One

Villa von Düchtel, Bavaria

1906

Far too many—if not most—social gatherings would be immeasurably improved by the strategic removal of a troubling guest. When said individual’s behavior is particularly egregious, one may be forgiven for considering murder as an acceptable remedy for the situation. The civilized among us curb this instinct. They may think about it; they may go so far as to indulge in flights of fancy as to the method they would choose; but they don’t strike a fatal blow.

It was unclear if such propriety would triumph at the soirée hosted by the Baroness Ursula von Düchtel to celebrate the completion of her striking modern villa. The meticulously designed structure of mosaic glass and concrete was a revelation, a visible reminder of the progressive direction of our still-young century. Bright blue glass tiles above towering entry doors spelled out Villa von Düchtel, the words gleaming against the pale wall. Deep eaves jutted from the edges of the roof, creating a strong horizontal line. More tiles, fashioned in geometric designs, decorated the doors and the space between the tall, narrow windows lining the first floor. Below them, near the ground, and above them, approaching the roof, the windows were stained glass, wider and shorter than the rest. More breathtaking than the building were its surroundings. Towering peaks ringed the valley around the grounds, thrusting into the sky. Winter had painted everything a fragile, icy white that pulsed and glowed. Tree limbs hung heavy with snow. Icicles glistened. The air was so cold it looked as if tiny diamonds were floating in it. The baroness’s guests were insulated from the chill inside the house, where an unobtrusive staff anticipated one’s every whim as they perused their hostess’s stunning—and enormous—art gallery.

The guests gathered were an eclectic bunch. Most were far-flung friends and neighbors whose sprawling estates were scattered in the valleys dotted between the mountains. There were dealers and artists from Berlin; a handful of journalists and critics; an Australian who could be heard far across the room praising the virtues of the breed of sheep he favored; a young woman who claimed to have been kidnapped by a band of traveling acrobats as a child; a Sikh poet; and two American sisters, Anna Josephine and Emeline Christine McAndrew, who had traveled to every continent on Earth save Antarctica. They were currently in the midst of organizing an expedition there. Instead of conversing with any of these fascinating individuals—all of whom spoke fluent English peppered with a charming smattering of their native tongues—I’d found myself cornered by the baroness’s son-in-law, Kaspar Allerspach. Almost at once I reached the inevitable conclusion that we would never be friends. An aquiline nose, strong jawline, and handsome enough face can only carry one so far. The gentleman—I use the term loosely—was a boor, whose only interests appeared to be congratulating himself for various sporting achievements and criticizing others. He was the sort of man whose loutish behavior might easily lead any number of otherwise civilized individuals to contemplate murder. I’d just started wondering what would be the most satisfying method of eliminating him when his wife, Sigrid, approached, looped her arm through his, and kissed his cheek.

“You know, Lady Emily, this is just the sort of evening der Märchenkönig would’ve adored,” she said to me. Tall and slim with delicate features, pale blonde hair, and turquoise eyes, she looked like a princess plucked out of a Germanic fairy tale.

“Der Märchenkönig?” I asked.

“It means the fairy-tale king and is what we locals call Ludwig the Second,” she said.

“Mad King Ludwig, who bankrupted himself building ridiculous castles,” her husband said, puffing on a Cuban cigar. I knew its origin because he’d spent nearly a quarter of an hour explaining in excruciating detail the lengths—and expense; he was quite specific as to the cost—he went to in order to ensure he smoked nothing but the best. “Fortunately, he had the good sense to kill himself before he entirely destroyed Bavaria. It’s a pity he didn’t do it before he’d run through his fortune. I certainly could have spent the money better.”

“Do not mistake eccentricity for insanity.” Sigrid’s bright smile and tone, as well as the way she met her husband’s eyes, suggested flirtation rather than censure. “Further, he didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.”

“The man was a monster. His only generous act was to remove himself from the population.” He grabbed a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing footman dressed in colorful livery that looked straight out of sixteenth-century Venice, a nod to the baroness’s eclectic tastes. Kaspar’s hands were so large it seemed inconceivable that he could hold the delicate crystal without crushing it, but somehow he managed.

“He forbad his servants from looking at him and meted out abusive punishments. Ordered one man to wear a mask and another to have sealing wax put on his forehead.”

“You’re hardly one to criticize anyone’s treatment of servants,” Sigrid said. “Just because the king’s enemies liked spreading those sorts of stories doesn’t make them true.”

“As always, mein Schatz, I bow to your superior knowledge, although one would hope a person of intelligence wouldn’t fall for such obvious propaganda. You do consider yourself a person of intelligence, do you not?” He swallowed the wine in a single gulp, bared his teeth—long, yellow teeth—in what I believe was intended as a grin, and tossed his glass onto a gleaming marble-topped table, where it shattered.

“Kaspar often hides his finer qualities,” Sigrid said, turning to me as her husband rolled his eyes. “I beg you not to hold it against him. We don’t all have spouses as charming as yours. He’s promised me a sleigh ride tomorrow, along my favorite loop near the house, so I’ll forgive him. It passes the most beautiful frozen waterfall one could ever hope to see. There’s no place more magical. You’ll have to visit it while you’re here.”

My husband, Colin Hargreaves, and I had been included in the party at the urging of my dear friend Cécile du Lac, who’d known Sigrid’s mother, the baroness, for decades. They’d met at an auction in Paris where they’d each been vying to acquire an early Manet painting. When, at the last minute, a gentleman from Bruges outbid them both, they retired to Cécile’s house in the Boulevard Saint-Germain and consoled themselves with what she described as a catastrophic amount of champagne. Their taste in art—and penchant for passionate affairs with artists—cemented their relationship.

The baroness had gathered us all in the villa’s long, wide gallery, which was crammed full of decorative objects. An elaborately engraved suit of Renaissance armor occupied a corner, flanked on one side by a large Fragonard canvas depicting a couple playing blindman’s bluff and on the other a Klimt portrait whose subject was no other than Cécile. She sat for it some years ago when we were both in Vienna and she and the artist were entangled in an affair. She loved the painting, but, not want it looming over her, had given it to Ursula. It was hanging slightly off-kilter, so I straightened it. Fifth-century Greek vases occupied shelves next to a medieval book of hours. Degas wax models of dancers and horses stood alternating between six Cycladic sculptures that dated from approximately 2500 BC. Paintings, drawings, tapestries, woodcuts, and panels of stained glass covered every inch of the interior walls. Here, Matisse was a neighbor of Dürer, André Derain a friend of Rembrandt. Tall windows on the exterior wall framed a panoramic view of the mountains. Night drenched the rocky peaks with inky darkness, but the sky was clear and a bright full moon cast shadows of the tall trees lining the estate on the snow-covered ground. Faintly visible in the distance was the glint of the white walls of Schloss Neuschwanstein, Ludwig’s famous castle, which more than justified the king’s nickname. Its soaring towers looked straight out of a fairy tale, the sort of place a princess might be held prisoner, waiting to be rescued by a handsome prince. Far better, of course, if she rescued herself.

“Ludwig was inspired by Germanic legends, not the Brothers Grimm,” Sigrid said, following my gaze out the window. “Hence his devotion to Wagner’s operas.”

“Swan kings and Rhine maidens,” Kaspar said. “I never saw the appeal.”

“The music is sublime,” I said, “regardless of how one feels about the stories.”

“Don’t let Sigrid start on Wagner,” he said. “She’ll become—”

A stunning young lady who moved with the grace of a dancer interrupted him.“Don’t let Kaspar start on anything. I’m Birgit Göltling and I already know you’re Lady Emily Hargreaves. Who made your dress? It’s divine.”

The cruel amusement in her pale blue eyes as she spoke betrayed her true feelings. I wasn’t surprised. For the occasion, I’d chosen an unusual gown, fashioned from filmy, cream-colored silk chiffon and decorated with bands of deep blue embroidery in the meander pattern, the Greek key. A wide belt with a Swarovski crystal buckle cinched my waist. It was striking, but could not be described as au courant.

“The House of Worth,” I said. “I wanted something that celebrated the baroness’s collection.”

Birgit crinkled her perfect little nose. “Whatever can you mean by that?”

My husband appeared behind me. “The baroness’s art collection is wonderfully diverse and includes a significant number of ancient Greek pieces,” he said. “Emily’s dress is a nod to them.”

“I know Worth’s not as fashionable as it used to be, but I never dreamed it was that out of date. Ancient Greece, you say?” Birgit’s physical beauty was extraordinary. What a pity her brain didn’t sparkle as well.

“Yours is by Jeanne Paquin—am I right?” I asked. The red fabric coupled with her daring use of black were instantly recognizable. I had recently acquired several items from her, an innovative woman with one of the finest ateliers in Paris. She despised the currently popular S-bend corset almost as much as I. I adored her empire style, which did not require tight lacing.

“I prefer Poiret, but once in a while I slum with Paquin.” She leaned close to me, adopting a pose of obviously false camaraderie. “I figured there’d be no one here among all these fuddy-duddies I should bother to impress.” With that, she spun around so that her gauze skirt flared, positioned her hands as if she were dancing with a partner, and waltzed away through the throng of Ursula’s friends who filled the room.

“She’s got spirit, doesn’t she?” Sigrid said. “Endlessly amusing.”

Kaspar raised his eyebrows. “If you say so. I’ll never understand what my friend Felix sees in her, but if he’s happy, what more can I ask? And given that he brought her here, he must be happy. The man’s always had appalling taste. Prefers sailing to boxing, if you can imagine.” He was squinting and watching the Fräulein as she continued her solo waltz along the windows lining the room. It was an appalling display, manufactured to show off her perfect figure. Kaspar’s face colored ever so slightly. “Maybe I do understand, now that I look again.”

Sigrid gave him a playful whack on the arm.

“You’re a brute.” I was shocked she took his obvious admiration of another woman so lightly. Colin and I exchanged a discreet glance. “Yes, but I’m your brute.” Kaspar patted his wife on the head as if she were a dog or a small child and grimaced as he saw our hostess walking toward us with Cécile. “I’ve no interest in speaking to your mother, so you’ll have to excuse me.” He slunk off, calling for someone to bring him beer.

“You ought to have left him in Munich.” The baroness snapped open her fan and waved it, as if it might send her son-in-law far, far away.

“Mama, don’t start,” Sigrid said. “I know how overbearing he can be, but he adores me and that’s all that matters.”

“I care about nothing save your happiness and if you insist you’ve found it shall have to accept that.” Ursula von Düchtel stood half a foot taller than the other ladies in the room. Her height, along with her broad shoulders, shining white hair, and turquoise eyes, conjured the image of an elderly Valkyrie. “What do you think of my little collection, Emily?”

“It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before,” I said. “You’ve managed to curate a display that assaults the senses without overwhelming them. It’s a feast.”

“Kaspar claims it gives him a headache,” Ursula said. Sigrid rolled her eyes, huffed, and stormed away.

“It is, perhaps, better to let some things go unmentioned,” Cécile said.

“She should’ve married Max,” the baroness said.

“Max?” Colin asked. “I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

“Even if you had, you wouldn’t remember,” Ursula said. “His special talent is fading into the background. It’s not a weakness, but rather a strength. There’s not a self-interested bone in his body. He would’ve been content to stand back and let Sigrid shine.” She clapped her hands and called out his name. A nondescript man of average height and build with mousy hair and forgettable features responded to the summons.

“You called, my lady?” He gave a little bow, but the movement, awkward rather than fluid, caused him to lose his balance, and he nearly tripped.

“Max Haller, meet my new friends,” she said, and made the requisite introductions.

“What a pleasure,” he said. “I understand Sigrid was telling you about Ludwig and rhapsodizing about Wagner. Are you lovers of the opera?”

“As much as anyone,” I said.

“A cryptic answer, Lady Emily, but I’ll forgive you for it. Not everyone shares my passion.”

“I wouldn’t say I don’t share it, only that— ”

“Max is a musical genius, you know.” Sigrid returned to our little group the instant she noticed he’d joined us. “Mama’s convinced him to stay here, with us, for a few days instead of returning home. He plays the Wagner tuba. If we’re very kind to him, we might be able to persuade him to give us a little concert.”

“Sigrid, you mustn’t suggest any such thing.” Max’s pale skin turned crimson from his forehead to the tips of his fingers. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t have it with me. I— ”

“You always travel with your tuba— don’t pretend otherwise. I know you too well.” She squeezed his arm and met his eyes, pulling back only when a great bear of a man with thick, black hair and a jagged dueling scar on his cheek appeared and stood next to her. “This is Felix Brinkmann, my husband’s best friend.”

“The only thing about Kaspar worthy of a compliment,” Ursula said.

“Mama, stop criticizing him. I cannot—”

Ursula raised a hand to silence her daughter, but before she could speak, a woman rapidly approaching the depths of middle age broke into our circle, clapping her hands.

“Baroness, the evening is a triumph.” She moved her hands with an almost violent enthusiasm. Her voice, resonant and rich, fell upon us like drops of pleasant, cool summer rain. She possessed ordinary brown eyes and nondescript features. Her strawberry blonde locks ought to have been a striking feature, but she’d styled them with so little care they did nothing for her appearance. She looked like a maladjusted spinster. Until she spoke, that is. Then her face and her body came alive.

“You’ve an eye for beauty that’s rarely seen, and you combine it brilliantly with a nose for significant works. Someone who is entirely ignorant about art will be as enthralled by your collection as a scholar.”

Ursula laughed. “This is Liesel Fronberg, an art dealer from Berlin. She’s brought two paintings for me to consider purchasing and has evidently decided that flattery might help her get the sale.”

“No, I assure you— ” She stopped and blinked, then shook her head. “You’re jesting. I ought not to be so serious all the time.”

“Not jesting, no, only speaking a truth you might not yet have learned yourself,” Ursula said. “Come, I will introduce you to some of my guests who will be interested in your gallery. Staying here will only irritate my daughter. She doesn’t like me criticizing the boy she married.”

“He’s not a boy,” Sigrid said when they’d gone, her voice signaling long-running frustration. “He’s nearly forty years old.”

“Your mother likes being hard on Kaspar,” Felix said. “I ought to have pointed out to her that he has a collection of watches I’ve long envied, so perhaps she could add fine taste to his qualities that merit compliments. But don’t let yourself believe she was all that insulting. I’m nearly forty-five and wouldn’t object to being called a boy.”

“Nearly forty-five?” Cécile asked, looking him up and down. “Intéressant.” He grinned and the skin around his eyes crinkled. His face was golden brown, tanned from the sun, even on this winter day.

“Charmant,” he said. “You, that is, not I.” He kissed her hand, then laughed. “I’m not good at playing the gentleman. Forgive me.”

“Then you must learn, Monsieur Brinkmann.” Her eyes danced. “And if you’d like to be friends with me, you must learn to choose champagne over whisky.”

Felix grinned and opened his mouth to reply, but then Kaspar’s voice boomed from the other side of the room, calling for Felix.

“Best not to keep him waiting,” Felix said. “One never knows what sort of trouble he might get into. Come with me, Max, will you?”

“Max is a decent boy,” Cécile said as they walked away. “He grew up nearby and was always close to Sigrid. I thought they’d marry—she’s an unfortunate sort who craves bourgeois respectability—but once she met Kaspar, poor Max stood no chance.”

“Kaspar doesn’t strike me as much of a catch,” I said.

“Not once you know him, no, but Sigrid was bowled over by his handsome face. By the time she realized he was an ignorant boor, it was too late.”

“It’s the sort of bad decision many people make,” Colin said.

“Like Monsieur Brinkmann. Birgit is an appalling creature,” Cécile said. “There’s something intriguingly untamed about him. He deserves better than her. Further, he’s old enough to be interesting.”

Old enough, by Cécile’s definition, was over forty. “Too old for Birgit,” I said.

“Not if she possessed wisdom enough to know what to do with him,” Cécile said.

“And what’s that?” I asked.

“I strongly suspect Monsieur Brinkmann needs to be schooled in the art of pleasing a woman.”

Colin laughed. “I shouldn’t think Birgit would have the slightest idea of how to go about such a thing.”

“Bien sûr, monsieur,” Cécile said. “Inexperience is never an asset. It is why one needs a qualified teacher.”

Shouts came from the other side of the gallery. Felix and Kaspar were standing opposite each other, gulping large steins of beer. Kaspar finished his before his friend, threw the stein onto the floor, and pulled a cigar out from his jacket pocket.

“You’ll never best me, Felix. I’m twice the man you are.”

As I said, many parties would be improved by the strategic removal of a troublesome guest, yet tonight, no one had exerted the slightest effort to do so with Kaspar. Perhaps this was due to the extreme measures it would require. An action less violent than murder would have no effect on a man like him.

Or so I thought.

A tall, wiry man approached him, hesitating for a moment before pulling him aside. They spoke. The color drained from Kaspar’s face as his obnoxious grin disappeared and the cigar fell from his mouth. Then, he regained his composure, pulled himself to his full height, shouted for silence, and addressed his mother-in-law’s guests.

“I didn’t realize until this moment that I’m attending my own wake. This late arrival to our gathering was sent to write my obituary.”

Copyright © 2024 by Tasha Alexander. All rights reserved.