The Corpse with the Ruby Lips Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE CAIT MORGAN MYSTERIES

  “In the finest tradition of Agatha Christie . . . Ace brings us the closed-room drama, with a dollop of romantic suspense and historical intrigue.” —Library Journal

  “Touches of Christie or Marsh but with a bouquet of Kinsey Millhone.” —Globe and Mail

  “A sparkling, well-plotted, and quite devious mystery in the cozy tradition.” —Hamilton Spectator

  “Perfect comfort reading. You could call it Agatha Christie set in the modern world, with great dollops of lovingly described food and drink.” —CrimeFictionLover.com

  “A delight for fans of the classic mystery . . . Cait Morgan . . . and her husband make a pair of believable and very real sleuths.” —Vicky Delany, national bestselling author of the Lighthouse Library mystery series

  “Unique and original, this engaging treasure hunt through the art world—and one family's secrets—sets an endearing, smart, and contemporary couple on a compelling quest. Intelligent, touching, and more than a mystery, this page-turner is a revealing insight into love and loyalty.” —Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Mary Higgins Clark award-winning author

  THE CAIT MORGAN MYSTERY SERIES

  The Corpse with the Silver Tongue

  The Corpse with the Golden Nose

  The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb

  The Corpse with the Platinum Hair

  The Corpse with the Sapphire Eyes

  The Corpse with the Diamond Hand

  The Corpse with the Garnet Face

  The Corpse with the Ruby Lips

  ALSO BY CATHY ACE

  The Case of the Dotty Dowager

  The Case of the Missing Morris Dancer

  The Curious Cook

  To Oliver

  Contents

  1976 Calling the Twenty-First Century

  A Word in My Ear

  All Talk

  A Personal Conversation

  When Walls Speak

  Words from the Past

  Conversations Afloat

  Official Reports

  Saying Something Different

  Dinner Talk

  Word Is Passed Down

  Worried Words

  A Siren Song

  Silent Terror

  Nothing to Say

  Chilling Words

  Whispers in a Church

  Stolen Conversations

  Coffee Chatter

  Safe to Talk

  A River of Words

  The Sound of Silence

  Different Person, Different Voice

  Speaking About the Dead

  Dumb, But Lucky

  Echoes from the Cold War

  Echoes from Canada

  Final Words

  Acknowledgments

  1976 Calling the Twenty-First Century

  I WAS LATE. I HATE being late. I didn’t have time for public transportation, so I was sitting in a taxi crossing a bridge that spanned the roiling Danube River. As I stared miserably at the impressive Budapest skyline, I tried to talk myself into a happier frame of mind.

  Sometimes you think you’re about to zig when life throws something in your path, so you have to zag. That’s what happened to Bud and me. If Bud hadn’t had to stay in Canada tending to his mother after her hip replacement surgery, I’d have felt entirely different about my time in a city that had long beckoned me. As it was, we’d both had to adapt to our changed circumstances, so I’d set off to deliver a month-long course at the Hungarian University of Budapest with as much of a skip in my step as possible. However, the last ten lonely days had knocked the stuffing out of me and I was missing my husband dreadfully. Who knew longing had so many layers? Not me, for one.

  Both Bud and I knew he’d done the right thing staying behind to give his father a helping hand with his mother’s recuperation, and we agreed we’d focus on looking forward to him joining me at the end of my time in Hungary for a shorter-than-planned week-long visit. There’d been brave tears at the airport, and lots of talk during our Skype conversations since then about what we’d do when he eventually joined me.

  But now? Only ten days into my time alone, that glimmer of hope seemed a long way off as I accepted that teaching in a foreign city wasn’t so different from teaching at home, and working on a research paper can be equally frustrating whether the view from the window is of the glittering lights of a historic cityscape or the countryside around our home in British Columbia.

  “You are happy to be visiting our beautiful Budapest, yes?” asked the cab driver in accented but flawless English.

  “Absolutely,” I lied.

  “You have seen our wonderful monuments? Our architecture?” he continued, smiling at me over his shoulder as we veered too close to a passing tram.

  “Not yet, but I’m looking forward to it,” I said, pressing my foot on an imaginary brake pedal and trying to steer the cab with my body movements.

  “But you must do this.”

  I tried to focus on the sights around me as I replied, “I certainly will.” If I live through this journey.

  “At least tonight you will enjoy the New York Café,” added the driver. “It is known around the world for its decadence and luxury.”

  “And I hear the food is excellent.” I hoped he’d stop chatting and concentrate on the knots of traffic.

  “I hear this too,” he agreed.

  “There it is,” I said, relieved we’d arrived safely. I emerged in front of the lavishly decorated Austro-Hungarian building and steeled myself. The dinner I was about to attend would place me at a table with my temporary colleagues from the psychology department at the HUB, as the university was affectionately known, as well as two deans of schools—and would likely demand my contribution to learned conversation.

  As I handed my coat to an elderly attendant, I was surprised to be greeted by one of my students, who was checking her lipstick in a mirror placed beside the cavernous cloakroom (already half-filled with heavy coats).

  “Professor Morgan,” exclaimed Zsófia Takács, sounding as surprised as I felt to find ourselves standing next to each other. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

  “And I’m surprised to see you here. Are you a part of the HUB group attending the musical evening?”

  The girl laughed. “No, I am part of the musical evening itself. See the lady over there in pink?” She turned and waved toward a wizened but fiercely upright, overdressed woman. Sitting across the restaurant beside a small dais, she wiggled her fingers in our direction. “That’s my great-aunt Klara. She taught me a lot of old songs, and I sometimes get the chance to sing them. For free, of course, like tonight. They said I can perform two. It’s a great honor to sing here. Usually I only have the chance to get up on stage in bars and clubs. I hope you enjoy it.”

  Sweat was beading on her upper lip. Despite her immaculate makeup and splendid outfit, the twenty-year-old looked more like a young girl playing dress-up than a confident performer about to wow an audience. I felt a bit of encouragement was needed. “You look the part, and I’m sure you’ll do yourself and your great-aunt proud.”

  Zsófia looked apprehensive. “I hope so. I shall sing as she has taught me, and I am wearing clothes she has loaned me. To make my family proud is all I want.”

  It was hard to believe the elderly Klara’s desiccated figure could once have filled out the black fifties-style velvet dress with cinched waist and full skirt that now hugged Zsófia’s curves. “The black works well with your hair and lip color. Their fire-engine red will look good on stage,” I said cheerily. Having been somewhat Junoesque my entire life, I knew how few and far between compliments could be. “So, your great-aunt was a singer too?”

  “S
he still is,” said Zsófia, smiling warmly. “Sometimes it’s difficult to get her to stop.” Her tone communicated love, respect, and indulgence. “I hope I have that much spirit when I’m almost ninety.”

  Having only met the girl in a classroom setting before then, I took the opportunity to study her in a different light. I’d pegged her as sharply intelligent, hardworking, and one of the few taking my course because she wanted the knowledge, not merely a good grade. She was confident in lectures and willing to take a leadership role in group discussions. I found her surprisingly easy to warm to. Indeed, Bud and I had spoken about her a few times during our Skype chats, and he reckoned I liked her because she reminded me of myself when I was her age. As she fussed with her retro hairdo in the mirrored area beside the coat check, I reapplied the lip gloss I’d smeared when I’d slapped my hand over my mouth as my driver swung his cab around a corner.

  Seeing her there, looking so different—so grown up, yet vulnerable and nervous—I asked myself again what it was about her, rather than just any twenty-year-old, that I found appealing, and silently admitted that maybe it was the way her insecurities peeped through the shell she’d built about herself with costume and bravado. I knew I’d done much the same my whole life, until Bud came along and gave me the confidence I needed to accept I could only be me and I didn’t have to build walls to protect myself.

  “I’d better join Klara,” said Zsófia, acknowledging the beckoning of a man in a tail suit. “They want me to be seated next to the stage. Enjoy dinner—the food’s amazing.” There was a long pause. “Can I talk to you about something afterward? It’s a personal thing, and I want it to be kept away from the HUB. I’ve tried to think about how to ask you this favor since you arrived, but I haven’t known what to say. Tonight would be ideal.”

  I imagined she wanted to ask for an extension to a report deadline, or for an agreed-upon late arrival the next day, so I answered breezily, “But of course. I’ll hold back at the end of our dinner and we can have a chat then. Okay?” I wasn’t going to make it difficult for her; she was diligent, and I’m fine with cutting a hardworking student a little slack. It’s the lazy ones who need to fear my wrath.

  I found my party in the busy restaurant and threw myself into conversation with the senior faculty members as I took in my surroundings. Ceiling vaults painted with cherubs and bucolic idylls, marble columns carved to writhing perfection, and everywhere the glint from ornate chandeliers shining upon gold leaf. The sound of chatter bounced about, and I tried to imagine the conversations that had taken place in this very room when the clientele had been the greatest philosophers, writers, and artists of the day, and the fashion had been to sip a coffee for several hours.

  The chitchat at my table wasn’t going to change the world, but at least it progressed politely, accompanied by the gentle yet atmospheric sounds of a trio of local musicians, all sporting white tie and tails. One was playing the cimbalom, which reminded me of the movie The Third Man with its brittle, haunting zither music—almost a character in its own right.

  Dinner was, as I’d hoped, spectacular. Since Budapest is pretty much the foie gras capital of the world, I began with that. Once I’d finished savoring the velvety, meltingly rich treat I faced something I wasn’t at all sure about when I’d ordered it—“pork throttle.” My tablemates had pointed to various parts of their anatomies when I’d asked what it was, but I’d decided to be brave. When it arrived I was relieved to see it was pork knuckle, with crisply roasted skin and meat literally falling off the bone as I sliced into it.

  Needless to say I was completely stuffed by the time I’d eaten my main course, and I could practically feel my arteries clogging as I simply read the dessert menu. On the advice of my colleagues I selected the New York chocolate cake—something of a signature dish at the place, I gathered. I was delighted to see it was quite small, and it melted in my mouth with the texture of a rich mousse.

  As coffee and some delicious, but frankly unnecessary, petit fours were served, the musicians took a break. I noticed Zsófia had left her great-aunt’s table and was moving toward the dais. I felt apprehensive for the poor girl, and hoped nerves wouldn’t mar her performance.

  As the cimbalom player introduced Zsófia by name, I hoped the conversation would die down, but the chattering masses didn’t miss a beat until the girl began to sing. Her voice was magnificent—smoky and passionate. It was perfect for the eighteenth-century Hungarian verbunkos (dance-inspired) song she began with. She quickly won the attention of the entire dining room, and heads popped up over the gold balustrades of the balcony above us as people tried to see who was singing. The applause at the end of her first song was more than polite and she thanked her great-aunt for having taught it to her. She began to sing again in Hungarian with a little of the Roma language here and there. She stared, transfixed, and her eyes even filled with tears as she worked her way to the crescendo, garnering rapturous applause. Even the servers clapped. I wondered if that was usual.

  Leaving the little dais, Zsófia returned to her great-aunt’s table. The elderly woman wrapped her rose-brocaded arms about her great-niece’s waist, hugging her tight. I suspected tears were involved, and both women looked sad and happy in equal measure—pretty normal for Hungarians, by all accounts.

  Finally, after a round of polite goodnights, I remained at my table and waited for my student to join me. I didn’t have to sit alone for long. Leaving her great-aunt Klara sipping a large snifter of brandy, Zsófia wafted between the emptying tables and came to sit beside me.

  “Was I all right?” she asked hesitantly.

  “So much more than all right, Zsófia. Have you thought of singing as a career?”

  Zsófia’s porcelain-pale cheeks flushed, then she spluttered, “Mama wants me to get my degree, then a real job for a few years. Then, maybe, I can try, she said. It’s not a secure life, I understand that. She is thinking only of me.”

  I could tell she was saying what was expected.

  “Have your parents ever seen you perform?” I asked.

  “Papa died many years ago. Now there is only Mama. This is the first time anyone in my family has seen me sing in public. Klara came because she knows the violinist and asked him if I could sing these songs tonight. She said it was a test for me. She thought I did reasonably well.” Zsófia leaned in and said quietly, “She didn’t think I was quite as good as she was when she was younger, but she said I might be one day.” She winked at me, and it was clear she felt pride at her performance.

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t think many people who heard you tonight would think you should give it up—but I’m not a mother, let alone yours, so maybe you’d better do as she says. Now—what was it you wanted to talk to me about? You’d better not keep Klara waiting too long.”

  Zsófia shifted uncomfortably on her seat. “It’s difficult, and it’s a big favor,” she began.

  “Sometimes it’s best to just say these things, and get it over with,” I urged.

  “Very well,” she replied, sitting upright, “I’d like you to help me find out who murdered my grandmother.”

  I was so taken aback by this that I didn’t speak for at least five seconds, which is a long time for me.

  “Your grandmother was murdered?” She nodded. “I’m terribly sorry to hear it, Zsófia, but I don’t think that’s something I can help with. Surely it’s a matter for the police.” I was puzzled.

  The girl sighed heavily and glanced toward her great-aunt, who was holding an empty glass in the air. “Oh dear, this isn’t the time to talk properly. I’ve done this all wrong. I have to put Klara into a taxi, and get back home myself.” She rummaged around in her purse—her everyday tote, which didn’t match the rest of her elegant outfit. “I wonder if it’s in here.” She pulled out a thumb drive and pressed it into my hand. “It’s a start. In among all of my HUB assignments, there’s a folder called ‘Ilona Overview,’ which will give you just that. I hope you’ll at least read it. It
won’t take you long; there’s not much there.” She leaned toward me and moved as though to hug me, then clearly thought better of it. Her microexpressions told a tale of great inner turmoil, and her eyes hunted mine for some sort of reassurance.

  I knew I had to gain control of the situation. “With the greatest respect, Zsófia, I don’t think I can grant your request. I don’t know what’s on this,” I held up the tiny device, “but I do know it’s not something I should, or could, become involved with. An ongoing murder inquiry is—”

  “It’s not a current inquiry,” whispered Zsófia. “The case was dropped back in the 1970s. And I know you can’t help right now, while you’re here. I’m not asking you to do anything but read this information for now. I am asking you to help when you get back to Canada. That’s where it happened, you see. It is a cold case now, but I need to know what happened. My mother, she will not speak to me about it.” She furtively glanced around the grand room. “There are eyes and ears everywhere, I cannot say more.”

  I, too, glanced about—but couldn’t see anything except a pretty normal-looking smattering of restaurant patrons. I was having trouble piecing together the information she was giving me in a way that made sense. “Your grandmother was murdered in Canada?” She nodded. “And the case has been shelved since the seventies?” More nodding. “So why do you want me to look into it, now? Wouldn’t it be easier to sit down with your family and speak to them about it?”

  The girl’s eyes filled with tears. “Mama can’t speak of it. It hurts her so much. And there’s no one else I can really speak to about it. Uncle was there too, but he—he can’t be relied upon.”

  “In what way can’t he be relied upon?”

  “His recollection of those times is not good. And poor Mama is not capable of doing it. Please help me? You are a professional in criminology. You teach where my grandmother was killed. When you return to Canada you will be on the spot where it happened. Maybe you can talk to the local police and ask them to help too? I think today cold cases are sometimes worked upon, this is correct?”