“Beata Varga, age twenty-two. She’s here on a work visa, and employed—until she went missing three months ago—at Goulash. No criminal. The family filed a report. A Detective Lloyd is listed as investigating officer. Missing Persons Division out of the One-three-six.”
“Reach out there,” Eve told her. “Have him meet us at the restaurant. Thirty minutes.”
She opened the first drawer of the chest, found neatly folded underwear and nightclothes, and a box of carved wood. She lifted the lid, studied the pack of tarot cards, the peacock feather, the small crystal ball and stand.
Tools of her trade, Eve thought, started to set the box aside. Then, following impulse, pressed her thumbs over the carved flowers on the sides. Left, left, right. And a narrow drawer slid out of the base.
“Wow.” Peabody leaned over her shoulder. “A secret drawer. Frosty. How did you open it?”
“Just . . . luck,” Eve said, even as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
Inside lay a lock of dark hair tied with gold cord, a wand-shaped crystal on a chain, and a heart of white stone.
“They’re hers.” Eve’s throat went dry and achy. “Beata’s. Her hair, something she wore, something she touched.”
“You’re probably right. Szabo probably used them, along with the cards and crystals, maybe the bell and the mirror in locator spells. I’m not saying you can find people with spells,” Peabody added when Eve just stared at her. “But that she thought she could. Anyway, Detective Lloyd’s going to meet us.”
“Then let’s see what else we can find here first.”
The old woman lived simply, neatly, and cautiously. In the cloth bag in the bottom of the chest Eve found a small amount of cash, another bag of crystals and herbs, a map of the city, and a subway card, along with ID and passport and a number of the flyers with Beata’s image and information.
But taped under the friggie they found an envelope of cash with a peacock feather fixed diagonally across the seal.
“That’s about ten thousand,” Peabody estimated. “She didn’t have to read palms to pay the rent.”
“It’s what she did. What kept her centered. Bag it, and let’s seal this place up. We should get to the restaurant.”
“She made it nice,” Peabody repeated with another glance around. “I guess that’s what travelers do. Make a home wherever they land, then pack it up and make the next one.”
Beata hadn’t packed it up, Eve thought, and wherever she was, it wasn’t home.
Goulash did a bustling business on Saturday evening. Spices perfumed air that rang with voices and the clatter of silverware, the clink of glasses. The waitstaff wore red sashes at the waist of black uniforms while moving briskly from kitchen to table.
A rosy-cheeked woman of about forty offered Eve a welcoming smile. “Welcome to Goulash. Do you have a reservation?”
Eve palmed her badge. “We’re not here for dinner.”
“Beata! You’ve found her.”
“No.”
“Oh.” The smile faded away. “I thought . . . I’m sorry, what can I do for you?”
“We’re meeting Detective Lloyd on a police matter. We’ll need somewhere to talk. And I’ll need to speak with you and your staff.”
“Of course.” She looked around. “We’re not going to have a table free for at least a half hour, but you can use the kitchen.”
“That’s fine. Your name?”
“Mirium Frido. This is my place, my husband’s and mine. He’s the chef. Is this about Beata? Beata Varga?”
“Indirectly.”
“Give me one minute to put someone else on the door.” Mirium hurried over to one of the waitresses. The girl glanced at Eve and Peabody, nodded.
Mirium signaled Eve forward, then led them through the dining room, past the bar, and through one of a pair of swinging doors into the chaos of the kitchen.
“Dinner rush. I’ll set you up over here—our chef’s table. Jan invites customers back sometimes—gives them a treat. I told Vee to send Detective Lloyd back when he gets here. He’s been in several times about Beata, so everyone knows him. Can you tell me anything about her? Do you have more information?”