The Zurich Conspiracy

dare you to go back on the ice.” He was standing before her completely dressed now, his cap on his prominent skull.
    “I dare you ,” Josefa shot back.
    He just grinned.

The sun was melting the last vestiges of snow in places where there had been some shade. Swampy puddles lurked in ambush everywhere. A car whizzed by and sprayed dirty water all over Josefa and her new, light-blue winter coat. That was her punishment for daring to wear a color like that in this weather. She cursed loudly at the departing driver.
    Josefa was in a fighting mood even before this affront. A woman cannot be careful enough in the choice of her enemies . She’d printed out the whole batch of the anonymous e-mails; they were even more depressing on paper than in electronic form. A woman can also use her enemies to serve her own purposes , she thought to herself.
    She decided to pay her father a visit. Verena’s house—it was still hers alone, in Josefa’s eyes—exuded a proud sedateness as always. Those walls had lasted for three hundred years; you could literally breathe in the past in its grand rooms. Verena put a glass of water on the kitchen table every night. “Each wandering soul must know that it is welcome at our place,” she once explained to Josefa, which was sufficient evidence not to ever take her stepmother too seriously.
    There was no glass of water on the table this afternoon, although Verena was entertaining a poor soul. “May I introduce you?” she said as she took Josefa into the little parlor. “This is Anita Schulmann.” His mother .
    Frau Schulmann had a surprisingly strong handshake. “Pleased to meet you,” she said in a loud voice. She was much younger than Josefa would have suspected, perhaps midforties. Her hair was dyed red. What are you supposed to say at a moment like this? My condolences? Or, I’m very sorry for you? Josefa could never have gotten those words out. But Anita Schulmann saved the day. “Verena is an old friend of mine; she has surely told you that, hasn’t she? She is so good to me. I could hardly have made it through these last few weeks without her.” Verena squeezed her friend’s hand reassuringly.
    “It must be terrible for you,” Josefa said politely.
    “Yes, it is bad. My goodness, who would want to do anything bad to Werner? Do you know, I did not know him particularly well. I married his father after Werner’s mother died.”
    So that was the connection between Verena Rehmer and Anita Schulmann. The two stepmothers were sitting in enviable harmony on the Biedermeier sofa, one talking nonstop, the other listening patiently.
    “Werner had already moved out and was living in Dietikon. He did not come to visit very often, even when Armin, my husband, was bedridden. I am sorry to say he never brought a girlfriend home. Armin wanted to have grandchildren, but a career was more important to Werner. Ah, well, that is how it is today, and one must accept it…Werner never told us about his problems. Never mentioned any enemies.”
    Frau Schulmann was wearing red lipstick and had outlined her lips with a dark pencil. Josefa felt stuck, not knowing what to say or think. Verena didn’t do anything to help her out of the situation either. Werner’s mother, on the other hand, did everything possible to hang on to Josefa.
    “Who could have done such a thing?” she asked again. “And with a hypodermic needle of all things.”
    “With a needle?” Josefa straightened up.
    “Yes, an injection, imagine that. The murderer first anesthetized Werner, presumably put something in his glass. Then he pumped poison into his blood stream with a needle. Werner died right away. The police discovered the injection point on his body but will not say where, as the investigation is ongoing.”
    Her blood-red mouth was quivering.
    “Would you like another cup of coffee, Anita?” Verena asked.
    “Yes, please, but decaffeinated,” her friend replied.
    “Of course, my dear. Josefa, your father is expecting you in his office, if that is all right with you.”
    Josefa was now reluctant to say goodbye to Frau Schulmann. Maybe she could pick up some more interesting pieces of news. But Verena escorted her with a firm step down the long, dark hallway. “Sometimes he’s better, sometimes worse,” she whispered to Josefa, “but you’ve caught him on a good day; he’s not so tired today.”
    Diabetes. Something else Josefa had successfully repressed. But she was reminded of it by the sight