by Blake Pierce
Audrey added, “But I guess he didn’t hate Schilder’s beer enough to stop guzzling it down, at least when it was free. I already told you about how Schilder cut Forstmann off, and they had a big argument about it.”
“Which ended with Schilder’s public humiliation,” London added, remembering what Audrey had said.
She flashed back to something Schilder had said to Helmut a while ago about one special reason he was happy that Forstmann was dead—that Schilder had escaped the ritual dunking of Katers Murr.
“Sigmund Forstmann was kind enough to get dunked in my place. It’s too bad I’ll never get a chance to thank him.”
“He sure had plenty of motive,” London observed.
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” Audrey said. “I mean, the way that detektiv is treating you and me like prime suspects, when somebody else had a lot more motivation against him. Do you suppose he’s not even the least bit suspicious of Herr Schilder?”
London wondered the same thing. If Detektiv Erlich were here right now, she’d probably flat-out ask him about it.
Reaching over to scratch Sir Reggie’s head, Audrey asked, “Do you think Forstmann ever had anything good to say about anybody?”
London felt a prickle of interest.
“That’s a good question,” she thought. “And I think I know the answer. Search the article for the name Helmut Preiss.”
Sure enough, Audrey found a paragraph about Helmut, which London translated aloud.
I don’t know how I’d survive this ordeal every year if it weren’t for the exquisite Weizenbier—“wheat beer”—that always comes out of Schutzkeller Brauen. That revered brewery is now in the masterful hands of its family heir, Helmut Preiss, who maintains its always-extraordinary level of quality.
“Well, it sure sounds like Herr Forstmann liked Herr Preiss,” Audrey said. “Who is he, anyway?”
“Somebody I’ve talked to a couple of times,” London said. “A really nice guy.”
She kept reading.
In my not-so-humble opinion, Preiss positively outdoes all his prior efforts with this year’s gold medal-winning Weizenbier, in which a light taste of vanilla doesn’t overwhelm the overall sweetness and roundness of this product’s complex, multilayered flavoring. Helmut Preiss is nothing less than a Bavarian treasure.
London felt a pang of sadness as she kept translating aloud.
Of course, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that Helmut Preiss and I are old and dear friends. More than just the finest of brewers, I consider him to be a scholar and conversationalist of the first rank—and a true kindred spirit in every way. As much as I may dread everything else about the Hoffmann Fest, it is a pleasure to visit with Helmut every year.
Audrey observed, “He sounds almost human all of a sudden.”
He certainly does, London thought.
There was clearly a respectful and considerate aspect of Forstmann’s personality that he rarely showed and few people in Bamberg ever got to know. Helmut Preiss was obviously very much an exception.
She remembered how Helmut had choked up when talking about the deceased critic.
“I will miss him,” he’d said.
Only now did London sense the depth of Helmut’s grief. She made a mental note to offer him her condolences when she met him later this evening.
Audrey asked, “So do you see anything revealing?”
London skimmed over the rest of the article. While Helmut Preiss’s Schutzkeller Brauen was the only brand Forstmann had anything good to say about, Rolf Schilder’s Zenitbrauen product was far from the only beer that he savagely attacked. And London sensed from Forstmann’s tone that many of these attacks were personal and utterly unfair.
“There’s no shortage of suspects,” London said. “But Schilder seems to really stand out of the crowd.”
Audrey asked, “Do you want to go back a few years, check and see what Forstmann wrote about Schilder in the past? And maybe about other people too?”
London stared at the screen thoughtfully for a moment.
Then she said, “I’d much rather know what he would have written today—if he hadn’t been killed.”
Audrey scoffed. “Good luck finding that out! Dead people tend not to be very forthcoming about that kind of thing. Or about anything else, for that matter. They mostly keep their thoughts to themselves.”
London smiled as an idea occurred to her.
Sometimes even dead people might tell us something important.
CHAPTER THIRTY
London felt certain she was on the right track. The answer to the mystery might well be hidden in whatever the murdered man had been about to write.
She just had to find out what that was.
“Let’s look at the masthead for contact information,” she said to Audrey.
Audrey brought up the Sternenkurier masthead, and London looked over the list of names and contacts. She took out her cell phone and called the phone number for the editorial department. When she got a secretary on the line, she asked to speak to Werner Mannheim, the newspaper’s arts, foods, and leisure editor.
When Herr Mannheim answered, she asked if they could speak in English. When he was agreeable, she put the call on speakerphone.
“My name is London Rose,” she said, “and I’m an American traveling in Germany who is currently visiting Bamberg. There’s another American on this call—Audrey Bolton.”
“How can I help you?” Herr Mannheim asked.
London hesitated. She didn’t know exactly how to put her question into words. Fortunately, Herr Mannheim spoke.
“Does this have something to do with Sigmund Forstmann’s death?”
London figured her best option was to be reasonably truthful, without actually admitting that she herself was a murder suspect.
“Yes, it does,” she said. “I was unlucky enough to have discovered his body.”
“I’m very sorry,” Mannheim said with a note of genuine sympathy. “That must have been very hard for you.”
“Thank you, it was very upsetting,” London said. “And naturally I’m very curious about the murdered man.”
Mannheim chuckled a little.
“Well, he was quite a character,” he said. “He was abrasive, and he made enemies very easily, but … I happened to like him. And I thought he was a fine journalist. I’m sorry that his career had to end this way.”
London was relieved to hear Mannheim speaking so openly.
“Do you happen to have any idea about what he planned to write about this year’s Hoffmann Fest?”
Mannheim laughed outright.
“His usual diatribe, I suppose,” he said. “He didn’t tell me anything about that article in particular. But he did plan to write a feature article in addition to his yearly screed. In fact, the last thing he sent me was an email about what he had in mind.”
“Could you tell me what the article was going to be about?” London asked.
Mannheim fell silent again.
“Who did you say you were again?” he asked.
Again, London saw no harm in being reasonably truthful.
“I’m London Rose, and I’m the social director aboard the river cruise boat called the Nachtmusik. I work for Epoch World Cruise Lines.”
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of it. A very reputable company.”
Another short silence followed.
“I’m looking at his email right now. It’s really rather innocuous, and of course nothing’s going to come of the story now, so … I suppose it would all right for me to forward it to you.”
London felt a tingle of interest.
“Thank you, I’d really appreciate that,” she said.
She gave him her email address, and they ended the call.
“What do you expect to find out?” Audrey asked.
“I really don’t know,” London said.
But she had to admit to herself, Mannheim’s description of the email as “rather innocuous” di
dn’t sound very promising.
The email arrived in just a few seconds, and London opened it on her cell phone.
Dear Werner—
Well, I’m off to Bamberg tomorrow, and I plan to get spectacularly drunk as usual, so wish me a mild hangover. Also as usual, I expect to stay there an extra day and rummage through the archives of Bamberg’s Bayerische Biermuseum [Bavarian Beer Museum]. I’m hoping to collect material for a feature story about lost beer recipes.
For example, last year I came across the files of Bamberg’s Braunbärenbier brewery, which was owned by the legendary Leitner beer dynasty until it went defunct during World War I. I’m attaching a PDF facsimile of an especially interesting recipe which was never manufactured due to the brewery’s untimely demise.
The beer was to be named Illicium, which is the Latin word for “enticement” and also the proper name of the spice called star anise. Star anise is a common enough beer ingredient, but the Leitner family found an innovative way to use it—one, I think, that’s well worth reviving.
That’s all for now. I’ll send in my yearly tantrum the day after tomorrow. Expect the good citizens of Bamberg to lodge numerous complaints about my behavior, which I fully intend to be perfectly abominable.
Freundliche Grüße [kind regards],
Sigmund
When London finished translating the email aloud, Audrey looked at her skeptically.
“Doesn’t sound very helpful, does it?”
“I suppose not,” London said, feeling disappointed. She had felt so sure that she was following a good lead, but the email didn’t express anything that might lead to the man’s murderer.
“Is there anything else we can do?” Audrey asked. “Do you want to keep searching past articles?”
“No,” London said with a sigh. “I don’t guess we’ll find anything except Forstmann’s yearly rants and tirades. We won’t learn anything except how many people really hated him. Thanks for your help, though.”
“Don’t mention it,” Audrey said.
As London and Sir Reggie left Audrey’s stateroom, she glanced at the unopened PDF attachment she’d just received.
A beer recipe, she reminded herself.
Alas, it was hardly what she’d hoped to find, and it wasn’t of any real interest to her personally, although it might be interesting to Bryce …
“Bryce!” she exclaimed aloud as she and Sir Reggie continued down the passageway.
She’d almost forgotten Preiss’s invitation, and the ceremony was only a couple of hours off.
She called Bryce’s phone number, and he answered right away.
“London! I’ve been thinking about you. How are you? The last time I saw you was … well, when we both had to talk to that detective. What have you been doing since?”
London’s mind boggled at the thought of trying to tell him.
“It’s a long story,” she said. “How about you?”
“I’m back at work, and glad of it.”
“I’ll bet you are.”
“I can’t say I much like Detektiv Erlich.”
Me neither, London thought.
“Listen, Bryce,” she said. “I got an invitation for two excellent seats at the awards ceremony in a little while. Do you want to come?”
Bryce stammered a little, “Um, sure, I’d love to come, but …”
London waited for him to finish his thought.
“In, uh, what capacity?” he said.
London instantly understood the significance of his question. And she, too, found herself stammering shyly.
“As a date … if that’s OK,” she said.
Bryce let out a relieved-sounding laugh.
“Count me in,” Bryce said.
“Let’s meet in the reception area.”
“I’ll be there.”
London and Bryce ended the call. She and Sir Reggie headed down the spiral stairs toward the Allegro deck.
London gulped worriedly when they ran into Detektiv Erlich in the passageway.
“Good afternoon, Fräulein Rose,” he said rather stiffly.
“The same to you, Detektiv Erlich,” London said. Remembering Captain Hays’s diversionary tactics, she added, “I hope you had a good breakfast.”
Detektiv Erlich smiled ever so slightly.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say the captain was trying to distract me.”
Patting his stomach, he added, “Well, it was a pleasant distraction. And I appreciate how you managed to find the, uh, chicken woman without my team and I having to go to a lot of trouble.”
“Do you feel any closer to solving the murder?” London asked.
“That’s hard to say,” Erlich said with an enigmatic look.
As London and Sir Reggie stood facing him, she remembered something she and Audrey had both wanted to ask him.
“Detektiv Erlich, Audrey Bolton and I were just doing a bit of online research concerning Sigmund Forstmann.”
Erlich cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.
“Indeed?” he said. “And why would you want to do that?”
London shrugged and said, “Well, since you seem to suspect us both of murder, naturally we’d like to clear our names. We found and read the article Herr Forstmann wrote after last year’s Hoffmann Fest. He seems to have had a particular dislike for Rolf Schilder. And judging from things I’ve heard Herr Schilder himself say, the feeling seems to have been mutual.”
Erlich frowned grimly.
“Your point being?” he asked.
London swallowed hard, daunted by the smoldering look in Erlich’s eyes.
“Well, Audrey and I are wondering whether—”
Erlich interrupted her sharply.
“Whether I consider Herr Schilder to be a viable suspect?”
London nodded.
“It’s a rather impertinent question, Fräulein Rose,” Erlich said. “But I will tell you quite bluntly, Rolf Schilder did not commit the murder. I’ve looked into the matter myself, and he’s got a perfect alibi. Not that I seriously suspected him from the start. I’ve known him for years, and he’s simply incapable of any act of serious violence. I only bothered to check his alibi as a matter of procedure. He’s quite innocent, believe me.”
Drawing himself up indignantly, Erlich added, “And that’s all I intend to discuss with you. You must never speak ill of our Katers Murr during one of our most important festivals of the year. From now until you leave Bamberg—whenever that may be—I hope you will be so kind as to mind your own business.”
Stepping toward her, he added, “And be assured, I will be keeping an eye on you.”
Erlich angrily continued on his way up to the Menuetto deck to leave the ship.
As she and Sir Reggie continued on their way to her stateroom, London felt a little weak-kneed over Erlich’s palpable hostility.
She was also more worried than ever. Until the crime was solved, the Nachtmusik couldn’t leave Bamberg. The entire European tour might well be cancelled if it got too far behind, and that could mean that Epoch Cruise Lines would close down, and that would mean that London and a lot of other people would be out of their jobs.
London really couldn’t just mind her own business.
If I only knew what to do next, she thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
Later that evening, London took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she and Sir Reggie rode the elevator up to the reception area. She had felt her whole body tense up at the prospect of returning to the Hoffmann Fest. But without any clues to Forstmann’s murder, the only thing left to do was to try to enjoy this enforced stay over in Bamberg.
What’s so hard about that? she wondered
After all, she was getting together with Bryce this evening.
So why was her whole body tense with worry?
And why did Sir Reggie let out a half-whine, half-growl that seemed to indicate that he felt uneasy too?
“Let’s both tr
y to remember,” she said to her dog, “we’re going back to the Maximiliensplatz to enjoy the end of the festival. Nothing awful or traumatic is going to happen this time. No more German newspapermen drowned in cheap lager! That’s not too much to expect, is it?”
Sir Reggie grumbled under his breath as if he wasn’t so sure. London waved her finger at him.
“You go ahead and worry if you want to,” she said. “I’m going to have a good time, and that’s that.”
Sir Reggie let out another growl that almost sounded sarcastic.
“Oh, what’s the point in arguing?” London replied with a sigh. “You’re right, of course. Try as I might to enjoy tonight’s outing with Bryce, I’m sure to get into some sort of trouble. I just can’t stop looking for answers.”
London shuddered again as she remembered the hostility in Detektiv Erlich’s voice a while earlier.
“I hope you will be so kind as to mind your own business.”
Even Oberhauser had given her the same advice when he’d caught her looking at “the scene of the crime.”
Well, she was minding her own business, but not really by choice. She simply hadn’t thought of any other way to track down a killer.
The afternoon had passed pleasantly enough. After the detektiv had left, things were remarkably normal on the aboard the Nachtmusik. She had busied herself implementing the vouchers, discounts, and deals for meals and drinks and services that Mr. Lapham had proposed to keep passengers happy despite all the troubles and delays.
Of course, passengers were thoroughly delighted. And it made London happy to see them happy. She had also realized that many of them were perfectly content to have another evening to enjoy the festival.
Wanting to wear something cheerful-looking, she had put on her blue dress with the big white polka dots and thought it looked just fine with her flat blue shoes. She had even found a brightly multicolored collar and leash set for Sir Reggie among the collection left by the dog’s previous owner. So far, none of those choices had made her feel relaxed or at all festive.
