Crime (and Lager) (A European Voyage Cozy Mystery—Book 3)

by Blake Pierce

  But she kept thinking about Oberhauser’s words as the policemen led him away.

  “You don’t understand … You don’t understand … You don’t understand …”

  She had a queasy feeling that the man might be right, that there was still something she didn’t understand.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  As she, Sir Reggie, and Bryce approached the Hoffmann Fest stage, London saw that it was undergoing a rapid transformation. As she, Bryce, and Sir Reggie approached, London could see both police and civilian workers rushing about, dashing onto and off the stage and carrying things as they went. A man toting a huge bundle of wadded up police tape hurried past them.

  Sir Reggie watched the activity with interest, occasionally woofing at someone who dashed by.

  “I guess the festival stage is no longer a crime scene,” London said to Bryce. She shuddered slightly at the memory of everything that had happened there.

  “That’s all over now,” he replied, squeezing her hand. “Now we can relax right out front, while they announce finalists in the beer competition.”

  A row of long picnic tables had been set up in front of the stage, apparently for the competition winners. The nearest part of the plaza was filled with smaller tables and chairs for the audience, and most of those were already occupied by an animated crowd of people.

  Just as London was wondering whether she and Bryce actually had any seats, a man dressed in lederhosen stood up and waved at them.

  Bryce nudged London.

  “You didn’t tell me we were getting together with Helmut Preiss,” he said with a grin.

  “He’s the one who offered us ringside seats,” London said, smiling back at him. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, not at all.”

  Helmut’s table was indeed quite near the stage, and he had saved chairs for them. As they approached, Helmut shook hands warmly with Bryce and greeted him in a hearty voice.

  “Ah, we meet again, Mr. Yeaton! I am always pleased to reacquaint myself with a man of such discerning taste buds.”

  “And I’m always eager to spend time with a master brewer,” Bryce said.

  London chuckled to herself as they took seats at the table and Sir Reggie jumped up into her lap. She realized the two men were going to have a lot to talk about.

  This might not turn out to be much of a date, she realized.

  Or at least not the kind I’d expected.

  Helmut leaned over and said to Bryce and London, “Word is getting around that there’s been a break in the murder case. Do you happen to know if it’s true?”

  “The police just made an arrest,” Bryce explained.

  “Who is the suspect?” Helmut asked.

  “Willy Oberhauser, the security guard,” London said.

  “Oh, my!” Helmut said. “Is Detektiv Erlich sure of it?”

  “Quite sure,” Bryce said.

  “Well, I don’t suppose I should be surprised,” Helmut said. “Willy has a terrible temper. And his hatred of poor Sigmund was always extreme.”

  He breathed a long sigh of relief.

  “That puts my mind at ease, in any case,” he added. “I dreaded the possibility that Sigmund’s killer might never be brought to justice.”

  London remembered something she’d wanted to say to Helmut.

  “Helmut, I was doing a bit of research this afternoon, and I looked up Herr Forstmann’s review of last year’s festival. I realized you must have been very fond of him—and he of you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, that’s a very kind thing to say,” Helmut said, his voice choking a little. “And now, let’s get something to eat, shall we?”

  Leaving a reserved sign in view on their table, Helmut escorted London, Bryce, and Sir Reggie over to a row of steam tables from which wafted a mind-boggling array of delicious aromas.

  “I don’t even know where to begin,” London said.

  “Allow me to recommend the Bayrisches Schweinebraten,” Helmut said in a gallant tone. “It is always excellent.”

  Following Helmut’s instructions, London put together a delicious meal that included the Bavarian pork dish called Schweinebraten, potato dumplings, sauerkraut, and a salad.

  After they’d filled their plates, she and her companions headed back over to their table, where Bryce put Sir Reggie in a separate chair and gave him an enormous hot pretzel called a Brezen. It was more than big enough to be an entire meal for the little dog, and London hoped he wouldn’t eat too much of it too fast.

  Three bottles of beer awaited London and her human companions on the tabletop, and Helmut suggested that they try each of them.

  “I believe these three beers will be the medal winners in tonight’s award,” he said.

  From one bottle he poured some clear, brownish beer into a glass.

  “This is a bock beer from Otto Laube’s Seltzames Bier brewery,” he said. “I can’t yet tell you its name, because I don’t yet know it, and nobody else does except for Otto himself. It is a tradition to announce the names of our beers when the awards are given.”

  London and Bryce each took a taste of the beer, which had a rich, toasty flavor—with a hint of caramel, as Bryce observed.

  Pouring from another bottle into another glass, Helmut said, “This is a Märzen from the Eroberer Brauen brewery, owned by Lothar Mencken.”

  Again, London and Bryce each took a taste of the amber-colored Märzen, which had a full, malty flavor and a yeasty smell that reminded London of freshly baked bread.

  Helmut chuckled as he poured from the last of the three bottles.

  “And this is one you tasted yesterday—an innovative new Hefeweizen of my own creation. You shall hear its name shortly—when I win one of the three medals!”

  Bryce and London laughed at Helmut’s good-natured boastfulness as they chose his slightly foggy, enigmatically flavorful Hefeweizen to drink with their meal.

  And a delicious meal it was. London’s Bayrisches Schweinebraten was a delicious pork roast drenched with dark beer sauce. Bryce gave her a taste of his Kässpatzen, a kind of Spätzle—egg pasta—flavored with creamy cheese sauce and fried onion. Helmut invited her to try his cabbage rolls, which were stuffed with lamb filling seasoned with garlic and onion and various spices.

  London listened with interest as Bryce and Helmut discussed both fine foods and beer recipes, speaking some of the time in German, some of the time in English. The surroundings were so pleasant and the company so charming that London felt herself relaxing and enjoying herself.

  But why did Willy Oberhauser’s words run through her head again?

  “You don’t understand … You don’t understand … You don’t understand …”

  Ignoring that refrain, she followed her friends back to the buffet for desserts and strong and delicious hot coffee. London enjoyed tasting Bryce’s Bavarian apple strudel and Helmut’s apple rings, as well as her own cream-filled éclair garnished with fruit and chocolate sauce.

  By then, Sir Reggie had only eaten about half of his enormous pretzel and given up on the rest. So London wrapped what remained in a napkin to take back to their stateroom.

  As London and her companions finished up their desserts, the red curtain opened to reveal the altered stage. A huge Hoffmann Fest sign hid the gigantic vat and its darker associations completely from view. A podium was placed in front of the sign for the final awards ceremony.

  Helmut chuckled as a portly gentleman stepped up to the podium, a tuft of unruly gray hair rising from the top of his head like a puff of smoke.

  “Our beloved Lord Mayor, Ulrich Haas,” he said to London and Bryce with a wink. “I believe I will take a short nap. Wake me up when he has finished talking.”

  London laughed as Helmut closed his eyes and ducked his head and pretended to snore. Of course he immediately reopened his eyes and actually listened. But the speech was every bit as dull as Helmut had predicted—the sort of speech London had heard at countless awards ceremo
nies, an interminable litany of names of people to thank and announcements of upcoming events.

  When the Lord Mayor left the podium, a dapperly dressed, small-chinned man took his place and spoke into the microphone.

  “Meine Damen und Herren,” he began—“Ladies and gentlemen…”

  London was startled at the sound of his voice.

  Where have I heard that voice before?

  “… it is my distinct honor—and also, if I may say so, my disappointment—as the king of this year’s Hoffmann Fest to announce the winners of this year’s competition.”

  With those words, he put a familiar paper crown on his head and grinned as the crowd laughed and applauded.

  Of course! London realized. It’s this year’s Katers Murr himself!

  She’d simply never seen Rolf Schilder’s face before.

  Dressed as a gigantic cat, he’d cut a more formidable appearance. His personality had seemed abrasive and even a bit threatening. But now he was playing his allotted role with self-effacing good humor.

  More like a mouse than a cat, indeed, she thought, remembering what she’d heard others say about him.

  He spoke again to the crowd.

  “Since my bribery money seemed not to have had its intended effect …”

  His voice was interrupted by laughter from the crowd.

  “… I must sadly assume that the citizens of Bamberg are incorruptible. Too bad for me, I suppose, but I will find the courage to go on. And now let’s get down to the business at hand.”

  He opened a large envelope and took out a certificate with a medal.

  “This year’s Bronze Medal goes Otto Laube and his Seltzames Bier brewery.”

  As the audience applauded and Otto Laube climbed up onto the stage, London and Bryce exchanged laughing glances with Helmut. Sure enough, the bronze was going to the delicious bock beer they’d tasted before dinner, and that Helmut had predicted to be a medal winner.

  Otto Laube spoke shyly and almost inaudibly—he seemed to have no idea how to speak into a microphone or to a large crowd. But London was able to catch words of thanks and the gist of the rest of his acceptance speech.

  Just as Helmut had said the prizewinners would, Herr Laube took the occasion to announce the name of his prize-winning beer—Wahl des Tänzers, “Dancer’s Choice.” He also said something about his recipe that London couldn’t entirely catch. The secret of the beer’s fine taste apparently had to something do with how the temperature of the fermentation process had been slowly and carefully controlled.

  Herr Laube thanked everybody and climbed down from the stage to another round of applause. Then Rolf Schilder returned to the podium, opened another envelope, and took out another certificate with a medal.

  He announced, “This year’s Silver Medal goes to Lothar Mencken’s Eroberer Brauen product.”

  The crowd applauded, and London and her companions smiled over the fact that Helmut had made yet another accurate prediction. Lothar Mencken was the maker of the full-bodied Märzen they’d tasted a little while ago.

  Lothar Mencken was short but broad, with an enormous toothy smile and a gigantic, cheerful face riddled with what appeared to be acne scars.

  Mencken began to speak in such a boisterous tone that most of his words were drowned out by the feedback his booming voice created. But when London wasn’t covering her ears because of the screeching noise, she was again able to make out the gist of what was said.

  He announced that the name of his new Märzen recipe was Wiesenbrise—“Meadow Breeze”—and that the key to its fine taste was its unique blend of malts. He thanked everybody, and he stepped back into the crowd to the sound of applause.

  Herr Schilder stepped back to the podium and held up the final envelope, looking straight at Helmut with a mischievous, teasing expression.

  “Meine Damen und Herren,” he said. “I don’t suppose there’s any real need to open this last envelope …”

  London remembered something Helmut had said to her and Bryce yesterday.

  “I have hopes of winning the gold medal again this year.”

  Herr Schilder obviously expected exactly that outcome, and so did most of the crowd, who cried out to him.

  “Open the envelope! Open the envelope!”

  With a knowing laugh, Herr Schilder opened the envelope and produced the final certificate and medal.

  He announced, “This year’s Gold Medal goes to Helmut Preiss and his latest creation from his Schutzkeller Brauen.”

  Unsurprised but obviously very happy, the crowd broke into an even louder round of applause. London and Bryce gave Helmut congratulatory pats on the back, then he mounted the stage, walked to the podium, and accepted the medal and certificate. Unlike the other speakers, Helmut’s words through the microphone were perfectly clear.

  “Danke schein, Meine Damen und Herren. As always, this is a great honor, and I never fail to be humbled by it.”

  He lowered his head for a moment and spoke in a quieter voice.

  “I know that many of you do not share my sentiments … but I only wish Sigmund Forstmann could be here right now. I … I will miss him.”

  A vague murmur passed through the crowd.

  Helmut managed to smile as he spoke again.

  “But enough of sad matters. Allow me to announce the name of the beer that you have chosen to win this medal.”

  He paused for a moment, then said, “I call it Illicium.”

  London was jolted by the sound of that name.

  Where have I heard that word before? she wondered.

  Then Helmut added, “It is a Latin word meaning ‘enticement’—and it is also the name of the spice better known as ‘star anise.’”

  London’s breath froze in her lungs as an awful possibility dawned on her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  “No,” London murmured aloud. “It can’t be true.”

  “What’s the matter?” Bryce asked.

  London’s heart was beating hard and fast.

  Instead of answering, she grabbed her cell phone and hunted for the email that Forstmann had written to Werner Mannheim, his editor at the Sternenkurier.

  When she opened it, her eyes immediately fell upon a certain sentence.

  “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.”

  Forstmann had written that about a long-lost beer recipe. And Helmut Preiss had just very nearly the same thing.

  Helmut kept speaking, “Brewers often make use of star anise, but rather vulgarly, in my opinion …”

  London opened the PDF file that had been attached to Forstmann’s email—“an especially interesting recipe,” he had called it. The file was a facsimile of a yellowed old document composed in elegant handwriting.

  She felt dizzy as she read the opening words.

  “Brewers often make use of star anise, but rather vulgarly, in my opinion …”

  Those were exactly the same words Helmut had spoken just now.

  Things got worse as Helmut kept talking.

  “How does one keep star anise from overwhelming the recipe, creating beer reminiscent of licorice candy?”

  Glancing along the document, London found exactly that same sentence written there.

  She got up from her chair.

  “London, what are you doing?” Bryce asked as he reached out and stopped Sir Reggie from following her.

  She began to read loudly from her cell phone, in exact unison with what Helmut was telling his audience.

  “The secret, I believe, is for west to meet east, so to speak—through a judicious use of spice combinations common to Chinese cooking …”

  The crowd murmured with surprise, looking back and forth at London and Helmut as they continued to speak exactly the same words.

  “The spices I speak of are, like anise, common to Chinese ‘five spice’ …”

  Helmut fell silent, staring at London in horror. But
as London mounted the steps to the stage, she kept right on reading.

  “… fennel, cinnamon, Szechuan peppercorns, and cloves.”

  London was standing on the stage now, staring at Helmut with an accusing expression.

  “Would you like to continue?” she said to him. “Or would you like for me to say the rest of it for you?”

  Helmut’s face had gone white, and he seemed to be in a state of shock.

  London said to him, “Can you deny that your new beer is stolen from a hundred-year-old recipe created by the Leitner beer dynasty?”

  Helmut silently turned and walked down the steps off the stage.

  London called after him in a trembling voice.

  “And can you deny that you yourself are the murderer of Sigmund Forstmann?”

  The crowd gasped loudly.

  Helmut staggered for a moment, then began to push his way into the crowd.

  The Lord Mayor leaped up from his chair and pointed to Helmut and yelled out.

  “Police! Somebody! Stop him before he gets away!”

  Helmut broke into a run, pushing people aside and even knocking some of them down. London charged after him, weaving her way through the scattering crowd.

  Yapping ferociously, Sir Reggie broke away from Bryce and plunged on ahead of her, his leash flapping behind him.

  Up ahead, London saw the brassy gleam of an enormous musical instrument. It was the tuba player from the oompah band that had been playing in the square a little while ago. Helmut collided with the musician, sending him spinning around.

  Barely able to skid to a halt in time, London managed not to collide with the tuba player herself. But her momentary delay was costly. She no longer saw Helmut anywhere.

  He must be out of the square by now, she realized.

  How could she possibly find the man in Bamberg’s maze of narrow streets? But then she heard the unmistakable racket of Reggie’s barking somewhere up ahead and realized that her little dog was still hot on Helmut’s trail.

  Following the sound of barking, London kept running through the narrow, crooked streets. She could tell that she was on the right track by the trail of dazed pedestrians Helmut left in his wake. Dashing past fallen nutcrackers, mice, fairies, and owls gave her the weird feeling that she was running through some bizarre dream. She was glad to see the most of the characters were getting back to their feet, not badly harmed.