The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  “Maybe they both stabbed him,” Renie suggested.

  “You’re reaching.” Judith paused, seeing two dozen uniformed Camp Fire Girls heading down the main street toward the exhibits. “Oh,” she went on, “I forgot there’s a Camp Fire booth near ours. It’s ten after three. I wonder if Connie’s husband ever found her.”

  “I thought you were going to take that bottle and those plaster chunks to the cops.”

  Judith nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  The cousins had to wait for a horse-drawn carriage to pass by. The now-familiar blue-and-white-checkered Bavarian flags fluttered from the carriage’s roof. The bearded lederhosen-clad driver waved. Judith and Renie waved back.

  “The local version of a taxi?” Renie wondered aloud. “Why didn’t we hail it? I’m tired of walking. You must be pooped.”

  “I am,” Judith admitted, “but we have to play the game. If it is a game. Frankly, I have doubts.”

  “So you said. I’m beginning to feel the same way. For one thing, I can’t see Inbred Heffalump going to all this trouble to bug you.”

  “True. It’d involve too much coordination, cooperation, and imagination—and Ingrid doesn’t have much of the third commodity.” Judith didn’t speak again until they were on the other side of the street. “If Eleanor was released after confessing to a homicide Connie insists she couldn’t have committed, where is Ellie?” She didn’t wait for Renie to answer. “And what’s with Franz Wessler? Did he also confess? Either this is the most inept bunch of cops I’ve ever come across or . . .” She shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

  “Baffled, huh?” Renie said cheerfully. “It’s about time.”

  They’d almost reached the corner across from the police station when a squad car pulled out. “Hey,” Judith called, seeing Duomo behind the wheel. Frantically, she waved her hand.

  The vehicle almost slammed into the curb. “Got something for me?” the chief asked, sticking his head out of the window.

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “Should we come back later?”

  “Heck, no,” Duomo said. “Hop in. We’re going to the beer tasting.”

  “But . . .” Judith began—and stopped. “Sure, why not?”

  The cousins got into the backseat. Ernie was up front with the chief. “Gosh,” Renie said, “now I feel like a perp.”

  Judith ignored the remark, but had a question for the chief. “Isn’t the beer tasting this evening?”

  “Yeah,” Duomo said, heading for the main street. “But the city budget’s tight. We’re the health inspectors, too, so we have to sample the brews.” He glanced at Ernie. “Helluva job, huh, Major?”

  Ernie grunted his assent.

  They were headed down the main street, approaching the exhibitor booths. “We found a bottle in a bust,” Judith said, leaning forward to make sure Duomo could hear her.

  “Whose bust?” the chief asked. “Did somebody get busted?” He turned back to his subordinate. “Did I miss a collar around here?”

  Ernie shrugged.

  “It was at the bookstore,” Judith finally said.

  “The bookstore?” The chief sounded puzzled. “Hell, I haven’t been in that place for years. Don’t have time to read books. Same thing with Ernie here. Says they put him to sleep. Ha ha.”

  Judith was practically gnashing her teeth. “I’ll explain when we stop. Where is the beer tasting?”

  “Just beyond the pancake house,” the chief informed her. “It’s a little park that goes halfway down the bank to the river. Real nice.”

  Judith glimpsed the B&B booth, which looked busy. Moments later, they pulled into the small parking area. All of the spots were taken. Duomo stopped the squad car at an angle, blocking a half-dozen cars from making an exit.

  “Damn,” he grumbled, “they were supposed to reserve a VIP slot for me. Didn’t Orville put in my request?”

  “Guess not,” Ernie said—and yawned.

  “What the hey,” the chief muttered before turning around. “You want to show me whatever you’ve got there, Mrs. Flynn?”

  “I can’t pass it through the screen between us,” Judith said.

  Duomo sighed. “Okay, let’s do it.” Huffing and puffing, he got out of the car and opened the door for the cousins.

  After Renie give her a boost, Judith placed the plastic bag on the hood. “We went to Sadie’s Stories,” she explained. “A little boy knocked over a bust of Thomas Mann. It broke and—”

  “Who?” the chief asked.

  “Thomas . . . never mind.” Judith opened the bag so Duomo could look inside. “That bottle was in or by the hollow bust. It has no label, so I’m curious why anybody would ditch an empty bottle.”

  “Yeah, it could be one of those little shots they sell on planes and trains,” the chief said, studying the bag’s contents.

  “I don’t think so,” Judith said. “This looks more like a medicine bottle. It’s the wrong shape for the kind sold to travelers. Besides, the brand name is usually on the cap’s top and there’s nothing on this one.”

  Duomo chortled. “That calls for a cap joke, but I can’t think of one. Can’t even think of one about a derby.”

  “Skip the jokes,” Judith retorted. “Shall I hang on to this or could Ernie take it back to the station?”

  The chief mulled over the query. “Well . . . I guess.” He glanced into the car. “The major dozed off. Only guy I know who sleeps it off before he drinks.” He leaned inside to shake Ernie’s arm. “Firefight! Move on out!”

  The cousins backed away while Ernie received his instructions. He got behind the wheel and was about to drive off when Judith yelled at the chief to take the plastic bag off the hood.

  “Right, right,” Duomo said wearily. “I hate these high-end investigations. Suspects and witnesses and . . .” He handed the bag to Ernie and started for the beer-tasting tent.

  “Wait!” Judith called.

  “Now what?” Duomo asked, exasperated.

  Judith’s patience was strained, but she remained civil. “You want our help solving this so-called case. Why did Franz Wessler go to headquarters earlier today?”

  “Oh, that,” Duomo said, shaking his head. “He tried to tell me he’d killed his father. That’s bull. He’s covering for somebody.”

  “Eleanor Denkel?” Judith said.

  “No. She’s got some ax to grind, always does. Besides, she has an alibi. A pal of hers showed up a little while ago to say they’d been together when Wessler got stabbed. Friends alibi friends, and that’s a fact, but I kind of believed this . . . what was her name?” He scratched his bald head. “Bowlegs? Boohoo?”

  “Connie Beaulieu,” Judith said. “Yes, I heard the same thing. Who do you think Franz is protecting?”

  Duomo shrugged. “His ex-wife, Klara? That doesn’t make much sense, since she seemed kind of keen on the old guy. Still, it could be a lovers’ quarrel. Never could figure out what was going on with that bunch. I mean, old Wessler was getting up there. That is, I wouldn’t think he could get it . . . never mind. I better test those beers.”

  “That,” Judith said after Duomo disappeared inside the tent, “is one sorry excuse for a law officer.”

  “Maybe the small-town hick is an act to fool criminals,” Renie said.

  “Then he’s got it down pat,” Judith declared. “I believe it. Though . . .” She eyed her cousin curiously. “This situation is different from most cases we’ve run into. In small towns, we’ve usually dealt with county law enforcement. If Duomo doesn’t have the money or the personnel, why doesn’t he call in the sheriff or even the state?”

  “Bad PR,” Renie said. “Der Alte is whacked just as the Oktoberfest event kicks off? This town’s built on tourism. Otherwise, it would’ve died when it ceased being a timber and railroad town. The population’s around a thousand hardy mountain so
uls. Yes, they’ve got winter sports, but there are other towns nearby. If any of them had two homicides in as many months, they’d set some sort of per capita record.”

  “I keep forgetting that you’re involved in PR with your graphic-design business. However,” Judith went on, going back to the main street, “years ago, you told me that murder was good for my business.”

  “That’s different,” Renie said. “You’re in the city. People expect murders. And I don’t see that it’s hurt your bottom line.”

  “That’s difficult to judge.” Judith paused as they approached the busy exhibitors’ area. In the past few minutes, clouds had rolled in from the north and the air had turned cooler. She wondered if the change would dampen the visitors’ spirits. Murder hadn’t seemed to faze them. “Most of my guests don’t know I’m FASTO,” she went on. “As long as Ingrid doesn’t blackball me or pull my license, I should be okay.”

  “Sure, until your next guest checks out permanently.”

  “Shut up!” Judith cried, walking faster. “Let’s switch subjects. What will you do while I’m at the town hall organizers’ meeting?”

  “Take notes,” Renie replied. “I’m still the sleuth, aren’t I?”

  “I suppose you are,” Judith conceded. “I don’t imagine anybody will ask for your bona fides.”

  “I don’t have any,” Renie said, “unless you count my HMO ID and my Nordquist card. Think I maxed that out last August. It’s fifteen to four,” she went on, looking up at the clock tower. “Maybe I’ll buy a warmer sweater. I saw one I liked where I bought Bill’s cap.”

  “Why not just go back to the inn and get one of your own?”

  Renie shrugged. “It’s more fun to buy something new.”

  “How are you going to pay for it?”

  “Huh? Oh—I’ve still got my debit card. If Bill hasn’t gone to the bakery to buy his special treats, I should have a couple of grand left in that account. Those napoleons and Italian slippers tend to add up.”

  Judith shook her head, marveling anew at how the Joneses could keep up with their spending—let alone keep up with anyone else named Jones. The cousins parted company a block and a half from the town hall. The two-story building was located on the block between the bandstand and the police headquarters.

  After crossing the street, Judith gazed up at the numerous flags flying from what she assumed was a replica of an original Bayern village town hall. She already recognized the blue-and-white-checkered state flag of Bavaria, but there were several variations. Cities, towns, municipalities, she thought, or counties—if there were counties in Germany. The trip that she and Renie had taken before their respective marriages hadn’t included much information about the nuts and bolts of the country’s government. The cousins had been too enthralled sailing up the Rhine River, attending High Mass at the Cologne Cathedral, exploring Heidelberg’s ancient castle above the River Neckar, and marveling at how efficiently Munich had been rebuilt despite extensive Allied bombing. But the flags intrigued her, particularly a playful depiction of a comical boar tromping through the forest against a black-and-white background.

  “Quite the display, eh?” said a voice behind Judith.

  “Oh!” She turned to see Delmar Denkel looking obsequious. “Yes, I was wondering if the flags represented cities within the state of Bavaria. Do you know anything about German government divisions?”

  “Well . . .” Delmar cleared his throat. “Dachau is in Bavaria.”

  “It is?” Judith said in surprise. “I didn’t realize that.”

  “So is Bertesgarten, Hitler’s mountain retreat.”

  “Those sites weren’t on our itinerary forty years ago.”

  “They wouldn’t be, would they?” Delmar said quietly.

  “People visit those places now,” Judith said, feeling a stiff wind from off the mountains. “It’s a lesson in how wrong a country can go under a charismatic but evil leader.”

  “Yes,” Delmar agreed, looking around as if he expected to see an SS officer eavesdropping on them. “A reminder to future generations.”

  “You’ve visited Germany?” she asked.

  Delmar nodded.

  “Recently?”

  “This spring. Eleanor and I were there for two weeks.” The words seemed wrung out of him, as if they were a confession.

  “Ah . . . how is Eleanor?”

  “She’s resting today.” He gestured helplessly. “You understand.”

  Judith wasn’t sure she did. But she tried to look sympathetic. “Are you going inside to meet the Oktoberfest organizers? I mean, if Ellie isn’t up to it . . .” She let the rest of the sentence dangle.

  “I don’t know,” Delmar replied, pulling up the collar of his suede jacket around his scrawny neck. “I really don’t. I’ll walk a bit now.”

  He went on his way. Judith stood still, wondering what to make of the conversation—and of Delmar Denkel. A handful of other people were heading for the town hall. Judith decided to join them, but took one last look at the flags that were now snapping in the chilly autumn wind.

  She shivered, not sure if it was from the sudden change in the weather—or something more sinister from out of the past.

  The town hall was aptly named. The pine-paneled walls in the open area led to offices on two sides, a single staircase, and an elevator. Directly in front of Judith was the hall itself, also covered in mellow pine. A balcony went around three sides. She calculated that the large room must take up more than three-fourths of the building.

  At least fifty people were already gathered, sipping wine and beer from casks mounted on a trestle table where the bald Fritz II held sway. Judith didn’t see any of the B&B contingent. In fact, the only person she did recognize besides the bartender from Wolfgang’s Gast Haus was Suzie Stafford, who was chatting amiably with an older couple wearing Bavarian garb.

  Feeling ill at ease, she approached the trestle table. Being neither a wine nor a beer drinker, she motioned to Fritz II. “What would you suggest?” she asked diffidently.

  “A nice Liebfraumilch?” he suggested with the hint of an accent.

  “Um . . . sure.” While Fritz II poured the white wine into a large sturdy goblet, she looked up at the assortment of mounted animal heads, including a tiger. “Where was that poor cat shot? In a Bavarian zoo?”

  Fritz shook his head. “No. In India, by Herr Wessler on one of his hunting trips.” He moved a thick finger around the room. “All these animals are his trophies. He was a great hunter.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Judith said. “I also don’t know the actual organizer of the Oktoberfest.”

  “Herman Stromeyer,” he said, handing her the goblet. “But he’s got the flu, so I’m filling in for him this evening. I’m the mayor.”

  Judith stared and almost sloshed wine on the blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth. “You are? Why are you tending bar?”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I like doing it during Oktoberfest. I enjoy meeting people.”

  “Is your name really Fritz?” she asked.

  “Yes. Fritz Gruber. I was born in Bremen. I came here twenty years ago with my American bride. She’s from Omaha.”

  “But you ended up here,” Judith remarked before taking her first sip of wine.

  Fritz nodded. “Herr Wessler was a distant relation. He urged us to move to Little Bavaria. He thought Omaha was too flat. He was right. It’s best to live where one can look at mountains.”

  Judith nodded. “I’ve grown up with them.” She savored the wine. “This is quite good.”

  “You have no palate?”

  “I don’t,” she admitted. “My first husband owned a restaurant and I tended bar there sometimes. I got used to the hard stuff.” Not to mention, she thought, the hard times keeping the place afloat.

  “Ah. A shame. Wine is better for you.”

>   “Yes,” Judith allowed, “you may be right. I should offer condolences about Herr Wessler. He was what—a cousin?”

  Fritz grimaced. “Yes, though I never knew him in the old country. But our kinsmen kept in touch.”

  “Speaking of family, here’s my cousin Serena,” Judith said, spotting Renie in a red cable-knit sweater. “She’s also ignorant of wine.”

  “Hi, coz, hi, Fritz,” Renie said, waving her hand at one of the casks. “Pour me a blistering dark brew, thick as malt, brown as a bear’s butt.”

  Judith took a backward step. “You sound belligerent.”

  “I am,” Renie replied, eyeing Fritz warily. “Don’t shortchange me,” she warned him, before turning back to her cousin. “I had to fight off some beefy broad for this sweater. As if she could fit into it, even if it is a large. I left her flat on her ass somewhere in dirndls.”

  “Coz!” Judith cried. “You didn’t!”

  “Yes, I did. I had my eye on this sweater. You think I’d let some big mama get her paws on it?” Renie twirled around. “How do I look?”

  “Like the Red Menace,” Judith said. “Take it easy. This is Fritz Gruber. He’s the mayor.”

  Renie regarded Fritz with a dubious eye. “The hell you are. I’m not even sure you’re Fritz.”

  “Ah, but I am,” he replied, looking amused. “Do you want your beer in a bucket?”

  “Why not? Or I could just lie on the floor and you could open the tap.” But Renie held up a hand. “A stein will do. Are you really a Fritz?”

  “I am indeed. Are you otherwise enjoying yourself?”

  “Oh, yes,” Renie said. “It’s started to rain. That always cheers me.”

  Fritz handed Renie her stein. “How jolly do you get with snow?”

  “I resort to weaponry.” She glared at Judith, who’d glared at her first. “Let’s stop annoying Fritz. He’s got other customers lined up.” She flashed a smile at the bartender and moved away from the trestle table.

  “It’s a good thing I don’t recognize most of this crowd,” Judith grumbled. “You not only embarrassed me, but I never got a chance to ask Fritz about his version of Wessler’s demise.”