The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  “Here comes Ruby,” Judith said. “She’ll know.”

  “Hand-cut,” the waitress replied. “Bruno—the chef—is fussy.”

  As Ruby went off to put in their orders, the cousins briefly waxed lyrical over serious German cooking, recalling the weeks they’d spent in Germany. Just as they were growing almost misty-eyed, Ruby reappeared with their red-cabbage-and-beet salads.

  “By the way,” she said, lowering her voice, “I think sex won out over homicide. The Giggle Sisters left with the two dudes. That other couple took off, too. I’m freed up in here until somebody rings that damned bell. Maybe I can have an early night for a change.”

  “She’s had a hard life,” Judith mused after the waitress had departed. “I wonder how she ended up here.”

  “She ran out of gas?”

  “Figuratively, maybe.” Judith paused. “How ’bout that weapon?”

  “Forget it,” Renie said, looking bored. “If the chief thought it came from the buffet, it probably did. I’m not convinced there was that much blood on the floor. Some people pass out from a paper cut. I think Ruby likes dramatizing. She’s not bad at it. Look at you—you’re the best liar I’ve ever met. Bill says you’ve raised lying to an art form.”

  Judith almost dropped a beet slice off of her fork. “That’s not so! I never lie! I occasionally tell a small fib when it’s necessary.”

  “Bingo,” Renie said under her breath. “You did it again. But you didn’t fool me this time. Oh, Bill and I both admit we’ve swallowed most of your outrageous lies. We’re gullible. But at least we’re on guard.”

  Judith crumpled her napkin and threw it on the table. “I should leave you here to talk to yourself!”

  “You won’t,” Renie said complacently. “I give you one word—nefle.”

  “Well . . .” Judith retrieved her napkin and put it back in her lap. “I haven’t had real nefle in years. Mother used to make it now and then.”

  “That I believe,” Renie said.

  “Okay,” Judith said, her equilibrium restored. “Let’s look at what we really know.”

  Renie was wide-eyed. “We know something?”

  “Yes,” Judith declared with a touch of impatience. “Please. Let’s stay reasonable for a few minutes. It was your idea for me to unburden myself. You were right—I was feeling frustrated—and tired.”

  “Go ahead. Tell me what we know. I’m all ears.”

  “Dietrich Wessler is dead. It’s not a hoax. Maybe he was murdered. In fact, let’s assume he was.”

  Renie nodded as she polished off her salad.

  “Bob Stafford was murdered.”

  “Two corpses. Got it.”

  “Several people somehow involved with Herr Wessler are concerned about someone close to them who may be the murderer of . . . well, at least of Wessler. For now, we’ll separate the two deaths.”

  “Good idea.”

  “The cops really are baffled.”

  “Of course.”

  “No one is trying to make a fool of me.”

  “Uh-huh. Say, we didn’t get any bread.”

  “We don’t need it. There are far too many connections between various people, which makes me wonder if—”

  “We always get bread with salad,” Renie said. “You ate a big sandwich. You don’t need bread. I do.”

  “You ate popcorn. Shut up and let me—”

  Judith was interrupted when Ruby arrived with their entrées.

  “Here’s the venison,” she said, placing their plates on the table. “Medium rare. That’s how Bruno does it.”

  “It all looks great,” Judith said. “Nice green beans, too.”

  “How about some bread?” Renie said.

  “We’re out,” Ruby replied. “The baker got too busy to make enough for us even on a slow night. He had to do all the other stuff for the various events. Sorry.” She tensed. “Damn. There goes the bell from the bar.” She took off.

  “Where were we?” Judith said.

  “Wondering what happened to the bread,” Renie replied.

  “No, we weren’t,” Judith insisted. “We were talking about false confessions. Which brings us to poor Gabe Hunter being hauled off for questioning. How on earth is he connected to this case? He hasn’t been in the B&B business very long. I’d never heard of him until now.”

  Renie had swallowed her first taste of venison and appeared to be having an out-of-body experience. “Mmmm . . . ohhh . . . my!”

  “Good grief,” Judith said crossly, “you sound like Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. It’s a good thing nobody’s watching us.”

  “You try it,” Renie said. “It really is orgasmic.”

  Judith ate a mouthful and conceded the point. “You’re right. It’s very . . . good. But I’m not about to pass out from ecstasy.”

  “That’s because you already ate a bratwurst,” Renie said. “So why don’t you call Inbred Heffalump and get the lowdown on Gabe?”

  “Because I don’t want her to find out what’s happened,” Judith replied. “She’ll blame me for Wessler getting killed. I wonder if she already knows. I wouldn’t put it past Connie or Ellie to tell her.”

  “You’re paranoid,” Renie said. “They’re all too busy confessing.”

  Judith was about to grudgingly agree when she saw Franz Wessler enter the dining room. “Franz just came in.”

  Renie turned around. “Hi, Franz,” she called out. “Over here.”

  Looking startled, Franz came to their booth. “Have you seen Klara?” he asked.

  Judith shook her head. “Not since earlier today, when she was with those dogs. Was she supposed to be here?”

  “Well . . .” Franz made a face. “She left her music here last night. Originally, she was going to sing a number of welcome to the guests, but . . .” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “She thought she left the music here in all the . . . chaos that ensued. It’s an original piece she wrote just for this occasion, so she’s never performed it in public before.”

  “What is it?” Renie asked with feigned innocence. “Some of that rockin’ lied stuff about love in a cow pasture?”

  “Not precisely,” Franz replied through tight lips. “It’s rather more . . . Volk-like, with apropos warmth and charm.”

  “Darn,” Renie said. “I was so hoping it’d be all idyllic romance.” She turned serious eyes on Franz. “I thought you might be in a more tender mood tonight. Death can do that to you. Liebestod and all that.”

  Franz’s lean face darkened. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Excuse me, I must find Klara.” He turned on his heel and hurried away.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Judith said angrily. “Are you nuts? Furthermore, you don’t speak German. What’s up with that?”

  Renie uttered an impatient sigh. “Your sighting of something erotic—or at least romantic—going on in the fancy Mercedes. I don’t speak German, but I know something about Wagnerian opera. The Liebestod is a famous aria that Isolde sings about loving somebody to death. Or dying for love. Maybe it’s loving to die.” Renie wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t put that very well—but you get the idea. I tend to nod off before she gets done singing the blasted thing. It’s Wagner, it’s German, it’s long. No wonder she goes to sleep permanently. She’s worn out.”

  “Oh.” Judith’s anger faded. “Your remark did seem to hit home with Franz. Now I wish I’d taken a closer look into that car.”

  “Just as well you didn’t,” Renie said, after devouring more venison. “You might have fainted. You only like bodies when they’re dead.”

  “Coz . . .” But Judith’s mind was following a different path from mere reproach. “I suppose it could’ve been Franz and Klara reuniting in their mutual sorrow. Comforting each other over their loss.”

  “Gack,”
Renie said. “How do you like the nefle?”

  “It’s really good.” But Judith wasn’t focused on food. “I wonder if Franz and Klara had children together.”

  “Ask. You usually do.”

  “I really haven’t had a chance to talk to Franz,” Judith said. “In fact, he might have opened up if you hadn’t annoyed him just now.”

  Renie made a dismissive gesture. “No room for him in this booth. Besides, he was trying to find Klara and her charming little lied.”

  “Maybe,” Judith said after a pause, “we should talk to the cops.”

  “Why?” Renie asked. “They’re dumber than we are.”

  “We should find out if Gabe Hunter is still being held.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Judith persisted, “he’s a fellow innkeeper. I would think Eleanor, being in charge of the booths, might come to his rescue, but can you see her doing that?”

  Renie polished off the last of her venison. “Let me think. Ellie confessed to the murder, recanted, and now wants to exonerate Gabe. Of course. That makes perfect sense.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Judith said, trying not to grind her teeth. “It doesn’t. In fact, even if Ellie hadn’t done all those things, she doesn’t strike me as a humanitarian.”

  “But what about the strudel?”

  “What strudel?”

  “Didn’t you see they had strudel listed as their dessert of the day on that chalkboard when we came in?”

  “Why not? It’s Little Bavaria. No, I didn’t notice it.”

  “Hunh. And you call yourself observant.”

  “What kind?”

  “Peach or pear.”

  Judith sighed. “I’m going to gain ten pounds on this trip. You don’t have to worry about your weight. You have that weird metabolism that burns up every calorie. And your damned hair doesn’t turn gray. You’re not only annoying, but weird.”

  “Freak of nature,” Renie said complacently. “Stop fussing. You’ll walk off any weight you gain. Besides, you’re so tall it never shows.”

  “I can still feel it.”

  “Eleanor isn’t.”

  “Isn’t what?”

  “Refocus. A humanitarian. In fact, she must be a lousy innkeeper. She lacks warmth, which you ooze. And it’s real.”

  Judith pondered Renie’s statement. “True, but not all innkeepers are outgoing. Some people get involved in running a B&B for other reasons—like Gabe Hunter. He took over the business from his parents when they retired. I have no idea how Ellie got involved with innkeeping. She’s what? Maybe early forties? Sometimes when the empty nest syndrome strikes, the parents don’t want to move out of their big house, so they turn it into a B&B. I know of some people who’ve done that. Maybe that’s what happened to Ellie.”

  “Something happened to Ellie,” Renie murmured. “She’s a pill.”

  Judith looked up to see Ruby approaching. “Dinner was excellent,” she told the waitress. “We should order dessert before coz here pitches some kind of fit. I’ll go with the peach strudel.”

  “Make mine pear,” Renie said.

  “They’re both good,” Ruby assured them. “Bruno’s pastry chef does a mean strudel. Good thing he makes his own dough so we don’t have to rely on the baker.”

  “Say,” Judith said, as if off the top of her head, “how did you end up here in Little Bavaria? It’s a long way from the Meat & Mingle.”

  Ruby sneered. “I could say the same for you. And it’s a long story.” She swiftly collected their plates and dashed away.

  “Not a happy story,” Judith remarked.

  “You already mentioned something to that effect,” Renie said. “Is there a reason for asking her or just your usual interest in humanity?”

  “Well . . .” Judith fiddled with her wedding ring. “Maybe it’s because her father was the jerk who stole my wallet. Sometimes kids came to the restaurant—they couldn’t come in the bar—to haul their parents home, especially the dads. So many of them spent their paychecks on booze. I wonder if Ruby was one of those kids.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t know.” Judith folded her hands in her lap before succumbing to a childish urge to bite her fingernails. “Is my brain going? I feel like everything that’s happened here is hopping around like mosquitoes in my head and never alighting long enough to make sense.”

  “You could put an ad for your brain in the local lost-and-found or whatever. That’s what Oscar does when he mislays his orange pillow.”

  Judith glared at Renie. “Don’t talk about Oscar. Your brain left the premises years ago.”

  “Okay. Did you hear what Clarence did the other night when I went down to the basement to tuck him in?”

  “Lose the bunny, too. I mean, don’t lose him, but refrain from discussing his cutesy antics.”

  “You’re jealous because Sweetums is such a wretched beast. Clarence is sweet in every way.”

  “Oh? Even the bunny poop he leaves on your basement floor?”

  “I clean it up every night. It’s good for the garden. Clarence likes to go outside to nibble chickweed and clover. Bill or I always—”

  “Stop!” Judith held up a hand, but her dismayed expression changed when a young man in a chef’s jacket arrived with their strudel.

  “Who’s the pear?” he inquired.

  “That’s me,” Renie said. “Where’s Ruby?”

  “She went home,” the young man replied. “Slow night.” He slid their bill onto the table and ambled away.

  Judith frowned. “That’s odd.”

  “Why? Ruby said something about maybe leaving early.”

  “But before she served us?”

  Renie made a face. “We aren’t royalty.”

  Judith didn’t argue. Her watch informed her it was going on nine. “Maybe they close the dining room early during Oktoberfest.”

  “We’re missing the concert,” Renie said. “Don’t you want to hear Klara sing? Or will she sing a different kind of song to the cops?”

  Judith slowly shook her head. “Who knows? All I understand now is that Bruno’s pastry chef has talent.”

  “So he does,” Renie said, lapping up slices of pears with cinnamon-and-sugar-covered crumbs.

  “In fact,” Judith said after a few moments of silence, “I think we should give our compliments to the chef.”

  Renie winced. “Why do I think it’s Chef Bruno’s turn to be grilled?”

  “Because,” Judith said, studying the bill, “that’s what I plan to do. You owe me forty bucks.”

  “With tip?”

  Judith nodded. “I included our bar bill, too.”

  “Fair enough,” Renie conceded, getting out her wallet. “Why are you grilling the chef?”

  “Because,” Judith replied, “chefs count knives. I’d like to hear if one of his ended up in Herr Wessler’s back.”

  Chapter Ten

  As might be expected Chef Bruno didn’t look pleased to see the cousins invade his domain. “We’re closed,” he announced gruffly.

  “Exactly,” Judith said with a big smile. “My late husband and I owned a restaurant. That’s why I feel guilty about interrupting your work. I wanted to thank you on behalf of us innkeepers who are here for Oktoberfest. You run an amazing kitchen.”

  “Well . . .” The chef glanced at his helpers, who had stopped scurrying around the kitchen to stare at the newcomers. Bruno himself suddenly stared at them, too. “Didn’t you two come in here last night?”

  “Yes,” Judith admitted, deciding that honesty was the best policy. “We’d just witnessed the discovery of Mr. Wessler’s body. We were horrified and fled the scene. It must’ve been chaos here after that.”

  Bruno used a towel to wipe off some perspiration from his high forehead. “That’s for damned
sure. Never seen anything like it.” He glared at a young man with a blond goatee. “Almost lost my pastry chef.”

  Judith smiled sympathetically. “Oh, no! His strudel was amazing. But,” she went on quickly, resorting to a semifib, “I heard you lost a knife. I’ve always wondered why people feel free to take souvenirs.”

  Bruno scowled. “You mean a buffet knife?”

  “Yes. Some of the people who were here last night mentioned that one or two had gone missing. That’s just plain thievery.”

  “Hunh.” Bruno’s gaze took in his half-dozen staff members. “How many did we get back? I didn’t count them.”

  A dark-skinned young man glanced at what might have been a cutlery drawer. “We’ve got six of the ones we put out for the beef. I used two tonight.” He looked at his coworkers. “Anybody else got one?”

  The pastry chef nodded. “It’s right here. I took one to cut up the pears and peaches.”

  “That it?” Bruno inquired, wiping perspiration from his bald head.

  “You have one,” a curly-haired redheaded man said. “It’s under the edge of that platter.”

  The chef peered at the counter. “So I do. That makes ten. All accounted for.” He turned back to Judith. “Why are you asking?”

  “Ah . . .” Judith grimaced. “I heard that several were missing. I mean, stolen. Or borrowed. Or something.”

  “You heard wrong,” Bruno said. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve got work to do.” He picked up the knife he’d been using and ran his finger down the flat side of the blade. “Glad you liked dinner. G’night.”

  Judith decided they had no choice but to leave. “Damn,” she said when they’d gone out through the lobby, standing in a slight drizzle by the exhibitors’ booths. “Bruno reminds me of somebody—maybe it’s one of the chefs we had when Dan didn’t feel like cooking. Or working.” She sighed. “Let’s go back to the inn. I am tired and I hurt. I should call Joe to see how things are at home. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “Okay, Scarlett,” Renie agreed. “It’s early for me, but I don’t mind.”

  “Say,” Judith said, walking slowly along the still-busy main street, “how come your mother hasn’t called you about six times?”