by Mary Daheim
“While we’re waiting,” Judith said, tired of propping herself up against the counter, “could we talk about some things my cousin and I found in the town records?”
Fat Matt shrugged. “Why not? Couldn’t take you too long. The old town hall burned down years ago. Glad I wasn’t the chief back then. They never did figure out who set the fire.”
Judith stared at Duomo. “You mean it was arson?”
“So it seemed. Just as well it got torched. Wessler would’ve built a new one anyway to fit his plan for Little Bavaria. Follow me. Hernandez should show up any minute.”
The chief’s office smelled of cigars and Limburger cheese. Judith and Renie both made sure they weren’t going to sit on any leftovers before seating themselves across from Duomo.
“We went to the cemetery this afternoon,” Judith began. “We found the Wesslers’ graves.”
The chief yawned. “So? They haven’t moved for quite a while.”
Judith got to the point. “How did Wessler’s wife and child drown?”
Fat Matt looked unmoved. “They fell in the river. Julia couldn’t swim. Neither could the baby.”
“Why,” she persisted, “were they by the river on Christmas Eve?”
“How would I know? I wasn’t born yet.” Fat Matt took in Judith’s irked expression and sighed. “It was during the day, not night.”
“It seems odd,” Judith persisted, “especially if the river was high.”
“I don’t know what the river was like,” the chief said impatiently. “The story was she’d gone to get greens for decorations, slipped on a wet rock or something, and fell in. If she was carrying the kid, she probably couldn’t let go to grab anything. It was a freaky thing. Nobody ever said anything different. Real sad, but those things happen.”
Judith considered the explanation, which was credible, if not necessarily true. “How were they found?”
“Hell, I don’t know.” Duomo was opening drawers, maybe searching for something to eat. “I suppose Wessler went looking for them when they didn’t show up. All I know is that it wasn’t long after that he started having kids with other women. Guess he was making up for lost time or some damned thing.”
“Why,” Judith asked, leaning closer, “do you never call him ‘Dad’ or ‘Papa’ or whatever most people call their fathers?”
The chief shrugged. “Too confusing. With so many of us, a half-dozen kids yelling for ‘Dad’ would’ve been kind of weird. Anybody could’ve called him that when I stop to think about it. Face it, Wessler was the town’s father figure in more ways than one.”
Judith nodded. “How did your father get along with his sons?”
“You mean the legit ones?” Duomo leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “Oh . . . not sure I recall. I was a teenager back then. Not much interested in grown-up stuff. Didn’t have much to do with my Wessler cousins—Joe and Tilde’s kids.”
“Tilde!” Renie exclaimed. “That’s not too bad.”
The chief stared at her. “Too bad for what?”
“A name,” Renie said. “Clotilde bothers me.”
“She never bothered me,” Fat Matt said. “I didn’t see much of her. Kept herself to herself, as they say. Fussy woman. Franz was kind of snooty. No wonder Klara dumped him. Not that she isn’t a little strange. All that singing stuff. Why can’t she just yodel and get it over with? The tunes she sings last about half an hour. Or maybe it just seems like it.”
“Lieder,” Renie remarked.
“Leader of what?” the chief said. “She’s never had a Girl Scout troop or a bunch of Camp Fire Girls. Too snooty, like Franz.”
“I meant . . .” Renie stopped. “Skip it.”
“You mentioned cousins,” Judith said, trying to get back on track. “Does Franz have other siblings besides Josef?”
“You mean legit ones?” Duomo saw Judith nod. “Nope, just the baby sister who drowned.”
She changed the subject. “Has the autopsy been concluded?”
A knock sounded on the door. “What?” Duomo barked.
Hernandez entered, nodding vaguely at the cousins. “Doc Frolander sent this over,” he said, handing the chief a manila envelope.
“About time,” Fat Matt grumbled. “Where’s that redhead?”
Hernandez frowned. “She took off in her own squad car.”
“You mean,” the chief said, his face reddening, “she left town?”
“No,” Hernandez replied. “She had to break up a dogfight. Those dachshunds mixed it up with Wessler’s Saint Bernards. Franz was walking them. Dolph ate a couple of the dachshunds’ hats.”
“Oh.” Duomo sat back in his chair. “Guess the redhead’s sticking around. You might as well take over the front desk until she gets back.”
Hernandez departed. The chief set the manila envelope aside. “Damn. Now I can’t send out for a snack.”
“Hey,” Judith said, practically reaching out to grab the autopsy report, “are you going to read that thing or not?”
Fat Matt looked startled. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, guess I’d better.”
Judith watched Duomo scan the report. It seemed to take him forever, though there were only three pages.
“I’ll be damned,” the chief finally said. “Wessler wasn’t stabbed to death after all. Doc says he was poisoned. How ’bout that?”
Chapter Fourteen
Judith didn’t know what to think. “How was he poisoned? What did he eat or drink? Was he injected? Did he take medication?”
The chief held up a hand. “Slow down. All these big scientific words . . .” He ran a stubby finger under a couple of lines in the report. “Aconite—that’s a short word, but it sounds like flooring. Or an altar boy? Wessler wanted all his sons to learn how to serve at church. I thought it meant I had to be a waiter. So did Bruno. Fact is, when he found it wasn’t like that, he decided to become a chef. Maybe that’s why Frankie wanted to be a baker. Never thought about that till now.”
Judith felt one of her headaches coming on. “Please. An ‘acolyte’ is someone who serves at Mass. Serves the priest, that is. I mean, helps the priest celebrate Mass. ‘Aconite’ must be something else, but offhand, I don’t know what it is. Doesn’t Doc Frolander explain it somewhere?”
Duomo scowled at the last page of the report. “Yeah, it’s called monkshood in plain English. Hell, that sounds like more church stuff.”
The cousins exchanged dismayed glances. “Monkshood is also known as wolfsbane,” Judith said. “It grows around here.”
“I’ll be darned,” Duomo said. “Don’t think we’ve ever had a poisoning case before.”
“Why did somebody stab Wessler?” Judith asked, still reeling from the latest news. “He must’ve already been a goner.”
Duomo grimaced. “I left out something. You’ll get mad at me.”
Judith narrowed her eyes at the chief. “What?”
“Well . . .” He cleared his throat. Twice. “The stabbing part. I mean, he wasn’t really stabbed. It was one of those joke knives, the kind that kids have for Halloween. Otto Kotter, the trombone guy, did it. He likes a good gag. Orville didn’t know Otto was in on the setup and tried to stop him from fleeing the scene.”
Judith vaguely recalled Renie mentioning something about a cop and a trombone player. “But what about all the blood?”
“Hey,” Fat Matt said, now on the defensive, “if you’d stayed around instead of flying off like a wild goose in winter, you’d have been able to see that a real knife wound like that wouldn’t have spilled so much blood. It was another one of those Halloween gag deals—fake stuff. It might’ve fooled the witnesses, but you’d have caught on right away.”
Judith held her head. Renie leaned forward, resting an arm on the desk. “That was a cheat on poor coz,” she declared angrily. “Why didn’t you tell her the truth from
the get-go?”
“You don’t have to get all cranky about it,” Duomo huffed. “Truth is, I needed your cousin’s help in the Stafford case. The Wessler thing was a throw-in because you were there. If you’d stayed put, she’d have figured it out on the spot.”
Judith had collected her wits, though her temper was still frayed. “You thought Wessler was playing a joke?”
Duomo sighed. “At first. But he was dead, so I figured it was a pretty bad joke. Backfired, or something, probably had a heart attack in all the hoopla and excitement. Face it, he was my old man, so I let Doc Frolander do an autopsy. Imagine my surprise when all those morons like Ellie started confessing. That made me kind of suspicious.”
“No kidding,” Renie muttered.
“Hey,” Duomo said, wagging a finger, “the old guy was in darned good shape for his age. Frankly, I was surprised he’d keel over like that.”
Judith was shaking her head. “You must be disappointed in me. I haven’t gotten to first base with Bob Stafford’s homicide. You forced me to get sidetracked with this Wessler thing.”
“Yeah, right,” Duomo agreed. “Poor strategy on my part. Though now it turns out for the best. You’ve already done your homework on Wessler. Let’s see if we can’t get two for the price of one.”
“You’re paying me?” Judith asked.
“Not exactly,” Fat Matt hedged. “Suze will probably give you a free dinner. Maybe a lunch, too.”
“Gosh,” Renie said, all brown-eyed innocence, “you’re the cop. Can’t you figure it all out so we can go home Monday?”
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” the chief said. “You’ve got FATSO here to sleuth. If I wasn’t baffled before, I sure am now.”
“It’s FASTO,” Judith all but shrieked, digging into her purse to find some Excedrin. “Where can I get a glass of water?”
“Uh . . . go ask Hernandez,” the chief replied.
Renie jumped up. “I’ll do it.” She practically ran out the door.
Judith set her elbows on the desk. “May I see the report? Surely the doctor has more toxicology details. And yes, I’ve seen autopsy reports before. My husband’s a retired police detective. On occasion, he’d let me see the results of a poisoning death after he’d closed a case.”
“Think we should call him?”
“No! I mean, he’s very busy. In fact, he’s doing an internal investigation of our city’s police department.”
The chief grimaced. “Guess calling him is a bad idea. I wouldn’t want him investigating us.”
“You sure wouldn’t,” Judith murmured, taking the report from Fat Matt. “May I assume that Doc Frolander is competent?”
“You mean as a doctor?” Duomo didn’t wait for an answer. “I guess so. He went to John’s Hoppin’ med school.”
“You mean Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore?”
Duomo rubbed his bald head. “Yeah, that sounds right.”
“He must be brilliant,” Judith said as Renie returned with a paper cup of water. “That’s one of the best med schools in the country.”
“It is?” The chief seemed unimpressed.
Judith popped the Excedrin into her mouth and swallowed most of the water. “Thanks, coz. I’m studying the autopsy report.”
“I can see that,” Renie said, sitting down. “Anything of interest?”
Judith didn’t answer right away. “I’m trying to find out how quickly monkshood or wolfsbane works. Wessler seemed in fine fettle before he died.” She paused, studying the details. “It works fairly fast. The only sign of it is asphyxia, which, of course, could be caused by so many other things. At least that answers one question.”
The chief looked surprised. “It does? What’s the question?”
Judith managed to hide her impatience. “Whoever poisoned Wessler hoped to conceal the fact. Maybe the killer thought a small-town medical examiner wouldn’t have the means to figure it out.”
Renie poked her cousin’s arm. “Back up. Are you considering that Bob’s murder could tie in to any of this? I’m asking because I’d like to know if Mother Wessler and child drowned where Bob’s body was found.”
Judith stared at Renie. “Why?”
“How many people in one small town drown? The Wessler house is close to where Bob’s body was found, right? I know the incidents are separated by many years. But wouldn’t that be the same area where Mrs. Wessler would go looking for Christmas greens?”
Judith shook her head. “There were no evergreens near that side of the river. Why would she go there at all?”
“Having worked on graphic designs for Wirehoser Timber,” Renie began, “there may’ve been trees along that river at one time. They were cut or swept away by a flood. The usual undergrowth has taken over part of the path. The river could’ve even changed channels. So it’s plausible that years ago Mrs. Wessler was gathering Christmas greens. But why did Bob Stafford go there in the first place?”
Duomo shot Judith a sharp glance. “You sure she’s not FATSO after all?”
Judith felt stupid. “I was so busy admiring the view that I didn’t notice. But my cousin’s right—which makes me wonder if Bob was killed by the river or somewhere else.”
The chief scowled. “And somebody hauled him down there? He was a fairly big guy. Not fat or anything, but at least average. You met Barry, his son?” He saw the cousins nod. “About the same height, only with another twenty pounds or so.”
Judith exchanged quick looks with Renie. “Are you suggesting something symbolic about the third body being found by the river?”
Renie didn’t answer right away. “Sorry. My stomach’s growling so loud that I can barely hear you. It could be connected, symbolic or otherwise.” Her expression grew self-deprecating. “Maybe I’m nuts.”
“Probably,” Duomo said, turning back to Judith. “I thought we were staying on track with Wessler and what really killed him.”
“I can see a possible connection with the place where Mrs. Wessler and Bob were found dead, but not with what happened to your father,” Judith admitted. “We don’t know where he was poisoned since he’d just arrived at Wolfgang’s. The stomach contents don’t tell us much. Wessler hadn’t eaten for at least an hour, but he’d drunk some wine before arriving at the cocktail party. It doesn’t state where he did that.”
The chief shrugged. “Don’t know where he’d been before he showed up and croaked. Home, maybe. He wasn’t a big drinker, so maybe he’d gone to some other shindig before—” Duomo’s phone rang. He stared at it as if he could make it stop. Finally, after five rings, he reluctantly picked up the receiver. “What now? I’m in conference.”
Judith watched Fat Matt’s expression change from annoyance to exasperation. “Okay, okay—hell, can’t you dumbbells control a riot?” He slammed down the receiver, grunted as he stood up, and grabbed his cap. “Those damned kids are tearing up the beer garden. It isn’t even open yet. I thought they left town. Maybe I’ll shoot a bunch of ’em. We got more room in the hospital than in the jail. Keep sleuthing. Gotta go.”
Duomo went. “Great,” Judith grumbled. “Every so often he seems almost like a policeman. And then he goes all Keystone Kop on us.”
Renie leaned her head on her fist. “Do you really think he’s as stupid as he seems?”
Judith considered the question. “No, but I don’t think he’s any genius either. Maybe it’s an act to fool perps. I hope he kept that bottle from the Thomas Mann bust. I wonder if it contained poison. I also like your idea about the river site.”
“I could get more ideas if I ate something,” Renie said.
“Let’s try one of the food stalls,” Judith suggested, checking her watch. “It’s not quite four.”
“No bratwursts,” Renie said.
“Fine,” Judith said. “How about Frankie’s bakery?”
“Duomo
’s brother’s place? Sure, why not? Where is it?”
Judith had gotten up and moved to the door. “Let’s find out.”
Kitt had returned to desk duty. Judith asked if she knew the bakery’s location. She didn’t know and didn’t much care. “I don’t live here, remember?” she said, refocusing on the paperwork in front of her.
The cousins left. At the corner, Judith suddenly remembered seeing a bakery across the street from Sadie’s Stories. “Hey—isn’t it time for you to check back with the Heraldsgate Hill Bookshop?”
“You’re right,” Renie said. “I’ll do it now before we’re caught in another riot.” Getting out her cell, she dialed the number from memory.
Judith turned to look toward the main street where a half-dozen children were bouncing along in a pony cart driven by an older man who was apparently telling them stories that made them giggle. Another man was playing the accordion on the far corner while his audience sang along and clapped their hands. Judith smiled, admiring the pleasure that people of all ages seemed to derive from the Oktoberfest celebration. For a few moments she forgot about her headache and the tragedies that had triggered her frustration.
“Helene can order the book,” Renie said, breaking her cousin’s reverie. “Bill should’ve gone to the neighborhood bookstore in the first place. I told her to get it and she thought it would be in by next Wednesday. Obviously, it’s only unavailable in Little Bavaria.”
“There’s a reason,” Judith said as they crossed the street, “but I can’t think why. From what Barry told us, it doesn’t have anything to do with Wessler. I wonder what he did to get that Saint Hubert’s award? I bet Father Dash knows. It’s too bad he won’t be here until tomorrow.”
“What about Klara or Franz? They must have a complete biography of Wessler,” Renie said, turning the corner onto the main street. “Even if they don’t know details, they have to put something together for the funeral eulogy.”
“You’re right,” Judith agreed. “Let’s get a snack at the bakery and pay a call on whoever may be in at the Wessler house.” She stopped suddenly, startling Renie.
