The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  As often happened with the cousins, Renie read Judith’s mind. “I bet it’s Grimm, but not too grim for the kiddies.”

  “I hope so. There’s too much grim stuff around here already.”

  There was little traffic on the side street. Renie pulled into the curving driveway. “Lots of steps to get to the porch. Can you manage?”

  “I’ll have to,” Judith said. “You can’t carry me.”

  Judith was relieved to see there was a handrail. The cousins climbed the curving stone stairway to face an oak door with a brass knocker. Renie lifted it, discovering a buzzer underneath. She banged only once. A half-dozen musical notes resounded inside the house.

  “What is that?” Judith asked.

  Renie frowned. “Maybe the overture from Wagner’s Meistersinger?”

  Judith shrugged. “You know more about opera than I do.”

  There was no immediate response. Renie was about to bang the knocker again when Olga Crump opened the door. The housekeeper peered suspiciously at the visitors. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “Yes, you do,” Renie said, edging her way inside. “We’re here to tell you Roscoe is off the hook for snoring all day. The Kotters conceded that he has a right to nod off anytime he wants. It’s in the Constitution under ‘Freedom of Sleep.’ Where’s Mrs. Wessler?”

  Olga, looking confused, pressed her hands against her big bosom. “Is she expecting you?”

  “Expecting us to do what?” Renie asked. “Of course. Tell her that Mrs. Flynn and I have come to explain why we’re here.”

  Still looking puzzled, Olga stomped off down the long hallway. Judith gazed into the living room with its big stone fireplace and comfortable furniture. The only sign of the Wessler ancestral heritage was a plaque on one wall with what looked like a family crest.

  Renie tugged at Judith’s arm. “Sit. Klara can’t throw us out if we look as if we’re settled in.”

  “We can’t be that impolite,” Judith protested.

  “Why not? Do you think Klara would faint?”

  “Maybe,” Judith said, hearing voices close by. “Here they come.”

  “They?”

  “Klara and Mrs. Crump,” Judith whispered before turning around. “Hello, Mrs. Wessler. How kind of you to let us inquire about your dogs. Are they recovered from their fracas with the dachshunds?”

  “Oh!” Klara said, her glacial-blue eyes round with surprise. “Yes, it was a frisky romp. How did you know?”

  “We ran into Franz earlier,” Judith said. “My cousin also wanted to offer you her apologies for taking Siegfried and Dolph to task.” She nudged Renie with her elbow.

  “I’m terrified of dogs,” Renie said, trying to look abject. “My cousin will explain why. I can’t really talk about it.” She put a hand to her forehead and turned away.

  “Please sit,” Klara said, ushering them into the living room. “No worries. The dogs are outside.” She paused as the cousins sat down on a big forest-green divan. “Is there something Mrs. Crump could fetch you before she feeds Siegfried and Dolph? A glass of wine, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” Judith said. “I’m attending a cocktail party this evening.” She smiled disarmingly. “I don’t want to impair my faculties.”

  Klara waved a hand in dismissal of Mrs. Crump. “Very prudent,” she said, carefully arranging the pleats of her rust-colored skirt before sitting down in a brown gold-studded club chair. “I appreciate your kindness in offering an apology, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Jones,” Renie said with a facile smile. “Serena Jones.”

  For some reason, Klara laughed, a fittingly musical sound. “You,” she said, after reining in her merriment and looking at Judith, “are . . . ?”

  “Judith Flynn. I’m part of the innkeeping group.”

  “Oh, yes. I believe Franz mentioned that.” A slight frown creased her high forehead. “Where is Franz? He’s been gone for quite some time.”

  “We saw him at the bakery,” Judith said. “That was probably twenty minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” Klara bit her lower lip. “Maybe he’s catching up with old friends, though after living away from here, he’s lost track of so many.”

  “He must know Frankie the baker,” Judith said innocently.

  Klara’s face tightened. “Franz distances himself from his father’s other offspring. He finds them . . . an embarrassment.” Her expression grew melancholy as she changed the subject. “I’ve lived here only a few years. Los Angeles was a fine place for my career, but after Franz and I separated, I needed a more tranquil setting to revive my spirit. Little Bavaria seemed like Eden—until now.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

  “You must’ve been very fond of your father-in-law,” Judith said.

  “Oh, yes.” Klara sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a finger. “He was such a sympathetic, understanding man. You might not think he would be so kind to his son’s former wife, but that was not so. He invited me to live here. Dietrich was the epitome of compassion.”

  “So we hear,” Judith said. “Everyone seems to have loved him.”

  Klara nodded. “He truly had not an enemy in the world. That is what is so terrible.” She stopped, looking forlorn.

  Judith nodded. “I can’t imagine why anyone would wish him harm. I heard he was made a member of the Knights of Saint Hubert. It’s a very prestigious award. How did he earn such an honor?”

  Klara tugged at a perfect pink earlobe. “For his work with refugees. So many displaced persons, not only Germans, of course, but from other countries. Many had fled the Baltics to Germany to escape the Russian Communists. They lived like hunted animals during the war. Some of the Germans resented them. Dietrich saw to it they were treated kindly and not persecuted because they were foreign.”

  “That sounds like a very noble endeavor,” Judith said. “I didn’t realize that Germany was considered a safe haven for people from Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia.”

  Klara nodded. “My parents were Latvian. It was so difficult for them, during the war, and even afterward. You’d be shocked how even some good German people behaved. Understandable, but inhumane.”

  “Mr. Wessler’s honors seem well deserved,” Judith said. “I can’t help but wonder if whoever . . . stabbed him was deranged.”

  Klara’s eyes widened in shock. “Deranged? Oh, no! Surely not!”

  “Well . . .” Judith raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “Who else but a crazy person would want to harm Mr. Wessler?”

  “I know of no one so crazy,” Klara said in a tremulous voice. “I think perhaps it was a bizarre accident. I was never in the ballroom, so I only know what I heard later. I had to rest my voice that night.”

  Judith glanced at Renie, an unspoken signal for her cousin to speak up. “An accident? It wasn’t a sword dance. Do you mean Mr. Wessler slipped and fell on a knife?”

  Klara’s oval face exhibited perplexity. “A freakish thing. Franz described it as so much movement and loud music that it was a blur, like a bad dream that doesn’t come into focus.”

  “True,” Judith agreed, realizing Duomo hadn’t had time to make the autopsy report public. “Serena and I were there, and Franz is right about the circumstances. We were never sure if Mr. Wessler was dancing or simply caught up in the midst of those who were.”

  Klara smiled faintly. “Dietrich was a fine dancer. He may have joined in. Franz couldn’t tell. He was at the bar when it happened.”

  Judith thought back to the last time she’d seen Franz at the party, but couldn’t remember. “I assume,” she finally said, “Mr. Wessler was in good spirits when he left for the event at Wolfgang’s that evening.”

  “Oh, yes.” Klara smiled more brightly. “He was very happy. He was always especially joyous during Oktoberfest. We’d had guests in that evening. Dietrich was ever so jolly.”

  Judith
smiled back. “He must have been a connoisseur of German wines. He seemed to appreciate the good things of life.”

  Klara nodded. “He did. Wine, music, food.” She lowered her head for moment. You left out women, Judith thought.

  Klara, however, continued quickly. “He had plans for a vineyard about seventy miles from here. He’d already made an offer on some property. I’d like Franz to carry out his father’s plan. It would be a living memorial to Dietrich.”

  Renie leaned closer. “I’d think the revival of this town would be his memorial. It’s certainly alive—and lively.”

  “That is so,” Klara agreed, “but the town is not authentic. The vineyard would grow grapes from vines in Franconia, the part of Bavaria known for its excellent wines. The Maindreieck district is famous for growing Silvaner and Müller-Thurgau grapes. Dietrich wished to experiment with the Silvaner, though he also planned to cultivate the more common grapes—Riesling, Bacchus, Domina . . .” She paused. “You are familiar with Franconian wines?”

  “Only Deux Franc Charles,” Renie said. “We’re not into enology.”

  Klara seemed mystified. “Deux Franc . . . ? I don’t understand.”

  Judith wanted to kick her cousin, but merely shook her head. “Serena is teasing you. We’re both ignorant when it comes to wine.”

  Klara nodded. “Sometimes I miss conversational nuances. What I mean is that Dietrich’s plans were temporarily suspended when his partner died.”

  “His partner?” Judith said.

  “Yes. It was just a short time ago,” Klara explained. “Very sad, too. My father-in-law had gone into the vineyard business with the owner of the Pancake Schloss, Bob Stafford. He also met a tragic end. I wonder if the vineyard is cursed before it’s planted?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Judith also wondered if Dietrich Wessler and Bob Stafford were cursed. She didn’t say so out loud, but instead commiserated about the two unfortunate deaths.

  “It’s terribly sad for the whole community,” Judith said. “From what we’ve heard, Bob was also a fine man. A hard worker, too.”

  “Yes.” Klara’s gaze roamed to the family crest that was on the opposite wall. “So is his widow, Mrs. Stafford. But I don’t know if she was as enthusiastic about the vineyard project. She is very involved with her pancakes.” Only a touch of sarcasm was hinted at in her tone.

  “Hunh,” Renie said. “So who gets the loot? Mr. Wessler’s, I mean.”

  “The . . .” Klara’s blue eyes widened. “Forgive me, I don’t know that word unless you mean the lute Dietrich kept in the music room.”

  “That lute, too,” Renie replied. “I mean, who inherits everything?”

  “Oh.” Klara stared at her bronze ballet flats. “I have no idea. Perhaps Franz knows.” She brightened. “Or Mrs. Stafford. Bob—her late husband—handled all of Dietrich’s affairs. He was a lawyer before he became involved with pancakes.”

  “That so,” Judith remarked softly. “I’d forgotten that Bob practiced law before he and Suzie moved here.”

  The grandfather clock by Klara’s chair struck five. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. “I must rest. I’m singing at the concert this evening. You will be there?”

  Judith opened her mouth to hedge, but Renie spoke first. “What’s on your program?”

  “A potpourri,” Klara replied. “Some of what you might call ‘popular’ songs as well as German and Viennese selections.”

  “Sure,” Renie said, also standing up. “We’ll be there at least for part of it. My cousin has some other duties. Break a leg—or should I say strain a vocal cord?”

  Klara blanched. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “It’s showbiz talk,” Renie said, hoisting her purse over her shoulder. “Don’t take it to heart, okay?”

  Klara looked uncertain as she walked the cousins to the door. “You must forgive me. My nerves are frayed to the bone.”

  “Of course,” Judith said softly. “We’ll see you this evening.”

  Nodding dumbly, Klara opened the door slowly, but quickly shut it behind her departing guests.

  “That was a bust,” Renie declared.

  “What do you mean?” Judith asked, gazing in every direction at her surroundings, which included a fallow garden, a bird feeder, and a pond.

  “You didn’t get a chance to ask Klara about the guests who were at the predeath party.”

  “No,” Judith said, “but that was interesting about the vineyard.”

  “You figure some rival winery or vineyard put Bob and Wessler out of business?” Renie asked as she started down the steps. “Hey—are you coming or not?” she yelled, seeing Judith still on the porch.

  “Pipe down,” Judith said, motioning with her hand. “I’m taking this short flight of stairs that must lead to the back of the house.”

  Renie sighed wearily. “Fine,” she said, scurrying onto the porch. “You have noticed,” she continued after they’d descended the steps, “it’s gotten colder now that the sun’s setting. I should’ve brought my furs.”

  “You don’t have any furs,” Judith said, admiring the tidy, graceful landscaping that flanked both sides of the walk.

  “I do if you count Oscar and Clarence,” Renie said as they reached a tall wooden fence and gate. She jiggled the handle. “It’s locked.”

  Judith elbowed Renie aside. “Yoo-hoo!” she called. “Mrs. Crump!”

  The Saint Bernards barked in response. “See what you’ve done?” Renie hissed. “Those beasts may get loose and attack . . .”

  The gate swung open, almost hitting the cousins. “Yes?” the housekeeper said. “What’s wrong?”

  Judith’s expression was apologetic. “I left my gloves in the living room. Is there any chance you could let us in the back way?”

  Mrs. Crump frowned. “Oh,” she finally said, “follow me.”

  The dogs were in their kennel, but barked again when they saw the visitors. The fenced portion of the backyard featured a patio, now stripped bare of summer furnishings. A few doggie toys were scattered on the lawn. Judith noticed a big hole dug next to the house, apparently by the Saint Bernards. The cousins went up a short flight of steps that led directly into the kitchen. Stainless-steel appliances and sleek contemporary furnishings lent a twenty-first-century aura. The only item that didn’t match was a big, old-fashioned, black cast-iron stove.

  The housekeeper apparently noticed Judith’s interest. “Wessler brought that from Germany. He said it cooked better than newer stoves. That was his opinion. I like the modern ones just fine.”

  “Yes,” Judith said, “so do I, but if Mr. Wessler entertained a lot, two stoves might have been better than one. I understand he had a party here the night of the tragedy. Did you have to cook for the guests?”

  Mrs. Crump shook her head. “Cold appetizers, that’s what the young Mrs. Wessler wanted to serve.” She wrinkled her blunt nose. “Fancy cheese and funny little crackers. She insisted it went well with the wine. She ought to know—she drinks enough of it. Not that I should criticize. She’s an ‘artiste’ and they’re all kind of queer.”

  Judith’s expression was sympathetic. “Do you cook and clean?”

  “Sometimes.” Mrs. Crump brushed off some almost invisible dust from the vintage stove. “But usually just for guests.”

  “Did you have a big crowd the other night?” Judith inquired.

  “Mostly big shots from the Oktoberfest.” She scowled at Judith and Renie. “Who are you? Cops?”

  “No,” Judith replied with a little laugh. “My husband is a retired policeman and he wanted me to drop by to say hello to Chief Duomo. They’ve known each other for years.”

  Mrs. Crump snorted. “That dunderhead. How he ever got be a police chief is beyond me. Must’ve been who he knows, not what he knows. Roscoe thinks he’s on the take.”

&nb
sp; Judith feigned surprise. “Really? Did you mention that your husband works undercover? Is that how he knows?”

  “Roscoe knows plenty,” Mrs. Crump said. “But he doesn’t tell tales. Can’t. He’d lose his job.”

  “Of course,” Judith said, trying to think of some way to get the housekeeper back on track. “Was Chief Duomo at the party here?”

  Mrs. Crump shook her head. “It was only for the Oktoberfest folks. Herman Stromeyer, a couple of German visitors from the old country, and some of the people in charge of the exhibit booths.”

  “Oh,” Judith said. “Were the Denkels here from our B&B group?”

  “Could be,” the housekeeper said. “Are you an innkeeper?”

  Judith nodded. “Yes. You must have had a houseful.”

  “Not really,” Mrs. Crump replied, casting her eyes to see what Renie was doing. “About a dozen, I guess. Is she one of yours?”

  “She’s my cousin,” Judith said. “Sometimes she helps me.”

  “Why is she looking in the fridge?”

  “Ah—she’s buying a new one,” Judith said. “Right, coz?”

  “Hunh?” Renie shut the refrigerator door. “Oh, right. Our old one is sort of . . . old.”

  Mrs. Crump scowled. “That one cost a bundle. Wessler should’ve put more money into new pipes. The sink got plugged just before the party. The local plumber was closed and his backup charged the world. He knew we were in a bind. But money’s no object in this place.” She shook her head before looking at Judith. “You better find your gloves.”

  “I will,” Judith said. “Is it okay if we leave through the front door?”

  “Just be quiet about it,” Mrs. Crump said. “I have to be heading home. It’s time to wake up Roscoe.”

  Judith and Renie followed the long hall out of the kitchen to the living room. “You didn’t have any gloves with you,” Renie said when they were standing in front of the fireplace.

  “I know that,” Judith said. “But if it gets much colder, I’ll wish I did.” She walked over to study the family crest. “Nice. Just the name Wessler and something in German that I can’t read. Can you?”