by Mary Daheim
“So Suzie’s not hot for Franz,” Judith murmured, lying on the bed. “Just as well. Ruggiero’s the strong, no-nonsense type. He must be stationed here. I wish I knew where Mike was going.”
“You’ll find out,” Renie said, checking her watch. “It’s not yet nine. You don’t intend to send me off to that concert to sleuth, do you?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” Judith said. “But now that you mention it, the bandstand’s only a little over a block away.”
Renie tipped her head to one side and looked pitiable. “Coz . . .”
“Klara said it would be popular music. You wouldn’t mind that, would you? I mean, it’s not that long, drawn-out stuff you hate.”
Renie groaned. “It’s snowing, it’s cold, it’s dark, it’s . . .” She picked up the parka she’d tossed on a chair. “Okay, but you owe me.”
“I already do,” Judith said with a wan smile. “You were a trouper at the hospital. Just don’t mix it up with anybody, okay?”
“I never make promises I can’t keep,” Renie said, putting on the parka. “Maybe I can find some food. See you.”
Judith’s headache was beginning to ease. She considered sitting up so she could read one of the two paperbacks she’d brought with her, but felt more like taking a nap. Turning off the bedside lamp, she closed her eyes. Moments later, she was sound asleep.
A knock at the door woke her up. Judith fumbled for the light switch. Her watch informed her it was nine-forty. By the time she struggled out of bed, the knock sounded again, louder and more insistent. “Who is it?” Judith asked, wishing the door had a peephole.
“George Beaulieu,” said the muffled voice. “Please let me in.”
Judith hesitated, but decided if she needed help, she could stay near the balcony and yell down at the festival patrons who were probably all over the main street.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, seeing George’s stricken expression. His overcoat and watch cap were dusted with melting snowflakes.
“I must talk to someone,” he said in an anxious voice. “I chose you, with your Gypsy eyes. May I sit?”
Judith gestured at one of the two simple armchairs. “What’s upset you so?” she inquired, sitting in the other chair and relieved that she hadn’t bothered to get undressed.
“It’s Connie,” George said, nervously smoothing his handlebar mustache. “She’s leaving me.”
“No! Why would she do that?”
George sniffled. “She’s in love with another man.”
Judith took a deep breath. “How long has this been going on?”
“Ever since we went to Disneyland,” George said, taking a handkerchief out of his pants pocket.
Judith refrained from asking if Connie had fallen in love with Pluto. Or Goofy. “What did Disneyland have to do with it?”
George paused to blow his nose. “We went there a year ago last summer. I had to attend a training seminar in Anaheim. We’d taken our children to Disneyland years ago, but as long as we were staying close by, we decided it might be enjoyable to go by ourselves. One of the rides we went on was Splash Mountain—the one featuring Brer Rabbit.”
Judith nodded while George caught his breath. “My first husband and I took our son on that ride when we visited Disneyland.” It wasn’t exactly true. Dan McMonigle’s girth couldn’t fit into the craft that plied Splash Mountain’s waterway. For a moment or two Judith was lost in reverie, and missed a beat in George’s account.
“. . . Connie met Franz, who was filming a folktale documentary. At first, I thought she was infatuated with the Possum, not the man.”
Judith waited for George to continue, but he was blowing his nose again. “You say ‘infatuated.’ Do you mean that or something more serious? Did Franz reciprocate?”
“Unfortunately, I caught a cold,” George said with a mournful expression. “Franz was staying at the same hotel. He and Connie had dinner together one night. She returned very late, insisting they merely talked, mostly about his films. I was fool enough to believe her.”
“And?” Judith urged.
“I believe that since then”—he grimaced—“they’ve texted.”
“Oh,” Judith said. “Oh, that’s . . . too bad.”
“And now they’re . . . together.” George blew his nose again.
“You mean . . . ?”
“When I asked if you knew where Connie had gone the other day, I’m sure she was with Franz. Last night they left the concert arm in arm. I suspect the worst.”
“Why didn’t you leave with Connie before she could go with Franz?”
“I was overcome by Klara’s singing. I was among those giving her a standing ovation. She has such a lovely voice.” George leaned forward in the chair. His face—or what Judith could see of it with the sadly drooping handlebar mustache—was full of appeal to her better nature. “Those Gypsy eyes. Please convey your wisdom to me. I’m in agony.”
“I’m no wiser than most people,” Judith said firmly. “You should discuss this with Connie. Or have you already done that?”
“Not tonight,” George replied. “How could I? Connie and Franz are at tonight’s musical event. I couldn’t bear to be around them. Of course I broached the subject when we were in Disneyland, but I was ill, and not able to adequately articulate my concerns. She merely laughed and said they had only talked. But I know they’ve been in touch. This comes at an awful time—we’re about to celebrate our silver wedding anniversary.”
“All the more reason to talk this out,” Judith said.
George stared at his bony hands. “Connie would only deny any wrongdoing.”
Judith hesitated, feeling helpless in the wake of George’s reluctance. “I recall you and Connie talking about your job being undercover. That indicates you might have resources to investigate what’s actually going on between Connie and Franz. It may sound extreme, but are you willing to try a backdoor approach?”
George scowled. “How? By checking our sewer line? I already did that today for Mr. Stromeyer, but he needs a plumber.”
“Huh?”
He let out a big sigh. “I’m a sewer inspector for the city. Connie likes to make me sound mysterious. I’m not. I considered my task at Stromeyer’s as a goodwill gesture. No charge.”
“Very kind. I still think you two ought to talk. It’s the best advice I can offer. It seems to me that your suspicions are a bit flimsy.”
“Flimsy?” George snorted and retrieved his handkerchief. “I saw one of those texts. They were making plans to rendezvous at an expensive hotel in Vegas. She wanted to know which one Franz would choose. We’ve never been to Vegas, but he has. Isn’t that solid evidence?”
Of what? Judith wanted to say, but retained her sympathetic manner. “Your wife runs a B&B. She may’ve been inquiring on behalf of a guest. George, I think you’re overreacting.”
He blew his nose and retreated into his glum state. “I disagree.”
The door burst open and Renie practically fell into the room. “Wow, I had a great time! They played some of my favorite . . . oops! Hi, George,” she said, seeing him where he’d been hidden by the open door. “Were you at the concert? Klara has a spectacular voice.”
He looked dazed. “Not tonight. I’m unwell.”
Renie nodded. “You look it.” She turned to Judith. “How are you feeling? Did you take a nap?”
“Yes, I did. Any news?”
Renie glanced at George. “Jessi says the other patient is better.”
“Good,” Judith said, getting out of the chair slowly, but surely. She turned to George, who looked blank. “I hope you’ll take my advice.”
“What? Oh, yes, thank you. I’ll try,” he responded, “though I’m pessimistic.” With apparent reluctance, he, too, stood up. “Thank you for hearing me out.” He nodded absently at Renie and left.
&
nbsp; “Well?” Renie said. “Did he confess to killing Herr Wessler, too?”
Judith sank back into the chair. “No. He thinks Connie is carrying on with Franz Wessler. I think George is nuts.”
Renie grinned. “I saw Connie with Franz—an odd couple.”
“I agree,” Judith said, “but I think George is making a mountain out of a molehill.” She quickly described his suspicions. “It’s likely those text messages between Franz and Connie were to find a Vegas hotel as a surprise anniversary present for George.”
Renie, who had taken George’s place in the vacant chair, shrugged. “Could be. Connie didn’t look like an enamored wayward wife when she left with Franz. In fact, I thought she looked scared.”
“You mean Connie went with Franz unwillingly?”
“No, not that,” Renie said. “She seemed frightened or worried.”
“Maybe I should talk to Connie,” Judith murmured. “It’s a shame I haven’t warmed to her.” She stared at Renie. “Why did Ellie choose Connie to give that seminar? It wasn’t on the original event schedule. Maybe you should chat her up tomorrow. I wonder if the Beaulieus are Catholic. George was born in France. I’m on duty at the booth at eleven with Eldridge Hoover, right after Mass.”
Renie didn’t answer right away. “No. You’ve been in the hospital. I’ll do your stint with Eldridge while you have a sit-down with Connie. But you’re going to have to pry George loose.”
Judith, however, protested. “You don’t know how to run a B&B.”
“What’s to know? I just hand out some poorly designed brochures and bare my teeth in a pseudo smile.”
Judith was too tired to argue. “We’ll sort this out in the morning. Tell me more about Herman Stromeyer.”
“Not much to tell,” Renie said, getting up and starting to undress. “They pumped out his stomach and he’s in some kind of condition. I forget what. Maybe upgraded from dire straits to so-so.”
“Could they tell what he ingested?”
“Poison, I guess,” Renie said, from underneath the sweater she was pulling over her head.
“You guess? Did Jessi say it was poison?”
Having discarded the sweater, Renie glared at her cousin. “Of course not. They have to run tests. You know that.”
Judith leaned back in the chair. Her headache was better, but she was still bone tired. “You’re right. I’m worn out. Do the booth, but don’t mouth off to anyone. Eldridge will help you. You’re used to dealing with people in your graphic design business. What could possibly go wrong?”
Chapter Eighteen
Renie tried to discourage Judith from attending Mass the next morning, but failed. “I can go to church,” she said. “Maybe I can talk to Father Dash about Mr. Wessler. But I’ll come back here to rest.”
Renie looked dubious, but didn’t argue. She obviously wasn’t quite awake at nine-thirty in the morning. They skipped breakfast. Judith wasn’t very hungry and Renie figured she could get something somewhere somehow after Mass.
The church was a block and a half uphill, but only one block east of Hanover Haus. The snow apparently had stopped not long after it had started, with less than two inches on the ground. The streets and sidewalks had been cleared, but the cousins took their time. The plain white church with its steep roof did not have the elaborate onion-shaped dome that was typical of southern Germany, but it definitely had a European feel inside.
“Baroque simplified,” Renie whispered, entering the wooden pew.
Judith agreed. The interior evoked the style of the seventeenth century, but was less lavish. The sanctuary featured colorful statuary of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus on her lap with Saint Joseph hovering behind them while cherubs watched under a deep blue sky.
The church had filled up by the time the priest and two teenage acolytes processed to the altar. Father Dash was of Asian descent, but his English was perfect. By the time he approached the pulpit to deliver his sermon, Renie nudged Judith.
“Check out the statue on my right. If that’s Saint Hubert, how come he’s dressed up as a hunter and eyeing that stag?”
Judith turned to look at the arched niche with its not-quite-life-size statuary. “I don’t know,” she whispered, “but that deer is better-looking than the one you were driving around in Suze’s car.”
The cousins kept quiet while Father Dash delivered an articulate if uninspiring sermon about the disciples trusting in Jesus, casting off their fear of drowning, and getting into the boat. Judith drifted, wondering how Mrs. Wessler and her baby had drowned, trying to picture Bob Stafford by the river before his assailant’s attack, and if there was a connection between the two recent homicides. She was snapped back into the present when the lector read the petitions for the fourth Sunday of October. The next to the last was for the recovery of Herman Stromeyer; the final prayer was for Dietrich Wessler and all the souls of the departed.
Judith and Renie had exchanged relieved glances at the mention of Herman’s survival. So had several other members of the congregation. The liturgy continued, with the last blessing and dismissal at precisely eleven o’clock. The church bells rang, echoed by the chiming of the nearby clock tower. There was no announcement about a postliturgy get-together. Instead, Father Dash informed his worshippers that Dietrich Wessler’s Requiem Mass would be held at eleven on Thursday, November 3, the feast of Saint Hubert. “For those of you visiting Little Bavaria,” he explained, “the deceased was a beloved patron and father figure to the town, respected by all for his untiring diligence in re-creating a moribund village as a vibrant center of Bavarian culture.”
“Are you okay to walk back to the inn by yourself?” Renie asked as they moved outside with the rest of the parishioners and visitors.
Judith nodded. “I’d still like to speak to Father Dash, but he’s surrounded by some of the locals.” She nodded discreetly as they saw the priest standing in the midst of at least a dozen people.
“You could collapse again to get his attention,” Renie said.
“No, I’ll wait inside. I can catch him on his way to the sacristy.”
Renie hesitated. “You’re sure you want to do that?”
Judith insisted she did. “Go on, I’ll be fine. Grab something to eat before you rip some tourists apart with your bare teeth.”
Renie didn’t need any further prodding. Judith went back inside the church. Only two elderly women remained, both saying the rosary. Judith guessed that the door to the left of the sanctuary led to the sacristy. She tried to visualize the building’s exterior, but couldn’t recall seeing any indication of a basement. If there was a rectory and a social hall, perhaps they weren’t connected to the church.
One of the old ladies got out of the pew, moving to the nearby shrine of a nun. Judith recognized the parishioner as Astrid Bauer from the cemetery. When the old lady tried to light a votive candle, her hand shook so badly that she dropped the match and let out a little cry of dismay. Judith got out of the pew, but before she could take any action, the flame sputtered out.
“No harm done,” Judith said softly. “Let me do it for you.”
“Thank you! Oh! You were with that sweet, kind woman who helped me with my bouquet.”
Judith smiled as she struck another match and lighted the wick. “There,” she said. “Who is this saint? I don’t recognize her.”
“Saint Birgitta of Sweden,” the woman replied, her wrinkled hands still trembling, though a faint smile touched her thin lips. “I gave this statue to the church in memory of my daughter. It was all I could do.”
“That’s a lovely memorial,” Judith said.
Mrs. Bauer nodded, her gaze straying to the flickering candle. “My daughter was named for a saint who was never accepted by Rome. That nun is as lost to church history as my daughter is lost to me.”
“I’m so sorry,” Judith said. “Your daughter died young?�
��
Mrs. Bauer looked away. “No. She is dead to me, but not to God.” Crossing herself, she bowed her head, apparently in prayer.
Judith had no choice but to move down the aisle, where she saw Father Dash enter the sanctuary. She smiled as she met him by the confessionals. “I know you must be busy,” she said, “but may I speak to you for a moment? I have questions about Mr. Wessler’s Requiem Mass.”
If the priest was surprised by her request, he didn’t show it. “Fine, tag along while I get out of my rig. I have to say another Mass at a mission church this evening, but I can spare a few minutes now.”
Father Dash led the way. Judith had to hustle to keep up with him. She wondered if Dash was a nickname. It was one of the first questions she had for him when they entered the small room where the vestments and other Mass items were kept.
“I gather you’re on the road a lot,” she said.
“I am. Three, sometimes four different churches every weekend.” He paused as he took off his chasuble. Judith figured him for midforties, medium height, sturdy build, and balding. “During the week I work in the chancery office. I’m a canon lawyer.”
“You’re an American,” she said, and was embarrassed that it sounded like an accusation.
“I am now, but I was born in Indonesia.” He grinned. “My last name’s not Dash—it’s Wirahadashikudumah.” At least that’s what Judith thought he said. “I came to this country when I was eight. You are . . . ?”
“Judith Flynn, part of the innkeeping group.” She shook hands with the priest. “Have you served in Little Bavaria for a long time?”
Father Dash finished removing his vestments and carefully hung them on a padded hanger. “About five years.” He tucked a plaid shirt into his denim jeans. “Cute town. Enthusiastic bunch of people. Terrific beer.” He looked closely at Judith. “You are Catholic, aren’t you?”
“Yes, a cradle Catholic,” Judith said.
“I thought so. You didn’t look shocked when I mentioned beer. What did you want to ask about the Wessler service?”
