The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  Judith decided to level with Father Dash. “I’m helping the police with their inquiries about Wessler’s death—and Bob Stafford’s, too.”

  “No!” The priest burst out laughing. “You’re serious?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “From what I’ve seen of the local police chief, God love him, he’s not the brightest bulb in the law enforcement marquee. But then I don’t really know him. With a name like Duomo, you’d think he’d come to Mass sometimes. I never met Stafford—not Catholic. Say, I haven’t eaten yet. I had to fast before saying Mass. Any chance you’re hungry?”

  “Yes,” Judith admitted as her stomach growled to prove it.

  “Okay.” Dash put on a black leather jacket. “We’d better avoid the Pancake Schloss if we’re going to discuss the late owner. There’s a crêpe place tucked away by the hardware store a block from here. Shall we?”

  “Sounds good.” Judith smiled gratefully. “I’m kind of worn out.”

  “You look a bit weary around the edges,” Dash said, holding the door open for Judith. “Oktoberfest can be tiring. Just as well I don’t stick around here for too long at a time. I’m used to a less raucous life.”

  The sun was trying to break through the clouds when they got outside. A band played in the distance. They turned a corner a block away from police headquarters, venturing down a side street Judith hadn’t yet seen. Werner’s Crêperie was between Hansel’s Hardware and Gretchen’s Kitchens. Father Dash must have been a regular, as the effusive white-haired woman who greeted him seated them immediately.

  “Helga and Werner are Lutherans,” the priest said, handing Judith a menu, “but she must have some French in her. She makes great crêpes. They also offer a couple of German pancake specialties, too.”

  “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now,” Judith said. “I see they also have Swedish pancakes. That reminds me—do you know the woman who was praying by the statue of Saint Birgitta?”

  “Mrs. Bauer?” He nodded. “She’s Swedish, but converted years ago when she married . . . Helmut, I think. I never knew him. He died before I started coming here.”

  “She was praying for her daughter. It sounded . . . very sad.”

  Dash was studying the menu. “I guess so. From what little I’ve heard, the girl went off the rails. She wouldn’t be a girl now, of course, probably middle-aged. Mrs. Bauer must be in her eighties. I think I’ll have the crêpes with the boysenberry jam.”

  The many choices made Judith indecisive. “Oh, I guess I’ll get the applesauce ones. They sound more German.” She put the menu aside. “Mrs. Bauer referred to a saint who wasn’t a saint. I mean, in reference to praying to Saint Birgitta. Do you know who she meant?”

  Dash frowned. “Not offhand. You mean somebody who’s alive?”

  “No. Someone from the past. Apparently, Saint Birgitta is as close as she could come to the other person who was never canonized.”

  “I’d have to look it up,” Dash said. “There’s a Saint Brigid, but she’s Irish and definitely was canonized.”

  “Yes, I know about her.”

  A very young-looking waiter came to take their orders. After he had gone off, Dash asked why Judith was helping the police with their homicide inquiries. She reluctantly told him about her reputation as FASTO. “Please don’t mention it to anyone. I’m trying to keep a low profile while I’m here. I don’t want to get kicked out of the B&B association. The woman who runs it thinks I’m a magnet for murder.”

  Their meal arrived. “Good service,” Dash remarked. He eyed Judith curiously. “Why here? Why now?”

  Judith swallowed a bite of crêpe. “What do you mean?”

  “You say Duomo asked you to help. How’d he find you?”

  “I assume he came across the FASTO site on the Internet. I never look at it. Maybe it’s cross-referenced under B&Bs or innkeepers.”

  “Not word of mouth?”

  Judith felt stupid. “I doubt it. He’d have mentioned it. Duomo seems desperate. He wasn’t getting anywhere with the Stafford murder. Then Wessler got killed and last night Mr. Stromeyer was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?” Dash almost dropped his fork. “I thought he had a heart attack. Are you sure?”

  Judith explained how she had been a witness at the Valhalla Inn and then had ended up in the hospital, too. “I know it all sounds improbable, but I haven’t yet heard the results of the tests on Mr. Stromeyer. I’m glad he’s stable. Isn’t that what you were told?”

  Dash nodded again. “Yes, Doc Frolander’s son is one of my altar boys. He asked me to pray for Stromeyer. I don’t know Herman. He’s Lutheran, but he’s another big wheel around here. Not as much as Wessler was, though.”

  “Tell me about the Knights of Saint Hubert,” Judith said, sprinkling more powdered sugar on her crêpe. “How is the honor earned?”

  “Wessler got it for helping refugees after the war.” Dash paused while the young waiter refilled their coffee cups. “He worked mainly with displaced persons. A few of them—along with several of the Germans—followed him to America. Wessler emigrated around 1950, but settled somewhere else first. The Midwest, if I remember right.”

  “Omaha, someone told me. Speaking of Saint Hubert, my cousin and I wondered about the statue of him as a hunter.”

  Dash chuckled. “It may be a myth. In fact, it may have been handed down from another saint who probably didn’t even exist.”

  “The one Mrs. Bauer mentioned?”

  “No, this one was a guy, known as Saint Eustace. He was supposed to be a general under Trajan and an unholy terror on the battlefield. But as the legend goes, he went hunting in his quieter moments and a stag with a crucifix in its antlers appeared to him. He became a Christian and allegedly was martyred. Or maybe arrested by the local game warden for poaching. Anyway, somehow that tale became confused with Saint Hubert, who was a very holy eighth-century bishop of Ardennes. No martyr—he died in some sort of fishing accident. I suppose that may be how his life story got mixed up with the one about Eustace. The hunter association fits Wessler better, though.”

  “I saw some of his big-game trophies at the town hall.”

  “Not just that kind of hunter.” Dash grew serious. “He’s done some other hunting—of people. Nazis, to be precise. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “You mean in this country or in Germany?”

  “I don’t know specifics. Stromeyer knows the background. He served in Germany. Franz Wessler would know, too, of course.”

  Judith grew thoughtful, but gave a start when the waiter brought their bill. “Could Wessler’s Nazi hunting be a motive for murder?”

  “Don’t quote me. Oh, go ahead, it’s a story that’s gone around town for a long time. Maybe it’s a myth, like Eustace. But the stag apparition is a better-looking visual than some poor dude falling out of a boat. Especially given today’s sermon. How bored were you?”

  Judith couldn’t help laughing. “I have to admit I was still tired from my spell last night.”

  Dash waved a hand. “Forget it. I’m better at writing legal briefs than I am at sermons. Not my strong suit.”

  “We’re lucky at Our Lady, Star of the Sea,” Judith said. “Father Hoyle is one of the few priests I’ve known who gives a good homily.”

  “I admire that,” Dash said, reaching for his wallet. “Let me make up for the sermon by paying the—”

  “No!” Judith protested. “I only put five dollars in the collection. It’s the least I can do. Please?”

  Dash hesitated—and shrugged. “Okay. If you’re here on business, deduct it twice on your income tax—once for business, once for charity.”

  “Isn’t that a sin?”

  He shook his head. “Not unless you’re using counterfeit money.”

  Judith and Dash parted company at the corner. He headed for the rectory, which, as
Judith had guessed, was separate from the church. The priest was meeting at one o’clock with Klara and Franz Wessler to begin plans for the Requiem Mass. Feeling much better after a good meal and the priest’s company, Judith decided not to go directly to Hanover Haus. Instead, she walked across the street, heading for the police station. Maybe Fat Matt had the analysis of Herman Stromeyer’s stomach contents by now.

  Judith felt she shouldn’t have been surprised when Orville said the chief wasn’t in. “The wreck on the pass was a real mess,” he explained. “We got three in the hospital here and a couple of dead people headed for somebody else’s morgue. The boss was so upset he kind of tied one on at the beer garden. He should be in around one. Or two. Or so.”

  “I suppose that’s why he wasn’t at church,” Judith said pointedly. “Did you get the report on Mr. Stromeyer from the doctor yet?”

  Orville nodded. “I put it on the chief’s desk.”

  “Good,” Judith said, and headed for Duomo’s office.

  “Hey,” Orville said in a mild tone, “you can’t go in there.”

  “Watch me.” She opened the door. “See? I’m doing it now.”

  Judith heard Orville sigh as she closed the door behind her. The report was in plain sight in a manila envelope stamped with Frolander’s name and the hospital’s address. Before sitting down, she made sure that there was nothing in the chief’s chair—like a bag of doughnuts.

  The doctor’s findings were what Judith expected. Traces of aconite—or wolfsbane—had been found. Herman had eaten a light supper before the cocktail party. The report contained nothing more of interest, other than mentioning that the amount he’d consumed wasn’t fatal. She was getting up from Duomo’s chair when Ernie Schwartz came into the office.

  “Have you taken over for the chief?” he asked.

  Judith noticed his droll expression. “I wanted to see the results from Herman Stromeyer’s brush with death last night.”

  Ernie eased himself into one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. “You seem to have recovered from whatever happened to you. I thought maybe you were poisoned, too.”

  Judith shook her head. “I think it was exhaustion.”

  “You need more sleep.” He yawned. “I could use a nap myself.”

  Leaning forward in the chair, Judith made sure she was making eye contact. “Ernie—tell me about Wessler’s Nazi-hunting exploits.”

  The sleepy eyes sparked. “Why?”

  “Isn’t my curiosity natural? Aren’t we looking for motive?”

  Ernie’s shoulders sagged. “I see your point. But that all happened in Germany.” He sat up straighter. “There were rumors when I was a kid that somebody around here was suspect. Assumed name maybe, new identity, respectable, you know the drill for those guys who tried to start over. But whoever it was never got fingered by Wessler. He died several years ago. The rumors dried up.”

  “What was his name when he was in Little Bavaria?”

  Ernie fingered his chin. “The wife’s still around. Must be getting up there in years. Her husband’s name was Helmut Bauer.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’ve met Mrs. Bauer,” Judith said. “She told me her husband had died of shame because of malicious lies.”

  Ernie yawned. “Could be.”

  “Had Mr. Bauer actually done something despicable?”

  The major gripped the table with both hands. “I’m Jewish, I know what those SOBs did to some of my relatives. You want gory details? I might not like the replay, but do you think I’ve forgotten?”

  “Of course not,” Judith said, realizing that not only were the major’s eyes wide open, but they seemed to almost sizzle. “Nobody should ever forget it. Not only Jews, but Catholics, Lutherans, Gypsies, Communists, political dissidents, and so-called defective human beings.”

  Ernie leaned back in the chair. “True. As for Bauer, I’m not sure what the accusations were. Maybe he was at one of the camps.”

  Judith thought it might be wise to change the subject, lest Ernie work himself up into a frenzy—or nod off. Maybe, she thought, that’s why he fell asleep so often. It might be his way of not envisioning the horror that was Hitler. “What happened to Bauer’s daughter?”

  “Hmm.” Ernie frowned. “She was a year or two younger than I was. I can’t remember her name . . . Isabel? Irene? Something like that. Tall, fair-haired, not the kind a guy would stare at, but not homely either. By the time I got back from ’Nam, I think she’d moved away. At least I don’t remember much else about her except from high school.”

  “It must’ve been a small class,” Judith said.

  “True, but she was at least two years behind me.” He smiled faintly. “You know—in high school the older kids don’t pay much attention to the underclassmen.”

  “How did you end up here?”

  “My folks spent the war in an English village. They’d gotten out in 1938. After the war, they thought about moving to Israel, but that wasn’t happening yet, so they emigrated to the States. They had relatives in New York, but Pa and Ma were small-town people who hated cities. My father dreamed of owning a grocery store. A cousin of his worked for the Department of the Interior. He’d spent a lot of time around here when they were building dams on this side of the mountains. After the cousin retired to Lake Shegogan, he urged my folks to move here. They ran the local grocery store for thirty years.”

  Judith smiled. “I didn’t mean to pry. I wondered how a Jewish family would feel about moving where there were so many Germans.”

  “Back then, there weren’t as many,” Ernie said. “That came later, after Wessler started beating the drums to turn the town around. When I was a kid, most people were logging and railroad workers.” He looked at his watch. “The chief should be showing up soon. I’d better get some shut-eye before he comes in. Good luck with whatever it is you’re doing.”

  After Ernie ambled away, Judith decided she’d better move on, too. She felt better, but guilt niggled at her. If she took her time, the two-block walk to the B&B exhibit shouldn’t tire her out. Assuming, of course, that the booth was still standing. Judith didn’t want to think about the havoc Renie might wreak if aggravation overcame her.

  The sun had come out while she’d been in the chief’s office. It was a beautiful fall day, crisp and clear, with new snow on the mountains. The ground in the village, however, was all but bare. Judith figured the temperature must be in the high thirties. As she started down the main street, she glanced up at the clock tower. It was ten minutes past noon. On a whim, she decided to stop in at Sadie’s Stories. Maybe Jessi would have fresh news about her grandfather’s condition.

  The streets were more crowded than ever, but the bookstore wasn’t busy. Judith figured most visitors were in search of lunch or brunch during the noon hour. Jessi was behind the counter ringing up a half-dozen children’s books for a family of five. Barry was helping a young couple choose a travel atlas. Only two other customers, both elderly women, were browsing the shelves.

  “Hi,” Jessi said after the family exited. “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better,” Judith replied. “How’s your grandfather?”

  “Improving.” Jessi checked to make sure no one was listening. “The doctor said it was some kind of poison. I can’t believe it!”

  It suddenly occurred to Judith that she didn’t know if the general public had yet learned the real cause of Dietrich Wessler’s death. “Maybe someone made a mistake,” Judith hedged, not wanting to alarm Jessi. “Did Doc Frolander go into details?”

  “I didn’t talk to him very long. He’s worn out and was going to get some rest. I called my parents again, but told them not to come up here as long as Grandpa’s better. They always spend Christmas here. Still, they’re really upset.”

  “Of course,” Judith said. “Do you have any books on saints?”

 
“You mean Catholic saints?” Jessi saw Judith nod. “Yes, I think we have two—one for children and one for adults. I’ll show you.”

  She led Judith to the religion section. “It should be right here, but it’s not. My fill-in, Mrs. Zook, must’ve sold it. Would the children’s version be any help?”

  “No,” Judith said. “I’m looking for an obscure person.” Seeing that the young couple had made their choice of an atlas, she let Jessi go to the register. Judith strolled over to the travel section, where Barry was straightening the shelves. “Have you got time to talk to me—and my cousin—about what happened to your dad?”

  Barry adjusted a staff recommendation sign on the shelf featuring German tourist guides. “I don’t know very much. As I told you, I wasn’t here when it happened. You should talk to Mom, though she doesn’t know anything more than the police do.”

  Judith nodded. “I’m on my way to meet Serena. Could we get together for coffee at the café downstairs in fifteen minutes?”

  He glanced at Jessi, who was giving a smiling send-off to the couple with the atlas. “Sure. Maybe I can pick up some lunch there for Jessi and me. Hey, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  “So am I,” Judith said, returning to the counter. “Say, do you recall anyone who lingered around the Thomas Mann bust lately?”

  “No,” Jessi replied. “Only the brat who broke it. Why do you ask?”

  “My cousin thinks the bottle might’ve contained poison,” Judith said. “Chief Duomo is having it analyzed.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jessi said. “If somebody deliberately poisoned Grandpa, the bottle wouldn’t have been there before it happened.”

  “A valid point,” Judith said, “but Serena is so dogged about the tiniest detail of a crime she’s working. She’s got that kind of mind.”

  Jessi gaped at Judith. “She’s investigating Wessler’s death?”

  “Gosh,” Judith said, backpedaling to the door, “I thought you knew she’s a supersleuth. See you later. Oops!” she exclaimed, bumping into a postcard display. “I’m meeting her now. She subbed for me at the B&B booth.” Or what’s left of it, Judith thought grimly, and wished that the book title she’d just glimpsed wasn’t The Last Train from Hiroshima.