by Mary Daheim
But at the 1,100-foot level, Little Bavaria clung to the mountainside in alpine splendor, a fitting tribute to its namesake.
“Good,” Renie murmured when they’d pulled onto the main street, “they haven’t spoiled it. I was afraid they might get too kitschy. This kind of Bavarian architecture is sufficiently elaborate in and of itself.”
“Danke, Frau Jones,” Judith said with a wry smile. “Your artistic talent is showing. I must confess, every time I’ve been here, I actually feel as if we were back in Germany almost forty years ago.”
“That’s the point,” her cousin said with a nod at the balconied buildings with their bright flags fluttering in the autumn breeze. “Very smart of the locals to keep it simple. Where is Hanover Haus?”
“It’s in the middle of town on the right-hand side,” Judith replied. “When I told the driver where we were staying, he said it’s the third stop.”
Several of the older visitors in costume got off at the first hostelry. The two younger couples with their quartet of teenagers made their exit next. By the time the bus reached Hanover Haus, a half-dozen other people disembarked with the cousins. Judith recognized two of the women as fellow innkeepers. She was about to greet them, but both suddenly seemed preoccupied with looking elsewhere. Judith shot Renie a quick glance. “What’s wrong with them? Did they snub me?”
“Who are they?” Renie asked in her normal tone.
Judith made a face at her cousin. “Keep it down, will you?” She slowed her pace midway through the small lobby. “Let’s wait until everybody else checks in. In fact, let’s go back outside.”
“With our luggage?” Renie retorted. “We’ll look like pathetic waifs.”
“We’ll shove them into that alcove,” Judith said, indicating a recess by the entrance. “I don’t want to get off to a bad start running into people who believe what Ingrid Heffelman says about me being a ghoul.”
Renie cooperated. A moment later, they were outside. “I spy a café,” she said, pointing to the Gray Goose Beer House. “Let’s eat.”
Judith didn’t argue. They walked two doors down and entered the pub. It was almost full, but several patrons were obviously leaving. After a brief wait, the cousins were seated at a table by the fireplace. Their server was a careworn blonde whose nametag identified her as HERTHA.
Judith barely had a chance to glance at the menu, which was attached to a wooden plank. “Which brat do you recommend?”
“The special’s duck,” the server said in a jaded voice.
“Okay,” Judith said. “A kaiser roll and a small green salad, please.”
Hertha turned to Renie, who was scowling. “And you, ma’am?”
“Ma’am would rather eat this menu plank than bratwurst,” Renie declared. “I’ve cooked so many of those things for my husband that—”
“Hey, brat,” Judith interrupted, “order something else.”
Renie’s expression grew puckish. “Why not? I’ll have the pastrami on light rye. And I’ll bet your name isn’t really Hertha.”
“Right,” the server said wearily. “It’s Ruby. Does it matter?”
Renie grinned. “No.”
Ruby leaned closer. “We use German names for the tourists.”
“Dumb,” Renie remarked—but smiled.
Ruby trudged away. “I don’t think she likes her job,” Judith said. “I’m not sure I like mine if the other innkeepers give me the evil eye.”
“You’ll win them over,” Renie said. “Just don’t find a corpse.”
Chapter Two
After getting their bags, the cousins noticed the lobby was empty except for a buzz-cut young man at the desk. His nametag read HANS. When he turned to get their keys, Renie murmured, “Jake or Rick?”
Judith mouthed, “Brad? Alex?”
Renie shrugged.
Their room was on the second—and top—floor, overlooking the main street. “Not the best vantage point,” Renie noted. “The brochure says the rear balcony has a river and mountain view.”
Judith also moved to the window. “We have a balcony, too.”
“So? You want to gaze at the other tourists or the alpine scenery?”
Judith glanced at the gas fireplace. “It’d be too cool during the evening to sit outside. It’s pleasant now, though.” She studied the brochure. “There’s a dozen rooms, plus a bridal suite. No vacancies, so with two to a room, that’s twenty-six guests. How many are innkeepers?”
“Is this a game? How many innkeepers does it take to fill a B&B? I give up. In fact, I don’t care. You said there were only eight of you manning the booth,” Renie said, flopping down on the queen-size bed.
“That’s today’s schedule,” Judith replied, still gazing out the window, “but it changes daily to give as many innkeepers as possible a chance to recruit guests. We got to choose our own lodging because we get only a small stipend. It is a self-promotional opportunity.”
“How come your group has never asked me to design anything for them? That brochure sucks scissors.”
Judith turned around and leaned against the armoire between the windows. “Do you really want to work with Ingrid Heffelman?”
Renie kicked off her shoes. “Sure. I’ve faced off with worse clients than Inbred Heffalump. Think mayor, think governor, think—”
“Stop.” Judith sat down in one of the room’s two armchairs. “We have to be at Wolfgang’s Gast Haus at six, but first I have to attend a rally-round-the-booth meeting that I assume you’d hate.”
“I wouldn’t do that if you promised me a date with Hugh Laurie.”
Judith assumed a put-upon expression. “I thought you might’ve changed your mind.”
“About Hugh Laurie?” Renie sat up. “He’s here?”
“No, you idiot. I mean you’d be curious how innkeepers do business at the administrative level.”
Renie yawned. “Sounds dumb.”
“Okay, then I’ll meet you at Wolfgang’s,” Judith said. “It’s two-thirty now, so I’m going to get ready. The meeting’s at four.”
“Two hours? Are you nuts?”
Judith avoided Renie’s gaze. “There are some presentations. And speakers. Maybe discussions. Statistics demonstrating the need to—”
Renie had snatched up a pillow and put it over her head. “Please! Be quiet! You think I don’t get stuck with enough of that bilge in my own job? I’ll see you at the bar.”
By three-fifteen, Judith was walking the two blocks to Wolfgang’s Gast Haus, where the meeting would he held. The cocktail party indicated informal attire, so she’d changed into black tailored slacks and a black sweater with two rows of tiny silver bars around the boatneck. Spotting the B&B association’s booth, she saw one of the innkeepers she’d recognized at Hanover Haus. Judith hesitated. Eventually, she’d have to meet the woman. Now or later, she thought, and put on her friendliest smile. “Hi,” she said to the fortyish strawberry blonde. “We’ve met. I’m—”
“Flynn,” the woman interrupted, shaking Judith’s hand without enthusiasm. “You own the B&B on Heraldsgate Hill.” She made the last word sound like some kind of hell.
“You,” Judith said, keeping her smile in place, “have two B&Bs, one in the Langford district and the other near the north city limits.”
“Three,” the woman replied. “I recently bought out Hermione Wingate’s Teal Lake B&B. She and Elrod retired to Taos, New Mexico.”
Judith wished the annoying woman was wearing a nametag. She tried to visualize who was in charge of the booth. Dinkle or Dunkle or Dumble . . . something like that. It suddenly came to her. Denkel, Eleanor Denkel. “Is there anything I can do here now, Eleanor?”
Eleanor looked at the clock tower across the street. “It’s three-twenty-six. You have enough time before the meeting to sweep the area around the booth. The broom is in the corner by the stat
e maps.”
Judith tried to keep her expression pleasant, feeling a bit like Cinderella in her festive sweater. “Okay. Ah . . . you are in charge of our booth, right?”
“Indeed I am,” Eleanor said. “The Oktoberfest chairman is Herman Stromeyer. He’ll speak to us at one of our meetings. As you probably know, the honorary chairman is one of Little Bavaria’s longtime leading citizens.” The merest hint of a smile tugged at Eleanor’s thin lips. “He’s my dear grandfather, Dietrich Wessler.”
Judith didn’t know. Before she could ask if Franz Wessler was related to Eleanor, the other woman pointed to the booth. “Do you see your broom?” she asked.
“My . . . ? Yes, thanks.”
Judith walked away, thinking that Eleanor should be wielding the broom. Or riding on it.
The meeting was as soporific as Renie had predicted. It was one of those occasions when Judith was grateful that she rarely had to leave Hillside Manor to conduct any part of her business. Midway through a tedious statistical recap of who, why, and when guests visited state B&Bs during an average year, Judith felt sorry for Renie, who often had to suffer through such sessions as a graphic designer.
By the time the drone fest concluded at 5:50, she was fighting the urge to nod off. Eleanor had the last word, which was “Getränk!” Judging from the applause, it had something to do with getting drunk. For once, that sounded like a good idea to Judith.
The travel packet stated that the cocktail party was for all the Oktoberfest exhibitors. A sign in the lobby pointed to the ballroom just down the hall from the registration desk. Not that Judith needed the information—she merely followed the crowd.
The high-ceilinged room with its display of hunting horns, antlers, archery equipment, and paintings of the real Bavaria was filling up. Except for Eleanor Denkel, who was almost enveloped by a half-dozen people who seemed eager for her company, Judith didn’t recognize anyone. She headed for the bar, hoping Renie would show up soon.
The bartender was a good-looking young man whose nametag ID’d him as Fritz. He poured Judith a hefty Scotch-rocks. “Are you really Fritz?” she asked.
He grinned. “All the bartenders are Fritz.” He gestured at his vis-à-vis, an older man with a shaved head. “Him, too, but he’s a genuine Fritz. The waitresses are Heidi or Hertha. Saves on printing—and remembering names.”
Judith glanced at Fritz II, who was serving what looked like rum and Coke to the other B&B owner she’d recognized at Hanover Haus. “Thanks, Fritz.” She turned away just as a wave of excitement erupted by the main door. “What’s going on?” she asked over her shoulder.
Fritz had started to serve a goateed man in lederhosen. “The Great White Vater,” he said. “Dietrich Wessler.”
Judith moved closer, but could see only a thatch of silver hair. Most of his admirers were speaking German. A hearty guffaw and a rumbling bass quieted the crowd. She assumed the speaker was the Oktoberfest honorary chairman—and Eleanor Denkel’s grandfather.
“My, my!” a female voice cried softly. “Can you believe his age?”
Judith realized that the fair-haired speaker was the other innkeeper she’d recognized earlier. “I can’t believe it until I see him.”
“He’s ninety-six,” the woman said, straining to stand on tiptoes for a better vantage point. “You’re tall, Judith. Can you see his face?”
“Only his hair,” Judith said, unable to recall the woman’s name.
“It’s all his own,” she said, turning so Judith saw her nametag: CONSTANCE BEAULIEU, as in BEW-ly, who owned a B&B across the Sound.
“How are you, Connie?” Judith inquired.
Connie, a pretty, bouncy woman, smiled brightly. “Just ducky-doodle. Isn’t this a wonderful place for a cozy get-together?”
“Yes,” Judith agreed, surprised at the other woman’s friendly about-face. “Lovely time of year, too.”
The audience erupted into laughter. “What did he say?” Connie inquired. “I don’t speak German.”
“Nor do I,” Judith admitted. “You’re staying at Hanover Haus?”
Connie nodded. “Charming, isn’t it? Very European. Very old world. Very authentic.”
“You mean,” a third voice said, “because it’s actually a room as opposed to a meat locker?”
Judith gave a start. “Oh! Connie, this is my cousin Serena Jones. Connie’s an innkeeper, too.”
“No kidding,” Renie said, holding on to her cocktail glass with both hands. “Hi, Connie. Call me Renie. Who’s the old fart doing the stand-up routine? Looks like he’s too old to stand up, let alone do a routine.”
Judith turned just enough so that Connie couldn’t see her face and shot Renie a warning glance. “That’s the festival’s honorary chairman, Dietrich Wessler.”
Renie shrugged. “No kidding. How come he’s not funny?”
“How would you know? You don’t speak German.”
“So what?” Renie’s face turned droll. “How many German comedians can you tick off on your fingers?”
“Coz . . . Hey, how could you see him? You’re short.”
“My mascara fell out of my purse and rolled into the audience,” Renie explained. “I had to crawl between all those Germans. It was like the Redwood Forest. Those legs! Those thighs! That lederhosen! Mein Gott!” She grinned. “How’s that for German?”
Fortunately, Connie Beaulieu had moved on, perhaps to get a better look at Herr Wessler. “Please,” Judith begged, “try not to embarrass me while we’re here. This is my job, my living, my career.”
“I thought that Connie person was someone you wanted to avoid,” Renie said, looking puzzled. “I was rescuing you.”
“She was fine,” Judith declared. “Kind of silly, but pleasant. Maybe it was because she was with Eleanor Denkel, who was not.”
“Not what? Not Eleanor Denkel? Who was she instead? Is this another game?”
Judith heaved a heavy sigh. “Coz . . . I think I need a refill.”
“Why not? Herr Gasbag is still going at it. The crowd’s eating it up. Speaking of eating, where are the hors d’oeuvres?”
“I don’t know,” Judith said, moving back toward the bar. “Probably on the other side of the room. I can’t see beyond Wessler’s admirers.”
What she could see was Franz Wessler, moving away from the bar with a cocktail glass in hand. He espied the cousins and smiled.
Judith felt an odd sense of relief. “Mr. Wessler,” she said, smiling. “I thought we lost you along the way.”
“Please—call me Franz.” He smiled at both cousins. “I don’t believe I’ve formally met your . . . cousin, correct?”
“Yes.” Judith introduced Renie, who behaved with proper aplomb.
“Charmed,” Franz declared, flashing the gold eyetooth. “Have you met my father? As usual, he has drawn all eyes—and ears—to himself.”
“Oh, of course,” Judith said. “Then you are . . . Eleanor Denkel’s . . . ?” Uncertain of the relationship, she let the question dangle.
“Uncle,” Franz replied. “Her father and I were brothers. Alas, he passed away some years ago. I have not seen Eleanor since . . . I am not certain how long. You are also an innkeeper?”
“Uh—that’s right,” Judith said, momentarily diverted by the entrance of an oompah band. “I know her only slightly.”
“Ah.” Franz looked beyond the cousins. “I must pay homage to Vater. We have only had the briefest of conversations since I arrived.”
“I thought we’d lost you on the train,” Judith said. “The conductor couldn’t find you when he collected our tickets.”
“Oh?” Franz frowned. “He did not look very hard. Excuse me. I mustn’t let Vater tire himself before we dine.”
Renie jabbed Judith’s arm. “Don’t,” she said, raising her voice to be heard as the band began to play.
“Don’t what?” Judith said, moving briskly to the bar.
Renie scooted along to keep up. “Wonder if Franz was lying or being evasive. Worse yet, don’t speculate that he strangled Mr. Peterson and threw him off the train from a trestle in the mountains.”
“I won’t,” Judith said testily, though similar thoughts had flashed through her mind. “He was probably in the restroom.”
They reached the bar. Judith didn’t have to ask for her refill. Fritz I remembered she was Scotch-rocks. “You’re a good bartender,” she said. “When my first husband owned a restaurant, I often worked the bar and it isn’t easy remembering what strangers drink.” Especially with the Meat & Mingle’s tawdry clientele, who couldn’t remember either, and would have been satisfied if I’d served them Liquid-Plumr.
“It’s a knack,” Fritz I said. “How’s CC and 7UP doing?”
“Fine,” Renie said, holding up her half-full glass. “Where’s the food? I’m starving.”
Fritz’s words were drowned out by some very loud oompah. He grinned helplessly, then waved a hand toward his right and pointed straight ahead. Judith nodded and accepted her refill. Luckily, the band was playing on the opposite side of the room.
“Holy cats,” Judith said as they hurried away, “that’s really loud.”
“It’s sure a lot of oompah,” Renie agreed.
A couple was dishing various appetizers onto sturdy paper plates. Judith did a double take, recognizing the blond woman in the tight pink sweater as Hertha—or Ruby—from the beer house. “You’re serving yourself,” she said, moving alongside their lunch waitress. “Are you Ruby for the rest of the evening?”
“Oh—it’s you,” the faux blonde said with mild interest. “Yeah, I worked the early shift.” She used her free hand to grab her companion’s arm. “Hey, Burt, this is . . . I don’t know your names,” she admitted.
“I’m Judith, this is my cousin Renie.” She shook Burt’s hand. “Do you live here, too?”
“No,” he replied, ducking his balding head with its fringe of curly brown hair. “I’m a blogger.”