The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  “He can wait,” Renie retorted.

  Judith spotted the Pancake Schloss some fifty yards away. “Slow down! Hey—there’s a police car parked outside the restaurant.”

  “Of course,” Renie said. “According to the Little Bavaria guidebook, this place also has good doughnuts. I figured maybe you could kill two birds with one scone. They have those, too. And Schloss translates as ‘palace,’ in case you’ve forgotten our visit to Germany.”

  “I sure haven’t,” Judith snarled. “You were horrible that morning when we took the ship up the Rhine. Our breakfast was late, and after it finally came, you got mad at me for some stupid reason and poured a pitcher of cream all over my food.”

  “You’d filled the room with your stinking hair spray,” Renie countered. “I was damned near asphyxiated.”

  “Too bad you weren’t,” Judith said, still irked at the long-ago memory of Renie’s rotten morning mood. “Remember, the cops know who’s who. Let’s hope they don’t rat me out to any of the innkeepers who think you’re the sleuth,” she added as they went inside the Pancake Schloss. “You were right—Ingrid can’t get snarky with me this time.”

  The cousins were lucky. Their timing was such that most of the breakfast patrons were gone and the lunch crowd hadn’t started to arrive. The restaurant was only half filled, but the current customers included two men in police uniforms in a booth near the back.

  “Hey,” Renie said, “I bet one of those cops is Chief Duomo. He’s got a big round bald head. Isn’t duomo the Italian word for ‘dome’?”

  “Maybe,” Judith agreed, not waiting to be seated. “Let’s join them.”

  The bald man didn’t seem surprised by the cousins’ arrival. “Mrs. Flynn,” he said, looking droll. “Park yourselves. You, too, Mrs. Jones.”

  Renie nodded, sliding into the booth next to a lean-faced, hawk-nosed officer who regarded her with curious, heavy-lidded eyes. “Don’t stare,” she said, reaching around him to snatch a menu. “You’re kind of skinny, but I’m part cannibal when I’m really hungry.”

  The officer had backed away when the menu almost hit his chin. “You’ve got the teeth for it,” he remarked.

  Judith, who didn’t have much room next to the rotund police chief, tried to smile. “Could you hand me a menu? I assume you’re . . .”

  “Fat Matt Duomo,” the chief interjected. “Go ahead, call me that. I don’t care, I don’t have to. I’m the chief. Can I call you FATSO?”

  Judith hesitated as Fat Matt handed her a menu. “Why not? Everybody else does. Except,” she went on, “the B&B contingent. I’ve already told them my cousin is the real sleuth.”

  Duomo shot Renie a sharp glance. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Because,” Judith admitted, “I’m tired of the woman who runs the state association dumping on me when I find a dead body every so often.”

  Duomo chuckled. “Cramps your style, eh? Your rep’s damned amazing. It makes us cops look dumb, but you’re the goods, Mrs. F.”

  “A lot of luck—much of it bad—has been involved,” Judith said, looking up at the hovering waitress whose nametag identified her as GRETEL. “I’ll have the waffle sandwich with spicy link sausages. Coffee and apple juice, too. Thanks.” She handed the menu back to Duomo.

  Renie twirled a strand of chestnut hair, which, as usual, looked as if she’d combed it with a garden tool. “Buttermilk pancakes, one egg over easy, hamburger steak medium, large apple juice, and decaf.”

  The tall and rangy Gretel glared at Renie before hurrying away.

  “Hey,” Duomo said, “didn’t introduce Major Schwartz, my second in command, title courtesy of fighting in ’Nam. Silver Star, Purple Heart, Jewish grandparents died in Buchenwald. Got quite a few folks around here whose families had some real bad experiences with the frigging Nazis. Fact is, Ernie here should be chief, but refused the promotion.” Duomo grinned. “He didn’t want the headache. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “Hi, Ernie,” Renie said. “I mean, Major.”

  “Ernie’s fine,” Schwartz said, “since we’ll be working together.”

  Judith felt it was time to get down to business. “Can you update us about your investigation?”

  “Sure,” Duomo said, “if we can get more coffee. Where’s Suzie?”

  “Suzie?” Judith echoed.

  “The waitress,” the chief explained. “She didn’t want to be a Heidi or a Hertha. She likes Gretel better. What the hell—she owns the place.”

  Judith was curious. “Why does she wait on tables?”

  “Shorthanded during Oktoberfest,” Duomo replied. “One waitress had a baby, another one sprained her ankle. Suzie and her husband started this place ten years ago. Done real good, best breakfast in town, open twenty-four hours during Oktoberfest and Christmas.”

  The cousins’ food arrived. “It looks wonderful,” Judith said, smiling at Suzie aka Gretel. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Suzie said without enthusiasm. “You two guys want more coffee or are you just taking up space being baffled?”

  “Come on, Suze,” the chief said indulgently. “We do our best. Yeah, more coffee. Thanks.”

  Suzie stalked away.

  Judith frowned at Duomo. “Isn’t it a bit soon for her to give you a bad time about Wessler’s murder?”

  “That’s not what she meant,” the chief said, looking pained. “She’s talking about her husband.”

  “What about him?” Judith inquired, buttering her waffle.

  Duomo’s expression grew even grimmer. “He was murdered last August. Maybe you could help us with that one, too.”

  Chapter Six

  Judith was taken aback by the new request, but felt obligated to at least show interest. “What happened to Suzie’s husband?”

  Chief Duomo sighed heavily. “Bob Stafford was a lawyer, but he got tired of working for Legal Aid after the first ten, fifteen years. They decided to move away from the big city, maybe set up practice in a small town. That wasn’t too long after Little Bavaria started building a big rep as a tourist stop. Not just October and December, but ski season and camping—all the outdoor stuff. Once they got here, they couldn’t find any place that made decent pancakes. So instead of going back to the law, they built this restaurant—Bavarian-chalet style with their living quarters upstairs. It was a big hit.”

  The chief paused as Suzie wordlessly refilled their coffee mugs. “Everything went along real smooth,” Duomo continued after Suzie was out of hearing range. “That is, until early August, when Bob brought in some threatening letters, unsigned, about how whoever wrote the damned things had gotten a raw deal from Bob at Legal Aid. There were five of them, but we couldn’t trace the sender. The next thing we know, Suzie reported Bob as missing. We found him not far from the Pancake Schloss by the river, apparently drowned. But we did an autopsy. The coroner’s report showed that death was caused by a blow to the head before he ever hit the water.” Duomo sighed again. “We haven’t solved the case. Hell, we don’t even have a suspect. Everybody liked Bob, so we figure it had to be the letter writer.”

  Judith swallowed some sausage before speaking. “Postmark?”

  It was Ernie who answered. “The city—where else do all the nut jobs hang out?”

  Judith couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Believe me, they’re everywhere. I’ve found killers all over the world—cities, small towns, island retreats, villages.”

  “Yeah,” Duomo agreed grudgingly, “I’ve read your Web site, but the bigger the place, the more of the nuts. Besides, whoever wrote the letters was bitching about Bob’s legal work and that was all in the city.”

  “I assume,” Judith said, “you still have the letters?”

  “Hell, yes,” the chief retorted. “Handwritten, too. Even called in an expert who told us the sender was probably paranoid, a schizo, a psychopath, a r
eal head case. I could’ve told him that, even without all those initials after my last name.”

  Renie nodded. “My husband’s a psychologist,” she said. “In professional terms, Bill would describe the writer as ‘crazy as a bedbug.’ ”

  Ernie eyed her with sleepy-eyed amusement. “He sounds like my kind of shrink.”

  Renie shrugged. “Bill doesn’t mince words.”

  Duomo gestured at Judith’s plate. “Your grub’s on me,” he said. “Can you come back to the station after you’re done here?”

  “Yes,” Judith said, “but I didn’t sign up for two homicides. Unless,” she went on, narrowing her eyes at Fat Matt, “you feel they’re linked.”

  The chief looked indignant. “Linked? Hell, how would I know? You’re the sleuth. How ’bout this? Do a two-fer and I won’t tell your B&B gang you aren’t FATSO.”

  Judith sighed. “I’ll give it a shot, but it’s virtually a cold case. Don’t expect much from me. Are you two leaving now?”

  “Yeah,” the chief replied. “You’ll both have to move so we can get out. Time to arrest somebody . . . for something. Let’s hit it, Ernie.”

  After the policemen made their exit, Renie fixed Judith with a knowing expression. “We’re almost finished. When do we grill Suzie?”

  “Now,” Judith said, checking her watch. “It’s after eleven-thirty, so the lunch crowd will start showing up. We need coffee refills.”

  “I see Suzie coming.” Renie made a windmill motion. “Quick, make tears, put on your widow act. You know how, even if you didn’t cry much over Dan’s moundlike body.”

  Judith took a tissue out of her purse just before Suzie arrived at their booth. “Want me to take away the cops’ stuff?” she asked.

  “Oh—no,” Renie said in a worried voice. “We need more coffee. Decaf for me, that is. My poor cousin’s having a bad day.”

  Suzie slipped an order pad in her apron pocket, jabbed a pencil into her dark hair, and frowned. “What’s wrong? You two flunk plea bargaining with the local lawmen?”

  Judith sniffled; Renie scowled. “Hardly. My cousin’s husband was a retired cop. He passed away recently under tragic circumstances. Can you cut her some slack, please?”

  “Oh.” Suzie looked faintly chagrined. “Sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Renie snapped. “It isn’t every day that a husband gets whacked. Sometimes they just blow up. I mean, blow away. You know—like withered autumn leaves.”

  Suzie glanced over her shoulder, apparently to see if she was needed elsewhere. “Let me get your coffee—and decaf.”

  “Not bad, coz,” Judith murmured. “Though you tend to overdo it. I didn’t realize you could lie—I mean, fib—almost as well as I can.”

  “It’s part of my job,” Renie said. “I have to lie all the time, like when I tell CEOs and public officials and academics they’re actually smart.” She turned solemn. “Start sniffling again.”

  Armed with two coffee carafes, the Widow Stafford refilled the cousins’ mugs. “Sorry I was abrupt. I recently lost my own husband.”

  Judith dabbed at her eyes. “So many widows, so much crime.”

  “Foul play, huh?” Suzie remarked, still holding on to the carafes, but leaning against the back of the booth on Judith’s side. “Same here. What’s this world coming to?”

  “Does it matter?” Judith said in a woebegone voice.

  “No.” Suzie looked even grimmer. “You’re not a local. So why were you talking to the cops?”

  Judith crumpled the tissue and cleared her throat. “My husband passed through Little Bavaria shortly before he passed on. That is, he was killed on the highway about ten miles from here near the summit. Hit-and-run, but it may’ve been deliberate. He was changing a tire when he was struck. I know it was in another jurisdiction, but I thought maybe your local police would have some . . . clue. The county sheriff on the other side of the mountains is baffled.”

  “Big surprise,” Suzie muttered. “Same here with my husband. He was found by the river. Fat Matt and his crew don’t have a clue either. And now they’ve got this mess with Herr Wessler. Wouldn’t you think someone would’ve seen the old coot get stabbed?”

  “Oh,” Judith said in distracted voice, “that’s so awful! It must’ve been an accident. Did you know him?”

  “Sure. He was an institution in this town. He came to Little Bavaria before it was Little Bavaria.” Suzie again glanced around the restaurant. “Hey—have to help the other customers. I put on a good dinner, if you’re interested.” She wheeled around and dashed off.

  “I liked the tire part,” Renie commented. “Ambiguous.”

  “That happened to some guy a while ago. I saw it in the paper.”

  Renie nodded. “That’s why I’m glad we took the train. I don’t mind when Bill’s driving, but otherwise, this pass makes me nervous.”

  Judith dug in her purse. “I’m leaving a tip. I assume the chief picked up our tab, but just in case we want to come back here for dinner, it might be a good idea to butter up Suzie.”

  “She loosened up,” Renie noted.

  “But we didn’t learn anything,” Judith pointed out, putting a five-dollar bill by her plate. “She didn’t even mention the letters.”

  “Won’t the chief have them?”

  “Probably.” Judith didn’t speak again until they were outside and going back down Main Street. “I prefer not getting sidetracked with Bob Stafford’s murder. Assuming that’s what it was.”

  “What else could it be?” Renie asked.

  Judith looked up at patches of old snow as the morning mist rose up the mountainside. “He could’ve fallen and hit his head on a rock. Still . . .” She shrugged. “When it’s not full of tourists, only a couple thousand people live here. If the letter writer who killed Bob wasn’t local, he—or she—would have had to arrange a meeting. It sounds odd.”

  “I won’t argue,” Renie said. “I’m just a dupe. Or a dope. Do you have anything on your official schedule today?”

  “Not until four,” Judith replied. “We have an event at town hall with the Oktoberfest organizers. Beer tasting and a concert to follow.”

  “I wish I liked beer better,” Renie said. “They can’t serve the stronger German version here . . . whoa! What’s going on by our B&B?”

  “Oh, I forgot! At one o’clock they have a big procession and the official opening ceremonies. They’re assembling everybody. Look, here comes a guy in an old horse-drawn wagon.”

  “How do you know the horse is old? He looks kind of frisky to me.”

  “I meant the wagon,” Judith said, with a reproving eye for her cousin. “We haven’t gone that far down the street, but it starts from just beyond the Kinderplatz. That is, the play area for kids.”

  “I get it, I get it,” Renie muttered. “So where are we going? I don’t feel like marching in a parade.”

  “Neither do I,” Judith said, and turned around. “Why don’t we check out the scene of the crime?”

  “You mean Wolfgang’s? That’s in the other direction.”

  Judith shook her head. “Where Bob Stafford was killed. It happened behind the Pancake Schloss. There must be a trail.”

  “You realize the river will be higher now,” Renie said as they approached the high bank in back of the restaurant.

  “Of course. We were raised on a river at the family cabins, in case it slipped your mind. Here’s the path.” Judith studied the trail that zigzagged down the steep embankment. “It looks doable. You first?”

  “Of course,” Renie said.

  The trail was a fairly easy walk. The cousins were more than halfway down when Renie stopped. “Hey—this is weird. Take a look.”

  Judith saw a wide spot dug out alongside the dirt track. It was overgrown with grass, weeds, and wild strawberry vines. “It’s so
me kind of marker. What does it say? I don’t want to bend that far.”

  “ ‘HRH,’ ” Renie said, pushing some of the vines aside. “Just dates: 1919 to 1979. His Royal Highness? A family pet buried here?”

  Judith looked incredulous. “A sixty-year-old dog? Get real.”

  “A parrot, maybe. They live to be really old, just like our mothers.”

  “It has to be a person. The cleared area is big enough for a body.”

  “Of course,” Renie said. “You’ve found another corpse. Too bad he or she died so long ago or you could figure out whodunit. Buried HRH here, I mean. Some people do die of natural causes.”

  “Why here? Why not in the cemetery?”

  “Hey—forget it. Let’s go down to the river and finish the ghoul expedition, okay?”

  Judith gave in. A few moments later they were standing by the river. As ever, the riffles of water over rocks had a soothing effect. “No oompah bands. No emergency vehicles. No sniping rival innkeepers.”

  “No fish,” Renie added. “Not like there used to be. But we’ve still got the mountains.” She looked up above the tree line to the peaks with their crevasses of snow. “Civilization will get us yet.”

  “I hope not,” Judith murmured. “If only people would stop moving here. Then they complain about the rain and the gray skies. I hate to do it, but when guests exult in a sunny day in the city, I tell them it’s so rare that I might go blind. It’s fine for them to visit, but why must they move here? All the new construction on Heraldsgate Hill is insane.”

  “Tell me about it.” Renie stopped staring at the mountains. “So is this your crime scene?”

  “It must be.” Judith was quiet for a few moments. “The river would’ve been lower in August when Bob was killed. The initial reaction was that he’d fallen and hit his head on a rock, but all I see now are a few pebbles. What do you figure? Another ten feet of bank, maybe?”

  “Probably, given the channel here. It’s very wide and most of the snow would’ve melted much earlier.”