by Mary Daheim
“Oh?” Eldridge was befuddled. Maybe he hadn’t heard of the infamous FASTO. “See you there, then,” he said, sounding disappointed.
Judith managed to get in front of Renie before Connie and Eldridge could notice the melted chocolate that almost covered her cousin’s chin. “You’re a wreck,” she muttered. “Didn’t the candy booth have a napkin?”
“No,” Renie said, after swallowing the chocolate she’d managed to get inside her mouth and not on her person. “Why?”
“Skip it.” Judith gazed at their surroundings. “Let’s take a break from murder, real or otherwise, and browse some of the shops.”
“Okay.” Renie pointed to a clothing store. “Bill’s always wanted a cape. Maybe I can get him one of those Tyrolean-style things like the one I bought when we visited Innsbruck years ago.”
Judith was dubious. “Bavaria meets the Tyrol?”
“Hey, most people can’t tell one part of the Holy Roman Empire from another.”
“Clean yourself up. You don’t want to get chocolate on the merchandise.”
“No problem,” Renie said, popping another chocolate cluster into her mouth. “That’s the last one. Ha ha.” She used the empty bag to wipe off her face. And her neck. And both hands. “I’m good. Let’s go.”
The shop was nestled between a cobbler and an antiques store. Judith refrained from chastising her cousin for her piggery. The worst part was that Renie could eat so much and never gain an ounce. Metabolism, Judith thought—some pigs got it, some pigs don’t.
The clothing shop was fairly small and very busy. While Renie browsed outerwear, Judith looked at sweaters. Christmas wasn’t that far away. Maybe she could find something for Joe or Mike and his family. A forest-green lamb’s-wool pullover caught her attention. It would suit Joe, but was available only in small and medium sizes. A navy-blue mohair crewneck suited Mike, but for all Judith knew, he might be sent to Florida on his next assignment. Frustrated, she moved on to the children’s section. Before she could get past the lederhosen, someone tapped her arm.
“Judith?” said George Beaulieu. “Have you seen my wife?”
“Why, yes,” she replied. “I talked to her just a few minutes ago at the B&B booth.”
“She’s not there now,” he said, looking worried. “She was supposed to come off duty at two. We were going to have a late lunch.”
“Who’s in the booth now?” Judith inquired.
“Ah . . .” George tweaked his handlebar mustache. “Two innkeepers from the eastern group. They thought she’d headed this way.”
Judith shrugged. “She’s not here. But there are several other stores in this building, including up on the second floor. Maybe she went to the bookshop. It’s right above us. Did you happen to see Mr. Hoover? He was with her in the booth.”
“He’s not there now,” George said, his high forehead creased with concern. “I met him when I walked Connie to the exhibit. This whole situation makes me anxious. What does your cousin think about it?”
Looking for Renie, she spotted her cousin at the cash register. “She’s still in the early interrogation stages. You’ve heard about Ellie?”
George nodded. “It’s a mistake. Eleanor couldn’t possibly have killed her grandfather. She must be taking the blame for someone else. That’s the trouble with Ellie. Connie says the woman is so noble.” He grimaced. “I must be on my way. If you see my wife, please tell her I’m worried.” He paused, staring into Judith’s eyes. “I still think you must be part Gypsy. Don’t be offended.”
Before Judith could comment, George hurried from the shop.
Judith joined Renie at the counter. “What did you buy?”
“A snap-brim corduroy cap,” Renie replied. “No capes that wouldn’t make Bill look like a bat.” She waited to get her receipt from the young woman at the register. “Who was that guy with the revolting mustache?” she asked as they started out of the store.
“Connie’s husband. He lost her somehow.”
“I don’t blame him,” Renie said, pausing on the walkway. “Let’s go up to the bookstore. Bill gave me a list of World War Two books he thought they might have here.”
Judith glanced at the stairs leading to the second story. “Why not? Joe likes those books, too, though he’s not as avid about history as Bill.”
The cousins climbed up to the balcony that jutted out from the front of the Bavarian chalet. They passed a crafts shop and a photography studio before arriving at Sadie’s Stories.
The store was small, but one wall was so tall that a ladder was positioned by it. A half-dozen customers were browsing the fiction section. To Judith’s dismay, the family of four from the train was among them. Thurmond was wrestling with a stuffed bear by the children’s section. Ormond was chewing on the edges of a kiddie board book. His parents seemed absorbed in legal thrillers.
Renie nudged Judith. “Is it too late for me to get a restraining order for those little twits?”
“Ask their parents,” Judith whispered. “They’re the ones checking out the lawyer books.”
“Just don’t let them near me. Here’s the history section,” Renie said, pointing to a shelf behind her cousin.
“You know more about the subject than I do,” Judith said. “Recommend something.”
Renie, however, was studying Bill’s list, printed in his small neat writing. “The Gestapo: Hitler’s Horror,” she murmured. “The SS and Racial Cleansing. Himmler Does Hamburg.”
Judith looked over Renie’s shoulder. “That can’t be a real title.”
“It’s not, but all of these sound so gruesome,” Renie said. “Whatever happened to Fun with Adolf and Eva?”
“They didn’t end up having much of that,” Judith pointed out.
“Serves them right. Oh, here’s one Bill has marked with an asterisk—Kommandant Killer: Hitler’s Avenging Angel.”
Judith winced. “That sounds even worse.”
“It’s all bad,” Renie declared. “I was old enough by the end of the war to read newspapers and magazines. I was horrified.” She perused the shelves. “I don’t see Bill’s priority title. Maybe I should ask Sadie.”
Noting the auburn-haired girl behind the counter, Judith smiled. “I’ll bet she’s not Sadie. It’s such an old-fashioned name.”
The cousins waited for the clerk to ring up a young man who was buying a hiking trail book. After he left, Renie leaned on the counter. “I’ll bet you a ten percent discount you’re not Sadie.”
“Bet’s off,” the clerk replied, giggling. “Sadie’s been dead for thirty years. I’m her granddaughter, Jessica. Call me Jessi—with an i.”
Renie showed Jessi the list Bill had made out. “My husband especially wants the Kommandant book. I don’t know why—he already runs our house like a stalag. But I can’t find this one on the shelf.”
“Let me check,” Jessi said, going to the computer. “We can probably order it from . . .” She frowned. “Weird. It’s been deleted.”
“Out of print?” Renie asked.
“No,” Jessi replied, still frowning at the screen. “It’s a recent release. That’s really odd. We had some computer problems a couple of days ago, but a techie customer fixed it. What else is on your list?”
“Here,” Renie said, pushing the slip of paper across the counter. “Take your pick. My husband starred only the one you can’t get.”
“We have the first two,” the clerk said. “I’ll get them for you.” Jessi started around to the other side of the counter but paused, her fair, fresh-scrubbed face lighting up. “Barry! I thought you had to work.”
The cousins recognized the younger bartender from Wolfgang’s Gast Haus. “Barry fits him better than Fritz,” Renie whispered.
Barry was focused on Jessi. “I don’t have to work until later,” he said, before noticing the cousins. “Hey—weren’t you at
the cocktail party last night when Wessler got killed?”
The parents of the little boys turned away from their legal thrillers to stare at the newcomer.
“We escaped right after the carnage,” Renie said. “Where were you? The bar wasn’t being tended the last time we sought refills.”
“Both of us Fritzes had to see what happened when the music stopped,” Barry said. “Then we served brandy for the people in shock.”
Jessi touched his arm. “I’m glad I wasn’t there. It sounded grim.”
“It was,” Barry said solemnly, “though I never got a good look.”
A loud crash startled Judith, who turned to see the floor covered with chunks of plaster of Paris. Thurmond was screaming his head off.
“Thomas Mann!” Jessi cried. “The kid busted his bust!”
“Thurmy!” the mother shouted, racing to her son. “Did the nasty head fall on you? My poor little man!”
“What about Herr Mann?” Jessi said under her breath. “Kids!”
Thurmond kept yelling. His father smiled fondly. “He’s okay, Gina. A good thing that statue wasn’t marble.” He turned to Jessi. “You should keep stuff like that out of children’s reach. It’s dangerous.”
“It’s hollow,” Jessi snapped. “He shouldn’t have climbed the ladder. And your other little guy is ripping up The Cat in the Hat.”
The mother turned around sharply. “He doesn’t like Dr. Seuss. Ormy is very fussy about what he eats. I mean, what he reads.” She glared again at Jessi. “Maybe the plaster thing didn’t harm Thurmy, but what about that bottle? If it broke, it could’ve cut him.”
Judith and Jessi both hurried to see what Thurmond’s mother was talking about. Sure enough, there was a small bottle lying among the pieces that had once been Thomas Mann’s bust.
“Hunh,” Jessi said, puzzled. “There’s no label. It looks empty.”
Barry joined her after the miffed mother had picked up the blubbering Thurmond. “Hey,” he said, “maybe it’s something used by whoever made the bust. A glaze or paint?”
“No idea,” Jessi responded, bending down to pick up the item.
Renie was leaning over Jessi’s shoulder. “I’m a graphic designer, so I’ve seen bottles like that, but I wonder why there’s no label.”
Judith took a closer look. “A medicine or a small liquor bottle? An exotic cooking ingredient?” She turned to Renie. “You’re right—why is there no label or any other identification on it?”
Jessi turned around. “If the kid hadn’t broken Mann’s head, we’d never have seen it.” She looked from Judith to the parents. “Hey, I don’t want any trouble. It’s okay. But you should keep an eye on your children. The bigger one could’ve fallen off that ladder and hurt himself.”
“Aw,” the father said, “little boys like to explore.”
“Yes,” the mother chimed in, taking Thurmond in her arms and jiggling him in an effort to quiet him. “If you had children, you’d understand that they must be allowed to experiment and test their limits. Furthermore, we didn’t find anything of interest in your shop. Don’t you have any good books?”
Renie looked belligerent. “Maybe Ormond would enjoy eating a cookbook. Check the parenting section. You might learn something.”
“That does it!” the mother cried. “We’re out of here!” She headed for the door. The father scooped up Ormond and was right behind her.
“No, you don’t!” Renie yelled, rushing after the quartet and grabbing the father by his sleeve. “Citizen’s arrest! Shoplifting!” She pulled a paperback legal thriller from the father’s coat pocket. “Call the cops! Let’s pat down the others—especially the kids.”
“No!” Jessi shouted. “Let them go! I don’t want a fuss!”
Renie shrugged. “Your call. Beat it, you crooks.”
The not-so-happy family bolted out of the shop. Renie handed the paperback to Jessi. “Maybe you should have this checked for prints and run them through the ASIS database.”
“Why bother?” Jessi said wearily, shelving the book. “Hey, Barry, want to help me clean up the mess the little brat made?”
It was Judith’s turn to step in. “I hate to harp, but maybe you’d better not touch the bottle. If I were you, I’d turn it over to the police.”
Barry stared at Judith. “You’re serious?”
Judith hedged. “There’s something about that bottle that bothers me. Maybe I’m overreacting, but I’d like to know how it got there.”
Jessi seemed mystified. “Are you spooked because of what happened to Mr. Wessler?”
Judith didn’t bother to lie, fib, or pretend. “Yes. Who wouldn’t be?”
Chapter Eight
Barry looked startled. “Did you know the old guy?”
“No,” Judith replied. “But as witnesses, the police questioned us.”
“Me, too,” Barry said. “They told me he was stabbed.”
Judith nodded. “I realize that. I’m not suggesting any connection between the bottle and Mr. Wessler.” She turned to Jessi. “You’d toss it, right? So you won’t care if my cousin and I take it with us.”
Jessi eyed her with suspicion. “Why?”
Judith was forced to use subterfuge. She put a hand on Renie’s arm. “Mrs. Jones is a private investigator who’s following up on an illegal drug-labeling case. She’s working with law enforcement officials all over the state, including Chief Duomo.”
Jessi was incredulous. “Jones? Is that her real name? Prove it.”
Renie reached into her handbag. “Here’s ID for my purchase.”
Jessi scrutinized Renie’s driver’s license. “You’re a PI? My God! How come you’ve got chocolate on your elbow?”
“I do?” Renie looked at her arm. “Oh. Guess I missed that. I was interrogating people at the candy store. I really go deep on the job.”
Two elderly ladies entered the shop. Jessi put on her customer-friendly face. “How may I help you?” she asked.
“Quilts,” the plumper of the women said. “Do you have . . .”
Judith brushed past Jessi. “We’ll clean up,” she whispered.
“Better start with the detective,” Barry said. “I’ll get a broom and a dustpan.”
“And a plastic bag,” Judith murmured. Seeing Barry’s puzzled look, she clarified her request. “Not for Mrs. Jones—for the bottle.”
Barry disappeared through a door by the counter. Renie was using a Kleenex to wipe the chocolate off her elbow. “Glad I didn’t wear a long-sleeved sweater,” she remarked.
Judith was already gathering the plaster shards together while not touching the bottle. “It must’ve been put inside the bust through the hole in the bottom,” she said, lowering her voice. “There might be prints on these pieces, too.”
“You got a theory?” Renie asked.
Judith shook her head. “Only a question. Why would anyone put an unlabeled bottle in a bust of Thomas Mann?”
“Somebody who didn’t think he should have won a Nobel Prize?”
Barry reappeared with the broom and a plastic grocery store bag. “No dustpan,” he said.
“No problem,” Judith said, standing up straight. “I’m going to sweep everything into the bag without touching it.”
“Wow.” Barry also kept his voice down, glancing at Jessi, who was handing crafts books to her new customers. “You’re serious.”
“Crime is serious,” Judith said.
Barry posed a question to Renie. “Is she your assistant?”
Renie nodded. “She’s not too bright, but she can do the dirty work. And she notices things, like that bottle. I operate on a higher intellectual plane. Thus, I let her do the grunt work. Like sweeping.”
“Wow,” he repeated, oblivious to the harsh look Judith gave Renie.
“Tell me,” Judith said, securing the
plastic bag with a rubber band. “I mean, tell us what you know about Bob Stafford’s murder.”
Barry was startled. “I don’t know much more than anybody else. I arrived in town a few days after it happened. The cops seem baffled. I’ve been studying in Heidelberg, where I’m working on my doctorate in seventeenth-century history. My focus is the Thirty Years’ War.”
“Too long,” Renie said. “Not as bad as the Hundred Years’ War, but still . . .” She waved a hand in disgust. “Didn’t those armies get tired?”
“Hey,” Barry said, “if you don’t mind . . . I mean, I only know the bare facts about the murder. Why don’t you talk to the police?”
“We will,” Judith said, then deferred to Renie. “Won’t we?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. I’ve got it on my list of . . . STIFF. That stands for . . . ‘Suspects To Interrogate For Future.’ ”
“Of course you would.” Barry seemed uncertain. “I’d better do . . . something.” He grabbed the broom and left through the side door.
“You’re an idiot,” Judith said between gritted teeth. “Aren’t you paying attention?”
“I was,” Renie replied, looking chagrined. “Then I saw that coffee-table book on Givenchy. It distracted me. You know I’ve always loved his fashion designs. What an eye for understated elegance!”
“Let’s get out of here,” Judith said, grabbing Renie’s arm. “Did you pay for your books?”
“I never had a chance,” Renie said, allowing herself to be propelled toward the door. “Jessi was interrupted by the kid busting the bust. I hope she hangs on to the books for Bill.”
Judith sighed as they went out onto the balcony. “That’s okay. We’ll come back later.”
“Small towns,” Renie muttered, starting down the stairs. “At least the witness pool is smaller than in the city. Unless, of course, all the suspects are staying at your B&B.”
“Not funny,” Judith shot back. “I’ll admit, I still don’t know what to think about Herr Wessler. The entire population, visitors included, is taking his death seriously. But that doesn’t explain why two people have already confessed to murdering him.”