The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  Judith stopped abruptly. “Look—here’s Bob Stafford’s grave.”

  Renie stared at the simple but handsome marker. “Gosh. He’d just turned fifty-three. Poor guy.”

  Judith nodded. “I sure haven’t gotten anywhere with his homicide. Maybe it was some bum off the trains that go through here.”

  Renie gave her cousin a quirky look. “That’d be too simple. Senseless random killings aren’t your style. You need motives, histories, relationships, all the things that your vaunted logic can deal with.”

  “Coz,” Judith said forlornly, “I don’t know zip about Bob Stafford except the basics. I haven’t had a chance to discuss him with Barry.”

  “You will,” Renie said as they moved on.

  The cousins solemnly approached the newly turned earth at the foot of the slope. Maybe it was inspired by the praying angels on each side of a marble marker. Maybe it was the thought of Dietrich Wessler, who would be lowered into the open grave in a matter of days. Maybe it was the blank space left for the Grossvater beside the name of Julia Monika Wessler, b. July 11, 1917; d. December 24, 1953.

  “You do the math,” Renie murmured.

  Judith calculated quickly. “She was only thirty-six when she died on Christmas Eve. I wonder what happened to her.”

  Renie had turned away to look down at a smaller marker. “Maybe this is part of the explanation.”

  “Oh, my.” Judith read the inscription aloud in a melancholy tone. “Anna Maria Wessler, b. June 3, 1953, d. Dec. 24, 1953. An accident involving mother and daughter? Or an illness?”

  Renie grimaced. “Either way, it’s awful.”

  “We should pray.” Judith crossed herself, but didn’t dare kneel. A faint breeze stirred the fir and hemlock trees, as if sighing for the departed souls.

  “Over fifty years ago,” Renie noted. “Someone must know what happened. How about Chief Duomo?”

  Judith hesitated. “I figure him for about fifty, maybe a bit older.”

  “He’d still know,” Renie pointed out. “Given Wessler’s notoriety, a lot of people would even if they weren’t around then.”

  “True.” Judith gazed at an adjacent concrete slab set in the ground. “Josef Wessler, born August 12, 1947, died March 22, 1989. I wonder if that’s Franz’s brother. Look at this green marble stone below Dietrich Wessler’s plot. Clotilde Elisabeth Wessler, also born in 1947 and died in 2003. I wonder if she was Josef’s widow.”

  Renie came over to stand by Judith. “Looks to me as if Dietrich—assuming he was in charge of the burials—didn’t like Joe as much as he liked Clotilde. Is your brain going in frantic circles?”

  Judith made a face. “I can’t help it. Franz doesn’t seem too fond of his father. I wonder if after Josef died, Dietrich made a play for Clotilde?”

  “Could we call her Tilly?” Renie asked in a plaintive voice. “Clotilde sounds kind of . . . formidable. Oh, I know there’s a saint by that name, but still . . .” She zipped up her purple car coat as the wind grew stronger, causing the smaller evergreens to sway.

  “You can call her anything you want. I’d like to know what Herr Wessler called her. Love muffin, maybe?”

  “Which Herr Wessler? Josef or Dietrich?”

  Judith pulled up her hood. “Good question.”

  They started back down the path, but were startled when an elderly woman suddenly popped up from behind a granite tombstone. “Excuse me,” she said with a slight accent. “Could you help me with my vase? It’s stuck in the ground.”

  “Let me,” Renie said. “My cousin doesn’t bend very well.”

  Judith followed Renie. The white marble bore the inscription Helmut Bauer, born 1922, died 1989. There was a vacant space for Astrid, presumably his widow and the old lady who had a bouquet of gold chrysanthemums at her feet. “My husband,” she said simply.

  It took Renie only a couple of tugs to loosen the vase. “I saw a faucet by the path,” she said, standing up. “I’ll fill this for you.”

  Mrs. Bauer looked at Judith through gold-rimmed glasses. “Your cousin is very kind.”

  “Yes, she can be. I mean, she is. Your husband was fairly young when he passed away.”

  The old lady nodded. “He died of grief.”

  For once, Judith was at a loss for words. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mrs. Bauer made a slashing motion with her gloved hand. “He had no reason to be ashamed! He was an innocent man, a good man.”

  Renie returned with the water-filled vase. “May I?” she said, gesturing at the mums.

  “Oh, please,” Mrs. Bauer said. “Thank you.”

  Judith finally found her voice. “Was he the victim of slander?”

  “Yes, how did you know?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “I didn’t. But if someone is innocent, then it indicates that lies have been told. In a small town, people gossip. That’s often tragic.”

  Mrs. Bauer looked away. “So it was. Evil walks in disguise.”

  Renie had finished arranging the flowers. “Your husband was German?” She saw Mrs. Bauer nod. “But you’re . . . ?”

  “Swedish,” the old lady said. “How did you know?”

  “Your accent,” Renie said. “And Astrid is more Scandinavian.”

  “Kind and clever,” Mrs. Bauer murmured. “Thank you again.”

  Renie darted Judith a smug glance. “Can we give you a ride?”

  “No,” Mrs. Bauer said with a little smile. “I must say my prayers. I live not far away. I need to walk to keep my joints from growing stiff.”

  “Very wise,” Renie said. “Take care.”

  The old lady offered more thanks before the cousins returned to the path and got into the car. “I wonder,” Judith said, “if the town hall’s open on Saturday.”

  “Dubious. Try reviving your lock-picking skills from when you used them to learn what financial crises Dan was hiding from you.”

  Judith shook her head. “How did I survive those years?”

  “You had extraordinary patience or you’d have bumped off Dan long before he blew up—as you so indelicately put his demise.”

  “It beats explaining his diabetic condition.” Judith slowed as they passed the Wessler house. “Klara has a gentleman caller at the door.”

  Renie looked out her window. “Franz. Why not? He is her ex.”

  “True. I doubt Suzie would mind if we drove to the town hall. I’m not used to walking on pavement this much. It wears me down.”

  Renie checked her watch. “It’s only one-thirty. As Suzie said, she’s not going anywhere. We, however, are.”

  “Good point.”

  As they approached the high school, traffic once again came to a virtual halt. A crowd had formed on both sides of the playing field. Lanes had been outlined in chalk, apparently for some kind of race. Judith didn’t dare take her eyes off of the pickup ahead of her lest she rear-end the vehicle. “What is it? A beer-barrel race?”

  Renie laughed. “It’s a dozen dachshunds, wearing Bavarian hats and waiting to run a fifty-yard dash.”

  Judith laughed, too. “I don’t remember that event, but there are so many on the list. We missed the keg-tapping for the festival opening.”

  “Isn’t that where some local bigwig shouts ‘O’zapft is’? Or however you say ‘let’s get wasted’ in German?”

  “Probably,” Judith said, inching forward.

  “And there they go!” Renie shouted.

  The pickup gained some speed. Judith had to move on to keep from getting Suzie’s car hit by the SUV behind her. “I hope the dogs know when to stop or they might become Wiener schnitzel.”

  Turning onto the main street, Judith and the cars in front of her were forced to come to a dead halt. At least forty or more young people were dancing, singing, and forming conga lines. The unruly crowd appeared to be
headed for the beer garden.

  “I think they’ve already had enough for this early in the day,” Judith said, looking dismayed. “College kids, I suspect.”

  “I thought the beer garden was open only in the evening,” Renie said as a couple of young men waved to her on the passenger-side window. In retaliation, she made an obscene gesture. Laughing good-naturedly, the pair returned the favor and moved on. “Jackasses,” Renie muttered. “They’ll regret it when they’re puking up their innards.”

  “I’ll regret it if we don’t get out of this mob. Where’s crowd control? Is Fat Matt sitting on his rear end having a midafternoon snack?”

  “Drive up on the sidewalk and turn the corner. All the pedestrians seem to be in the street.”

  Judith was aghast. “I can’t do that! I’ll get arrested.”

  “By who? I don’t see any cops. For all we know, they’re dancing with the college kids. Gun it.”

  “Oh, for . . .” But Judith didn’t have much choice as a roaring group of young sots began jumping on the cars in front of them. “Hang on!”

  She turned the wheel with all her might, barely missing the pickup that was still in front her. It was just in time. A couple of girls and a trio of boys climbed onto the back of the truck, shrieking with glee. With a jolt, the Ford Escort mounted the curb to reach the sidewalk. Seeing no one in front of her in the thirty-odd feet ahead, Judith hit the gas, slowing only at the corner. Taking a right, she gently let the car slip onto the street where stragglers from the raucous crowd were catching their breath. Looking surprised, they scurried to get out of the way.

  “That,” Judith declared, easing off the gas, “is the nuttiest driving I’ve done since Mike missed the school bus and I had to pick him up before the Thurlow neighborhood hookers started pestering him.”

  “Gee, he was twelve,” Renie said. “You were a really overprotective mom. Hey, I think I left my nerves back in the street.”

  “This was your idea,” Judith reminded her.

  “I’ve had worse ones, but I can’t remember when. Going this way we’ll end up in back of the town hall by the police station.”

  “I’d rather not get arrested for breaking and entering.”

  “Are you kidding? If the cops aren’t out controlling that riot on the main drag, they’re probably asleep under a pile of pastry.”

  “The action is behind us. It’s almost deserted here.”

  “Everybody’s having fun. I’m not sure I am.”

  “You’d prefer joining The Young and The Loutish?” Judith inquired, noticing only one squad car parked by headquarters.

  “No!” Renie exclaimed. “I’m not sure I was ever that young.”

  Judith pulled up at the rear of the town hall. “Should we check the front to see if they might be open?”

  “Doesn’t that ruin your fun? On the other hand, we might get crushed by the mob that may have spread to that part of town.”

  Judith considered their options. “You’re right. Besides, we probably can’t park on the main street. Let’s try the easy way.”

  The cousins got out of the car, making a quick surveillance of the side street, which appeared relatively deserted. The only living creatures they could see were a pair of crows teetering on a nearby power line.

  “Locked,” Judith announced as she tried the brass knob. “Okay, let’s see if I can remember how to do this.” She rummaged in her purse and found a paper clip, which she twisted into a single long wire. “You bend better than I do,” she said to Renie. “Listen for a click. But keep one eye on the street.”

  “If I do that, I’ll be wall-eyed.”

  “Shut up. Just do it.”

  Judith poked, twisted, jiggled, and turned. The only thing she heard besides the faint roar of the crowd and a couple of brass horns from the other street was Renie yawning. “Cut it out,” Judith snapped.

  “Here,” said a male voice right behind her. “You need a key?”

  Judith almost dropped the makeshift wire. “Major Schwartz! I didn’t hear you yawn. I mean, I thought it was . . .”

  The sleepy-eyed policeman nudged her aside and inserted a key. “The chief thought you might need help. We’re headed out to bust some drunken kids. Can’t they learn in college how to hold their liquor? Why pay tuition just to study?” He pushed the door open. “I assume you’re sleuthing. Good luck.” He sauntered off to the patrol car.

  “Well!” Judith exclaimed under her breath. “That was lucky! Didn’t you see him coming?”

  “Sure,” Renie replied as they entered a small hall that led to another door. “But you told me to be quiet. Anyway, I thought Ernie was sleepwalking. Look, there goes the boar.”

  Judith saw the man—or woman—in the boar suit chasing some laughing children down the side street in the next block. She suddenly shivered. “That thing creeps me out.”

  “Why? He’s just another boring boar.”

  Judith forced a smile. “I know. But for some reason I had this sudden thought—about the Dead walking. Stupid, huh?”

  Renie shrugged, but didn’t comment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The cousins found themselves in the main hall, where the previous night’s festivities had been held. They went out through the front, where a list of the town’s departments was carved into a wooden cedar slab on the wall. Public records were in room three across the lobby.

  The pine-paneled room wasn’t much bigger than Judith’s dining room. “I keep forgetting how small this town is,” she said. “I suppose we should start with deaths.”

  “Why don’t you do deaths while I do births?” Renie suggested.

  “Good plan.” Judith found the filing cabinet containing deaths right next to births.

  “They can computerize this,” Renie said, opening the top drawer.

  “Maybe it’s part of the old-world atmosphere,” Judith said, trying to figure out if she should go by date or name. The filing system didn’t seem to be in any particular order. “How are you doing with births?”

  “Okay,” Renie replied, “except for the three I birthed always being broke. Why?”

  “I mean these records,” Judith said, trying not to sound impatient.

  “Oh. They’re in chronological order so far. The most recent one was born September nineteenth, a boy. That must be Suzie’s waitress’s kid. Remember—she’s short a couple of servers.”

  “Right,” Judith murmured. “But, to quote your dad, these files look like a bear with a crosscut saw went through them. There doesn’t seem to be any order or sequence.”

  Renie leaned against the open drawer of her filing cabinet. “You’re theorizing that somebody’s gone through these files in a hurry or they want to stymie a snoop like you?”

  “Yes, it might be one or the other, or both.” Judith tapped the top of the cabinet with her nails. “Why? And when?”

  “Rhetorical or serious question?”

  “The latter. Wessler’s certificate isn’t here because the cause of death hasn’t been officially determined. Even if Doc Frolander has finished the autopsy report, it won’t be filed until Monday. I’m starting with his wife and child.” Judith sighed. “The top-drawer records seem random by date and initials of last names.”

  “Maybe I should help you with dead people,” Renie said. “I don’t see how births matter so much in terms of satisfying your curiosity.”

  “Okay. Let’s each pull out a drawer and sit down at the desk. There are two chairs, so we might as well be comfortable.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the cousins hadn’t found anything remotely pertinent to the Wessler family—or to anyone else whose name they recognized. Renie, in fact, had found several nondeath certificates in the drawer she was perusing.

  “I’ve seen at least a half-dozen divorces and twice that many marriage licenses,” she said in exa
speration. “Can’t these people file things in their proper places?”

  “Maybe the town clerk is another one of Herr Wessler’s kids.”

  Renie paused, one arm draped over the filing cabinet on the desk. “It’s sick,” she declared. “All of this Wessler offspring stuff could lead to inbreeding like some of those Appalachian enclaves where everybody is related to everybody else and they all turn out weird.”

  Judith considered her cousin’s words. “Well . . . not at this point. It’s no secret when it comes to the locals acknowledging Herr Wessler’s paternity. From what Chief Duomo told me, there are probably only a few of his illegitimate kids still around here. Now that he’s dead, I assume there aren’t any more on the way. Most of the people Fat Matt talked about are middle-aged.”

  “Given Wessler’s vigor and good health,” Renie said, flipping through more files, “I’m surprised there aren’t dozens. Speaking of youth, small-town people marry young. I’ve just come across two certificates for teenagers. Guess there wasn’t much to do before they went Bavarian.”

  “That’s generally true of small towns, or at least it used to be,” Judith agreed. “You’re right, their system is really . . . hey,” she said, turning to Renie, “what year was that? The teenage marriages, I mean?”

  “Years,” Renie corrected after going back to look at the marriage documents. “One was in 1980 and the other was”—she grinned—“in 1985. Groom’s name was Albert Edward Plebuck and the bride’s name was Eleanor Jean Wessler. How did I miss that the first time? I must’ve been too caught up in their ages.”

  Judith was smiling. “Well, well. Ellie’s secret past. Whatever happened to Plebuck?”

  “Should we search for a divorce?”

  “Fat Matt told me she moved away right after high school. He didn’t say she got married first. Maybe they eloped and left town.”

  Renie shook her head in mock dismay. “I don’t know what the first husband looked like, but if Delmar Denkel is an improvement, then I marvel that Plebuck was ever allowed to cross the county line. Do the Denkels have children? I mean the kind that they don’t have to hide in a root cellar because they’re really terrifying?”