by Mary Daheim
“I don’t really know Ellie. Which is good—until now.”
“You’re considering another motive for murder by Ellie?”
“No, nothing like that. Do you see a phone book anywhere?”
Renie gazed around, came up empty, and started opening drawers in the desk. “Here’s one. It’s tiny. What am I searching for? Plebuck?”
“Right. He must’ve had parents.”
“One would hope so . . .” Renie scanned the listings. “No Plebucks.”
“Maybe they’re in the cemetery,” Judith said, tapping a pencil on the desk in an effort to ward off chewing her fingernails. “It probably doesn’t mean anything. Let’s keep looking for those death certificates.” A sudden thought occurred to her. “If Ellie’s maiden name is Wessler, where’s the third brother? She’s in her forties. Franz is younger than Josef, who apparently had no children. I don’t get it. Even if Josef had kids who moved away, who is that third brother? We haven’t come across any offspring of his.”
Renie shrugged. “Then the unknown brother is Ellie’s father.”
“We’ll ask Duomo,” Judith said.
The cousins worked in silence until they heard the clock tower chime two. Judith finally found something of interest. “Ah! Bob Stafford’s death certificate!”
“I didn’t know we were looking for Bob,” Renie said.
“It’s sort of a bonus.” Judith frowned. “Nothing we didn’t already know. Blow to the head by person or persons unknown. Death placed between two P.M. and four P.M. on Friday, August nineteenth, 2005.”
“That’s it?” Renie asked.
Judith didn’t answer right away. “Just attached notes from Doc Frolander’s autopsy. Frankie Duomo was going fishing when he found the body around seven P.M. Frankie’s the baker in the family. Initial reaction was that Bob had drowned . . . autopsy proved otherwise. Keep searching.”
Renie heaved a sigh. “If I must. The divorce file is thin. I don’t see anybody interesting. Mostly default decrees. ‘De fault’ of which spouse?”
Judith ignored the comment. Another five minutes passed before she hit pay dirt. “Here’s Josef Wessler’s death certificate.” She frowned. “He died from complications of a fall off the balcony of Hanover Haus, of which he was the owner. That’s our inn.”
“Our in to what?”
“The B&B where we’re . . . you know damned well what I mean.”
Renie shrugged. “Sure, but so what? The Wessler family’s a big deal around here. Why shouldn’t Dietrich’s son own a local hostelry?”
“He wasn’t very old when he died.”
“You think he was pushed? Of course you’d think that.”
“Okay, so I let my imagination run away with me,” Judith conceded. “Still, I’m going to take another look at that balcony.”
“I could push you and see what happens.”
Judith shot Renie a dark glance. “Just keep searching.”
Only a couple of minutes passed before Judith found Julia and Anna Wessler’s death certificates. “Oh, no! They both drowned!”
Renie stared. “On Christmas Eve day? That’s awful!”
Judith nodded absently as she read what few details were in the document. “The river might’ve flooded, if a sudden warming spell melted the mountain snow-pack. But why would a mother take her baby to the river in that kind of a situation? Some kind of weird flash flood?”
“We rarely have those around here,” Renie said. “That’s usually triggered by a dam bursting or someone using dynamite improperly.”
Judith nodded. “Which makes this sound suspicious. I wonder who runs the local newspaper?”
Renie’s shoulders sagged. “Gee—just when I thought this was tedious. What about the other Mrs. Wessler? Do we need to find her death certificate or assume she died of natural causes, like a runaway roller coaster or trampled by a herd of giant tortoises?”
“As long as we’ve gone this far, we might as well check Clotilde,” Judith said. “And yes, I’ll humor you. I think Clotilde is a classy name.”
“You would,” Renie mumbled, flipping through more documents. “Didn’t you want to name Mike ‘Balthazar’?”
“I did not,” Judith replied indignantly. “It was ‘Melchior.’ ”
“I knew it was one of the Three Wise Men. Why not ‘Casper’? And if they were so wise, how come they didn’t have better names? You know—like ‘Tom,’ ‘Dick,’ and ‘Harry’ or ‘Groucho,’ ‘Harpo,’ and ‘Zeppo’?”
“I wish you’d been named ‘Harpo,’ ” Judith said. “Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you jabber.”
Renie scowled. “I’m trying to liven things up.”
“You aren’t. Ta-da!” Judith cried, holding up a sheet of paper. “Perseverance. I found Clotilde.”
Renie made a lethargic “yippee” motion with one finger. “I’m thrilled,” she murmured. “Who done her in?”
Judith scanned the certificate. “Ovarian cancer. She died at home, not in the hospital. Home was . . . Hanover Haus. She must have taken over running it after Josef died.”
“Family quarters downstairs? They’d have room since the lobby’s small. Do you know where the bridal suite is?”
Judith shook her head. “Judging from the layout, it may be on the main floor, too. Maybe it was originally part of where Josef and Clotilde lived. Franz would know, of course.”
“Ah! Guess who I found? Henry Rupert Hellman, suicide, born 1919, died 1979.” Renie waited for Judith’s reaction.
“The marker by the river,” she said in wonder. “So is he buried there instead of in the cemetery because he killed himself?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Renie said. “Henry’s suicide probably wouldn’t have prevented him from being buried there, though I don’t recall when the Church stopped banning people who offed themselves.”
“I don’t either,” Judith murmured. “But why bury him by the river? Unless he did it by drowning.”
“That wouldn’t be as easy as you’d think,” Renie said. “If the river’s high enough, you get swept off your feet. Then you’d flop around and bump into rocks and fallen branches and make a big mess. It’d be way too much of a bother. Wet, too. You might catch cold.”
Judith’s shoulders slumped. “Your logic is so weird.”
“My logic may not be as logical as yours, but it works for me.” Renie began straightening the files in the drawer she’d been searching. “If the guy shot himself at home, they couldn’t put him in the armoire. Can we get a snack or do we have to visit the weekly Blatt?”
“The newspaper can’t be far from here,” Judith said, tidying up her own portion of documents. “I’m kind of hungry, too, but at least we can find out where the paper is located while we still have Suzie’s car.”
“Too bad those dogs ate your leftovers,” Renie said, shoving her drawer back into the filing cabinet. “Here, I’ll put yours back, too.”
“Thanks.” Judith stood up, moving this way and that to work out the kinks in her neck, shoulders, and back. “I have to admit those other drowning deaths bother me.”
“For once, I don’t blame you,” Renie said, putting on her jacket.
“That’s why I’d like to see the back issues.” Judith paused to make sure they’d left everything in good order. “It’s so tragic.”
Renie opened the first door and led the way to the outside entrance. “I wonder if they had a newspaper before the town became Little Bavaria, USA.”
“I never thought of that,” Judith said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. “They must have had . . . hey, where’s the car?”
“You mean the one you parked in the no-parking zone?
“What?”
“Didn’t you see the sign?”
Judith was flabbergasted. “I see it now. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ohhh . . .” Judith stared across the street at the police station. “Somebody must be on duty.” She paused, trying to hear if any noise was coming from the main street. “It’s quiet around here. Let’s see if Fat Matt is back from arresting a few dozen unruly beer-crazed kids.”
“Where would he put them?” Renie asked as they crossed the street. “He can’t have very many cells.”
“I don’t care if he put them in a bus and drove them across the county line. What do we tell Suzie if we can’t get the car back?”
“You could tell her the truth,” Renie said. “I know it’s not your style, but just for once . . .” She shrugged as they entered the station.
To Judith’s surprise, a redheaded young woman in uniform was behind the reception counter. “Yes?” she said in a brisk tone.
“You’re . . .” Judith stopped. The officer wasn’t wearing a nametag.
“I’m on loan,” the officer responded. “The local police force is shorthanded during Oktoberfest. Shegogan County asked me to fill in. Double overtime. Why not?” She shrugged. “Call me Kitt, with two t’s.”
“Okay,” Judith said. “Here’s the problem, Kitt. Our car has been towed from behind the town hall. That is, it’s not our car, but we—”
“Right,” Kitt interrupted. “I had it towed. You were in a no-parking zone. What did you expect? Or did you steal the car?”
“No,” Judith said indignantly. “A friend let us borrow it. The car belongs to Suzie Stafford, who owns the Pancake Schloss.”
Kitt’s gray eyes were as chilly as snow clouds. “So? If you want it back, pay two hundred bucks cash and get it out of impound. I don’t like pancakes.”
“Two hundred cash?” Judith exclaimed. “I don’t have that much on me.” She turned to Renie. “Do you?”
“No,” Renie said. “I wouldn’t give ten cents to somebody who didn’t like pancakes.” She glared at Kitt. “What’s wrong with you? People who don’t like pancakes aren’t normal.”
“Watch it,” Kitt said calmly. “You want to spend the night in a cell? This Fat Matt guy doesn’t serve pancakes for breakfast.”
Renie looked thoughtful. “What does he serve? I had pancakes this morning. I might enjoy a change.”
“That,” Kitt said coldly, “can be arranged.”
“How about French toast or a nice omelet or—”
“Coz!” Judith exclaimed. “Shut up! We’ll go to a cash machine.”
Renie made a face. “You can’t get an omelet from a cash machine.”
Judith grabbed Renie, hauling her to the door. “We’ll be back,” she called to Kitt.
The officer didn’t bother to look at the cousins. “Whatev’.”
“One of these days,” Judith said when they got outside, “you’re going to get us into serious trouble.”
“I’m not the one who parked in a no-parking zone.”
“You should have told me!”
“Hey—you talk about serious trouble? How about all the times we’ve almost gotten ourselves killed because you were trying to finger who whacked whoever.”
“Of course not,” Judith shot back, feeling the stiff wind sting her cheeks. “But I’ve never asked a cop for an omelet.”
“What about Joe’s Special special? He used to be a cop.”
“That’s different. He likes to cook sometimes.” Judith noticed that the main street was fairly busy, but there were no drunken revelers in sight. There were no signs of the police either. “Where is a bank?”
“How do I know?” Renie snapped. “I’m not the one who parked . . . oh, here come Connie and George Beaulieu. Ask them.”
Judith waved at the couple, who were crossing from the other side of the street. The Beaulieus didn’t seem pleased to see the cousins, but stopped on the corner.
“The bank?” George echoed in response to Judith’s query. “I don’t think it’s open on Saturdays.”
“Oh, Judith,” Connie said, making a feeble effort to look concerned, “have you run out of money already?”
“No. I need cash,” Judith said, in less than her usual kindly tone.
“Cash, eh?” George stroked his handlebar mustache. “That sounds odd. Everyone here seems to take credit or debit cards. Or have you exceeded your limits? Budget, that’s the secret. I always tell Connie before we leave the house that we must first make a strict budget and keep to it. Very prudent approach.”
Connie squeezed George’s arm. “My husband is so practical. But of course he has to be, since he’s a government agent.”
“He is?” Judith asked in surprise. “What branch of government?”
“Now, Judith,” Connie said, “you should know better than to ask that question. Let’s just say his work is . . . covert.”
George nodded. “Yes, deep cover, underground, you might say.”
“How interesting,” Judith remarked without enthusiasm. “Does that mean you might know where the bank is?”
The Beaulieus looked at each other questioningly. Finally George spoke. “I think it’s a block or so west of the town hall on the same side of the street.”
“Yes,” Connie agreed. “George is right. Of course. It’s next to the newspaper office. I had to go in there—the newspaper office, I mean—day before yesterday because they’d listed the wrong time for my innkeeping seminar this afternoon at four-thirty.”
“You’re giving a seminar?” Judith said in surprise. “I didn’t know anyone from the state association was doing that.”
Connie laughed. “It was Ingrid Heffelman’s idea. She felt it would be excellent publicity to have someone like me tell not only prospective hostelry owners but guests what our business is all about. So sweet of her to choose little old me!”
“Yes,” Judith murmured. Ingrid and sweet were two words she never expected to hear in the same sentence. “Good luck with that.”
The Beaulieus had crossed to the other side of the main street. The cousins continued past the town hall just as the tower clock struck three. They reached the offices of the Little Bavaria Blatt first, but saw that it was closed.
“Drat,” Judith said. “I’d hoped it’d be open. You think they’d be covering the Oktoberfest events.”
“They probably are,” Renie said, circumventing a trio of older people who had stopped to chat. “But if they publish midweek, they don’t need to keep the office open. I assume they’re probably taking photos and covering some of the bigger events. Hopefully, not Connie’s seminar.”
Judith sighed. “Sucking up to Ingrid. That galls me. You certainly were quiet when I talked to the Beaulieus.”
“I was pretending they didn’t exist.”
“Good thinking. Here’s the bank and there’s the ATM. Damn. Forking out two hundred bucks wasn’t in my budget. Even if I had one.”
“We’ll split it. I really should’ve mentioned the sign.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No, but I will. I have my kindly moments. Quick, take advantage of this one. They never last long.”
Judith smiled. “Thanks, coz. Let’s hope this machine works.”
Luckily, their transactions went off without a hitch. Five minutes later they were back at police headquarters, where Chief Duomo was engaged in a shouting match with Officer Kitt.
“You don’t tow Suze’s car! This is Little Bavaria, not some big, ritzy place like Lake Shegogan! Do you want to cut off my waffles?”
“How am I supposed to know who owns what car in this stinking little burg?” Kitt yelled back. “A no-parking zone means what it says where I come from! What kind of operation are you running here?”
; “My kind,” Duomo bellowed. “You don’t know jack about how law enforcement works in a small . . .” The chief suddenly noticed the cousins. “Hey there, FATSO, what’s up?”
Judith winced, but decided she wanted Duomo as her ally. “Your extra help says I owe two hundred bucks for parking Suzie’s car by the town-hall rear entrance.”
“That’s bull,” Fat Matt declared, glowering at Kitt. “Hell, I could pay that fine out of petty cash for you or Suze.” He turned back to the still-irate redhead. “Check the lockbox in that drawer and give the lady a couple of hundreds just for harassing her. She passed Go. Get it?”
“You get it,” Kitt snarled. “It’s your petty cash and I don’t do charity when I’m on the job.”
“Then do your job and go arrest somebody I don’t like,” the chief said. “Go on, hit the streets.”
Kitt grabbed her jacket and hat, hurtled around the counter, and shot one last malevolent look at the cousins. “I should get triple overtime for this gig!”
“To be fair,” Judith said, after Kitt made her exit, “I should’ve seen the sign. Were you serious about giving me the two hundred dollars?”
Duomo shrugged. “Guess not. I think there’s only about thirty in petty cash. My idiot brother wants to start charging me for his pastries. Hey, what’s family for?”
“Let’s call it even,” Judith said. “We still have our hunskies. What happened to the rioting young drunks?”
Duomo leaned against the counter. “We told ’em to take off. Where would I put a mob like that? Maybe they’re walking out of town. They’re too drunk to drive. Hell, they’re too drunk to walk. If they try to flee justice, Orville and Ernie are waiting for them at each end of town. Maybe we could make some money off of that bunch. Anybody hungry?”
Renie raised her hand.
Duomo nodded. “I’ll call that redhead and have her get something. Patrol’s a waste of time during Oktoberfest. How ’bout some brats?”
Renie shook her head. “I don’t like them. A burger and fries sound good, though.”
“Sure,” Duomo agreed. “I’ll give the redhead a few minutes to cool off. Kind of a good-looker, though. Too bad she’s so ornery.”