The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  To her great relief, the booth was still intact. Several people were obscuring Judith’s view of Renie and Eldridge Hoover. But as she got closer, she spotted her cousin bobbing up to hand over some brochures and what looked like a map. Amazingly, the would-be inn patrons seemed in a jocular mood.

  “Hi, coz,” Renie called. “Just took a reservation for Hillside Manor from these wonderful folks who live in Pocatello, Idaho. That makes sixteen so far. You’re going to enjoy the Fawcetts,” she added, gesturing at the middle-aged couple. “They’re anything but a pair of drips! Right, guys? Meet your innkeeper.”

  The Fawcetts laughed like crazy.

  “Hi,” Judith said a bit uncertainly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Eldridge leaned sideways to look at Judith. “We’ve had a swell time. Can’t believe our stint is up already. Roonie here is a real funster!”

  Renie held up her hands in a helpless gesture. “Hey, ’Dridge, being with you is like Christmas, Thanksgiving, and the Fourth of July rolled into one. Here come Phil and Jeanne. Much as I hate to say it, I’d better scoot.” She grabbed her purse, blew Eldridge a kiss, and left the booth.

  “If,” Renie said, after they were out of earshot, “you ever ask me to do anything like that again, I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “But you seemed to—”

  “Of course I seemed to,” Renie snarled. “I do this for a living. Be nice, I mean. I get paid big bucks for it. And then I go home and verbally abuse Bill, Oscar, and even Clarence. Oh, they ignore me, so I retreat to the kitchen and break something.”

  Momentarily distracted by the Bavarian boar who was driving a wagon full of laughing children, Judith didn’t know what to say. “Did you really take sixteen reservations?”

  “Of course. I charmed, wheedled, and entranced those suckers—just like a design presentation, only with comfort and cuisine instead of art and artifice. God, but I can be a phony! Sometimes I scare me.”

  “When?”

  Renie glared at a dachshund wearing a purple hat before turning to shoot the same look at Judith. “When what?”

  “When are the upcoming reservations?” Judith asked meekly.

  “Four in November, two in December, and the rest in January—your slowest month. How do you like that for push and shove? Six of those people weren’t even planning on coming to our fair city.”

  “Thank you. I mean it. But stop—we’re going to Kreuger’s Kuchen. It’s right there below the bookshop.”

  “We are? You’re going to feed me?”

  “No. We’re having coffee with Barry. You’re the sleuth again.”

  Renie sighed. “Another hat for me to wear. Sheesh. Why not? It’s a wonder you didn’t have me assist at Mass or play the tuba in the marching band that’s coming down the street and will probably take a detour so they can run us over.”

  The band kept marching. Judith and Renie kept walking—straight into the café. Barry wasn’t there yet. Apparently customers seated themselves. Judith pointed to a table near the door. “That way Barry can see us,” she said.

  Renie practically fell into a chair. “I’m exhausted. Being nice wears me down. Why are we interrogating Barry? Is this the Stafford murder case? I like to know ahead of time what crime I’m solving.”

  “Yes.” Judith noticed menus, but wasn’t hungry. “I’m having a beverage. Go ahead, order something. I’ll treat.”

  Renie looked indecisive. “I went to the bakery and bought a bunch of stuff. Frankie’s kind of surly. Maybe that’s another reason why Franz didn’t want to deal with him yesterday.”

  “There’s an undercurrent of tension with a lot of people around here,” Judith said, relieved that her cousin seemed to be regaining her equilibrium. “Before Barry arrives, let me catch you up on some things I’ve learned since we parted company.”

  Judith quickly summed up her recent activities. The only interruption was by their server, a pert young woman who took the orders for Judith’s mocha and Renie’s root beer.

  “You’ve got a book about saints at home, don’t you?” Judith said when she had finished her recital.

  “Three of them,” Renie replied. “So? Bill won’t answer the phone.”

  “Well . . . how else will we find out who the mystery nonsaint is?”

  “Why do we care? It sounds like one of your dumber ideas. If this person was never canonized, she probably wouldn’t be listed anyway.”

  “You told me a while ago that at least one of your books listed all sorts of nonexistent saints. Mrs. Bauer said this was a real person. If Mr. Bauer was suspected of being a bad Nazi, I’m interested.”

  Renie shrugged. “If we had a computer . . . Maybe they’ve got one we could use at Hanover Haus. Though I doubt the old bat who’s usually at the front desk would let us use it.”

  “Jessi might,” Judith suggested. “Or the cops.”

  “You’re right, especially if Duomo is still hungover.” Renie nodded toward the entrance. “Here comes Barry.”

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “The store got busy all of a sudden. I have to get takeout for Jessi and me because she wants to see her grandfather this afternoon. I’m going to sub for her.”

  “Say,” Judith said, “why don’t you go with her? Serena and I can fill in. I’m a librarian. I worked for years at the Thurlow Public Library.”

  “No kidding?” Barry grinned. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “Serena did an amazing job at the B&B booth. She can sell books to people who don’t know how to rea . . . oof!”

  Barry looked alarmed as Judith winced in pain. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Judith said, trying to smile even as she retaliated for Renie’s kick by stamping on her cousin’s foot. “Just a little twit. I mean, twinge. Here’s the waitress with our dinks. That is, drinks. Are you going to order now?”

  “Ah, sure,” Barry said. He took a quick look at the menu, ordered chicken-salad and ham-on-rye sandwiches with side salads to go. His immediate request was for a double tall latte. “Okay, I’m set, but I can’t offer much about Dad’s murder. It seemed like a random thing.”

  Judith licked her lips to get rid of any mocha residue. “Did you see the letters he received from the disgruntled client?”

  “I did,” Barry said. “Duomo thought they were mildly threatening, but the guy sounded more like a griper. I’m guessing it was a guy because the legal issue was how he got screwed over in a child custody dispute. He blamed my dad for mishandling the case.”

  Renie nodded. “Your garden-variety sorehead. But why wouldn’t he sign the letters? How could he expect your father to know which case it was? He must’ve handled tons of custody battles over the years.”

  Barry didn’t answer at once. “I never thought about that, but it’s true. Growing up, I heard Dad talk about clients. Face it, the majority of Legal Aid clients are low income or uneducated. Maybe he just wanted to blow off steam, but stay anonymous. That doesn’t make him a killer.”

  Renie agreed. “It’d take time and trouble to come here to murder somebody. When did your dad stop practicing law?”

  “Ten years ago, except for some cases he took on as favors.”

  “Local clients?” Judith asked.

  “Mostly.” Barry passed a hand over his forehead. “I wasn’t around all the time. Either I was in undergraduate school or studying for my advanced degrees. I recall only a couple of cases. One was a property dispute and the other was a messy divorce.”

  Judith started to speak, but waited until the waitress brought Barry’s latte. “Are any of those litigants still in town?” she inquired.

  Barry leaned back in the chair, looking up at the mosaic ceiling. “The property involved was where an old gas station used to stand. The original owner had died and left the land—and everything else in
cluding the gas storage drums—to his granddaughter. She’d moved away and didn’t want it. Too much trouble to get rid of the contaminated soil. Then a cousin who’d worked at the station asked her to give him a quitclaim deed and he’d take care of it for her. She thought he was pulling a fast one, and refused.” Barry laughed softly. “Mr. Wessler got into the act, trying to be a peacemaker. He liked to do that. He meant well, but it only caused more trouble. He was the heiress’s paternal grandfather.” His jaw dropped. “You know her—Eleanor Wessler Denkel.”

  Judith stared at Barry. “Let me get this straight. The maternal grandpa left her the property, right? Was the cousin a Wessler?”

  “Well . . . yes,” Barry said. “It was Frankie Duomo, one of Wessler’s illegitimate kids. He wanted to open a bigger bakery there.”

  “Who won?” Renie asked.

  “Dietrich Wessler,” Barry said. “He paid off both Eleanor and Frankie, assumed the deed to the property, got it cleaned up, and that’s where the beer garden is now. Franz Wessler pitched a fit. He came roaring up from L.A. to try to talk his father out of the deal. Franz wanted to open a small theater on the site. There’s never been a movie house in this town. That’s why they show the German movies in that tent down the street. To be honest, I thought Franz had the right idea.”

  Judith took her last sip of mocha before posing another question. “Did that cause a serious rift between Franz and his father?”

  “Mom told me it caused more than that,” Barry replied, smiling wryly. “I’d forgotten what happened until now. Franz didn’t want to show only theatrical releases, but to preview his documentaries. And Klara wanted to use the theater as her private concert hall. That’s why she moved up here—to con Franz’s father into making the deal. The irony was that she blamed Franz for not getting her way. That’s when she divorced him and moved in with Wessler.”

  Judith felt as if her head was spinning. “Did Klara think she could get Wessler to change his mind?”

  Barry shrugged. “Who knows? She found a soft life with him. The old boy doted on her. I figure he left all his money to her.”

  “Hold it,” Renie said. “Where did Klara get her divorce?”

  Barry looked puzzled. “Where? You mean . . . ?”

  “Was it here in Little Bavaria or in California?”

  “I don’t know,” Barry said. “I don’t think Dad or Mom told me.”

  Judith eyed her cousin. “What are you getting at, supersleuth?”

  Renie made a face. “I’m not sure. But when we were going through those records at the town hall, I don’t recall seeing anything about a Wessler divorce. In fact, there weren’t that many divorces. I’m wondering if Klara and Franz aren’t still married.”

  Barry shook his head. “Sorry. If Dad handled that one, I don’t remember. Maybe Franz started the divorce proceedings in Los Angeles.” He checked his watch. “Are you serious about filling in at the bookshop?”

  Judith took in Renie’s benign mood. “Yes. Serena still has to pick up those books for her husband.”

  “Right,” Renie said. “Bill won’t speak to me for at least ten minutes if I don’t bring him those books. And Oscar will have a fit.”

  “Oscar?” Barry said with a puzzled expression.

  Judith stood up, digging into her wallet. “Never mind. Oscar’s a terrible grump. I’d tell him to get stuffed—except he already is. We’ll have Jessi come down here so you can eat in peace before you visit her grandfather at the hospital.”

  Leaving a twenty-dollar bill on the table, she headed for the exit. Five minutes later, the cousins had taken over the bookstore. Renie had already agreed to check out the noncanonized saint on the shop’s computer while Judith waited on customers. There were a half-dozen people browsing the shelves. Jessi had been effusive in her thanks, insisting that Renie take Bill’s books without charge.

  “I won’t, of course,” Renie said to Judith after Jessi had departed. “You can ring me up. Where should I start with the nonsaint?”

  “Birgitta was Swedish,” Judith said, keeping one eye on the customers. “Back then, all of Scandinavia was Sweden, right? See what you find by cross-referencing Birgitta with whatever might work.”

  “Got it,” Renie said, scooting behind the counter. “Anglicized as Bridget, I suppose.”

  “Right,” Judith said as a ponytailed girl approached with a Twilight book.

  A half hour passed before Renie began to grow impatient. “I’ve tried every which way to go at this and come up empty,” she said under her breath to Judith, who’d just finished ringing up a frail old lady who’d bought four volumes of erotica. “I’ve done all the Scandinavian saints through three centuries, famous Scandinavian women of the same period, every Ingamoder and Ingeborg and Inglenook or whatever along with Rikissa, Kristina, and Agda. Got any other ideas?”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t stick to Sweden or Scandinavia. Why don’t you try putting in just medieval Catholic saints?”

  “Oh, for . . .” Renie held her head. “Do you realize the hits I’ll get? I’d have to expand it to more than a two-century time span for Scandinavian saints. I’m not sure why we’re doing this in the first place.”

  “If I told you it’s a hunch, would you hit me?”

  “No.” Renie took a deep breath. “Your hunches often work.” She turned back to the computer.

  Twenty minutes later, Judith heard Renie let out a little squeal. Trying not to rush the gray-haired man who couldn’t remember whether he’d read the latest Michael Connelly paperback or the one before that or even if he’d ever read any of them, Judith finally suggested that maybe he should confer with his wife, who was perusing romance novels.

  “What is it?” she finally whispered to Renie.

  “I think I found her,” Renie said softly. “Look.”

  Judith saw the name of the Swedish woman whose cause for canonization had been dropped during the Reformation. “Good Lord!” she exclaimed under her breath. “I don’t believe it!”

  The cousins exchanged startled glances.

  “Maybe,” Renie suggested, “it’s a coincidence.”

  “Maybe,” Judith said, her voice unsteady. “Let’s hope so. I’d hate to think this might lead us to the killer.”

  The unofficial saint’s name was Ingrid.

  Chapter Twenty

  But,” Renie said, lowering her voice, “it’s only a coincidence.”

  “Maybe,” Judith admitted. “There must be a ton of Ingrids in this part of the country. Lots of Scandinavians. They were a major influence in this whole area. What are you doing now?”

  “Checking the usage of Ingrid as a first name,” Renie murmured.

  The couple who couldn’t seem to make up their minds had settled on a cookbook. Judith rang them up while Renie kept searching.

  “Just as I thought,” Renie said after the customers left. “Ingrid Bergman popularized the name circa 1940. I can’t get a hit on anyone before that except for the ersatz saint. Is Heffelman her maiden name?”

  “I don’t know. She’s divorced. But what does Ingrid have to do with Little Bavaria? I’ve never heard her refer to the town until she organized the Oktoberfest exhibit. Nobody has mentioned a local connection with Ingrid. I assumed she’d grown up in the city. Is that a local phone book under the counter?”

  “Yes.” Renie picked up the directory and flipped to the H listings. “No Heffelmans.” She turned the pages back to the Bs. “One Bauer, initials A.L., the mother from the cemetery and the church. Coz, you’ve got Inbred Heffalump fever. She’s not even here, yet you’ve been obsessing about her ever since we left home.”

  Judith made a face. “So I have. Face it, she’s the only part of my job that drives me nuts. She’s been on my case ever since the fortune teller was killed at Hillside Manor early on in my B&B career.”

  “So? You’re still in
business, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but now she’s showing up on my doorstep when she knows I’m not around. The few times she’s met Joe, she’s always been kind of flirty with him, which isn’t Ingrid’s usual style.”

  “Gee,” Renie said, lowering her voice as two young men entered the shop, “with tough competition like Delmar Denkel and George Beaulieu, I don’t see how Joe would stand a chance with Ingrid.”

  “Not funny.” Judith asked the new customers if she could help. They asked if she knew where the snowboarding books were. She pointed to the winter sports section. They began to browse.

  “You trust Joe,” Renie said quietly. “Stop worrying.”

  “It’s just another reason why Ingrid has been on my mind lately.” Judith glanced at the young men who were absorbed in snowboarding books. “You’re right. I should forget about her and refocus.”

  “Do that. You still think two people are involved?”

  “If not, somebody’s protecting someone. Ellie and Franz are both likely candidates because they’re related. But it still points to a Wessler family member—including Klara. Unless you count all the bastards.”

  “For that,” Renie said, “I need a football roster. The other sports don’t have enough players.”

  The young men each brought a trade paperback to the register—The Illustrated Guide to Snowboarding and 100 Classic Backcountry Ski & Snowboard Routes in Washington. “Is this your first snowboarding adventure?” Judith asked as she rang them up.

  “First time,” the shorter, stockier of the duo said. “We need more snow. Guess we miscalculated.”

  “Guess we’re unlucky,” the taller, lankier young man said. “We went hiking around here last summer and some jerk told us to get off his property. I thought anybody could walk along a river in this state. We weren’t going to fish. Who would on a hot August afternoon?”