The Wurst Is Yet to Come

by Mary Daheim

  Judith showed Ernie the sketch.“Well?”

  Ernie rested an elbow on the counter and stared at the drawing. “Yeah, that could be him after thirty years.” He looked at Barry. “You ever see him with your dad?”

  “I’ve never seen him,” Barry replied. “I never heard of the family.”

  “Your ma seen this?” Ernie asked.

  “Yes,” Barry said. “I showed it to her when I went to get her car. She didn’t recognize him either. This is crazy.”

  “Speaking of crazy,” Judith said, “where’s the chief?”

  “Hey,” Ernie said, “you dissing our boss?”

  “Ah . . . I meant this whole thing is crazy,” Judith said. “Maybe he can enlighten us.” But Duomo hadn’t shown much interest in the sketch.

  Ernie shrugged. “Go ahead. He’s back in his office. But knock first. He might be busy.”

  Judith made no comment as she and Barry traipsed to the chief’s door. To her surprise, Duomo was alert and studying what looked like a report. “It’s about time,” he said. “Got the busted bust and the bottle back from the lab. Hey, Barry, you working for FATSO these days?”

  Barry looked askance at the chief’s form of address. “Mrs. Jones is the sleuth. I’m Mrs. Flynn’s chauffeur. It’s snowing hard.”

  “Yeah,” Duomo said. “I should patrol the highway, but it’s too dangerous. What’s up?” He winked at Judith. “I mean, with your sister.”

  “My cousin,” Judith said, wishing she didn’t spend half her time with Fat Matt trying to keep from shaking him. “Take another look at this sketch. I think, I mean we think,” she added for Barry’s benefit, “we may have fingered Bob Stafford’s killer.”

  “The hell you say.” Duomo gazed at the drawing. “This guy does look kind of familiar. Is he one of my brothers?”

  “Not that I know of,” Judith said. “Keep looking and add thirty years to what you might remember about the man.” Automatically, Judith did the same—and something elusive tugged at her memory.

  The chief apparently took Judith seriously. “Then I think back to a twentysomething type.” He stared some more. “Yeah, could be the Hellman brat. His old man was the one who did himself in. Jim? Joe? No, Jack, was trouble. But he’s been gone for years.” Duomo turned to Barry. “Did you ID him?”

  “No,” Barry said. “Mom and I didn’t recognize him. We wondered if he’d been a client of Dad’s when he worked for Legal Aid.”

  The chief scowled. “The jackass who wrote the letters to your pa?”

  Barry nodded. “Maybe.”

  Duomo tapped a pencil on his desk. “So who ID’d him?”

  “Mrs. Bauer,” Judith said. “She also told us a strange story.”

  Fat Matt sighed. “Let’s hear it.”

  Judith repeated the old lady’s tale of her encounter with the senior Hellman in the church that had been followed a day later by the older man’s suicide. “That’s why my cousin is staying with Mrs. Bauer right now. After recognizing Jack, she could be in danger.”

  “How?” Duomo scoffed. “Bob was killed over two months ago. If Jack Hellman is still around, somebody would’ve seen him. Hell, I might have seen him. But I didn’t. This isn’t New York or L.A. There’s no place you can hide for long in Little Bavaria.”

  The chief had a point. “Okay,” Judith finally said, “maybe there’s no threat to Mrs. Bauer, but shouldn’t you try to track down Jack in connection with Bob’s homicide?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll do that.” Duomo looked at Barry. “Tell your ma I’m on the job. Good thing we got statements from those two snowshoe guys or whatever they are. Go ahead, beat it, kid. I’ll give FATSO a ride back to . . . wherever she’s going. Suze is probably worrying about you. By the way, if you see Jessi, tell her that Grandpa’s doin’ real good.”

  “Thanks,” Barry said. “That’s great news.” He regarded Judith dubiously. “You sure you want to stick around here?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I have to report back to my cousin.”

  To Judith’s surprise, Barry hugged her. “Thanks. You’ve really taken a load off of Mom and me.” He stepped back. “I mean, your cousin has . . .” He broke into a grin. “You know what I mean.”

  Barry hurried out of the office.

  “Nice kid,” Duomo remarked. “Want a cigar?”

  “No thanks,” Judith said. “My husband enjoys them sometimes.”

  “I’ll smoke one for him.” The chief took forever to get the cigar lighted. When he finally did, he eyed the ash with disgust. “Now why’d I do that? It’s time for my snack. Oh, well.” He picked up the lab report. “Zip,” he said. “No usable prints, too many smudges. The bottle was clean. But Frolander’s seen aconite come that way. A dose that size would kill most people, even a tough old cuss like Wessler.”

  “What about Herman Stromeyer?”

  “Same stuff. Different bottle. If it was in a bottle. Comes in all forms. Heck, the plant grows everywhere in this state, specially forests. Bunch of names and varieties, too. Bet you got ’em in your backyard. Invasive, but kind of pretty.”

  Judith nodded. Every year she found wildflowers in her garden that had sprouted from windblown seeds. “You’ll talk to Suzie?”

  Duomo frowned at the cigar, which had gone out. “Think I’ll have dinner there.” He grimaced. “She usually quits around eight, eight-thirty, so that means I’ll have to eat late. Darn.”

  “See if you can get a list of Bob’s clients,” Judith said.

  “Huh? You think Jack Hellman was a client?”

  “Why not? Maybe he lived in the city. It’s a stretch, but he might be your letter writer.”

  “That’s not the worst idea I’ve heard lately. But that still leaves us with a dead Wessler and a poisoned Stromeyer. Don’t stop sleuthing.”

  “I don’t have much time do it,” Judith said. “I told you, my cousin and I are going home early tomorrow morning.”

  The chief shook his head. “You can’t leave me in the lurch.”

  “I have to,” Judith asserted. “I have a B&B to run.”

  Duomo chewed on the end of his unlighted cigar. “I could arrest you. Then you’d have to stay.”

  “Then I’d have to sue you,” Judith said. “I hope I’ve accomplished what you originally wanted me to do, which was find out who killed Bob Stafford. You’re on your own with Wessler. Good luck.”

  Judith walked out of Duomo’s office, through the reception area, and left the building. She hadn’t seen such a heavy snowfall in twenty-five years when she’d had to walk two miles home from the Meat & Mingle. As she opened the station door, the dim memory of someone or something came back to her—and disappeared into the snow that obliterated Little Bavaria.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The snow blurred Judith’s vision, preventing her from seeing more than one step ahead of her. Worse yet, she had no transportation except for her own feet. At least there was no sharp wind stinging her face. It was the quiet that disturbed her. No laughter, no music, no vehicles—just silence. She squinted at her watch: 3:10.

  Judith was about to eat humble pie and go back inside to ask if someone could give her a ride to Hanover Haus when she saw a dim figure moving toward her from across the street. A moment later, she realized it was Renie.

  “Why,” her cousin demanded, “are you standing out here?”

  “I’m an idiot,” Judith admitted. “I forgot I didn’t have a car.”

  “Hang on to me. The snow’s soft, but not slippery.”

  Judith grabbed Renie’s arm. “Why aren’t you guarding Astrid?”

  “A neighbor came who looked as benign as Mrs. Bauer. I told them to lock the doors and not let anyone in. I couldn’t stay there forever.”

  Judith wiped away the snowflakes that were gathering on her face. “No, you couldn’t. I wonder if tonig
ht’s grand finale is canceled?”

  “Could be, unless it stops snowing so hard.”

  They paused before crossing the main street. “Did you get Mrs. Bauer to talk about her daughter?”

  “No,” Renie replied as they crossed the deserted thoroughfare. “But she did go on about the senior Hellman. I’ll tell you more when we get back to our room.”

  Upon arrival, Judith took off her jacket and flopped onto the bed. “I’m tired. Again. Amuse me with tales from the crypt.”

  “That’s sort of what it was,” Renie said, tugging off her boots. “I insisted Mrs. Bauer—let’s call her Astrid since she and I are now best buds—drink something stronger than water. She had an unopened bottle of Absolut vodka and, better yet, pickled herring. Thus, we whiled away almost an hour while she revealed all about the Hellmans.”

  “Wow! Tell me more.”

  “I will, but let me take off your boots for you while I do it.” Renie tossed her own pair aside. “Astrid has done her homework. In fact, she has a copy of that Kommandant book Bill wants.” She paused, grunting as the first of Judith’s boots required extra effort. “Astrid apparently got the only copy Sadie’s Stories had before the title fell off the radar. What she read confirmed her suspicions about the senior Hellman. In fact, he’s not Heinrich Hellman, but Engelbert Vogel, a Nazi collaborator. Every lie he told about Mr. Bauer apparently was true about him, including a new identity and a change in religion. Oops!” Renie cried as she almost toppled over yanking off the other boot. “His crimes included turning Jews and other so-called undesirables over to the SS and the Gestapo.”

  Judith propped herself up on the pillows. “What was the original connection between Bauer and Hellman aka Vogel?”

  “Bauer was hiding some Jewish friends in a small town where Vogel was an official. He found out about the family of seven and they were sent to the camps. Bauer and Astrid—who’d come to Germany to work as an au pair just before the war—barely escaped Vogel’s wrath.”

  “And the men didn’t cross paths until they met again here?”

  “Right. Bauer and Astrid fled to another town, where they got married and moved in with some people who had taken in displaced persons.” Renie sat down on the other bed. “Hellman—I mean, Vogel—had grown a beard, dyed his hair, and married an American woman at some point. Maybe, Astrid thought, a WAC. She died not long after giving birth to their son, Jack. That was before the cemetery existed. Astrid doesn’t know where she’s buried.”

  Judith grew thoughtful. “So who planted Vogel by the river?”

  Renie’s eyes sparkled. “Herr Wessler. Who else? He was the one person who believed Bauer was innocent.”

  “My God! That’s a motive for murder.”

  Renie grinned. “It sure is. Now where do we find Jack Hellman?”

  “Good question.” Judith stared up at the half-timbered ceiling. “A disguise?” She shook her head before Renie could respond. “If Jack Hellman killed Bob and Wessler, did he hang around here for two months? That doesn’t seem likely. Maybe we are talking about two murderers. But what’s the motive for either killing?”

  Renie fingered her chin. “Can we cross Jack off as the griping letter writer?”

  “I guess.” Judith sounded uncertain. “Wait. I’ve got an idea.” She delved into her purse and took out her phone. “Can you grab that folder on the little table? It’s got my information in it. I need the number for Wolfgang’s restaurant and bar.”

  Renie got up, grabbed the folder, and handed it to Judith. “Who are you calling?”

  “Ruby, the barmaid and waitress.” Judith punched in the number. “I hope she’s at work.”

  Ruby wasn’t on the job, but whoever answered obliged with a home number. A sullen female voice answered. “Ruby?” Judith said.

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Your sub from the other night when you were pulling double duty. Judith McMonigle Flynn. Have you got a moment?”

  Ruby uttered a short, bitter laugh. “Sure. Time on my hands, nobody in my arms. What can I do for you?”

  “This sounds odd,” Judith said. “When did your dad die?”

  “You want to send flowers? It’s a little late.” Ruby paused. “It was August, a Friday. I’d have to look at a calendar.”

  “How about August nineteenth?”

  “That sounds right,” Ruby said, sounding surprised. “Why? Are you suing his estate for what he stole from your bar?” She laughed again. “He didn’t have an estate. I told you he was broke.”

  “Do you know how the motorcycle accident happened?”

  Ruby paused again. “Well . . . no, and I wish I did. It was on one of those sharp, narrow curves. He was with some sleazebag buddy who took off, according to a witness. A trucker saw it happen and said Dad ran over an embankment. He always rode like a bat out of hell.”

  “Who was the buddy?”

  “Let me think. Oh—it was that guy who hung out with him at your place. Big Badger or Bad Bull or some damned thing.”

  “Do you recall his real name?”

  “No. I only saw him once or twice. I didn’t see him when Dad stopped in to put the squeeze on me.”

  “Would you recognize the sleazebag if you saw him?”

  “It’s been a while. Hey, what is this? You working for the cops?”

  “Yes.” Judith was no longer playing games. “I’m a police consultant on the Bob Stafford homicide.”

  “Holy crap! You think Dad killed Bob?”

  “No. I’ve got a sketch of his pal. Are you going to work?”

  “I’ll try. It’s only three blocks. I live near the railroad tracks. I’ll be there around four. Are you coming to Wolfgang’s?”

  “Probably not, but I can fax you the drawing.”

  After hanging up, Judith noticed that Renie was giving her a curious look. “What? Do you think I’m nuts?”

  “No,” Renie said, “but we don’t have a fax machine.”

  “I mean, the cops can do that,” Judith replied, not wanting to admit her cousin was right. “But we’re missing something.”

  “Such as Jack Hellman or whatever his name is?”

  Judith nodded. “Who burned down the original town hall? Was it someone who wanted to destroy the records?” Suddenly she brightened. “It happened when Jack’s father was still alive. He hanged himself from the lamppost at the site. Wessler buried him by the river where his wife and baby died. That’s the connection.”

  “You’re reaching.”

  “No. I think it means something very important—symbolic. Wessler could’ve planted Hellman—and let’s keep calling him that to avoid confusion—in the forest or the local garbage dump. What if Hellman killed Mrs. Wessler and her child? And why would he do that? Did she know the truth about him from when they lived in Germany?”

  “If Mrs. Wessler knew, then so did Mr. Wessler.” Renie clapped a hand to her cheek. “Of course! Astrid Bauer told me Wessler knew Hellman was guilty of war crimes.”

  Judith started to nod in agreement, but suddenly stared at Renie. “What if Hellman’s death wasn’t a suicide?”

  “You mean . . .” Renie bit her lower lip. “Damn. It makes sense.”

  “It also makes a motive for Jack killing Wessler. Maybe Bob, too. He was Wessler’s attorney and possibly a confidant. If the old guy was as decent as everyone says, he’d have to clear his conscience. His priest may be long gone. Next on the full-disclosure ladder is a lawyer.”

  “You’re doing just fine,” Renie said. “But where is Jack Hellman? He can’t be hiding in plain sight.”

  Judith leaned back on the pillow. “Something’s tickling my brain—evil and how it . . . damn! I forget. Do you recall hearing that?”

  Renie rested her head on her hand. “Gee . . . we’ve talked to so many people. But it does ring a bell. Let me thin
k.”

  “Okay. Meanwhile, I’ll call the cops and ask them to fax that sketch to Ruby at Wolfgang’s. If she doesn’t get to work, there’s a chance someone else might recognize it and have some information about Jack.”

  “Dubious,” Renie murmured, still apparently in deep thought.

  Hernandez took the call. In his usual no-nonsense manner, he agreed to fax the sketch to the restaurant. “I wonder,” Judith said after disconnecting, “if he feels out of place with the rest of the local cop crew.”

  “They should lose the cop cruiser and have a clown car,” Renie said. “Of course there aren’t enough cops on the force for ten or fifteen of them to come out of one tiny vehicle. Besides, their uniforms aren’t as funny as . . .” Her jaw dropped as she gaped at Judith. “Mrs. Bauer, at the cemetery, with the flowers.”

  “We’re playing Clue again?”

  Renie shook her head. “No. She was talking about the Hellmans and how evil comes in disguise.”

  “It was probably a figure of speech,” Judith said. “Though Oktoberfest is a good place for a disguise, clowns included.”

  For a few moments the cousins were lost in thought. A knock on the door made both of them jump. Renie stood up. “If it’s a clown, call the cops.” She cautiously opened the door. “Are you a clown?” she asked Eleanor Denkel.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ellie huffed as she stalked into the room. “Really, you don’t have any manners, do you?”

  “Guess not,” Renie said. “Have a seat.”

  Ellie, however, remained standing by the bed where Judith had sat up and was eyeing their visitor with curiosity.

  “What now, Ellie?” she asked.

  The other woman’s usual bravado faded. “You must think I’m an idiot.” She took a deep breath. “You know I didn’t kill my grandfather.”