The Wurst Is Yet to Come
Page 31
“Good,” said Ernie, stretching out as much of his lanky frame as he could manage on a velvet-covered settee. “I could use a nap.”
“So,” Judith said, “what about the poison bottle at the bookshop?”
“I put it there, though not in the bust.”
“But nobody knew then that Wessler was poisoned,” Judith pointed out. “Nor could you guess the little kid would bust the bust.”
Ingrid looked exasperated. “Poison? Hardly. It was an empty eyedrop refill. I set it on the shelf and forgot about it. It must’ve gotten stuck under the bust.”
“I guess,” Judith murmured, “I jumped to conclusions. Why didn’t you go to the police and warn them about Jack?”
Ingrid’s sharp blue eyes went first to Duomo, who was polishing off the popcorn, and then to Ernie, who was already snoring softly on the settee. “Judith—that is the stupidest question I’ve ever heard!”
Judith winced. “Yes, I suppose . . . I mean . . .” She didn’t know where to look. “Okay, so how did Jack poison your grandfather and Herman?”
It was Ingrid’s turn to be disconcerted. “I don’t know. Don’t tell me your mighty brain is also drained?”
Judith started to admit she was also at a loss, but Ingrid’s words inspired her. “Yes,” she said, “I do. He was the plumber.”
“Plumber?” Duomo repeated. “What plumber?”
“The one who came to the Wessler house just before the cocktail party and probably to Stromeyer’s after George Beaulieu checked the sewer line. Mrs. Crump told us the plumber wasn’t from here—the local guy had already closed up shop. Serena and I saw a big hole by the back of the house off the kitchen. We thought it was dug by the dogs. I’ll bet Jack screwed up the plumbing and then gained entry to both houses—and managed to put poison into whatever Wessler and Stromeyer drank before leaving their respective homes.”
Ingrid leaned back in her chair. “Contrived, but it sounds like Jack. He was cunning.”
Ernie’s eyes had opened. “The plumber did it?”
Judith nodded. “Too bad there wasn’t a butler.”
Ingrid made a face. “Too bad I didn’t stab Jack a long time ago.”
Duomo nodded halfheartedly. “Really too bad. Caused us a lot of work. Oh, well.”
“Cheer up,” Renie said. “The wurst is over.”
The train pulled out on time from Little Bavaria the next morning. The snow had stopped, but at least six inches remained on the ground.
“Beautiful,” Renie murmured after settling into her window seat. “How do you feel?”
“Still worn out,” Judith replied, fingering the manila envelope Chief Duomo had handed her just before the cousins had boarded the Empire Builder. “But relieved. At least Ingrid should stop bothering me now. It’s almost worth everything we went through to get her off my back.”
Renie was silent for a moment, apparently admiring the snow-blanketed trees as they climbed up to the summit. “Jack’s motive for killing Bob and Wessler doesn’t make much sense. He’d been gone from Little Bavaria for thirty years. Why did he care what happened here?”
“His whole life was a disaster,” Judith replied. “Broken marriages, children lost to him, and according to Ingrid, a criminal record and jail time. I suppose he met Bob and suddenly saw him as a symbol of his own failure. Jack hated the town, hated Ingrid, hated Wessler for knowing the truth about his father Helmut—or Hank, as he was called. We’ll never know if Wessler killed Hank or if he committed suicide, but one look at that marker on the trail by the river must’ve unhinged Jack. He unleashed all his rage on Bob. And then Wessler had to go. Stromeyer, too, because he knew the truth about the elder Hellman.”
“Jack better not cop an insanity plea,” Renie said. “Hey, what’s in that envelope?”
Judith undid the clasp and noticed a handwritten note attached to a glossy photograph. “ ‘FATSO,’ ” she read aloud—and winced. “ ‘Here’s a pix Ernie took of the perp. Thought you might want a souvenir.’ As if,” she muttered before looking at the photo. “Oh, good Lord! It’s Jimmy Tooms’s pal from the Meat & Mingle! Big Bull or Bad Bear or . . . I called him Boorish Boar! He had a handlebar mustache back then, kind of like George Beaulieu’s. It reminded me of tusks. No wonder I had a creepy feeling about that snowboarder’s sketch.”
Renie grinned. “Just another Meat & Mingle memory.”
“A really bad one, though there were . . . ouch!” Judith cried as something struck the top of her head.
“Gotcha!” Thurmond cried in glee. “Like my big wubber wurst? Daddy bought it for me. It’s a knockwurst, so I knocked you.”
Judith stared at the two brothers in the aisle. “No, I don’t like it. Please don’t do that again.”
Ormond held up a similar item. “I got a brat.”
“You are a brat,” Renie said. “So’s your brother. Go away.”
The little boys’ parents appeared from the other direction. “Thurmie! Ormie!” the mother cried. “There you are! You shouldn’t run off . . . oh! Stay away from those bad women! They might kidnap you!”
“Are you nuts?” Renie snapped. “I’d rather wrestle a couple of saber-toothed tigers!”
“With those teeth, you’d win,” the father huffed before hustling his boys away.
“Neener-neener,” Renie muttered, sinking down into her chair.
Judith couldn’t help laughing. “You said the wurst was over.”
Renie shrugged. “I was wrong.” She paused and grinned at Judith. “No, I was right. At least until the next time you find a corpse.”
Judith’s smile fled. “Don’t say that! I’m done, finished, kaput!”
Still looking amused, Renie just stared at Judith and said nothing. The train entered the long tunnel that descended from the summit and everything faded to black.
About the Author
MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM is a Seattle native with a communications degree from the University of Washington. Realizing at an early age that getting published in books with real covers might elude her for years, she worked on daily newspapers and in public relations to help avoid her creditors. She lives in her hometown in a century-old house not unlike Hillside Manor, except for the body count. Daheim is also the author of the Alpine mystery series and the mother of three daughters and grandmother of two granddaughters, all of whom live within shrieking distance.
www.authormarydaheim.com
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Also by Mary Daheim
Just Desserts
Fowl Prey
Holy Terrors
Dune to Death
Bantam of the Opera
A Fit of Tempera
Major Vices
Murder, My Suite
Auntie Mayhem
Nutty as a Fruitcake
September Mourn
Wed and Buried
Snow Place to Die
Legs Benedict
Creeps Suzette
A Streetcar Named Expire
Suture Self
Silver Scream
Hocus Croakus
This Old Souse
Dead Man Docking
Saks & Violins
Scots on the Rocks
Vi Agra Falls
Loco Motive
All the Pretty Hearses
Credits
Cover design by Richard L. Aquan
Cover illustration by Bill Mayer
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE WURST IS YET TO COME. Copyright © 2012 by Mary Daheim. All
rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-208983-0
EPub Edition © JULY 2012 ISBN: 9780062089854
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