by Diane Morlan
“Maybe it was someone who has a booth there. I mean, besides you.”
“Maybe whoever did it wanted to meet with him in private. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with my coffee booth or me. Excuse me.” I turned into the building and ignored her until she went away in a huff.
I thought of that old television show “The Honeymooners” where Jackie Gleason says to his wife, “One of these days, Alice, pow, right in the kisser.” Sometimes I would love to smack Natalie.
I reluctantly stepped into the Home Arts building. I wouldn’t have much time to set up before the doors opened. But, I didn’t think we’d have much business today anyway. My nose itched when the scent of pine cleaner wafted toward me. Clicking bobbins announced Trudy roosting on a cushioned stool in her booth. I greeted her and asked, “Who cleaned up the mess?”
“I think Frank Metzger and some of the maintenance crew got the clean-up job. Guess being Fest Meister includes some nasty duties.” She chuckled as she sat flipping bobbins and making lace. “It’s about time he did something useful.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “He’s always hustling around here and he told me he owns a meat market. That must keep him busy.”
“Being the Fest Meister is just for fun. Cleaning this place is probably the most work he’s done all week. Polka Daze is his excuse to be away from the butcher shop. He never spends much time there anyway. His younger brother is half owner and Al does most of the work. Frank just stands around, looking important and shootin’ the bull with folks, if he decides to show up at all.”
“Well, I think he’s nice. He sure helped my yesterday,” I said, wondering about Trudy’s attitude toward the Fest Meister.
I didn’t think there would be much business today. Who’d want to go shopping where a murder had occurred? I sat down and punched “2” on my phone’s speed dial to call Megan. I thought I’d call and ask her to wait to call Bernie, in case she might sleep in after meeting with Father Werner last night.
Suddenly, the doors opened and people flooded into the building. Hanging up before Megan answered, I started waiting on customers. I stayed busy for the next two hours and sold all fifty pounds of coffee.
When we got down to twelve bags of coffee, I called Sally Baumgartner and asked her to run over to Primo Gusto to roast more coffee and get over here with it. I thought people would stay away from something as gruesome as a crime scene. Instead, almost every one of my customers asked for details about the murder. Creepy.
When Sally finally arrived with more coffee there were still about a half dozen people waiting in line. We finally served everyone and I turned to Sally. “Thank you so much for your help. I hope I didn’t take you away from anything important.
“No problem, Ms. Penny. I was just eating breakfast when you called. I didn’t have any plans for today before my shift here.”
“Would you mind staying a little longer? I’m starved.” I asked.
“Go. Eat. I’ll be fine here.”
I grabbed a sausage and some hot German potato salad to eat from the brat wagon. The parents of Hermann’s hockey team set up a trailer to sell bratwurst at every event in the area. Hockey is the most popular sport in Hermann and the hockey jocks are more popular than the football team, although some of the high school students play on both teams.
I called Megan, anxious to see if she got any information out of Bernie.
“I tried my best, Jennifer. But that is one stubborn woman. She’s exasperating. She kept insisting that what she knew was confidential. I don’t understand. She’s a nun, not a priest and a frustrating nun, too.”
“Megan, you know it won’t do any good to badger her. She won’t change her mind and she’ll get mad at us for prying. We’ll have to try a different tactic to get her spill the beans.”
“I don’t know what else we can do. She isn’t going to tell us anything.”
I took a sip of my Diet Coke to wash down the brat. “No wonder the cops think she knew more than she admitted about the murdered man, she did. We need to figure a way to find out what she knows.”
“Okay, Miss Detective. Where do we go from here?”
“I’m thinking, Megan. Give me a minute.” I took a bite of my bratwurst. A strange breakfast at 10:30 in the morning but a better choice than the mini-donuts or deep fried cheese curds that were for sale at the food stand across from the brat wagon.
“Megan can you meet me at Primo Gusto in about an hour?”
“Sure, what for?”
“Start by roasting some more coffee, please. I’m going to need more for tonight. And while it’s roasting can you do an internet search? See what you can find out about the Windig Sangers and the people in the band.”
“I can do that. I can also call a couple people who go to the local taverns where they play. I’ve seen them a couple times but you know how Don is about polka bands.”
I had something to do here before I left the Fest Grounds. Off I went looking for Frank Metzger. I found him prancing around the big tent, to the beat of a Bavarian Two-Step. The teenaged Polka Queen and a couple Princesses followed behind him as well as a couple dozen people who popped up from the audience to join in the fun. After the music stopped for a moment, I grabbed Frank, pulled him aside and asked him who else had keys to the Home Arts building.
“Oh, geeze, Ms. Penny, a lot of people do, the chairman of Polka Daze and the county commissioners. This is the county fairgrounds, ya know. The maintenance crew and the custodians and the groundskeepers; I think there’s a key hanging in the office, too. They use the office for a first-aid station during the festival, ya know.”
Great. It looked like I might be the only person in town who didn’t have a key. “Is there a way to get into the building without a key?” I asked the Fest Meister, just trying to cover all the possibilities.
“Well, yah, I think so. But the cops, they already checked the windows and no one got in that way, they said. Why are you asking all these questions? You should let the sheriff’s department handle this. You could get hurt. Whoever killed Wes is dangerous, ya know.”
“Did you know Wes?” I asked.
“Oh, yah, everyone knew Wes. He was a stinker, always getting in trouble, he was. ‘Ya know, that band was up to something.”
“What do you mean?”
The Fest Meister scratched his chin. “I’m not sure but something was hinky. Ray was cooking something up with Clara and Vic. I don’t know what but I saw them talking together a couple of times and they always shut up when anyone came by.”
“Did you tell Detective Jacobs about this?”
“Naw, what’s to tell? It’s just something I noticed. You be careful, Missy. You shouldn’t be snooping around. You could get hurt.”
“I’ll be careful. Thanks for your help. Looks like the young ladies are waiting for you.”
I watched him toddle back to the princesses who were now swaying to “Sierra Madre” while waving white hankies over their heads. Frank jumped right in, pulling his handkerchief from a back pocket. It must take a lot of energy to be the Fest Meister.
When I left the big tent and headed toward the parking lot, I noticed a small brick building. The sign outside proclaimed “Das Kleine Weihnachten-Geschäft” – The Little Christmas Shop. I meandered into the building through wide double barn doors. It looked like a fairyland. Christmas lights twinkled out from behind Angel hair on a dozen Christmas trees standing around the perimeter of the room. Faux snow glittered on the tables covered with Christmas items and Polka Daze souvenirs.
The first table held hand-blown German Christmas ornaments. Fragile silver shapes were hand painted and depicted Santa, elves, stars, and Baby Jesus along with other not so Christmas figures such as a man on a motorcycle (a Harley, of course), a fisherman, Dora the Explorer, Sponge Bob, and other whimsical characters and shapes.
The center of the table contained a bowl of hand-blown pickle ornaments painted bright green. On an attached card I read. “The
Story of the Christmas Pickle.” I looked around for someone to explain what a pickle had to do with Christmas when I spied wooden soldier nutcrackers wearing painted bright red uniforms, standing at attention on another table.
Next to the nutcrackers were beer steins. I checked out each one, looking for Laura’s ice cream parlor stein. The first one I spied was a beautiful blue stein that had the Budweiser Clydesdales pulling a beer wagon through the snow on a starry night. I picked up a fat stein decorated with curly-cues and an Alpine Santa at the Silent Night Chapel. There was a delightful stein with a painting of the famous Nuremberg Christmas Market and hand-painted edelweiss flowers on the sides. All were beautiful. Each one was unique. But none were Coca-Cola steins.
Pen and ink sketched Christmas cards depicting scenes from around Hermann filled still another table. I saw German beer steins, shot glasses, souvenir plates, flags, cookbooks and Hummel figurines. I had never seen so many beautiful things in one place. I turned in a circle again and started feeling dizzy.
I grabbed a plastic basket and started filling it up with treasures I couldn’t live without. I told myself than they were for Christmas gifts, but I knew I would keep most of them for myself. It felt good to be thinking of making my home cheerful and comfortable place to live.
I bought an armful of ornaments and other gifts to put away for Christmas, including the pickle ornament. Leaving fairyland and returning to reality, I made my way back to my coffee booth, thinking about what purchases I would give away and how many I would keep for myself. Maybe the time had come to start putting out some lovely things in my almost empty house.
When I arrived back at the Home Arts Building, I noticed Trudy taking a break to eat her lunch. “Trudy, can I ask you some questions about Wes?”
“I don’t know much more than what I already told you. But ask away.”
“What’s his last name and where has he been for the past few years?
“Oh, didn’t I mention his name? It’s Fischer—with a “cee ach.” I think he was in prison, but I don’t know where or even why. I could ask Ray. He told me although Wes wasn’t a great musician he needed a second chance.”
“Thanks, Trudy. Don’t bother Ray. I can find out what I need on the Internet.”
“Oh, yah sure, the Internet. Everybody talks about the Internet. I don’t know about all this new stuff. I do have a cell phone, though. I gotta admit it comes in handy some times.”
I asked Sally if she could take over then said goodbye to her and Trudy. I carefully placed my precious purchases in my new folding crate and wheeled it away. I was off to meet Megan at Primo Gusto.
10
Pulling into the parking space in front of my warehouse, I looked at the gold and black script lettering announcing “Primo Gusto Coffee Roasters” painted on the window in the door of the faded yellow building.
I walked in and automatically did a mental check of the fifty-pound bags of raw coffee, called green beans, lining the east wall of the large room. I ordered the raw beans from a broker in Chicago and needed a few days to get my order delivered, so I did a mental count every time I came here.
As soon as I closed the door, I could feel my shoulders relax and a sigh escaped my lips. Moving to the corner of the room, which served as my office, I saw the monitor light up Megan’s face, highlighting her wild curly red hair as she hunkered over the computer.
“Are you finding anything helpful?” I asked, pulling up a chair next to her.
Megan shrugged and extended her arms above her head, her knit top stretching across her curvy figure. She had been wearing low-cut knit tops since she began to “bloom” in seventh grade, except at school where we wore white blouses and green plaid uniform skirts. Today’s scoop-necked cotton knit summer sweater was bright green and matched her eyes. “I now know all about the Windig Sangers Band, but not anything useful. Wes isn’t even mentioned.”
“I think he’s the newest member of the band. His last name is Fischer. Why don’t you Google him?”
While Megan tapped the keys searching for information on Wes, I went over to my shiny, new PRI-50 coffee roaster. This little beauty had become the heart of my burgeoning business.
I emptied the beans Megan had roasted and spread them out on the table to cool. Scooping raw beans out of a half filled bag, I filled a bucket with a blend of several beans we used to make our “Dunkle Starke.” After weighing it, I poured seventy pounds of coffee beans into the roasting machine.
“Here we go,” Megan called just as I pushed the button and the beans started roasting. “Wow. Look at this. Wes Fischer was sentenced to thirty-six months at St. Cloud Penitentiary for stalking a fourteen-year old girl. Oh, no, it says here a Catholic nun testified against him. Bernie never said a thing to me about it, did she tell you?”
I looked over my shoulder, although I knew we were alone and replied, “No, I don’t know anything about it. Does it say Bernie by name?”
“No. Look, it says a Catholic nun from Hermann. That means Bernie or old Sister Dolores. She’s at least ninety. Have you seen her glasses? Thick as Coke bottles. It had to be Bernie.”
“Well, crap! That just makes Bernie look guiltier than ever. We need to talk to her.” Walking away, I dug around in my purse that held all the things I felt I needed with me at all times. Grabbing my cell phone I told Megan, “I’m going to call her and insist we come over.”
“Wait a minute, Jennifer. I just found something else. This isn’t good either.”
“What, more incriminating stuff about Bernie?”
“No, this is the divorce notice for Wes and his wife. It’s dated two weeks after his conviction. You’ll flip when you see who he was married to.”
“Who? At least it can’t have been Bernie.”
“No, it’s not Bernie. It’s Martha Fischer.”
“Who’s Martha Fisher?”
“Jennifer, what’s Edwin’s new girlfriend’s name?”
“It’s Marty—Farty Marty. Oh, crap! Marty is Martha. I knew Fischer was a familiar name.”
“Do you think your about-to-be-ex-husband killed his girlfriend’s ex-husband?”
“Besides the fact that what you said was sort of weird, Edwin’s too much of a wuss to kill anyone. He might have hid behind Marty while she did, though. Do we know anything about her? I mean, besides that she’s a husband stealer.”
“You can’t steal what follows you home.”
“I know, Megan. But it’s easier to blame Marty then admitting to myself that Edwin left me for another woman.”
“Buck up, Girl. You’ll get through this and be the better for it.” Megan leaned over and gave me a hug. I blinked fast to keep the tears at bay.
Forty minutes later, I poured fifty pounds of delicious, fragrant coffee beans across the surface of the long table. The beans Megan had roasted were now cool. As I began to package them, I enjoyed the delightful aroma of fresh roasted coffee that permeated the warehouse.
Next to the table sat an industrial sized grinder. Some of my customers prefer not to grind their own coffee, a mistake if you want a fresh, smooth cup of java. But, I aim to please my customers so Megan helped me grind about thirty pounds of plump, delectable coffee beans. We worked silently, while we finished packaging all the freshly roasted beans into my signature black and gold bags.
We discussed what to do about Bernie while we put the bags of coffee in boxes to tote over to the Fest Grounds. We finally decided to show up at Bernie’s unannounced. If we called ahead, we’d give her time to come up with an excuse not to see us.
While shoving one-pound bags of coffee into the backseat of my Honda, a few raindrops fell on our heads. Megan and I exchanged glances over the top of the car and I said, “I hope it doesn’t become a downpour or the Fest Grounds will be total muck for the Sunday parade and the final closing ceremony.”
We got in and drove over to Bernie’s apartment. Those few raindrops were all we saw. Not even enough to start the windshield wipers. Megan and I
silently climbed the stairs to the second floor. Walking down the carpeted hallway to Bernie’s apartment, Megan said. “What are we going to say to her?”
‘I don’t know. Let’s just wing it. We can just tell her that we were worried about her.”
We knocked on the door and it flew open as if Bernie had been waiting for us. “Thank God you’re here!” She stepped into the hall, put out her arms, and enveloped us both in a bear hug.
We finally untangled and went into her tiny apartment. Walking through her miniscule kitchen in a few steps, we settled in her postage stamp sized living room. Megan and I perched on the scratchy love seat while Bernie sunk into her cushy rocking chair.
Bernie was wearing her usual uniform, but without her veil. Her short brown hair had no style, it was just combed back behind her ears. The only other furniture that would fit in the room was a small television set resting on an old end table I had given Bernie when she moved in here.
“The police just left. You won’t believe what that detective said to me. To me, a Catholic nun.”
Megan and I looked at each other, and then I said, “Bernie, they think you killed Wes Fischer, don’t they?”
“How did you figure that out? Are you the person who told that short smart-alecky detective about the dust-up I had with Wes?
As if by plan, Megan and I both got up and went to Bernie. I knelt on the floor while Megan perched on the arm of the chair.
“Of course not, Bernie. But they did take you to the sheriff’s department for questioning. Lots of people knew about the shouting match you had with Wes. I’m probably not the only one who figured out he’s the person who let the air out of your tires. Not much stays a secret in Hermann. And Detective Decker isn’t exactly short.“
Megan put her hand over Bernie’s hands folded in her lap. “Bernie, we need to know about the argument you had with Wes. We found out about the trial and that Wes went to jail, probably on your testimony. Tell us what happened between you two. We want to help.”