From Bad to Wurst

by Maddy Hunter

“Too many bugs,” Mom declared as I escorted everyone to the door. “Too many snakes. Too much humidity.” She stuck a warning finger in Nana’s face. “You are not traveling to New Guinea, Mother. How would I ever keep track of you in the jungle?”

  Nana riffled through her handbag, fishing out the wrist strap Mom had bought at Pills Etcetera. “I s’pose you could use this.” She handed it back.

  “My toddler tether! I was wondering where that went. Oh, good. Now, tomorrow when we get off the bus, we’ll give this another try. Aren’t you thrilled that we’ll be attached again? So you can go anywhere and look at anything, and if you need something, I’ll be right there at your side to take care of it. Isn’t that exciting?”

  “You bet,” Nana deadpanned. “I’m about to break out in handstands.”

  But I could see the little twinkle in Nana’s eye. As much as she despised Mom smothering her, I think being a nonentity had bothered her even more. Guess it was like the proverb said: “They wooed her and she resisted; they neglected her and she fell in love.”

  I closed the door behind them, relieved that things were slowly getting back to normal.

  Whatever normal was.

  “Who was that?” I asked when Etienne hung up the phone.

  “The front desk. They were inquiring if we were still awake because they’re sending someone up with a delivery for us.”

  “What kind of delivery?”

  “We’ll know in a few minutes.”

  I stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth, popping out five minutes later when I heard the bumpity-bump squeak of a familiar set of wheels. I stopped in my tracks, jaw slack, staring.

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “It apparently has more lives than a cat.” He released the handle of Astrid’s rolling instrument case, then took a step back to inspect it with a critical eye. “Doesn’t look too much the worse for wear.”

  A small dent was punched into one corner and several irregularly shaped scratches were etched across the top, but it looked as if it had sustained less damage in its six-thousand-foot descent down the Kehlstein than average luggage sustained going through O’Hare.

  “I can’t believe it. Did the delivery person offer any explanations?”

  “Only this.” He held up an envelope. “Would you like to do the honors or shall I?”

  “Please.” I gestured for him to continue.

  He gave the contents of the note a quick scan. “It’s from the manager of the Eagle’s Nest. ‘Dear Mr. Miceli, I am happy to return your case to you before you leave the immediate area. A hiker discovered it lying on one of our mountain trails early this afternoon, surprisingly intact. Please accept our good wishes that the accordion inside has not been seriously damaged. With sincere regards.’ And he signs his name.”

  I winced. “Do you think it’s damaged?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  He set it on the sofa, released the locks, and threw open the top. We did a quick visual inspection, searching for dents, missing buttons, or damaged piano keys. “Wow,” I marveled, “is it just me or does it look as if it’s in perfect condition?”

  “It’s not you. It looks as good as new. At least, from this angle.” Peeling away the Velcro straps that immobilized it within its molded foam interior, he lifted it out and turned it gently upside down. “No damage to the underside either. I don’t know where Astrid bought her musical equipment, but this is one damned fine instrument case. Looks like your father won’t be needing a new accordion after all.”

  “What’s this thing?” I pointed to the tail end of a pink ribbon that was wedged in the crack where the foam insert was tucked into the case. “Looks a little out of place, doesn’t it?”

  “Is it attached to anything?”

  Squeezing the satin between my forefinger and thumb, I tugged slowly, surprised when the entire foam insert lifted up to reveal the object to which the ribbon was attached: a slender book that was emblazoned with a riot of garden flowers and stamped with the words My Journal.

  “Omigod. I don’t think Astrid’s journal was destroyed in the bomb blast after all. I think we just found it!” I lifted it out of its hidden compartment and opened it up to the first page. “The beginning date is inscribed as July two years ago.” I flipped through a few pages, taking note of her tiny handwriting and short entries. “Will the police need this for any reason or should we simply turn it over to her family with the rest of her belongings?”

  “Astrid was never under investigation, so the authorities would have no use for it. But I do wonder if she made any observations that would help Wendell as he begins to clean up his embezzlement mess.”

  I handed it to him. “Sounds like police work to me.”

  While he settled into a chair with the journal, I picked up the foam insert and was about to tuck it back into the case when something broke loose from beneath it and thunked onto my foot.

  A wad of bubble wrap as long as my forefinger and as fat as a sausage. I plucked it off the floor. “Uh-oh. There might be damage after all. Look what just fell out of the foam insert.”

  “What is it?”

  “Something cocooned in bubble wrap.” I unraveled several layers before I uncovered the surprise in the center. A small bottle of clear liquid with an eye-dropper cap. I flashed it in Etienne’s direction. “I don’t know what it is. Nose drops? Eye drops?”

  “Does it have an odor?”

  I unscrewed the cap and sniffed. “It doesn’t smell good enough to be perfume, but it doesn’t smell like medicine either.” I screwed the cap back on. “What do you suppose it is?”

  He held up a finger in a “hold that thought” gesture as he scanned a passage in the journal. Then another. And another. Muttering something under his breath the entire while.

  I shot him a frustrated look. “What?”

  “This entry is dated July twenty-second. ‘We rocked tonight at the gig in Winterset. I put Wendell down with his favorite café au lait mousse truffles and Montepulciano wine and he slept like a baby until I woke him at six.’”

  “She ‘put him down’? Meaning she put him to sleep?”

  “That’s my interpretation.”

  My eyes widened with a sudden memory. “She was carrying truffles in a side pocket of her suitcase—a whole bag full—but they’d melted in the plastic, so I threw them away. Do you suppose they were laced with whatever she used to induce sleep?”

  “Seems fairly likely, doesn’t it?” He leafed through more pages. “‘July twenty-ninth. A huge crowd in Spencer and great accommodations at the hotel. Gilbert devoured my cheese spread and drank two glasses of wine, which was enough to knock him out until dawn. I pumped up his ego about his prowess for a solid ten minutes, so he was feeling pretty good about himself when he left.’”

  “Holy crap. She did drug them.”

  “‘August fifth. Otis is going to be crushed if I don’t select his key tonight. He so enjoys our chats about politics and religion—all the topics you’re supposed to avoid. If he’s the lucky winner tonight, I might reduce his dosage so we can talk a little longer before he falls asleep. He’s packed on a few pounds lately, so when I cuddle against him in bed, I’m reminded of the days before my Jim got sick, when we’d cuddle like spoons. Funny, the little things you miss when you find yourself widowed.’”

  I stared at him, gobsmacked. “So…there was never any actual hanky-panky going on? Even though the guys thought there was?”

  Etienne smiled. “A clever woman, Astrid Peterson. She apparently stroked their egos by feeding them stories about their manly exploits when all they actually did was eat, drink, and fall asleep.”

  “You don’t think they ever questioned why they couldn’t recall the evening’s activities with as much detail as Astrid?”

  “She inflated their egos so convincingly, made them fe
el so physically gifted, why would they ever question her? They wanted to believe every word she told them, whether they could remember or not. It was genius really. She got what she wanted most—an evening of companionship and cuddling that harkened back to the days when her husband was still alive. And they were given a chance to sustain the kind of fantasy that I imagine every man over a certain age craves—affirmation that he can still perform like a tiger in the bedroom. It was the perfect symbiotic relationship.”

  “I assume she never told Hetty what she was doing?”

  “That would have been too risky. But I’d be willing to bet that Hetty never told Astrid about what was happening on her end either. She was probably too embarrassed to admit that the only thing the guys were interested in doing when they were with her was nodding off.”

  “Seems like a lot of hoopla to hide the fact that the only activity the Guten Tags were engaging in was sleeping.” I held Astrid’s mystery bottle up to the light. “Her bottle is just about full. Do you suppose this is what she used to knock everyone out? Poured it into their wine? Slipped it into their beer? Mixed it into the truffles? A home-grown sleeping potion maybe? Wendell told me she grew some pretty unusual plants in her garden. He said she was so happy all the time, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was growing marijuana.”

  Etienne skimmed more pages. “If she concocted the brew herself, then you’d think she might make mention of it in one of her entries. Perhaps a plant that flourishes in the summer and needs to be harvested in—aha. ‘September second. My valerian has grown especially well this year. A bumper crop to insure continued sweet dreams for my boys. Time to get busy. Life is good.’”

  “Valerian? You want me to google it?”

  “I think we know what it does, bella, and how effective it is.”

  I gave him an anguished look. “So is it our responsibility to tell the guys that their nights of passion with Astrid were all a sham? Or do we tuck her journal into her suitcase and never mention it again?”

  “It depends on whether we choose to preserve the gentlemen’s fantasies…or shatter them.”

  I flashed a sly smile. “You know what I’m going to say, right?”

  “As an honorary Midwesterner, I’m proud to say you bet.”

  Crossing the floor to the kitchenette, I turned Astrid’s bottle upside down and poured the contents down the sink. The guys would never learn which one of them she liked best—at least, not from Etienne or me. And that was okay.

  There were a few things in life that were just plain no-brainers.

  Happily, this was one of them.

  the end

  about the author

  © Photo Express

  After experiencing disastrous vacations on three continents, Maddy Hunter decided to combine her love of humor, travel, and storytelling to fictionalize her misadventures. Inspired by her feisty aunt and by memories of her Irish grandmother, she created the nationally bestselling, Agatha Award–nominated Passport to Peril mystery series, where quirky seniors from Iowa get to relive everything that went wrong on Maddy’s holiday. From Bad to Wurst is the tenth book in the series. Maddy lives in Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband and a head full of imaginary characters who keep asking, “Are we there yet?”

  Please visit her website at www.maddyhunter.com or become a follower on her Maddy Hunter Facebook Fan Page.