The Wurst Is Yet to Come (12 page)

“Sure, until your next guest checks out permanently.”

“Shut up!” Judith cried, walking faster. “Let's switch subjects. What will you do while I'm at the town hall organizers' meeting?”

“Take notes,” Renie replied. “I'm still the sleuth, aren't I?”

“I suppose you are,” Judith conceded. “I don't imagine anybody will ask for your bona fides.”

“I don't have any,” Renie said, “unless you count my HMO ID and my Nordquist card. Think I maxed that out last August. It's fifteen to four,” she went on, looking up at the clock tower. “Maybe I'll buy a warmer sweater. I saw one I liked where I bought Bill's cap.”

“Why not just go back to the inn and get one of your own?”

Renie shrugged. “It's more fun to buy something new.”

“How are you going to pay for it?”

“Huh? Oh—I've still got my debit card. If Bill hasn't gone to the bakery to buy his special treats, I should have a couple of grand left in that account. Those napoleons and Italian slippers tend to add up.”

Judith shook her head, marveling anew at how the Joneses could keep up with their spending—let alone keep up with anyone else named Jones. The cousins parted company a block and a half from the town hall. The two-story building was located on the block between the bandstand and the police headquarters.

After crossing the street, Judith gazed up at the numerous flags flying from what she assumed was a replica of an original Bayern village town hall. She already recognized the blue-and-white-checkered state flag of Bavaria, but there were several variations. Cities, towns, municipalities, she thought, or counties—if there were counties in Germany. The trip that she and Renie had taken before their respective marriages hadn't included much information about the nuts and bolts of the country's government. The cousins had been too enthralled sailing up the Rhine River, attending High Mass at the Cologne Cathedral, exploring Heidelberg's ancient castle above the River Neckar, and marveling at how efficiently Munich had been rebuilt despite extensive Allied bombing. But the flags intrigued her, particularly a playful depiction of a comical boar tromping through the forest against a black-and-white background.

“Quite the display, eh?” said a voice behind Judith.

“Oh!” She turned to see Delmar Denkel looking obsequious. “Yes, I was wondering if the flags represented cities within the state of Bavaria. Do you know anything about German government divisions?”

“Well . . .” Delmar cleared his throat. “Dachau is in Bavaria.”

“It is?” Judith said in surprise. “I didn't realize that.”

“So is Bertesgarten, Hitler's mountain retreat.”

“Those sites weren't on our itinerary forty years ago.”

“They wouldn't be, would they?” Delmar said quietly.

“People visit those places now,” Judith said, feeling a stiff wind from off the mountains. “It's a lesson in how wrong a country can go under a charismatic but evil leader.”

“Yes,” Delmar agreed, looking around as if he expected to see an SS officer eavesdropping on them. “A reminder to future generations.”

“You've visited Germany?” she asked.

Delmar nodded.

“Recently?”

“This spring. Eleanor and I were there for two weeks.” The words seemed wrung out of him, as if they were a confession.

“Ah . . . how
is
Eleanor?”

“She's resting today.” He gestured helplessly. “You understand.”

Judith wasn't sure she did. But she tried to look sympathetic. “Are you going inside to meet the Oktoberfest organizers? I mean, if Ellie isn't up to it . . .” She let the rest of the sentence dangle.

“I don't know,” Delmar replied, pulling up the collar of his suede jacket around his scrawny neck. “I really don't. I'll walk a bit now.”

He went on his way. Judith stood still, wondering what to make of the conversation—and of Delmar Denkel. A handful of other people were heading for the town hall. Judith decided to join them, but took one last look at the flags that were now snapping in the chilly autumn wind.

She shivered, not sure if it was from the sudden change in the weather—or something more sinister from out of the past.

T
he town hall was aptly named. The pine-paneled walls in the open area led to offices on two sides, a single staircase, and an elevator. Directly in front of Judith was the hall itself, also covered in mellow pine. A balcony went around three sides. She calculated that the large room must take up more than three-fourths of the building.

At least fifty people were already gathered, sipping wine and beer from casks mounted on a trestle table where the bald Fritz II held sway. Judith didn't see any of the B&B contingent. In fact, the only person she did recognize besides the bartender from Wolfgang's Gast Haus was Suzie Stafford, who was chatting amiably with an older couple wearing Bavarian garb.

Feeling ill at ease, she approached the trestle table. Being neither a wine nor a beer drinker, she motioned to Fritz II. “What would you suggest?” she asked diffidently.

“A nice Liebfraumilch?” he suggested with the hint of an accent.

“Um . . . sure.” While Fritz II poured the white wine into a large sturdy goblet, she looked up at the assortment of mounted animal heads, including a tiger. “Where was that poor cat shot? In a Bavarian zoo?”

Fritz shook his head. “No. In India, by Herr Wessler on one of his hunting trips.” He moved a thick finger around the room. “All these animals are his trophies. He was a great hunter.”

“I didn't know that,” Judith said. “I also don't know the actual organizer of the Oktoberfest.”

“Herman Stromeyer,” he said, handing her the goblet. “But he's got the flu, so I'm filling in for him this evening. I'm the mayor.”

Judith stared and almost sloshed wine on the blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth. “You are? Why are you tending bar?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I like doing it during Oktoberfest. I enjoy meeting people.”

“Is your name really Fritz?” she asked.

“Yes. Fritz Gruber. I was born in Bremen. I came here twenty years ago with my American bride. She's from Omaha.”

“But you ended up here,” Judith remarked before taking her first sip of wine.

Fritz nodded. “Herr Wessler was a distant relation. He urged us to move to Little Bavaria. He thought Omaha was too flat. He was right. It's best to live where one can look at mountains.”

Judith nodded. “I've grown up with them.” She savored the wine. “This is quite good.”

“You have no palate?”

“I don't,” she admitted. “My first husband owned a restaurant and I tended bar there sometimes. I got used to the hard stuff.”
Not to
mention,
she thought,
the hard times keeping the place afloat
.

“Ah. A shame. Wine is better for you.”

“Yes,” Judith allowed, “you may be right. I should offer condolences about Herr Wessler. He was what—a cousin?”

Fritz grimaced. “Yes, though I never knew him in the old country. But our kinsmen kept in touch.”

“Speaking of family, here's my cousin Serena,” Judith said, spotting Renie in a red cable-knit sweater. “She's also ignorant of wine.”

“Hi, coz, hi, Fritz,” Renie said, waving her hand at one of the casks. “Pour me a blistering dark brew, thick as malt, brown as a bear's butt.”

Judith took a backward step. “You sound belligerent.”

“I am,” Renie replied, eyeing Fritz warily. “Don't shortchange me,” she warned him, before turning back to her cousin. “I had to fight off some beefy broad for this sweater. As if she could fit into it, even if it is a large. I left her flat on her ass somewhere in dirndls.”

“Coz!” Judith cried. “You didn't!”

“Yes, I did. I had my eye on this sweater. You think I'd let some big mama get her paws on it?” Renie twirled around. “How do I look?”

“Like the Red Menace,” Judith said. “Take it easy. This is Fritz Gruber. He's the mayor.”

Renie regarded Fritz with a dubious eye. “The hell you are. I'm not even sure you're Fritz.”

“Ah, but I am,” he replied, looking amused. “Do you want your beer in a bucket?”

“Why not? Or I could just lie on the floor and you could open the tap.” But Renie held up a hand. “A stein will do. Are you really a Fritz?”

“I am indeed. Are you otherwise enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes,” Renie said. “It's started to rain. That always cheers me.”

Fritz handed Renie her stein. “How jolly do you get with snow?”

“I resort to weaponry.” She glared at Judith, who'd glared at her first. “Let's stop annoying Fritz. He's got other customers lined up.” She flashed a smile at the bartender and moved away from the trestle table.

“It's a good thing I don't recognize most of this crowd,” Judith grumbled. “You not only embarrassed me, but I never got a chance to ask Fritz about his version of Wessler's demise.”

“Crikey,” Renie said indifferently. “You'll get another crack at him. What on earth are you drinking?”

“Liebfraumilch,” Judith said, still annoyed. “Doesn't Bill sometimes like to have a glass of . . . oh, no! Here comes Connie.”

“Has she confessed to the murder yet?”

“Maybe,” Judith replied. “I wonder what happened to Delmar?”

“Who?”

“Eleanor's husband. I saw him just before I came—” Judith broke off, forcing a smile as Connie approached. “Hi, how are you? I missed seeing you after your stint at the booth.”

Connie looked puzzled. “Why were you looking for me?”

“I wasn't,” Judith blurted. “George was doing the looking.”

“George,” Connie said truculently, “fusses too much.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Speaking of which, I heard from Ingrid Heffelman today. She told me not to believe a word you told us. It's a wonder she let you join the rest of us for our exhibit. She also related a horrifying story about how you were almost killed last winter in your B&B.”

Judith forced a laugh. “That's Ingrid's way of protecting my cousin.” She darted a glance at Renie. “Remember that poor man who fell out of his wheelchair and knocked me down?”

Renie nodded. “It's a good thing Arlene came back with that tomato paste, so she could help you get up. How come Arlene uses so much tomato paste? She must make a lot of casseroles.”

“She does,” Judith said. “She got into the habit while raising five kids. And Carl loves a casserole.”

“So does Bill.” Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “I wish I did. You got any really good casserole recipes, Connie?”

The other woman was looking perplexed. “George doesn't care for noodles. Here he comes. He'll take forever to choose a wine. His dream is to have his own vineyard.” Connie moved off to join her husband.

“Twerp,” Renie remarked, after taking a swig of beer.

Judith made a face. “How did Ingrid hear about my near-death experience last January? The media was shut down by the police.”

Renie shrugged. “All it takes is one person with a big mouth. Okay, so what now? Collar Suzie about the late and allegedly lamented Bob? Maybe if she gets loaded, she'll reveal something.”

“Not a bad idea,” Judith agreed. “She, too, is heading for the bar.”

“She cleans up pretty good,” Renie remarked.

Judith discreetly studied Suzie Stafford as she waited her turn at the trestle table. Her tall, rangy figure was dressed in a black satin blouse and slacks, accented by a double strand of pearls. The dark hair she'd tucked into a net at work now fell gracefully onto her shoulders. “Mourning? Or prowling?” Judith murmured.

“Hey,” Renie said, also lowering her voice, “even you weren't looking for another husband two months after Dan died.”

“I never was. I just happened to find Joe again two years later.”

Renie smiled wryly. “Reunited over a corpse. How romantic.”

Judith shot Renie a sharp look. “How's your beer, big mouth?”

“Not bad,” Renie replied, “considering it's beer.”

“You're drinking it like you love it.”

Renie frowned at the half-empty stein. “Huh. So I am. Huh.”

“Behave,” Judith whispered. “Here comes Suzie.”

“Good. I can sleuth,” Renie said.

“What are you two doing here?” Suzie asked, holding a glass of red wine in both hands. “I thought you were just passing through.”

“We decided to stay for the Oktoberfest,” Judith replied. “It takes my mind off my late husband.”

“Yeah,” Renie said, “he won't get here until seven. Ha ha.”

Judith glared at her cousin. “That's not funny!”

“Good grief,” Renie said. “Tell Suze the truth and get it over with.”

Judith blanched, but knew Renie was right. “Look, Suzie, I
have
been widowed, but I've remarried. Chief Duomo told us about Bob's death and I'm very sorry for you. But he also asked for our help.”

Suzie looked incredulous. “Fat Matt wants
your
help? Why?”

Judith touched Renie's arm. “My cousin Serena Jones is a private investigator. The chief is short-staffed. He asked her to consult not only on Wessler's death, but your husband's as well.”

Suzie's incredulity seemed to increase as she stared at Renie. “You're a PI? You've got to be kidding!”

“Hey!” Renie cried. “Watch it! The spouse is the prime suspect.”

“Back at you!” Suzie shouted. “You look about as much like a detective as I look like Ava Gardner!”

“You look more like Ava's gardener,” Renie snarled. “Or maybe you look more like Ava
now,
since she's dead!”