The Wurst Is Yet to Come (18 page)

“Suze and I declared a truce,” Renie announced when Judith sat down next to her. “Barry told her I was an orphan who had to work in a New England shoe factory as a child and she felt sorry for me.”

Barry laughed. “Mom's sort of hotheaded sometimes, too. She kind of likes it when somebody mixes it up with her. She can't insult rude customers, so she saves her hostility for private gatherings.”

Judith glanced at Renie. “My cousin's less discriminating.”

“Hey, watch it,” Renie said. “Suze always lets Barry eat on the house. His guests, too. Don't criticize me or she might renege.”

“One of my few perks,” Barry noted. “Mom figures she fed me and my buddies for the first eighteen years before I started college. She decided she might as well go on doing it while I'm in town.”

“Very generous of her,” Judith said, seeing that Renie had already demolished most of her Swedish pancakes, eggs, and ham. “You two hooked up this morning at Sadie's Stories?”

Renie had stuffed her mouth with more ham, so Barry answered first. “I was just coming out of the shop. Jessi and I overdid it last night at the beer tasting.” He gave Judith a rueful look.

Suzie suddenly appeared at the booth. “What'll it be?”

“Oh!” Judith exclaimed. “I haven't looked at the menu.”

“Try the Reuben,” Barry suggested. “Serena told me you like them. Mom serves a killer version.” He pointed to the remnants on his plate. “That's what I had.”

“Why not?” Judith said, smiling at Suzie. “And some lemonade?”

“Got it.” Suzie wheeled away with a squeak of rubber-soled shoes.

Renie had polished off her Swedish pancakes. “Dessert?” Barry asked her. “Mom gets her pies from Frankie the baker.”

Renie shook her head. “Not after breakfast. Somehow it seems so wrong. Go ahead, you had lunch and it's free. Never refuse a mom.”

Once again, the mom under discussion materialized as if from nowhere. She set down a large Reuben and a generous side of German potato salad in front of Judith before looking at her son. “I saved some rhubarb pie for you—à la mode?”

“Sounds good,” Barry said, grinning. “Thanks, Mom.”

She turned to Renie. “And you, Weenie?”

Renie's eyes narrowed. “I'm full. But thanks for asking, Floozie.”

Suzie laughed. “I like you. You're spunky.” She wheeled off again.

Barry leaned closer to the cousins. “Maybe I shouldn't bring this up,” he said, looking serious, “but I've been doing some research.”

“About what?” Judith asked. “Your studies?”

“Not exactly. It's more about what's going on here.” Barry's gaze shifted to Renie. “That book your husband wanted—
Kommandant Killer: Hitler's Avenging Angel
. The fact that Jessi discovered it had been deleted made me curious. Even if a book's out of print, there's often a link to used booksellers. The more I thought about it, the more intrigued I got. I'm not focusing on the Nazi era for my thesis, but I have to know as much as I can about German history to understand what came before and after the Thirty Years' War. Germany's only been a nation for a little over a hundred years.”

“Bismarck,” Renie said. “There was a girl in my high school history class who insisted his name was Otto von Bisquick. I tried to correct her after class, but I gave up. She thought he shouldn't be called the Iron Chancellor because he was only half-baked.”

“Coz,” Judith said with a withering glance, “there are times when your knowledge of history is best kept under wraps. Let Barry continue.”

“Phooey on you,” Renie muttered. “Spoilsport. History's fun.”

To Judith's dismay, Barry was smiling. “She's right. If you focus on historical figures, it's just a lot of old gossip. Sure, politics and ideology and all the rest are important, but you have to understand that individuals put all those things into motion in the first place.”

“Don't encourage my cousin,” Judith warned as Suzie wordlessly delivered her son's pie à la mode before hurrying off again. “Go ahead, tell us about the Kommandant book.”

Barry paused after tasting his pie. “Mmm. Good. The local baker turns out some really good stuff.”

“Did you know he's the chief of police's brother?” Judith asked.

Barry frowned. “If I did, I forgot.”

“Hey!” Renie cried, slapping at Judith's arm. “I didn't know that.”

Judith couldn't resist looking smug. “Fat Matt's other brother is Bruno, the chef at Wolfgang's. They're all Herr Wessler's sons.”

Renie punched Judith's upper arm. “Get out of here! You made that up!”

Barry, however, merely nodded. “That's true. Which kind of leads into what I was going to say about the book.”

It was Judith's turn to look incredulous. “It does?”

“It sounds strange,” he admitted, putting down his fork, “and bear in mind I read that book three, four years ago in the original German. It wasn't what you'd think from the title.”

Renie frowned. “That book isn't about a concentration camp or a battle? Bill must be slipping.”

“Kommandant's a military title,” Barry said, pausing to make sure no one else could hear him. “You've probably read books or seen movies about Hitler clones. Fiction, of course, but there were rumors all over Germany and elsewhere that the phenomenon was real. The book in question was about a German officer who was no fan of the Führer, but loyal to his fatherland. Thus, after the war, he wanted to avenge himself on Hitler by populating the world with good people.” Barry stopped again, either for effect or to take up his fork and eat more pie.

Renie wrinkled her nose. “You mean this is a feel-good read? My husband's a psychologist. He can only bond with nut jobs.” She swiveled around to glare at her cousin. “Don't you dare say it!”

Judith's dark eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Say what?”

Renie didn't respond.

“So,” Judith said to Barry, “to cut to the chase, Herr Wessler was this Kommandant?”

Barry shook his head. “The guy's name was Gerbald Wulff.” Barry spelled it out for the cousins. “He was a Prussian, from Konitz. But it does make me wonder.”

Judith wondered, too. “Have you mentioned this to your mother?”

“No,” Barry replied. “I didn't think too much about the title at first because I remembered the book in German. It was only this morning that I began to get curious. Jessi agreed it was all very strange.”

“Very,” Judith murmured. “But it could be a coincidence.”

Barry waited to swallow some of his ice cream. “How so? That the book is unavailable? That Herr Wessler seems to have fathered a large chunk of Little Bavaria's population? That he's been murdered?”

“All of those things,” Judith said. She turned to Renie. “Do you know why Bill was so anxious to get that particular book?”

Renie frowned. “No. I just assumed it was the usual nasty Nazi horror story. Being a shrink, Bill likes to study the better side of Germans during the war. He's fascinated by people like Maximilian Kolbe and Dietrich Bonhoeffer, especially their spiritual aura.”

Barry nodded. “This book would fall into that category. Gerbald Wulff was a religious man. Lutheran, in fact.”

“Wessler's Catholic,” Judith said. “The idea of any connection between him and Wulff is probably far-fetched. The book's nonavailability is curious, but may mean nothing. Can Jessi call one of the big chains to see if they can order it? If not, that'd eliminate any notion about it being tied into what's going on here in Little Bavaria.”

“Good idea,” Barry said. “I'll ask her.” He finished his pie and sighed. “We'd better vacate this booth for the paying customers.” He glanced at Judith's plate and looked embarrassed. “You're not finished.”

“No problem,” Judith assured him. “This Reuben is huge. I'll save the other half for later. The rest of the potato salad, too.”

Renie sighed. “Coz likes to do that. It's her way of dieting. It'll take her the rest of the weekend to finish it.”

Five minutes later, they were out on the busy main street. The clouds had begun to lift and the wind had died down. Maybe, Judith thought, the sun would shine after all.

Barry was gazing down the street at the clock tower. “It's still the noon hour,” he said. “I won't bother Jessi now. That's always her busiest time. Heck, it's always busy with Oktoberfest.”

“Don't,” Renie said, getting out her cell. “Coz thinks I'm an idiot, but I can phone a bookstore. I'll move away from the street noise.”

Judith was juggling her purse and the box that Suzie had provided for the leftovers when she spotted Klara Wessler coming down the street with the two dogs. “Oh, no! They'll go for my sandwich!”

Barry laughed. “I'll make sure they don't. Hi, Klara. Are you singing again tonight?”

“Yes,” she said, straining at the leashes. “If I don't collapse from walking these beasts.” She nodded vaguely at Judith. “I wish Franz would take them to California. I know so little about animals. They miss Dietrich and cannot understand why he isn't at home.”

Barry reached down to pat each of the dogs. “Can't you find someone here who would take them?”

Klara shook her head. “No. And Mrs. Crump—the cleaning person—complains all the time about them now. She wouldn't dare when Dietrich was alive.” Tears glinted in her eyes. “It is all so sad.”

Barry shifted from one foot to the other. “I haven't yet decided when to head back to Europe. Maybe I'll stay on for the funeral.”

Klara nodded. “That would be very kind. It will be . . . difficult.”

The dogs had pulled Klara closer to Judith. They were definitely on the scent of her Reuben. She backed away—into a lamppost. The impact was slight, but she dropped the container. The dogs pounced.

“Oh!” Klara cried, tugging at the leashes. “Stop! No, no!”

Her commands proved fruitless. The dogs gobbled the sandwich and most of the potato salad before Barry could grab the miscreants by their collars and pull them away.

Klara stared helplessly at Judith. “I'm so sorry. Really,” she said, relinquishing the leashes to Barry. “Have we met? You look familiar.”

Renie had returned from making her call. “Yeah,” she snarled. “The last time your furry friends tried to ruin my cashmere sweater.”

Klara clapped her hands to cheeks that had turned pale from Renie's onslaught. “I . . . feel . . . ill,” she gasped.

Barry intervened again. “Klara, I'll walk you and the dogs home.”

“Oh . . . please! Thank you!” She fastened on to Barry's free arm.

“Later,” Barry called as they headed toward the corner.

Judith was seething. “I don't know if I'm madder at you or Klara.”

“Maybe it's a dead heat,” Renie said calmly, picking up the residue from her cousin's leftovers and taking them to a garbage bin by the lamppost. “I wish I liked dogs better. I prefer bunnies. Clarence is so adorable with his lop ears and twitchy whiskers. When I dress him in his sparkly tutu . . .” She stopped, staring at Judith. “Now what?”

Her anger evaporating, Judith squared her broad shoulders. “You said it—
dead
. Come on, coz, we're going to the cemetery.”

 

Chapter Twelve

W
here
is
the cemetery?” Renie asked, looking around as if she could discover tombstones and monuments somewhere between the
Fachwerk
of the Bavarian half-timbered buildings. Instead, the only sign of the dead were some Halloween goblins in the window of a crafts shop across the street.

“We'll ask Suzie,” Judith said, heading back to the restaurant.

Suzie was still hustling. “The cemetery?” she said, barely pausing as she juggled plates of food. “You have to drive. First turnoff by the high school, quarter of a mile north. Got a car?”

“No,” Judith replied.

“Take mine,” Suzie said. “Green Ford Escort, parked out back. Keys are in my purse on the desk in the office. I'm not going anywhere.”

Before Judith could ask where the office was located, Suzie was out of earshot with her lunch orders.

“It can't be hard to find,” Renie said. “Maybe near the kitchen?”

Judith had already moved in that direction. “There's a door. My God, Suzie's a trusting soul.”

Renie shrugged as they circumvented tables where customers chatted between mouthfuls of Suzie's servings. “Small-town people are more trusting. Except when they get killed, of course.”

“She doesn't even know us,” Judith countered, opening the door to what proved to be a small, cluttered office.

“We probably got a good word from Barry,” Renie said. “You intend to search her wallet for clues to Bob Stafford's murder?”

Judith found the key ring on top of the other items in the no-nonsense black handbag. “Even I wouldn't be that crass.”

“Yes, you would,” Renie retorted, “but if we're in a rush, I don't know why. The people in the cemetery aren't going anywhere.”

Suzie paid no attention when the cousins came out of the office. She was taking an order from Eleanor and Delmar Denkel, who both wore persnickety expressions. Suzie remained stoic, even as Ellie shook her head and Delmar peered at the menu as if looking for typos.

“What a pair of pills,” Renie muttered after the cousins were outside and walking around to the back of the restaurant. “Even Inbred Heffalump can't be that big a pain in the butt.”

“That depends upon your point of view,” Judith said, “not to mention the size of Ingrid's butt. Ample does not begin to describe it.”

“Wow—you really don't like her, do you?”

Judith had spotted the Ford Escort parked on the grass outside of the building. She couldn't help but pause to take in the view. The river's white riffles glinted in the autumn sun. On the opposite bank, with their orange leaves and black bark, the poplar trees seemed dressed for Halloween. Her eyes lifted to the great swath of evergreens, a third stand of timber, judging from their size. Farther up she saw the bare mountain ridge where new snow had not yet fallen. Despite the busy main street not more than fifty yards away, the only sound she heard was the whistle of a freight train as it passed through the north side of town.

“Gorgeous setting,” she murmured at last. “Darn. I forgot to ask Barry or Suzie about that marker along the trail. They must know what or who it stands for. It's on their property.”

“HRH? Gee, you're losing your grip. You must be tired. Slow down. You're pushing it.”

They reached the Ford Escort. “Oh!” Judith exclaimed after the cousins were in the car. “I forgot to ask where the high school is located.”

“I saw a sign from the shuttle,” Renie said. “It's at the east end of town. Take a right out of the parking lot.”

Judith had to wait for both vehicles and pedestrians to get out of the way. On this Saturday of Oktoberfest, Little Bavaria seemed as busy as a big city. At last she made the turn, though the going was slow.

“Hey,” she said, keeping her foot on the brake, “what did you hear from the bookstore about the
Kommandant
availability?”

Renie shook her head. “I called the shop on Heraldsgate Hill, but they were busy during the lunch hour. I'll ring back later.”

“Maybe it's just a glitch,” Judith said, picking up a bit of speed. “It doesn't sound as if Wessler and the Kommandant are one and the same.”

Renie agreed.

They'd reached the high school. On a Saturday afternoon, the playing field had been turned into a staging area for the Oktoberfest performers. Judith glimpsed horse-drawn carts, musicians with brass instruments, a woman untangling puppet strings, and two medieval court jesters practicing their swings at each other with giant bratwursts. She also spotted Barry and Klara walking the Saint Bernards up the hill. “Wessler's house must be around here,” Judith remarked. “I wonder if it looks like a sixteenth-century
Schloss
.”

“Probably,” Renie said.

But just ahead of them on their right, the cousins saw a large brick-and-glass contemporary home perched on a hill. Only the mailbox by the road was built in the shape of a Bavarian half-timbered house. The name on it was Dietrich Wessler
.

Renie laughed. “I suppose Herr Wessler had that house built before the town went Bavarian.”

“I'm afraid so,” Judith said, following the road that now was flanked more by forest than by civilization. She all but stopped at the train tracks to make sure they were clear. “Kind of disappointing. I expected something grander for the town
Vater
.”

“Circa the 1950s or even later. Not bad for that period, though.”

“Not ostentatious either,” Judith said, noting that they were now in the forest. “I wonder how far this is from . . . ah! There's the cemetery. The ground levels out here. It's a lovely woodland setting.”

“Too bad the people buried here can't enjoy it,” Renie remarked as Judith pulled onto the gravel road. “That view part in their advertising probably doesn't mean much to the folks who aren't coming back.”

“Don't be a ghoul.”

“Hey—I don't even know why we're here.”

“Because,” Judith said, opening the driver's door, “I want to see if Wessler's wife is buried here. He certainly had a lot of girlfriends.”

“You couldn't just ask?” Renie said, before getting out of the car.

Judith waited to respond until they were both standing on the gravel road. “I get tired of asking questions sometimes,” she admitted. “Besides, cemeteries are interesting.” She paused, looking around at the large clearing, but not seeing any older tombstones or monuments. “Odd—this place looks like it hasn't been around very long. I wonder if it dates from when the town went Bavarian. Maybe they buried their dead in the next big town to the east. There's nothing much on the other side of the pass for at least thirty miles.”

The clear mountain air was tinged with the scent of damp earth and evergreen trees. Judith took a deep breath before stopping at the first grave. “Mueller—husband and wife. He died in 1992. She lasted only two more years without him.”

Renie scowled. “Hey, I can read.”

“Sorry.” Judith kept moving, but stopped when she saw signs of a new grave up ahead on a gentle slope. “Let's see if that's for Wessler.”

“Wow! That might be a clue!”

“I should've left you back at the Pancake Schloss with the Denkels.” Judith quickened her step, but the uneven gravel threw her off balance. “Oof!” she gasped, fearful of dislocating her artificial hip.

Renie was accustomed to such minor threats and reflexively grabbed her cousin's arm. “Now aren't you glad I came along?”

Judith's expression was sheepish. “Yes—unless you pushed me.”

“Right. I just love those trips with you to the ER.”

Judith stopped abruptly. “Look—here's Bob Stafford's grave.”

Renie stared at the simple but handsome marker. “Gosh. He'd just turned fifty-three. Poor guy.”

Judith nodded. “I sure haven't gotten anywhere with his homicide. Maybe it was some bum off the trains that go through here.”

Renie gave her cousin a quirky look. “That'd be too simple. Senseless random killings aren't your style. You need motives, histories, relationships, all the things that your vaunted logic can deal with.”

“Coz,” Judith said forlornly, “I don't know zip about Bob Stafford except the basics. I haven't had a chance to discuss him with Barry.”

“You will,” Renie said as they moved on.

The cousins solemnly approached the newly turned earth at the foot of the slope. Maybe it was inspired by the praying angels on each side of a marble marker. Maybe it was the thought of Dietrich Wessler, who would be lowered into the open grave in a matter of days. Maybe it was the blank space left for the
Grossvater
beside the name of Julia Monika Wessler, b. July 11, 1917; d. December 24, 1953.

“You do the math,” Renie murmured.

Judith calculated quickly. “She was only thirty-six when she died on Christmas Eve. I wonder what happened to her.”

Renie had turned away to look down at a smaller marker. “Maybe this is part of the explanation.”

“Oh, my.” Judith read the inscription aloud in a melancholy tone. “Anna Maria Wessler, b. June 3, 1953, d. Dec. 24, 1953. An accident involving mother and daughter? Or an illness?”

Renie grimaced. “Either way, it's awful.”

“We should pray.” Judith crossed herself, but didn't dare kneel. A faint breeze stirred the fir and hemlock trees, as if sighing for the departed souls.

“Over fifty years ago,” Renie noted. “Someone must know what happened. How about Chief Duomo?”

Judith hesitated. “I figure him for about fifty, maybe a bit older.”

“He'd still know,” Renie pointed out. “Given Wessler's notoriety, a lot of people would even if they weren't around then.”

“True.” Judith gazed at an adjacent concrete slab set in the ground. “Josef Wessler, born August 12, 1947, died March 22, 1989. I wonder if that's Franz's brother. Look at this green marble stone below Dietrich Wessler's plot. Clotilde Elisabeth Wessler, also born in 1947 and died in 2003. I wonder if she was Josef's widow.”

Renie came over to stand by Judith. “Looks to me as if Dietrich—assuming he was in charge of the burials—didn't like Joe as much as he liked Clotilde. Is your brain going in frantic circles?”

Judith made a face. “I can't help it. Franz doesn't seem too fond of his father. I wonder if after Josef died, Dietrich made a play for Clotilde?”

“Could we call her Tilly?” Renie asked in a plaintive voice. “Clotilde sounds kind of . . . formidable. Oh, I know there's a saint by that name, but still . . .” She zipped up her purple car coat as the wind grew stronger, causing the smaller evergreens to sway.

“You can call her anything you want. I'd like to know what Herr Wessler called her. Love muffin, maybe?”

“Which Herr Wessler? Josef or Dietrich?”

Judith pulled up her hood. “Good question.”

They started back down the path, but were startled when an elderly woman suddenly popped up from behind a granite tombstone. “Excuse me,” she said with a slight accent. “Could you help me with my vase? It's stuck in the ground.”

“Let me,” Renie said. “My cousin doesn't bend very well.”

Judith followed Renie. The white marble bore the inscription Helmut Bauer, born 1922, died 1989. There was a vacant space for Astrid, presumably his widow and the old lady who had a bouquet of gold chrysanthemums at her feet. “My husband,” she said simply.

It took Renie only a couple of tugs to loosen the vase. “I saw a faucet by the path,” she said, standing up. “I'll fill this for you.”

Mrs. Bauer looked at Judith through gold-rimmed glasses. “Your cousin is very kind.”

“Yes, she can be. I mean, she is. Your husband was fairly young when he passed away.”

The old lady nodded. “He died of grief.”

For once, Judith was at a loss for words. “I'm so sorry.”

Mrs. Bauer made a slashing motion with her gloved hand. “He had no reason to be ashamed! He was an innocent man, a good man.”

Renie returned with the water-filled vase. “May I?” she said, gesturing at the mums.

“Oh, please,” Mrs. Bauer said. “Thank you.”

Judith finally found her voice. “Was he the victim of slander?”

“Yes, how did you know?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I didn't. But if someone is innocent, then it indicates that lies have been told. In a small town, people gossip. That's often tragic.”

Mrs. Bauer looked away. “So it was. Evil walks in disguise.”

Renie had finished arranging the flowers. “Your husband was German?” She saw Mrs. Bauer nod. “But you're . . . ?”

“Swedish,” the old lady said. “How did you know?”

“Your accent,” Renie said. “And Astrid is more Scandinavian.”

“Kind and clever,” Mrs. Bauer murmured. “Thank you again.”

Renie darted Judith a smug glance. “Can we give you a ride?”

“No,” Mrs. Bauer said with a little smile. “I must say my prayers. I live not far away. I need to walk to keep my joints from growing stiff.”

“Very wise,” Renie said. “Take care.”

The old lady offered more thanks before the cousins returned to the path and got into the car. “I wonder,” Judith said, “if the town hall's open on Saturday.”

“Dubious. Try reviving your lock-picking skills from when you used them to learn what financial crises Dan was hiding from you.”

Judith shook her head. “How did I survive those years?”

“You had extraordinary patience or you'd have bumped off Dan long before he blew up—as you so indelicately put his demise.”

“It beats explaining his diabetic condition.” Judith slowed as they passed the Wessler house. “Klara has a gentleman caller at the door.”