The Wurst Is Yet to Come (8 page)

Judith stepped off of the curb. “I don't know much about dogs,” she admitted. “What do you want me to do?”

“Could each of you grab one of the dogs' collars and lead them out of the street? These animals don't seem to want to obey me.”

“Apparently not,” Renie grumbled, but approached the nearest dog. “Okay, Bernie, let's go . . .” She almost fell over as the Saint Bernard jumped up and began licking her brown sweater. “Hey! Stop! It's cashmere!”

The other animal went for Renie, too. “They smell hamburger steak,” Judith muttered, trying in vain to grab the second dog's collar.

“Damnit!” Renie yelled, backpedaling away from the dogs. “I paid a hundred and sixty bucks for this sweater!”

A sharp whistle cut through the air. The dogs instantly retreated. A stern voice called out, “Siegfried! Dolph! Here, here!”

The Saint Bernards stood as if at attention. Judith gaped at Franz Wessler. “Thank goodness! Are those your dogs?”

“No,” Franz said, patting both animals. “They belonged to
Vater
.” He looked at the breathless woman, whose heart-shaped, piquant face had turned pale as she reached the sidewalk. “Are you all right, Klara?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, letting go of the leashes and running a hand through her blond hair. “I should never walk them.” She lowered her glacial-blue eyes. “I'm sorry, Franz.”

“
You're
sorry?” Renie snapped. “What about my sweater?”

Judith nudged Renie. “Can it, coz.”

Franz chuckled. “
Meine Liebe
Klara, did I not always say you were more in love with him than with me? Let us walk the dogs together.”

Holding the leashes in one hand, he offered Klara his other arm. They continued down the street without a backward glance at the cousins.

“Well!” Judith exclaimed under her breath. “No introductions? What was that about?”

“Not my sweater,” Renie griped.

“How old would you guess?”

“My sweater? I got it last year at—”

“No,” Judith interrupted. “Klara.”

Renie grew serious. “Forties, maybe? Hard to tell. She could be a bit younger or ten years older. Smooth skin except around the eyes and mouth. Hair may or may not be natural, though the texture is good and the color suits her. I figure she's stayed out of the sun, which is smart.”

Judith didn't speak until they were across the street, headed for the police station. “So if Franz hasn't seen his father in several years, where's Klara been all this time?”

Renie shot Judith an irritated glance. “In prison? A convent? Outer space? How would I know and why do you care?”

Judith heaved an impatient sigh. “If I'm supposed to solve Herr Wessler's murder, I have to get background on the people involved. His son is a good place to start.”

Renie grinned. “I think you've got a crush on Franz.”

“That's dumb!” Judith cried, almost stumbling onto the curb at the corner by police headquarters. “He seems interesting. And he just happens to be the prime suspect in a homicide case.”

“Gee, your kind of guy,” Renie murmured, looking amused.

“Shut up,” Judith snapped, almost hitting her cousin with the station door. “Focus on the case. You're supposed to be a sleuth, so act like one instead of making smart-assed commentary.” She marched up to the desk, where a pudgy older woman was complaining to a weary-looking policeman whose gray eyes seemed focused on the far wall.

“Look, Mrs. Crump, your neighbors can't adjust their lives to Mr. Crump's schedule,” he asserted. “There's no antinoise law for two in the afternoon. Can't your husband use earplugs?”

“Roscoe shouldn't have to do that,” Mrs. Crump declared, wagging a finger. “He says they bother him, they tickle the hair in his ears. Now see here, Orville, we've lived in this town forever, long before all these newcomers moved here. We have long-standing rights!”

“Yes,” Orville said in his beleaguered voice, “and you've been standing here long enough and often enough to tell me about it. You know we can't do anything about your neighbors.”

“Hey,” Renie said, barging past Judith to get next to Mrs. Crump, “your neighbors are going to file a complaint about Roscoe. His snoring all day is driving them nuts.”

Mrs. Crump swerved to stare at Renie. “Who are you?”

“The name is Jones,” Renie said somberly. “R. Jones.”

Mrs. Crump looked puzzled. “You
are
Jones? That's it?”

“That's enough,” Renie retorted. “And I know what your husband really does at night.”

“Well!” Mrs. Crump put a hand to her big bosom. “I should hope not! His work is classified.”

“That,” Renie said with a world-weary sigh, “is how I know.”

“I never . . . hrmpph!” The other woman turned around so fast that she almost ran into Judith. “ 'Scuse me,” she mumbled, making her exit.

Officer Orville seemed bemused. “You two aren't by any chance the . . . um . . . er . . . women who . . . ah . . .”

“You betcha,” Renie said. “Where's Fat Matt?”

Orville's leathery face darkened. “He's about to go to lunch.”

“Lunch?” Renie repeated. “He just got back from coffee.”

Orville nodded. “But it's way past noon and he's late for lunch.”

Renie turned to Judith. “No wonder he's Fat Matt. He'll be known as Dumbo Duomo for his elephantine size before he solves this murder case. We need to see him
now
. As my husband would say,
boppin'
!” She clapped her hands for emphasis.

“Okay, okay,” Orville said. “I'll buzz him. Hey,” he said, his finger on the button, “how did you know Roscoe Crump works for security? You just got here.”

Renie shrugged. “I know all things. It's what I do, it's who I am. Oof!” She winced as Judith stepped on her foot.

“Okay,” Orville said, gesturing at a door to their left, “go ahead. He's in there. Can I ask what the
R
stands for?”

“Sure,” Renie said, limping slightly as she led the way for Judith. “It stands for Results, which is what I get as FASTO.”

The chief opened the door before Renie could grasp the knob. “There you are,” he said. “I thought you got lost.”

“No,” Renie said, “we were attacked by a couple of Saint Bernards, but we fought them off. We're city girls, and used to violence. You ought to see Mrs. Flynn's cat. Or her mother.” She shuddered. “Gruesome.”

“Sounds god-awful,” Duomo said, poker-faced. “Have a seat. Don't mind Ernie. He nodded off about five minutes ago. He's one of those narcocalypso fellas. Or whatever they call 'em. Goes to sleep while he's walking down the street. Not much good on foot patrol, so I try to keep him on highway duty.”

Sure enough, the deputy was asleep with his feet propped up on a filing cabinet. “Isn't his driving a problem?” Judith inquired.

Duomo shook his head. “Nah. He just puts on the cruise control. Okay. What've you got so far?”

Renie made a face. “Other than being attacked by dogs?”

The chief held up a hand. “Button up. I want the real FATSO.”

Judith frowned. “Do you mind? ‘Mrs. Flynn' or ‘Judith' is just fine. We've only been on the case about an hour. What do you expect?”

Duomo shrugged. “It's a small town. Have you quizzed
anybody
?”

“Yes,” Judith replied, “we have. Who's Klara and how is she connected to Franz and Dietrich Wessler?”

The chief leaned back and grinned. “Klara is Franz's ex. They split nine, ten years ago. She moved here to be the old man's housekeeper. Think the only room she keeps up is the bedroom. Why else hire Olga Crump as a cleaning woman?”

“Crump?” Judith echoed. “Is she married to Roscoe?”

“Ah. So you've met her, too?”

“She was complaining about neighbors . . .”

Duomo made an impatient gesture. “Yeah, she likes to do that. The Kotters are good people. Otto Kotter plays trombone in the oompah band. He has to practice and it keeps Roscoe awake. Not our fault.”

Judith tried to ignore Ernie's snoring. “What exactly does Roscoe do on his security job?”

“Depends.” He picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desk. “Usually he sort of wanders around to make sure nobody's where they shouldn't be. But with Oktoberfest, he checks for illegal immigrants.”

“Uh . . .” Judith wasn't sure what Duomo meant. “What kind?”

The chief shrugged. “Anybody who isn't German.” He nodded at Judith. “You're part German. Saw it when I did a background check.”

“Yes, on my mother's side. She's a Hoffman.”

He pointed at Renie. “You're not, but since you're with FATSO . . . I mean, Mrs. Flynn, you're okay.”

“What,” Judith inquired, still puzzled, “about the exhibitors? They aren't all of German descent.”

“They have to pay a fee to set up their booths,” Duomo replied. “That makes them honorary Germans.”

“What's the point?” Judith persisted. “Oktoberfest and all your other activities are aimed at bringing in tourists. It doesn't make any sense. What do you do if a couple of French-Canadians show up?”

“We fine 'em. Five bucks—and give 'em a ten-buck restaurant coupon. Most folks think it's funny. Makes our budget look good.”

Judith didn't dare look at Renie, knowing that they were both wondering if this wasn't the strangest of some very strange law enforcement personnel they'd ever met. Unless Duomo was kidding.

Judith changed the subject. “Let's see the witness list.”

Duomo grunted while leaning far enough out of his chair to punch Ernie's arm. “Wake up, Major. Viet Cong got us surrounded.”

Ernie Schwartz jerked himself into consciousness. “Huh? Wha . . . where? Oh.” He rubbed his eyes. “What's up?”

“Mrs. Flynn wants our witness list from Wolfgang's last night.”

The other officer yawned widely. “You're sitting on it, Chief.”

Duomo looked surprised. “I am?” He raised his portly body and felt under his rear end. “Oh—that's where it went. Have we got more copies?”

Ernie nodded and stood up. “Orville has some out front. I'll get one for our sleuth.”

The chief nodded once. “Good man,” he said after his subordinate left. “Specially when he's awake. Got any more questions?”

“How about leads?” Judith inquired.

“Leads?” He wrinkled his nose. “You mean in the Wessler case?”

“It's a little late for the Lindbergh kidnapping,” Renie noted.

“You,” the chief said, shaking his finger at Renie, “keep quiet. You're the beard, remember?”

“Fine,” Renie growled. “Then you're the gut.”

Duomo shrugged. “Why not?” He drummed his pudgy fingers on the desk. “Okay, leads. Nope, can't think of any. Except for the knife.”

“The knife?” Judith repeated. “What about it?”

“Fingerprints,” he replied. “Lots of them. Smudged.”

Judith reined in her patience. “Were
any
of them identifiable?”

“Nope.”

“DNA?” Judith inquired.

“Not yet.”

Judith persisted. “Any idea where the knife came from?”

“Nope. Unless it was off the food table by the roast beef.”

“Hey,” Renie said, “I never saw any roast beef! Where was it?”

“Never mind, coz,” Judith said under her breath. “It was at the far end of the table.” She raised her voice. “Who was carving the beef?”

“Anybody who wanted some,” Duomo replied. “It was self-serve. Fact is, there were a half dozen of those knives by the meat platter.”

“But one was missing?” Judith asked.

The chief shrugged. “Guess so. On the other hand, you know how folks like to pocket the cutlery. Don't know why. Doesn't everybody have knives at home? I do.”

Before Judith could say anything further, Ernie returned. “Want these?” he asked, proffering a sheaf of printed pages to Judith.

“Yes, thanks.” She perused the top sheet. At least fifty names were listed. “How many witnesses did you interview?”

“Ninety,” Duomo replied, “maybe closer to a hundred, not including the hired help. You impressed?”

“Yes,” Judith admitted. “It must've taken several hours.”

“Damned near five,” the chief said grumpily. “There was just Ernie here and me. I've only got a half-dozen full-time officers, but I'll be damned if I'll call in the sheriff or the state troopers. They always criticize how we operate. Who needs that? And they don't speak German.”

“Do you?” Judith asked.

“No, but the major does.” He looked at Ernie, who was nodding off. “So does Crump, our security guy. You want to keep that copy?”

“Yes,” Judith said. “I need time to go through all these names.”

“You do that.” Duomo stood up. “Way past my lunchtime. Hey, Major, hop to it. Those little guys in their black pj's are lurking behind the jungle vines.”

Judith and Renie got up. “Thanks. Enjoy your lunch.”

“Will do,” the chief said. “Don't be a stranger.”

The cousins made their exit. Orville was on the phone and didn't look up as they passed by.

“Stranger is right,” Judith said after they were outside. “Major Schwartz reminds me of Uncle Vince—always dozing off, even in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.”

Renie nodded. “Two years ago, he got his face stuck in the root vegetable dish. Orange doesn't become Uncle Vince.”

“True. But how does this bunch keep law and order?”

“They must,” Renie pointed out. “How often do you read about serious crime around here?”