From Bad to Wurst

Copyright Information

From Bad to Wurst: A Passport to Peril Mystery
© 2015 by Maddy Hunter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author's copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2015

E-book ISBN: 9780738744278

Book design by Donna Burch

Book layout and edit by Rebecca Zins

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

Cover illustration by Anne Wertheim

Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hunter, Maddy.

From bad to wurst : a passport to peril mystery / Maddy Hunter.—First edition.

pages ; cm.—(A passport to peril mystery; #10)

ISBN 978-0-7387-4034-8

1. Andrew, Emily (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Tour guides (Persons)—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3608.U5944F76 2015

813'.6—dc23

2015021865

Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

To our wonderful friends

Marge and Jim Converse
and Barb and Ron Schuler
who bussed the 2,200 whirlwind miles
through Germany with us

acknowledgments

My heartfelt thanks to Sarah Weers, Sean Patrick Little, and Josephine Mori for exercising their collaborative genius to arrive at the truly clever title for this book. I'd be lost without you guys! Thanks a million.

one

“You're going to meet
a tall, dark, handsome stranger.”

Bernice Zwerg snorted with derision. “Is he rich?” Bernice's voice is a real attention-getter because it grates against your eardrums like 40-grit sandpaper scratching the surface off a chalkboard. “If he's not rich, you can tell him to go meet someone else.” She cast a disdainful look at the mob of people swarming around us. “And if he's wearing a pair of these dopey-looking leather shorts and suspenders, send him Lucille Rasmussen's way. Her taste in men blows.”

We were killing time in Munich's bustling city center, in the main plaza known as the Marienplatz, a name derived from the gilded statue of the Virgin Mary that stands atop a marble column in the center of the square. Before us the new town hall sat in all its pinnacled glory like a Gothic cathedral, its soaring bell tower capped by what looked like the top three tiers of a giant wedding cake. In precisely two minutes the bells in the tower were due to ring out the hour, after which the mechanical figures in the tower's glockenspiel would execute the same moves they'd executed for the past hundred years to the chimes of a German-engineered carillon.

“So you got nothing for me other than the tall, handsome stranger bit, huh?” Bernice snatched her hand away from the redheaded woman who'd offered to read Bernice's future by simply holding her hand. “If you can't come up with something more original than that, honey, you better change your shtick.”

The redhead, whose guest ID badge bore the name Zola Czarnecki, emitted a peal of laughter that jiggled all the excess flesh on her freckled face. “You're the first skeptic of the trip—and probably not the last—but my skin is pretty thick these days, so you can doubt me all you want.” She jabbed a finger into Bernice's shoulder. “You'll change your tune when your handsome stranger shows up. I predict you'll become my biggest fan. Mark my words.”

Bernice swatted a strand of over-permed hair away from her face. “Don't hold your breath.”

As the bells in the tower began ringing out the hour, I shot a cursory glance left and right in an attempt to keep tabs on the guests who were traveling with us on our tour of Bavaria, Germany's most picturesque state.

I'm Emily Andrew-Miceli, co-owner of Destinations Travel in Windsor City, Iowa—an agency opened by my husband, Etienne, and operated by the two of us. Our specialty is international tours geared toward adventurous retirees, and we've been fortunate to have found a core group of loyal Iowa seniors to fill seats even when the economy is in free fall.

This trip, we're overflowing with guests thanks to a marketing idea Etienne thought up. Since we'll be traveling in Bavaria during Oktoberfest, he made arrangements to have four of our local brass bands strut their stuff in several of Munich's famous beer halls. We'd been peppered with so many inquiries, we had to turn people away. For the first time in our travel experience, we're hosting seniors who are, quite literally, even more accomplished at tooting their own horns than Bernice, which is why we're calling our tour the Sounds of Music.

“Do you have one of those 1-900 numbers?” asked a female guest who was dressed in a traditional Oktoberfest costume of long skirt, apron, fitted bodice, and provocatively low-cut blouse. If not for her high-end shoulder bag with the designer's initials stamped all over it, she could have been mistaken for a time traveler from another century. Her name was Astrid Peterson, and though she was eyeing sixty through the rearview mirror, she was still a knockout with her winter-white hair and ultra-fit figure. “You know, like a person dials 1-900-PSYCHIC and they have their fortune told over the phone for a big fat fee?”

“Psychics have 900 numbers?” asked Dick Teig, a native Iowan whose potbelly was rivaled only by the size of his unusually large head. “I'll be jiggered. I thought that 900 exchange was reserved for phone sex.”

Helen Teig pinned her husband with a look that caused her
penciled-on eyebrows to collide above her nose. “And you know that
how
?”

“I'm not a psychic,” corrected Zola, raising her voice to be heard above the tolling bells. “I'm a clairvoyant.”

“What's the difference?” asked Astrid.

“
Psychic
sounds cheesy. It makes people think of credit card scams and those 900 numbers.
Clairvoyant
affirms my status as a professional.”

“So you're a
professional
psychic,” clarified Margi Swanson, our resident Windsor City Clinic nurse whose war on germs had single-handedly caused the price of hand sanitizer stock to go through the roof.

Zola humored her with a smile. “I'm a certified public accountant. The clairvoyance is just a sideline, but it comes in handy at work—not to mention church fairs and cocktail parties.”

Applause and whistles rang out from the festival crowd as the tolling bells morphed into the unexpectedly tinny chimes of a carillon. “Can anyone name that tune?” I asked as the notes clunked out over the square.

“There's a tune?” questioned Helen Teig.

“Oh, look!” enthused Margi, pointing at two Punch and Judy-like stages high on the tower where figures reminiscent of marionettes suddenly came to life. Trumpeters, jesters, guildsmen, and bannermen paraded in both clockwise and counterclockwise directions like decoys in a circular shooting gallery. Dancers in white hose and breeches spun and twirled. Knights on powerful steeds charged straight at each other with lances raised. “Aww. How adorable is that?” Margi cooed.

Holding up her smartphone at arm's length, she rounded her lips into an expression of pleasant surprise and snapped a photo of herself.

“Okay, my curiosity is getting the better of me,” said Astrid, “so if you want to tell my fortune, I'll give it a whirl. You do it for free, right?”

“You bet. No one in the family has charged for a reading since my grandmother got in trouble with the IRS for failing to report her income. Gramma was pretty flamboyant with her flowing scarves and crystal ball, so she made a killing. But she ended up having to use most of it to pay off all the government penalties and fines.”

Astrid giggled with enthusiasm. “So what do I do?”

Zola made a gimme gesture. “Give me your dominant hand.”

Astrid angled the handle of her rolling instrument case toward me. “Would you hang onto my accordion case, Emily? And whatever you do, don't let go. It's my baby.”

“Sure.” I clasped the handle and regarded the molded shell. It was the same color as an airplane—platinum silver—and looked obscenely expensive with all its state-of-the-art hinges and locks. The other band members were schlepping their instruments, too—in trumpet cases, trombone cases, clarinet cases, banjo cases, and enormous tuba cases—but none of them were quite as spectacular as Astrid Peterson's.

Zola Czarnecki sandwiched Astrid's hand between her own, bowed her head, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

“I actually have butterflies in my stomach,” whispered Astrid.

“No talking, please,” said Zola.

Bernice rolled her eyes. “How 'bout we cut to the chase?” She squinted into Astrid's face and in a raspy vibrato declared, “You're going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger.”

“Shh,” Zola scolded, her concentration unbroken.

High on the bell tower, the jousting match ended as the blue knight unseated the red knight, sending him toppling backward over his horse's rump. A cheer went up from the crowd, but I wasn't sure whether they were celebrating the blue knight's victory or the fact that the discordant carillon chimes were finally ending. Laughter. Clapping. And then, as if they'd been jolted by a sudden seismic shift, they were on the move, heading off in every compass direction.

“Destinations Travel guests,” our tour director called out as he raised his striped umbrella high into the air. “Gather 'round, please.”

We'd hired friend and longtime tour director Wally Peppers to manage the troops on this outing. Middle-aged and chipmunk-cheeked, he wasn't embarrassed to admit that when it came to the ladies, his batting average hovered around zero. But he was a consummate professional who knew Europe better than most people knew their backyards, so we felt fortunate to have him aboard.

“The walk to the Hofbr
ä
uhaus is a bit tricky,” he announced in a loud voice. “I don't want to lose anyone in this mob, so I encourage all of you to stay together. I'll lead the way, and Emily and Etienne will bring up the rear in case any of you get waylaid.”

The bands were scheduled to make their debut appearances at Munich's famous beer hall later this afternoon, so we were making the trek on foot—which, Wally assured us, was the quickest way to travel short distances in Munich during Oktoberfest. The plan was to arrive with plenty of time to spare so guests could take a seat, order some authentic German cuisine, wash it all down with a pitcher of Germany's best beer, and soak up the festive atmosphere before hitting the stage.

Margi Swanson waved her hand over her head. “What if we accidentally take a wrong turn?”

“If you stay with the group, there's no way that'll happen,” Wally affirmed.

To my left, Astrid Peterson bobbed her head and smiled nervously as she waited for her fortune to be divulged, her gaze riveted on Zola, who was steeped in a trancelike state despite the surrounding chaos.

“How do you want us to line up?” asked Alice Tjarks in a voice that had kept listeners tuned in to KORN radio's hog market reports for decades. “By age?”

“No fair doing oldest first,” complained Bernice. “That automatically puts Osmond in the front of the line.”

Osmond Chelsvig was nearing the century mark, so the “oldest first” system was always rigged in his favor.

“How 'bout height?” tossed out Dick Stolee, whose salon-styled toupee rocketed him to two inches over the six-foot mark. In a stiff wind it rocketed him to three. “Tallest first.”

“Show of hands,” Osmond piped up in his ongoing role as pollster-in-chief. “How many people think we should line up by height?”

“Objection!” shouted George Farkas, waving his Pioneer Seed Corn hat above his head. “Tallest first always forces Marion to the back of the line.”

George and my nana, Marion Sippel, have been an item for years now. At four foot eight inches tall, Nana was the shortest one in the group. She used to be four foot ten, but on her way to eighty-something she lost another couple of inches, which sticks her in the same height percentile as the seven dwarves. What she lacks in stature, however, she more than makes up for in street smarts, common sense, and TV knowledge. Her formal education might have ended in the eighth grade, but she's the smartest person I know, not to mention the wealthiest. Her financial savvy has allowed her to translate a modest win in the lottery into millions.

“As a consideration to the vertically challenged,” George continued, “I motion that we do shortest first.”

“I know!” All eyes riveted on my mom, who was hovering at Nana's side like an unwanted shadow, her little moon face bursting with excitement. “Alphabetical order!”

This was a pretty typical suggestion coming from Mom, whose affinity for order had started with the Dewey decimal system and escalated into an obsessive compulsion to alphabetize everything from canned soup to clothing labels. Mom was so busy rearranging stuff for everyone that she had yet to realize that Nana and George were an item, and that suited Nana just fine. Mom viewed Nana's independent lifestyle as a problem that needed fixing, so their clashing opinions always managed to spark fireworks.

“You don't need to line up in any order,” Wally instructed. “If you should happen to lose sight of the group, which is highly unlikely, either consult the map I handed out earlier or access the GPS on your smartphones. Are you all carrying your phones?”

In one fluid motion the group seized their phones and whipped them into the air as if they were flashing police badges—all except my dad, Bob Andrew, who had his eye glued to his camcorder, capturing the sights and sounds of the exiting crowd, which would no doubt include a slew of unwanted pavement and shoe shots. Dad could dismantle a John Deere tractor engine and piece it back together again, but operating the standby, record, and power off functions on his camcorder continued to befuddle him.

“It'll be about a ten-minute walk,” Wally continued. “Fifteen if the crowd doesn't thin. Everybody ready?”

Tapping her foot with a hint of impatience, Astrid Peterson stared at Zola as if to impart her own psychic message:
Hurry up!

My phone chimed with a sudden text alert. I dug it out of my shoulder bag and scanned the screen—a one-word plea from Nana in caps:
help!

I shot a glance in her direction to find her eyes screaming with desperation as Mom fussed over her with the fervor of a lioness tending to her cub. “You don't have to worry about losing me in the crowd,” Mom assured her. “I've come prepared.”

With a quick sleight of hand, Mom slapped a band around Nana's wrist.

“What the devil?” Nana raised her arm to display a long strap tethering her wrist to Mom's.

“I found it at Pills Etcetera,” Mom burbled with excitement.

“Which section?” Nana clawed at the wristband. “The pet aisle?”

Mom shooed her hand away. “It's a toddler tether.”

“It's a leash,” squawked Nana.

“Stop poking at it, Mother. It needs to last all the way through Bavaria.” Mom cocked her head, regarding it with an emotion akin to adoration. “It was either this or a body harness, so I decided a wristband would be less conspicuous. Besides, the harnesses were labeled one size fits all, and I'm pretty sure you'd need a husky. What do you think?”

Nana gave a hard suck on her uppers, chins quivering, bosom heaving, eyes narrowed to slits. “I think if I'm still wearin' this dang contraption by the time I count to three, there's gonna be consequences—
d
ire
consequences. One…”