From Bad to Wurst (14 page)

“Hypothetically speaking, what would motivate someone to kill Zola?” I asked Etienne as we slogged up the path. I felt as if we were following the Yellow Brick Road around the outer edge of the Big Rock Candy Mountain.

He shook his head. “I have no idea. She was the one guest who had no prior connection to either the musicians or the Windsor City gang before she signed up for that final spot. So if someone did indeed kill her, they had to have developed an exceedingly strong dislike of her almost instantly.”

“Her predictions were pretty unsettling for a couple of guests.” Like the fact that Dick Teig was shallow. Although the only person who was shocked by the revelation of that bombshell was Dick Teig himself. “But she was remarkably on target. Could someone have killed her out of fear of what she might reveal?”

“It's certainly a possibility. If plans had worked out as scheduled last night, Zola would have ended up telling
everyone's
fortune.”

Holy crap. If Zola's death was ruled a homicide, Maisie's innocent suggestion could certainly become more significant.

Without meaning to, Maisie might have goaded someone into committing murder.

fourteen

Our tour number was
already posted when we reached the waiting area, so we kept on trucking.

After leaning over a guardrail of perfectly chiseled stone to peer into the depths of a wooded ravine that thundered with the sounds of rushing water, we huffed and puffed the last few yards to walk beneath the raised portcullis of the Grand Entrance gate—a wide arching portal flanked by a façade of red brick and bookended by cylindrical twin towers that looked taller than Dad's grain silos. Bypassing the requisite gift shop, we emerged into a courtyard that boasted a theme park ambiance with its electronic scanners, turnstiles, monitors, and rope barriers.

The castle soared around us like a Hollywood sound stage enhanced by special effects—turrets and towers, witch-hatted roofs and balconies, parapets and crenelated moldings. It was more delicate than Harry Potter's Hogwarts and grander than Tolkien's Minas Tirith. But its design was so whimsical, it cultivated the impression of an architectural theater rather than a fortress.

We followed Wally's umbrella toward the electronic sign board at the far end of the courtyard and realized that by dillydallying on the walkway, we'd probably knocked a huge chunk of time off our wait. According to the number posted on the monitor, our tour would be up next.

Sometime during our ascent Bernice had gained more male admirers, who now formed an impenetrable circle around her, teasing, laughing, flirting, snapping photos. Even the two Dicks were sniffing around the perimeter, wanting, no doubt, to ogle the eye candy without drawing the ire of their wives. The rest of the gang were actually making use of their camera phones, but instead of shooting pictures of the lofty towers that spiraled to near impossible heights, they were extending their arms, saying cheese, and taking selfies.

“Are any of you planning to take a picture of the castle?” I asked as I wandered into their midst. “I can guarantee a space in our brochure for the best shot.”

“Maybe you should buy a postcard,” suggested Helen as she mugged for a selfie with Lucille and Grace. “They probably sell really nice ones in the gift shop.”

I leveled a flinty look on the bunch of them. “Does the idea of a post-tour photo exchange hold no appeal for anyone anymore?”

Silence. Shrugs. Downcast eyes.

“Have you taken
any
pictures of the places we've visited so far?” I admonished. “What are you planning to put in your photo albums?”

“We don't bother with albums anymore,” Alice Tjarks spoke up. “We download content to our computers and iPads and burn CDs so we don't have to fuss with paper.”

“Okay, but…how are you going to remember what you've seen if you have no visual reminders of where you've been?”

Osmond raised his hand. “Is that a trick question?”

“We can remember what we've seen,” Margi assured me.

I crossed my arms and raised questioning brows. “Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

They gathered around me, flipping through the photo galleries on their screens at warp speed. “Here we go,” cried Margi as she thrust her phone toward me. “This is the big plaza in Munich where we stood around looking at that glockenspiel thing.”

I eyed the image. “That's a close-up of your face.”

“Right. That's me watching those little figures go 'round. See how amused I look?”

“I don't think you look amused,” countered Helen as she perused the screen. “I think you look bored.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I think she looks bewildered,” said Lucille.

“I do not,” snapped Margi. “
This
is bewildered.” She bunched her brows over her nose, rounded her eyes, and pursed her lips. “My bewildered look in no way resembles my amused look.”

George glanced from Margi's phone to her face. “Look the same to me.”

“I've got one,” said Osmond as he pushed toward me, waving his phone. “This is the Little Red Riding Hood House in Oberga—Obarm—that town with the Humpty Dumpty sculpture.”

His eyes, nose, and forehead filled the screen. I sighed. “So where's the house?”

“Right in front of me, on the other side of the street. This is when I'm looking at it.”

“Are you sure that was the Little Red Riding Hood House?” asked Grace as she flipped madly through her gallery. “I have a picture exactly like that of the Passion Play House.” She held up her own half-headed shot. “See?” She hesitated. “Or is this the Hippodrom? Shoot, I might have to label these.”

“That must be the Hippodrom,” insisted Helen. “See how blurry it is? Looks like
someone
drank a little too much beer last night.”

“Does this place look familiar to anyone?” asked George as he flashed a headshot of himself around. “I don't look amused, bewildered, bored, or drunk, so I don't know where the hell I was.”

“That's our number,” announced Wally, gesturing toward the monitor. “Okay, everyone. We're up.”

We merged together in a disorganized clump before queuing up to run our tickets through the scanners. Mom came up beside me, ushered by Dad. “Em, do you know—”

“We're in Germany, Mom. At the most visited fairy-tale castle in the world.”

“I know. Your father just told me.” She inched closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you know who that woman over there is? The one who's attracting attention from all the men. Is she famous or something?”

“That's Bernice Zwerg, Mom.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She stretched her neck for a better look, giving Bernice a thorough once-over. “Seriously. Who is it?”

I noticed that Hetty Munk was also giving Bernice the eye, but unlike Mom, she didn't look as if she were being motivated by curiosity.

Hetty Munk was throwing daggers.

So what was up with that?

At the far end of the courtyard we were greeted by an attendant who directed us through a door and into a foyer that felt as cramped as a lighthouse tower. “Where's the elevator?” demanded Bernice when she saw the staircase that spiraled upward in front of us. “I'm not climbing all those stairs. What is this? The Leaning Tower of Pisa?”

“I'll give you a hand,” offered Arlin Foote.

“I've got this,” said Wendell as he took possession of her arm.

We climbed around and around and around. I don't know how many stories we racked up, but it was enough to leave us all winded as we exited into an interminably long corridor where our guide awaited us. He introduced himself as Sepp, a gray-haired pensioner whose thick German accent was going to make listening a challenge.

Well, maybe not so much listening as understanding.

“Velcome to Neuschwanstein Castle, or New Shvon Stone Castle as vee sometimes refer to it, former home of King Ludvig II of Bavaria. The castle vas constructed between the years 1869 and 1892, and as I valk you tru the halls, you vill note that the shvon symbol is prevalent everyvair you look.”

Margi raised her hand. “What's a shvon?”

“Shvon, madam? You do not know vot shvon is?” He spread his arms as if they were wings and began flapping them like a prehistoric bird. “Shvon?”

“Sepp is referring to a swan,” Wally informed us. “It was Ludwig's heraldic animal.”

“We need to be on the English tour,” hollered Bernice.

“Dis
is
the English tour,” corrected Sepp.

“Sure it is,” she muttered. “And I'm Daffy Duck.”

“Neuschwanstein Castle is a mythical knight's castle,” Sepp continued, “combining operatic lore, chivalric legends, and the romanticism of the Middle Ages.”

I wasn't sure that the era best known for the Black Plague, open sewers, and non-pillowtop mattresses could be considered romantic, but hey, this wasn't my gig.

“As vee proceed into the palace, I ask you to alvays remain on the carpet, behind the rope barriers. Photography is strictly forbidden. Please to follow me.”

The Dicks tracked me down as we climbed the unpolished marble risers of the main staircase, falling in step on either side of me. Dick Teig cradled his phone in his palm and flashed it surreptitiously to show me the photo on his screen. “Emily, who's the babe?”

“Is she with us?” pressed Dick Stolee. “Where'd she come from?”

I rolled my eyes. “She came from Windsor City, guys. That's Bernice.”

“No way,” snorted Dick Teig.

“Way,” I shot back as we entered a long cavernous hall. It was narrower on one end than the other and mimicked the shape of a blunt-ended cake server. The room was dominated by a vaulted ceiling and colorful wall murals that depicted a sword blade being whacked by a mallet-wielding blacksmith, a knight gasping his last breath, and an ancient king having intense discourse on what might have been vital issues of the day, like undocumented barbarians or feudal-care health options.

“Dis room is the Lower Hall, or westibule,” Sepp began. “It separates the Throne Hall on our right vit the king's apartments on our left. The vall paintings represent scenes from the Nordic Sigurd saga, and…”

“Bernice doesn't look anything like this,” Dick Stolee rasped in my ear.

I gave him a palms up. “She does now.”

The guys gawked at each other in disbelief. “What'd she do?” asked Dick Teig.

“Beauty cream. She found one that really works.”

“Are you sure that's her?” Dick Stolee persisted.

“Is she wearing glittery
Wizard of Oz
ruby slippers?”

They danced left and right and bobbed their heads for a look-see.

“Yup,” said Dick Stolee.

“Shoot,” groaned Dick Teig. “That
is
Bernice.”

“You vill kindly proceed into the Throne Hall,” Sepp instructed, reminding us again to stay within the rope barriers. Dick Teig shuffled along beside me as I followed the group.

“Emily,” he asked in a pleading tone, “do you know where she bought the stuff? I need to get some for Helen.”

“Dis hall vas intended to velcome Ludvig's subjects vit their petitions to the King, but no subjects ever wizited the castle. Ludvig vas, how you say, a flaming introwert.”

Sepp's voice echoed in the vast emptiness of the chamber, floating up to the cupola that rose two stories above the marble floor and swirling around the lapis lazuli colonnades that flanked the upper gallery. The room resembled an Eastern Orthodox church with its white marble altar and gleaming splashes of gold. Religious images festooned the side walls while St. George undertook the task of slaying the dragon on the wall opposite the altar.

“The chandelier above is shaped like a Byzantine crown,” Sepp explained, prompting us to look up. “It veighs somesing close to thirteen hundred pounds, is made of gilded brass, and holds ninety-six candles.”

I drifted backward as I gaped up at the chandelier, hooking my foot on something that caused me to do a little stutter step to regain my balance.

Tilly's cane.

“Careful!” cried Tilly as she grabbed my forearm to right me. Nana stood beside her, looking uncharacteristically glum, her
Iowa: It's Pretty Corny
sweatshirt splattered with a mysterious substance that left a trail of stains from her neckline to the rib-knit hem. It looked as if a migratory flock of birds had used her sweatshirt for target practice.

I flickered a finger at the blotches. “Are those…?”

“Bird droppin's?” She looked down her nose at her chest. “Nope. This is your mother's doin'.”

“What'd she spill?”

“She didn't spill nuthin'. She's been squirtin' me with them dang bottles of hand sanitizer what Margi give her on account of she thinks I'm contagious. Every time I get within two feet of her, she blasts me.”

This is what happens when your mother spends a lifetime shunning all things science fiction. She nurtures the mistaken impression that a glob of hand gel will provide the same safeguard as a deflector shield. “I'm sorry, Nana. Do you want me to speak to her?”

“Won't do no good on account of she won't remember nuthin' you tell her.” She scrunched up her face as she studied the splotches. “Only good thing is, the stuff what Margi gave her don't smell too bad.” She pointed to a stain near her shoulder. “This one smells like strawberry jam, and this one”—she touched a place over her bosom—“smells like chocolate fudge. The more I inhale, the hungrier I get. By the time we get to our restaurant, I should have a pretty good appetite.”

We filed out of the Throne Hall and across the floor of the vestibule again, where we entered an oak-paneled room whose main purpose seemed to be that of a foyer.

“Dis is the anteroom to Ludvig's private apartments,” said Sepp. “A servant vas alvays on duty here to answer the call of the king. Many hours of boredom ver probably spent in dis chamber. The first room vee vill wizit vill be Ludvig's dining room.”

As we crowded into the room with its scarlet and gold textiles, parquet flooring, and paintings of long-haired kings, Etienne pulled me aside. “This happened more quickly than I imagined. The medical examiner's office must have a German-engineered mass spectrometer. They just sent me this text.” He handed me his phone.

The message was short and to the point.
re: zola czarnecki. death caused by nicotine ingestion. homicide investigation will ensue.

“Oh, no.” I exhaled a discouraged breath and handed him back his phone. “What now?”

“We'll finish the day's activities as planned, then travel back to Munich to see what awaits us. I'll give Wally a heads-up.”

“Are we sharing the information with the group?”

“Not yet. I'd prefer not to alert anyone to what lies ahead. Better our killer is lulled into a false sense of security before the hammer drops.”