From Bad to Wurst (4 page)

Egon Seiler removed a paper from the inner pocket of his suit and snapped it open with a flick of his wrist. “‘To the guests of Destinations Travel: I am at a loss to find words to express my sorrow for the tragic incident that occurred earlier today. It is unconscionable that a visitor to our city should lose her life as a result of walking down one of our streets. Sadly, decades after the bombing of Munich, we continue to deal with the consequences. I only wish I could reverse the outcome of today's misfortune.

“‘Sources have reported to me that despite the horror and confusion in the aftermath of the explosion, many Destinations Travel guests remained at the scene, offering assistance to the injured, with little concern for their own personal safety. There is no way the
people
of Munich can repay this act of generosity and courage, but we would like to try by offering you the key to our city. Wherever you travel in Munich, doors will be open to you. You will receive the best tables when you dine, upgraded hotel rooms, free admission to our museums and historic sights, and because I'm told that many of you are members of brass bands, we invite you to perform at whatever Oktoberfest tent you choose—the Schottenhamel, the Hippodrom, the Hofbrau-Festzelt, the Lowenbrau-Festzelt, or the Hacker-Festzelt.'”

Whoops of surprise. Gasps of delight.

“‘The city of Munich will accommodate you in whatever way we can, but there is truly no courtesy we can provide that will ever match the bravery you demonstrated today. The citizens of Munich remain forever in your debt.' Signed, Klaus Richter, Mayor of Munich.” Egon looked up from the paper, businesslike and efficient. “I would like to add my own thanks to the words of the mayor. I'm admiring of your courage. You are true heroes.”

A sea change descended upon the room. Smiles appeared. Eyes brightened. Spirits rose. All except for the four Guten Tags, who suddenly looked even more down in the mouth than they'd looked before. And why not? The other bands would be gearing up to play in the major leagues of all oompah bands—in an Oktoberfest tent—while the Guten Tags would get stuck watching. I'd be heartbroken too.

“If it would not be an intrusion,” Egon continued, “would you object to giving interviews? Our local paper would like to run a feature story that showcases all of you.”

Bernice bounced to her feet. “I'm the person they'll want to talk to. Zwerg. Bernice Zwerg.” She brandished her phone in the air. “I got pictures of the whole thing, and for the right price, I'll be happy to share.”

From somewhere in the hall, I heard a rhythmic squeaking sound that evoked images of the hated grocery store cart with the wonky wheel. What in the world? I glanced toward the open door, surprised when Etienne crossed the threshold, his hand locked around the handle of—

“Astrid's accordion case!” wailed the woman with the nasally voice.

It was so encrusted with dried mud that its silver skin was camouflaged beneath what looked like a layer of beige stucco. But I saw no gaping holes. No obvious dents. No missing hinges. Other than the annoyingly squeaky wheel, it looked to be in pretty good shape.

The Guten Tags swarmed the case as if they were celebrating the return of Astrid herself, and in true flash mob tradition, their fellow band members leaped out of their folding chairs to join them, whooping, laughing, and high-fiving.

“Is her accordion damaged?” asked Otis.

“Let's check,” said Hetty.

The band members circled it as if they were about to witness a rare surgical procedure in an operating theater. Etienne extricated himself to join Wally and the suits.

“A reporter will be contacting you about the interviews,” Egon announced to the half of the room that wasn't huddled around the instrument case.

I heard several clicks, followed by a collective inhalation of breath and a hopeful “Ooooh.”

“It's okay!” cried Hetty. “Good as new. Not a scratch on it.”

Backslapping. Cheering. More high-fiving.

Having said apparently all he'd planned to say, Egon spoke briefly to both Wally and Etienne before he and the hotel manager underwent another round of handshaking and left. I could feel myself fading fast, so I hoped I could be next out the door.

“I have one final announcement,” said Wally, directing his voice toward the musicians who'd become deaf to anything but the sounds of their own exuberance. Glancing toward me, he indicated that I should let loose with my signature whistle, but before I could even stretch my lips into position, the room exploded with the thunderous sounds of screeching tires, shattered glass, crumpling steel, and blaring horns.

Cries went up from the musicians as they spun in circles dodging invisible cars while my guys sat calmly in their chairs, rolling their eyes.

“I've got a new app on my phone,” confessed Dick Teig in a sheepish tone. He held up the device. “Ear-Shattering Noises. That one's called Fifty-Car Pileup on I-95.”

“Play 'em the one with the industrial-size leaf blowers,” encouraged Dick Stolee. “No kidding. You need ear protectors to listen to it.”

Wally flashed a droll smile. “We've heard enough. Thanks for sharing. So my final item of business is that dinner will be served in the hotel restaurant in an hour.” He eyed Dick Teig. “And no Ear- Shattering Noises in the dining room.”

“What about the rest of us?” asked the man in the red waistcoat. “When do we get to play the Oktoberfest tent?”

“I'll make those arrangements through the mayor's office. But when do you want to play? As early as tomorrow or later in the week?”

Otis fondled the handle of Astrid's case, his face glum. “If we could find another accordion player, the Guten Tags would be able to make an appearance too. I was all set to be happy about watching everyone else play, but now that her instrument has found its way back to us undamaged, I'm thinking it's some kind of sign from beyond the grave. I think Astrid
wants
us to play.”

“I think so too,” agreed Wendell. “Our other decision might have been premature.”

“Do any of you musicians have expertise with more than one instrument?” I called out.

“I play the piano,” said the woman with the nasally voice. “But I couldn't learn the nuances of the accordion in time to be of any help.”

Otis made a plea to the rest of the room. “Can you folks help us out? Do any of you play an instrument?”

Lucille Rasmussen raised her hand. “Are spoons considered an instrument? My Dick used to play the spoons on his bare belly, but he died on his very first trip to Europe with Emily, so we're spared the embarrassment of having to listen to him.”

“Do you suppose we could rent a musician?” suggested Gilbert. “Maybe they have stores here that are like Ace Rental back home, only instead of renting out generators and power washers, they rent out accordionists.”

That started a buzz that grew so loud, we nearly missed the voice from the back of the room. “I might be able to help you out.”

Otis whipped his head around to ferret out the mystery voice. “What'd you say?”

“I said, I might be able to help you out.”

I froze mid-breath, too stunned to finish inhaling.

Dad
?

four

“Why is your father
offering to help?” asked Mom as she squinted toward the back of the room. “He doesn't even know how to whistle.”

Dad stood up. “It's been a long time, but if you're in a bind, I might be able to pinch-hit for you.”

Gasps. Hoots. Clapping.

“Hallelujah!” whooped Otis. “Come on up here and have a look at this thing, then. This is unbelievable. It's gonna happen, folks! Astrid is pulling strings from above.”

“Good Lord,” Mom wheezed as Dad marched to the front of the room. “What is he doing? He doesn't play the accordion.”

“Are you sure?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “We've been married for forty-one years. If he played a musical instrument, don't you think he would have mentioned it by now?”

“Maybe he's been waiting for just the right moment to spring it on you.”

“Your father does
not
play the accordion.” She buried her face in her hands and slumped forward over her lap. “He's going to make a fool of himself, and
I'll
be the one who'll have to bear the stigma and humiliation.”

“C'mon, Mom. Nana has always preached that no one can embarrass us except ourselves.”

“Your grandmother obviously told you all sorts of stupid things when you were growing up.” She bowed her head lower. “I have to warn you, Emily, I'm praying for God to strike me dead, so if you don't see me in the morning, you'll know what happened.”

I gave her shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Wouldn't you be better off praying for Dad to be granted the ability to play the accordion?”

She squeaked out a sound not dissimilar to the one Tosca might have made before she flung herself off the battlements of Castel Sant'Angelo.

Poor Mom. The anguish…the strain…the burden. No doubt about it: this would probably go down on record as the most exciting part of her trip.

I checked out the interactions up front: Otis lifting the accordion out of its case and handing it off to Dad. Dad hefting it in his arms.

I shifted in my chair for a better view. “Wow. You should see this baby, Mom. It's candy-apple red with a keyboard that looks like it's marbled with mother-of-pearl. And there's a big intricate diamond design on the bellows. And red marbled housing.” I smiled in amazement. “And Dad actually looks pretty comfortable holding it.”

Soft whimpering sounds escaped from Mom's throat as Wendell encouraged Dad to try it on for size. Dad slipped his arms through a set of wide straps and crushed the accordion to his chest. “Looks like we've got us a live one!” hooted Otis as the other musicians suddenly fell into each other snorting, laughing, and knee-slapping.

A befuddled look settled on Dad's face.

Hetty eased the instrument off Dad's chest and flipped it 180 degrees. “A small helpful hint, Bob. You'll find a piano accordion easier to play if you're not holding it upside down.”

Play
an accordion? He didn't even know how to
hold
an accordion.

Oh, God
. I needed to get Mom out of here before the embarrassment became too crippling for her. “Would you like to go back to your room to freshen up before dinner, Mom?”

Snatching her hands away from her eyes, she jackknifed upward, resolve stamped on her face. “I know what I'll do. I'll fly home. So if your father wants to continue this fool's errand, he won't be able to humiliate anyone but himself—and the musicians, and you, and Etienne, and the rest of the tour guests, and your tour company in general.” She paused in reflection. “Maybe you'd like to fly home with me.”

A frisson of alarm coiled in my stomach. Holy crap. She was serious.
How
could this be happening? I'd learned to contend with foul weather, feuding guests, unexpected death, and Bernice, but I had no idea how to contend with dissention between my parents. I couldn't even refer to the updated version of my
Escort's Manual
because I'd written it, and I hadn't included a section that dealt with parental discord.

OhGodohGodohGod
. I had no other choice. I was going to have to initiate the nuclear option.

My throat started to close in protest. “What about me?” I gasped out in a hoarse breath.

The resolve on her face suddenly wilted.

“I thought you and I were going to be joined at the hip until I started feeling like myself again.”

I could see the war playing out in her eyes. Commitment or flight? Humiliation or duty? Good mother or bad mother?

She tucked in her lips, looking contrite. “I'm sorry, Emily. Your father has upset me so much that I completely forgot about you.”

“No problem,” I soothed. “I know it's been traumatic for you.”

“You understand me so well.” She patted my hand while Dad, in the front of the room, surrounded by a full complement of musicians, gawked at his marbled keyboard and chord buttons with a clueless look on his face.

Mom regarded him and winced. “So I'll stay with the tour until you're feeling better…and
then
I'll fly home. Do you have any idea how long you might need me? Another day? Maybe two?”

Okay, I hadn't solved the problem, but at least I'd gained a little breathing space to work things out.

Dad expanded the bellows, generating a mournful drone that sounded like ailing bagpipes. “That does it.” Mom shot to her feet. “I've had enough. You stay right here. I'll get your key from Etienne and take you up to your room.”

“Has the meeting been adjourned yet?” Osmond called out over the whining bellows.

“Meeting adjourned,” announced Wally.

They vacated their seats in typical “mad dash” fashion, bumping into each other as they tried to cut each other off. “Watch where you're going!” I cautioned as they raced past me, monitoring the readout screens on their phones as they fled.

“How are you doing, Emily? Are you all right?” Zola Czarnecki paused in front of me, her freckled face creased with concern. “When I heard the explosion I feared the worst, so I can't begin to tell you how thankful I am that there weren't more casualties.”

I grasped her hand and stared her straight in the eye, torn between disbelief and awe. “You knew.” My voice caught in my throat like a fish bone. “You knew what was going to happen.”

“Not exactly. I got spooked by a bad vibe that turned out to be more than just a vibe.”

“But…how could you have sensed what was about to happen on that street? How is that possible?”

She shrugged. “It's a clairvoyant thing. I don't expect civilians to understand the process, but what it boils down to is, I'm not wired the same as everyone else.”

Guilt gnawed at my conscience, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. “I should have gotten the word out—warned the other guests. If I'd told them about your misgivings, maybe—”

Zola held up her other hand, cutting me off. “You think they would have believed me? Shoot,
you
didn't believe me. You thought I was a pain in the butt and a little nuts, and don't tell me otherwise because I could see it in your eyes. You started thinking the ole clairvoyant might prove herself to be not only annoying but a real financial drain on your whole operation. I dare you to tell me I'm wrong.”

Wow. If she could see all that in my eyes, I needed to think about blinking more. “I—uh, I guess the financial implications did enter my mind…a little.”

“Which is why when I get my twinges, I try not to shove them down anyone else's throat. But I'm not about to charge straight into the jaws of danger if my ears start humming and every hair on my body is standing on end.”

“Is that what happens when you get one of your twinges?”

“Nah. That's the Hollywood version, but it's as good as any. I've never been able to explain what happens exactly because I'm being bombarded by too many sensations when it hits me, but my ma used to say it was like getting zapped by a bolt of lightning, only on a smaller scale.”

“Sounds a little scary.”

“I don't recommend it to the general public. People think it would be so cool to be clairvoyant, but I'll let you in on a secret: it's highly overrated. Way too much grief involved.”

Her words spurred two images. Zola standing in the plaza, head bowed, eyes closed, focusing all her energy on Astrid Peterson's hand, and Zola releasing Astrid's hand, looking completely unnerved. “You knew Astrid was going to die, didn't you? You saw it when you did your hand-holding thing.”

“That's not true. I had no idea she only had minutes to live.”

“Then what caused you to look so alarmed after you released her hand, remember? Your expression frightened her so much, she asked if you'd seen something horrible in her future, and you said no.”

“I told her the truth.”

“Then why did you look so rattled? If you didn't see her imminent death, what
did
you see?”

“
That's
what frightened me. I can always predict something—something fun and harmless: a birthday party, a wedding, a vacation. It's never unclear.” Her eyes grew haunted. She elevated her hands and stared at her palms. “But when I tried with Astrid, I felt as if my whole system had broken down. It was the first time anything like that had ever happened to me. It scared the bejeebers out of me. It was like looking into a black hole. When I was holding Astrid's hand, I didn't see the future.”

She lifted her gaze to my face, fear rampant in her eyes. “I saw nothing at all.”

Mom dropped me off at my door.

“Do you want me to come inside with you, Em? I could run a hot bath or rub your feet or get you a snack out of the minibar.” A hint of excitement crept into her voice. “I don't know how the treats are organized in the minibar, but I'll bet no one takes the time to arrange them properly.”

Our boutique hotel maintained a certain European charm by providing us with actual door keys rather than key cards, but the downside was, if we didn't return the hardware at the end of our stay, they'd tack an added fee onto our bill. I wasn't running the show here, but in this age of keyless ignitions and thumbprint entry locks, room keys seemed almost a little too retro to be practical.

As I inserted my key into the doorknob, Mom rubbed her hands together, champing at the bit to get inside. When I heard a click, I turned the knob and eased the door open.

“Thanks for the offer, Mom, but I'm good. Really. Why don't you take the rest of the night off? Dinner's in less than an hour, so go have a drink. Shmooze. Enjoy yourself. Etienne will be up in a few minutes, so I'll be just fine until tomorrow…when…when I'll look forward to hanging out with you”—I inhaled a steadying breath—“All. Day. Long.”

She hesitated at the threshold. “You're sure? Because if you need me, I'll gladly miss supper.”

I gave her a hug. “I'm fine. Thanks for all your help, and I'll see you in the morning. Okay?”

She craned her neck to peek inside the room. “If you'd like that stack of magazines on the desk organized, it wouldn't take me a minute to—”

“If you can hold out until tomorrow, I'll be happy to have you come in and organize to your heart's content. All right?”

“You bet.” She shivered with delight. “Would you look at me?” She shoved her sleeve toward her elbow to show me her forearm. “I've got goose bumps just thinking about it. You run along and rest, then, and call if you need me for anything. Anything at all.”

After closing the door, I headed immediately for the desk where Etienne's leather messenger bag was sitting. I unsnapped the main flap, removed a sheaf of documents from the first compartment, and found the page I was looking for on the very top. I scanned the sheet for the information I needed, repeated the information aloud to reinforce my memory, and headed back out the door and down the corridor until I arrived at the room I was looking for. It was pretty handy that we were on the same floor.

I knocked on the door and waited.

And waited.

I heard no telltale sounds indicating the room was occupied, but I knew for a fact that someone was inside and standing at the security peephole, looking out at me.

I knocked again. “Open up. I know you're in there. I can see your shadow at the base of the door.”

Whispering. Shushing. Then silence.

I checked my watch. “If you don't head down to dinner within the next ten minutes, you'll probably have to wait in a really long line at the buffet station, so I'm going to stay right here and wait you out.”

More whispers. Footsteps shuffling on the carpet. Heavy breathing. An odd crinkling sound.

I looked down to find a small rectangle of paper inching its way into the hall from beneath the door. I snatched it up. A personal check with my name listed as the payee. I rolled my eyes. “I don't want your money, Nana.”

“But it's a million dollars.”

“Open the door.”

The lock clicked. The door opened.

Nana and Tilly stood on the other side—Nana looking physically diminished and shamefaced, Tilly looking tall and professorial. “I warned Marion that you wouldn't accept her blood money,” said Tilly.

“You were right.” I ripped the check in two and handed it back to Nana.

Nana's expression brightened. “How about two million? I got more checks.”

“No! I will not ease your guilty conscience by taking your money.”

“Three million?”

“Why'd you do it?” I regarded her sternly. “You and I have always been on the same page when it comes to dealing with Mom—until today. Why'd you sell me out?”

She heaved a pathetic sigh. “It was one of them acts of desperation. I'm not proud of what I done, but when I seen an openin', I took it. I'm sorry for bein' a traitor, dear, but if your mother's plannin' to be a millstone around my neck for this whole trip, I'd rather go home.”