The Wurst Is Yet to Come (11 page)

The mother turned around sharply. “He doesn't like Dr. Seuss. Ormy is very fussy about what he eats. I mean, what he
reads
.” She glared again at Jessi. “Maybe the plaster thing didn't harm Thurmy, but what about that bottle? If it broke, it could've cut him.”

Judith and Jessi both hurried to see what Thurmond's mother was talking about. Sure enough, there was a small bottle lying among the pieces that had once been Thomas Mann's bust.

“Hunh,” Jessi said, puzzled. “There's no label. It looks empty.”

Barry joined her after the miffed mother had picked up the blubbering Thurmond. “Hey,” he said, “maybe it's something used by whoever made the bust. A glaze or paint?”

“No idea,” Jessi responded, bending down to pick up the item.

Renie was leaning over Jessi's shoulder. “I'm a graphic designer, so I've seen bottles like that, but I wonder why there's no label.”

Judith took a closer look. “A medicine or a small liquor bottle? An exotic cooking ingredient?” She turned to Renie. “You're right—why is there no label or any other identification on it?”

Jessi turned around. “If the kid hadn't broken Mann's head, we'd never have seen it.” She looked from Judith to the parents. “Hey, I don't want any trouble. It's okay. But you should keep an eye on your children. The bigger one could've fallen off that ladder and hurt himself.”

“Aw,” the father said, “little boys like to explore.”

“Yes,” the mother chimed in, taking Thurmond in her arms and jiggling him in an effort to quiet him. “If you had children, you'd understand that they must be allowed to experiment and test their limits. Furthermore, we didn't find anything of interest in your shop. Don't you have any
good
books?”

Renie looked belligerent. “Maybe Ormond would enjoy eating a cookbook. Check the parenting section. You might learn something.”

“That does it!” the mother cried. “We're out of here!” She headed for the door. The father scooped up Ormond and was right behind her.

“No, you don't!” Renie yelled, rushing after the quartet and grabbing the father by his sleeve. “Citizen's arrest! Shoplifting!” She pulled a paperback legal thriller from the father's coat pocket. “Call the cops! Let's pat down the others—especially the kids.”

“No!” Jessi shouted. “Let them go! I don't want a fuss!”

Renie shrugged. “Your call. Beat it, you crooks.”

The not-so-happy family bolted out of the shop. Renie handed the paperback to Jessi. “Maybe you should have this checked for prints and run them through the ASIS database.”

“Why bother?” Jessi said wearily, shelving the book. “Hey, Barry, want to help me clean up the mess the little brat made?”

It was Judith's turn to step in. “I hate to harp, but maybe you'd better not touch the bottle. If I were you, I'd turn it over to the police.”

Barry stared at Judith. “You're serious?”

Judith hedged. “There's something about that bottle that bothers me. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I'd like to know how it got there.”

Jessi seemed mystified. “Are you spooked because of what happened to Mr. Wessler?”

Judith didn't bother to lie, fib, or pretend. “Yes. Who wouldn't be?”

 

Chapter Eight

B
arry looked startled. “Did you know the old guy?”

“No,” Judith replied. “But as witnesses, the police questioned us.”

“Me, too,” Barry said. “They told me he was stabbed.”

Judith nodded. “I realize that. I'm not suggesting any connection between the bottle and Mr. Wessler.” She turned to Jessi. “You'd toss it, right? So you won't care if my cousin and I take it with us.”

Jessi eyed her with suspicion. “Why?”

Judith was forced to use subterfuge. She put a hand on Renie's arm. “Mrs. Jones is a private investigator who's following up on an illegal drug-labeling case. She's working with law enforcement officials all over the state, including Chief Duomo.”

Jessi was incredulous. “Jones? Is that her real name? Prove it.”

Renie reached into her handbag. “Here's ID for my purchase.”

Jessi scrutinized Renie's driver's license. “You're a PI? My God! How come you've got chocolate on your elbow?”

“I do?” Renie looked at her arm. “Oh. Guess I missed that. I was interrogating people at the candy store. I really go deep on the job.”

Two elderly ladies entered the shop. Jessi put on her customer-friendly face. “How may I help you?” she asked.

“Quilts,” the plumper of the women said. “Do you have . . .”

Judith brushed past Jessi. “We'll clean up,” she whispered.

“Better start with the detective,” Barry said. “I'll get a broom and a dustpan.”

“And a plastic bag,” Judith murmured. Seeing Barry's puzzled look, she clarified her request. “Not for Mrs. Jones—for the bottle.”

Barry disappeared through a door by the counter. Renie was using a Kleenex to wipe the chocolate off her elbow. “Glad I didn't wear a long-sleeved sweater,” she remarked.

Judith was already gathering the plaster shards together while not touching the bottle. “It must've been put inside the bust through the hole in the bottom,” she said, lowering her voice. “There might be prints on these pieces, too.”

“You got a theory?” Renie asked.

Judith shook her head. “Only a question. Why would anyone put an unlabeled bottle in a bust of Thomas Mann?”

“Somebody who didn't think he should have won a Nobel Prize?”

Barry reappeared with the broom and a plastic grocery store bag. “No dustpan,” he said.

“No problem,” Judith said, standing up straight. “I'm going to sweep everything into the bag without touching it.”

“Wow.” Barry also kept his voice down, glancing at Jessi, who was handing crafts books to her new customers. “You're serious.”

“Crime is serious,” Judith said.

Barry posed a question to Renie. “Is she your assistant?”

Renie nodded. “She's not too bright, but she can do the dirty work. And she notices things, like that bottle. I operate on a higher intellectual plane. Thus, I let her do the grunt work. Like sweeping.”

“Wow,” he repeated, oblivious to the harsh look Judith gave Renie.

“Tell me,” Judith said, securing the plastic bag with a rubber band. “I mean, tell
us
what you know about Bob Stafford's murder.”

Barry was startled. “I don't know much more than anybody else. I arrived in town a few days after it happened. The cops seem baffled. I've been studying in Heidelberg, where I'm working on my doctorate in seventeenth-century history. My focus is the Thirty Years' War.”

“Too long,” Renie said. “Not as bad as the Hundred Years' War, but still . . .” She waved a hand in disgust. “Didn't those armies get
tired
?”

“Hey,” Barry said, “if you don't mind . . . I mean, I only know the bare facts about the murder. Why don't you talk to the police?”

“We will,” Judith said, then deferred to Renie. “Won't we?”

“Huh? Oh, sure. I've got it on my list of . . . STIFF. That stands for . . . ‘Suspects To Interrogate For Future.' ”

“Of course you would.” Barry seemed uncertain. “I'd better do . . . something.” He grabbed the broom and left through the side door.

“You're an idiot,” Judith said between gritted teeth. “Aren't you paying attention?”

“I was,” Renie replied, looking chagrined. “Then I saw that coffee-table book on Givenchy. It distracted me. You know I've always loved his fashion designs. What an eye for understated elegance!”

“Let's get out of here,” Judith said, grabbing Renie's arm. “Did you pay for your books?”

“I never had a chance,” Renie said, allowing herself to be propelled toward the door. “Jessi was interrupted by the kid busting the bust. I hope she hangs on to the books for Bill.”

Judith sighed as they went out onto the balcony. “That's okay. We'll come back later.”

“Small towns,” Renie muttered, starting down the stairs. “At least the witness pool is smaller than in the city. Unless, of course, all the suspects are staying at your B&B.”

“Not funny,” Judith shot back. “I'll admit, I still don't know what to think about Herr Wessler. The entire population, visitors included, is taking his death seriously. But that doesn't explain why two people have already confessed to murdering him.”

“Maybe they both stabbed him,” Renie suggested.

“You're reaching.” Judith paused, seeing two dozen uniformed Camp Fire Girls heading down the main street toward the exhibits. “Oh,” she went on, “I forgot there's a Camp Fire booth near ours. It's ten after three. I wonder if Connie's husband ever found her.”

“I thought you were going to take that bottle and those plaster chunks to the cops.”

Judith nodded. “Let's do it.”

The cousins had to wait for a horse-drawn carriage to pass by. The now-familiar blue-and-white-checkered Bavarian flags fluttered from the carriage's roof. The bearded lederhosen-clad driver waved. Judith and Renie waved back.

“The local version of a taxi?” Renie wondered aloud. “Why didn't we hail it? I'm tired of walking. You must be pooped.”

“I am,” Judith admitted, “but we have to play the game. If it is a game. Frankly, I have doubts.”

“So you said. I'm beginning to feel the same way. For one thing, I can't see Inbred Heffalump going to all this trouble to bug you.”

“True. It'd involve too much coordination, cooperation, and imagination—and Ingrid doesn't have much of the third commodity.” Judith didn't speak again until they were on the other side of the street. “If Eleanor was released after confessing to a homicide Connie insists she couldn't have committed, where is Ellie?” She didn't wait for Renie to answer. “And what's with Franz Wessler? Did he also confess? Either this is the most inept bunch of cops I've ever come across or . . .” She shook her head. “I just don't know.”

“Baffled, huh?” Renie said cheerfully. “It's about time.”

They'd almost reached the corner across from the police station when a squad car pulled out. “Hey,” Judith called, seeing Duomo behind the wheel. Frantically, she waved her hand.

The vehicle almost slammed into the curb. “Got something for me?” the chief asked, sticking his head out of the window.

“Yes,” Judith replied. “Should we come back later?”

“Heck, no,” Duomo said. “Hop in. We're going to the beer tasting.”

“But . . .” Judith began—and stopped. “Sure, why not?”

The cousins got into the backseat. Ernie was up front with the chief. “Gosh,” Renie said, “now I feel like a perp.”

Judith ignored the remark, but had a question for the chief. “Isn't the beer tasting this evening?”

“Yeah,” Duomo said, heading for the main street. “But the city budget's tight. We're the health inspectors, too, so we have to sample the brews.” He glanced at Ernie. “Helluva job, huh, Major?”

Ernie grunted his assent.

They were headed down the main street, approaching the exhibitor booths. “We found a bottle in a bust,” Judith said, leaning forward to make sure Duomo could hear her.

“Whose bust?” the chief asked. “Did somebody get busted?” He turned back to his subordinate. “Did I miss a collar around here?”

Ernie shrugged.

“It was at the bookstore,” Judith finally said.

“The bookstore?” The chief sounded puzzled. “Hell, I haven't been in that place for years. Don't have time to read books. Same thing with Ernie here. Says they put him to sleep. Ha ha.”

Judith was practically gnashing her teeth. “I'll explain when we stop. Where
is
the beer tasting?”

“Just beyond the pancake house,” the chief informed her. “It's a little park that goes halfway down the bank to the river. Real nice.”

Judith glimpsed the B&B booth, which looked busy. Moments later, they pulled into the small parking area. All of the spots were taken. Duomo stopped the squad car at an angle, blocking a half-dozen cars from making an exit.

“Damn,” he grumbled, “they were supposed to reserve a VIP slot for me. Didn't Orville put in my request?”

“Guess not,” Ernie said—and yawned.

“What the hey,” the chief muttered before turning around. “You want to show me whatever you've got there, Mrs. Flynn?”

“I can't pass it through the screen between us,” Judith said.

Duomo sighed. “Okay, let's do it.” Huffing and puffing, he got out of the car and opened the door for the cousins.

After Renie give her a boost, Judith placed the plastic bag on the hood. “We went to Sadie's Stories,” she explained. “A little boy knocked over a bust of Thomas Mann. It broke and—”

“Who?” the chief asked.

“Thomas . . . never mind.” Judith opened the bag so Duomo could look inside. “That bottle was in or by the hollow bust. It has no label, so I'm curious why anybody would ditch an empty bottle.”

“Yeah, it could be one of those little shots they sell on planes and trains,” the chief said, studying the bag's contents.

“I don't think so,” Judith said. “This looks more like a medicine bottle. It's the wrong shape for the kind sold to travelers. Besides, the brand name is usually on the cap's top and there's nothing on this one.”

Duomo chortled. “That calls for a cap joke, but I can't think of one. Can't even think of one about a derby.”

“Skip the jokes,” Judith retorted. “Shall I hang on to this or could Ernie take it back to the station?”

The chief mulled over the query. “Well . . . I guess.” He glanced into the car. “The major dozed off. Only guy I know who sleeps it off
before
he drinks.” He leaned inside to shake Ernie's arm. “Firefight! Move on out!”

The cousins backed away while Ernie received his instructions. He got behind the wheel and was about to drive off when Judith yelled at the chief to take the plastic bag off the hood.

“Right, right,” Duomo said wearily. “I hate these high-end investigations. Suspects and witnesses and . . .” He handed the bag to Ernie and started for the beer-tasting tent.

“Wait!” Judith called.

“Now what?” Duomo asked, exasperated.

Judith's patience was strained, but she remained civil. “You want our help solving this so-called case. Why did Franz Wessler go to headquarters earlier today?”

“Oh, that,” Duomo said, shaking his head. “He tried to tell me he'd killed his father. That's bull. He's covering for somebody.”

“Eleanor Denkel?” Judith said.

“No. She's got some ax to grind, always does. Besides, she has an alibi. A pal of hers showed up a little while ago to say they'd been together when Wessler got stabbed. Friends alibi friends, and that's a fact, but I kind of believed this . . . what was her name?” He scratched his bald head. “Bowlegs? Boohoo?”

“Connie Beaulieu,” Judith said. “Yes, I heard the same thing. Who do you think Franz is protecting?”

Duomo shrugged. “His ex-wife, Klara? That doesn't make much sense, since she seemed kind of keen on the old guy. Still, it could be a lovers' quarrel. Never could figure out what was going on with that bunch. I mean, old Wessler was getting up there. That is, I wouldn't think he could get it . . . never mind. I better test those beers.”

“That,” Judith said after Duomo disappeared inside the tent, “is one sorry excuse for a law officer.”

“Maybe the small-town hick is an act to fool criminals,” Renie said.

“Then he's got it down pat,” Judith declared. “
I
believe it. Though . . .” She eyed her cousin curiously. “This situation is different from most cases we've run into. In small towns, we've usually dealt with county law enforcement. If Duomo doesn't have the money or the personnel, why doesn't he call in the sheriff or even the state?”

“Bad PR,” Renie said. “
Der Alte
is whacked just as the Oktoberfest event kicks off? This town's built on tourism. Otherwise, it would've died when it ceased being a timber and railroad town. The population's around a thousand hardy mountain souls. Yes, they've got winter sports, but there are other towns nearby. If any of them had two homicides in as many months, they'd set some sort of per capita record.”

“I keep forgetting that you're involved in PR with your graphic-design business. However,” Judith went on, going back to the main street, “years ago, you told me that murder was good for
my
business.”

“That's different,” Renie said. “You're in the city. People expect murders. And I don't see that it's hurt your bottom line.”

“That's difficult to judge.” Judith paused as they approached the busy exhibitors' area. In the past few minutes, clouds had rolled in from the north and the air had turned cooler. She wondered if the change would dampen the visitors' spirits. Murder hadn't seemed to faze them. “Most of my guests don't know I'm FASTO,” she went on. “As long as Ingrid doesn't blackball me or pull my license, I should be okay.”