The Wurst Is Yet to Come (26 page)

“Very kind. I still think you two ought to talk. It's the best advice I can offer. It seems to me that your suspicions are a bit flimsy.”

“Flimsy?” George snorted and retrieved his handkerchief. “I saw one of those texts. They were making plans to rendezvous at an expensive hotel in Vegas. She wanted to know which one Franz would choose. We've never been to Vegas, but he has. Isn't that solid evidence?”

Of what?
Judith wanted to say, but retained her sympathetic manner. “Your wife runs a B&B. She may've been inquiring on behalf of a guest. George, I think you're overreacting.”

He blew his nose and retreated into his glum state. “I disagree.”

The door burst open and Renie practically fell into the room. “Wow, I had a great time! They played some of my favorite . . . oops! Hi, George,” she said, seeing him where he'd been hidden by the open door. “Were you at the concert? Klara has a spectacular voice.”

He looked dazed. “Not tonight. I'm unwell.”

Renie nodded. “You look it.” She turned to Judith. “How are you feeling? Did you take a nap?”

“Yes, I did. Any news?”

Renie glanced at George. “Jessi says the other patient is better.”

“Good,” Judith said, getting out of the chair slowly, but surely. She turned to George, who looked blank. “I hope you'll take my advice.”

“What? Oh, yes, thank you. I'll try,” he responded, “though I'm pessimistic.” With apparent reluctance, he, too, stood up. “Thank you for hearing me out.” He nodded absently at Renie and left.

“Well?” Renie said. “Did he confess to killing Herr Wessler, too?”

Judith sank back into the chair. “No. He thinks Connie is carrying on with Franz Wessler. I think George is nuts.”

Renie grinned. “I saw Connie with Franz—an odd couple.”

“I agree,” Judith said, “but I think George is making a mountain out of a molehill.” She quickly described his suspicions. “It's likely those text messages between Franz and Connie were to find a Vegas hotel as a surprise anniversary present for George.”

Renie, who had taken George's place in the vacant chair, shrugged. “Could be. Connie didn't look like an enamored wayward wife when she left with Franz. In fact, I thought she looked scared.”

“You mean Connie went with Franz unwillingly?”

“No, not that,” Renie said. “She seemed frightened or worried.”

“Maybe I should talk to Connie,” Judith murmured. “It's a shame I haven't warmed to her.” She stared at Renie. “Why did Ellie choose Connie to give that seminar? It wasn't on the original event schedule. Maybe you should chat her up tomorrow. I wonder if the Beaulieus are Catholic. George was born in France. I'm on duty at the booth at eleven with Eldridge Hoover, right after Mass.”

Renie didn't answer right away. “No. You've been in the hospital. I'll do your stint with Eldridge while you have a sit-down with Connie. But you're going to have to pry George loose.”

Judith, however, protested. “You don't know how to run a B&B.”

“What's to know? I just hand out some poorly designed brochures and bare my teeth in a pseudo smile.”

Judith was too tired to argue. “We'll sort this out in the morning. Tell me more about Herman Stromeyer.”

“Not much to tell,” Renie said, getting up and starting to undress. “They pumped out his stomach and he's in some kind of condition. I forget what. Maybe upgraded from dire straits to so-so.”

“Could they tell what he ingested?”

“Poison, I guess,” Renie said, from underneath the sweater she was pulling over her head.

“You guess? Did Jessi say it was poison?”

Having discarded the sweater, Renie glared at her cousin. “Of course not. They have to run tests. You know that.”

Judith leaned back in the chair. Her headache was better, but she was still bone tired. “You're right. I'm worn out. Do the booth, but don't mouth off to anyone. Eldridge will help you. You're used to dealing with people in your graphic design business. What could possibly go wrong?”

 

Chapter Eighteen

R
enie tried to discourage Judith from attending Mass the next morning, but failed. “I
can
go to church,” she said. “Maybe I can talk to Father Dash about Mr. Wessler. But I'll come back here to rest.”

Renie looked dubious, but didn't argue. She obviously wasn't quite awake at nine-thirty in the morning. They skipped breakfast. Judith wasn't very hungry and Renie figured she could get something somewhere somehow after Mass.

The church was a block and a half uphill, but only one block east of Hanover Haus. The snow apparently had stopped not long after it had started, with less than two inches on the ground. The streets and sidewalks had been cleared, but the cousins took their time. The plain white church with its steep roof did not have the elaborate onion-shaped dome that was typical of southern Germany, but it definitely had a European feel inside.

“Baroque simplified,” Renie whispered, entering the wooden pew.

Judith agreed. The interior evoked the style of the seventeenth century, but was less lavish. The sanctuary featured colorful statuary of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus on her lap with Saint Joseph hovering behind them while cherubs watched under a deep blue sky.

The church had filled up by the time the priest and two teenage acolytes processed to the altar. Father Dash was of Asian descent, but his English was perfect. By the time he approached the pulpit to deliver his sermon, Renie nudged Judith.

“Check out the statue on my right. If that's Saint Hubert, how come he's dressed up as a hunter and eyeing that stag?”

Judith turned to look at the arched niche with its not-quite-life-size statuary. “I don't know,” she whispered, “but that deer is better-looking than the one you were driving around in Suze's car.”

The cousins kept quiet while Father Dash delivered an articulate if uninspiring sermon about the disciples trusting in Jesus, casting off their fear of drowning, and getting into the boat. Judith drifted, wondering how Mrs. Wessler and her baby had drowned, trying to picture Bob Stafford by the river before his assailant's attack, and if there was a connection between the two recent homicides. She was snapped back into the present when the lector read the petitions for the fourth Sunday of October. The next to the last was for the recovery of Herman Stromeyer; the final prayer was for Dietrich Wessler and all the souls of the departed.

Judith and Renie had exchanged relieved glances at the mention of Herman's survival. So had several other members of the congregation. The liturgy continued, with the last blessing and dismissal at precisely eleven o'clock. The church bells rang, echoed by the chiming of the nearby clock tower. There was no announcement about a postliturgy get-together. Instead, Father Dash informed his worshippers that Dietrich Wessler's Requiem Mass would be held at eleven on Thursday, November 3, the feast of Saint Hubert. “For those of you visiting Little Bavaria,” he explained, “the deceased was a beloved patron and father figure to the town, respected by all for his untiring diligence in re-creating a moribund village as a vibrant center of Bavarian culture.”

“Are you okay to walk back to the inn by yourself?” Renie asked as they moved outside with the rest of the parishioners and visitors.

Judith nodded. “I'd still like to speak to Father Dash, but he's surrounded by some of the locals.” She nodded discreetly as they saw the priest standing in the midst of at least a dozen people.

“You could collapse again to get his attention,” Renie said.

“No, I'll wait inside. I can catch him on his way to the sacristy.”

Renie hesitated. “You're sure you want to do that?”

Judith insisted she did. “Go on, I'll be fine. Grab something to eat before you rip some tourists apart with your bare teeth.”

Renie didn't need any further prodding. Judith went back inside the church. Only two elderly women remained, both saying the rosary. Judith guessed that the door to the left of the sanctuary led to the sacristy. She tried to visualize the building's exterior, but couldn't recall seeing any indication of a basement. If there was a rectory and a social hall, perhaps they weren't connected to the church.

One of the old ladies got out of the pew, moving to the nearby shrine of a nun. Judith recognized the parishioner as Astrid Bauer from the cemetery. When the old lady tried to light a votive candle, her hand shook so badly that she dropped the match and let out a little cry of dismay. Judith got out of the pew, but before she could take any action, the flame sputtered out.

“No harm done,” Judith said softly. “Let me do it for you.”

“Thank you! Oh! You were with that sweet, kind woman who helped me with my bouquet.”

Judith smiled as she struck another match and lighted the wick. “There,” she said. “Who is this saint? I don't recognize her.”

“Saint Birgitta of Sweden,” the woman replied, her wrinkled hands still trembling, though a faint smile touched her thin lips. “I gave this statue to the church in memory of my daughter. It was all I could do.”

“That's a lovely memorial,” Judith said.

Mrs. Bauer nodded, her gaze straying to the flickering candle. “My daughter was named for a saint who was never accepted by Rome. That nun is as lost to church history as my daughter is lost to me.”

“I'm so sorry,” Judith said. “Your daughter died young?”

Mrs. Bauer looked away. “No. She is dead to me, but not to God.” Crossing herself, she bowed her head, apparently in prayer.

Judith had no choice but to move down the aisle, where she saw Father Dash enter the sanctuary. She smiled as she met him by the confessionals. “I know you must be busy,” she said, “but may I speak to you for a moment? I have questions about Mr. Wessler's Requiem Mass.”

If the priest was surprised by her request, he didn't show it. “Fine, tag along while I get out of my rig. I have to say another Mass at a mission church this evening, but I can spare a few minutes now.”

Father Dash led the way. Judith had to hustle to keep up with him. She wondered if Dash was a nickname. It was one of the first questions she had for him when they entered the small room where the vestments and other Mass items were kept.

“I gather you're on the road a lot,” she said.

“I am. Three, sometimes four different churches every weekend.” He paused as he took off his chasuble. Judith figured him for midforties, medium height, sturdy build, and balding. “During the week I work in the chancery office. I'm a canon lawyer.”

“You're an American,” she said, and was embarrassed that it sounded like an accusation.

“I am now, but I was born in Indonesia.” He grinned. “My last name's not Dash—it's Wirahadashikudumah.” At least that's what Judith thought he said. “I came to this country when I was eight. You are . . . ?”

“Judith Flynn, part of the innkeeping group.” She shook hands with the priest. “Have you served in Little Bavaria for a long time?”

Father Dash finished removing his vestments and carefully hung them on a padded hanger. “About five years.” He tucked a plaid shirt into his denim jeans. “Cute town. Enthusiastic bunch of people. Terrific beer.” He looked closely at Judith. “You
are
Catholic, aren't you?”

“Yes, a cradle Catholic,” Judith said.

“I thought so. You didn't look shocked when I mentioned beer. What did you want to ask about the Wessler service?”

Judith decided to level with Father Dash. “I'm helping the police with their inquiries about Wessler's death—and Bob Stafford's, too.”

“No!” The priest burst out laughing. “You're serious?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“From what I've seen of the local police chief, God love him, he's not the brightest bulb in the law enforcement marquee. But then I don't really know him. With a name like Duomo, you'd think he'd come to Mass sometimes. I never met Stafford—not Catholic. Say, I haven't eaten yet. I had to fast before saying Mass. Any chance you're hungry?”

“Yes,” Judith admitted as her stomach growled to prove it.

“Okay.” Dash put on a black leather jacket. “We'd better avoid the Pancake Schloss if we're going to discuss the late owner. There's a crêpe place tucked away by the hardware store a block from here. Shall we?”

“Sounds good.” Judith smiled gratefully. “I'm kind of worn out.”

“You look a bit weary around the edges,” Dash said, holding the door open for Judith. “Oktoberfest can be tiring. Just as well I don't stick around here for too long at a time. I'm used to a less raucous life.”

The sun was trying to break through the clouds when they got outside. A band played in the distance. They turned a corner a block away from police headquarters, venturing down a side street Judith hadn't yet seen. Werner's Crêperie was between Hansel's Hardware and Gretchen's Kitchens. Father Dash must have been a regular, as the effusive white-haired woman who greeted him seated them immediately.

“Helga and Werner are Lutherans,” the priest said, handing Judith a menu, “but she must have some French in her. She makes great crêpes. They also offer a couple of German pancake specialties, too.”

“I didn't realize how hungry I was until now,” Judith said. “I see they also have Swedish pancakes. That reminds me—do you know the woman who was praying by the statue of Saint Birgitta?”

“Mrs. Bauer?” He nodded. “She's Swedish, but converted years ago when she married . . . Helmut, I think. I never knew him. He died before I started coming here.”

“She was praying for her daughter. It sounded . . . very sad.”

Dash was studying the menu. “I guess so. From what little I've heard, the girl went off the rails. She wouldn't be a girl now, of course, probably middle-aged. Mrs. Bauer must be in her eighties. I think I'll have the crêpes with the boysenberry jam.”

The many choices made Judith indecisive. “Oh, I guess I'll get the applesauce ones. They sound more German.” She put the menu aside. “Mrs. Bauer referred to a saint who wasn't a saint. I mean, in reference to praying to Saint Birgitta. Do you know who she meant?”

Dash frowned. “Not offhand. You mean somebody who's alive?”

“No. Someone from the past. Apparently, Saint Birgitta is as close as she could come to the other person who was never canonized.”

“I'd have to look it up,” Dash said. “There's a Saint Brigid, but she's Irish and definitely was canonized.”

“Yes, I know about her.”

A very young-looking waiter came to take their orders. After he had gone off, Dash asked why Judith was helping the police with their homicide inquiries. She reluctantly told him about her reputation as FASTO. “Please don't mention it to anyone. I'm trying to keep a low profile while I'm here. I don't want to get kicked out of the B&B association. The woman who runs it thinks I'm a magnet for murder.”

Their meal arrived. “Good service,” Dash remarked. He eyed Judith curiously. “Why here? Why now?”

Judith swallowed a bite of crêpe. “What do you mean?”

“You say Duomo asked you to help. How'd he find you?”

“I assume he came across the FASTO site on the Internet. I never look at it. Maybe it's cross-referenced under B&Bs or innkeepers.”

“Not word of mouth?”

Judith felt stupid. “I doubt it. He'd have mentioned it. Duomo seems desperate. He wasn't getting anywhere with the Stafford murder. Then Wessler got killed and last night Mr. Stromeyer was poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Dash almost dropped his fork. “I thought he had a heart attack. Are you sure?”

Judith explained how she had been a witness at the Valhalla Inn and then had ended up in the hospital, too. “I know it all sounds improbable, but I haven't yet heard the results of the tests on Mr. Stromeyer. I'm glad he's stable. Isn't that what you were told?”

Dash nodded again. “Yes, Doc Frolander's son is one of my altar boys. He asked me to pray for Stromeyer. I don't know Herman. He's Lutheran, but he's another big wheel around here. Not as much as Wessler was, though.”

“Tell me about the Knights of Saint Hubert,” Judith said, sprinkling more powdered sugar on her crêpe. “How is the honor earned?”

“Wessler got it for helping refugees after the war.” Dash paused while the young waiter refilled their coffee cups. “He worked mainly with displaced persons. A few of them—along with several of the Germans—followed him to America. Wessler emigrated around 1950, but settled somewhere else first. The Midwest, if I remember right.”

“Omaha, someone told me. Speaking of Saint Hubert, my cousin and I wondered about the statue of him as a hunter.”

Dash chuckled. “It may be a myth. In fact, it may have been handed down from another saint who probably didn't even exist.”

“The one Mrs. Bauer mentioned?”

“No, this one was a guy, known as Saint Eustace. He was supposed to be a general under Trajan and an unholy terror on the battlefield. But as the legend goes, he went hunting in his quieter moments and a stag with a crucifix in its antlers appeared to him. He became a Christian and allegedly was martyred. Or maybe arrested by the local game warden for poaching. Anyway, somehow that tale became confused with Saint Hubert, who was a very holy eighth-century bishop of Ardennes. No martyr—he died in some sort of fishing accident. I suppose that may be how his life story got mixed up with the one about Eustace. The hunter association fits Wessler better, though.”

“I saw some of his big-game trophies at the town hall.”

“Not just that kind of hunter.” Dash grew serious. “He's done some other hunting—of people. Nazis, to be precise. Or so I've heard.”

“You mean in this country or in Germany?”

“I don't know specifics. Stromeyer knows the background. He served in Germany. Franz Wessler would know, too, of course.”