The Wurst Is Yet to Come (6 page)

“Yes. He's a very vigorous old man.
Was,
I mean.” Hernandez looked chagrined. “That's the strange part. He seemed to have been loved by everybody around here.”

Sadly, Judith shook her head. “No, not quite everybody. Unless,” she added, “someone loved him to death.”

 

Chapter Five

T
o her dismay—but not to her surprise—Lieutenant Hernandez insisted that Judith keep in touch.

“I realize you couldn't see much under the circumstances,” he allowed, after stopping the squad car in front of Hanover Haus, “but judging from your history, you have an uncanny way of getting people to open up. You're also very impressionable—in the literal meaning of the word. It's possible that something you saw or heard this evening may come back to you. Chief Duomo would like to have you drop by tomorrow morning. He's very impressed with your credentials.”

“Then he's easily impressed, especially about me being so impressionable,” Judith said glumly. “Or something like that. Okay, but it'll have to be after eleven. I'm working the B&B booth until then.”

“That's fine,” Hernandez said. “I'll let him know. Thanks again. And,” he added as Judith started to get out of the car, “be careful.”

“Hey,” Renie said, “coz is always careful. Nobody's tried to kill her for almost ten months.”

“Yes,” the officer murmured. “So I understand.” He saluted before pulling out onto the street.

“Damn!” Judith cried. “What happened after I fingered the killer last January was never on the FASTO Web site because Joe and Woody wouldn't allow the full story to reach the media. How do these cops know about it?”

“Because they're cops?” Renie said, opening the door to the inn. “It's the Blue Network. Word gets out.”

Judith sighed. “You're right. Let's just hope none of this current disaster gets back over the mountains to Joe.”

The woman behind the desk looked up. “You're back,” she said, sounding disappointed.

“They let us out on bail,” Renie said. “If any of our customers show up, send them to the right room. You might want to pat them down first to make sure they brought cash.”

Ignoring the woman's startled face, the cousins went upstairs.

“Why,” Judith asked as they entered their room, “do you have to make things worse?”

Renie looked innocent. “Like how? Hey,” she went on, shifting gears, “maybe we should stick with the charade that I'm you?”

Judith removed her jacket. “What for? The cops know who's who.”

“But what about everybody else?” Renie countered. “I don't mean we'd switch places, but we could pretend I'm taking over the sleuthing and let you off the hook with your B&B detractors. You investigate and I take credit. Then Inbred Heffalump can stick it in her mail slot.”

Judith started to scoff, but paused. “Could we carry it off?”

“What's to carry? The burden is light, the reward is heavy. For you, I mean.”

“What if I don't want to sleuth?”

Renie's expression was reproachful. “Coz . . .”

Judith sighed. “Let me sleep on it.”

“Sure.”

Half an hour later, the cousins were in bed. Each had brought a book for late-night reading. Not long after ten-thirty, Judith felt drowsy. “I'm turning out the lamp on my side. Okay?”

“I want to finish this chapter,” Renie said. “I've only got three pages to go. Do you know who Bill James rates as the greatest second baseman of all time?”

“No,” Judith admitted, switching off her light. “Who?”

“Joe Morgan,” Renie replied. “He gets my vote, too.”

“Lucky Joe. G'night.”

A couple of minutes later, Renie shut her book, turned off the other lamp, and settled down. Judith had closed her eyes, trying to erase the image of Dietrich Wessler on the ballroom floor. She'd almost succeeded when a chomping noise disturbed her.

“Damnit,” Judith said, lifting her head, “are you chewing gum?”

“You know I chew Big Red before I go to sleep,” Renie replied.

“I'd forgotten,” Judith said. “Can you stop?”

“Not until I've had at least four sticks.”

“How does Bill stand it?”

“He wears earplugs,” Renie said, smacking and snapping away.

“Why did you ever start that?”

“I like Big Red,” her cousin replied. “It's soothing, and only a problem if it gets on me when I go to sleep while I'm still chewing.”

“It's disgusting,” Judith declared. “Please try to chew
quietly
.”

“Can't,” Renie said. “I've got big teeth. All the better to chew with. Done with Stick Number One.”

“Oh, God!” Judith wailed into the pillow.

“Hey—if God hadn't wanted me to chew gum in bed, he wouldn't have—”

“Stop! At least shut up.”

“Okay.”

But the chomping continued, sounding like Clydesdale horses slogging down a muddy road. Judith pulled the covers over her ears in an effort to lessen the irritating noise. After almost five minutes, Renie apparently finished the final stick and rolled over onto her side. Judith expelled a big sigh, but was wide-awake. Trying to get into a drowsy state, she chose to think of something pleasant—like Renie lying in the parking lot under an enormous wad of Big Red gum.

W
hen the alarm went off the next morning, it was Renie's turn to gripe. By the time Judith emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, her cousin had gone back to sleep. Breakfast was served beginning at seven-forty-five. Judith stopped at the front desk to ask the young man called Hans how to get to the dining room. He informed her it was through the hall at the other end of the desk. The cuckoo clock on the far wall sounded the quarter hour as Judith moved on.

A half-dozen guests had already gathered around the table that was set for twelve. Judith nodded pleasantly, if vaguely, before going to the trestle table by the wall, where she selected a bran muffin, fresh fruit, and a sausage patty. After pouring a cup of coffee, she wondered how Renie would react to the meager offerings, compared to the more lavish breakfasts Judith provided at Hillside Manor. Thankful she wouldn't be around to find out, Judith sought a place at the main table. The only person she recognized was Constance Beaulieu, who was sitting next to a thin-faced man with a handlebar mustache. A swift glance revealed that they were wearing matching wedding rings.

“Good morning, Connie,” Judith said pleasantly, sitting down next to the man she assumed was Mr. Beaulieu.

“Oh, Judith!” Connie gasped, a hand at her breast. “Isn't it just awful about Mr. Wessler? Did you see all that blood? I almost fainted!”

Judith nodded. “Just enough so that we—my cousin and I—left. Does anybody know what happened?”

The supposed Mr. Beaulieu laughed hoarsely. “If anybody does, they aren't telling us.”

“Oh,” Connie said, her hand moving to the man's arm. “This is my better half, George.” She beamed at him. “I told you about Judith Flynn, darling. Now you can see for yourself.”

See what?
Judith thought and couldn't help but frown when George leaned slightly closer. “Yes,” he murmured, his mustache twitching a bit. “It's those dark eyes. Gypsy eyes. They reflect. Both outwardly and inwardly.”

“Excuse me?” Judith said, trying to smile. “I'm not a Gypsy. That is, I've nothing against Gypsies, I just—”

“No, no,” George said, lifting a hand in protest. “The quality of looking deeply to see things others don't. FASTO is clearly a corruption of Fausto. Feast of Fools, eh?” He chuckled richly.

Before Judith could say anything, Eleanor Denkel entered the dining room with a small, balding man trailing behind her like a pull toy. In fact, his long ears and drooping eyelids made him look like a bloodhound.

“Judith!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Who killed
Grossvater
?”

“I've no idea,” Judith said, surprised.

“But if you don't know,” Eleanor said crossly, “who does?”

Judith tried not to show her exasperation. “I'm not a wizard. Besides, my cousin and I left right after it happened.”

“But,” Eleanor protested, “you're FATSO!”

A sharp riposte almost shot out of Judith's mouth, but she squelched it in time. “Actually,” she said calmly, “I'm not. That Web site is all a mistake. It's a cover-up for my cousin Serena. She doesn't like to be pestered by her admirers.”

Eleanor gaped at Judith. “No! But Ingrid told us . . .”

Judith waved her hand. “Of course Ingrid would say I'm
FASTO
. I insist she does that. But if you study the Web site, you'll see that in every homicide case, my cousin is there in the background. And that's where she'll stay. Even now, she's on the case.”
The
pillow
case,
Judith thought to herself.
Not exactly a bald-faced lie. . .

“But,” Connie said, “why are you telling us this now?”

Judith shrugged. “Everyone at this table is an innkeeper or associated with an innkeeper, right?” She paused to take in the nods and murmurs of agreement. “We have a bond,” Judith went on, “so I can be candid. Besides, you know how Ingrid often chides me for being a sleuth. It's merely a ruse to cover for my cousin. We're all in the same business, so you should know I'd never be able to do such a thing.” She forced a laugh. “How could an innkeeper have spare time to play detective?”

More nods and hushed agreement ensued. Judith turned back to Eleanor. “I'm afraid I haven't been introduced,” she said, motioning at the little man half hidden by Eleanor's solid figure.

“Oh,” Eleanor said, grabbing the man's hand and yanking him forward. “This is Delmar, my husband. Delmar, this is—”

“So I gathered,” Delmar said, limply shaking Judith's hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fatso. I mean, Mrs.
Flynn
. I've heard about you from Ellie.”

“Yes,” Judith said, her smile frozen in place. “And some of it—alas—is untrue. But now we all have a little secret.”

“That
is
exciting,” Connie burbled. “I just
love
secrets.”

The Denkels had moved over to the trestle table to select their breakfast. Judith buttered her muffin and couldn't help but wonder if she'd dug herself a very deep hole. She suddenly shivered—and wondered if the hole might be her own grave.

T
he conversation turned to Wessler's murder. Apparently the other innkeepers had already offered condolences to Ellie on her loss, perhaps the previous evening. Judith thought Ellie seemed remarkably composed. After a few desultory remarks about the horror of it all, Judith leaned toward the Denkels, who had sat down across from her.

“I met your uncle Franz at the train station back home,” she said.

“Oh?” Ellie's expression was taut. “Until last night, I hadn't seen him in years.”

Judith nodded. “He mentioned that he hadn't been here for some time. Was he terribly upset about his father's death?”

Ellie glanced at Delmar. “Could you tell how
Onkel
Franz reacted?”

Delmar, who was gnawing on a hard roll, shook his head.

“My uncle doesn't show his feelings,” Ellie said. “He's a stoic.”

“Maybe,” Judith said, exercising one of her tactics for getting people to open up, “that serves him well in his work.”

Ellie frowned. “I've never considered that. But he does have to distance himself from it. Emotionally, I mean.”

Judith nodded. “Perspective—that's so important in his field of expertise. Keeping his distance.”

“Oh, yes,” Delmar put in. “And his eye—a genuine camera.”

“Not to mention his nose,” Ellie added.

Judith nodded again.
What does Franz do?
she wondered. A photographer? An architect? A garbage collector? Maybe his job wasn't important in terms of what had had happened to his father. But once Judith's curiosity was aroused, it had to be satisfied. Thus, she soldiered on. “Is Los Angeles really the best place for him these days?”

Ellie grew thoughtful. “Yes,” she said after a long pause, “I suppose it is. Naturally, he travels a great deal.” She grimaced. “Not to our part of the world, though.”

Connie giggled. “Oh, Ellie, don't be so hard on your uncle. He was ever so charming last night—or was before your grandfather got stabbed. He was telling me about his latest documentary.”

Thank you, Connie,
Judith thought. “What,” she inquired, “is this one about?”

Ellie looked sour. “Some African children's disease. Dreadful thing. I'll never watch it. In color, too. Disgusting symptoms, I'm sure.”

“But,” George Beaulieu said, leaning past his wife, “hasn't your uncle's humanitarianism won him several awards?”

Ellie shrugged. “Probably. He seldom writes or calls. I suppose he's too busy saving lives and doing good.”

Judith glanced in the direction of the rest of the people who were eating their breakfast at the other end of the table. They were involved in their own conversation. She wondered if, being innkeepers or spouses or somehow connected, they were discussing Dietrich Wessler's murder. While Franz's documentary films sounded worthwhile, they didn't seem to have much to do with why his father had been killed.

Indeed, Delmar Denkel was now talking about a recent movie he'd seen on TV that he'd found offensive. It seemed he'd been so offended that he could hardly wait for it to end over two hours later. Judith wondered if he'd lost the remote. She finished eating and took a last sip of coffee. With a smile and a nod, she excused herself. It was eight-thirty—time for her to start heading to the B&B booth.

To her surprise, a voice called out to her just as she reached the main street. “Mrs. Flynn! Wait up!”

An auburn-haired young man Judith had noticed at the end of the table hurried to catch up with her. “I'm Gabe Hunter,” he said. “I own a B&B across the Sound on the Kingfish Peninsula. My folks ran it until they retired. You may know them—John and Mary Lou Hunter.”