From Bad to Wurst (10 page)

“Knock yourself out.” He thrust out his right hand. She smothered it between hers.

“Don't talk,” Zola instructed. “Just stand there and keep your mouth shut.” She bowed her head and pressed her eyes shut.

Wendell sidled a look in my direction and winked.

“And no winking.”

Whoa
! She'd seen him with her eyes closed? That was a little creepy. I could tell Wendell was creeped out too because he suddenly looked a whole lot less self-assured than he'd seemed a minute ago.

Zola concentrated. Wendell waited. I eyed the merchandise in the display window of K
ä
the Wohlfahrt's store, itching to leave the drama behind so I could attempt some serious shopping but hesitant to appear impolite by making a mad dash for the front door. Lucky for me, Wendell Newton was apparently less shallow than Dick Teig, because Zola was ready with her prediction in three minutes flat. She stared him straight in the eye, her gaze flinty and unapologetic.

“Your future holds great disappointment.”

“Been there, done that. It's called a cheating wife.”

“I'm not talking about your ex-wife, although I suspect she had a legitimate beef. You never paid attention to her. You were always too busy making money to be the kind of husband she'd hoped you'd be.”

“She milked my devotion to my company for every cent it was worth. I didn't hear her complain about the in-ground pool or the tennis court or the Hummer she just
had
to have.”

Zola looked taken aback. “She wanted a Hummer? What was she planning to do, invade a neighboring state?”

“No, she liked sitting high off the road so she could see into everyone else's car. Made her feel like she was above everyone else.”

“You starved her emotionally.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, what about me? I invited her to attend my musical gigs, but did she ever show up? Nooo. Mrs. Newton said she could spend a more stimulating evening by staying home and washing her hai—” He paused, his eyes lengthening with suspicion. “Why am I telling you about my personal life? I'm just feeding you information that you can twist into some sordid fictional tale. You got anything else for me or are we through here?”

“You're in a relationship that's destined to end badly, so be prepared.”

The smirk faded from his lips. “I'm not in any kind of relationship.” But the sheen of sweat that popped out on his forehead suggested otherwise.

Zola grinned. “That's a lie, and you know it.”

“I'm not in a relationship! You better check your crystal ball, lady, because I hate to tell you, but it's all fogged up.”

“But the good news is, once the relationship is over, at least you'll be able to stop sneaking around, trying to pretend to the world that you're
not
in a relationship.”

“Hey, I'm the most successful businessman in my hometown. I don't have to sneak around for anything.”

Hoping to smooth over the situation, I decided to add my two cents. “Wendell, if you're divorced, what's the big deal about being in another relationship? Isn't that why online dating services are so popular? Aren't people always wanting to replace the relationship that's gone sour with a new one that works?”

He skewered me with a look that hinted I should mind my own business.

“Newton. Wendell Newton,” Zola chimed, her voice suddenly animated. She snapped her fingers. “I knew that name sounded familiar, but I couldn't quite place it. Newton Lock and Key in Boone, right?”

“What of it?”

“My accounting firm just signed a contract with your company. You've hired us to perform your next internal audit. Small world, eh? I'm afraid you're going to be seeing a lot more of me than you ever bargained for.”

“You think so, huh? Well, I wouldn't count on it.” He took a half-dozen steps down the sidewalk, only to return with a final barrage. “Stay away from me, lady. People like you are dangerous.” Then to me, “If I'd known I'd be traveling with nut jobs like her, I never would have signed up for this tour.”

He stormed off like a two-year-old who'd been kicked out of the sandbox for biting. “Later, gator,” Zola called to his retreating figure, obviously having mastered the art of letting blatant incivility roll off her back. She regarded me and smiled. “People with temperaments like his do much better with fortune cookies.”

A warning should have been posted outside K
ä
the Wohlfahrt's Christmas store that read Entry Not Recommended for Shoppers with Claustrophobia because tourists were squeezed into every inch of real estate, reaching over each other in wild haste to grab at the displays. Christmas mugs. Figurines of snowmen and angels. Nutcrackers of Bavarian beer drinkers, policemen, chimney sweeps, and soldiers. Incense smokers of santas, dwarves, hikers, and reindeer. Beer steins. Cuckoo clocks. And signs every three feet that read No Photography Allowed.

I bumped into Nana and Mom inside. While they were going back and forth with their now-typical banter, I removed a snow globe from the shelf and gave it a shake, releasing a blinding snowstorm onto a miniature alpine village.

“If I
knew
where I was, I wouldn't have to ask, would I? So, would you
please
tell me where I am?”

“The North Pole,” said Nana.

Mom cupped her hands over her mouth to muffle a gasp. “Oh, my stars. Are we in Santa's workshop?”

“You bet,” said Nana.

Mom frowned as she peered out the storefront window. “If we're in the North Pole, how come there's no snow?”

“Global warmin',” said Nana. “It melted.”

Oh, God
.

Muscling my way toward the next room, I crossed the threshold and stepped into wonderland.

Christmas trees of every height and color forested the room. White trees hung with red ornaments, draped with velvet ribbon, and lit with twinkling lights. Blue trees with white ornaments and miniature candles. Gold trees with silver ornaments and glittered fruit. Pink trees with icicle lights and strands of alabaster pearls. Mauve trees. Silver trees. Perched on display tables. Brightening dark corners. Lining the long walls.

I circled around the ceiling-high tree that occupied the center of the floor and wandered into the next room, where I made my way toward a toy soldier nutcracker that stood as tall as a man. It guarded a wall of specialty ornaments in the shapes of medallions, hearts, bratwursts, bears, and musical instruments, so I wasn't surprised to find Hetty Munk standing in front of it, gazing at the selections.

“Looking for clarinets?” I asked as I came up beside her.

“Accordions.” She indicated two that hung at eye level. “I can't decide between porcelain or glass. I thought I might buy a couple to bring back to Astrid's family.”

“That's really nice of you.”

“Mementos. They might appreciate them.”

“I'm sure they will. You're lucky the musical ornaments are still here. I would have thought you musicians would have bought them all up by now.”

“I'm safe. The guys have better things to do with their time than shop for Christmas ornaments.”

“Speaking of the guys, do you know what's going on with Otis and Gilbert?”

She paused just long enough to make me wonder if I was trespassing on forbidden territory. “I don't know what you mean.”

“On the bus, did they seem a little at odds with each other?”

“They seemed fine to me,” she hedged. “No different than normal.”

“Oh. So the Guten Tags aren't breaking up or anything?”

She stared at me, wide-eyed. “Why? Have you heard we are?”

“No. I was just trying to figure out what would cause the tension between the two men and thought it might have something to do with whether your band is going to stay together or not. You've said yourselves that Astrid's absence is a huge problem for you.”

“We're not breaking up,” she said forcefully.

“Well, that's good to hear.”

A noisy ruckus behind us sent us both spinning around to observe a mob of guests from the Asiana tour bus flocking through the room, armed with cameras and oversized designer bags. They deployed as if they were on military maneuvers, bulldozing straight through browsing shoppers toward the merchandise in the back rooms, pausing along the way to snap photos of each other beneath the nutcrackers and No Photography Allowed signs.

“Have you packed up Astrid's belongings yet?” Hetty asked a bit self-consciously when the commotion had passed.

I nodded. “Last night. But I hope you won't mind my saying, I wasn't prepared for the shock.”

“What shock?”

“Her room. You were best friends, so you'd be familiar with her habits, but I was a little surprised by the clutter. I guess she was a teenager at heart.”

Hetty regarded me as if I'd sprouted another head. “Astrid was the most detail-oriented, the most organized, the most obsessively tidy person I've ever known. What do you mean her room was cluttered?”

“Clothes on the floor. Clothes hanging out of drawers.” I narrowed my eyes. “So…that wasn't typical?”

“Certainly not for Astrid.”

Then why had Otis told us it was?

“Did you pack her journal?” she questioned. “I'm sure her family will want that, too, although—” She bobbed her head, allowing the statement to go unfinished. “When we were twelve years old, we bought our first journals together at the five and dime store. Only back then we called them diaries, and they came with little locks and keys. I gave up after a couple of weeks. It was way too much work. But Astrid never missed a day. It was her thing. She's been journaling ever since.”

“I don't remember seeing a journal.” But then again, I was suffering from a minor head trauma, so maybe my memory was more faulty than I was willing to admit. “Otis was with us, looking for a library book he'd lent her, but we didn't find that either.”

Her brows slanted upward with surprise. “Otis went with you?”

“I believe his potential library fine was looming large in his mind.”

“Library fine? Otis?” Her voice took on an edge that hadn't been there before. “Yes. He must be watching his pennies if he felt compelled to beat a path to her room so quickly.”

“Could Astrid have been carrying her journal in her handbag?”

“I'm not sure where she kept it when she was traveling.”

“Let's pray it wasn't in her handbag because if it was, it may be lost to her family forever.” I softened my voice as I delivered the bad news. “The police informed Etienne that her bag and all its contents were destroyed in the bomb blast.”

“Really? I'm very sorry to hear that.” But the sudden lilt in her voice seemed to belie the sentiment. “Very sorry indeed.”

ten

“Do you recall seeing
a journal when we packed Astrid's belongings?”

We'd gotten stuck in traffic on the way back to Munich, so by the time we reached our hotel, we were staring at a scant half hour to freshen up and dress for our big night at Oktoberfest. While we were still on the bus, the mayor's office had phoned Wally with the unexpected news that all four Iowa oompah bands would have time slots in the Hippodrom beer tent this evening. And since the Hippodrom hosted the unofficial red carpet for celebrity guests, the group shouldn't be surprised if their appearance spurred something of a media circus.

The bus had gone wild when Wally made the announcement. Not only would the event be a dream come true for the musicians, but the whole group would be recognized for their humanitarian efforts after the explosion, which was a tribute to what kind of
people
they really were beneath all their contrarian banter. “This will be your time in the spotlight,” Wally told everyone. “You'll be among the glitterati this evening, so dress the part. Remember, your photos might be splashed across newspapers all through Europe.”

That we had so little time to plan our ensembles for such an important night was discouraging, but my afterburners were on overdrive as I raced between the closet and the bathroom, dithering over shoe and makeup options.

“There was no journal in her room,” Etienne replied as he slipped into his sports jacket. “Why are you asking?”

“Because Hetty Munk told me that Astrid wrote in a journal every day of her life. So if she brought her journal with her, where is it?” I presented my back to him for assistance with my zipper.

“Could it have been in her handbag with Otis's elusive book of poetry?” He fastened the hook and eye at the top of my little black dress and planted a kiss at the nape of my neck.

“And that's something else that's weird.” I dashed into the bathroom. “Hetty implied that Astrid was almost pathologically neat, so why did Otis tell us that tidiness wasn't one of her virtues?”

Knock. Knock. Knock
.

“Perhaps because of the condition of her bedroom?” he suggested on his way to answer the door.

“Can I speak to Emily real quick?” Nana's voice. Anxiety-ridden. Breathy.

“She's in the bathroom creating magic with her lipstick wand. Feel free to poke your head in, Marion. The door's open.”

She skidded into the bathroom like a surfer riding a wave, her sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor. “Has Bernice been 'round to pick up Tilly's miracle cream yet?”

“Not yet. Why?”

She held out a small plastic travel jar. “You reckon I could borrow a glop before she takes off with it? I usually don't pay your mother no mind, dear, but I took a long look in the mirror when we got back, and she's right. I been in denial. I got so many wrinkles, I could audition to be one a them California raisins what we seen on TV ads years ago. So I need help, and fast. I figure if I use Tilly's cream before we hit the festival grounds, maybe it'll do for my face what it done for yours. By the time we walk down the red carpet, them media folks could be takin' pictures of a whole new me.”

“I hope not. I'm pretty fond of the old you.”

From the outer room, Etienne reminded us, “Ten minutes 'til showtime, ladies.”

BAM. BAM. BAM
.

“Hurry up.” Nana slapped her jar down next to the sink. “That's probably her now.”

“Bernice,” Etienne announced as he answered the door. “How can I help you?”

“I'm here for my miracle cream. Where's Emily?”

I whipped the lid off Tilly's jar, dug in with my forefinger, and slopped several ounces into Nana's container. “Remember, apply lightly,” I whispered as I watched her cap the jar and stuff it inside the pocket of her Minnesota Vikings wind jacket. I gave her a conspiratorial wink and nudged her out the door.

“Where's my cream?” demanded Bernice, eyeing Nana with suspicion.

“Got it right here,” I said, popping back into the bathroom and returning with Tilly's jar. I handed it over.

“So tell me, Marion,” Bernice asked as she unscrewed the lid, “what pressing reason brings you to Emily's room minutes before we're supposed to leave?”

“I'm kin,” said Nana. “Kin don't need to make up no reason to visit.”

Bernice lifted the jar to her nose to sniff the contents. “It better all be here or—hey, how come this stuff doesn't stink? Anything that works usually smells like pigeon poop, but this smells pretty good. So how thick do I need to pile it on?”

“Lightly,” said Nana in a helpful tone, stiffening up like an old washboard when she realized she'd said something.

Bernice slatted her eyes. “How do you know that?”

I felt a moment's panic before inspiration struck. “Nana's only repeating what she heard Tilly tell me last night.”

“Sure, sure,” sniped Bernice. She drilled Nana with an accusing look. “You took some of my cream, didn't you?”

“She most certainly did not,” I defended. Nana didn't take anything; I gave it to her. There was a huge difference. “So, ladies, I don't want to be rude, but you'd better scoot back to your rooms so you can change your clothes before we head out.” I herded them toward the door.

“I already changed,” said Nana, her windsuit swishing as she walked. “You think I need to kick it up a notch? I s'pose I could wear my World's Best Gramma sweatshirt, but I didn't want no one accusin' me of puttin' on airs 'cuz of the glitter on the letterin'. It's pretty dazzlin'.”

“It doesn't matter what you wear,” Bernice declared, reaching the door a step ahead of Nana. “I'm wearing sequins tonight, so all eyes will be on Bernice Zwerg, former magazine model, making her much-anticipated comeback. Trust me, Marion, if we appear on the red carpet together, you could be buck naked and no one would notice.”

“Takes too long to get naked. These new bloomers what I'm wearin's got so much spandex in 'em, they'd be rollin' up the carpet before I'd have time to get 'em off.”

When Etienne and I reached the lobby ten minutes later, the place was in an uproar. Laughter. Backslapping. Excited whispers. Either the musicians were suffering performance jitters or the whole tour group was giddy at the prospect of spending an entire evening getting hammered on dark beer. “What's up?” I asked George, who was standing beside a potted plant with a goofy smile on his face.

“Dick just struck it rich.”

“Which Dick?”

“Stolee. Now everyone wants in on the action.”

“Omigod.” I grabbed Etienne's forearm. “Zola predicted a windfall in Dick's future just a few hours ago.”

George nodded. “Five hundred big ones from some kind of gambling thing.”

“Dollars?” asked Etienne.

“Euros. That's even more than dollars, depending on the conversion rate. Lookit 'im.” He bobbed his head toward where Dick was holding court with Zola, surrounded by a throng of well-
wishers
. “Folks are saying that redhead can really predict the future.”

“For what it's worth,” I said somewhat reluctantly, “she's been right more than she's been wrong.”

“She's been practicing on other folks?”

I nodded. “She told Dick Teig he was shallow.”

“Dang,” George reflected. “She's good.”

A shrill whistle shot through the room, silencing the chatter. It sounded a lot like my signature whistle, only it wasn't. This one belonged to Maisie Barnes. “Hey, everyone, I've got an idea. How about after a night of music and beer, we come back here for a fortunetelling marathon with Zola? Maybe she'll find quick cash in all our futures!”

Nods. Shrugs. Murmurs of assent.

“Everyone's already guaranteed extra cash in their future once you stop smoking,” Stretch called out.

Maisie grinned. “Okay. Maybe she can tell me if my latest push is going to succeed. What do you say, Zola? Are you up for it?”

Zola fluffed her hair and smiled, appearing deliriously happy to be appreciated. “I'm game if the rest of you are.”

“All right, then,” said Maisie. “We'll meet back here after our gig is over. And let's all be good sports. Let's have a hundred percent participation.”

“Is she calling for a vote?” asked Osmond.

I spied Wendell loitering by the elevator, arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw locked, looking as if he were sucking on the world's sourest lemon.

Uh-oh. I was getting a bad feeling about this.

Wally made his presence known by thrusting his umbrella into the air. “It's about a ten-minute walk to the Oktoberfest grounds and it'll be crowded on the sidewalks, so watch where you're going and stick together. I'll also warn you to mind your handbags and wallets because this kind of a crowd means open season for pickpockets. If you should get separated from the group, when you reach the fairgrounds, aim for the tent with the red and gold Ringling Brothers–style façade. It only seats forty-two hundred people, so it's one of the smaller venues. Do all the musicians have their instruments?”

“
you bet
,” they shouted, as if responding to a football cheer. “Let's go, then,” said Wally, charging forward with his umbrella held high.

“We can't go yet.” Osmond threw a desperate look at the mass of humanity parading for the exit. “We haven't voted.”

“I bet she pulled one of those unanimous consent deals,” said Alice Tjarks as she looped her arm through his and marched him toward the door. “I think we voted. We just didn't realize it.”

Walking through the gates of the beerfest grounds, beneath the Willkommen Zum Oktoberfest sign, I felt the kind of adrenaline rush a kid feels at the prospect of spending the day riding the Scrambler and Caterpillar while pigging out on candy apples and cotton candy.

Oktoberfest in Munich wasn't just a beer-drinking event. It was the Iowa State Fair on steroids…minus the six-hundred-pound cow sculpted from pure dairy butter.

The midway opened up before us in an exuberant chaos of fright-filled screams and flashing lights. Giant swings umbrellaed outward from a column that seemed to reach the stratosphere. A quintuple-looping rollercoaster tore shrieks from the throats of people who enjoyed their beer with a g-force chaser. Something called the Toboggan sluiced fairgoers down a mammoth wooden slide like logs down a flume. A ferris wheel that vied for height with London's Millennium Wheel rose high above the midway. Bumper cars. Carousels. A haunted house. Pony rides. Gravity-defying rides with catchy names like Topspin and Free Fall. A towering contraption that looked like a handheld blender with a propeller stuck on the end that turned people upside down, inside out, and end over end while swooping a hundred feet off the ground. If this ride had been available in medieval times, it would have been labeled a torture device—and the price of admission would have been free rather than a whopping four euros.

The press of revelers was claustrophobic as we muscled our way through the crowd. We passed arcades where patrons could hammer nails, shoot rifles, or launch darts to win a purple elephant or helium balloon. We passed concessions selling the best of wurst: bratwurst, blutwurst, bockwurst, knackwurst, and weisswurst, served on sticks or in buns, with or without sauerkraut. We smelled the heavy scent of cooking oil as vendors deep-fried such culinary delights as cheese curds, corndogs, cabbage rolls, mushrooms, onion rings, pickles, funnel cakes, and Oreo cookies. They were probably still trying to perfect the process for candy apples and Peeps.

As we approached the area of beer tents, I realized my perception of the word
tent
had been completely out of whack because these structures were the size of airplane hangars, with solid sides and decorative exteriors. The Hippodrom's façade was a wild splash of red that was gilded with curlicues and swirls reminiscent of a circus parade wagon. On the rooftop above the front entrance, a trio of carousel horses reared their wooden hooves as they stared down at those of us waiting in line to pass through the security check. But they didn't stare at us for long because Wally spoke to an official at the door who escorted us directly to a reserved seating area, bypassing the long queue, bag checks, No Smoking signs, and the much-touted red carpet. I'd probably get an earful from Bernice about the omission, but the noise level inside the tent was so high, I suspected I might not be able to hear a word she said.

Ye
s
!

Music blared from the speakers perched on the raised bandstand in front of us, filling the tent with a foot-stomping, knee-slapping polka that prompted a spontaneous sing-along. Voices rose to the rafters in a roar of drunken abandon. Dancing broke out in the aisles. Patrons hopped onto benches, heads bobbing, arms flopping, elbows flying, in a synchronized performance of what was either a Jane Fonda aerobic workout or the German version of the Chicken Dance. Swaying. Chanting. Clapping. The six-person brass band onstage played louder and louder, faster and faster. Beer flew. Froth spattered. The floor shook with an intensity that might have registered a magnitude 4 on the Richter scale. “Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke, oi, oi, oi,” they hollered in unison. “
zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke, oi, oi, oi. prost
!” The atmosphere was so festive, I felt like a member of the Wisconsin student body again, watching “Jump Around” being performed by every fan in the football stadium.

We occupied three tables in a section of prime real estate that was cordoned off by wooden partitions and located directly beneath the bandstand. The tables-for-ten were narrower than a diving board, but since the Hippodrom was known for hosting a more gentile crowd, our impossibly narrow tables sported a touch of elegance that was missing from all the other beer tents: plastic tablecloths.