From Bad to Wurst (15 page)

“So…it's an absolute certainty that someone on the tour killed Zola?”

“It appears that way.” He scrutinized the group with unyielding eyes. “I believe one of our musicians wanted Zola dead…and found a way to do it.”

I blended back into the group as Etienne sought out Wally. We trooped into Ludwig's bedroom and listened to Sepp explain the monastic scheme of the chamber, with its dark wood and canopied state bed whose gothic-inspired massiveness looked like an oversized confessional that might collapse beneath its own weight. Golden embroidery threads showcased lions, crowns, lilies, and swans on the bedcover and curtains, and another swan squatted on the washstand, silver-plated and gleaming, looking as if it were about to take a header into the silver basin below. Ludwig might have found the room restful, but I would have found it as warm and fuzzy as a sleepover in the side chapel of a British cathedral.

“I need a word with you, Mom.” I caught up to her and Dad as the people ahead of us poked their heads through the door of the tiny chapel off the bedroom.

“Isn't this exciting, Em?” She splayed her hand over her chest. “I've always wanted to tour this place.”

Omigod!
I grabbed her upper arms. “Do you know where you are?”

“I'm hoping it's St. Peter's Basilica because I'd love to run into the new pope.”

Nuts. But on a brighter note, she was current with the recent papal upheaval, so that
had
to be a positive sign, didn't it?

“Okay, Mom, here's the scoop. Stop squirting Nana with hand sanitizer.”

She gave me a blank look.

“Nana,” I repeated.

More blankness from Mom. Dad dropped his head to his chest and sighed.

“The short woman with the boils all over her face,” I prompted.

“Oh, her.” She cast a surreptitious look around us and drew me close. “Emily, do you happen to know the symptoms for Ebola?”

“Nana doesn't have Ebola. She's suffering from an allergic reaction that's specific to her and her alone. It's impossible for you to catch what she has, so stop trying to sanitize her. You've made an absolute mess of her sweatshirt.”

Dad nodded. “What'd I tell you, Margaret? You've made your poor mother look like she decided to wear her last meal instead of eat it.”

“It's soap,” complained Mom. “It washes out.”

I narrowed my eyes. “How many bottles do you have left?”

“She blew her wad in her last attack,” said Dad, “so they're all empty.”

“Good. Don't even
think
about asking Margi for replacement bottles. We're cutting you off.”

Mom trained a quizzical look on me and Dad before shrugging agreeably. “Okay.” She grabbed Dad's hand. “C'mon, Bob. I'm sure the Pieta's around here somewhere.”

We breezed through the remaining staterooms in Ludwig's apartments, bombarded by more wood paneling, fanciful chandeliers,
ornate columns, billboard-sized murals, gilded brass, and extraneous swans. We ended the tour on the fourth floor in the Singer's Hall, where a mural of a magical forest peeked out from behind three flamboyant arcades. It was a room where the ceiling panels were painted with signs of the zodiac, where branched candlesticks as tall as light posts stood at military attention, and where not a single musical note ever rang out to entertain welcoming ears. “King Ludvig preferred his solitude,” Sepp reiterated, “so the hall, vit its fine acoustics, vas never used in his lifetime.”

By the time Sepp led us to the cafeteria and restrooms on the second floor, I had Neuschwanstein Castle all figured out. It wasn't so much a real residence as it was a theatrical set: a backdrop for an operatic production. A dwelling that owed its existence to pure make-believe, kind of like the pink condo I used to have for my Barbie doll. It was long on show but really short on comfort.

Wally gathered us around him after we bade
auf wiedersehen
to Sepp.

“We have forty minutes to kill before we head down to the restaurant for lunch, so I suggest you visit the museum shop, watch the multivision show that chronicles the life of King Ludwig, or use the comfort station. If you feel like snacking, go ahead, but pace yourself. You'll be scarfing down Wiener schnitzel in less than an hour.”

The group scattered like marbles. Bernice sashayed to the food counter, where her persistent admirers argued over which one of them would buy her coffee or tea or whatever other overpriced beverage she desired. Nana and Tilly won the footrace to the restroom, emerging long minutes later to announce that it was only a two-seater so the ladies in the group had better think about lining up now, which prompted the expected stampede.

I browsed through the museum shop while keeping one eye on the queue and stopped to talk to Gilbert Graves, who was thumbing through a photographic book of the castle that must have weighed ten pounds. “So what was your reaction to the Singer's Hall? Can you believe it's never been used for anything musical?”

He adjusted his horn-rims on the bridge of his nose. “What a waste. Did you notice the acoustics in that room? They were incredible. Man, if we ever had a chance to play in a room like that, we wouldn't even need a sound system.”

“I guess it's too much to expect today's restaurant to have great acoustics.”

“Restaurants usually have lousy acoustics, but I'm not knocking the gig. We're happy to be playing. Hell, this is what we've dreamed about ever since we formed the band.” He hesitated. “Ever since Astrid formed the band. I just wish she could be here to enjoy the fruits of her labor. It's not fair.”

“Are you sure you're still okay with my dad taking her place?” I hedged, recalling the band's seeming dissention in the lobby last night.

“He's doing us a favor, and we appreciate it. I bet your dad's problem at the Hippodrom last night was what Hetty said: nerves. Today's venue will be a lot smaller, so I think he'll be able to show us what he's got. I feel bad for him, though. It's no cakewalk being out there in the limelight. Kudos to him for even wanting to get back up on his horse. I know a lot of musicians who'd never be able to live down the shame. They'd walk into the sunset, never to be seen again.”

My stomach bubbled into a stew of acid as I fretted over the outcome of today's performance.
Please don't let him screw up. Please don't let him screw up.

“You in the market to buy any books?” asked Gilbert as he perused the shelves. “Chivalric knight's tales? Neuschwanstein Castle guidebooks? Epic poems and sagas from the Norse?”

“Not me, but you might want to bring this to Otis's attention. Epic poems are probably right up his alley.”

Gilbert snorted derisively. “Otis Erickson? Epic poems? I don't think so.”

“Otis reads poetry.”

“Who told you that?”

“
He
did. He lent a book of poetry to Astrid for this trip.”

“Not in a million years did Otis Erickson give Astrid a book of poetry.”

“He didn't
buy
it. He lent it. It was a library book.”

“Sure it was.” He let out a whoop of laughter. “Not only does Otis not read, he doesn't own a library card.”

I gave him a hard look. “Are you sure?”

“We've only been buds for decades. Blimpie's reward card, yes. Ace Hardware reward card, yes. Library card, no.”

“Then how—” I swallowed the end of my question. If there was no library card, there was no library
book
. So if Otis hadn't been looking for his fictitious volume of poetry, what
had
he been looking for? Her journal? Is that what he'd been searching for all along? But what reason would he have to steal such a personal item?

“Why'd Otis tell you about his adventures in poetry in the first place?”

“He needed the book back to avoid having to pay the library fine, so Etienne and I let him search for it the night we packed up Astrid's belongings.”

“Otis was in her room?”

“For a short time.”

“What about his book? Did he find it?”

“How could he? From what you're telling me, there
was
no book.”

“So he left empty-handed?”

“As far as I know.”

“Good.” Gilbert allowed a half-smile to play across his lips. “That sonofa—” He caught himself mid-epithet, replacing his sudden ill humor with forced cheerfulness. “Thanks for the laugh, Emily. Otis and poetry.” A shadow passed over his face, making his eyes hard. “Some guys are just full of surprises.”

Peering toward the ladies' room to find the queue gone, I left Gilbert to shoot across the floor and take my turn. I was freshening my lip gloss when the door opened to admit one last straggler.

Bernice.

She glided into the room and struck a pose against the door, the back of her hand angled against her forehead as if she were a Southern belle executing a swoon. “I'd forgotten how exhausting it is to be the designated hottie in the group. Thank God the restroom isn't unisex or they'd be chasing me inside here too. I need some me time.”

I eyed her reflection in the mirror. “Too much of a good thing, huh?”

“It's too bad that psychic bit the dust. I would love to have told her to her face how wrong she was.”

“Wrong? You're reaping the benefits of her prediction, aren't you? Didn't she tell you that you'd meet a handsome stranger?”

“Her prediction was too limited.” She sighed melodramatically and primped her hair. “The tall, dark, handsome ones are getting overrun by the short, fat, homely ones. It's getting unmanageable. How can I vet the princes with the toads always in the picture?”

“Are things moving so quickly that you're already at the vetting stage?” Considering she'd been the “It” girl for all of ten minutes, she might be jumping the gun a bit.

She stared at me in the mirror. “Sometimes I'm surprised you're able to walk and chew gum at the same time. It's
never
too soon to check for financial assets. Here's the deal: no hefty portfolio, no private date with Bernice Zwerg. I have standards to maintain.” She slipped into a stall and shut the door. “Hey, you're the one who's supposed to know all the confidential stuff about us guests. What do you know about these musicians? What do they do besides hop up on a stage and play dorky polka music?”

I didn't think I'd be betraying any confidences to repeat the basics. “Have you ever heard of Newton Lock and Key in Boone?”

“Nope.”

“Well, every musician on the tour works there in some capacity.”

“My stable of admirers are all blue-collar factory workers?”

“Everyone but Wendell. He owns the company.”

She flushed the toilet in response.

“Which one's Wendell?” She opened the door and joined me at the sink.

“Handlebar mustache? Square build? Plays trumpet with the Guten Tags? Doesn't wear his name tag?”

“Oh, him.” She cupped her palm beneath the automatic soap dispenser before flashing her hand in front of the sensor on the faucet. “He needs more hair.”

“The shaved-head look is pretty trendy for guys these days.”

“Balding guys may be fond of shaved heads. I'm not. Besides which, your Wendell comes with baggage attached.”

“What kind of baggage?”

“Romantic baggage. When I went to refill my ice bucket the first night we were here, I saw him sneaking out of someone's room in the wee hours of the morning.”

Omigod
. Zola was right. He
was
in a relationship. He
was
sneaking around.

“Of course he finds me utterly irresistible, so I expect he'll dump the other broad and try to wow me with a full court press, but I'm not sure I want to waste my time on secondhand goods.”

“You're absolutely sure about this, Bernice? I mean, how do you know he wasn't leaving his own room?”

She shook excess water off her hands and waved her forearm in front of the towel dispenser. “He was wearing his bathrobe, his slippers, and a goofy grin on his face. I recognized the grin. It wasn't from binge-watching Sunday football. He was floating back to his own room, happy as a tick on a fat hound.” When no towel appeared, she glowered at the dispenser and waved both hands in front of it.

“No chance he was headed to get ice?”

“Without an ice bucket? Oh, sure. Maybe he was planning to stash it in his pockets.” She glared at the paper towel dispenser and gave it a thwack. “What's wrong with this thing?”

I seized the corners of a towel that was poking out from beneath the dispenser and yanked down, releasing the needed sheet. I ripped it off and handed it to her. “It's not motion-activated.”

Lucille poked her head through the door. “Restroom check! Wally's starting the two-minute countdown, so you'd better move it because we're getting ready to leave.”

We exited the castle after Wally performed his mandatory head count and began the downhill hike to the place where the horse-drawn wagons would pick us up. “I'm glad we're going down and not up,” Osmond remarked. “Too bad they couldn't find a way to make everything downhill.”

“It'd sure be easier on people,” insisted Alice.

“Not necessarily,” objected Tilly. “Trying to decrease forward motion on a downhill slope can be just as taxing on a person's knees and hips as climbing an incline can be on someone's heart and lungs. The acceleration created by gravitational pull can be a bear to stop. Why, it's thought that among the ancient cliff dwellers of the Mesa Verde—”

“Dammit all!”

I swiveled my head to find Maisie several paces behind me, looking apoplectic as she dropped to her knees beside the scattered contents of what appeared to be a broken shoulder bag. “My stuff! It's—it's getting away.”