From Bad to Wurst (16 page)

Tilly stopped in her tracks to look uphill. “Aha. See there?” She waggled her cane at a tube of lip balm that was rolling downhill past her. “This is precisely what I'm talking about. If you watch closely, you'll notice that gravitational pull will cause that object to reach its terminal velocity in approximately—”

Etienne scooped it into his hand.

“Well,” Tilly huffed. “I guess we can scratch that.”

“I've got your Lifesavers,” shouted Dick Stolee, blocking them with his foot.

We all pitched in, rescuing whatever items went tumbling past us. Dad retrieved a travel-size bottle of aspirin. Dick Teig gathered up a few rogue Tic Tacs that were no longer fit for human consumption. Prescription bottle here. Penlight there. I chased down a nasal inhaler and a mini bottle of what looked like contact lens rewetting solution—until I picked it up and read the label.

Atomized Liquid: E-Cigarette Nicotine Refill
.

A tingling sensation slithered down my spine.

Maisie refilled her e-cigarette cartridges manually? From a bottle of liquid nicotine that she carried around in her shoulder bag?

I clutched the bottle in my fist.

Oh. My. God
.

Maisie hadn't accidentally goaded anyone into killing Zola.

She'd done it herself.

fifteen

“Maisie did it,” I
said in a breathless rush.

“Maisie did what?”

I gave Etienne's arm a tug, prompting him to bend his head closer to hear me. “She killed Zola.”

After we'd seen the group seated at their assigned tables, I'd dragged him into the hallway off the restaurant's foyer where the restrooms were located. With the dining room packed with noisy tourists, this was the only place I could find that was even halfway private.

Glancing both ways, Etienne lowered his voice and, in the same way Clark Kent swapped his suit and hat for a cape and tights, he became Etienne Miceli, former Swiss police inspector. “How do you know?”

“Incriminating evidence.” I handed him the plastic refill bottle.

“Liquid nicotine? Where did you get this?”

“It rolled out of Maisie's shoulder bag and straight past me on its way to terminal velocity.”

“Why is she carrying liquid nicotine?”

“To fill her e-cigarette. She's trying to break her smoking habit, so she's going the e-cigarette route. She's the last holdout in the whole company. Once she quits, everyone gets a bonus because of lower health-care costs.”

He muttered something in either French, Italian, or a combination of the two before nodding. “Does she know you have this?”

“Nope. You saw for yourself. The contents of her shoulder bag scattered all over the place after the strap broke, so I suspect she doesn't know where a lot of her stuff ended up.”

He paused. “I don't need to remind you that this could either be something or nothing at all, correct?”

“Oh, it's something, all right.”

He held the bottle up to the light, his features hardening into a frown. “If Maisie
did
kill Zola, she didn't use the contents of this particular bottle to carry out the deed.”

“But she's the only guest on the tour who smokes, or vapes, or whatever she calls it. She
ha
s to be the killer.”

“This bottle's full.”

“Of course
thi
s one's full. She emptied the one she was carrying last night into Zola's egg noodles or mustard or beer. She probably has a whole slew of them in her suitcase.”

“I'm not discrediting your find, Emily. I'm merely pointing out that the Munich police will need more evidence than this to file charges against her. Even if she was carrying a bottle in her purse, it doesn't mean she actually used it.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I assume these nicotine refills are available to the general public and can be purchased at convenience stores everywhere?”

“Well, probably, but—”

“There you two are.” Wally jaunted toward us. “They've begun to serve, so you'd better take your seats before the serving staff thinks you're no-shows.” He raised a curious eyebrow as he glanced from Etienne to me. “What's up? Or is this one of those marital things that's none of my business?”

Etienne clapped him on the back before herding us toward the dining area. “I'll get you up to speed later. Meanwhile, let's enjoy the schnitzel, shall we?”

We filled five tables in the dining area—a vast grange-hall type room with space set for staging small performance events. I was playing hostess to Margi, Nana, George, and the Dicks, and I occupied a chair with an unobstructed view of the table where Maisie Barnes sat with her fellow Little Bitte band members and the Brassed Offs. In my checkered career as a reluctant sleuth, I'd gained a reputation for being wrong at just about every turn, but this time was different.
This
time, I'd caught the killer red-handed.

Kinda.

“This isn't the main course, is it?” asked Margi as she trained a sour look on the dinner plate in front of her. “I was expecting hot dogs.”

“Me too.” Dick Teig glanced around at the other tables to see what everyone else had been served. “But I'm not seeing wieners on anyone's plate.”

Dick Stolee poked his flat breaded cutlet with his fork. “Maybe they ran out of wieners and decided to substitute some kind of German mystery meat. Does anyone know what this is?”

“I think that's the schnitzel,” said George.

“What kind of animal is a schnitzel?” asked Margi, her eyes widening as she answered her own question. “Omigod. Is that like a…a neutered schnauzer? Eww. Hey, I'm not eating dog no matter how light the breading is.”

“It's veal,” said Nana as she speared a parslied potato. “The Food Network done a whole afternoon series on cuts of meat what can give PETA a notion to hold a demonstration right in front of your very own home.”

“Veal?” Dick Teig squinted at the cutlet. “Isn't that like…the bovine equivalent of Bambi?”

Margi froze as she regarded the meat in horror. She pushed her plate away. “This is going from bad to worse. Flag down our waitress. I'd like to order take-out from another restaurant.”

I studied Maisie as she attacked her meal with the same enthusiasm with which she played her fiddle. I knew she'd killed Zola. I knew how she'd done it. I just didn't know why. I mean, she and Zola had been friends for a shorter time than it took my fingernail polish to dry. That wasn't long enough for her to start despising what she'd first liked about her, was it?

“I brung a bunch of earplugs with me today if anyone needs 'em,” Nana announced to the table. “But you gotta do it on the Q-T.”

“Why do we need earplugs?” asked Dick Stolee.

“The oompah band?” razzed Dick Teig. “Emily's father on the accordion? Potential damage to healthy eardrums? I think they're gonna be first up today.”

There followed a moment of reflective silence before four hands flew toward Nana, palms up.

I returned to my ruminations as I toyed with my food. Had Maisie been alarmed by what Zola might find if she allowed the clairvoyant to look into her future? Could her private life bear the scrutiny of a fortuneteller? Was she trying to protect some deeply hidden, unsavory secret?

But if that were the case, why would she have suggested that Zola tell
everyone's
fortune after the Oktoberfest performance? That wouldn't be a logical move if she was afraid to have her own fortune told. Unless…

Unless it was a ploy to divert suspicion away from herself. Could she have convinced everyone to participate without joining in herself? Would anyone have noticed that the organizer of the evening's entertainment was too busy organizing to play along? Was it fear that had forced her hand? Or something else?

I studied her as she interacted with the band members at her table.

Wendell seemed particularly fond of her, referring to her with much more affection than a boss normally shows an employee. Was it possible they were a couple?

But if they're a couple
, said the voice inside my head,
how come they don't hang out together?

Could their deliberate avoidance of each other be a well-orchestrated maneuver? Was this how they kept their relationship a secret? By evading each other in public?

I slanted a look from Maisie to Wendell and back to Maisie.

Uff-da. Was the relationship Wendell refused to acknowledge—the one he swore he wasn't involved in—a love affair he was having with Maisie? Was it Maisie's room Bernice had seen him sneaking out of our first night at the hotel?

But what if the two of them
were
having an affair? They were consenting adults. Wendell wasn't married. Maisie wasn't marr—

The gold band on her ring finger caught my eye as she reached across the table for the water pitcher.

Geez Louise. Maisie
was
married.

This wasn't good. Wendell wasn't just having an affair. He was having an affair with a married woman who happened to be a subordinate in his company—an underling. Weren't there laws prohibiting behaviors like that in the workplace? Harassment laws or something? No wonder he denied the relationship.

“Be right back, folks,” I said as I excused myself from the table. I scurried back to the restroom, locked myself in a stall, and dug out my phone.

Was I right about this or was I grasping at straws? Were Wendell and Maisie a couple? Could I find proof that they were?

I could access neither of their Facebook accounts, but Newton Lock and Key had both a Facebook page and a website, with photos of the company's various departments and the employees who manned them. Wendell appeared on the first page, sitting behind a massive desk with a smile on his face and a key as long as a shoebox in his hands. Below his photo was the caption
We've Found the Key to Success Here at Newton
. Subsequent pages included group pictures of the Newton employees in their various divisions. I spotted Otis, Gilbert, and Maisie in the production department, Hetty in accounts, Astrid Peterson in reception, Stretch and Arlin in shipping and receiving, and several of the other musicians in photos of the company's Halloween party, Thanksgiving luncheon, and Christmas party. But I found nothing that would link Maisie and Wendell romantically.

I googled Wendell to discover citations he'd received for both his community service and his philanthropic efforts to build a municipal pool, a Little League field, a hockey rink, and an animal shelter. I found links from his name to an event schedule that listed where the Guten Tags would be entertaining in and around the state, along with the Little Bitte Band, the Brassed Offs, and Das Bier Band. Looked to me as if they traveled together a whole lot, which would have been perfect for Maisie and Wendell, especially if Maisie's husband didn't travel with them. If their appearances included overnight stays, well…how convenient was that?

I allowed myself a self-satisfied smile. I was so right about this.

I entered Maisie Barnes in my search field and, except for her name being mentioned as part of the Little Bitte Band, I got bupkis. But when I accessed the Iowa White Pages directory, I found her address, age, and the additional detail that she was related to Dale Barnes, who, I discovered after a search on that name, resided at the same address. So Maisie's gold band wasn't simply a piece of random jewelry. She was indeed married…to some poor shmuck who was being cuckolded up the wazoo.

The confirmation caused thoughts to crowd my head like gumballs in a vending machine.

Had I attributed the wrong motivation to Zola's assailant? Had the purpose been to kill her not for what she
might
reveal but for what she'd
already
revealed? She'd dissected Wendell under a microscope, and he hadn't liked it. Did Wendell and Maisie want Zola out of the picture before she had an opportunity to broadcast the results of his disastrous reading to the other band members? Was that why Maisie and Zola had been best friends for all of ten seconds?

I stared at a phone number scratched into the stall's partition, mentally dazed.

But if Maisie and Wendell were a couple, why was Wendell hitting on Bernice?

Unless…

My mind kicked into overdrive.

Could Maisie have acted on her own and not told Wendell about her murder plot until
after
the fact? Wendell had admitted that Maisie always followed through and never disappointed—that she was his go-to person. But this time, could he have been so appalled by her deed that instead of offering his expected congratulations, he'd condemned her? Was that the reason he was fawning over Bernice? To make an obvious show of depriving Maisie of his affection? To punish her in the most public and hurtful way possible?

Which led me to my next question.

Were they even a couple anymore?

In the distance, I heard the first strains of oompah music ring out from the dining room, causing a muscle to clench involuntarily in my stomach.

If Wendell had dumped Maisie, she might be putting on a good act right now, but she was probably seething inside, a ticking time-bomb ready to explode. And if he was pouring salt into her wound by flirting with Bernice, then…then…

I stuffed my phone back into my shoulder bag and unlatched the stall door.

Then Bernice could be in grave danger. What was the old saying—in for a penny, in for a pound? If Maisie had killed once, she was already looking at capital murder charges, so she'd have nothing to lose by killing twice. Was there any better way to get even with a former lover than by offing his latest flirtation? Which meant…

Omigod.
Bernice could be next.

I dashed into the hallway, startled by the sounds that greeted me. Foot-stomping so raucous, the floor vibrated. Whistling so shrill, my ears crackled. Clapping so loud, it drowned out the music. Was that the audience's intent? To muffle the band's presentation with an outburst of moblike behavior? Or were they simply aiming to muffle the sour notes of the one band member who lacked any talent at all?

Oh, geez. Poor Dad.

Fraught with anxiety, I raced into the dining room…to find the boisterous mob on its feet, arms intertwined, hips swinging, feet clacking, dancing in the aisles and between tables, gyrating to a polka that the Guten Tags' accordion player was pounding out like Myron Floren on steroids. His fingers flew over the keyboard and button board with wild abandon, creating a sound so exciting, so heart-pumping, his fellow band members simply stepped aside to give him room. The audience cheered. The audience laughed. Even the waitstaff deserted their posts to kick up their heels with the guests. He played with the ease of a lifelong musician and the confidence of a virtuoso—like Yo-Yo Ma on his cello, Ringo on his snare drum, Schroeder on his toy piano. His performance was flawless. Breathtaking. Spectacular. But the only thing I could do was gawk.

Dad?