From Bad to Wurst (21 page)

“The yodelers,” Osmond enthused. “S'cuse me, Emily. I don't want to miss this.”

The terrace cleared out within a half minute as visitors piled back through the interior door. I remained by the window, shivering as I took in the view. Evergreens drooping beneath their heavy mantle of snow. Clouds hovering like smoke rings above distant mountain peaks. Villages set in miniature in the valleys below. Wooded slopes. Avalanched rock. Fractured ledges. Sunlight gleaming on snow. Shadows darkening crevasses. Alpine lakes that sparkled like Norwegian fjords. I snapped a quick picture through the window and, with my teeth beginning to chatter, glanced toward the arched doorway that exited onto the outside terrace.

Dining tables sat snow-covered and unoccupied on the raised patio. A wooden guardrail flanked the cliff's edge, preventing guests from accidentally taking the six-thousand-foot express route to the bottom. A rough hiking path zigzagged to a nearby rise, where a simple cross stood proud and erect against a backdrop of unscalable bedrock. On a warm day the patio would have been an ideal setting in which to relax, but with today's wind, cold, and slush, I wasn't even tempted to go out, not that I could have even if I'd wanted to. The double doors were chained shut and padlocked. I guess the management was serious about wanting to avoid risk, accidents, and litigation when the weather was less than optimal.

I snapped a picture of the cross to include in Nana's Legion of Mary newsletter, then turned back toward the sound of yodeling, pausing to wonder if this would be a good time to—

Despite my plummeting internal temperature, I whipped the paper Tilly had given me out of my pocket and entered the website address into my browser. I rolled my eyes at the name of the video but, taking advantage of my moment of unexpected privacy, I girded my loins, charged the fee to my PayPal account, and hit play.

The first two minutes were so poorly acted, the film was almost comedic until the clothes came off and—
eww
. The next two minutes stunned me into silence, and the next five were so mind-numbing that I watched through one squinted eye while turning my phone upside down and right-side up, trying to figure out if the position they'd assumed was even anatomically possible
.
I mean, seriously, guys.
Eww
.

Two additional women joined the twosome, both wearing long braided wigs and dressed in Bavarian costumes not unlike the one Astrid had been wearing on the day she died. This must be what had caught Tilly's attention because one of them did bear a slight resemblance to Astrid, but she was at least a couple of decades younger and much less well endowed. Tilly's eyes really must have been bleary to miss that.

I fast-forwarded through a blur of entangled limbs to the end of the video and exited the site, disappointed at what a waste of time and money my hunch had turned out to be. Looked like I wouldn't be pinning Zola's murder on Wendell anytime soon. All I could hope was that Kriminaloberkommissar Horn was having better luck.

As I headed back toward the anemic warmth of the house proper, the entrance door to the terrace flew open and Mom rushed out, fanning her face with both hands.
Uh-oh
. “You okay?” I called out as I hurried toward her.

Making a beeline for the partition that divided the massive windows, she hugged it with both arms and pressed her forehead against the chilly stone. “Ahhhhhh.”

I pressed my hand to her back. “Is the altitude making you light- headed? Are you sick?”

“Emily, have I ever had a hot flash?”

“Uhh…you never mentioned that you had.”

“Well, I'm having one now.”

I regarded her flushed cheeks and sweaty brow with envy, wishing it were me. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Without removing her forehead from the wall, she stripped off her jacket and opened the collar of her blouse. “Not a thing. I'm just going to stay like this until I cool off.” She puffed up her cheeks and blew outward. “How long does a hot flash last?”

“I have no idea. You want me to google it?”

“No, no. Just leave me here and when the yodelers are done, come get me so I can watch your father play. If I'm still perspiring through all my clothing when you come back, you have my permission to shoot me.”

“Aww. I'm sorry you're so miserable, Mom.” I gave her back a little rub.

“Hot! Hot!” she complained, wriggling her shoulder blades to oust my hand, which I snatched away immediately. Wow, I had so much to look forward to down the road.

“Can I bring you some water?”

“This is better than water,” she said as she flattened the side of her face against the stone.

“Okay, then, you'll be standing on this very spot when I come back for you, right?”

“I'm not moving. If I do, I'm afraid I might internally combust.”

I crept into the restaurant as unobtrusively as possible and found a viewing spot by Mussolini's fireplace. The yodelers were performing in a small area along the opposite wall and were so lively, they had the entire audience in a festive mood, even putting a smile on the mouths of some of our very own stone-faced musicians. Their songs were in German, with copious
yoooo-de-yos
and
yodel-lay-hee-hoos
, but the real fun began with the sing-alongs that included hand gestures reminiscent of the Chicken Dance. People stood. People sat. Hands fluttered like wings. Arms waved in the air. Knees got slapped. Fingers snapped. Hands swooshed down, faster and faster, until the audience burst out with laughter and collapsed in breathless exhaustion.

I could see why these yodelers were state champs. They were masters of audience participation.

I was able to locate most of our tour group at tables scattered throughout the room. Looks like they'd used their vouchers to purchase the luncheon buffet and Oktoberfest-sized steins of beer, although the jumbo mugs might not have been the best choice since folks were having to leave the entertainment with some frequency to attend to what I could only imagine were internal plumbing issues. Etienne was keeping Dad company while Wally was sitting with Wendell and Otis in what might have been an attempt to either keep their displeasure from exploding or to prevent them from heckling the yodelers. On a personal note, the room was so crowded and getting so stuffy, I was actually starting to warm up!

When the choral leader announced a final song, I saw Dad get up and circle the room, heading for the café. Almost time to fetch Mom…and get something to eat myself. My stomach was starting to growl.

The final selection being a polka, we began clapping our hands and stomping our feet, which prompted the group to pick up the pace even more until the song became a frenzied race toward the very last
yodel
-lay-hee-h
—

“My accordion!” Dad's voice knifed through the room. “It's gone!”

twenty

“I did not move
case.” The aproned counter attendant, who introduced himself as Felix, looked perplexed. “I set it here”—he slapped his palm against the wall—“behind counter. The Fraulein and parents watch me. And now,
poo
f
! Gone.”

“Did you leave it unattended at any time?” pressed Etienne.

“
Ja
, while I was in kitchen, heating vegetables for chafing dishes.”

“So anyone could have walked off with it when you weren't looking?”

“
Ja
, but the café, it was empty. All the peoples were in main dining room, listening to state champion yodelers.” He scratched his head. “Why would visiting tourist take accordion? Big honking case is big problem to hide.”

“Perhaps the intent wasn't to steal it.” I exchanged glances with Etienne and Wally as I recalled the vengeful expressions on the faces of the musicians as they'd returned their instruments to the luggage bay this morning. “Perhaps the intent was to destroy it.”

“Why would peoples want to destroy accordion?”

“To prevent someone from playing it.” My eyes lengthened in a hard squint. “That someone being Dad.”

Wally frowned. “You think one of the musicians deliberately—?”

“Maybe you missed the look in their eyes when you made your announcement at the bus terminal, but I didn't. They were livid. So I wouldn't be surprised if this is their attempt at retaliation. If the professionals aren't allowed to perform at the Eagle's Nest, they're going to make sure that the lone amateur can't either—not here and not anywhere else for the rest of the trip.”

“Do you think one of the musicians secretly took off with it?” probed Wally. “Or were they all in cahoots?”

“Shall we conduct a thorough search before we cast aspersions on half the guests in our tour group?” suggested Etienne. “I'll search the back staircase and first floor. Emily, check the ladies' room and non-public areas on this floor. Perhaps Felix would help you. Wally, talk to the elevator operator and check out the men's room. We'll meet back here in ten minutes.”

We were done in eight.

There was no instrument case. Not in the anteroom behind the café, the adjoining kitchen, the private corridor that connected the two rooms, nor the public toilets. The elevator operator remembered seeing the silver case on the way up but hadn't seen it since. Etienne reported that no one had left it in a dark corner on the back staircase, and with the door to the ground-floor rooms locked, there was only one route the thief could follow. “Out the back door to the terrace. And from there”—he rainbowed his arm to indicate an object whistling through the air—“over the guardrail. I couldn't isolate any footprints, but it was evident that someone had kicked up a lot of slush on their way to the edge of the mountain and covered their tracks quite successfully. So I fear Emily may be correct. In all likelihood, Astrid Peterson's instrument case tobogganed to the bottom of the Kehlstein without benefit of a toboggan.”

I shook my head. “That's pretty sad. The accordion that survives a bomb blast falls victim to ill tempers. Beware of musicians wielding wind instruments.”

“We have no physical evidence that any of our musicians are responsible, bella.”

“So now what?” asked Wally.

“Have you found it yet?” Dad hurried toward us, all aflutter. “If I'm not ready to go on in five minutes, I'll lose my spot and the yodelers will get to perform another set.”

Hoping to ease the blow, I looped my arm through his. “Dad, Etienne thinks someone with an axe to grind might have snatched your accordion and…and disposed of it.”

His jaw came unhinged. “Why would anyone do that?”

“
Ja
,” boomed Felix. “I ask same question.”

“Just a guess,” I continued, “but I think your sudden notoriety might have twisted a few noses out of joint.”

“Not to mention hurt some feelings and bruised a few egos,” explained Wally.

“In other words, Daddy, the other band members might prefer that if a musician is to be singled out for celebrity, it not be you.”

He nodded like a bobble-head doll. “I understand,” he lamented, before adding, “but we need to find it in five minutes, so where should we look?”

“Sums of beeches,” growled Felix. “You peoples wait here.” He disappeared through the door behind the counter, returning a minute later with a full-size piano accordion in tow. “You take this.” He thrust it at Dad. “We show them sums of beeches. Ha!”

Dad's performance having been successfully resurrected, I'd seated myself at a table with Etienne and was enjoying his first musical number when I remembered where I should be right now.
Omigod. Mom
.

“I'm so sorry,” I apologized as I peeled her away from the wall and helped her into her jacket. “Major emergency with Dad's accordion.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“It disappeared.”

She cocked an ear toward the restaurant. “Isn't that him playing now?”

“Yup. But it's a borrowed instrument.”

“Why would your father's accordion disappear?”

“Nothing official, but we're guessing that in a fit of jealous rage, one of the musicians chucked it over the terrace guardrail.”

“Really?” She rebuttoned the collar of her blouse. “I wonder if that's what the person I saw was doing.”

“You saw someone outside on the terrace?”

She nodded. “While the yodelers were performing. The glass on that outer door is so clean, I got an excellent look at the person's face.”

I grabbed her shoulders. “Who was it?”

She opened her mouth as if to tell me, then snapped it shut as the spark of awareness that had flared in her eyes suddenly died out. She heaved a sigh. “Can you give me a minute? Maybe it'll come back to me.”

twenty-one

I sat next to
Mom on the ride back to Munich in anticipation that she'd remember because she was suddenly recalling all sorts of things. What country she was in. What she'd ordered for lunch. Why the musicians were giving Dad the cold shoulder. Who the woman with the boils on her face was. Whose bright idea it had been to leave the accordion case in Felix's care in the first place. But she couldn't create a visual image of the person she'd seen through the terrace door.

“If I could reconstruct the scene with the same lighting and shadows and distance, I know I'd remember,” she assured me. “Or maybe I should try smooshing my face against a wall someplace. That might jog something loose.”

The musicians were officially peeved and grumpy when we reached Munich, a condition that deteriorated even further when we entered the hotel to find Kriminaloberkommissar Horn awaiting our arrival at the front desk.

“Do not return to your rooms,” he instructed. “I have more questions before I allow you to depart Munich in the morning.”

Groans. Eye-rolling. Grumbling.

“You should know the routine by now.” He swept his arm toward the inner corridor. “The Prince Ludwig room, if you please.”

“Have you had a break in the case?” Etienne asked him as the group trooped toward the meeting room.

“A break? No. A clue? No. An inkling? No.”

Not even an inkling? Nuts. An inkling would have been good.

“I have exhausted my resources, Mr. Miceli, and have nothing to show for it. The background checks on your guests raised no flags, no suspicions. They
are
who they say they are. They
do
what they say they do. If they're harboring secrets, I doubt they're lurid enough to raise even one eyebrow. They are truly one of the most average, run-of-the-mill groups of individuals I have ever been tasked with investigating.”

I wasn't sure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult. I narrowed my eyes. “So if you've got nothing, what further questions do you have to ask?”

He lifted his brows. “I am the youngest police officer ever to earn the rank of kriminaloberkommissar, Mrs. Miceli. When I finish with your group, you'll know why. Please.” He tipped his head and motioned me forward. “After you.”

“Are we all here?” he asked when we'd seated ourselves.

“We're missin' a few,” offered Nana. “They're in the little girls' room goin' potty.”

“Very well. We can wait.” He eyed his watch. Tapped his fingers on the podium. Fussed with the knot of his necktie. “I believe you were scheduled to visit Kehlsteinhaus today. Did you have a pleasant experience?”

“It was great,” said Wendell, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Last night our band got the shaft at sea level. Today we got the shaft at six thousand feet up.”

“I thought we were supposed to be the toast of the town for our heroism,” complained Otis. “What a crock. We're getting disrespected all over the place.”

“I don't think it was
your
heroism that the town was toasting,” Margi spoke up. “If I'm not mistaken, after the explosion you musicians all raced farther down the street to protect your instruments. It was the rest of us who risked our lives to perform triage in an unstable bomb zone.”

“What of it?” balked Otis. “According to that fella who works for the mayor, it didn't matter what role we played. We're all supposed to be recognized as heroes—until some two-bit yodelers show up.”

“Yodelers?” questioned Horn. “Are you referring to the Bavarian yodeling team? Did you know they won the state championship and will go on to compete in—”

“Hey, Mr. Inspector, are you ready to take a look at the crackerjack photos I took of the aftermath of the blast site yet?” Bernice held up her phone. “Documentary film–ready. Maybe you can suggest where I can auction them off.”

After casting an impatient glance at the doorway, he hastened toward Bernice's chair. “Show me.”

His expression grew puzzled as she flipped through several screens. “Who is this woman?”

“Me.” She primped her hair. “Prior to the introduction of my beauty treatment.”

“Where are the photos of the bomb site?”

“You're looking at 'em. This is me hovering over the guy who'd been operating the heavy machinery. See how sympathetic I look? This is me hunkering down beside one of the guys in the yellow vests. I had to watch where I was stepping because the place was like a swamp and I didn't want to ruin my shoes. This is me listening for the sound of sirens. This is me—”

Horn muttered something under his breath and stormed back to the podium.

“I hope you realize you're turning your back on some very important historical documents here,” chided Bernice. “You've just blown your chance to immortalize the face of a former magazine model in the German press.”

Maisie Barnes hustled through the door.

“Are you the last one?” Horn called out as she found a chair at the back of the room.

“One more behind me.”

He checked his watch again. “We'll start without the straggler.” Gripping the sides of the podium, he ranged a flinty look over the room. “Secrets. You all have them, and you believe you'll take them to the grave with you. But that's where you're wrong. Do you know how much information we're able to compile on you from public records that are available to us over the Internet? Through social media? Through Interpol, state intelligence agencies, and cooperative programs with the FBI and NSA?” He paused for effect. “We can listen to your phones. Read your text messages. Discover your deepest and best-kept secrets with little effort at all.”

He was beginning to sound like Vincent Price in a sixties horror flick. The only thing missing was the maniacal laugh.

“My staff has been very busy today collecting data on all of you—one of you in particular. If you thought you could hide your secret from us, you were mistaken. We know.” He made a slow visual sweep of the room. “We know all about you. So I give you a one-time opportunity now to confess your crime. I can almost guarantee that our judicial system will deal with you more reasonably if you take responsibility, here and now, for what you have done.”

I could hear chairs throughout the room creak and rattle as
people
squirmed in their seats.

Dad raised his hand rather tentatively in the air. “Would this be a good time to report a theft?”

“That's being taken care of,” Etienne called out. “I left our contact information with the management at Kehlsteinhaus should the instrument ever reappear.”

“Someone stole your instrument?” Horn asked Dad.

Dad nodded. “It wasn't mine. It belonged to the Peterson woman who passed away. I was just borrowing it. But one minute it was there, and the next, it was gone.”

“What type of instrument?”

“An accordion. A real nice one too. Kinda like the one Myron—”

“It was her!” Mom sprang to her feet and pointed a damning finger at the doorway. “
She's
the one who stole it.
She's
the one I saw on the terrace.”

Hetty Munk froze on the threshold, stuck halfway between in and out. She stared at Mom, mouth gaping and eyes aghast. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw you. At the Eagle's Nest. Outside the terrace door. It's all coming back now.”

Hetty inched nervously into the room and shifted her gaze from Mom to Officer Horn. “I'm a little uncomfortable mentioning this, but Mrs. Andrew has been mentally incapacitated for the last two days. She doesn't even know where she is.”

“Germany,” Mom fired back. “My brain's been a little off, but there's nothing wrong with my eyes. It was you outside that door.”

Hetty shook her head in denial. “The terrace was buried under snow, Mrs. Andrew. The temperature was freezing. W
hy
would I go outside in those conditions?”

“To throw Bob's instrument case over the mountainside, that's why.”

The musicians let out a collective gasp.

Hetty rolled her eyes. “That's absurd.”

“You destroyed Astrid's accordion?” Wendell asked in disbelief.

“I didn't touch Astrid's accordion.”

“You and Astrid were best friends forever.” Otis's wistful tone couldn't disguise an undercurrent of condemnation. “How could you do something like that to the instrument she loved?”

Hetty fisted her hand on her hip. “I don't believe this! You're taking the word of a crazy woman over mine?”

“Amnesia is not classified as a mental illness,” corrected Tilly, “so I take umbrage with your use of the pejorative term
crazy
.”

“What'd she say?” asked Arlin.

“That accordion was the only thing we had left of Astrid,” snuffled Gilbert. “We could have put it on display at our gigs. We could have honored her memory by having her name engraved on a special plaque that we could attach to her silver case. We could have—”

“Give me a
break
,” whined Hetty. “Astrid, Astrid, Astrid. She's dead, all right? And fawning over her sainted accordion isn't going to bring her back. Deal with it.”

Wendell shot to his feet, anger darkening his features. “You're glad she's dead, aren't you? You didn't like Astrid. All these years, you…you were jealous of her. Jealous of her talent. Jealous of her personality.”

“And her looks,” said Otis.

“And her lingerie,” added Gilbert.

I sat up straighter in my chair. Gilbert knew about Astrid's lingerie? But how—

“If I was jealous, it was all your fault,” she shouted at the three Guten Tags, stabbing her finger at each of them. “How do you think you made me feel when you'd bounce off happily with Astrid but trudge beside me like…like you were slogging through mud?”

“It wouldn't have hurt if you'd bought a few enticing outfits,” suggested Otis.

“On my wages?” cried Hetty. “Are you kidding?”

“And Astrid always served treats,” Gilbert reminisced. “Italian wine served at room temperature. Chilled specialty beer. Truffles she made herself.”

“Café au lait mousse,” reflected Wendell, sighing. “Raspberry parfait. Orange dreamsicle.”

“Cheese spread and crackers,” Gilbert continued. “Cheese logs at Christmas.”

“
I
served you treats,” defended Hetty.

“Yeah.” Otis pulled a face. “Peanuts.”

“I'll have you know that peanuts are a wonderful source of protein, dietary fiber, and omega-3 fatty acids,” she countered. “They're much more heart healthy than artery-clogging café au lait mousse truffles.”

Otis curled his lip with distaste. “What I meant to say was
unsalted
peanuts.”

“Astrid was my Stepford wife,” mused Wendell. “When I was with her, I felt tall and…and clever and interesting.”

“She made me feel like a superhero,” lamented Otis.

Gilbert smiled. “She told me I performed like a V12 diesel engine—smooth camshaft, unflagging throttle response, super flexible torque, and horsepower off the chart.”

“
I
might have told you the same thing if you'd ever turned your key in the ignition,” wailed Hetty. “I'm fed up with the three of you! Astrid got Superman and diesel engines. What did I get? Underdog and flat tires!”

Uff-da.
Were they talking about what I
thought
they were talking about?

“Hold it.” Maisie Barnes unfolded herself from her chair and stood up, an incredulous grin on her face. “Are you telling us that you're, what—swingers?”

The Guten Tags looked from one to the other as if realizing, only now, that they'd aired their dirty laundry in front of the entire room. Wendell puffed out his chest and hitched up the waistband of his pants. “Yeah, we're swingers. So what?”

The room exploded in a cacophony of gasps, snorts, and snickers.

“They swing dance?” enthused Osmond. “I used to swing dance.”

“They're not dancers,” hooted Dick Teig. “When they swing, they're not doing it on the floor of any grange hall.”

“And they're not vertical,” said Dick Stolee as he choked back his laughter. “They're horizontal.”

“Like yoga class poses?” asked Alice.

“They're not doing yoga,” Stretch translated. “They're pulling the old switcharoo. They're swapping partners for the purpose of—how should I word this?—engaging in intimate after-hours activities on a regular basis.”

Nana raised her hand. “Is this a private club or can anyone join?”

Laughter. More gasping. Schoolchild giggles.

“Oh, grow up,” railed Wendell, jaw hardened, voice increasing in volume. “I don't know what your problem is. Are we breaking any laws? No. Are we committing any crime? No. We're divorced. We're widowed. We're not cheating on our spouses, so it's none of your business how we spend our time after hours. News flash: single adults deserve as much TLC as you married folks, so how about you cut us some slack? You're not the morality police. Deal with it.”

“Oh, my stars.” Mom cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered in my direction. “He's not talking about TLC at all, is he? He's talking about S-E-X.”

“The incidence of STDs in your age group has reached epidemic proportions,” Margi offered in a quick public-service announcement. “So you fellas better be taking precautions and using prophylactics.”

“Why do they need protection?” raged Hetty. “They come to my room, they eat my peanuts, they fall asleep. What do they need protection from?”

“Anaphylactic shock?” asked Alice.

“I never fell asleep on Astrid,” Otis admitted in a proud voice. “Astrid knew how to entertain a fella.”