From Bad to Wurst (24 page)

“Ehh.” Stretch thrust her away from him as if she were a live electrical wire.

“Now, Til!” cried Nana.

Tilly raised her cane and walloped him across the back of his knees before reversing direction and thumping him across the bridge of his nose. Legs buckling beneath him, he collapsed onto the floor in an unconscious heap.

George popped out of a nearby chair and hog-tied Stretch with several napkins he quickly tied together. I pushed through the panicked guests who were stampeding from the room as I raced to Nana's side and smothered her in my arms. “Omigod! I'm so glad you're safe! But why didn't you just take him down with your roundhouse kick?”

She straightened the shoulders of her sweatshirt and dusted off the front. “I didn't wanna tear out no seams in my sweatshirt.” She glanced at the mob rushing out the door. “How come everyone's leavin'?”

“They apparently don't want to catch what you claim to have.”

But Mom and Dad weren't among the fleeing horde. In fact, as Etienne and Officer Horn rushed into the room, Mom hurried toward us, arms spread wide—but instead of joining us in a group hug, she stopped in front of Nana to squirt a stream of hand sanitizer down her sweatshirt.

Brows arched and eyes narrowed, she drilled me with a self-
satisfied
look. “I told you she was contagious.”

twenty-three

“So when did Stretch
steal Maisie's liquid nicotine?” Tilly asked Etienne.

It was close to midnight, but we were so wired that a bunch of us were still hanging out. Officer Horn had paraded Stretch off to jail and released Hetty with a slap on the wrist and a stern warning to keep her paws off other people's property, no matter if the people were dead or alive. The Guten Tags were so happy to have their clarinetist back that they approached both Hetty and Dad with white flags and, in a flurry of apologies, set about restoring their band to its full musical capacity. There were still performances to be given over the course of the tour, so they realized they had two choices: set their petty grievances aside and take the stage as a united group or remain miffed and not participate at all. I applauded them for being classy enough to mend fences and was touched when they decided that since Dad no longer had an instrument, not even a borrowed one, they'd all pitch in to buy him a new one.

Funny thing about people. Just when you think you have them pegged, they do something to surprise you.

“I'd expected Mr. Doozey to be quiet and withdrawn on the ride to the police station,” Etienne said in response to Tilly's question, “but quite the opposite occurred. He was absolutely chatty. Nerves, most likely. He was quite forthcoming about his exploits—how easy it was to slip his hand inside her shoulder bag on the walk to the Oktoberfest grounds and snatch her nicotine refill. The crowds were suffocating, if you recall, so all of us were getting bumped and tugged, which suited his purpose entirely. He was in panic mode about incapacitating Zola, so he was improvising on the fly.”

“When'd he dump the stuff into Zola's drink?” asked Nana.

“I can answer that,” I said. “After Maisie, Arlin, and Stretch finished their performance, Maisie and Zola took off for the ladies' room. Remember? They weren't gone that long because they decided to use the men's room, but it was still long enough for Stretch to poison Zola's beer. Which reminds me.” I glanced at Dad. “When Officer Horn asked to see everyone's photos of the Hippodrom tent, why didn't you show him yours?”

Dad elongated his features as if he were Stan Laurel reacting to Oliver Hardy. “He asked for camera photos. All I had was video.”

You had to love my dad. He was just so…literal.

“What I wanna know is, how'd that fella steal so much money from his company without no one noticin'?” asked Nana. “Don't they do no audits?”

“I'm no expert in the art of embezzlement,” said Etienne, “but I suspect he juggled two sets of books and manipulated the shipping charges to his own advantage. He's been perpetrating the ruse for years, so he apparently became quite adept at it.”

I startled as the desk phone in our suite rang out with an annoyingly shrill tone. “That's probably for me,” said Etienne as he crossed the floor to answer it.

“It's almost midnight,” Mom reflected in a disapproving tone. “Who's calling him at this late hour?”

“He's still conversing with Zola's and Astrid's families about transportation arrangements to fly their bodies home, so it could be either a call from the States or his Munich liaison. Since this is our last night here, the officials in Munich might feel compelled to tie up any loose ends.”

“Sad thing about those women.” Mom boosted herself to her feet and pulled Dad off the sofa with her. “I'm so sorry for their families. I shudder when I realize it could have been members of our own family who were killed.” She graced me with a teary look. “We're all very lucky, aren't we? A little bruised and battered but very, very lucky.” She blinked away her tears and forced a smile. “And on that note, your father and I are leaving.”

“Us too,” said Nana as she and Tilly stood up. “Six o'clock for luggage outside our door?” she asked me.

“Wish it could be later, but we have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.”

“I think for our next trip we should visit a place where we don't have to drive such long distances,” proposed Mom. “Someplace small like Lichtenstein. Or Rhode Island.”

Nana shook her head. “You can suggest all you want, Margaret, but it won't do no good. Bernice is already lobbyin'. She's got her heart set on New Guinea.”

“Too many bugs,” Mom declared as I escorted everyone to the door. “Too many snakes. Too much humidity.” She stuck a warning finger in Nana's face. “You are
not
traveling to New Guinea, Mother. How would I ever keep track of you in the jungle?”

Nana riffled through her handbag, fishing out the wrist strap Mom had bought at Pills Etcetera. “I s'pose you could use this.” She handed it back.

“My toddler tether! I was wondering where that went. Oh, good. Now, tomorrow when we get off the bus, we'll give this another try. Aren't you thrilled that we'll be attached again? So you can go anywhere and look at anything, and if you need something, I'll be right there at your side to take care of it. Isn't that exciting?”

“You bet,” Nana deadpanned. “I'm about to break out in handstands.”

But I could see the little twinkle in Nana's eye. As much as she despised Mom smothering her, I think being a nonentity had bothered her even more. Guess it was like the proverb said: “They wooed her and she resisted; they neglected her and she fell in love.”

I closed the door behind them, relieved that things were slowly getting back to normal.

Whatever normal was.

“Who was that?” I asked when Etienne hung up the phone.

“The front desk. They were inquiring if we were still awake because they're sending someone up with a delivery for us.”

“What kind of delivery?”

“We'll know in a few minutes.”

I stepped into the bathroom to brush my teeth, popping out five minutes later when I heard the bumpity-bump squeak of a familiar set of wheels. I stopped in my tracks, jaw slack, staring.

“You've gotta be kidding me.”

“It apparently has more lives than a cat.” He released the handle of Astrid's rolling instrument case, then took a step back to inspect it with a critical eye. “Doesn't look too much the worse for wear.”

A small dent was punched into one corner and several irregularly shaped scratches were etched across the top, but it looked as if it had sustained less damage in its six-thousand-foot descent down the Kehlstein than average luggage sustained going through O'Hare.

“I can't believe it. Did the delivery person offer any explanations?”

“Only this.” He held up an envelope. “Would you like to do the honors or shall I?”

“Please.” I gestured for him to continue.

He gave the contents of the note a quick scan. “It's from the manager of the Eagle's Nest. ‘Dear Mr. Miceli, I am happy to return your case to you before you leave the immediate area. A hiker discovered it lying on one of our mountain trails early this afternoon, surprisingly intact. Please accept our good wishes that the accordion inside has not been seriously damaged. With sincere regards.' And he signs his name.”

I winced. “Do you think it's damaged?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He set it on the sofa, released the locks, and threw open the top. We did a quick visual inspection, searching for dents, missing buttons, or damaged piano keys. “Wow,” I marveled, “is it just me or does it look as if it's in perfect condition?”

“It's not you. It looks as good as new. At least, from this angle.” Peeling away the Velcro straps that immobilized it within its molded foam interior, he lifted it out and turned it gently upside down. “No damage to the underside either. I don't know where Astrid bought her musical equipment, but this is one damned fine instrument case. Looks like your father won't be needing a new accordion after all.”

“What's this thing?” I pointed to the tail end of a pink ribbon that was wedged in the crack where the foam insert was tucked into the case. “Looks a little out of place, doesn't it?”

“Is it attached to anything?”

Squeezing the satin between my forefinger and thumb, I tugged slowly, surprised when the entire foam insert lifted up to reveal the object to which the ribbon was attached: a slender book that was emblazoned with a riot of garden flowers and stamped with the words My Journal.

“
Omigod
. I don't think Astrid's journal was destroyed in the bomb blast after all. I think we just found it!” I lifted it out of its hidden compartment and opened it up to the first page. “The beginning date is inscribed as July two years ago.” I flipped through a few pages, taking note of her tiny handwriting and short entries. “Will the police need this for any reason or should we simply turn it over to her family with the rest of her belongings?”

“Astrid was never under investigation, so the authorities would have no use for it. But I do wonder if she made any observations that would help Wendell as he begins to clean up his embezzlement mess.”

I handed it to him. “Sounds like police work to me.”

While he settled into a chair with the journal, I picked up the foam insert and was about to tuck it back into the case when something broke loose from beneath it and thunked onto my foot.

A wad of bubble wrap as long as my forefinger and as fat as a sausage. I plucked it off the floor. “Uh-oh. There might be damage after all. Look what just fell out of the foam insert.”

“What is it?”

“Something cocooned in bubble wrap.” I unraveled several layers before I uncovered the surprise in the center. A small bottle of clear liquid with an eye-dropper cap. I flashed it in Etienne's direction. “I don't know what it is. Nose drops? Eye drops?”

“Does it have an odor?”

I unscrewed the cap and sniffed. “It doesn't smell good enough to be perfume, but it doesn't smell like medicine either.” I screwed the cap back on. “What do you suppose it is?”

He held up a finger in a “hold that thought” gesture as he scanned a passage in the journal. Then another. And another. Muttering something under his breath the entire while.

I shot him a frustrated look. “What?”

“This entry is dated July twenty-second. ‘We rocked tonight at the gig in Winterset. I put Wendell down with his favorite café au lait mousse truffles and Montepulciano wine and he slept like a baby until I woke him at six.'”

“She ‘put him down'? Meaning she put him to sleep?”

“That's my interpretation.”

My eyes widened with a sudden memory. “She was carrying truffles in a side pocket of her suitcase—a whole bag full—but they'd melted in the plastic, so I threw them away. Do you suppose they were laced with whatever she used to induce sleep?”

“Seems fairly likely, doesn't it?” He leafed through more pages. “‘July twenty-ninth. A huge crowd in Spencer and great accommodations at the hotel. Gilbert devoured my cheese spread and drank two glasses of wine, which was enough to knock him out until dawn. I pumped up his ego about his prowess for a solid ten minutes, so he was feeling pretty good about himself when he left.'”

“Holy crap. She
did
drug them.”

“‘August fifth. Otis is going to be crushed if I don't select his key tonight. He so enjoys our chats about politics and religion—all the topics you're supposed to avoid. If he's the lucky winner tonight, I might reduce his dosage so we can talk a little longer before he falls asleep. He's packed on a few pounds lately, so when I cuddle against him in bed, I'm reminded of the days before my Jim got sick, when we'd cuddle like spoons. Funny, the little things you miss when you find yourself widowed.'”

I stared at him, gobsmacked. “So…there was never any actual hanky-panky going on? Even though the guys
thought
there was?”

Etienne smiled. “A clever woman, Astrid Peterson. She apparently stroked their egos by feeding them stories about their manly exploits when all they actually did was eat, drink, and fall asleep.”

“You don't think they ever questioned why they couldn't recall the evening's activities with as much detail as Astrid?”

“She inflated their egos so convincingly, made them feel so physically gifted, why would they ever question her? They wanted to believe every word she told them, whether they could remember or not. It was genius really. She got what she wanted most—an evening of companionship and cuddling that harkened back to the days when her husband was still alive. And they were given a chance to sustain the kind of fantasy that I imagine every man over a certain age craves—affirmation that he can still perform like a tiger in the bedroom. It was the perfect symbiotic relationship.”

“I assume she never told Hetty what she was doing?”

“That would have been too risky. But I'd be willing to bet that Hetty never told Astrid about what was happening on her end either. She was probably too embarrassed to admit that the only thing the guys were interested in doing when they were with her was nodding off.”

“Seems like a lot of hoopla to hide the fact that the only activity the Guten Tags were engaging in was sleeping.” I held Astrid's mystery bottle up to the light. “Her bottle is just about full. Do you suppose this is what she used to knock everyone out? Poured it into their wine? Slipped it into their beer? Mixed it into the truffles? A home-grown sleeping potion maybe? Wendell told me she grew some pretty unusual plants in her garden. He said she was so happy all the time, he wouldn't be surprised if she was growing marijuana.”

Etienne skimmed more pages. “If she concocted the brew herself, then you'd think she might make mention of it in one of her entries. Perhaps a plant that flourishes in the summer and needs to be harvested in—aha. ‘September second. My valerian has grown especially well this year. A bumper crop to insure continued sweet dreams for my boys. Time to get busy. Life is good.'”