From Bad to Wurst (9 page)

“Three!”

Ten thumbs hit their touchscreens, producing ten individual selfies.

I shook my head. “Hel
lo
? I thought you wanted a group photo. You know? A picture of all of you standing together
in a group
?”

“I thought we
were
standing together in a group,” fretted Margi.

“The Dicks weren't standing,” Alice pointed out. “They were kneeling.”

Helen Teig leaned toward her husband and bellowed, “Stand up, Dick! You just ruined the group shot.”

“Group shot, take two,” Dick Stolee gasped out as he struggled upward. “On my count.”

Not needing to witness any more of their antics, I excused myself from Maisie and Stretch and turned to the girls. “I want to shoot a few pictures of the Hafner Stub'n, so I'm heading out. I'll catch up with you in the Christmas store.”

Mom glanced at her surroundings, suddenly mystified. “Where are we?”

“Disneyworld,” said Nana.

“Is Bob here, too?”

Nana nodded. “You bet. You see that craggy peak pokin' outta them hills over there?” She motioned toward a pinnacle of rock that towered above the village like a pinheaded giant who'd been turned into solid granite. “He's over there.”

“Oh.” Mom studied the odd formation. “What is that thing?”

Nana smiled. “Space Mountain.”

nine

The Hafner Stub'n was
a short block away.

While crossing to the other side of the street, I dug out my phone and texted Etienne, telling him where he could find me when he finished speaking to Astrid Peterson's sister. He'd received her call just as we'd been exiting the bus, so he and Wally had retired to a café so they could address her questions in relative quiet.

As I strode toward the restaurant, I passed not only the typical souvenir shops with their sweatshirts, placemats, yodeling teddy bears, and beer steins, but stores whose display windows showcased the magnificent carvings that Wally had told us about. Madonnas as tall as real people. Angels with spreading wings and golden trumpets. Nativity figures accompanied by sheep and oxen so big, they could have doubled as carousel animals. Owls. Balladeers. Monks. Kings. Deftly carved, brilliantly painted, and jaw-droppingly expensive. I suspected Nana might be tempted to buy a life-size nativity scene for our parish church, but by the time she included necessary add-ons like shepherds, camels, wise men, and a small flock of sheep, the shipping costs would be so astronomical, she'd be too shell-shocked to spring for even small-ticket items like gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Arriving at the intersection of the main street and Othmar-Weis-Strasse, I lingered by a street lamp at the corner, unable to take my eyes off the building directly across from me. As a structure, the Restaurant Hafner Stub'n was less than unique—two stories of white stucco with a double bank of green shuttered windows. What elevated it to the level of spellbinding were the dark-timbered top story, whose front alcove dripped with tiers of pink and red flowers, and the wraparound balcony, whose railings disappeared beneath cascades of blossoms that wreathed the entire building in a dazzling riot of blood red and pale pink. Flowers were everywhere: overflowing their window boxes, tumbling onto overhanging canopies, flanking the front door.

Wally sure wasn't kidding with his earlier prediction. The exterior of the restaurant was so spectacular, I imagined most tourists spent all their time on this very corner gawking rather than venturing inside.

I whipped out my phone and began snapping pictures.

“Sorry to interrupt, Emily, but have you run into any of the other Guten Tags? They seem to have disappeared.”

If not for his signature handlebar mustache, I wouldn't have recognized Wendell beneath his bucket hat and dark glasses. Squarely built and dressed in casual clothes that bespoke afternoons on the golf course, he looked more like a well-to-do German native than a Midwest import, especially since he was missing the one item that would have pegged him as a tourist: his name tag.

“The last time I saw Otis, Gilbert, and Hetty, they were plowing through a crush of people to exit our bus. But some of the other band members are in a line outside the Christmas store”—I pointed down the street—“waiting to take selfies with Humpty Dumpty. In fact, I just had a very informative chat with Maisie Barnes. I had no idea you owned a company that employed every band member on the tour.”

“Newton Lock and Key,” Wendell said proudly. “Family owned and operated since 1888. You probably own one of our locks and don't even know it. We're the Midwest's premier manufacturers of padlocks, dead bolts, knob locks, lever-handle locks, cam locks, and mortise locks. And every lock we produce comes with a lifetime guarantee. Not many companies can afford to do
that
anymore. We produce a quality product. Our competitors produce crap.”

“Well, Maisie and Stretch sure sound like two happy employees. Maisie even told us that if she quits smoking, you'll give her a raise. Talk about incentive.”

Wendell chuckled. “When Maisie finally quits,
everyon
e gets a raise. If the company can earn smoke-free status, we'll get a substantial break on our health insurance premiums, so I'll pass the savings on to my employees in the form of a raise. Maisie's our last holdout, so we're all rooting her on. If she succeeds, everyone wins. And I know she can do it. Maisie's about as special as they come.” His voice softened with the kind of warmth one reserves for a dearest friend…or lover. “She won't let us down. Maisie's my go-to person.” He seemed to smile involuntarily every time he said her name. “She always follows through and never disappoints. Never ever.”

“No pressure there.”

“I'm even thinking about making her a special gold key on the day she retires the habit for good.” He dug his hand into his pants pocket, producing a few foreign coins and a silver key that resembled the one to the front door of my house. He held it up. “All my employees get one of these.” Beneath the keychain hole appeared the word “Newton” with the company's address. Flipping it over, he showed me where his name and phone number were stamped onto the metal. “It's not an official form of ID, but the employees think they're kind of fun. When they retire, I upgrade them to gold and add their dates of employment.”

Right. Kinda like a portable tombstone.

“I haven't had to give out too many gold keys since I've been in charge. We don't have a mandatory retirement age, so people tend to stay. They like the workplace environment. They like the folks who work beside them. They like the wages. Why quit?”

“I guess when you go home, you'll have the sad task of finding someone to replace Astrid Peterson.”

“Yeah.” He gave his head a somber nod. “I'm not looking forward to that. I might be able to find someone to fill her shoes in the office, but I'll never find anyone to replace her sunny disposition. Astrid was always up; never moody. Always trying to find ways to give people a lift and make them feel good about themselves. That's a rare gift.”

Sure was. Just ask Bernice.

“In the summer she'd bring in vases of cut flowers from her garden and place them all over the plant. And let's face it: who can honestly admit that their day isn't made better with flowers?”

Bernice?

“Her husband was a horticulturalist, so they were real garden people. Flowers. Herbs. Vegetables. They even had some kind of specialty garden in their hothouse. They never let on what they were growing, but everyone suspected it was probably marijuana. I figured that's why Astrid was so happy all the time: high-grade weed. But that was her business, not mine, and it never affected her work, so what the hell.”

He paused, his voice strained. “I can tell you one thing. I'm not looking forward to her funeral. That'll be a day when a lot of grown men will be shedding tears.” He slid his sunglasses off his face to dry his eyes, which seemed an opportune time to suggest a change of both scenery and topic.

“I'm heading down to the Christmas store. You wanna tag along? If the Guten Tags aren't there, I can guarantee that some of your other employees will be.”

“Sure. Thanks for asking.”

“Did you want to get a picture of the restaurant before we leave?”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder.” He dug a thin, streamlined camera out of his front pocket and snapped a few shots. “My wife was in charge of picture-taking duty when I was married, but now that I'm divorced I have to do it myself, and I don't always remember.”

“That's the tiniest camera I've ever seen.”

“That's what I like about it. Expensive as hell, but real cutting edge. Fits in my pocket. Comes with its own tripod. Takes really high-resolution photos and even better video—movie quality, cinema ready. I've posted some short videos of our band performances on YouTube. You should check them out.” He laughed. “I sometimes feel like a wannabe movie director who sacrificed his ultimate dream to enter the family business. Talk about pie in the sky, huh? But I'm not knocking the family business. It's my bread and butter. So even though I'll never be recognized as the next Otto Preminger, even though I'd like to, I tinker with my own video stuff enough to keep me happy.”

By the time the K
ä
the Wohlfahrt store came into view, the shutterbug queue in front of Humpty had disappeared. The only people loitering by Humpty now were Zola and the Dicks, who were apparently so averse to the thought of Christmas shopping, they'd agreed to have their fortunes told. As we approached, Dick Teig was rocking back and forth on his heels, looking bored and impatient as Zola meditated over his hand. Dick Stolee, on the other hand, was so hyped up he was bouncing all over the sidewalk. I hoped he was careful not to collide with Humpty. If he cracked this particular egg, he wouldn't be getting an assist from all the king's horses and all the king's men.

He ran to meet me and Wendell as we crossed the street. “Guess who you're looking at?”

I prayed this was a jest rather than an indication that he couldn't actually remember who he was.

“Dick Stolee,” Wendell said matter-of-factly as he read the name off Dick's ID badge.

Dick's mouth slid into a cheesy grin. “Okay, I'll tell you. You're looking at Windsor City's next gazillionaire!”

Wow. “No kidding?”

He nodded like a turbocharged bobble-head doll, a motion that threatened to provoke a major concussive event. “Zola sees a financial windfall in my future. And we're not talking small potatoes, we're talking big bucks. Mi
llll
ions and mi
llll
ions. I'm going to be stinking rich!”

I didn't know what percentage of Zola's predictions panned out, but from what I'd witnessed so far, she displayed an uncanny ability to be spot-on. “Did she tell you where the windfall would come from?”

“Windows.”

Wendell looked intrigued. “Do you own a window manufacturing company?”

“Nope. But her reference is so obvious, any idiot could figure it out. Windows, as in Microsoft? Internet access? Online gaming? I'm going to strike it rich on one of those casino gambling sites.” He cradled his phone in his palm and eyed it adoringly. “I just have to decide which site has the highest payout and duck Grace while I'm—how should I phrase this—doing my investing.”

Uh-oh. No matter Zola's track record, this sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. “Okay, but…what if Zola's windows don't have anything to do with Microsoft? What if she's referring to something more subtle, like a window of opportunity or something like that?”

“You don't want to get carried away with online gaming,” cautioned Wendell. “You can get sucked into that stuff and lose your house, car, and family pet in less time than it takes to read the daily paper. Hey, I've seen it happen. My former brother-in-law is still trying to claw his way out of the financial hole he landed himself in. Do yourself a favor. Buy a lottery ticket and hope for the best.”

“Hey, like the Bible says, ‘One must lose a minnow to catch a salmon.'”

I frowned. “I don't think that's in the Bible, Dick.”

“Are you sure? Grace might not go so ballistic if I tell her I have the backing of scripture.”

I rolled my eyes. Dick Stolee, biblical scholar.

“How much longer?” Dick Teig whined to Zola, his attention span apparently at its limit.

“You're not concentrating,” scolded Zola.

“What am I supposed to concentrate on?” asked Dick.

“Being still.”

“I'll tell you what,” he countered. “Tell me what you've got so far and we'll call it a day.”

With a snort of disgust, Zola released his hand. “You want to see what I have so far?” She rounded her thumb and forefinger into a circle and stuck it in front of his face. “It's called a goose egg.”

“All the time I've been standing here and this is what you come up with?” sputtered Dick. “Nothin'?”

My knees went suddenly weak. She'd seen nothing? Omigod. Was Dick Teig about to meet the same fate as Astrid Peterson?

“I defy
anyone
to predict
anything
about your future,” snapped Zola. “The energy you give off is all”—she made a stirring motion with her hand—“haywire. Frenzied. It squirms around too much for me to read it with any accuracy. Besides which, your signal is weak.”

“I've got a signal?”

“We all have signals. They're like the bars on a cell phone. Unfortunately, yours are practically nonexistent.”

“So what does that mean?”

“In layman's terms? It means you're extremely shallow.”

“Well, shoot,” scoffed Dick Stolee. “I could've told you that ten minutes ago. C'mon, bud.” He tore Dick away from Zola and steered him in the direction of a nearby bench. “If my winning streak doesn't kick in right away, how would you feel about lending me your credit card?”

Eyes wild, Zola clamped her hands around her head and squeezed, mimicking the same motion I use when testing cantaloupe for ripeness. “I think Dick number two just blew all my circuits.”

“I'm not out to criticize,” hedged Wendell as he slid his sunglasses off his face, “but don't you think it's kind of irresponsible of you to put people on the path of financial ruin by promising them imaginary pots of gold? That man could go through his entire savings before he sees one red cent of your predicted windfall.”

“Just what I need. A doubting Thomas, otherwise known as the guy who denies anything he can't understand—religious dogma, mortgage derivatives, climate change, psychic ability. I can hardly wait to hear your solutions for the impending crises of our times, like who's going to man the twenty-four-hour cable news stations during the zombie apocalypse and what'll happen to our two-party system if the undead demand their own political party.”

I obviously needed to brush up on current events because I thought that had already happened.

Wendell's voice grew louder and more defensive. “Hey, I pride myself on being able to spot a fraud when I see one.”

“You want to see what kind of fraud I am?” Zola bristled. “Gimme your hand…”