The Wurst Is Yet to Come (28 page)

Barry didn't answer at once. “I never thought about that, but it's true. Growing up, I heard Dad talk about clients. Face it, the majority of Legal Aid clients are low income or uneducated. Maybe he just wanted to blow off steam, but stay anonymous. That doesn't make him a killer.”

Renie agreed. “It'd take time and trouble to come here to murder somebody. When did your dad stop practicing law?”

“Ten years ago, except for some cases he took on as favors.”

“Local clients?” Judith asked.

“Mostly.” Barry passed a hand over his forehead. “I wasn't around all the time. Either I was in undergraduate school or studying for my advanced degrees. I recall only a couple of cases. One was a property dispute and the other was a messy divorce.”

Judith started to speak, but waited until the waitress brought Barry's latte. “Are any of those litigants still in town?” she inquired.

Barry leaned back in the chair, looking up at the mosaic ceiling. “The property involved was where an old gas station used to stand. The original owner had died and left the land—and everything else including the gas storage drums—to his granddaughter. She'd moved away and didn't want it. Too much trouble to get rid of the contaminated soil. Then a cousin who'd worked at the station asked her to give him a quitclaim deed and he'd take care of it for her. She thought he was pulling a fast one, and refused.” Barry laughed softly. “Mr. Wessler got into the act, trying to be a peacemaker. He liked to do that. He meant well, but it only caused more trouble. He was the heiress's paternal grandfather.” His jaw dropped. “You know her—Eleanor Wessler Denkel.”

Judith stared at Barry. “Let me get this straight. The maternal grandpa left her the property, right? Was the cousin a Wessler?”

“Well . . . yes,” Barry said. “It was Frankie Duomo, one of Wessler's illegitimate kids. He wanted to open a bigger bakery there.”

“Who won?” Renie asked.

“Dietrich Wessler,” Barry said. “He paid off both Eleanor and Frankie, assumed the deed to the property, got it cleaned up, and that's where the beer garden is now. Franz Wessler pitched a fit. He came roaring up from L.A. to try to talk his father out of the deal. Franz wanted to open a small theater on the site. There's never been a movie house in this town. That's why they show the German movies in that tent down the street. To be honest, I thought Franz had the right idea.”

Judith took her last sip of mocha before posing another question. “Did that cause a serious rift between Franz and his father?”

“Mom told me it caused more than that,” Barry replied, smiling wryly. “I'd forgotten what happened until now. Franz didn't want to show only theatrical releases, but to preview his documentaries. And Klara wanted to use the theater as her private concert hall. That's why she moved up here—to con Franz's father into making the deal. The irony was that she blamed Franz for not getting her way. That's when she divorced him and moved in with Wessler.”

Judith felt as if her head was spinning. “Did Klara think she could get Wessler to change his mind?”

Barry shrugged. “Who knows? She found a soft life with him. The old boy doted on her. I figure he left all his money to her.”

“Hold it,” Renie said. “Where did Klara get her divorce?”

Barry looked puzzled. “Where? You mean . . . ?”

“Was it here in Little Bavaria or in California?”

“I don't know,” Barry said. “I don't think Dad or Mom told me.”

Judith eyed her cousin. “What are you getting at, supersleuth?”

Renie made a face. “I'm not sure. But when we were going through those records at the town hall, I don't recall seeing anything about a Wessler divorce. In fact, there weren't that many divorces. I'm wondering if Klara and Franz aren't still married.”

Barry shook his head. “Sorry. If Dad handled that one, I don't remember. Maybe Franz started the divorce proceedings in Los Angeles.” He checked his watch. “Are you serious about filling in at the bookshop?”

Judith took in Renie's benign mood. “Yes. Serena still has to pick up those books for her husband.”

“Right,” Renie said. “Bill won't speak to me for at least ten minutes if I don't bring him those books. And Oscar will have a fit.”

“Oscar?” Barry said with a puzzled expression.

Judith stood up, digging into her wallet. “Never mind. Oscar's a terrible grump. I'd tell him to get stuffed—except he already is. We'll have Jessi come down here so you can eat in peace before you visit her grandfather at the hospital.”

Leaving a twenty-dollar bill on the table, she headed for the exit. Five minutes later, the cousins had taken over the bookstore. Renie had already agreed to check out the noncanonized saint on the shop's computer while Judith waited on customers. There were a half-dozen people browsing the shelves. Jessi had been effusive in her thanks, insisting that Renie take Bill's books without charge.

“I won't, of course,” Renie said to Judith after Jessi had departed. “You can ring me up. Where should I start with the nonsaint?”

“Birgitta was Swedish,” Judith said, keeping one eye on the customers. “Back then, all of Scandinavia was Sweden, right? See what you find by cross-referencing Birgitta with whatever might work.”

“Got it,” Renie said, scooting behind the counter. “Anglicized as Bridget, I suppose.”

“Right,” Judith said as a ponytailed girl approached with a Twilight book.

A half hour passed before Renie began to grow impatient. “I've tried every which way to go at this and come up empty,” she said under her breath to Judith, who'd just finished ringing up a frail old lady who'd bought four volumes of erotica. “I've done all the Scandinavian saints through three centuries, famous Scandinavian women of the same period, every Ingamoder and Ingeborg and Inglenook or whatever along with Rikissa, Kristina, and Agda. Got any other ideas?”

“Maybe we shouldn't stick to Sweden or Scandinavia. Why don't you try putting in just medieval Catholic saints?”

“Oh, for . . .” Renie held her head. “Do you realize the hits I'll get? I'd have to expand it to more than a two-century time span for Scandinavian saints. I'm not sure why we're doing this in the first place.”

“If I told you it's a hunch, would you hit me?”

“No.” Renie took a deep breath. “Your hunches often work.” She turned back to the computer.

Twenty minutes later, Judith heard Renie let out a little squeal. Trying not to rush the gray-haired man who couldn't remember whether he'd read the latest Michael Connelly paperback or the one before that or even if he'd ever read any of them, Judith finally suggested that maybe he should confer with his wife, who was perusing romance novels.

“What is it?” she finally whispered to Renie.

“I think I found her,” Renie said softly. “Look.”

Judith saw the name of the Swedish woman whose cause for canonization had been dropped during the Reformation. “Good Lord!” she exclaimed under her breath. “I don't believe it!”

The cousins exchanged startled glances.

“Maybe,” Renie suggested, “it's a coincidence.”

“Maybe,” Judith said, her voice unsteady. “Let's hope so. I'd hate to think this might lead us to the killer.”

The unofficial saint's name was Ingrid.

 

Chapter Twenty

B
ut,” Renie said, lowering her voice, “it's only a coincidence.”

“Maybe,” Judith admitted. “There must be a ton of Ingrids in this part of the country. Lots of Scandinavians. They were a major influence in this whole area. What are you doing now?”

“Checking the usage of Ingrid as a first name,” Renie murmured.

The couple who couldn't seem to make up their minds had settled on a cookbook. Judith rang them up while Renie kept searching.

“Just as I thought,” Renie said after the customers left. “Ingrid Bergman popularized the name circa 1940. I can't get a hit on anyone before that except for the ersatz saint. Is Heffelman her maiden name?”

“I don't know. She's divorced. But what does Ingrid have to do with Little Bavaria? I've never heard her refer to the town until she organized the Oktoberfest exhibit. Nobody has mentioned a local connection with Ingrid. I assumed she'd grown up in the city. Is that a local phone book under the counter?”

“Yes.” Renie picked up the directory and flipped to the
H
listings. “No Heffelmans.” She turned the pages back to the
B
s. “One Bauer, initials A.L., the mother from the cemetery and the church. Coz, you've got Inbred Heffalump fever. She's not even here, yet you've been obsessing about her ever since we left home.”

Judith made a face. “So I have. Face it, she's the only part of my job that drives me nuts. She's been on my case ever since the fortune teller was killed at Hillside Manor early on in my B&B career.”

“So? You're still in business, aren't you?”

“Yes, but now she's showing up on my doorstep when she knows I'm not around. The few times she's met Joe, she's always been kind of flirty with him, which isn't Ingrid's usual style.”

“Gee,” Renie said, lowering her voice as two young men entered the shop, “with tough competition like Delmar Denkel and George Beaulieu, I don't see how Joe would stand a chance with Ingrid.”

“Not funny.” Judith asked the new customers if she could help. They asked if she knew where the snowboarding books were. She pointed to the winter sports section. They began to browse.

“You trust Joe,” Renie said quietly. “Stop worrying.”

“It's just another reason why Ingrid has been on my mind lately.” Judith glanced at the young men who were absorbed in snowboarding books. “You're right. I should forget about her and refocus.”

“Do that. You still think two people are involved?”

“If not, somebody's protecting someone. Ellie and Franz are both likely candidates because they're related. But it still points to a Wessler family member—including Klara. Unless you count all the bastards.”

“For that,” Renie said, “I need a football roster. The other sports don't have enough players.”

The young men each brought a trade paperback to the register—
The Illustrated Guide to Snowboarding
and
100 Classic Backcountry Ski & Snowboard Routes in Washington
. “Is this your first snowboarding adventure?” Judith asked as she rang them up.

“First time,” the shorter, stockier of the duo said. “We need more snow. Guess we miscalculated.”

“Guess we're unlucky,” the taller, lankier young man said. “We went hiking around here last summer and some jerk told us to get off his property. I thought anybody could walk along a river in this state. We weren't going to fish. Who would on a hot August afternoon?”

“Right,” said his companion. “That guy acted like we were crooks.”

The other young man laughed. “That's because his buddy was wasted. He couldn't even sit up.”

“So what?” his friend said. “Like we haven't seen drunks before?”

Judith kept her voice matter-of-fact. “When was this in August?”

“Oh,” the stocky young man said, looking at his lanky friend. “Third week? It was a Friday, I remember that.”

“Was it near the Pancake Schloss?” Judith asked.

“We'd just finished a late lunch there,” the stocky one said.

Renie poked Judith. “As a police deputy, don't you think you should ask them to report what they saw? I'll stay here.” Seeing the young men's wary expressions, Renie pulled a twenty and a five out of her wallet. “The books are on me. We should all do our civic duty.”

“She's right,” Judith said, coming around from behind the counter and grabbing her jacket. “Police headquarters is only a little more than a block away. Shall we?”

The dumbfounded pair took the refund and the books. “I guess,” the lanky one said, “but this is too weird.”

On their way to the station, Judith explained that a crime might have been committed by the man who had told them to go away. She avoided any mention of murder for fear of scaring off the young men. At the entrance to the station, she paused.

“I'm Judith Flynn. I should know your names before we go inside.”

“Tyler Whalen,” the lanky one said.

“Jordan Smith,” the stocky one replied. “Really. It
is
Smith.”

Judith smiled. “I believe you. It's too obvious to be made up.”

Hernandez was back on duty at the desk. “Chief's not here,” he said, eyeing Judith and the young men with curiosity. “He took the redhead out for drinks. Ernie's taking a nap break in one of the cells.”

“Then you're it,” Judith said, giving the officer a meaningful look. “These gentlemen want to make a statement about what they saw by the river August nineteenth.”

It took only a moment for Hernandez to realize what Judith meant. “Okay, but we'll have to do it out here. I can't leave my post until Ernie wakes up. Let's get you settled in behind the counter.”

Tyler and Jordan sat down in folding chairs, but still looked uncertain. Judith, who had seated herself in a chair Hernandez had fetched her, tried not to eavesdrop, but couldn't avoid it. The young men were apparently trying to figure out what kind of crime had occurred other than being drunk in public. Jordan remarked that if getting blotto was breaking the local law, about half the town could have been busted the previous evening.

Finally, they set to work, writing out separate statements. The task took less than ten minutes. “Here,” Tyler said, handing over their accounts to Hernandez. “This is the truth. It's all we can remember.”

The basic facts meshed, but didn't go much beyond what Judith had already heard. After Hernandez had also read the statements, she asked if Tyler and Jordan could describe either the man who'd yelled at them or the one who seemed to be intoxicated.

“The jerk was fifty or so,” Jordan said, looking at Tyler, who nodded. “He was balding, sandy hair, average build. Tan chinos, tank top, I think. No facial hair, just an average dude.”

“How tall?” Hernandez inquired.

“I couldn't tell,” Jordan replied. “He was sort of squatting, propping up the drunk. If I had to guess, close to six feet.”

“What,” Judith asked, “did the other man look like?”

Tyler grimaced. “We didn't see much of him. We'd just come down to the bottom of the trail when the dink told us to go away. I suppose we were twenty, thirty feet away. Brown hair, about the same age, bigger build, plaid shirt, dark pants.” He shrugged. “That's about it. His back was turned to us. We figured he was throwing up.”

Judith gazed at Hernandez. “The jerk could be anybody,” she said.

“Hey,” Tyler said, “I'm a cartoonist. I could do a sketch of Jerk-off.”

“That might be helpful,” Hernandez said without inflection. “I'll get paper and pencils.” He went over to a cabinet by the far wall.

Judith wished Renie had come with her. Another artist's eye might help interpret whatever Tyler was going to draw. Trying not to bother the young man, she drew her chair closer to Jordan. “Do you two come to Little Bavaria often?” she asked in a virtual whisper.

Jordan shook his head. “This is only the third time. We skied up at the summit last year. Tyler wants to try snowboarding to show off for his girlfriend. Why not? It sounds pretty cool to me, too.”

“Cool and cold,” Judith murmured, watching Tyler out of the corner of her eye. He seemed to be working quickly.

He was, in fact, finished. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “Take a look. See if you recognize this creep.”

Hernandez, who had been doing paperwork, joined Judith. She spoke first. “He doesn't look familiar. But I don't live here.”

After another long moment, Hernandez shook his head. “Nobody I know either. Of course, I've only been in Little Bavaria for a few months. The chief might recognize him.”

Tyler seemed disappointed. “Maybe I didn't really capture him.”

Judith smiled encouragingly. “You've injected character into his face. He looks angry.”

“He was,” Tyler responded.

“Dude,” Jordan said, “you nailed him. I'd know him anywhere. But I don't want to.” He turned to Hernandez. “What crime did he commit?”

Judith waited for the officer to answer the question. Hernandez opted for discretion. “I can only say he's a suspect.”

Judith didn't say anything at all.

T
he young men hadn't exhibited further curiosity. They left almost immediately, telling Judith to thank the woman with the big teeth for giving them the snowboarding books.

“I gather,” she said to Hernandez, “you think those two caught whoever killed Bob Stafford in the act?”

“Maybe not actually killing him,” he replied thoughtfully, “but setting Stafford up to look as if he'd drowned.”

“Their arrival must have scared the wits out of whoever he is,” Judith said, then realized it was a stupid thing to say. “No,” she corrected herself, staring at the sketch again. “There's no fear in his expression. He probably thought that if they asked what was going on, he could say his friend had fallen and hit his head.”

“A cool customer,” Hernandez remarked as Duomo came through the door.

“Hell's bells,” the chief said, “that redhead could drink me under the table. What's she got, a hollow leg?”

“Her legs look fine to me,” Hernandez murmured. “Where is she?”

“On patrol someplace,” Fat Matt growled. “Sober as a judge.” He saw the sketch on the counter. “Who's doing cartoons around here?” Finally, he seemed to realize that Judith was present. “You draw that? Am I supposed to arrest some guy from the funny papers?”

Judith tried to measure the chief's state of inebriation, decided he didn't seem much different from when he was sober, and informed him that the man in the drawing was a suspect in the Stafford homicide. She let Hernandez handle the rest of the explanation.

“The hell you say.” Duomo squinted at the sketch. “Never seen him before in my life. Just what we figured—one of those random deals. We could put out an APB, maybe. Probably only get a bunch of crazies. Poor Bob. What would I do without those pancakes?”

“You can make copies and post them around town,” Judith said.

Duomo looked aghast. “During Oktoberfest? That guy's mug would scare visitors. We'll wait until after everybody's gone.”

Judith didn't argue. “May I get a copy of it? My cousin and I are leaving early tomorrow on the Empire Builder.”

Duomo waved a hand. “Go ahead. Think I'll join Ernie for a nap. I'm getting too old to drink on the job.” He ambled out of sight.

Judith stared at Hernandez, who was already scanning the sketch. “Is your boss for real?”

The officer smiled faintly. “Define ‘real.' ”

“Never mind,” Judith said.

Five minutes later, she returned to Sadie's Stories. Renie was selling six Agatha Christie mysteries to two middle-aged women. “I can't believe you've missed her,” she was saying in a chipper voice. “She's the Queen of Plots. Every author since has stolen from her.”

The women thanked her profusely and departed. Renie shook her head. “I swear Christie invented every conceivable plot imaginable. I wonder what she'd have done with DNA. What's up?”

“It's snowing,” Judith said. “I took my time coming back.”

“I wondered. Someone mentioned the snow. It must've blown in fast. Business has slowed down.” She checked the time. “It's almost two. Barry and Jessi should be back soon. What's in that envelope?”

Judith explained about Tyler's artistic talent as she took the sketch out of the envelope. “What do you think?”

“Of his talent? Not bad. He's caught a real person. Alas, the guy looks like a bad apple. You think he killed Bob?”

“Let's see if Barry recognizes him,” Judith said, but paused before putting the drawing back in the envelope. “Can you make a copy of this so he can show Suzie?”

“Sure,” Renie said. “They've got the same kind of all-in-one printer that I have. It'll only take a few seconds.”

She'd just finished removing the copy of the sketch when Mrs. Bauer walked into the shop. Judith smiled in surprise. “You're very brave to come out in the snow,” she said.

The old woman peered at her for a moment until recognition struck. “You were at church this morning. I didn't know you lived here.”

“I don't,” Judith said. “My cousin and I are filling in for a friend while she has lunch. Do you know Jessi?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Bauer said. “A very nice young woman. I'm used to the snow. Jessi is holding an embroidery book for me. It has a long title—something about making projects for the home.”

Renie scanned the shelf where Jessi stashed preordered books. “Here you go,” she said, setting
Colorful Stitchery
on the counter. “It looks like it just came out this month.”

Mrs. Bauer nodded. “Yes. Jessi knew I'd enjoy it, though I wish my eyes were not beginning to fail.”