From Bad to Wurst Read online

  “And how.” Wally pulled up the calendar on his phone. “Your reputation precedes you. Tomorrow we’re scheduled to visit Neuschwanstein Castle, and the restaurant near the entrance has requested that you entertain the lunch crowd.”

  “They want all four bands?” asked Otis with some hesitation.

  “All four bands,” said Wally. “And tomorrow night you’ve been invited to entertain the dinner crowd at one of the premier Bavarian beer halls in the heart of Old Town Munich. You’re gaining quite a name for yourselves.”

  The Guten Tags crossed uneasy glances with each other. “Here’s the thing,” offered Otis, his cheeks bright pink above his beard, “after our performance tonight, I’m not sure we’re ready to—”

  “Could I say something?” asked Dad as he heaved himself slowly to his feet. Head bent, shoulders slumped, he looked so demoralized, I felt an aching need to run over and hug him. “I’m sorry about flubbing up tonight and being such a disappointment to you, but if you give me one more chance, I think I can do a whole lot better. I won’t blame you if you decide to can me, though. I was an awful embarrassment.”

  “I didn’t think you were so bad,” soothed Alice Tjarks. “I bet you played some chords no one ever attempted before. That’s pretty gutsy.”

  “I enjoyed every note I heard,” said Osmond.

  “That’s because you turned off your hearing aids after about three notes,” scoffed Bernice.

  Osmond shot her a dour look. “I was trying to preserve the memory.”

  “I used to get so nervous when I first started performing,” Hetty confessed, “that I always ended up with hiccups and couldn’t play the first songs anyway. But no one ever scolded me for it. They just let me join in when I was able. And after my confidence got built up, I never had a problem again. So I know what Bob went through tonight, and I vote to give him another chance.”

  Gilbert nodded agreement. “Hetty’s right. It’s not brain surgery, so no one’s life is in the balance if one of us hits a wrong note.”

  “Hell,” snorted Otis. “That Hippodrom crowd was so rowdy, they probably never even noticed that Bob was playing a different tune altogether.”

  “I guess that says it all,” Wendell concluded. “We’ll give you another shot at it, Bob. And in the meantime, if you have any questions about the music or need any help, let one of us know, and we’ll be there for you.”

  Dad gave a nod of thanks. “Appreciate the second chance. I think I know what I did wrong, though, so I’m pretty sure I can fix it. I won’t disappoint you again.”

  He sat back down next to Mom, who grabbed his shirt sleeve in alarm. “What are you going to fix?”

  “My accordion playing.”

  “You don’t play the accordion.”

  “She’s got that right,” crowed Bernice.

  Hisses. Boos. Razzberries.

  Wally called for order. “Before I let you go, I’ll remind you that the schedule for tomorrow will be wake-up calls at seven, breakfast beginning at seven thirty, and departure for the castle at nine, so get a good night’s sleep. You’ve had a busy day today, and tomorrow might even surpass it.”

  Chairs scraped and creaked as the group rose en masse. While the musicians retrieved their instrument cases from alongside the wall, the gang gathered around Dad, bolstering his confidence with claps on the back and a flurry of thumbs-up.

  “Chin up,” Lucille encouraged him. “I’ve heard worse. Not much worse, but definitely worse.”

  Margi slapped a travel-size bottle of pink hand sanitizer into his hand. “You might want to use this on your accordion. If your keyboard was sticky, maybe that’s what caused all those notes to play at the same time.”

  The Dicks hurried over to me, Dick Stolee’s expression signaling he was still hyped up about his recent windfall. “With Zola gone, I guess there won’t be any fortunetelling in the lobby tonight, huh?”

  “Good assumption.”

  He scanned the room. “No one willing to take her place?”

  I regarded him with amusement. “Are you looking to add to your windfall?”

  “You bet,” he tittered, removing a violet-colored banknote from his wallet for show and tell. “See this? It’s the highest currency available in euros.”

  “Zola really nailed that, huh? But I had no idea online gaming paid out in actual cash.”

  Dick Teig puffed his face up like a chipmunk whose cheeks had exceeded the maximum limit for nuts. “It doesn’t. He won it off a scratch game at the corner market down the street, and he has me to thank. If I hadn’t had a sudden craving for ice cream, he’d be maxing out another credit card on those stupid online slots.”

  I winced. “You maxed out a credit card?”

  “Yeah, but it only had a five-thousand-dollar limit.”

  “what?”

  “Shh,” they warned in unison.

  My voice rose to a high-pitched whisper. “You lost five thousand dollars in order to win five hundred?”

  “Yeah, but it’s euros, so I figure I’m only out about four grand.”

  “Geez, Dick.”

  “It was the windows clue that threw me off.” He held his five hundred euro banknote up, indicating the tall windowed building imprinted on the front of the bill. “See the windows on this building? I figure that’s what Zola was seeing when she told my fortune. So my windfall didn’t have anything to do with Microsoft or casino gambling. She saw an image of my actual payout.”

  “You are in such deep doo-doo.”

  “You think I should buy more scratch cards?”

  “no!” I dropped my voice as they proceeded to shush me again. “No more scratch cards. No more online gaming. Just…just…pray Grace doesn’t want to make any large purchases before you get that card paid off. If she finds out what you’ve done, she’ll kill you.”

  “I think I’m good on that,” he said with confidence. “Zola didn’t predict anything about an untimely death for me.”

  “She didn’t predict an untimely death for herself either,” Dick Teig pointed out. “But guess what happened?”

  I watched Dick Stolee’s complexion drain of color as Nana shuffled over to me. “We’re headin’ up, dear. Tilly and your mother’ve already gone on ahead with your father.”

  “I’m coming too,” I said, more than anxious to call it a day.

  There was a log jam of Iowans, instrument cases, and other hotel guests at the elevator when we arrived. Since Nana was looking a little flushed, I suggested we have a seat in the lobby because it looked as if it might take a while for the crowd to clear. As we waited she began blinking, wriggling her nose, sniffing, and scratching her eyebrows, mimicking facial expressions reminiscent of the ones she’d used in Scotland in her unsuccessful attempt to put a hex on Bernice.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I think it’s them flowers.” She directed an evil look at the overflowing floral arrangement on the display table. “My allergies must be kickin’ in.”

  “I didn’t know you had allergies.”

  “Seems I do now.”

  “How about we find other seats?”

  We moved as far away from the flowers and the elevator as possible, to a secluded alcove with a direct line of vision to another alcove where Otis, Gilbert, Wendell, and Hetty were involved in what looked to be a heated discussion. They were all talking at once, and to say they didn’t look happy would have been an understatement. Finger-pointing. Fist-shaking. Eye-rolling. Arm-folding.

  “Whaddaya s’pose them folks are havin’ words about?” asked Nana as she nodded toward the alcove.

  “I hope they’re not fighting about Dad. Maybe they’re not as willing as they initially appeared about keeping him in the group.”

  “It’d be a blessin’ if they’d can him.” She rubbed the heel of her palm against her cheek.
/>   “Don’t give up on him yet, Nana. We need to have faith in him.”

  She gave her nose a long, slow scratch. “You got any musical ability that you know of, dear?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  Nana nodded sagely. “You get that from your father.”

  We hit the elevator as soon as the crowd cleared. Etienne still wasn’t back from the hospital, so I sent him a quick text before I stripped off my clothes, grabbed my nightie out of the dresser, and headed for our luxuriously upgraded bathroom, noticing something odd about Astrid’s lime green spinner as I walked by the place where Etienne had stowed it.

  I paused, my gaze lingering on the wad of material that was poking out from the spot where the dual zippers met beneath the top handle.

  Wait a sec. Hadn’t I double-checked to see that all her clothing was completely tucked inside last night? Head trauma or not, I remembered that much. So why was something sticking out now?

  I flipped the suitcase onto its side and opened it up. Her clothes remained in neat stacks, the way I’d folded them, but that didn’t explain how the corner of her blouse had worked its way through the zipper. Did Etienne have cause to open her suitcase today? Was this his doing or someone else’s?

  Uncomfortable with the turn my mind had taken, I walked to the bed and picked up the phone.

  “Hallo. Front desk.”

  “This is Emily Miceli in 728. Are there surveillance cameras operating in this hotel?”

  “We are a boutique hotel, Mrs. Miceli. I’m happy to report there are no surveillance cameras on the premises. It’s our policy not to spy on our guests.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Thanks anyway.”

  Surveillance footage might have revealed who’d entered our room besides the maid, because I had a sneaking suspicion that someone other than Etienne had tampered with Astrid’s suitcase. The question was, who?

  I took a quick shower and crawled into bed with every intention of waiting up for Etienne, but sometime during my wait I inadvertently closed my eyes, and that was all she wrote.

  The desperate knock on our door jarred me from a sound sleep and sent my internal alarm system into high alert. My heart flew into my throat. My stomach sank to my knees. I felt Etienne’s hand on my arm, soothing me. “Stay here, bella. I’ll get it.”

  When the door clicked open, Tilly’s voice exploded into the silence.

  “It’s Marion. I think she’s got leprosy.”

  twelve

  “Contact urticaria.”

  I stared at Dr. Fischer. I wasn’t sure what the words meant, but I sure hoped they weren’t Latin for leprosy or German for something even worse. Etienne might have been able to translate, but I’d insisted that he hang out in the waiting room and attempt to catch forty winks before the sun rose. He hadn’t slept all night, so he was running on fumes.

  “I’m sorry. Contact what?”

  It was 4:13 am, and we seemed to be stuck in the middle of the Munich version of Groundhog Day. Same emergency ward. Same treatment room. Same attending physician, who was apparently on duty 24/7 at the hospital. The only difference was the patient, who was sporting a grisly rash on her face and hands that included irregular swelling, inflammation, scaly patches, and welts the size of jawbreakers.

  “Your grandmother appears to be suffering from a severe reaction to an allergen.”

  “It’s not leprosy?”

  He slatted his eyes behind his rimless specs. “Are you aware that leprosy has been virtually eradicated in Europe, Mrs. Miceli?”

  “I guess I’m not up to speed with the world’s current infectious disease maps.”

  “Obviously.” He nearly broke a smile, but not quite. “Why would you think leprosy?”

  Not wanting to disparage Tilly and her decades of anthropological research, I opted for ambiguousness. “Hearsay?”

  Refocusing his attention on Nana, who was sitting on the edge of the gurney with her feet dangling over the side, he grabbed a penlight and tongue depressor and asked her to open her mouth and say ahhh. “Any trouble breathing?” he asked her.

  “Nope.”

  “Your throat doesn’t feel as if it’s closing on you?”

  “Nope.”

  He disposed of the tongue depressor and placed the penlight back in the pocket of his lab coat. Nana peered at him through the tiny slits that remained open beneath her swollen eyelids.

  “You s’pose it was them flowers in the lobby what done me in, Doc?”

  “Your reaction indicates exposure of a more direct nature, Mrs. Sippel. Have you applied anything unusual to your face recently?”

  “Just the beauty cream what Emily give me.”

  “I see.” He turned humorless eyes on me. “Would that be the same cream that was developed by your retired anthropologist friend who was shrinking heads in New Guinea?”

  “I don’t think she participated in any of the actual shrinking. She was just there to kind of…take notes.”

  “Is this the same compound that eliminated your lesions overnight?”

  Wow. Good memory. “Yup.”

  “It might have performed a small miracle on you, but it’s toxic to your grandmother.” He turned back to Nana. “Stop using the compound immediately, Mrs. Sippel. If you bring the jar in for analysis, we might be able to determine which ingredient is causing your reaction, but I suspect your granddaughter might be averse to any type of analysis.”

  “I don’t care if you analyze it,” I objected, “but I don’t have any left. I gave it all away.”

  “I’m sure.” He elevated Nana’s chin to examine her face one last time. “The good thing about contact urticaria, Mrs. Sippel, is that once the offending allergen is removed, the symptoms usually disappear within twenty-four to forty-eight hours. So, stop using the face cream, and you should be back to normal in a couple of days.”

  “You don’t need to give me no shots or transfusions or nuthin’?”

  “I can prescribe a mild antihistamine for the itching. You can pick it up at the hospital pharmacy, but the best remedy for your condition is to do nothing at all.”

  I worried my lip as a niggling thought gnawed at a far corner of my brain. If the cream had proved to be toxic for Nana, could it be toxic for other people as well?

  Holy crap.

  Bernice.

  Taptaptaptaptap.

  I rapped on her door with the gentlest of knocks, hoping it was loud enough to get her attention but quiet enough not to disturb her neighbors. Five thirty am. She was a native Iowan. She’d probably already been up for an hour.

  Taptaptaptaptap.

  Ten seconds passed.

  Twenty.

  “Bernice,” I whispered close to the door. “Are you awake?”

  The door flew open. Bernice stood before me, glaring. “This better be good. Whaddaya want?”

  She was a rumpled mess with her short satin robe twisted haphazardly around her body and her hair sticking out like the wire bristles on a pot scrubber. But despite that, she looked…

  I blinked to clear my vision.

  Geez. She looked good. No irregular swelling. No inflammation. No scaly patches. No welts the size of jawbreakers. Her complexion looked as creamy as 30 percent butterfat. Flawless texture, luminous, rose-petal soft—and free of the wrinkles that usually cross-hatched her cheeks and forehead.

  Correction: she didn’t look good, she looked like a million bucks. Like…like she was wearing a Hollywood starlet’s head on her body. Like…like her whole face had been photoshopped.

  “Well, spit it out,” she crabbed, “or are you just planning to stand there gawking at me?”

  “No…sorry, I…” I squinted for a better look. “The thing is, I was just wondering if…if…how are you feeling this morning, Bernice?”

  Eyes snapping, brows set at an
angry slant, she flashed a sneer that sent me back a full step. “Lemme get this straight. You woke me out of a dead sleep to inquire how I’m feeling?”

  “I know it’s early, but we are a full-service tour company, which means our highest priority is the well-being of our gue—”

  The door swung shut in my face.

  “You’ll be hearing about this on your evaluation!” she bellowed from behind the door.

  I exhaled a relieved breath. Bernice wasn’t allergic. Thank God. Catastrophe averted.

  But she was starting to exhibit signs of memory loss.

  We’d eliminated the evaluation forms a couple of years ago.

  Back at the room Etienne greeted me dressed in a towel and nothing else. I wrapped my arms around his waist and snuggled against his chest. “Did you get Nana settled in her room again?” I leaned into him, willing my emotional stress to melt away.

  He kissed the crown of my head. “She’s a trooper. No whining. No drama. If I weren’t already happily married to a member of her family, I’d cut off George at the pass and propose to her myself.”

  “Are you headed for the shower?”

  He inched my chin upward and pressed a soft kiss on my mouth. “I am…unless you have a more inviting suggestion.”

  “Have you opened Astrid’s suitcase since it’s been in our room?”

  “No. I’m not sure when I would have had time. Why?”

  “Because I swear someone’s monkeyed with it. I noticed some clothing poking out from the zipper earlier tonight that wasn’t there yesterday. I called the front desk to inquire about surveillance cameras, but just our luck: boutique hotels in Munich have a strict policy about not spying on their guests.”

  “Housekeeping might have had a need to open it, although that seems highly unlikely.”

  “I think there’s something fishy going on with everything connected to Astrid: her room, her suitcase, the Guten Tags, her missing books…”

  “Could we postpone further discussion of Astrid until later?” Slipping the towel off his waist, he looped it around my neck and drew me against him. “We have an hour and fifteen minutes before our wake-up call, Mrs. Miceli.”