From Bad to Wurst Page 14

  I slanted a look at the bedside clock and shook my head. “An hour and seventeen minutes, actually.”

  His breathing quickened as he twined his fingers in my hair. “Even better.”

  thirteen

  “Ludwig II ascended the Bavarian throne in 1864, following the death of his father, King Maximilian,” Wally informed us as we neared Hohenschwangau later that morning. “He was eighteen years old, introverted, and very much a dreamer who imagined himself as the Swan King of operatic lore, but he was more often referred to as Mad King Ludwig. Obsessed with chivalry, knights, and legends, he undertook an ill-advised building project that resulted in the construction of the fairy-tale castle of Neuschwanstein. But there were unfortunate repercussions because his extravagance and excesses drained the family coffers of nearly all its capital—fourteen million marks, which in today’s economy would equal three and a half billion euros.”

  The countryside through which we were driving was green, lush, and flatter than an Iowa cornfield, with an occasional copse of trees to break up the monotony. But unlike Iowa, the terrain was ringed by a chain of saw-toothed, snow-capped mountain peaks that stretched toward infinity. According to my map, we were approaching the foothills of the Bavarian Alps.

  “Seventeen years after the building projects began, the king’s finance ministers assembled a panel of doctors to analyze the monarch’s mental health, and without ever examining him, they declared him insane. He was carted off to a nearby castle, where a day later he was found floating in the lake along with the panel’s lead doctor. The circumstances surrounding Ludwig’s death remain a mystery to this day.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened to him,” Bernice called out. “Someone whacked him. Probably those finance ministers of his. You’d have to be pretty ignorant to let that one stump you.”

  Bernice was her usual cantankerous self this morning and appeared to be suffering no signs of sleep deprivation from my early morning intrusion. I, on the other hand, was dragging. All the amazing sights and sounds in Bavaria, and the only thing I would kill to have right now was a night of uninterrupted sleep. Not that I was complaining about my pre-dawn aerobic activity. I felt all warm and shiny inside just thinking about it. But I was so tired, I could swear I was beginning to see double.

  Mom tapped my arm. “Why are we on this bus?”

  “We’re going to visit the most iconic castle ever built, Mom. It’s the one that Walt Disney used as inspiration for Sleeping Beauty’s castle at Disneyland.”

  “We’re going to Disneyland? Ooh!” She clapped her hands as she peered out the window. “Look how green California is, Emily. They must have gotten rain.”

  “We’re in Germany, Mom.” Dr. Fischer had indicated that Mom’s symptoms would disappear within twenty-four hours, but I wasn’t seeing any sign of it yet—just one more concern that was wearing me down.

  “Germany?” Mom’s voice was distraught. “Why are we in Germany?”

  “We’re here to visit Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”

  “That should be fun. Did you know she has a castle in Disneyland, too?”

  Nothing like a circular conversation to start the morning out right.

  “When we reach the parking lot,” Wally continued, “please remain on the bus until I give you the okay to exit. It’s quite a hike to the castle, all uphill, but since our musicians need to conserve their energy for their performances this afternoon, we’re going to treat you to a surprise.”

  “I bet he’s planning to give us tickets to ride the teacups,” Mom gushed in a burst of enthusiasm. “Emily, will you take a picture of me spinning around in one of those adorable little cups and saucers? Of course, if I end up hurling my breakfast, you might want to use some discretion.”

  I nodded dutifully. “You got it.”

  She tapped my arm again and leaned toward my ear, saying in an undertone, “Have you noticed that three-chinned dwarf with the boils all over her face? Do you know who she is?”

  Oh, God.

  The castle appeared in the distance—a gleaming white confection nestled in a tangle of woodland, its turrets rising like gigantic birthday candles above multilayers of whipped cream frosting. “Thar she blows, Mom. Neuschwanstein Castle. Look out the window.”

  “Will you at least tell me if she’s contagious?” Mom persisted. “Because she looks contagious.” She boosted herself up in her seat and craned her neck, searching. “Where’s Margi Swanson? In a case of dire emergency, would she ever consider handing out bottles of her sanitizer free of charge?”

  Wally picked up where he’d left off with his instructions. “We’ll have an in-depth guided tour of the castle that’ll keep you occupied for a couple of hours, and then we’ll have lunch at the restaurant, where our bands are scheduled to play after we finish our meal. I’ll caution you to stick together for the tour and not wander off because if we lose one of you, it’ll throw off our entire schedule. Do not attempt to enter rooms that are not open to the public. Any questions?”

  “Where’d you say we’re headed?” tossed out Dick Stolee, who apparently remained so rattled by his credit card fiasco that his listening skills had deteriorated to the level of his finances.

  Upon arrival at the car park, we remained on the coach until Wally made a few official inquiries. When he returned, we off-loaded into the parking lot and followed him and his oversized umbrella to a ticket kiosk near the entrance, where five horse-drawn wagons with overhead canopies were waiting to transport us up the long road to the castle.

  “It doesn’t matter which vehicle you ride in,” Wally instructed as guests gathered around the lead wagon. “They’re all going to the same place.”

  To my amazement, and perhaps influenced by the presence of the castle that loomed high above us, the men tapped into their chivalrous roots and undertook a policy of women first. I helped Mom get situated between Tilly and Nana, and when the seats were full, the driver wasted no time barking a verbal command to his team and jiggling his reins to send them forward.

  “What’s wrong with your grandmother? Is she contagious?”

  Bernice appeared at my side, her voice as abrasive as ever, but her face looked even better than it had at five thirty this morning. Supermodel ready. Inexplicably stunning. “Allergies,” I lied, unable to tear my gaze away from her. “And she’s not contagious.”

  “What’s she allergic to?”

  “You know. Just…stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “The—uh…the doctors weren’t sure.”

  “Morons. They’ve never heard of allergy skin tests?”

  “Maybe they approach skin conditions differently in Germany.”

  She slatted her eyes with suspicion. “Funny how it’s isolated to only two parts of her body. Like she applied something to her face with her hands and poof! She starts looking like a troll.”

  “Nana does not look like a troll, Bernice.”

  “Yeah? Well, I wouldn’t be asking Osmond to take a vote on it anytime soon. And will you quit staring at me! You’re giving me the creeps. Have I got a bug stuck between my teeth or something?”

  “Let me help you into the wagon, Bernice,” Wally offered as he directed the remaining guests toward the waiting vehicles.

  “I’ve got this,” said Wendell, appearing out of nowhere to extend his arm to her.

  Otis, who was already seated, reached out his hand to help her up. “Here you go, beautiful. I’ve saved a place for you right beside me.”

  Bernice fluttered her eyelashes and reverted to Scarlett O’Hara mode, cooing demurely as the men fussed over her.

  “Are you sure you want to sit between those two sourpusses?” Gilbert teased as he slid onto the bench in front of her. “The place next to me is free.”

  “I’ve got a spot next to me too,” added Arlin from the front seat.

  Lik
e worker bees to the queen, they buzzed around her. Nothing like a pretty face to turn a man’s head. I wasn’t going to fault them for their testosterone highs, but I wondered if they realized this gorgeous ingénue was not a misplaced tourist but a refurbished version of Bernice Zwerg.

  Etienne and I piled onto the last seat in the last wagon, where for the next several minutes we could huddle intimately together, linking fingers and touching thighs. As the wagon jerked forward, he placed a kiss on my forehead. “How are you holding up?”

  My mouth widened into a shameless yawn. “I could use one of two things: either a catnap or caffeine.”

  “I’m told the horses can be notoriously slow hauling their load, so you might have time to squeeze in that catnap.”

  “But I’ll miss out on the scenery on the way up to the castle.”

  “There’s no scenery other than trees. Acre upon acre of trees.”

  “Really?” I pressed my cheek to his shoulder and closed my eyes. “Talked me into it.”

  The rocking motion of the wagon in combination with the rhythmic clop of horse hooves created a soothing calm that washed over me like a cradlesong, lulling me toward sluggishness…drowwwsiness…sleee—

  Etienne’s phone began vibrating against my hip like an electric blender. “I’m sorry, bella.”

  Blinking awake, I sat up arrow straight as he retrieved his phone.

  “Miceli.”

  I knew the call was official when the person on the other end of the line did most of the talking, allowing Etienne to utter only a handful of uh-huhs to go along with an occasional I see. By the time we approached our drop-off point near the top of the mountain, I realized Etienne had been right about the sameness of the scenery. I also realized that something was drastically wrong because when he ended his conversation, his expression took on a dark, introspective quality, as if he were trying to gauge how to deal with a burden that had been unceremoniously placed on his shoulders.

  “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “That was the medical examiner’s office. The preliminary results of Zola’s autopsy are in. Her heart condition wasn’t the cause of her death.” He regarded me, baffled. “She died from what, at first blush, is consistent with nicotine poisoning.”

  “Nicotine poisoning? But…she didn’t smoke, did she?”

  “Long-term smoking wasn’t the culprit. She either absorbed a lethal dose of nicotine through her skin or she ingested it—a dose so large, it apparently killed her within minutes.”

  “So it…it happened at the Hippodrom?”

  “That’s the current thinking.”

  “But how could something like that happen when there was no smoking allowed in the tent?”

  “I don’t know, but according to the official I spoke with, acute nicotine poisoning isn’t that common in adults. It’s more common among children who mistake nicotine gum for chewing gum, or toddlers who stick those smoking cessation patches in their mouths.”

  I racked my brain for probable scenarios. “Could there have been a mishap in the kitchen? A tin of someone’s chewing tobacco getting upended into the food—into the pots of mustard or the potato pancakes?”

  “If that were the case, shouldn’t we have ended up with more victims?”

  “Maybe she ate more than everyone else.”

  “I should think that a clump of chewing tobacco in either mustard or potato pancakes would render the food completely unpalatable.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “There were a few people at my table who thought the entire meal was unpalatable.”

  “Whatever Zola did or didn’t eat, she was exposed to a deadly dose of nicotine in the period between when we arrived at the tent and the moment she collapsed. That’s the timeline.”

  “Did your contact indicate how her death is being classified?”

  “We won’t know until after the medical examiner completes his final analysis, but they’ve promised to keep me in the loop. We’ll need to be prepared, though, because if her death is ruled a homicide, we’ll be looking at the kind of police investigation that will change our itinerary rather drastically.”

  “Nooo.” I hung my head in despair. Everything that had gone wrong already, and now this? I heaved a sigh. “Do you ever get the feeling we’re in the wrong line of work?”

  “It’s too soon to jump to conclusions, Emily. The medical examiner may yet decide that her death was accidental.”

  Oh, sure. That was as likely to happen as Margi Swanson scarfing down a pig’s head sandwich on marble rye. “How does a medical examiner determine if someone’s death is accidental or deliberate?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not the medical examiner.”

  Our driver halted the team short of the castle gate, near a building whose hexagonal turret and half-timbered accents smacked of Old World Bavaria and storybook charm. “Schlossrestaurant,” I read aloud as Etienne helped me to the ground. A stone fence surrounded the patio where an array of blue table umbrellas lured guests to dine alfresco. “Is this the restaurant where the bands will be playing?” The place was so enchanting in its alpine setting that I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Hansel and Gretel dining at one of the tables, playing host to Goldilocks and the Gingerbread Man.

  “I wish. Our restaurant is the large structure off the car park, at the bottom of the hill.”

  We made our way toward Wally, who was rounding everyone up to begin the last leg of the hike. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk to the entrance,” he announced, “and you might find it a bit steep, so we’re going to proceed at a leisurely pace. There’s a waiting area outside the castle walls with an electronic sign board that posts tour numbers. When our tour is posted, we’ll proceed to the gatehouse and into the courtyard to await the final posting of our tour, which should happen about five minutes before the tour is set to begin. If there are no questions, let’s start the hike.”

  As the group surged forward, Etienne and I hung back to keep a lookout from the rear. Given the pitch of the pathway, no one in the gang seemed inclined to race to the castle gate, so there was no jockeying for position or accidental tripping, which made me long to locate all our sightseeing venues at the tops of mountains.

  “Hypothetically speaking, what would motivate someone to kill Zola?” I asked Etienne as we slogged up the path. I felt as if we were following the Yellow Brick Road around the outer edge of the Big Rock Candy Mountain.

  He shook his head. “I have no idea. She was the one guest who had no prior connection to either the musicians or the Windsor City gang before she signed up for that final spot. So if someone did indeed kill her, they had to have developed an exceedingly strong dislike of her almost instantly.”

  “Her predictions were pretty unsettling for a couple of guests.” Like the fact that Dick Teig was shallow. Although the only person who was shocked by the revelation of that bombshell was Dick Teig himself. “But she was remarkably on target. Could someone have killed her out of fear of what she might reveal?”

  “It’s certainly a possibility. If plans had worked out as scheduled last night, Zola would have ended up telling everyone’s fortune.”

  Holy crap. If Zola’s death was ruled a homicide, Maisie’s innocent suggestion could certainly become more significant.

  Without meaning to, Maisie might have goaded someone into committing murder.

  fourteen

  Our tour number was already posted when we reached the waiting area, so we kept on trucking.

  After leaning over a guardrail of perfectly chiseled stone to peer into the depths of a wooded ravine that thundered with the sounds of rushing water, we huffed and puffed the last few yards to walk beneath the raised portcullis of the Grand Entrance gate—a wide arching portal flanked by a façade of red brick and bookended by cylindrical twin towers that looked taller than Dad’s grain silos. Bypassing the requisite gift shop, w
e emerged into a courtyard that boasted a theme park ambiance with its electronic scanners, turnstiles, monitors, and rope barriers.

  The castle soared around us like a Hollywood sound stage enhanced by special effects—turrets and towers, witch-hatted roofs and balconies, parapets and crenelated moldings. It was more delicate than Harry Potter’s Hogwarts and grander than Tolkien’s Minas Tirith. But its design was so whimsical, it cultivated the impression of an architectural theater rather than a fortress.

  We followed Wally’s umbrella toward the electronic sign board at the far end of the courtyard and realized that by dillydallying on the walkway, we’d probably knocked a huge chunk of time off our wait. According to the number posted on the monitor, our tour would be up next.

  Sometime during our ascent Bernice had gained more male admirers, who now formed an impenetrable circle around her, teasing, laughing, flirting, snapping photos. Even the two Dicks were sniffing around the perimeter, wanting, no doubt, to ogle the eye candy without drawing the ire of their wives. The rest of the gang were actually making use of their camera phones, but instead of shooting pictures of the lofty towers that spiraled to near impossible heights, they were extending their arms, saying cheese, and taking selfies.

  “Are any of you planning to take a picture of the castle?” I asked as I wandered into their midst. “I can guarantee a space in our brochure for the best shot.”

  “Maybe you should buy a postcard,” suggested Helen as she mugged for a selfie with Lucille and Grace. “They probably sell really nice ones in the gift shop.”

  I leveled a flinty look on the bunch of them. “Does the idea of a post-tour photo exchange hold no appeal for anyone anymore?”

  Silence. Shrugs. Downcast eyes.

  “Have you taken any pictures of the places we’ve visited so far?” I admonished. “What are you planning to put in your photo albums?”

  “We don’t bother with albums anymore,” Alice Tjarks spoke up. “We download content to our computers and iPads and burn CDs so we don’t have to fuss with paper.”