From Bad to Wurst Page 15

  “Okay, but…how are you going to remember what you’ve seen if you have no visual reminders of where you’ve been?”

  Osmond raised his hand. “Is that a trick question?”

  “We can remember what we’ve seen,” Margi assured me.

  I crossed my arms and raised questioning brows. “Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

  They gathered around me, flipping through the photo galleries on their screens at warp speed. “Here we go,” cried Margi as she thrust her phone toward me. “This is the big plaza in Munich where we stood around looking at that glockenspiel thing.”

  I eyed the image. “That’s a close-up of your face.”

  “Right. That’s me watching those little figures go ’round. See how amused I look?”

  “I don’t think you look amused,” countered Helen as she perused the screen. “I think you look bored.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I think she looks bewildered,” said Lucille.

  “I do not,” snapped Margi. “This is bewildered.” She bunched her brows over her nose, rounded her eyes, and pursed her lips. “My bewildered look in no way resembles my amused look.”

  George glanced from Margi’s phone to her face. “Look the same to me.”

  “I’ve got one,” said Osmond as he pushed toward me, waving his phone. “This is the Little Red Riding Hood House in Oberga—Obarm—that town with the Humpty Dumpty sculpture.”

  His eyes, nose, and forehead filled the screen. I sighed. “So where’s the house?”

  “Right in front of me, on the other side of the street. This is when I’m looking at it.”

  “Are you sure that was the Little Red Riding Hood House?” asked Grace as she flipped madly through her gallery. “I have a picture exactly like that of the Passion Play House.” She held up her own half-headed shot. “See?” She hesitated. “Or is this the Hippodrom? Shoot, I might have to label these.”

  “That must be the Hippodrom,” insisted Helen. “See how blurry it is? Looks like someone drank a little too much beer last night.”

  “Does this place look familiar to anyone?” asked George as he flashed a headshot of himself around. “I don’t look amused, bewildered, bored, or drunk, so I don’t know where the hell I was.”

  “That’s our number,” announced Wally, gesturing toward the monitor. “Okay, everyone. We’re up.”

  We merged together in a disorganized clump before queuing up to run our tickets through the scanners. Mom came up beside me, ushered by Dad. “Em, do you know—”

  “We’re in Germany, Mom. At the most visited fairy-tale castle in the world.”

  “I know. Your father just told me.” She inched closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you know who that woman over there is? The one who’s attracting attention from all the men. Is she famous or something?”

  “That’s Bernice Zwerg, Mom.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  She stretched her neck for a better look, giving Bernice a thorough once-over. “Seriously. Who is it?”

  I noticed that Hetty Munk was also giving Bernice the eye, but unlike Mom, she didn’t look as if she were being motivated by curiosity.

  Hetty Munk was throwing daggers.

  So what was up with that?

  At the far end of the courtyard we were greeted by an attendant who directed us through a door and into a foyer that felt as cramped as a lighthouse tower. “Where’s the elevator?” demanded Bernice when she saw the staircase that spiraled upward in front of us. “I’m not climbing all those stairs. What is this? The Leaning Tower of Pisa?”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” offered Arlin Foote.

  “I’ve got this,” said Wendell as he took possession of her arm.

  We climbed around and around and around. I don’t know how many stories we racked up, but it was enough to leave us all winded as we exited into an interminably long corridor where our guide awaited us. He introduced himself as Sepp, a gray-haired pensioner whose thick German accent was going to make listening a challenge.

  Well, maybe not so much listening as understanding.

  “Velcome to Neuschwanstein Castle, or New Shvon Stone Castle as vee sometimes refer to it, former home of King Ludvig II of Bavaria. The castle vas constructed between the years 1869 and 1892, and as I valk you tru the halls, you vill note that the shvon symbol is prevalent everyvair you look.”

  Margi raised her hand. “What’s a shvon?”

  “Shvon, madam? You do not know vot shvon is?” He spread his arms as if they were wings and began flapping them like a prehistoric bird. “Shvon?”

  “Sepp is referring to a swan,” Wally informed us. “It was Ludwig’s heraldic animal.”

  “We need to be on the English tour,” hollered Bernice.

  “Dis is the English tour,” corrected Sepp.

  “Sure it is,” she muttered. “And I’m Daffy Duck.”

  “Neuschwanstein Castle is a mythical knight’s castle,” Sepp continued, “combining operatic lore, chivalric legends, and the romanticism of the Middle Ages.”

  I wasn’t sure that the era best known for the Black Plague, open sewers, and non-pillowtop mattresses could be considered romantic, but hey, this wasn’t my gig.

  “As vee proceed into the palace, I ask you to alvays remain on the carpet, behind the rope barriers. Photography is strictly forbidden. Please to follow me.”

  The Dicks tracked me down as we climbed the unpolished marble risers of the main staircase, falling in step on either side of me. Dick Teig cradled his phone in his palm and flashed it surreptitiously to show me the photo on his screen. “Emily, who’s the babe?”

  “Is she with us?” pressed Dick Stolee. “Where’d she come from?”

  I rolled my eyes. “She came from Windsor City, guys. That’s Bernice.”

  “No way,” snorted Dick Teig.

  “Way,” I shot back as we entered a long cavernous hall. It was narrower on one end than the other and mimicked the shape of a blunt-ended cake server. The room was dominated by a vaulted ceiling and colorful wall murals that depicted a sword blade being whacked by a mallet-wielding blacksmith, a knight gasping his last breath, and an ancient king having intense discourse on what might have been vital issues of the day, like undocumented barbarians or feudal-care health options.

  “Dis room is the Lower Hall, or westibule,” Sepp began. “It separates the Throne Hall on our right vit the king’s apartments on our left. The vall paintings represent scenes from the Nordic Sigurd saga, and…”

  “Bernice doesn’t look anything like this,” Dick Stolee rasped in my ear.

  I gave him a palms up. “She does now.”

  The guys gawked at each other in disbelief. “What’d she do?” asked Dick Teig.

  “Beauty cream. She found one that really works.”

  “Are you sure that’s her?” Dick Stolee persisted.

  “Is she wearing glittery Wizard of Oz ruby slippers?”

  They danced left and right and bobbed their heads for a look-see.

  “Yup,” said Dick Stolee.

  “Shoot,” groaned Dick Teig. “That is Bernice.”

  “You vill kindly proceed into the Throne Hall,” Sepp instructed, reminding us again to stay within the rope barriers. Dick Teig shuffled along beside me as I followed the group.

  “Emily,” he asked in a pleading tone, “do you know where she bought the stuff? I need to get some for Helen.”

  “Dis hall vas intended to velcome Ludvig’s subjects vit their petitions to the King, but no subjects ever wizited the castle. Ludvig vas, how you say, a flaming introwert.”

  Sepp’s voice echoed in the vast emptiness of the chamber, floating up to the cupola that rose two stories above the marble floor and swirling around the lapis lazuli c
olonnades that flanked the upper gallery. The room resembled an Eastern Orthodox church with its white marble altar and gleaming splashes of gold. Religious images festooned the side walls while St. George undertook the task of slaying the dragon on the wall opposite the altar.

  “The chandelier above is shaped like a Byzantine crown,” Sepp explained, prompting us to look up. “It veighs somesing close to thirteen hundred pounds, is made of gilded brass, and holds ninety-six candles.”

  I drifted backward as I gaped up at the chandelier, hooking my foot on something that caused me to do a little stutter step to regain my balance.

  Tilly’s cane.

  “Careful!” cried Tilly as she grabbed my forearm to right me. Nana stood beside her, looking uncharacteristically glum, her Iowa: It’s Pretty Corny sweatshirt splattered with a mysterious substance that left a trail of stains from her neckline to the rib-knit hem. It looked as if a migratory flock of birds had used her sweatshirt for target practice.

  I flickered a finger at the blotches. “Are those…?”

  “Bird droppin’s?” She looked down her nose at her chest. “Nope. This is your mother’s doin’.”

  “What’d she spill?”

  “She didn’t spill nuthin’. She’s been squirtin’ me with them dang bottles of hand sanitizer what Margi give her on account of she thinks I’m contagious. Every time I get within two feet of her, she blasts me.”

  This is what happens when your mother spends a lifetime shunning all things science fiction. She nurtures the mistaken impression that a glob of hand gel will provide the same safeguard as a deflector shield. “I’m sorry, Nana. Do you want me to speak to her?”

  “Won’t do no good on account of she won’t remember nuthin’ you tell her.” She scrunched up her face as she studied the splotches. “Only good thing is, the stuff what Margi gave her don’t smell too bad.” She pointed to a stain near her shoulder. “This one smells like strawberry jam, and this one”—she touched a place over her bosom—“smells like chocolate fudge. The more I inhale, the hungrier I get. By the time we get to our restaurant, I should have a pretty good appetite.”

  We filed out of the Throne Hall and across the floor of the vestibule again, where we entered an oak-paneled room whose main purpose seemed to be that of a foyer.

  “Dis is the anteroom to Ludvig’s private apartments,” said Sepp. “A servant vas alvays on duty here to answer the call of the king. Many hours of boredom ver probably spent in dis chamber. The first room vee vill wizit vill be Ludvig’s dining room.”

  As we crowded into the room with its scarlet and gold textiles, parquet flooring, and paintings of long-haired kings, Etienne pulled me aside. “This happened more quickly than I imagined. The medical examiner’s office must have a German-engineered mass spectrometer. They just sent me this text.” He handed me his phone.

  The message was short and to the point. re: zola czarnecki. death caused by nicotine ingestion. homicide investigation will ensue.

  “Oh, no.” I exhaled a discouraged breath and handed him back his phone. “What now?”

  “We’ll finish the day’s activities as planned, then travel back to Munich to see what awaits us. I’ll give Wally a heads-up.”

  “Are we sharing the information with the group?”

  “Not yet. I’d prefer not to alert anyone to what lies ahead. Better our killer is lulled into a false sense of security before the hammer drops.”

  “So…it’s an absolute certainty that someone on the tour killed Zola?”

  “It appears that way.” He scrutinized the group with unyielding eyes. “I believe one of our musicians wanted Zola dead…and found a way to do it.”

  I blended back into the group as Etienne sought out Wally. We trooped into Ludwig’s bedroom and listened to Sepp explain the monastic scheme of the chamber, with its dark wood and canopied state bed whose gothic-inspired massiveness looked like an oversized confessional that might collapse beneath its own weight. Golden embroidery threads showcased lions, crowns, lilies, and swans on the bedcover and curtains, and another swan squatted on the washstand, silver-plated and gleaming, looking as if it were about to take a header into the silver basin below. Ludwig might have found the room restful, but I would have found it as warm and fuzzy as a sleepover in the side chapel of a British cathedral.

  “I need a word with you, Mom.” I caught up to her and Dad as the people ahead of us poked their heads through the door of the tiny chapel off the bedroom.

  “Isn’t this exciting, Em?” She splayed her hand over her chest. “I’ve always wanted to tour this place.”

  Omigod! I grabbed her upper arms. “Do you know where you are?”

  “I’m hoping it’s St. Peter’s Basilica because I’d love to run into the new pope.”

  Nuts. But on a brighter note, she was current with the recent papal upheaval, so that had to be a positive sign, didn’t it?

  “Okay, Mom, here’s the scoop. Stop squirting Nana with hand sanitizer.”

  She gave me a blank look.

  “Nana,” I repeated.

  More blankness from Mom. Dad dropped his head to his chest and sighed.

  “The short woman with the boils all over her face,” I prompted.

  “Oh, her.” She cast a surreptitious look around us and drew me close. “Emily, do you happen to know the symptoms for Ebola?”

  “Nana doesn’t have Ebola. She’s suffering from an allergic reaction that’s specific to her and her alone. It’s impossible for you to catch what she has, so stop trying to sanitize her. You’ve made an absolute mess of her sweatshirt.”

  Dad nodded. “What’d I tell you, Margaret? You’ve made your poor mother look like she decided to wear her last meal instead of eat it.”

  “It’s soap,” complained Mom. “It washes out.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “How many bottles do you have left?”

  “She blew her wad in her last attack,” said Dad, “so they’re all empty.”

  “Good. Don’t even think about asking Margi for replacement bottles. We’re cutting you off.”

  Mom trained a quizzical look on me and Dad before shrugging agreeably. “Okay.” She grabbed Dad’s hand. “C’mon, Bob. I’m sure the Pieta’s around here somewhere.”

  We breezed through the remaining staterooms in Ludwig’s apartments, bombarded by more wood paneling, fanciful chandeliers, ornate columns, billboard-sized murals, gilded brass, and extraneous swans. We ended the tour on the fourth floor in the Singer’s Hall, where a mural of a magical forest peeked out from behind three flamboyant arcades. It was a room where the ceiling panels were painted with signs of the zodiac, where branched candlesticks as tall as light posts stood at military attention, and where not a single musical note ever rang out to entertain welcoming ears. “King Ludvig preferred his solitude,” Sepp reiterated, “so the hall, vit its fine acoustics, vas never used in his lifetime.”

  By the time Sepp led us to the cafeteria and restrooms on the second floor, I had Neuschwanstein Castle all figured out. It wasn’t so much a real residence as it was a theatrical set: a backdrop for an operatic production. A dwelling that owed its existence to pure make-believe, kind of like the pink condo I used to have for my Barbie doll. It was long on show but really short on comfort.

  Wally gathered us around him after we bade auf wiedersehen to Sepp.

  “We have forty minutes to kill before we head down to the restaurant for lunch, so I suggest you visit the museum shop, watch the multivision show that chronicles the life of King Ludwig, or use the comfort station. If you feel like snacking, go ahead, but pace yourself. You’ll be scarfing down Wiener schnitzel in less than an hour.”

  The group scattered like marbles. Bernice sashayed to the food counter, where her persistent admirers argued over which one of them would buy her coffee or tea or whatever other overpriced beverage she desired. Nana and
Tilly won the footrace to the restroom, emerging long minutes later to announce that it was only a two-seater so the ladies in the group had better think about lining up now, which prompted the expected stampede.

  I browsed through the museum shop while keeping one eye on the queue and stopped to talk to Gilbert Graves, who was thumbing through a photographic book of the castle that must have weighed ten pounds. “So what was your reaction to the Singer’s Hall? Can you believe it’s never been used for anything musical?”

  He adjusted his horn-rims on the bridge of his nose. “What a waste. Did you notice the acoustics in that room? They were incredible. Man, if we ever had a chance to play in a room like that, we wouldn’t even need a sound system.”

  “I guess it’s too much to expect today’s restaurant to have great acoustics.”

  “Restaurants usually have lousy acoustics, but I’m not knocking the gig. We’re happy to be playing. Hell, this is what we’ve dreamed about ever since we formed the band.” He hesitated. “Ever since Astrid formed the band. I just wish she could be here to enjoy the fruits of her labor. It’s not fair.”

  “Are you sure you’re still okay with my dad taking her place?” I hedged, recalling the band’s seeming dissention in the lobby last night.

  “He’s doing us a favor, and we appreciate it. I bet your dad’s problem at the Hippodrom last night was what Hetty said: nerves. Today’s venue will be a lot smaller, so I think he’ll be able to show us what he’s got. I feel bad for him, though. It’s no cakewalk being out there in the limelight. Kudos to him for even wanting to get back up on his horse. I know a lot of musicians who’d never be able to live down the shame. They’d walk into the sunset, never to be seen again.”

  My stomach bubbled into a stew of acid as I fretted over the outcome of today’s performance. Please don’t let him screw up. Please don’t let him screw up.

  “You in the market to buy any books?” asked Gilbert as he perused the shelves. “Chivalric knight’s tales? Neuschwanstein Castle guidebooks? Epic poems and sagas from the Norse?”

  “Not me, but you might want to bring this to Otis’s attention. Epic poems are probably right up his alley.”