From Bad to Wurst Read online

  Gilbert snorted derisively. “Otis Erickson? Epic poems? I don’t think so.”

  “Otis reads poetry.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “He did. He lent a book of poetry to Astrid for this trip.”

  “Not in a million years did Otis Erickson give Astrid a book of poetry.”

  “He didn’t buy it. He lent it. It was a library book.”

  “Sure it was.” He let out a whoop of laughter. “Not only does Otis not read, he doesn’t own a library card.”

  I gave him a hard look. “Are you sure?”

  “We’ve only been buds for decades. Blimpie’s reward card, yes. Ace Hardware reward card, yes. Library card, no.”

  “Then how—” I swallowed the end of my question. If there was no library card, there was no library book. So if Otis hadn’t been looking for his fictitious volume of poetry, what had he been looking for? Her journal? Is that what he’d been searching for all along? But what reason would he have to steal such a personal item?

  “Why’d Otis tell you about his adventures in poetry in the first place?”

  “He needed the book back to avoid having to pay the library fine, so Etienne and I let him search for it the night we packed up Astrid’s belongings.”

  “Otis was in her room?”

  “For a short time.”

  “What about his book? Did he find it?”

  “How could he? From what you’re telling me, there was no book.”

  “So he left empty-handed?”

  “As far as I know.”

  “Good.” Gilbert allowed a half-smile to play across his lips. “That sonofa—” He caught himself mid-epithet, replacing his sudden ill humor with forced cheerfulness. “Thanks for the laugh, Emily. Otis and poetry.” A shadow passed over his face, making his eyes hard. “Some guys are just full of surprises.”

  Peering toward the ladies’ room to find the queue gone, I left Gilbert to shoot across the floor and take my turn. I was freshening my lip gloss when the door opened to admit one last straggler.

  Bernice.

  She glided into the room and struck a pose against the door, the back of her hand angled against her forehead as if she were a Southern belle executing a swoon. “I’d forgotten how exhausting it is to be the designated hottie in the group. Thank God the restroom isn’t unisex or they’d be chasing me inside here too. I need some me time.”

  I eyed her reflection in the mirror. “Too much of a good thing, huh?”

  “It’s too bad that psychic bit the dust. I would love to have told her to her face how wrong she was.”

  “Wrong? You’re reaping the benefits of her prediction, aren’t you? Didn’t she tell you that you’d meet a handsome stranger?”

  “Her prediction was too limited.” She sighed melodramatically and primped her hair. “The tall, dark, handsome ones are getting overrun by the short, fat, homely ones. It’s getting unmanageable. How can I vet the princes with the toads always in the picture?”

  “Are things moving so quickly that you’re already at the vetting stage?” Considering she’d been the “It” girl for all of ten minutes, she might be jumping the gun a bit.

  She stared at me in the mirror. “Sometimes I’m surprised you’re able to walk and chew gum at the same time. It’s never too soon to check for financial assets. Here’s the deal: no hefty portfolio, no private date with Bernice Zwerg. I have standards to maintain.” She slipped into a stall and shut the door. “Hey, you’re the one who’s supposed to know all the confidential stuff about us guests. What do you know about these musicians? What do they do besides hop up on a stage and play dorky polka music?”

  I didn’t think I’d be betraying any confidences to repeat the basics. “Have you ever heard of Newton Lock and Key in Boone?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, every musician on the tour works there in some capacity.”

  “My stable of admirers are all blue-collar factory workers?”

  “Everyone but Wendell. He owns the company.”

  She flushed the toilet in response.

  “Which one’s Wendell?” She opened the door and joined me at the sink.

  “Handlebar mustache? Square build? Plays trumpet with the Guten Tags? Doesn’t wear his name tag?”

  “Oh, him.” She cupped her palm beneath the automatic soap dispenser before flashing her hand in front of the sensor on the faucet. “He needs more hair.”

  “The shaved-head look is pretty trendy for guys these days.”

  “Balding guys may be fond of shaved heads. I’m not. Besides which, your Wendell comes with baggage attached.”

  “What kind of baggage?”

  “Romantic baggage. When I went to refill my ice bucket the first night we were here, I saw him sneaking out of someone’s room in the wee hours of the morning.”

  Omigod. Zola was right. He was in a relationship. He was sneaking around.

  “Of course he finds me utterly irresistible, so I expect he’ll dump the other broad and try to wow me with a full court press, but I’m not sure I want to waste my time on secondhand goods.”

  “You’re absolutely sure about this, Bernice? I mean, how do you know he wasn’t leaving his own room?”

  She shook excess water off her hands and waved her forearm in front of the towel dispenser. “He was wearing his bathrobe, his slippers, and a goofy grin on his face. I recognized the grin. It wasn’t from binge-watching Sunday football. He was floating back to his own room, happy as a tick on a fat hound.” When no towel appeared, she glowered at the dispenser and waved both hands in front of it.

  “No chance he was headed to get ice?”

  “Without an ice bucket? Oh, sure. Maybe he was planning to stash it in his pockets.” She glared at the paper towel dispenser and gave it a thwack. “What’s wrong with this thing?”

  I seized the corners of a towel that was poking out from beneath the dispenser and yanked down, releasing the needed sheet. I ripped it off and handed it to her. “It’s not motion-activated.”

  Lucille poked her head through the door. “Restroom check! Wally’s starting the two-minute countdown, so you’d better move it because we’re getting ready to leave.”

  We exited the castle after Wally performed his mandatory head count and began the downhill hike to the place where the horse-drawn wagons would pick us up. “I’m glad we’re going down and not up,” Osmond remarked. “Too bad they couldn’t find a way to make everything downhill.”

  “It’d sure be easier on people,” insisted Alice.

  “Not necessarily,” objected Tilly. “Trying to decrease forward motion on a downhill slope can be just as taxing on a person’s knees and hips as climbing an incline can be on someone’s heart and lungs. The acceleration created by gravitational pull can be a bear to stop. Why, it’s thought that among the ancient cliff dwellers of the Mesa Verde—”

  “Dammit all!”

  I swiveled my head to find Maisie several paces behind me, looking apoplectic as she dropped to her knees beside the scattered contents of what appeared to be a broken shoulder bag. “My stuff! It’s—it’s getting away.”

  Tilly stopped in her tracks to look uphill. “Aha. See there?” She waggled her cane at a tube of lip balm that was rolling downhill past her. “This is precisely what I’m talking about. If you watch closely, you’ll notice that gravitational pull will cause that object to reach its terminal velocity in approximately—”

  Etienne scooped it into his hand.

  “Well,” Tilly huffed. “I guess we can scratch that.”

  “I’ve got your Lifesavers,” shouted Dick Stolee, blocking them with his foot.

  We all pitched in, rescuing whatever items went tumbling past us. Dad retrieved a travel-size bottle of aspirin. Dick Teig gathered up a few rogue Tic Tacs that were no longer fit for hu
man consumption. Prescription bottle here. Penlight there. I chased down a nasal inhaler and a mini bottle of what looked like contact lens rewetting solution—until I picked it up and read the label.

  Atomized Liquid: E-Cigarette Nicotine Refill.

  A tingling sensation slithered down my spine.

  Maisie refilled her e-cigarette cartridges manually? From a bottle of liquid nicotine that she carried around in her shoulder bag?

  I clutched the bottle in my fist.

  Oh. My. God.

  Maisie hadn’t accidentally goaded anyone into killing Zola.

  She’d done it herself.

  fifteen

  “Maisie did it,” I said in a breathless rush.

  “Maisie did what?”

  I gave Etienne’s arm a tug, prompting him to bend his head closer to hear me. “She killed Zola.”

  After we’d seen the group seated at their assigned tables, I’d dragged him into the hallway off the restaurant’s foyer where the restrooms were located. With the dining room packed with noisy tourists, this was the only place I could find that was even halfway private.

  Glancing both ways, Etienne lowered his voice and, in the same way Clark Kent swapped his suit and hat for a cape and tights, he became Etienne Miceli, former Swiss police inspector. “How do you know?”

  “Incriminating evidence.” I handed him the plastic refill bottle.

  “Liquid nicotine? Where did you get this?”

  “It rolled out of Maisie’s shoulder bag and straight past me on its way to terminal velocity.”

  “Why is she carrying liquid nicotine?”

  “To fill her e-cigarette. She’s trying to break her smoking habit, so she’s going the e-cigarette route. She’s the last holdout in the whole company. Once she quits, everyone gets a bonus because of lower health-care costs.”

  He muttered something in either French, Italian, or a combination of the two before nodding. “Does she know you have this?”

  “Nope. You saw for yourself. The contents of her shoulder bag scattered all over the place after the strap broke, so I suspect she doesn’t know where a lot of her stuff ended up.”

  He paused. “I don’t need to remind you that this could either be something or nothing at all, correct?”

  “Oh, it’s something, all right.”

  He held the bottle up to the light, his features hardening into a frown. “If Maisie did kill Zola, she didn’t use the contents of this particular bottle to carry out the deed.”

  “But she’s the only guest on the tour who smokes, or vapes, or whatever she calls it. She has to be the killer.”

  “This bottle’s full.”

  “Of course this one’s full. She emptied the one she was carrying last night into Zola’s egg noodles or mustard or beer. She probably has a whole slew of them in her suitcase.”

  “I’m not discrediting your find, Emily. I’m merely pointing out that the Munich police will need more evidence than this to file charges against her. Even if she was carrying a bottle in her purse, it doesn’t mean she actually used it.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I assume these nicotine refills are available to the general public and can be purchased at convenience stores everywhere?”

  “Well, probably, but—”

  “There you two are.” Wally jaunted toward us. “They’ve begun to serve, so you’d better take your seats before the serving staff thinks you’re no-shows.” He raised a curious eyebrow as he glanced from Etienne to me. “What’s up? Or is this one of those marital things that’s none of my business?”

  Etienne clapped him on the back before herding us toward the dining area. “I’ll get you up to speed later. Meanwhile, let’s enjoy the schnitzel, shall we?”

  We filled five tables in the dining area—a vast grange-hall type room with space set for staging small performance events. I was playing hostess to Margi, Nana, George, and the Dicks, and I occupied a chair with an unobstructed view of the table where Maisie Barnes sat with her fellow Little Bitte band members and the Brassed Offs. In my checkered career as a reluctant sleuth, I’d gained a reputation for being wrong at just about every turn, but this time was different. This time, I’d caught the killer red-handed.

  Kinda.

  “This isn’t the main course, is it?” asked Margi as she trained a sour look on the dinner plate in front of her. “I was expecting hot dogs.”

  “Me too.” Dick Teig glanced around at the other tables to see what everyone else had been served. “But I’m not seeing wieners on anyone’s plate.”

  Dick Stolee poked his flat breaded cutlet with his fork. “Maybe they ran out of wieners and decided to substitute some kind of German mystery meat. Does anyone know what this is?”

  “I think that’s the schnitzel,” said George.

  “What kind of animal is a schnitzel?” asked Margi, her eyes widening as she answered her own question. “Omigod. Is that like a…a neutered schnauzer? Eww. Hey, I’m not eating dog no matter how light the breading is.”

  “It’s veal,” said Nana as she speared a parslied potato. “The Food Network done a whole afternoon series on cuts of meat what can give PETA a notion to hold a demonstration right in front of your very own home.”

  “Veal?” Dick Teig squinted at the cutlet. “Isn’t that like…the bovine equivalent of Bambi?”

  Margi froze as she regarded the meat in horror. She pushed her plate away. “This is going from bad to worse. Flag down our waitress. I’d like to order take-out from another restaurant.”

  I studied Maisie as she attacked her meal with the same enthusiasm with which she played her fiddle. I knew she’d killed Zola. I knew how she’d done it. I just didn’t know why. I mean, she and Zola had been friends for a shorter time than it took my fingernail polish to dry. That wasn’t long enough for her to start despising what she’d first liked about her, was it?

  “I brung a bunch of earplugs with me today if anyone needs ’em,” Nana announced to the table. “But you gotta do it on the Q-T.”

  “Why do we need earplugs?” asked Dick Stolee.

  “The oompah band?” razzed Dick Teig. “Emily’s father on the accordion? Potential damage to healthy eardrums? I think they’re gonna be first up today.”

  There followed a moment of reflective silence before four hands flew toward Nana, palms up.

  I returned to my ruminations as I toyed with my food. Had Maisie been alarmed by what Zola might find if she allowed the clairvoyant to look into her future? Could her private life bear the scrutiny of a fortuneteller? Was she trying to protect some deeply hidden, unsavory secret?

  But if that were the case, why would she have suggested that Zola tell everyone’s fortune after the Oktoberfest performance? That wouldn’t be a logical move if she was afraid to have her own fortune told. Unless…

  Unless it was a ploy to divert suspicion away from herself. Could she have convinced everyone to participate without joining in herself? Would anyone have noticed that the organizer of the evening’s entertainment was too busy organizing to play along? Was it fear that had forced her hand? Or something else?

  I studied her as she interacted with the band members at her table.

  Wendell seemed particularly fond of her, referring to her with much more affection than a boss normally shows an employee. Was it possible they were a couple?

  But if they’re a couple, said the voice inside my head, how come they don’t hang out together?

  Could their deliberate avoidance of each other be a well-orchestrated maneuver? Was this how they kept their relationship a secret? By evading each other in public?

  I slanted a look from Maisie to Wendell and back to Maisie.

  Uff-da. Was the relationship Wendell refused to acknowledge—the one he swore he wasn’t involved in—a love affair he was having with Maisie? Was it Maisie�
��s room Bernice had seen him sneaking out of our first night at the hotel?

  But what if the two of them were having an affair? They were consenting adults. Wendell wasn’t married. Maisie wasn’t marr—

  The gold band on her ring finger caught my eye as she reached across the table for the water pitcher.

  Geez Louise. Maisie was married.

  This wasn’t good. Wendell wasn’t just having an affair. He was having an affair with a married woman who happened to be a subordinate in his company—an underling. Weren’t there laws prohibiting behaviors like that in the workplace? Harassment laws or something? No wonder he denied the relationship.

  “Be right back, folks,” I said as I excused myself from the table. I scurried back to the restroom, locked myself in a stall, and dug out my phone.

  Was I right about this or was I grasping at straws? Were Wendell and Maisie a couple? Could I find proof that they were?

  I could access neither of their Facebook accounts, but Newton Lock and Key had both a Facebook page and a website, with photos of the company’s various departments and the employees who manned them. Wendell appeared on the first page, sitting behind a massive desk with a smile on his face and a key as long as a shoebox in his hands. Below his photo was the caption We’ve Found the Key to Success Here at Newton. Subsequent pages included group pictures of the Newton employees in their various divisions. I spotted Otis, Gilbert, and Maisie in the production department, Hetty in accounts, Astrid Peterson in reception, Stretch and Arlin in shipping and receiving, and several of the other musicians in photos of the company’s Halloween party, Thanksgiving luncheon, and Christmas party. But I found nothing that would link Maisie and Wendell romantically.

  I googled Wendell to discover citations he’d received for both his community service and his philanthropic efforts to build a municipal pool, a Little League field, a hockey rink, and an animal shelter. I found links from his name to an event schedule that listed where the Guten Tags would be entertaining in and around the state, along with the Little Bitte Band, the Brassed Offs, and Das Bier Band. Looked to me as if they traveled together a whole lot, which would have been perfect for Maisie and Wendell, especially if Maisie’s husband didn’t travel with them. If their appearances included overnight stays, well…how convenient was that?