From Bad to Wurst Read online

  I fired a look left and right. Where was Etienne? Maybe he could run interference between Nana and—

  “Uhh, Zola?” Astrid’s voice grew anxious. “I hate to break your concentration, but…everyone’s leaving.”

  The muscles in Zola’s face remained still, her expression blank.

  “I’ll be able to predict my own future if we don’t get going,” teased Astrid. “Lost in Munich.”

  Zola’s brows dipped slightly, giving her face an unsettled look. With her breath suddenly catching in her throat, she snapped her eyes open and stared at Astrid. “I’m sorry.” She looked unnerved as she released Astrid’s hand. “What did you say?”

  Astrid gestured to the departing troops. “Wally’s leaving. We’ve gotta go.” With a nod of thanks to me, she gripped the handle of her accordion case and searched Zola’s freckled face with breathless anticipation. “So? What’d you see?”

  Zola hesitated, eyes dimming and lips twitching with what appeared to be indecision.

  Astrid looked suddenly frightened. “You don’t want to tell me. Did you see something bad?”

  “No, no.” Zola waved off the accusation and soothed her nerves with a conciliatory smile. “I didn’t have enough time, is all. Let’s try again later, when I’m not under any time constraints and there’s less background noise. I should know better than to try this in the middle of a mob scene in a city plaza.”

  Astrid gasped out her relief. “So you didn’t see anything horrible?”

  “I saw nothing horrible,” swore Zola. She raised three fingers in a pledge. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Is there a problem, ladies?” Etienne came up behind me and circled his arm around my shoulder, his voice calm, resonant, seductive. “The group is heading toward the church. Shall we join them?”

  Astrid let out a peep of dismay. “Uff-da! We’ve gotta catch up before we lose sight of them completely.”

  “I’ve got this,” assured Zola. “I predict they’re going to walk under that arch in the bell tower.”

  “No kidding?” The two women shuffled off, Astrid’s accordion case rattling over the concrete pavers. “Did you just get a vision?”

  “Better than a vision. I studied the map.”

  “Just the man I was looking for,” I chimed as I grasped Etienne’s hand. “Have you ever mediated a hostage crisis?”

  Before he’d married me, moved to Iowa, and opened our travel agency, Etienne had been a police inspector in Switzerland, so there was an outside chance that my handsome black-haired, lean-muscled, six-foot-tall husband might be a crackerjack hostage negotiator.

  He narrowed his impossibly blue eyes. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I need you to negotiate the release of a hostage. Mom strapped a leash around Nana’s wrist to keep track of her in the crowd, so you have to convince Mom to lighten up.”

  “You want me to negotiate a truce between your mother and your grandmother?”

  “You have law enforcement skills. You’d probably rock at it.”

  “Thank you for the invitation, bella, but as my Italian grandmother was fond of saying, I’d rather chew carpet tacks.”

  “Aww, c’mon. Nana’s absolutely miserable, and it’s not going to improve any until someone in authority physically separates them or destroys the stupid leash.”

  “And you’re volunteering me?”

  “Who better? They both adore you. Please?” I flashed my most irresistible smile.

  He smiled back, exposing the dimples that split his face from cheekbone to jaw. “There is no way I would ever step between your mother and grandmother.”

  I blinked in amazement. “Is that a no?”

  “That’s a no.” He tweaked my nose. “Don’t feel too badly for your grandmother. No one gets the better of her for long. In a test of wills between her and your mother, my money is on your grandmother. Come on.” He squeezed my hand and pulled me along beside him. “We’re supposed to be guarding the rear, not preparing to play Family Feud.”

  I hurried to keep pace with his long stride, still stunned that he’d refused me. Wow, had I lost my touch already? But we hadn’t been married that long! When I smiled like that, he was supposed to laugh uproariously and give in.

  Okay, maybe not uproariously. He was part Swiss, after all. The Swiss were wound a little too tight to understand the concept of uproariously.

  We caught sight of the tail end of the group and fell in line behind them. As we threaded our way through the friendly crowd, we passed by a long section of the plaza that was set up for outdoor dining beneath a canopy of blue umbrellas. Men in leather shorts and alpine hats milled around the perimeter of the café, while women who were dressed like Astrid Peterson in fitted bodices and long aproned skirts flaunted some truly impressive cleavage. Little girls twirled in their long skirts and hovered by their elders. Little boys chased each other in circles and terrorized the pigeons.

  Beyond the bell tower, the area opened onto a wide boulevard that was flanked on either side by multi-storied buildings that were as long and boxy as Monopoly game hotels. There were no wrought-iron balconies or window boxes breaking up their stark façades. No flower pots hanging from decorative street lights. No planters festooning the walkways with greenery. The buildings were solid and no-nonsense and hulked over the sidewalk like linemen bunched together in an impenetrable wall of defensive muscle.

  On a more upbeat note, what the area lacked in ambiance and charm, it quite made up for in cleanliness. The pavement sported not one wad of gum, strand of hair, or grain of dirt. It was so pristine, it looked as if it might be hosed off twice daily with soap and hot water.

  We followed Wally’s umbrella for a full block, past a lederhosen outlet, a Häagen-Dazs store, and a McDonald’s that offered al fresco dining curbside so you could enjoy your Big Mac with a hearty side of diesel fumes. Rounding a corner, we turned onto a narrow side street where a mysterious torrent of water was gushing downhill along the curb to a storm sewer on the boulevard. Tall buildings jammed the sidewalks on either side, giving the place a claustrophobic feel, but there was less foot traffic to fight here, so it looked like a good find.

  Short cut!

  Ahead of us, Astrid hot-footed it up the street while Zola paused on the sidewalk, staring up at a sculpture that was attached to the corner building like a figurehead to a prow. “You have any idea what this thing is supposed to be?” she asked as we approached.

  It looked like something that might be found in a contemporary women’s clothing catalog—a hooded cloak without a model inside. But even though the face and body were missing, two hands that resembled antlers were poking out of the sleeves. “It looks like one of Tolkien’s Black Riders,” I concluded. “Kind of spooky, actually.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” agreed Zola, anchoring herself to the spot as she studied it with more intensity than seemed warranted.

  I glanced down the lane to find the group disappearing from sight as they rounded a bend in the road. “Everyone’s getting ahead of us, Zola. Are you about done here?”

  Making no effort to move, she shot a look down the street.

  Etienne swept his hand toward our intended route. “After you, Ms. Czarnecki.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t go down there.” Alarm in her voice. Apprehension in her eyes.

  “But…that’s the way to the beer hall.” I didn’t think it would hurt to point out the obvious.

  She hugged her arms to herself as if to ward off a chill and shook her head more emphatically. “I can’t. It doesn’t feel right. Is there another route I can take?”

  I leveled a meaningful look at Etienne. “Have I mentioned that Zola is a practicing clairvoyant?”

  Without skipping a beat, Etienne consulted his phone. “You could take a left at the next block. It’s a longer walk, but you’ll arriv
e at the same cross street. From there it’s a left onto Ledererstrasse and a right onto Orlandostrasse.”

  Her features knotted in confusion. “A left onto what?”

  “How about letting Etienne escort you on the alternate route,” I suggested, “and we’ll plan to meet up at the Hofbräuhaus.”

  Etienne nodded agreement. “If you’d prefer to hike to the next street, Ms. Czarnecki, I’ll be happy to accompany you.”

  “Yes,” she said enthusiastically. “That’s very kind of you. I’d prefer to do that. Thank you.”

  “I’ll catch up with the rest of the group,” I said, bobbing my head down the lane. “If we arrive at the beer hall before you, I’ll let Wally know where you are.”

  “Plan A is now activated.” Etienne planted a quick kiss on my cheek. “See you there.”

  He’d been playing video games with my nephews recently, so he was picking up some seriously non-adult jargon.

  Zola hesitated, her unease palpable as she put a bead on the place where the street curved out of sight. “Be careful, Emily.”

  “You bet.”

  “I mean it.” She drilled me with a look that caused all the down on my arms to stand on end. “I wish you wouldn’t go down there.”

  “I’ll be fine.” But as I sprinted down the narrow walkway, I questioned the benefits of having a clairvoyant on the tour. We’d had one spot left on our guest roster after the musicians had signed up, so Zola, traveling by herself, had claimed it. But how many streets would she be unwilling to walk down because they didn’t feel right? How many museums would she advise guests against entering because she sensed the collection wasn’t up to snuff? How many historic sites would she refuse to visit because the karma felt “off”? She might be a novelty at church fairs and cocktail parties, but on an international tour her psychic abilities could augur financial disaster.

  As I rounded the curve in the road, I caught sight of the group up ahead, Dad with his camcorder rolling as everyone toodled along in single-file, hugging building fronts as closely as possible to avoid a team of city workers who were performing emergency repairs on a broken water main. The men, dressed in official phosphorescent yellow vests and hard hats, had cordoned off a section of the street with traffic cones. Jackhammers lay on the pavement. A backhoe loader idled at the curb, close to the hole it had excavated in the middle of the street. Three men huddled at the edge of the hole, heads together as they assessed the situation, while the heavy machinery operator sat at the controls, observing the fountain of water that was bursting onto the asphalt with the force of a geyser.

  Despite the distraction, the group kept moving forward, all except Astrid, whose position at the back of the pack allowed her to pause at the curb to take a picture of what crumbling infrastructure in other countries looked like. I dug my camera out too, not because of the infrastructure thing but because of the backhoe loader. It was a John Deere. My youngest nephew would adore a picture of it.

  With a hand signal from his supervisors, the backhoe operator roared into action again, dropping his bucket into the flooded hole. Astrid snapped her shot and continued on her way, rolling her accordion case—

  kabooooooooom!!!

  The case flew into the air in a hailstorm of tar pellets and sludge, hanging motionless for a fleeting moment before slamming back to earth. My head snapped back as the shock wave struck my face. I felt the sharp sting of flying debris needling into my flesh and a searing heat assaulting my eyes. I saw the ground suddenly disappear beneath a cloud of dirt and dust, and then…I saw nothing at all.

  two

  “Unexploded ordnance?”

  My attending physician, Dr. Helmut Fischer, a head trauma specialist with a shaved head and rimless glasses, stood at the foot of my gurney, hands buried in the pockets of his lab coat. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Miceli, we’re still finding unexploded munitions throughout the country decades after the Allied forces dropped them. You should be thankful that this particular bomb was a relatively small one. Three years ago 45,000 residents were evacuated from Koblenz while the disposal squad defused a 1.8-metric ton bomb that could have wiped out the entire city center.” He shook his head and shrugged. “Detonations are not uncommon.”

  The treatment room where I was being tended was glass-fronted, brightly lit, and equipped with all manner of high-tech monitors and machines that beeped, hummed, and whirred. I’d been given a CT scan as a precautionary measure, and though I’d been knocked out in the blast, the results indicated no bleeding, swelling, or other type of cerebral trauma. Dr. Fischer was right to imply that I was one lucky tour escort.

  “Other than the cuts on your face from the debris splatter, you’ve weathered the event with minimal injury,” he continued. “Vital signs are normal. No visual impairment. Auditory report is excellent, which is a bit surprising. Proximity to even minor blasts can cause perforations and ruptures in the ear canal, but you were apparently far enough away to escape injury, although should you experience a sudden ringing in your ears in the days to come, don’t be alarmed. It could be a delayed reaction, but this type of tinnitus often resolves itself in a few days or weeks. Any questions before I release you?”

  “Was anyone else hurt?” I hadn’t regained consciousness until I was in the ambulance, so I’d seen none of the devastation. “Is everyone in my tour group all right?”

  Dr. Fischer exchanged a glance with Etienne, who stood at the side of my gurney, squeezing my hand. “Your husband has asked to share that information with you, Mrs. Miceli. Do you have any other medical-related questions?”

  “You don’t think she needs complete bed rest?” asked Etienne, his voice strained with worry. “It could be a little tricky to pull off, but—”

  “I believe that would be an overreaction, Mr. Miceli.”

  “What if she starts complaining about headaches or dizziness or fatigue?”

  “If she experiences any of those symptoms and they become acute, I would encourage you to seek medical attention, but our tests indicate that your wife isn’t likely to suffer anything more severe than a few minor muscle aches, which can be treated with over-the-counter pain relievers.”

  “You don’t think we need to cancel the rest of our tour?”

  “Not on your wife’s account.” Dr. Fischer smiled indulgently. “I hope she won’t be dancing a polka in the Schottenhamel festival tent this evening, but by tomorrow or the next day she should feel well enough to resume her normal activities. I’ll see about signing those release papers now.” He shook both our hands and departed. I boosted myself to a sitting position and swung my legs over the side of the gurney, coming eye to eye with Etienne.

  I inhaled a deep breath, bolstering my courage to ask the question I dreaded to ask. “Is everyone all right?”

  He shook his head, his voice soft. “Ms. Peterson, the lady with the enormous rolling instrument case…she didn’t survive the blast.”

  “Astrid?” I stared at him, numbed. “Omigod.” In my mind’s eye I saw her accordion case being catapulted skyward again, a speck of gleaming silver lost in a gale of swirling asphalt. “She…she stopped to take a picture, and then…I mean, I stopped to take a picture, too. I thought David would get a kick out of seeing the John Deere backhoe. But I was farther away, so…” A knot vibrated in my throat. “I…I can’t believe it.”

  Etienne folded me in his arms, cradling my head against his chest. “I’ve spoken to her family back in Iowa. Not the kind of news anyone ever wants to deliver. But I’ve given them our personal cell numbers and have assured them that we’ll render whatever assistance we can with flight arrangements for Astrid’s remains.”

  “What about Nana?” I choked out, blinking away an onslaught of tears that welled up from the throbbing knot in my throat. “And Mom and Dad. Are they okay?”

  “Everyone received a clean bill of health from the paramedics at the scene. Wally tell
s me that the musicians had been so anxious to reach the Hofbräuhaus that they’d set a pretty fast pace for the group, which literally saved their lives. When the bomb detonated, they were outside the danger zone. They’re all back at the hotel, anxiously awaiting your return.”

  “And the workmen?”

  “Cuts, bruises, and broken bones, but nothing life threatening.”

  I sniffled with relief. “That…that’s wonderful.” At which point I proceeded to dissolve into a blubbering heap of sobs and tears. I guess when you come to the realization that you’ve just escaped death by mere inches, the emotional blowback eventually hits you between the face and eyes.

  “My poor bella.” Etienne kissed the crown of my head. “Shh. Shh.” He held me more tightly against him. “We can’t shield our guests from unforeseen mishaps, Emily. We both know that. Accidents are inevitable. No one could have predicted what happened on that street today, but we should celebrate the small miracle that more people weren’t hurt.”

  I grew suddenly still.

  No. That wasn’t true.

  One person had sensed what would happen down that street. And I hadn’t believed her.

  The taxi dropped us at the front door of our hotel, which was conveniently located midway between the city center at Marienplatz and the Oktoberfest grounds at Theresienwiese. I’d regained my self-composure before leaving the hospital, so I wasn’t blubbering any longer, but I suspected another crying jag might be in order once I saw myself in a mirror. I was sure I hadn’t packed near enough concealer.

  Etienne escorted me through the revolving door, where I was immediately swarmed by a dozen Iowans who looked pretty relieved to see me.

  “My baby!” cried Mom, throwing her arms around me in a death grip. “I’ll never let you out of my sight again!”

  That could only mean one thing. She’d bought more than one toddler tether at Pills Etcetera. Oh, God.

  “Group hug,” said Tilly Hovick as she used her walking stick to direct everyone into a Farmer in the Dell–type circle. Looping arms around waists, they formed a human daisy chain around me.