From Bad to Wurst Page 21

  “This here’s the list I made for you. I’ll send it to you as an email, but this is what I got.” He handed me his phone. “Your message disappeared last night before I finished reading to the end. My fingers got twitchy and deleted it by mistake, but I got the gist, so we’re good.”

  My hands shook as I cradled his phone in my palms. I skimmed the text. Paradise on a Budget in Tahiti. Private Island Luxury in the Heart of the Bahamas. White Sand Meets Turquoise Sea in Shoal Bay.

  I looked up. “Uhh…Osmond? What is this exactly?”

  “It’s the exotic videos you asked for.”

  Exotic, not erotic. I hung my head. Oh, what a difference a consonant can make.

  “And get this, Emily. Some of the resorts cater to seniors.”

  “I don’t suppose you ran across Astrid Peterson in any of your videos.”

  “Nope. Was I supposed to?”

  I handed his phone back. “Thanks for your time and trouble, Osmond. Good job.”

  “Are you looking to visit some of these places, Emily? Because if you are, you can count me in…if I’m still alive.”

  Considering the dough I’d be forking over to cover this fiasco, I feared Destinations Travel might never be scheduling another trip.

  “Yodelaaay-e-whooooo.”

  “The yodelers,” Osmond enthused. “S’cuse me, Emily. I don’t want to miss this.”

  The terrace cleared out within a half minute as visitors piled back through the interior door. I remained by the window, shivering as I took in the view. Evergreens drooping beneath their heavy mantle of snow. Clouds hovering like smoke rings above distant mountain peaks. Villages set in miniature in the valleys below. Wooded slopes. Avalanched rock. Fractured ledges. Sunlight gleaming on snow. Shadows darkening crevasses. Alpine lakes that sparkled like Norwegian fjords. I snapped a quick picture through the window and, with my teeth beginning to chatter, glanced toward the arched doorway that exited onto the outside terrace.

  Dining tables sat snow-covered and unoccupied on the raised patio. A wooden guardrail flanked the cliff’s edge, preventing guests from accidentally taking the six-thousand-foot express route to the bottom. A rough hiking path zigzagged to a nearby rise, where a simple cross stood proud and erect against a backdrop of unscalable bedrock. On a warm day the patio would have been an ideal setting in which to relax, but with today’s wind, cold, and slush, I wasn’t even tempted to go out, not that I could have even if I’d wanted to. The double doors were chained shut and padlocked. I guess the management was serious about wanting to avoid risk, accidents, and litigation when the weather was less than optimal.

  I snapped a picture of the cross to include in Nana’s Legion of Mary newsletter, then turned back toward the sound of yodeling, pausing to wonder if this would be a good time to—

  Despite my plummeting internal temperature, I whipped the paper Tilly had given me out of my pocket and entered the website address into my browser. I rolled my eyes at the name of the video but, taking advantage of my moment of unexpected privacy, I girded my loins, charged the fee to my PayPal account, and hit play.

  The first two minutes were so poorly acted, the film was almost comedic until the clothes came off and—eww. The next two minutes stunned me into silence, and the next five were so mind-numbing that I watched through one squinted eye while turning my phone upside down and right-side up, trying to figure out if the position they’d assumed was even anatomically possible. I mean, seriously, guys. Eww.

  Two additional women joined the twosome, both wearing long braided wigs and dressed in Bavarian costumes not unlike the one Astrid had been wearing on the day she died. This must be what had caught Tilly’s attention because one of them did bear a slight resemblance to Astrid, but she was at least a couple of decades younger and much less well endowed. Tilly’s eyes really must have been bleary to miss that.

  I fast-forwarded through a blur of entangled limbs to the end of the video and exited the site, disappointed at what a waste of time and money my hunch had turned out to be. Looked like I wouldn’t be pinning Zola’s murder on Wendell anytime soon. All I could hope was that Kriminaloberkommissar Horn was having better luck.

  As I headed back toward the anemic warmth of the house proper, the entrance door to the terrace flew open and Mom rushed out, fanning her face with both hands. Uh-oh. “You okay?” I called out as I hurried toward her.

  Making a beeline for the partition that divided the massive windows, she hugged it with both arms and pressed her forehead against the chilly stone. “Ahhhhhh.”

  I pressed my hand to her back. “Is the altitude making you light- headed? Are you sick?”

  “Emily, have I ever had a hot flash?”

  “Uhh…you never mentioned that you had.”

  “Well, I’m having one now.”

  I regarded her flushed cheeks and sweaty brow with envy, wishing it were me. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Without removing her forehead from the wall, she stripped off her jacket and opened the collar of her blouse. “Not a thing. I’m just going to stay like this until I cool off.” She puffed up her cheeks and blew outward. “How long does a hot flash last?”

  “I have no idea. You want me to google it?”

  “No, no. Just leave me here and when the yodelers are done, come get me so I can watch your father play. If I’m still perspiring through all my clothing when you come back, you have my permission to shoot me.”

  “Aww. I’m sorry you’re so miserable, Mom.” I gave her back a little rub.

  “Hot! Hot!” she complained, wriggling her shoulder blades to oust my hand, which I snatched away immediately. Wow, I had so much to look forward to down the road.

  “Can I bring you some water?”

  “This is better than water,” she said as she flattened the side of her face against the stone.

  “Okay, then, you’ll be standing on this very spot when I come back for you, right?”

  “I’m not moving. If I do, I’m afraid I might internally combust.”

  I crept into the restaurant as unobtrusively as possible and found a viewing spot by Mussolini’s fireplace. The yodelers were performing in a small area along the opposite wall and were so lively, they had the entire audience in a festive mood, even putting a smile on the mouths of some of our very own stone-faced musicians. Their songs were in German, with copious yoooo-de-yos and yodel-lay-hee-hoos, but the real fun began with the sing-alongs that included hand gestures reminiscent of the Chicken Dance. People stood. People sat. Hands fluttered like wings. Arms waved in the air. Knees got slapped. Fingers snapped. Hands swooshed down, faster and faster, until the audience burst out with laughter and collapsed in breathless exhaustion.

  I could see why these yodelers were state champs. They were masters of audience participation.

  I was able to locate most of our tour group at tables scattered throughout the room. Looks like they’d used their vouchers to purchase the luncheon buffet and Oktoberfest-sized steins of beer, although the jumbo mugs might not have been the best choice since folks were having to leave the entertainment with some frequency to attend to what I could only imagine were internal plumbing issues. Etienne was keeping Dad company while Wally was sitting with Wendell and Otis in what might have been an attempt to either keep their displeasure from exploding or to prevent them from heckling the yodelers. On a personal note, the room was so crowded and getting so stuffy, I was actually starting to warm up!

  When the choral leader announced a final song, I saw Dad get up and circle the room, heading for the café. Almost time to fetch Mom…and get something to eat myself. My stomach was starting to growl.

  The final selection being a polka, we began clapping our hands and stomping our feet, which prompted the group to pick up the pace even more until the song became a frenzied race toward the very last yodel-lay-hee-h—

 
“My accordion!” Dad’s voice knifed through the room. “It’s gone!”

  twenty

  “I did not move case.” The aproned counter attendant, who introduced himself as Felix, looked perplexed. “I set it here”—he slapped his palm against the wall—“behind counter. The Fraulein and parents watch me. And now, poof! Gone.”

  “Did you leave it unattended at any time?” pressed Etienne.

  “Ja, while I was in kitchen, heating vegetables for chafing dishes.”

  “So anyone could have walked off with it when you weren’t looking?”

  “Ja, but the café, it was empty. All the peoples were in main dining room, listening to state champion yodelers.” He scratched his head. “Why would visiting tourist take accordion? Big honking case is big problem to hide.”

  “Perhaps the intent wasn’t to steal it.” I exchanged glances with Etienne and Wally as I recalled the vengeful expressions on the faces of the musicians as they’d returned their instruments to the luggage bay this morning. “Perhaps the intent was to destroy it.”

  “Why would peoples want to destroy accordion?”

  “To prevent someone from playing it.” My eyes lengthened in a hard squint. “That someone being Dad.”

  Wally frowned. “You think one of the musicians deliberately—?”

  “Maybe you missed the look in their eyes when you made your announcement at the bus terminal, but I didn’t. They were livid. So I wouldn’t be surprised if this is their attempt at retaliation. If the professionals aren’t allowed to perform at the Eagle’s Nest, they’re going to make sure that the lone amateur can’t either—not here and not anywhere else for the rest of the trip.”

  “Do you think one of the musicians secretly took off with it?” probed Wally. “Or were they all in cahoots?”

  “Shall we conduct a thorough search before we cast aspersions on half the guests in our tour group?” suggested Etienne. “I’ll search the back staircase and first floor. Emily, check the ladies’ room and non-public areas on this floor. Perhaps Felix would help you. Wally, talk to the elevator operator and check out the men’s room. We’ll meet back here in ten minutes.”

  We were done in eight.

  There was no instrument case. Not in the anteroom behind the café, the adjoining kitchen, the private corridor that connected the two rooms, nor the public toilets. The elevator operator remembered seeing the silver case on the way up but hadn’t seen it since. Etienne reported that no one had left it in a dark corner on the back staircase, and with the door to the ground-floor rooms locked, there was only one route the thief could follow. “Out the back door to the terrace. And from there”—he rainbowed his arm to indicate an object whistling through the air—“over the guardrail. I couldn’t isolate any footprints, but it was evident that someone had kicked up a lot of slush on their way to the edge of the mountain and covered their tracks quite successfully. So I fear Emily may be correct. In all likelihood, Astrid Peterson’s instrument case tobogganed to the bottom of the Kehlstein without benefit of a toboggan.”

  I shook my head. “That’s pretty sad. The accordion that survives a bomb blast falls victim to ill tempers. Beware of musicians wielding wind instruments.”

  “We have no physical evidence that any of our musicians are responsible, bella.”

  “So now what?” asked Wally.

  “Have you found it yet?” Dad hurried toward us, all aflutter. “If I’m not ready to go on in five minutes, I’ll lose my spot and the yodelers will get to perform another set.”

  Hoping to ease the blow, I looped my arm through his. “Dad, Etienne thinks someone with an axe to grind might have snatched your accordion and…and disposed of it.”

  His jaw came unhinged. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “Ja,” boomed Felix. “I ask same question.”

  “Just a guess,” I continued, “but I think your sudden notoriety might have twisted a few noses out of joint.”

  “Not to mention hurt some feelings and bruised a few egos,” explained Wally.

  “In other words, Daddy, the other band members might prefer that if a musician is to be singled out for celebrity, it not be you.”

  He nodded like a bobble-head doll. “I understand,” he lamented, before adding, “but we need to find it in five minutes, so where should we look?”

  “Sums of beeches,” growled Felix. “You peoples wait here.” He disappeared through the door behind the counter, returning a minute later with a full-size piano accordion in tow. “You take this.” He thrust it at Dad. “We show them sums of beeches. Ha!”

  Dad’s performance having been successfully resurrected, I’d seated myself at a table with Etienne and was enjoying his first musical number when I remembered where I should be right now. Omigod. Mom.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized as I peeled her away from the wall and helped her into her jacket. “Major emergency with Dad’s accordion.”

  “What kind of emergency?”

  “It disappeared.”

  She cocked an ear toward the restaurant. “Isn’t that him playing now?”

  “Yup. But it’s a borrowed instrument.”

  “Why would your father’s accordion disappear?”

  “Nothing official, but we’re guessing that in a fit of jealous rage, one of the musicians chucked it over the terrace guardrail.”

  “Really?” She rebuttoned the collar of her blouse. “I wonder if that’s what the person I saw was doing.”

  “You saw someone outside on the terrace?”

  She nodded. “While the yodelers were performing. The glass on that outer door is so clean, I got an excellent look at the person’s face.”

  I grabbed her shoulders. “Who was it?”

  She opened her mouth as if to tell me, then snapped it shut as the spark of awareness that had flared in her eyes suddenly died out. She heaved a sigh. “Can you give me a minute? Maybe it’ll come back to me.”

  twenty-one

  I sat next to Mom on the ride back to Munich in anticipation that she’d remember because she was suddenly recalling all sorts of things. What country she was in. What she’d ordered for lunch. Why the musicians were giving Dad the cold shoulder. Who the woman with the boils on her face was. Whose bright idea it had been to leave the accordion case in Felix’s care in the first place. But she couldn’t create a visual image of the person she’d seen through the terrace door.

  “If I could reconstruct the scene with the same lighting and shadows and distance, I know I’d remember,” she assured me. “Or maybe I should try smooshing my face against a wall someplace. That might jog something loose.”

  The musicians were officially peeved and grumpy when we reached Munich, a condition that deteriorated even further when we entered the hotel to find Kriminaloberkommissar Horn awaiting our arrival at the front desk.

  “Do not return to your rooms,” he instructed. “I have more questions before I allow you to depart Munich in the morning.”

  Groans. Eye-rolling. Grumbling.

  “You should know the routine by now.” He swept his arm toward the inner corridor. “The Prince Ludwig room, if you please.”

  “Have you had a break in the case?” Etienne asked him as the group trooped toward the meeting room.

  “A break? No. A clue? No. An inkling? No.”

  Not even an inkling? Nuts. An inkling would have been good.

  “I have exhausted my resources, Mr. Miceli, and have nothing to show for it. The background checks on your guests raised no flags, no suspicions. They are who they say they are. They do what they say they do. If they’re harboring secrets, I doubt they’re lurid enough to raise even one eyebrow. They are truly one of the most average, run-of-the-mill groups of individuals I have ever been tasked with investigating.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was meant as a compliment or an insult.
I narrowed my eyes. “So if you’ve got nothing, what further questions do you have to ask?”

  He lifted his brows. “I am the youngest police officer ever to earn the rank of kriminaloberkommissar, Mrs. Miceli. When I finish with your group, you’ll know why. Please.” He tipped his head and motioned me forward. “After you.”

  “Are we all here?” he asked when we’d seated ourselves.

  “We’re missin’ a few,” offered Nana. “They’re in the little girls’ room goin’ potty.”

  “Very well. We can wait.” He eyed his watch. Tapped his fingers on the podium. Fussed with the knot of his necktie. “I believe you were scheduled to visit Kehlsteinhaus today. Did you have a pleasant experience?”

  “It was great,” said Wendell, his voice dripping sarcasm. “Last night our band got the shaft at sea level. Today we got the shaft at six thousand feet up.”

  “I thought we were supposed to be the toast of the town for our heroism,” complained Otis. “What a crock. We’re getting disrespected all over the place.”

  “I don’t think it was your heroism that the town was toasting,” Margi spoke up. “If I’m not mistaken, after the explosion you musicians all raced farther down the street to protect your instruments. It was the rest of us who risked our lives to perform triage in an unstable bomb zone.”

  “What of it?” balked Otis. “According to that fella who works for the mayor, it didn’t matter what role we played. We’re all supposed to be recognized as heroes—until some two-bit yodelers show up.”

  “Yodelers?” questioned Horn. “Are you referring to the Bavarian yodeling team? Did you know they won the state championship and will go on to compete in—”

  “Hey, Mr. Inspector, are you ready to take a look at the crackerjack photos I took of the aftermath of the blast site yet?” Bernice held up her phone. “Documentary film–ready. Maybe you can suggest where I can auction them off.”

  After casting an impatient glance at the doorway, he hastened toward Bernice’s chair. “Show me.”