From Bad to Wurst Read online

  “Time’s up!” yelled Dick Stolee as he regarded his smartphone. Dick’s favorite feature on his device was the stopwatch function, so he enjoyed setting strict time limits on completely irrelevant activities. “Okay, folks, let’s keep moving. We’ve only got three hours and forty minutes left.” He shooed Osmond away from the statue and motioned to Dick Teig to release the next person in line.

  Bernice parked herself in front of Tilly, who’d ended up at the back of the line with Nana and Mom. “That cream you lent Emily to get rid of the crud on her face? I want some.”

  Tilly braced her hands on her walking stick, leaned forward, and stared at Bernice down the length of her nose. “Can’t help you. I’ve depleted my supply.”

  “It’s gone?” Bernice fired an accusing look at me. “This is all your fault. You have a heck of a lot of nerve using all the stuff up before Tilly can hand out free samples.”

  “Emily had crud on her face?” said Mom, her eyes swimming in their sockets as if trying to retrieve the image.

  “She looked like she’d been blasted with buckshot,” said Bernice, “but Tilly’s cream cleared it up overnight. So if one application can do that to the bride of Frankenstein here, there’s no telling what it can do for someone like me, whose only imperfections are a couple of insignificant laugh lines around my mouth.”

  It was apparent now that the more immediate problem with Bernice wasn’t with her face but with her eyesight.

  Mom inched closer to Bernice for a better look. “Those laugh lines aren’t your only imperfections, dear, but look at the bright side: you’re not half as wrinkled as some other folks around here.” Eyebrows waggling like Groucho Marx, Mom bobbed her head toward Nana.

  I hung my head and winced. Oh, God. Life had been so much less stressful when Mom had been predictable…and unfailingly polite.

  “What’s that smell?” asked Mom, suddenly distracted.

  Nana wriggled her nose as she inhaled. “Exhaust fumes.”

  Mom shook her head. “This is a good smell.”

  “Bernice,” I spoke up, “if you want to sample the cream, I’ll give you the jar. There’s still a lot left.”

  “You’ve got the jar?”

  “Not with me. It’s back at the hotel.”

  “Excellent. You can hand it over when we get back.” She ran a knuckle down her cheek. “I can apply my first treatment before we hit the beer tent tonight. Doesn’t hurt to freshen up the complexion a little. You never know who might be there, just waiting to introduce himself.”

  “It smells like apple pie,” said Mom, chin elevated as she sniffed the air.

  Having inherited Mom’s olfactory genes, I could smell it too. “Maybe there’s a pastry shop nearby.” In which case, I could look into my own future and predict that I was about to succumb to that most dreaded of all temptations: the three-thousand calorie dessert.

  The woman ahead of us in line turned around, smoke billowing around her head like a low-lying cloud. “It’s not pie. It’s Cinnamon Apple Crumble. Isn’t it divine?” Securing her cigarette between her middle- and forefingers, she held it up as if she were showcasing exhibit A in a criminal trial and swept her other hand through the smoke to steer it in our direction. “Best innovation since sliced bread. And it comes in an assortment of other scrumptious flavors: Tahitian Punch, Caramel Macchiato, Cherry Crush, Peach Schnapps, and my all-time favorite, Piña Colada.”

  Nana eyed it suspiciously. “I never seen no cigarette what smelled like that before.”

  “That’s because, technically, it’s not a real cigarette. It’s what’s called an electronic cigarette.”

  Her name tag identified her as Maisie Barnes, but I recognized her as the nasally voiced woman who’d sung Astrid Peterson’s praises at the gathering last night—the one who’d suggested that business as usual for the remaining bands would be disrespectful of Astrid’s memory. She stood about my height, boasted curves in all the right places, had mesmerizing blue-green eyes, and wore her graying hair in a perky short-clipped style that would negate her ever having to buy conditioner, curling gel, elastic texturizer, shine mist, anti-frizz serum, hair spray, or mousse.

  I eyed her maintenance-free hairdo with envy, but I feared that if I ever followed suit I’d put the entire hair product industry in jeopardy. I guess it said a lot about the manageability of my hair when a change in my buying habits could bring down a whole sector of the market.

  “I’ve been trying to break the habit for years,” Maisie chattered on, “but couldn’t get over the hump. Gum. Pills. Patches. Hypnosis. Nothing worked—until I tried this little beauty. I started making the substitution about a month ago, and I think I’m doing a kickass job. Isn’t that right, Stretch?” She thwacked the man in front of her on the shoulder.

  I recognized him from the group meeting last night, too. The actual name on his badge read Ralph Doozey, but he obviously preferred his nickname. And in an irony that so often happens with nicknames, Stretch was about the same height as Nana.

  “Yup. We’re real proud of Maisie.” He circled his arm around her waist with casual familiarity. His voice was a surprise because it was so high-pitched, he could have shared the lead singer role with Alvin and the Chipmunks. “In another couple of months, she’ll be living a tobacco-free life…with a hefty raise in her paycheck to show for it.”

  Maisie nodded agreement. “Wendell and everyone else at work have been busting my chops for two years to give up the crutch, and I’m finally coming through for them.”

  “Wendell?” I asked. “The Guten Tags’ trumpet player? You work with him?”

  “He’s my boss. And Stretch’s boss. He’s everyone’s boss: the Guten Tags, the Little Bittes, the Das Biers, the Brassed Offs. You ever heard of Newton Lock and Key outside Boone? We all work there. Wendell owns the company.”

  “Time’s up,” barked Dick Stolee. “Next!”

  We shuffled a half-step ahead as Lucille Rasmussen hurried toward Humpty.

  “I had no idea you all worked at the same place,” I confessed. Our new travel questionnaires asked guests to disclose everything about their health history and nothing about their work history.

  “We’re one big happy work family,” admitted Stretch, which made me wonder how well acquainted he was with Otis and Gilbert. “Of course, we don’t all work in the same department. We’re divvied up between production, sales, shipping, and accounting, but we work under the same roof, so we’ve known each other for eons.”

  “And you’re all musical,” said Tilly. “Is that a requirement of the job?”

  Maisie shook her head. “It just kind of worked out that way. Once Astrid started the Guten Tags, we discovered that every one of us had had some kind of musical training when we were kids, so we blew the dust off our instruments and decided to join the fun. Stretch and me, we’re part of the Little Bitte Band, and not to brag or anything, but folks tell us that of the four company bands, we’re the best.” She took a drag on her cigarette and released a stream of cinnamon apple smoke into the air.

  Her fake cigarette might not be real, but it sure bore a striking resemblance to a real cigarette, right down to the fiery tip. “Exactly how does that thing work?” I asked.

  “Uh, well, without getting too technical, there’s a cartridge, an atomizer, and a battery, and the mechanism heats up the liquid in the cartridge and turns it into vapor. So the stuff that looks like smoke, isn’t; it’s water vapor. The device is actually nothing more than a little vaporizer disguised as a cigarette, so I’m not really smoking. I’m vaping.”

  Mom tsked with disapproval.

  “What?” asked Maisie.

  “Save your complexion while you still can.” She lowered her voice and bobbed her head in Nana’s direction again. “Look what decades of smoking has done to the woman at the end of the line.”

  Nana puffed out her cheeks, ey
es snapping, voice rising. “I can hear you, Margaret, on account of I’m old, not deaf. And since I told you I never took no puff of no cigarette in my entire life, you can’t go blamin’ my wrinkles on no tobacco products.”

  “Then how do you explain them?” challenged Mom.

  Nana narrowed her eyes. “It’s part of a continuin’ natural disaster.”

  “Time’s up,” announced Dick Stolee. “Next!”

  Alice Tjarks raced toward Humpty. The rest of us moved up in line.

  “How about we take a group photo for the society page of the Gazette?” Alice suggested as she posed in front of the egg.

  Dick Stolee nodded agreement. “Good idea. Hey, everyone, gather around Alice so we can take a group shot.”

  They hurried away from the sidewalk spinners displaying postcards, key chains, and personalized mugs to huddle around Alice—Margi, Lucille, and Helen filling in one side while Grace, Osmond, and George filled in the other. The two Dicks left their posts to kneel in front, which was pretty gutsy of them considering they might never be able to get back up again. George motioned for us to join them. “Come on, girls.”

  Nana shook her head. “Can’t. I don’t wanna give up my place in line.”

  “You do realize you’re at the back of the line, right?” scoffed Bernice. Breaking ranks with us, she crab-walked toward the group and planted herself in front of the Dicks.

  “Do you want me to take the photo?” I asked as I fished my phone out of my shoulder bag.

  “Nope,” said Dick Stolee. “We’re good.”

  I frowned. “Well, Bernice needs to shift either left or right because she’s completely blocking the Dicks.”

  Bernice shrugged. “Is that a problem?”

  “Okay, everyone,” announced Dick Stolee. “On my count. One…”

  Like members of a drum corps color guard, they shot into action. Up went their phones.

  “Two…”

  Synchronizing their smiles, they gazed into their personal devices.

  “Three!”

  Ten thumbs hit their touchscreens, producing ten individual selfies.

  I shook my head. “Hello? I thought you wanted a group photo. You know? A picture of all of you standing together in a group?”

  “I thought we were standing together in a group,” fretted Margi.

  “The Dicks weren’t standing,” Alice pointed out. “They were kneeling.”

  Helen Teig leaned toward her husband and bellowed, “Stand up, Dick! You just ruined the group shot.”

  “Group shot, take two,” Dick Stolee gasped out as he struggled upward. “On my count.”

  Not needing to witness any more of their antics, I excused myself from Maisie and Stretch and turned to the girls. “I want to shoot a few pictures of the Hafner Stub’n, so I’m heading out. I’ll catch up with you in the Christmas store.”

  Mom glanced at her surroundings, suddenly mystified. “Where are we?”

  “Disneyworld,” said Nana.

  “Is Bob here, too?”

  Nana nodded. “You bet. You see that craggy peak pokin’ outta them hills over there?” She motioned toward a pinnacle of rock that towered above the village like a pinheaded giant who’d been turned into solid granite. “He’s over there.”

  “Oh.” Mom studied the odd formation. “What is that thing?”

  Nana smiled. “Space Mountain.”

  nine

  The Hafner Stub’n was a short block away.

  While crossing to the other side of the street, I dug out my phone and texted Etienne, telling him where he could find me when he finished speaking to Astrid Peterson’s sister. He’d received her call just as we’d been exiting the bus, so he and Wally had retired to a café so they could address her questions in relative quiet.

  As I strode toward the restaurant, I passed not only the typical souvenir shops with their sweatshirts, placemats, yodeling teddy bears, and beer steins, but stores whose display windows showcased the magnificent carvings that Wally had told us about. Madonnas as tall as real people. Angels with spreading wings and golden trumpets. Nativity figures accompanied by sheep and oxen so big, they could have doubled as carousel animals. Owls. Balladeers. Monks. Kings. Deftly carved, brilliantly painted, and jaw-droppingly expensive. I suspected Nana might be tempted to buy a life-size nativity scene for our parish church, but by the time she included necessary add-ons like shepherds, camels, wise men, and a small flock of sheep, the shipping costs would be so astronomical, she’d be too shell-shocked to spring for even small-ticket items like gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

  Arriving at the intersection of the main street and Othmar-Weis-Strasse, I lingered by a street lamp at the corner, unable to take my eyes off the building directly across from me. As a structure, the Restaurant Hafner Stub’n was less than unique—two stories of white stucco with a double bank of green shuttered windows. What elevated it to the level of spellbinding were the dark-timbered top story, whose front alcove dripped with tiers of pink and red flowers, and the wraparound balcony, whose railings disappeared beneath cascades of blossoms that wreathed the entire building in a dazzling riot of blood red and pale pink. Flowers were everywhere: overflowing their window boxes, tumbling onto overhanging canopies, flanking the front door.

  Wally sure wasn’t kidding with his earlier prediction. The exterior of the restaurant was so spectacular, I imagined most tourists spent all their time on this very corner gawking rather than venturing inside.

  I whipped out my phone and began snapping pictures.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Emily, but have you run into any of the other Guten Tags? They seem to have disappeared.”

  If not for his signature handlebar mustache, I wouldn’t have recognized Wendell beneath his bucket hat and dark glasses. Squarely built and dressed in casual clothes that bespoke afternoons on the golf course, he looked more like a well-to-do German native than a Midwest import, especially since he was missing the one item that would have pegged him as a tourist: his name tag.

  “The last time I saw Otis, Gilbert, and Hetty, they were plowing through a crush of people to exit our bus. But some of the other band members are in a line outside the Christmas store”—I pointed down the street—“waiting to take selfies with Humpty Dumpty. In fact, I just had a very informative chat with Maisie Barnes. I had no idea you owned a company that employed every band member on the tour.”

  “Newton Lock and Key,” Wendell said proudly. “Family owned and operated since 1888. You probably own one of our locks and don’t even know it. We’re the Midwest’s premier manufacturers of padlocks, dead bolts, knob locks, lever-handle locks, cam locks, and mortise locks. And every lock we produce comes with a lifetime guarantee. Not many companies can afford to do that anymore. We produce a quality product. Our competitors produce crap.”

  “Well, Maisie and Stretch sure sound like two happy employees. Maisie even told us that if she quits smoking, you’ll give her a raise. Talk about incentive.”

  Wendell chuckled. “When Maisie finally quits, everyone gets a raise. If the company can earn smoke-free status, we’ll get a substantial break on our health insurance premiums, so I’ll pass the savings on to my employees in the form of a raise. Maisie’s our last holdout, so we’re all rooting her on. If she succeeds, everyone wins. And I know she can do it. Maisie’s about as special as they come.” His voice softened with the kind of warmth one reserves for a dearest friend…or lover. “She won’t let us down. Maisie’s my go-to person.” He seemed to smile involuntarily every time he said her name. “She always follows through and never disappoints. Never ever.”

  “No pressure there.”

  “I’m even thinking about making her a special gold key on the day she retires the habit for good.” He dug his hand into his pants pocket, producing a few foreign coins and a silver key that resembled the one to the front door of my hou
se. He held it up. “All my employees get one of these.” Beneath the keychain hole appeared the word “Newton” with the company’s address. Flipping it over, he showed me where his name and phone number were stamped onto the metal. “It’s not an official form of ID, but the employees think they’re kind of fun. When they retire, I upgrade them to gold and add their dates of employment.”

  Right. Kinda like a portable tombstone.

  “I haven’t had to give out too many gold keys since I’ve been in charge. We don’t have a mandatory retirement age, so people tend to stay. They like the workplace environment. They like the folks who work beside them. They like the wages. Why quit?”

  “I guess when you go home, you’ll have the sad task of finding someone to replace Astrid Peterson.”

  “Yeah.” He gave his head a somber nod. “I’m not looking forward to that. I might be able to find someone to fill her shoes in the office, but I’ll never find anyone to replace her sunny disposition. Astrid was always up; never moody. Always trying to find ways to give people a lift and make them feel good about themselves. That’s a rare gift.”

  Sure was. Just ask Bernice.

  “In the summer she’d bring in vases of cut flowers from her garden and place them all over the plant. And let’s face it: who can honestly admit that their day isn’t made better with flowers?”

  Bernice?

  “Her husband was a horticulturalist, so they were real garden people. Flowers. Herbs. Vegetables. They even had some kind of specialty garden in their hothouse. They never let on what they were growing, but everyone suspected it was probably marijuana. I figured that’s why Astrid was so happy all the time: high-grade weed. But that was her business, not mine, and it never affected her work, so what the hell.”