Too Dead To Dance (10 page)

I had something to do here
before I left the Fest Grounds. Off I went looking for Frank
Metzger. I found him prancing around the big tent, to the beat of a
Bavarian Two-Step. The teenaged Polka Queen and a couple Princesses
followed behind him as well as a couple dozen people who popped up
from the audience to join in the fun. After the music stopped for a
moment, I grabbed Frank, pulled him aside and asked him who else
had keys to the Home Arts building.

“Oh, geeze, Ms. Penny, a
lot of people do, the chairman of Polka Daze and the county
commissioners. This is the county fairgrounds, ya know. The
maintenance crew and the custodians and the groundskeepers; I think
there’s a key hanging in the office, too. They use the office for a
first-aid station during the festival, ya know.”

Great. It looked like I
might be the only person in town who didn’t have a key. “Is there a
way to get into the building without a key?” I asked the Fest
Meister, just trying to cover all the possibilities.

“Well, yah, I think so. But
the cops, they already checked the windows and no one got in that
way, they said. Why are you asking all these questions? You should
let the sheriff’s department handle this. You could get hurt.
Whoever killed Wes is dangerous, ya know.”

“Did you know Wes?” I
asked.

“Oh, yah, everyone knew
Wes. He was a stinker, always getting in trouble, he was. ‘Ya know,
that band was up to something.”

“What do you
mean?”

The Fest Meister scratched
his chin. “I’m not sure but something was hinky. Ray was cooking
something up with Clara and Vic. I don’t know what but I saw them
talking together a couple of times and they always shut up when
anyone came by.”

“Did you tell Detective
Jacobs about this?”

“Naw, what’s to tell? It’s
just something I noticed. You be careful, Missy. You shouldn’t be
snooping around. You could get hurt.”

“I’ll be careful. Thanks
for your help. Looks like the young ladies are waiting for
you.”

I watched him toddle back
to the princesses who were now swaying to “Sierra Madre” while
waving white hankies over their heads. Frank jumped right in,
pulling his handkerchief from a back pocket. It must take a lot of
energy to be the Fest Meister.

When I left the big tent
and headed toward the parking lot, I noticed a small brick
building. The sign outside proclaimed “Das Kleine
Weihnachten-Geschäft” – The Little Christmas Shop. I meandered into
the building through wide double barn doors. It looked like a
fairyland. Christmas lights twinkled out from behind Angel hair on
a dozen Christmas trees standing around the perimeter of the room.
Faux snow glittered on the tables covered with Christmas items and
Polka Daze souvenirs.

The first table held
hand-blown German Christmas ornaments. Fragile silver shapes were
hand painted and depicted Santa, elves, stars, and Baby Jesus along
with other not so Christmas figures such as a man on a motorcycle
(a Harley, of course), a fisherman, Dora the Explorer, Sponge Bob,
and other whimsical characters and shapes.

The center of the table
contained a bowl of hand-blown pickle ornaments painted bright
green. On an attached card I read. “The Story of the Christmas
Pickle.” I looked around for someone to explain what a pickle had
to do with Christmas when I spied wooden soldier nutcrackers
wearing painted bright red uniforms, standing at attention on
another table.

Next to the nutcrackers
were beer steins. I checked out each one, looking for Laura’s ice
cream parlor stein. The first one I spied was a beautiful blue
stein that had the Budweiser Clydesdales pulling a beer wagon
through the snow on a starry night. I picked up a fat stein
decorated with curly-cues and an Alpine Santa at the Silent Night
Chapel. There was a delightful stein with a painting of the famous
Nuremberg Christmas Market and hand-painted edelweiss flowers on
the sides. All were beautiful. Each one was unique. But none were
Coca-Cola steins.

Pen and ink sketched
Christmas cards depicting scenes from around Hermann filled still
another table. I saw German beer steins, shot glasses, souvenir
plates, flags, cookbooks and Hummel figurines. I had never seen so
many beautiful things in one place. I turned in a circle again and
started feeling dizzy.

I grabbed a plastic basket
and started filling it up with treasures I couldn’t live without. I
told myself than they were for Christmas gifts, but I knew I would
keep most of them for myself. It felt good to be thinking of making
my home cheerful and comfortable place to live.

I bought an armful of
ornaments and other gifts to put away for Christmas, including the
pickle ornament. Leaving fairyland and returning to reality, I made
my way back to my coffee booth, thinking about what purchases I
would give away and how many I would keep for myself. Maybe the
time had come to start putting out some lovely things in my almost
empty house.

When I arrived back at the
Home Arts Building, I noticed Trudy taking a break to eat her
lunch. “Trudy, can I ask you some questions about Wes?”

“I don’t know much more
than what I already told you. But ask away.”

“What’s his last name and
where has he been for the past few years?

“Oh, didn’t I mention his
name? It’s Fischer—with a “cee ach.” I think he was in prison, but
I don’t know where or even why. I could ask Ray. He told me
although Wes wasn’t a great musician he needed a second
chance.”

“Thanks, Trudy. Don’t
bother Ray. I can find out what I need on the Internet.”

“Oh, yah sure, the
Internet. Everybody talks about the Internet. I don’t know about
all this new stuff. I do have a cell phone, though. I gotta admit
it comes in handy some times.”

I asked Sally if she could
take over then said goodbye to her and Trudy. I carefully placed my
precious purchases in my new folding crate and wheeled it away. I
was off to meet Megan at Primo Gusto.

10

Pulling into the parking
space in front of my warehouse, I looked at the gold and black
script lettering announcing “Primo Gusto Coffee Roasters” painted
on the window in the door of the faded yellow building.

I walked in and
automatically did a mental check of the fifty-pound bags of raw
coffee, called green beans, lining the east wall of the large room.
I ordered the raw beans from a broker in Chicago and needed a few
days to get my order delivered, so I did a mental count every time
I came here.

As soon as I closed the
door, I could feel my shoulders relax and a sigh escaped my lips.
Moving to the corner of the room, which served as my office, I saw
the monitor light up Megan’s face, highlighting her wild curly red
hair as she hunkered over the computer.

“Are you finding anything
helpful?” I asked, pulling up a chair next to her.

Megan shrugged and extended
her arms above her head, her knit top stretching across her curvy
figure. She had been wearing low-cut knit tops since she began to
“bloom” in seventh grade, except at school where we wore white
blouses and green plaid uniform skirts. Today’s scoop-necked cotton
knit summer sweater was bright green and matched her eyes. “I now
know all about the Windig Sangers Band, but not anything useful.
Wes isn’t even mentioned.”

“I think he’s the newest
member of the band. His last name is Fischer. Why don’t you Google
him?”

While Megan tapped the keys
searching for information on Wes, I went over to my shiny, new
PRI-50 coffee roaster. This little beauty had become the heart of
my burgeoning business.

I emptied the beans Megan
had roasted and spread them out on the table to cool. Scooping raw
beans out of a half filled bag, I filled a bucket with a blend of
several beans we used to make our “Dunkle Starke.” After weighing
it, I poured seventy pounds of coffee beans into the roasting
machine.

“Here we go,” Megan called
just as I pushed the button and the beans started roasting. “Wow.
Look at this. Wes Fischer was sentenced to thirty-six months at St.
Cloud Penitentiary for stalking a fourteen-year old girl. Oh, no,
it says here a Catholic nun testified against him. Bernie never
said a thing to me about it, did she tell you?”

I looked over my shoulder,
although I knew we were alone and replied, “No, I don’t know
anything about it. Does it say Bernie by name?”

“No. Look, it says a
Catholic nun from Hermann. That means Bernie or old Sister Dolores.
She’s at least ninety. Have you seen her glasses? Thick as Coke
bottles. It had to be Bernie.”

“Well, crap! That just
makes Bernie look guiltier than ever. We need to talk to her.”
Walking away, I dug around in my purse that held all the things I
felt I needed with me at all times. Grabbing my cell phone I told
Megan, “I’m going to call her and insist we come over.”

“Wait a minute, Jennifer. I
just found something else. This isn’t good either.”

“What, more incriminating
stuff about Bernie?”

“No, this is the divorce
notice for Wes and his wife. It’s dated two weeks after his
conviction. You’ll flip when you see who he was married
to.”

“Who? At least it can’t
have been Bernie.”

“No, it’s not Bernie. It’s
Martha Fischer.”

“Who’s Martha
Fisher?”

“Jennifer, what’s Edwin’s
new girlfriend’s name?”

“It’s Marty—Farty Marty.
Oh, crap! Marty is Martha. I knew Fischer was a familiar
name.”

“Do you think your
about-to-be-ex-husband killed his girlfriend’s
ex-husband?”

“Besides the fact that what
you said was sort of weird, Edwin’s too much of a wuss to kill
anyone. He might have hid behind Marty while she did, though. Do we
know anything about her? I mean, besides that she’s a husband
stealer.”

“You can’t steal what
follows you home.”

“I know, Megan. But it’s
easier to blame Marty then admitting to myself that Edwin left me
for another woman.”

“Buck up, Girl. You’ll get
through this and be the better for it.” Megan leaned over and gave
me a hug. I blinked fast to keep the tears at bay.

Forty minutes later, I
poured fifty pounds of delicious, fragrant coffee beans across the
surface of the long table. The beans Megan had roasted were now
cool. As I began to package them, I enjoyed the delightful aroma of
fresh roasted coffee that permeated the warehouse.

Next to the table sat an
industrial sized grinder. Some of my customers prefer not to grind
their own coffee, a mistake if you want a fresh, smooth cup of
java. But, I aim to please my customers so Megan helped me grind
about thirty pounds of plump, delectable coffee beans. We worked
silently, while we finished packaging all the freshly roasted beans
into my signature black and gold bags.

We discussed what to do
about Bernie while we put the bags of coffee in boxes to tote over
to the Fest Grounds. We finally decided to show up at Bernie’s
unannounced. If we called ahead, we’d give her time to come up with
an excuse not to see us.

While shoving one-pound
bags of coffee into the backseat of my Honda, a few raindrops fell
on our heads. Megan and I exchanged glances over the top of the car
and I said, “I hope it doesn’t become a downpour or the Fest
Grounds will be total muck for the Sunday parade and the final
closing ceremony.”

We got in and drove over to
Bernie’s apartment. Those few raindrops were all we saw. Not even
enough to start the windshield wipers. Megan and I silently climbed
the stairs to the second floor. Walking down the carpeted hallway
to Bernie’s apartment, Megan said. “What are we going to say to
her?”

‘I don’t know. Let’s just
wing it. We can just tell her that we were worried about
her.”

We knocked on the door and
it flew open as if Bernie had been waiting for us. “Thank God
you’re here!” She stepped into the hall, put out her arms, and
enveloped us both in a bear hug.

We finally untangled and
went into her tiny apartment. Walking through her miniscule kitchen
in a few steps, we settled in her postage stamp sized living room.
Megan and I perched on the scratchy love seat while Bernie sunk
into her cushy rocking chair.

Bernie was wearing her
usual uniform, but without her veil. Her short brown hair had no
style, it was just combed back behind her ears. The only other
furniture that would fit in the room was a small television set
resting on an old end table I had given Bernie when she moved in
here.

“The police just left. You
won’t believe what that detective said to me. To me, a Catholic
nun.”

Megan and I looked at each
other, and then I said, “Bernie, they think you killed Wes Fischer,
don’t they?”

“How did you figure that
out? Are you the person who told that short smart-alecky detective
about the dust-up I had with Wes?

As if by plan, Megan and I
both got up and went to Bernie. I knelt on the floor while Megan
perched on the arm of the chair.

“Of course not, Bernie. But
they did take you to the sheriff’s department for questioning. Lots
of people knew about the shouting match you had with Wes. I’m
probably not the only one who figured out he’s the person who let
the air out of your tires. Not much stays a secret in Hermann. And
Detective Decker isn’t exactly short.“