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 house. 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.”

He paused, his voice strained. “I can tell you one thing. I’m not looking forward to her funeral. That’ll be a day when a lot of grown men will be shedding tears.” He slid his sunglasses off his face to dry his eyes, which seemed an opportune time to suggest a change of both scenery and topic.

“I’m heading down to the Christmas store. You wanna tag along? If the Guten Tags aren’t there, I can guarantee that some of your other employees will be.”

“Sure. Thanks for asking.”

“Did you want to get a picture of the restaurant before we leave?”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder.” He dug a thin, streamlined camera out of his front pocket and snapped a few shots. “My wife was in charge of picture-taking duty when I was married, but now that I’m divorced I have to do it myself, and I don’t always remember.”

“That’s the tiniest camera I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s what I like about it. Expensive as hell, but real cutting edge. Fits in my pocket. Comes with its own tripod. Takes really high-resolution photos and even better video—movie quality, cinema ready. I’ve posted some short videos of our band performances on YouTube. You should check them out.” He laughed. “I sometimes feel like a wannabe movie director who sacrificed his ultimate dream to enter the family business. Talk about pie in the sky, huh? But I’m not knocking the family business. It’s my bread and butter. So even though I’ll never be recognized as the next Otto Preminger, even though I’d like to, I tinker with my own video stuff enough to keep me happy.”

By the time the Käthe Wohlfahrt store came into view, the shutterbug queue in front of Humpty had disappeared. The only people loitering by Humpty now were Zola and the Dicks, who were apparently so averse to the thought of Christmas shopping, they’d agreed to have their fortunes told. As we approached, Dick Teig was rocking back and forth on his heels, looking bored and impatient as Zola meditated over his hand. Dick Stolee, on the other hand, was so hyped up he was bouncing all over the sidewalk. I hoped he was careful not to collide with Humpty. If he cracked this particular egg, he wouldn’t be getting an assist from all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.

He ran to meet me and Wendell as we crossed the street. “Guess who you’re looking at?”

I prayed this was a jest rather than an indication that he couldn’t actually remember who he was.

“Dick Stolee,” Wendell said matter-of-factly as he read the name off Dick’s ID badge.

Dick’s mouth slid into a cheesy grin. “Okay, I’ll tell you. You’re looking at Windsor City’s next gazillionaire!”

Wow. “No kidding?”

He nodded like a turbocharged bobble-head doll, a motion that threatened to provoke a major concussive event. “Zola sees a financial windfall in my future. And we’re not talking small potatoes, we’re talking big bucks. Millllions and millllions. I’m going to be stinking rich!”

I didn’t know what percentage of Zola’s predictions panned out, but from what I’d witnessed so far, she displayed an uncanny ability to be spot-on. “Did she tell you where the windfall would come from?”

“Windows.”

Wendell looked intrigued. “Do you own a window manufacturing company?”

“Nope. But her reference is so obvious, any idiot could figure it out. Windows, as in Microsoft? Internet access? Online gaming? I’m going to strike it rich on one of those casino gambling sites.” He cradled his phone in his palm and eyed it adoringly. “I just have to decide which site has the highest payout and duck Grace while I’m—how should I phrase this—doing my investing.”

Uh-oh. No matter Zola’s track record, this sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. “Okay, but…what if Zola’s windows don’t have anything to do with Microsoft? What if she’s referring to something more subtle, like a window of opportunity or something like that?”

“You don’t want to get carried away with online gaming,” cautioned Wendell. “You can get sucked into that stuff and lose your house, car, and family pet in less time than it takes to read the daily paper. Hey, I’ve seen it happen. My former brother-in-law is still trying to claw his way out of the financial hole he landed himself in. Do yourself a favor. Buy a lottery ticket and hope for the best.”

“Hey, like the Bible says, ‘One must lose a minnow to catch a salmon.’”

I frowned. “I don’t think that’s in the Bible, Dick.”

“Are you sure? Grace might not go so ballistic if I tell her I have the backing of scripture.”

I rolled my eyes. Dick Stolee, biblical scholar.

“How much longer?” Dick Teig whined to Zola, his attention span apparently at its limit.

“You’re not concentrating,” scolded Zola.

“What am I supposed to concentrate on?” asked Dick.

“Being still.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he countered. “Tell me what you’ve got so far and we’ll call it a day.”

With a snort of disgust, Zola released his hand. “You want to see what I have so far?” She rounded her thumb and forefinger into a circle and stuck it in front of his face. “It’s called a goose egg.”

“All the time I’ve been standing here and this is what you come up with?” sputtered Dick. “Nothin’?”

My knees went suddenly weak. She’d seen nothing? Omigod. Was Dick Teig about to meet the same fate as Astrid Peterson?

“I defy anyone to predict anything about your future,” snapped Zola. “The energy you give off is all”—she made a stirring motion with her hand—“haywire. Frenzied. It squirms around too much for me to read it with any accuracy. Besides which, your signal is weak.”

“I’ve got a signal?”

“We all have signals. They’re like the bars on a cell phone. Unfortunately, yours are practically nonexistent.”

“So what does that mean?”

“In layman’s terms? It means you’re extremely shallow.”

“Well, shoot,” scoffed Dick Stolee. “I could’ve told you that ten minutes ago. C’mon, bud.” He tore Dick away from Zola and steered him in the direction of a nearby bench. “If my winning streak doesn’t kick in right away, how would you feel about lending me your credit card?”

Eyes wild, Zola clamped her hands around her head and squeezed, mimicking the same motion I use when testing cantaloupe for ripeness. “I think Dick number two just blew all my circuits.”

“I’m not out to criticize,” hedged Wendell as he slid his sunglasses off his face, “but don’t you think it’s kind of irresponsible of you to put people on the path of financial ruin by promising them imaginary pots of gold? That man could go through his entire savings before he sees one red cent of your predicted windfall.”

“Just what I need. A doubting Thomas, otherwise known as the guy who denies anything he can’t understand—religious dogma, mortgage derivatives, climate change, psychic ability. I can hardly wait to hear your solutions for the impending crises of our times, like who’s going to man the twenty-four-hour cable news stations during the zombie apocalypse and what’ll happen to our two-party system if the undead demand their own political party.”

I obviously needed to brush up on current events because I thought that had already happened.

Wendell’s voice grew louder and more defensive. “Hey, I pride myself on being able to spot a fraud when I see one.”

“You want to see what kind of fraud I am?” Zola bristled. “Gimme your hand…”

“Knock yourself out.” He thrust out his right hand. She smothered it between hers.

“Don’t talk,” Zola instructed. “Just stand there and keep your mouth shut.” She bowed her head and pressed her eyes shut.

Wendell sidled a look in my direction and winked.

“And no winking.”

Whoa! She’d seen him with her eyes closed? That was a little creepy. I could tell Wendell was creeped out too because he suddenly looked a whole lot less self-assured than he’d seemed a minute ago.

Zola concentrated. Wendell waited. I eyed the merchandise in the display window of Käthe Wohlfahrt’s store, itching to leave the drama behind so I could attempt some serious shopping but hesitant to appear impolite by making a mad dash for the front door. Lucky for me, Wendell Newton was apparently less shallow than Dick Teig, because Zola was ready with her prediction in three minutes flat. She stared him straight in the eye, her gaze flinty and unapologetic.

“Your future holds great disappointment.”

“Been there, done that. It’s called a cheating wife.”

“I’m not talking about your ex-wife, although I suspect she had a legitimate beef. You never paid attention to her. You were always too busy making money to be the kind of husband she’d hoped you’d be.”

“She milked my devotion to my company for every cent it was worth. I didn’t hear her complain about the in-ground pool or the tennis court or the Hummer she just had to have.”

Zola looked taken aback. “She wanted a Hummer? What was she planning to do, invade a neighboring state?”

“No, she liked sitting high off the road so she could see into everyone else’s car. Made her feel like she was above everyone else.”

“You starved her emotionally.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, what about me? I invited her to attend my musical gigs, but did she ever show up? Nooo. Mrs. Newton said she could spend a more stimulating evening by staying home and washing her hai—” He paused, his eyes lengthening with suspicion. “Why am I telling you about my personal life? I’m just feeding you information that you can twist into some sordid fictional tale. You got anything else for me or are we through here?”

“You’re in a relationship that’s destined to end badly, so be prepared.”

The smirk faded from his lips. “I’m not in any kind of relationship.” But the sheen of sweat that popped out on his forehead suggested otherwise.

Zola grinned. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”

“I’m not in a relationship! You better check your crystal ball, lady, because I hate to tell you, but it’s all fogged up.”

“But the good news is, once the relationship is over, at least you’ll be able to stop sneaking around, trying to pretend to the world that you’re not in a relationship.”

“Hey, I’m the most successful businessman in my hometown. I don’t have to sneak around for anything.”

Hoping to smooth over the situation, I decided to add my two cents. “Wendell, if you’re divorced, what’s the big deal about being in another relationship? Isn’t that why online dating services are so popular? Aren’t people always wanting to replace the relationship that’s gone sour with a new one that works?”

He skewered me with a look that hinted I should mind my own business.

“Newton. Wendell Newton,” Zola chimed, her voice suddenly animated. She snapped her fingers. “I knew that name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. Newton Lock and Key in Boone, right?”

“What of it?”

“My accounting firm just signed a contract with your company. You’ve hired us to perform your next internal audit. Small world, eh? I’m afraid you’re going to be seeing a lot more of me than you ever bargained for.”

“You think so, huh? Well, I wouldn’t count on it.” He took a half-dozen steps down the sidewalk, only to return with a final barrage. “Stay away from me, lady. People like you are dangerous.” Then to me, “If I’d known I’d be traveling with nut jobs like her, I never would have signed up for this tour.”

He stormed off like a two-year-old who’d been kicked out of the sandbox for biting. “Later, gator,” Zola called to his retreating figure, obviously having mastered the art of letting blatant incivility roll off her back. She regarded me and smiled. “People with temperaments like his do much better with fortune cookies.”

A warning should have been posted outside Käthe Wohlfahrt’s Christmas store that read Entry Not Recommended for Shoppers with Claustrophobia because tourists were squeezed into every inch of real estate, reaching over each other in wild haste to grab at the displays. Christmas mugs. Figurines of snowmen and angels. Nutcrackers of Bavarian beer drinkers, policemen, chimney sweeps, and soldiers. Incense smokers of santas, dwarves, hikers, and reindeer. Beer steins. Cuckoo clocks. And signs every three feet that read No Photography Allowed.

I bumped into Nana and Mom inside. While they were going back and forth with their now-typical banter, I removed a snow globe from the shelf and gave it a shake, releasing a blinding snowstorm onto a miniature alpine village.

“If I knew where I was, I wouldn’t have to ask, would I? So, would you please tell me where I am?”

“The North Pole,” said Nana.

Mom cupped her hands over her mouth to muffle a gasp. “Oh, my stars. Are we in Santa’s workshop?”

“You bet,” said Nana.

Mom frowned as she peered out the storefront window. “If we’re in the North Pole, how come there’s no snow?”

“Global warmin’,” said Nana. “It melted.”

Oh, God.

Muscling my way toward the next room, I crossed the threshold and stepped into wonderland.

Christmas trees of every height and color forested the room. White trees hung with red ornaments, draped with velvet ribbon, and lit with twinkling lights. Blue trees with white ornaments and miniature candles. Gold trees with silver ornaments and glittered fruit. Pink trees with icicle lights and strands of alabaster pearls. Mauve trees. Silver trees. Perched on display tables. Brightening dark corners. Lining the long walls.

I circled around the ceiling-high tree that occupied the center of the floor and wandered into the next room, where I made my way toward a toy soldier nutcracker that stood as tall as a man. It guarded a wall of specialty ornaments in the shapes of medallions, hearts, bratwursts, bears, and musical instruments, so I wasn’t surprised to find Hetty Munk standing in front of it, gazing at the selections.

“Looking for clarinets?” I asked as I came up beside her.

“Accordions.” She indicated two that hung at eye level. “I can’t decide between porcelain or glass. I thought I might buy a couple to bring back to Astrid’s family.”

“That’s really nice of you.”

“Mementos. They might appreciate them.”

“I’m sure they will. You’re lucky the musical ornaments are still here. I would have thought you musicians would have bought them all up by now.”

“I’m safe. The guys have better things to do with their time than shop for Christmas ornaments.”

“Speaking of the guys, do you know what’s going on with Otis and Gilbert?”

She paused just long enough to make me wonder if I was trespassing on forbidden territory. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“On the bus, did they seem a little at odds with each other?”

“They seemed fine to me,” she hedged. “No different than normal.”

“Oh. So the Guten Tags aren’t breaking up or anything?”

She stared at me, wide-eyed. “Why? Have you heard we are?”

“No. I was just trying to figure out what would cause the tension between the two men and thought it might have something to do with whether your band is going to stay together or not. You’ve said yourselves that Astrid’s absence is a huge problem for you.”

“We’re not breaking up,” she said forcefully.

“Well, that’s good to hear.”

A noisy ruckus behind us sent us both spinning around to observe a mob of guests from the Asiana tour bus flocking through the room, armed with cameras and oversized designer bags. They deployed as if they were on military maneuvers, bulldozing straight through browsing shoppers toward the merchandise in the back rooms, pausing along the way to snap photos of each other beneath the nutcrackers and No Photography Allowed signs.

“Have you packed up Astrid’s belongings yet?” Hetty asked a bit self-consciously when the commotion had passed.

I nodded. “Last night. But I hope you won’t mind my saying, I wasn’t prepared for the shock.”

“What shock?”

“Her room. You were best friends, so you’d be familiar with her habits, but I was a little surprised by the clutter. I guess she was a teenager at heart.”

Hetty regarded me as if I’d sprouted another head. “Astrid was the most detail-oriented, the most organized, the most obsessively tidy person I’ve ever known. What do you mean her room was cluttered?”

“Clothes on the floor. Clothes hanging out of drawers.” I narrowed my eyes. “So…that wasn’t typical?”

“Certainly not for Astrid.”

Then why had Otis told us it was?

“Did you pack her journal?” she questioned. “I’m sure her family will want that, too, although—” She bobbed her head, allowing the statement to go unfinished. “When we were twelve years old, we bought our first journals together at the five and dime store. Only back then we called them diaries, and they came with little locks and keys. I gave up after a couple of weeks. It was way too much work. But Astrid never missed a day. It was her thing. She’s been journaling ever since.”

“I don’t remember seeing a journal.” But then again, I was suffering from a minor head trauma, so maybe my memory was more faulty than I was willing to admit. “Otis was with us, looking for a library book he’d lent her, but we didn’t find that either.”

Her brows slanted upward with surprise. “Otis went with you?”

“I believe his potential library fine was looming large in his mind.”

“Library fine? Otis?” Her voice took on an edge that hadn’t been there before. “Yes. He must be watching his pennies if he felt compelled to beat a path to her room so quickly.”

“Could Astrid have been carrying her journal in her handbag?”

“I’m not sure where she kept it when she was traveling.”

“Let’s pray it wasn’t in her handbag because if it was, it may be lost to her family forever.” I softened my voice as I delivered the bad news. “The police informed Etienne that her bag and all its contents were destroyed in the bomb blast.”

“Really? I’m very sorry to hear that.” But the sudden lilt in her voice seemed to belie the sentiment. “Very sorry indeed.”