The Wurst Is Yet to Come by Mary Daheim Page A

half filled, but the current customers included two men in police uniforms in a booth near the back.
    â€œHey,” Renie said, “I bet one of those cops is Chief Duomo. He’s got a big round bald head. Isn’t duomo the Italian word for ‘dome’?”
    â€œMaybe,” Judith agreed, not waiting to be seated. “Let’s join them.”
    The bald man didn’t seem surprised by the cousins’ arrival. “Mrs. Flynn,” he said, looking droll. “Park yourselves. You, too, Mrs. Jones.”
    Renie nodded, sliding into the booth next to a lean-faced, hawk-nosed officer who regarded her with curious, heavy-lidded eyes. “Don’t stare,” she said, reaching around him to snatch a menu. “You’re kind of skinny, but I’m part cannibal when I’m really hungry.”
    The officer had backed away when the menu almost hit his chin. “You’ve got the teeth for it,” he remarked.
    Judith, who didn’t have much room next to the rotund police chief, tried to smile. “Could you hand me a menu? I assume you’re . . .”
    â€œFat Matt Duomo,” the chief interjected. “Go ahead, call me that. I don’t care, I don’t have to. I’m the chief. Can I call you FATSO?”
    Judith hesitated as Fat Matt handed her a menu. “Why not? Everybody else does. Except,” she went on, “the B&B contingent. I’ve already told them my cousin is the real sleuth.”
    Duomo shot Renie a sharp glance. “Why’d you do that?”
    â€œBecause,” Judith admitted, “I’m tired of the woman who runs the state association dumping on me when I find a dead body every so often.”
    Duomo chuckled. “Cramps your style, eh? Your rep’s damned amazing. It makes us cops look dumb, but you’re the goods, Mrs. F.”
    â€œA lot of luck—much of it bad—has been involved,” Judith said, looking up at the hovering waitress whose nametag identified her as GRETEL . “I’ll have the waffle sandwich with spicy link sausages. Coffee and apple juice, too. Thanks.” She handed the menu back to Duomo.
    Renie twirled a strand of chestnut hair, which, as usual, looked as if she’d combed it with a garden tool. “Buttermilk pancakes, one egg over easy, hamburger steak medium, large apple juice, and decaf.”
    The tall and rangy Gretel glared at Renie before hurrying away.
    â€œHey,” Duomo said, “didn’t introduce Major Schwartz, my second in command, title courtesy of fighting in ’Nam. Silver Star, Purple Heart, Jewish grandparents died in Buchenwald. Got quite a few folks around here whose families had some real bad experiences with the frigging Nazis. Fact is, Ernie here should be chief, but refused the promotion.” Duomo grinned. “He didn’t want the headache. Can’t say I blame him.”
    â€œHi, Ernie,” Renie said. “I mean, Major .”
    â€œErnie’s fine,” Schwartz said, “since we’ll be working together.”
    Judith felt it was time to get down to business. “Can you update us about your investigation?”
    â€œSure,” Duomo said, “if we can get more coffee. Where’s Suzie?”
    â€œSuzie?” Judith echoed.
    â€œThe waitress,” the chief explained. “She didn’t want to be a Heidi or a Hertha. She likes Gretel better. What the hell—she owns the place.”
    Judith was curious. “Why does she wait on tables?”
    â€œShorthanded during Oktoberfest,” Duomo replied. “One waitress had a baby, another one sprained her ankle. Suzie and her husband started this place ten years ago. Done real good, best breakfast in town, open twenty-four hours during Oktoberfest and Christmas.”
    The cousins’ food arrived. “It looks wonderful,” Judith said, smiling at Suzie aka Gretel. “Thank you.”
    â€œYou’re