The Wurst Is Yet to Come by Mary Daheim Page B

welcome,” Suzie said without enthusiasm. “You two guys want more coffee or are you just taking up space being baffled?”
    â€œCome on, Suze,” the chief said indulgently. “We do our best. Yeah, more coffee. Thanks.”
    Suzie stalked away.
    Judith frowned at Duomo. “Isn’t it a bit soon for her to give you a bad time about Wessler’s murder?”
    â€œThat’s not what she meant,” the chief said, looking pained. “She’s talking about her husband.”
    â€œWhat about him?” Judith inquired, buttering her waffle.
    Duomo’s expression grew even grimmer. “He was murdered last August. Maybe you could help us with that one, too.”

 
    Chapter Six
    J udith was taken aback by the new request, but felt obligated to at least show interest. “What happened to Suzie’s husband?”
    Chief Duomo sighed heavily. “Bob Stafford was a lawyer, but he got tired of working for Legal Aid after the first ten, fifteen years. They decided to move away from the big city, maybe set up practice in a small town. That wasn’t too long after Little Bavaria started building a big rep as a tourist stop. Not just October and December, but ski season and camping—all the outdoor stuff. Once they got here, they couldn’t find any place that made decent pancakes. So instead of going back to the law, they built this restaurant—Bavarian-chalet style with their living quarters upstairs. It was a big hit.”
    The chief paused as Suzie wordlessly refilled their coffee mugs. “Everything went along real smooth,” Duomo continued after Suzie was out of hearing range. “That is, until early August, when Bob brought in some threatening letters, unsigned, about how whoever wrote the damned things had gotten a raw deal from Bob at Legal Aid. There were five of them, but we couldn’t trace the sender. The next thing we know, Suzie reported Bob as missing. We found him not far from the Pancake Schloss by the river, apparently drowned. But we did an autopsy. The coroner’s report showed that death was caused by a blow to the head before he ever hit the water.” Duomo sighed again. “We haven’t solved the case. Hell, we don’t even have a suspect. Everybody liked Bob, so we figure it had to be the letter writer.”
    Judith swallowed some sausage before speaking. “Postmark?”
    It was Ernie who answered. “The city—where else do all the nut jobs hang out?”
    Judith couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Believe me, they’re everywhere. I’ve found killers all over the world—cities, small towns, island retreats, villages.”
    â€œYeah,” Duomo agreed grudgingly, “I’ve read your Web site, but the bigger the place, the more of the nuts. Besides, whoever wrote the letters was bitching about Bob’s legal work and that was all in the city.”
    â€œI assume,” Judith said, “you still have the letters?”
    â€œHell, yes,” the chief retorted. “Handwritten, too. Even called in an expert who told us the sender was probably paranoid, a schizo, a psychopath, a real head case. I could’ve told him that, even without all those initials after my last name.”
    Renie nodded. “My husband’s a psychologist,” she said. “In professional terms, Bill would describe the writer as ‘crazy as a bedbug.’ ”
    Ernie eyed her with sleepy-eyed amusement. “He sounds like my kind of shrink.”
    Renie shrugged. “Bill doesn’t mince words.”
    Duomo gestured at Judith’s plate. “Your grub’s on me,” he said. “Can you come back to the station after you’re done here?”
    â€œYes,” Judith said, “but I didn’t sign up for two homicides. Unless,” she went on, narrowing her eyes at Fat Matt, “you feel they’re linked.”
    The chief looked indignant.