Audrey took them straight to the Sternenkurier’s webpage.But they ran into a pay wall as soon as they tried searching for any articles.
“I guess we need a subscription,” London said.
“I’ll take care of that,” Audrey said.
As Audrey set up the account, London was relieved that she wasperfectly willing to use her own credit card. It wasn’t an account that Londonwould want to show up on the card she used for Epoch World Cruise Linesbusiness expenses, and she didn’t have her own card with her.
Audrey sat down at the keyboard to type in searches and commands.Since Audrey seemed to like dogs all of a sudden, London set Sir Reggie on aneighboring chair so he could watch and listen. Then London stood looking atthe screen over Audrey’s shoulder.
“What next?” Audrey said, cracking her knuckles.
London thought for a couple of seconds.
“Search for the column Sigmund Forstmann wrote last year afterthe Hoffmann Fest.”
Audrey made the search with remarkably quick and agile fingers.The headline in German shouted from the electronic news page.
Your Beloved Critic Survives Another Bamberg Bacchanal
Just a glance at the rest of the article was enough to assure herthat plenty of people had good reason to hate Sigmund Forstmann.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The opening paragraph of Forstmann’s column confirmed London’ssuspicions. She told Audrey, “It’s pretty much what I’d expect him to write,judging from what I’ve heard people say about him. He was a big-city snob wholooked down on provincial Bavarians and their customs.”
“Not a nice guy, then,” Audrey observed.
“Not at all.”
She translated the passage aloud for Audrey:
Poor E.T.A. Hoffmann! Every year his memory has to endure apublic calamity held in his supposed honor. And this year was no different.Costumed and rowdy Bambergers poured into the streets to guzzle mediocre beerand pretend to be characters in stories I doubt very much they have ever read …
As London glanced a bit farther down the column, it occurred toher that Herr Forstmann reminded her of Emil at his haughty worst.
Except I’ll bet Forstmann didn’t even like jazz, sheguessed.
Skimming a bit more, London said to Audrey, “Run a search on thename Rolf Schilder.”
“You mean the Cat King himself?”
“That’s right.”
“I thought you said he was too mousy to be a killer.”
“Maybe, but let’s check anyway.”
Sure enough, Audrey brought up a whole paragraph about him.Again, London translated aloud.
Rolf Schilder, heir and owner of the once-prestigious Zenitbrauenbrand, has committed his yearly crime against taste. He seems to have derivedhis latest lager recipe from some truly exotic foreign sources. Although I’venever tasted water from a Louisiana swamp, I suspect that the taste is remarkablysimilar—and perhaps not accidentally so, since Schilder seems to always seekout the vilest ingredients he can possibly find. I was surprised not to have topluck dead mosquitoes out of the murky froth on top.
Audrey said, “From what I’ve heard, this review is pretty mild incomparison to the stuff he said to Schilder’s face yesterday. If I wereSchilder, I’d sure want to kill Forstmann. Do you think maybe that’s what hedid?”
London squinted carefully at the words on the screen.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” she said. “Everybody in Bambergseems to think Schilder was just a harmless großmaul—a loudmouth. Theysay he wouldn’t hurt a fly. But I wonder. After all, Forstmann has been writingawful things about Schilder’s beer for years.”
Audrey added, “But I guess he didn’t hate Schilder’s beer enoughto stop guzzling it down, at least when it was free. I already told you abouthow Schilder cut Forstmann off, and they had a big argument about it.”
“Which ended with Schilder’s public humiliation,” London added,remembering what Audrey had said.
She flashed back to something Schilder had said to Helmut a whileago about one special reason he was happy that Forstmann was dead—that Schilderhad escaped the ritual dunking of Katers Murr.
“Sigmund Forstmann was kind enough to get dunked in my place.It’s too bad I’ll never get a chance to thank him.”
“He sure had plenty of motive,” London observed.
“It’s kind of weird, isn’t it?” Audrey said. “I mean, the waythat detektiv is treating you and me like prime suspects, when somebodyelse had a lot more motivation against him. Do you suppose he’s not even theleast bit suspicious of Herr Schilder?”
London wondered the same thing. If Detektiv Erlich were hereright now, she’d probably flat-out ask him about it.
Reaching over to scratch Sir Reggie’s head, Audrey asked, “Do youthink Forstmann ever had anything good to say about anybody?”
London felt a prickle of interest.
“That’s a good question,” she thought. “And I think I know theanswer. Search the article for the name Helmut Preiss.”
Sure enough, Audrey found a paragraph about Helmut, which Londontranslated aloud.
I don’t know how I’d survive this ordeal every year if itweren’t for the exquisite Weizenbier—“wheatbeer”—that always comes out of Schutzkeller Brauen. That revered brewery is nowin the masterful hands of its family heir, Helmut Preiss, who maintains itsalways-extraordinary level of quality.
“Well, it sure sounds like Herr Forstmann liked Herr Preiss,”Audrey said. “Who is he, anyway?”
“Somebody I’ve talked to a couple of times,” London said. “Areally nice guy.”
She kept reading.
In my not-so-humble opinion, Preiss positively outdoes all hisprior efforts with this year’s gold medal-winning Weizenbier, inwhich a light taste of vanilla doesn’t overwhelm the overall sweetness androundness of this product’s complex, multilayered flavoring. Helmut Preiss isnothing less than a Bavarian treasure.
London felt a pang of sadness as she kept translating aloud.
Of course, in the interest of full disclosure, I shouldmention that Helmut Preiss and I are old and dear friends. More than just thefinest of brewers, I consider him to be a scholar and conversationalist of thefirst rank—and a true kindred spirit in every way. As much as I may dread everythingelse about the Hoffmann Fest, it is a pleasure to visit with Helmut every year.
Audrey observed, “He sounds almost human all of a sudden.”
He certainly does, London thought.
There was clearly a respectful and considerate aspect ofForstmann’s personality that he rarely showed and few people in Bamberg evergot to know. Helmut Preiss was obviously very much an exception.
She remembered how Helmut had choked up when talking about thedeceased critic.
“I will miss him,” he’d said.
Only
