From Bad to Wurst: The Schnitzel Haus Mysteries

By Lauren Nichols

When the wealthy best friend of her grandmother goes missing, Cait halts her crusade to stop a reality show from filming in Bugling Bulls, and digs into Willa Tremaine’s disappearance. Then Willa’s body is discovered, and Cait’s amateur sleuthing skills are put to the test. 

It’s not easy with cracked ribs…suspects piling up… and the town witch warring with film crews invading her space.  Luckily, Cait’s favorite sounding board, Manhattan ex-model Liza Bradford, has returned to help Cait wade through it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lauren Nichols
• Release date: Mar 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386719328

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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Sarah Grace, have you lost your mind?

Not at all. The mayor’s snippy tone came to me over the phone in my home office. This is a wonderful opportunity for Bugling Bulls.

My computer chair creaked as I rolled it closer to my desk. No, it’s ludicrous.

You’re entitled to your opinion, Caitlyn, but I’m afraid you’re in the minority. I’ve already spoken to several other council members, and they believe we need to act fast or Mr. Walker could take his proposal to another community.

A headache rivaling the pain from my recent concussion began to build, and I’d only been on the phone with her for a few minutes.  This thing he’s proposing has only one purpose.

To entertain, Sarah Grace interjected.

No, to ridicule. I know the kind of work this man does, and it’s nothing we want to be part of.

Well, there are enough other council members who believe, as I do, that this will be pure gold for our economy. You’re not seeing the whole picture, Cait.

I’m seeing enough of it to know that it’s not good for the residents of this town, and for Hester Brimwell in particular. After everything she’s been through, she doesn’t need a production company poking into her life.

My words made little if any impact on her.  Six-thirty tomorrow night in the community center’s upstairs meeting room, she said crisply. You can air your objections then. And now, I have more calls to make.

I’ll be there, I returned. "And you might want to schedule the meeting in the main hall because after I make my calls, you’ll need a lot more chairs."

That finally stopped her crabby responses.

In the dead air space, I imagined the town’s gung-ho, tunnel-visioned mayor running possible replies through her blond head. If she said additional chairs wouldn’t be needed because local residents weren’t welcome at the meeting, it could look like she wanted to sneak the issue past them. On the other hand, if she told me to go ahead and invite half the county, she could run into major opposition.

She finally chose a reply that would net her fewer problems in the next mayoral election.  If we need the room, we’ll adjust. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.

We both said grumpy goodbyes and broke the connection—which wasn’t unusual. The truth is we’re generally on opposite sides of issues facing our little hamlet. But I’ve never been this upset about any of them. Hester was my friend. Well . . .I guess that’s not exactly true since I’m not sure she even likes me. But my reclusive neighbor is closer to me than she is to anyone else in the county—maybe even the world.

I returned the phone’s handset to the cradle, yanked the card caddy on my desk forward and plucked out a card; on it was a list of names and numbers for the Friends of the Environment, which, despite the incorrect acronym, we generally called FOOT.

I was about to dial the first name on the list when I heard Nana Madelyn’s voice and spirited footfalls coming up the steps from my restaurant’s dining room.  Jumping up—then wincing because my ribs still hurt like heck once in a while—I strode to the open doorway to meet her. I was glad for reinforcements. My pretty grandmother is a seventy-eight-year-old steamy romance novelist who loves her family unconditionally and mostly tries her best to get along with everyone else. This new lunacy of Sarah Grace’s was sure to get Nana’s silver pixie cut and painted toenails in an uproar.

With a smile and a gentle hug, she stepped into my loft. She was tall—slender and fit in black leggings, a thigh length shiny gray sweater, black onyx earrings and a long, chunky black and silver necklace. Her blue eyes danced. Actually, I was surprised to see her. I thought she’d be home packing for her trip to New York or going over her speech. She’d been asked to deliver the keynote address at a huge romance writer’s conference this weekend.

Hi, honey, she said warmly. Doing anything important?

I sighed. "I was working on the books. Now I’m fighting with the mayor."

She didn’t ask why I was at odds with Sarah again, probably because it happened so often.  Good, she replied happily.  Then you’re not busy.  Frowning then, she scanned my face. You know, you could put a little make up on those bruises now that they’ve faded to yellow. You’re a beautiful woman, Caitlyn. You don’t have to look like you’ve just gone ten rounds with Mohammed Ali, God rest his soul.

It was hard to smile with my mind full of homicidal thoughts, but I managed. They’re my badge of honor after the mishap.

It wasn’t a mishap. It was an attempt on your life. Now lose your pony tail, change out of those hideous gray sweats, and come with me.

Dutifully, I got rid of the elastic band and let my sun-streaked sandy hair fall to my shoulders. No one refuses my grandmother anything. The woman is a force. Where are we going?

We’re taking a little ride. I have happy news.

Scowling, I fluffed my fingers through my hair. I have news, too, but it’s far from happy.

Then I’ll go first, she said, and steered me across the hardwood flooring and Persian rugs toward my bedroom where suitable attire waited. I know your recovery’s been boring —

I’ve recovered. My ribs are fine and I’m not bleeding anywhere.

—so this is just what the doctor ordered, she prattled on. It was such a surprise, since she only left two weeks ago, but Liza’s at the Dubois airport.  Apparently, she chartered a plane. I imagine she asked me to pick her up because—

It took her a second to realize I’d stopped dead in my tracks, and she looked to me for a reason.  I knew exactly why Liza hadn’t called me to pick her up. And it wasn’t because she thought my crumpled van might still be at the bottom of a ravine. My mom’s and Nana’s cars were generally available.  My best friend from our modeling days had come back because, in a roundabout way, she had to be the person responsible for Sarah Grace’s disturbing phone call.

What? Nana prompted.

I know why Liza called you instead of me.

Because you haven’t replaced your van, she replied in an obvious tone.

Not even close.  I sighed again.  It would be great to see Liza again. She’d barely left my side the first week after my mishap, and I’d been missing her. I’ll tell you all about it in the car.

~*~

Ten minutes later, I’d changed to skinny jeans, white sneakers and a loose-knit white boucle sweater with a scooped neckline, and we were underway. At Nana’s pleading, I’d also covered the fading yellow bruises on my cheek and forehead with a dollop of foundation and added a touch of mascara. Comfortable with my appearance now, she wanted to know my thoughts on Liza’s unscheduled visit.

I glanced at her as she sailed over our country road, dodging a spattering of potholes that still hadn’t been filled, then frowning at two cars moving at a crawl, their occupants scanning our deep forest and sun-bleached meadows for the area’s massive elk herd.  The bulls were in the rut now, and the tourists had arrived far too early for a sighting.  Elk bedded down during the day. I suspected some of the tourists would like to bed down for the night, but there were only a few campgrounds and Bed and Breakfasts in the valley. I’d been considering having a dozen or so rustic tourist cabins erected on the land I owned a quarter mile down the road from my restaurant. I just hadn’t pulled the trigger yet.

Cait? she prodded. I’ve been waiting.

Okay, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to like what I have to say.

Sweetheart, at my age, I dislike many things, but I prefer to reserve judgment until I have the facts.

That was true. For the most part, anyway. Inhaling, I drew in her SUV’s new car smell and the faint aroma of chocolate chip cookies.  I’d missed the smell of chocolate when Nana and I hugged earlier, too churned up to notice. Nana baked when she had writer’s block.

You remember Liza’s ex-husband, Nathan Walker.

Of course. The TV and film producer—Spouse Number Two.  I’m old, dear, not senile.

I apologized, suitably admonished. Sorry. I should have worded that differently. Anyway, I think he and Liza spoke after she got back home, and during their conversation she told him about the murder and my involvement in it.  Now he seems determined to film some sort of reality show here in the valley.

In a squeal of tires and spray of limestone chips, Nana bounced her bright red SUV off the road to the dirt berm and came to a stop.  She threw the gear shift into park and gaped. A reality show?

Something like that. Sarah Grace wasn’t clear on the particulars.

When has she ever been?

I agreed, but didn’t say so.  She’s holding a meeting tomorrow night for council members. Walker said he wouldn’t waste his time coming here if people were unwilling to participate, but Sarah insists she won’t have trouble getting council’s approval. Sounds like she’ll be rallying the troops from her good-for-our-economy soapbox.

But the whole thing is preposterous! Why would a TV audience tune in to a show about a small town with one signal light, a zillion trees and seven hundred elk?

Two words.  Hester Brimwell.

It only took a second for understanding to dawn and Nana’s lips to thin in irritation.  The witch.

Yes. I suspect Walker wants her to have a starring role in his little production. And she’s not a witch, I corrected. She’s just an old woman who likes to wear black and has a few peculiar ways.

A few? Nana scoffed. Well, she’ll never do it. You know how she’s been since she was released from jail. No one’s seen a frizzy hair on her head. There’s been no crazy spell casting, no chanting. . .

Exactly, I said. And that’s what we’re going to tell Liza when we see her. Hester won’t cooperate. Liza can pass the good news on to her ex.

Nana dropped the gear shift into drive and bumped the SUV back on the road.  Of all the hair-brained ideas, this one takes the cake. You know, I never could stand that pretty boy. Didn’t understand his work or his ethics. Now I like him even less.

I hadn’t liked him much either. Nathan was a good looking sweet talker—early Rob Lowe with a faint touch of gray in his hair. I suspect that Liza had married him knowing full well that he would roam, she would dump him, and they’d eventually become friends again. But four years ago, there’d been no talking her out of the nuptials.

Nana grumbled something else. 

I’m sorry. What did you say?

I said this would be horrible for the valley—worse than it is now, with the elk all hot and bothered and bugling their fannies off.  We’re used to people with cameras swarming over our yards like ants at a picnic.  But at least they leave when the mating season’s over and the elk settle down. She paused for a moment. Would Walker do the show without the witch?

I can’t imagine that he would, but I don’t know. It depends on what he’s looking for, and what kind of format would bring in the advertisers and backers he’d need. There’s no way there’d be action or bits of education like some of the other reality shows.

Nana pinned her gaze to the road. Well, if there won’t be action or education that only leaves one thing for viewers to feast on.  Small-town gossip and back-stabbing.  Pitting people against each other and digging up dirt. Well, we’re not having any of that. I’ll be at that meeting tomorrow night and I’ll encourage my friends to go, too.

Before I could say I’d do the same, she went on, a long-suffering look on her features and a sigh in her voice. I’ll call the Mueller girls. You know how Essie loves holding court when something happens that affects ‘her’ town.  She’ll get things stirred up.

Would she ever. The Girls, as they were known around here, were far from girls. Roberta was ten years Essie’s junior, and Essie was on the fast track to eighty. Essie was the self-appointed, wholly-entitled voice of all that happened in Bugling Bulls due to the fact that she and Roberta were the only remaining kin of our philandering founder, Pepper Mueller. In Essie’s mind, they were royalty.

I turned to Nana again.  It wouldn’t hurt to let Willa know about this, too. When someone with Willa’s money has something to say, people listen.

There was that scowl again, but I knew it wasn’t directed at Nana’s oldest and dearest friend. Nana loved Willa Tremaine.  Willa’s four-month, May-December romance with the new attorney at her lawyer’s firm was another story. 

I don’t know if I’ll be able to reach her, Nana said coolly. She and the gigolo are still on their cruise.

That’s right. I’d forgotten about the cruise.  When are they supposed to get back?

Friday or Saturday.  I received a postcard from her a few days ago. Well, it was actually a post card and a note in an envelope. You know Willa.  No texts or emails. Given time, she’ll singlehandedly restore the lost art of letter writing.

You said the two of you wrote often when Willa and Sam lived in Philadelphia.

Yes, we did. And now Sam’s gone and Willa’s had her head turned.  Hopefully, after spending two weeks with the jerk, she’ll be ready to serve him his walking papers. Sam would spin in his grave if he could see what was going on.

I didn’t comment. It was better to keep quiet and let the subject slide. Forty-something, Italian Stallion Dante Farino was the proverbial thorn in my grandmother's side, and to push the proverbial thing even further, the bright shiny apple of Willa's eye.  I'm not sure if Nana was missing her best friend’s company, if she was a tad envious that there was romance in Willa’s life again, or both.  But she was never going to like Farino, and that was that.  A few weeks ago, she’d actually asked Liza to find her a good private investigator to look into Farino’s past. Thankfully—for now, at least—Nana had managed to hide her disapproval from Willa.

Nana came to a halt, flipped on her right turn signal, then took us from tarred and chipped roads onto actual pavement. We fell silent then, my attention shifting from Willa’s love life to pondering what a show like Nate Walker’s could do to the valley. I glanced out the side window, only half noticing the clouds in the blue sky and the slowly turning trees, some leaves fiery orange against a backdrop of pines and hemlocks. 

It wasn’t a setting I’d loved as a restless teenager, but after living in Manhattan for years, coming home to it had been exactly what I’d needed. I didn’t want it overrun with Hollywood types, and I didn’t want it sensationalized. Maybe because I was personally aware of the kind of trouble too much attention can create.

Very personally.

I was barely nineteen when a photographer shooting a calendar on Penn State’s main campus took an interest in me, and soon afterward, I’d quit college to become Caitlyn Cross, the bright new face of Young and Hip Cosmetics.  The silly descriptor makes me cringe now, but back then I was young and naïve, and excited to see my face on marquis, billboards and busses.  A year later, I was modeling Young and Hip’s new clothing line.

Then bulimia came along, and my life changed. I walked away from modeling, finished my degree, fell madly in love with my late husband, Dean, and got a job editing books. I’d probably still be knee deep in manuscripts if I hadn’t found marijuana in my then thirteen-year-old daughter’s gym bag and realized it was time for another change. With my darling Dean gone, Tricia and I came home to the beautiful, verdant Pennsylvania Wilds, and with my mother’s help, I opened the Schnitzel Haus restaurant where we served authentic Bavarian dishes in a cozy setting the locals and tourists flocked to.

I glanced over at Nana. She was a New York Times best-selling author many times over, and occasionally enjoyed the spotlight. But never here in the valley. Not ever. Life here was the antithesis of New York City madness, and that’s the way we wanted it to stay.

Thankfully, road construction was at a minimum and we made good time driving to the small Dubois