The Wurst Is Yet to Come by Mary Daheim

Joe, me—and yourself!”
    Renie looked puzzled. “I don’t remember. Did we get to London?”
    â€œOh, shut up!” Judith threw her handbag on the bed. “It’s eight-thirty. Leave me in peace. It’s been a long day.”
    â€œIt sure has,” Renie groused, heading for the bathroom. “Hey,” she yelled, “there’s no tub, only a shower. I hate showers. They scare me.”
    â€œBuy a fifth of Wild Turkey,” Judith shot back. “Just stop griping.”
    Renie glowered at her cousin. “I think I will. I saw a liquor store across the street.” Whirling around, she opened the door—and saw a tall, dark-skinned man in a police uniform.
    Judith saw him, too, and couldn’t suppress a little gasp.
    The officer removed his hat. “Are you Judith Flynn?”
    â€œNever heard of her,” Renie said. “Excuse me, I’m going—”
    â€œAnswer the question.”
    â€œNever heard of her,” she repeated.
    He nodded at Judith. “Is that Ms. Jones?”
    â€œYour guess is as good as mine,” Renie muttered, forced to step aside as the officer entered the room.
    â€œI’m Lieutenant Alex Hernandez,” he said. “Ms. Jones, Ms. Flynn, you’re wanted for questioning in the death of Dietrich Wessler. Would you both please come with me?”

 
    Chapter Four
    T he cousins exchanged beleaguered glances. “Okay,” Judith said, picking up her purse and jacket. “But we can’t tell you anything. We left before anything happened.”
    â€œToo much oompah,” Renie remarked.
    â€œOh?” Hernandez said, arching his dark brows.
    Judith realized her slip of the tongue. “We had dinner at Mad Ludvig’s. Our waitress told us there’d been some kind of accident.”
    The officer made a gesture for the cousins to go out the door. “Please. You can tell me all about it downtown.”
    Judith reluctantly followed Hernandez, but Renie stopped on the threshold. “Downtown? What downtown? Aren’t we already there?”
    â€œSorry,” he said over his shoulder. “I transferred here only a few months ago. I was a city cop for ten years. Come along, Ms. Flynn.”
    â€œI am coming,” Judith retorted, already halfway down the stairs. ”I prefer ‘Mrs.,’ not ‘Ms.’ I like being married.”
    Hernandez ignored Judith’s remark. “Where’s Ms. Flynn?” He turned to see Renie still in doorway. “Hey, move it. Do I need backup?”
    â€œ I’ll back up if you don’t stop calling me Ms. Flynn,” she snarled.
    â€œFine, Mrs . Flynn,” he said, making a sharp motion with his hand. “I guess you like being married, too.”
    â€œSometimes,” Renie said. “But I like it better when you call me by the right—”
    â€œHey!” Hernandez shouted. “Do you want to get arrested for impeding justice, Mrs. Flynn?”
    Renie crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway.
    The officer took two steps toward Renie. “I’m not kidding.” He reached for his cell.
    Pointing to Judith, who was at the bottom of the stairs, Renie gazed innocently at Hernandez. “Why don’t you ask her? For all I know, she might enjoy getting arrested instead of having her husband in jail. That episode made her fractious,” she went on, alluding to the nerve-racking events of the past January.
    â€œCoz,” Judith yelled, “cooperate! We can sort it out downtown. I mean, at headquarters.”
    Looking mulish, Renie slammed the door behind her and stomped downstairs so fast that Hernandez had to lean against the balustrade to keep her from bumping into him.
    The woman behind the desk stared at the trio marching out the door. “Their credit cards better be good!” she called after them.
    â€œUp hers,” Renie muttered as Hernandez opened the cruiser’s rear