Snow White Must Die (Bodenstein & Kirchhoff, #4)(5)

Amelie, the assistant cooks Kurt and Achim, and Wolfgang the head cook were all ears. Margot Richter’s grocery store—Amelie had been surprised to hear that everyone in Altenhain said “we’re going to Margot’s,” although strictly speaking the store belonged to her husband—stood directly across from the former Golden Rooster. That was why Margot and the hairdresser Inge Dombrowski, who had stopped at the grocery that afternoon for a little chat, had been eyewitnesses to the return of that guy. He had climbed out of a silver luxury car and walked over to his parents’ farmhouse.

“He’s certainly got some nerve,” Roswitha fumed. “The girls are dead, and this guy shows up back here as if nothing had ever happened!”

“But where else would he go?” Wolfgang remarked nonchalantly, taking a gulp of his beer.

“I don’t think you get it,” Roswitha told him. “How would you like it if the murderer of your daughter suddenly showed up right in front of you?”

Wolfgang shrugged indifferently.

“What else?” Achim pressed her. “Where did he go?”

“Into the house, of course,” said Roswitha. “He must have been surprised when he saw what it looks like now.”

The swinging door opened. Jenny Jagielski marched into the kitchen and put her hands on her hips. Like her mother, Margot Richter, she was of the opinion that her employees were going to rob the cash register behind her back or somehow pull a fast one on her. Three pregnancies in rapid succession had ruined Jenny’s figure, who’d been of stocky build to start with. By now she was as round as a barrel.

“Roswitha!” she called sharply to the woman who was about thirty years older. “Table ten is waiting for the check.”

Roswitha vanished obediently, and Amelie tried to follow her, but Jenny Jagielski held her back.

“How many times have I told you to remove those disgusting piercings and brush your hair properly when you come to work?” Disapproval was written all over her puffy face. “And a blouse would be more suitable than this skimpy top. You can’t be serving food in your underwear. We’re a decent restaurant, not some underground Berlin disco!”

“But the men like it,” Amelie countered. Jagielski’s eyes narrowed and red patches appeared like crimson brands on her fat neck.

“I don’t give a damn,” she snapped. “Take a look at the hygiene regulations.”

Amelie had a bitter retort on the tip of her tongue, but at the very last second she managed to control herself. Even if she found Jagielski unpleasant, from her cheap perm down to her plump bratwurst calves, Amelie should keep her mouth shut. She needed this job at the Black Horse.

“And you two?” The boss glared at her cooks. “Don’t you have anything you should be doing?”

Amelie left the kitchen just as Manfred Wagner toppled over and brought the barstool down on top of him.

“Hey, Manni,” called one of the men from the table of regulars. “It’s only nine thirty!” The others laughed good-naturedly. Nobody got excited about it; this same spectacle, or something similar, played out almost every night, but usually along about eleven. Then they would call his wife, who would show up within a few minutes, pay his tab, and steer her husband toward home. This evening, however, Wagner altered the choreography. This man who was normally so placid struggled back to his feet without anyone’s help, turned around, grabbed his beer glass, and smashed it on the floor. All conversation stopped as he staggered over to the table of regulars.

“You *s,” he mumbled, his tongue thick with drink. “You sit here talking all kinds of crap like it was nothing! None of you give a damn!”

Wagner held on to the back of a chair and looked around wildly with his bloodshot eyes. “But I, I have to … look at this … pig … and think about…” He broke off and his head drooped. J?rg Richter had stood up and now put his hand on Wagner’s shoulder.

“Come on, Manni. Don’t make trouble. I’ll call Andrea and she…”

“Don’t touch me!” Wagner howled, pushing him away so violently that the younger man lost his balance and fell. He grabbed hold of a chair and pulled the man sitting there down with him. All at once, chaos erupted.

“I’m going to kill that pig!” Wagner kept bellowing over and over. He was thrashing all about; the full glasses on the table tipped over, their contents spilling onto the clothing of the men sprawled on the floor. In fascination Amelie watched the scene from the cash register as her colleague fought for her life in the midst of the melee. A regular old-time brawl in the Black Horse! Finally something was happening in this dismal dump. Jenny Jagielski dashed past her into the kitchen.

“A decent restaurant,” Amelie muttered derisively, earning a dirty look. Seconds later the boss came storming out of the kitchen with Kurt and Achim in tow. The two cooks overpowered the drunken man in a flash. Amelie grabbed the broom and dustpan and went over to the regulars’ table to clean up the broken glass. Manfred Wagner was no longer belligerent and let himself be led away without resistance, but at the door he wrested himself from the grip of the two cooks and turned around. He stood there swaying, with saliva running from the corners of his mouth into his disheveled beard. A dark spot was spreading on the front of his pants. He must be really drunk, thought Amelie. She had never seen him piss himself before. Suddenly she felt sorry for this man she had always secretly ridiculed. Was the murder of his daughter the reason why he drank himself into a coma with such persistent regularity every night? It was deathly quiet in the restaurant.