Free Once Upon a Crime by P. J. Brackston

little clues?”
    â€œOur inquiries are moving forward in a manner appropriate to the situation.”
    â€œJust as I thought.”
    Strudel gulped down more Debilitator. He narrowed his eyes at Gretel which, given their habitual narrowness, caused them to all but disappear, and swayed very slowly, first to the left, then to the right, coming to a stop a little off the vertical.
    â€œYou don’t like me, do you, fraulein?” It was more of a statement than a question. Gretel bit her bottom lip. Was honesty the best policy? Could she seize the opportunity to tell him precisely how little she thought of him, safe in the knowledgethat he would remember nothing of the day past his first sip of ale? Might she? Should she?
    â€œNot much,” she said.
    â€œI knew it. I knew it!” Strudel was daftly pleased to be right about this. Gretel put it down to his rarely being right about anything. “I can tell what a person is thinking,” he went on, tapping the side of his nose. “In my job you need to have a nose for these things.”
    â€œWell, you certainly have that.”
    He hiccupped and took another swig of beer. “Actually,” he said, pitching forward at a risky angle and beckoning Gretel, signaling to her to draw near. She leaned in an inch. Strudel dropped his voice to a whisper. “Actually,” he went on, “between you and me . . . I’ve always thought we would make a good team. You and me.”
    â€œYou and me!”
    â€œYou and me.” He nodded, then, noticing her consternation, added, “Detectivelywise . . . detetctive-ishly . . . that is, not . . . romanticistical . . . ly. Am I being clear? I want to be clear about this, fraulein. Am I being clear?”
    â€œClearer than the alpine spring waters of the Zugspitze itself.”
    â€œS’good. S’good, ’cos I think you should think about that. You and me,” he said, still nodding, which seemed to be a side effect of the alcohol, rather than a conscious action.
    Gretel fought revulsion at any manner of alliance with Strudel that could be categorized as “you and me.” She was on the point of eloquently and elaborately telling him this when the note of the crowd’s shouts and cheers altered abruptly. Cries of alarm and warning sent people scattering. The sea of revelers parted to reveal the barrel, still half full, rolling down the hill from the top of the square, gathering speed with every rotation. Women snatched up their children and fled.Self-preservation cut through drunken fug to force men to bound to safety. Gretel started to run, but Strudel stood rooted to the spot, still clutching his stein staring at certain death as it barreled toward him.
    â€œStrudel, you idiot, get out of the way!” yelled Gretel. But he did not move. Cursing monks, Lenten beer, and a conscience, Gretel flung herself at the flimsy kingsman, sending him crashing to the cobbles just out of the way of the runaway keg. As she landed on top of him, she heard the unsettling sound of small bones splintering. The barrel charged past, inches from the prone pair. Gretel struggled to her feet. “Strudel? Strudel, speak, man.” She nudged him with a foot. He had turned the color of raw pastry, appropriately enough, and was emitting a soft wheezing sound. At last he gave a loud groan and came stuttering to his senses.
    Gretel turned and scoured the crowd for the king’s aide—but he had gone. Dammit. For a moment she rather wished she had left Kapitan Strudel to be flattened, but then she told herself that it could well be useful to be able to remind him, one day in the not-too-distant future, that she had saved his life.
    The day began to stumble into a woozy afternoon and Gretel chose her moment to slip quietly away. The barrel had been retrieved and the remaining beer consumed. Her peaceful drawing room, her comfortable daybed, and a glass of half-decent brandy were simply