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morning.” She inhaled a calming breath and blinked away tears. “I’ve lost so much more than the driving force of our band.” Her voice swelled with emotion. “I’ve lost my best friend.”
    Otis draped his arm around her shoulders as she pressed a tissue to her eyes.
    â€œSo what’s going to happen now?” called out another guest from the audience. “We’ve already missed our time slots at the Hofbr ä uhaus. Should we cancel the rest of our scheduled appearances?”
    â€œThat’s a decision the remaining band members will have to make,” said Wally. “We can continue with the present schedule, or if you think that might be too difficult emotionally, we can simply tour the rest of Germany and dispense with the musical element.”
    â€œIt’s going to be pretty hard for the Guten Tags to continue,” admitted Wendell. “Without the accordion, we won’t get the rich, full-bodied sound we’re accustomed to. It’ll throw everything off.”
    â€œWe’ll get booed off the stage,” sobbed Hetty.
    Another voice sang out from the audience. “If the Guten Tags don’t play, I think it’s only fair that the rest of us don’t play either. Not the Little Bitte Band or Das Bier Band or the Brassed Off Band.”
    Gasps. Murmuring.
    â€œIs that really fair?” asked a woman who was sitting two rows back. “We’ve been practicing for so long. Would Astrid have wanted all of us to throw in the towel because of her absence?”
    â€œAstrid was the most unselfish person on the planet,” asserted another man. “She would have wanted the show to go on no matter what.”
    â€œI disagree,” said the woman with the nasally voice. “We’ll be disrespecting her memory if we march up on stage and act as if nothing happened back there on that street.”
    Harrumphing. Snorting.
    Wally glanced at the audience and shrugged. “This isn’t up to me, but I’m the one who’ll have to make the phone calls if you decide to cancel, so I encourage you to arrive at some kind of consensus.”
    A hefty man in a red waistcoat stood up. “I say we cancel.”
    Head bobbing. Tepid clapping.
    Another guy in a green vest and suspenders rose to his feet. “I say we continue.”
    Osmond shot out of his chair, arms raised in a V as he waved his forefingers to indicate the tally. “One yea, one nay. Do I hear two? We’re at one, going for two. Who’ll make it tw—”
    Alice grabbed his belt and yanked him back down to his seat.
    Oh, God.
    Mom bent her head toward me, confiding under her breath, “Someone should tell Osmond to tone down this election silliness. He needs to understand that you and Etienne don’t have time to humor every guest stricken with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.” She patted my hand with motherly affection. “By the way, there’s a slew of guidebooks and magazines in our rooms, so if you’d like yours alphabetized, I’ll be happy to oblige. It’ll take me less than twenty seconds, and I guarantee the sense of order will leave you feeling even more tingly than a spa treatment.” Her face glowed at the prospect.
    My mom. Under the mistaken impression that the pot calling the kettle black actually referred to cookware.
    â€œWe should take a vote to see where the majority of us stand,” suggested the man in the green vest.
    Hetty held up a finger. “Hold that thought.” She gathered Otis, Gilbert, and Wendell into a tight circle, and after a minute’s worth of whispers, sighs, and grunts, they turned around to face the audience again.
    â€œWe’ve arrived at a compromise,” she announced. “We knew Astrid better than any of you, so please believe me when I say she wouldn’t have wanted you to miss out on the musical experience of a lifetime. That’s why we think the