The Crepes of Wrath (2 page)

I shuddered. It was Melvin Stoltzfus, Hernia’s Chief of Police. I’d been unable to get hold of him, but had left a message. For a split second I regretted it. The man is both a menace and a mantis.

I don’t believe in evolution, but if I did, I’d also believe that mankind evolved from insects, not apes, and that Melvin is the missing link. He has bulbous eyes that operate independently of each other, virtually no lips, and a neck as big around as my wrist. His thorax is bony and protrudes through his shirts in suspicious little bumps, and recently I’ve come to suspect that his baggy pants hide an extra pair of legs.

Of course Melvin’s peculiar physique would be none of my business, were he not married to my sister, Susannah. But he
is
married to my only sibling, and although they have yet to breed, it breaks my heart to contemplate the fact that someday I may find my nieces and nephews in the rose garden eating aphids.

I glanced under my desk for a can of bug spray and, finding none, smiled pleasantly. “Yoder is my name. Please don’t wear it out.”

“Very funny. Yoder, you said we need to talk.”

“We do.
Privately.
”

“Yoder, either we talk now, or I leave.”

“I’m in the middle of conducting business,” I hissed.

“Then I’m out of here.” He turned and headed toward the door.

“Wait! It’s about Elizabeth Mast.”

“What about her?”

I eyeballed the California couple, but Melvin didn’t get my drift. He headed for the door a second time.

“She was murdered,” I wailed, “wasn’t she?”

Melvin stopped abruptly and turned in his arthropodan tracks. “Don’t be stupid, Yoder. Nobody killed her. She died of a drug overdose.”

“Drugs?” That was not the Lizzie Mast I knew.

“Her system was full of it.”

“Antacid?” I asked incredulously.

“Guess again.”

“Just tell me!”

“It was Angel Dust,” Gingko said.

Melvin’s left eye focused on Gingko while his right eye remained on me. “How did
you
know?”

“I had a vision,” Gingko said.

In a rare instance of ocular solidarity, Melvin’s right eye joined the left. “What did you say?”

“She’s from California,” I hastened to explain. “The land of fruit and nuts. Her name is Filbert.”

“It’s Gingko!”

“Whatever.”

“Let her speak, Yoder.”

Gingko smiled smugly. “I’m a psychic medium. My specialty is clairvoyance, although I’m pretty good at clairaudience and clairsentience. A couple of times I’ve even channeled.”

Archibald nodded so vigorously his sunglasses slipped. He pushed them back into place with a pampered pinkie.

“Yeah, she channeled James Dean. Man, that was awesome.”

“Give me a break,” I said.

Melvin waggled a finger at me presidential style. “Yoder, I’m warning you. This is official police business. Let them talk.”

“Talk away,” I said blithely. “Chitter-chatter to your heart’s content. Pretend I’m not here.”

They did just that. I pretended not to listen, but how could I not? It was my inn, for Pete’s sake, and they were talking about a dear friend of mine. Okay, so maybe not a
dear
friend, but still, a woman who was responsible for one of my most intimate experiences. After all, the only time I’d ever hugged a toilet bowl was after eating one of Lizzie’s concoctions.

Gingko seemed delighted to pretend I wasn’t there. “I had the vision just now when you came in,” she told Melvin. “Some visions can last a long time—sometimes an hour or more—but usually they’re just fleeting impressions. This was the quick kind.”

“What exactly did you see?”

“Colors mostly. Bright swirls of color—like in a really good painting. But I saw a lady too. She was lying on her back on a purple cloud and holding a jar filled with phencyclidine.”

“That’s the scientific name the coroner used!” Lacking antennae, Melvin scratched his head with a fingernail. “But how did you know that’s what it was?”

“She probably knows from personal experience.” I slapped a bony hand over my mouth.

Gingko glared at me. “I had a
sense
that it was Angel Dust. Maybe it was the cloud, or the way the woman was lying. Visions give you impressions, but they don’t spell everything out in black and white.”

“How convenient,” I muttered.

Much to my surprise, Melvin ignored my remark. “Miss—uh—”

“Mrs. Archibald Murray.”

Melvin’s eyes swelled to twice their usual size. He turned to face his prey.

“
The
Archibald Murray? The star of
Two Girls, a Guy, and a Calzone
?”

Archibald’s blinding grin would have been answer enough. “Yeah, that’s me. It’s probably these shades,” he said, reading Melvin’s meager mind. “Had that laser surgery everyone’s been getting, so I have to keep them on a few days. Hey, you’re not going to spread this around, are you?”

“Well, I do know the folks at the
National Intruder,
” I said and instinctively held a hand out, palm up.

The actor paled to the point his chompers looked dingy. “You do?”

“I’ve had
real
celebrities stay here.”

“Don’t worry,” Melvin said quickly, “she won’t say a thing.
Will
you, Yoder?”

“Is that a threat, Melvin?”

“No threat, Yoder. I’m just remembering that you have a fondness for speeding and—”

“My lips are sealed,” I wailed.

“Good. Now where was I? Ah, yes, can I have your autograph, Mr. Murray?”

A grateful Archibald was happy to comply. Although I have plenty of paper at my desk, Melvin insisted that the television star sign his name on the police chief’s back. His
bare
back—or should I say carapace?

When the embarrassing spectacle was over, when Melvin was quite through making a horse’s cousin out of himself—because believe me, it got a lot worse than that—Melvin turned back to Gingko. To her credit, the girl was still there.

“Mrs. Murray, did you see anything in your vision that told you how the lady died? Did she eat the Angel Dust? Was it on purpose?”

Gingko shook her head, and the long black hair rippled down her back. “She didn’t do it on purpose. And I don’t think it was just an accident. You know, like a normal overdose. No, I had another feeling altogether, like—well, like it was murder.”

“Aha!” I practically shouted.

Melvin turned to me. “Yoder, maybe we do need to talk.”

A lesser woman—say, the Magdalena of a decade ago—would have railed at Melvin for giving credence to a California kook while discounting his country cousin. But I have grown over the years and know when to zip my lip. Especially if doing so helps fill my coffers.

“You bet your bippy we need to talk. But first let me check these folks in.”

Much to my surprise, Melvin waited patiently while I took down credit card information. He didn’t interrupt once! Kind soul that I am, I rewarded him by allowing him to sit in my chair while I escorted my guests to their upstairs room.

My inn has both an elevator and an impossibly steep stairs, and the Murrays chose to use the latter. No doubt they were on a health kick. I, on the other hand, believe that we are born with a finite number of movements; use them all up and we die. Therefore, I have learned to get my exercise from jumping to conclusions and rolling my eyes. I took the elevator.

I was gone only a few minutes, but it was long enough for Melvin’s uncharacteristic patience to evaporate. He pounced on me as if I were a juicy aphid.

“Yoder! Where the hell have you been? I haven’t got all day.”

“You do if it’s your job.” I proceeded to tell him about Thelma’s predawn visit.

The mantis looked more miserable than menacing by the time I was through. “You know I’ve decided to run for the state legislature. Running a campaign is a lot more time-consuming than I thought. The last thing I need right now is a murder case.”

“I’m sure Lizzie Mast felt inconvenienced too.”

He blinked at me. “Yeah. But Yoder, I’ve been thinking—”

“There’s a first time for everything, dear.”

To his credit, he plowed right through. “So anyway, Yoder, it’s occurred to me that—well, maybe I could use your help.”

“I don’t do exorcisms.”

“Very funny. You’re not making this easy, you know.”

“Sorry. Perhaps that was a little harsh.”

My apology seemed to throw him. He looked around the room, as if searching for my evil twin.

“Yoder,” he finally said, “I’d like you to help with this case.”

“What?”

“You heard me, Yoder. I need your help.”

“Why me?”

“I’m busy, Yoder.”

“I said,
‘Why me?’
 ”

“Don’t make me say it, Yoder.”

“Say it!” I grabbed a broom from behind my check-in counter and waved it at him. It was a mock threat, of course.

“Well, you’ve helped me before and you were. . .” He mumbled something unintelligible through clenched mandibles.

“Speak up, dear, I’m losing interest fast.”

Melvin sighed. “You were good, Yoder. You were damn good.”

“Don’t swear in my inn, Melvin,” I said sternly. Then I smiled. “I
was
good, wasn’t I?”

“Enough, Yoder.”

“Okay, but understand that I don’t really know the Masts that well. Lizzie came to our prayer breakfasts and occasionally to church, but her husband almost never came.”

“Just do your best, Yoder. That’s all I’m asking.”

“What exactly is it you want me to do?”

“You know, ask a few questions.”

“Easier said than done.” From what I’d heard about Joseph Mast, he was on the taciturn side. “Anything else?”

“Look around for me. Keep your eyes open, that kind of thing. The coroner said Lizzie had enough of that stuff in her to keep half of California high for a week. I want to know how it got there.”

“I see. In other words, you want me to handle the entire case for you, don’t you?”

Melvin squirmed. “Unofficially, of course. When you solve it—”

“You mean,
if,
don’t you?”

He hesitated. “You’re smart, Yoder. Don’t make me say that twice.”

Like I said, I’ve learned when to quit. “Okay. Let’s say I solve it. So then what?”

“I get the credit.”

“Of course. I’m sure it will be a big boost for your campaign. But tell me, what do I get out of this?”

Melvin looked like a sheep who’d been asked an algebra question. “Uh—well—”

“Never mind, dear, I’ll do it.”

“You
will
?”

I nodded. Even if Melvin hadn’t asked for my help, he would have gotten it. Solving Lizzie’s murder—and it had to be just that—was the least I could do for her. Even then, how could I possibly forgive myself for praying that the woman would stay away from church, while at the very moment she lay dying?

No matter what it took, I was going to solve Lizzie Mast’s death.

I had my back to the door a moment later when I heard it open. Just for the record, I prayed for patience. Unfortunately that’s my least-answered prayer.

“Go away, you bothersome bug, or I’ll whack you with this broom.”

“Is that a traditional Pennsylvania Dutch welcome?”

I whirled. Standing just inside my door was the tallest woman I’d ever seen. I’m five foot ten, skinny as a rail, but this big-boned gal loomed over me. I couldn’t help but gasp.

“Hi. My name’s Darlene Townsend,” the woman said and extended a hand the size of New Jersey.

I allowed my hand to be swallowed by hers. “I’m Magdalena Yoder, and welcome to the PennDutch Inn.” Too late I remembered my charming fake accent.

Miss Townsend’s raised eyebrows nearly brushed my ceiling. “Funny, but you don’t sound like you did on the phone when I made the reservation.”

“How do you mean?”

“The woman I spoke to had an accent.”

“I’m bilingual. The accent comes and goes.” It was only a pseudo-fib. I’m the daughter of bilingual parents, and I’ve heard Pennsylvania Dutch spoken my entire
life. What did it really matter if I couldn’t speak the lingo?

Darlene smiled. She had soft brown eyes in a pretty face framed by a bob of auburn hair.

“I’m bilingual too.”

“Oh, what other languages do you know?”

“FORTRAN.”

“You’re Fortranese?” I asked pleasantly. Ever since the breakup of the Soviet Union, it’s been hard to keep track of all those little countries.

Darlene laughed heartily. “That’s a good one. Confidentially—and I don’t mean to brag—I’m somewhat of an expert on UNIX too.”

I held the broom protectively in front of me. “Your sex life is none of my business, dear.”

The giantess laughed again. “You’re a real hoot, Miss Yoder. I can see that I’m going to enjoy my week here.”

Keeping the broom between us, I maneuvered behind the counter and checked my reservation book. I was indeed expecting a Darlene Townsend, but her mailing address was Philadelphia, not Fortran. She’d stated in her letter that she was an athletics instructor at a private girls’ school and was looking forward to a working vacation. The work—if you can call it that—was to recruit girls who could play basketball.

“How will you be paying?” I asked suspiciously. No Hernia teacher could afford a night at my inn, even excluding A.L.P.O.

Darlene handed me a platinum credit card.

“Would you like an authentic Amish experience?” I asked.

“Does that involve a broom?”

I chuckled grudgingly. “Yes, but not on the behind. For a bit more money, you get the privilege of doing chores.” I showed her a list of fees.

Her dark eyes sparkled. “What a clever idea! Sign me up for everything.”

No doubt I beamed. There is a sucker born every minute, and I definitely have a sweet tooth.

“You’re a wise woman, dear. You’ll enjoy the Amish experience.”

As if on cue, the front door opened and in stepped a real live Amish man. This was not planned, I assure you, but the timing could not have been better.

I recognized the man as Jacob Troyer. There are perhaps seven Jacob Troyers in the county, but none so handsome as the man standing in my lobby. The standard Amish beard, sans mustache, and inverted bowl haircut detracted little from his symmetrical classical features. Tall, dark, with broad shoulders, this Jacob was better looking than most of the movie stars I’d had as guests over the years.

Amish garb varies within the denomination according to sect and region. Jacob’s dark gray pants, long-sleeved white shirt, and black suspenders were typical of workday attire for a local man in his twenties. As does every good Amish man, Jacob wore a hat at all times. Local custom dictates felt hats during cold weather, straw hats in summer. A simple black band is permissible, although some of the older generation view it as “proud.”

The Jacob Troyer in question didn’t have a clue that he was gorgeous, and his straw hat was unadorned. He smiled bashfully when he saw us.

“Miss Yoder?”

“Please, call me Magdalena.”

“Yah. Miss Yoder, may I borrow your telephone?”

Our Amish are strictly forbidden to own telephones, but they may use the telephones of the English, as they call outsiders, to conduct their business. There is a public phone in nearby Hernia that is constantly in use.

“Is everything all right, dear?”

He blushed at my careless use of the endearment. “Yah. My Gertrude’s sister in Ohio is having a baby. Twins, they say. Gertrude is a twin herself. Anyway, I am
supposed to call an English woman there and see if the babies have come, but the phone in town is not working.”

“Well, you’re certainly welcome to use mine. In fact, I was just about to show my guest to her room. You’ll have plenty of privacy.”

He blushed even deeper. “Thank you, Miss Yoder.”

“That’s Magdalena,” I said firmly.

“Yah, Miss Yoder.”

“Never mind.” I turned to Darlene. “Well, dear, shall we go upstairs?”

The big girl trotted gamely after me, but left her suitcase behind. I made her turn around.

“You carry your own suitcase, dear. That’s part of A.L.P.O., remember?”

“Who
is
he?” Darlene whispered when she caught up with me.

“Down, girl,” I said gently. “He’s a married man. The Gertrude he mentioned is his wife.”

Darlene sighed. “All the good ones are taken.”

“You can say that again.”

“You ever been married?”

“Once—to a bigamist, so I guess that doesn’t count. But I’m seeing someone now.”

“Is he as dreamy as that Amish man?”

“Even dreamier,” I said, sounding for all the world like a schoolgirl.

That so excited Darlene she nearly dropped her suitcase. “Details,” she demanded. “I want details.”

Unlike Darlene, I wasn’t about to share my life with a perfect stranger. I can, however, be very good at small talk. We chatted amiably about men and life in general as I showed her around. She was pleased with her room, which she called “charming,” but when I suggested she might want to give the toilet a good scrub before using it, she yawned.

“It was a long drive from Philadelphia,” she said. “I think I’ll take a nap first.”

“Suit yourself, dear. But I expect the powder room off the lobby to be spic and span by supper.”

She yawned again. “Will do.”

I returned downstairs to await the arrival of my remaining guests, as well as to check on the handsome Jacob Troyer. Alas, the lobby was empty.

A good Magdalena would have spent the time wisely, perhaps reading the Bible. It was, after all, Sunday afternoon. Instead, I sat on my chair and twiddled my thumbs. When I got bored with that, I reached down my dress to play with my pussy.

My pussy is a purebred chocolate point Siamese named Little Freni. She was a gift from Gabriel Rosen, the dreamy man I’ve been seeing. The day I got her, Little Freni crawled up my dress and climbed inside my bra which, as you should know, has lots of wasted room. Little Freni took an immediate liking to her surroundings, and now spends most of her time next to my heart.

You may think it a strange place to keep a kitten, but I assure you, I am
not
the only woman to harbor pets in her underwear. My sister Susannah, Melvin’s wife, has been toting a dinky dog around in her bra for years. That pitiful pooch, which my sister calls Shnookums, is not nearly as cute as Little Freni, and has a nasty temperament.

At any rate, Little Freni preferred to nap that Sunday afternoon. I tried getting her attention by dangling a rubber band down my dress, but my pussy would have none of it.

“Just play for a few minutes,” I coaxed.

Little Freni purred contentedly, too lazy to open her eyes.

I gave up my quest for a playmate and stroked her silken head. “You’re so soft,” I whispered. “I could pet you all day.”

“Ach!”

The short, stout Amish woman standing behind me
was my cook, Freni Hostetler. It is she after whom my kitty is named. Freni is my mother’s double second cousin, once removed. Or something like that. After Mama died in that tunnel, Freni has been like a mother to me. At seventy-five Freni is the same age Mama would have been, and every bit as cantankerous.

The woman threatens to quit at least once a week, and actually does quit about a dozen times a year. On several occasions I’ve taken the liberty of firing her. But since I can’t boil water without directions, and Freni despises her live-in daughter-in-law, Mama’s replacement and I are doomed to each other’s company until the day she can no longer stand on her feet, or I decide to retire. But don’t get me wrong, I am immensely fond of the stubby woman with the wire-rim glasses and perpetual frown. She is, in fact, my dearest friend; it’s just that we don’t get along.

“Good afternoon, Freni,” I said pleasantly. “I was just talking to your namesake.”

“Ach! Such an insult to have an animal named after me.”

“There are those who would consider it an honor.”

“Yah, you would know about honors,” Freni said, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in her voice.

The dear little woman was referring to the recent birth of her grandchildren—triplets. The two male children were named after their father and grandfather, but the girl was named after me. The proud parents, Jonathan and Barbara, named the baby after me because I was instrumental in saving her life. It was not because Barbara was trying to slight her mother-in-law. Alas, there is no convincing Freni.

“How
are
the little dears?” I asked cheerily.

Freni frowned. “She picks them up every time they cry. Is that any way to treat a baby?”

I shrugged.

“Of course, you would not know.”

Boy, did that strike a nerve. I am acutely aware that I
will never give birth to a child, that I will forever be as barren as the Gobi Desert.

“As a matter of fact, Freni, I read in a magazine that a baby can never be held too much.”

“Ach, maybe that is true of English children.” Freni waved a plump hand, signaling a change of subject. “How many vegetations this time, Magdalena?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ach, you heard me!”

I smiled slowly. “You must mean vegetarians.”

“Yah.” My kinswoman is culinarily challenged. For her, the four food groups are fat, sugar, starch, and meat. She has only recently begun to make a distinction between meat and vegetables, and still finds some foods, such as cheese, hard to place. Since the Amish normally serve a slice of cheddar with apple pie, she had, until recently, just assumed that cheese was a fruit.

“Freni, dear, only three of the guests have arrived, and I’m sorry, but I forgot to ask them.”

Freni shook her head and muttered something unintelligible in her native Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Look, Freni, just play it safe and plan on serving lots of vegetables. But leave the ham hocks out of the green beans, in any case. City folks don’t like joints on their plates.”

Freni made a face.

“And if it turns out we do have some vegetarian guests, don’t—”

The front door opened and in walked two more guests. Freni’s eyes lit up like lightning bug tails. I instinctively grabbed for her apron straps, but the woman is remarkably agile for someone her age. She got to them first.

“Are you vegetarians?” she demanded.

The pair giggled. They were the cutest little couple you have ever seen. Each was barely five foot tall, and plump as a goose the day before Christmas. They both had snowy white hair and wire-rim glasses not unlike
Freni’s. The man was beardless, and I am a believing Christian, but with the slightest bit of encouragement I could easily have believed they were Mr. and Mrs. Claus on a summer vacation.

Freni stared the couple into silence. “Well? Are you vegetarians or regular people?”

“Please excuse her,” I said, and tried to push Freni aside, but she seemed to have taken root. Perhaps my floors were even dirtier than I believed. “This woman is my cook and is trying to take a head count.”