This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Crepes of Wrath

A SIGNET Book / published by arrangement with the author

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Electronic Edition: May, 2002

Other Pennsylvania Dutch Mysteries
by Tamar Myers

Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, & Crime

No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk

Just Plain Pickled to Death

Between a Wok and a Hard Place

Eat, Drink, and Be Wary

Play It Again, Spam
^®

The Hand That Rocks the Ladle

In loving memory of my mother,
Helen Yoder
1908–2000

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The crepe recipes found in this book are from
Waffles, Flapjacks, Pancakes, Blintzes, Crepes, Frybread from Scandinavia and Around the World,
published by Penfield Press, 215 Brown Street, Iowa City, Iowa 52245.

I woke to find a woman’s face pressed against the pane of my bedroom window. Her features were grotesquely misshapen. I screamed and pulled the covers over my head.

After a few seconds, during which my heart had stopped beating, curiosity overcame terror. I said a quick prayer before peeking. The face was still there, illuminated by the dial on my alarm clock.

Instead of screaming again, I pulled on my blue chenille robe, slipped my size eleven feet into fuzzy pink bunny slippers, and padded over to the window. When I jerked it open, Thelma Hershberger fell to the floor with a loud thud.

“This better be good,” I growled.

Thelma struggled to her feet. “It’s a matter of life and death!”

“Yours?” I asked hopefully.

I know, it’s terrible to feel that way, un-Christian even, but I can’t stand the woman. Thelma is the local postmistress, and on occasion delivers the mail—along with every bit of sordid gossip she can possibly dig up. Unfortunately, a lot of it is about me. If it hadn’t been for the fact I didn’t want my mail to end up in her attic, or
dumped in some farm pond, I would have booted her back out the window with the toe of my fuzzy bunnies.

Thelma wastes no love on me either. “Did you know you sleep with your mouth wide open?”

“I’m quite aware of that, thank you. And you have no business invading my privacy. I ought to have you arrested.”

She rubbed her left shoulder. “I rang your doorbell six times, Magdalena. Why didn’t you answer?”

“I was asleep.” I glanced again at the clock. “It’s only three
A
.
M
., for crying out loud!”

“So it is.” Thelma pushed past me to sit on my bed. “Well, I couldn’t risk being followed.”

I stared at the dumpy little woman. She has eyes the size of jelly beans, a bulldog’s nose, and her lips, if indeed she ever had any, disappeared ages ago.

“Followed? By whom?”

“Remember Lizzie Mast?”

Of course I remembered Elizabeth Mast. How could I not? In addition to being the world’s worst cook, she was a member of my church. Beechy Grove Mennonite Church in Hernia, Pennsylvania.

Just last week I was supposed to see her at the Mennonite Women’s Prayer Breakfast, an annual event. I remember that morning well. Lizzie was late, and those of us already in attendance prayed mightily—that Lizzie would not show up at all.

We weren’t being mean, mind you, just practical. Elizabeth Mast was the salt of the earth—a kind Christian woman with the soul of a saint, and the hands of a pioneer. Her fingers were quite capable of applying a healing poultice, of making tiny straight stitches, or of planting a prize-winning flower garden, but they were incapable of frying an egg. I still have one of last year’s eggs, which I use as a coaster here on my desk at the PennDutch Inn.

Our prayers were answered and Lizzie didn’t show up. Imagine our guilt later that day when we learned Lizzie
had been found dead. The cause of her death had yet to be shared with the public, and rumors abounded—thanks to the likes of Thelma. The most widely believed, and sensational, rumor was that Lizzie had committed suicide. At any rate, one thing was for sure: the poor woman was
not
following Thelma Hershberger.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. “Lizzie is dead and you know it.”

Thelma rolled her eyes. “Of course she’s dead. That’s why I’m afraid of being followed.”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts.” I don’t believe that statement, having seen my grandmother’s ghost on more than one occasion, but that is the official party line.

The postmistress snorted. “I’m not talking about Lizzie. I’m talking about whoever killed her.”

“Say what?”

“Lizzie Mast was murdered.”

“Murdered? Why, that’s ridiculous. That woman was practically a saint.”

“Stop calling me ridiculous.” Thelma hopped to her feet. “If you don’t want to hear the rest, Magdalena, just say so.”

I gave Thelma a gentle shove, and she landed on my bed in approximately the same spot she’d been sitting before. “Spill it, dear. Tell me why you think Lizzie was murdered.”

“Because I was there.”

I sat on the bed beside Thelma. “You were a witness?” I asked incredulously.

“Well, I didn’t see it actually happen, if that’s what you mean. But she told me herself that something awful might happen to her. In fact, she was pretty positive it would.”

“What exactly did she say? No, wait. Start at the beginning.”

Thelma took a deep breath. “It was a Tuesday morning, the day before your prayer breakfast, and I was
doing delivery. Hank Stutzman, who usually handles that route, was feeling poorly. He claims it was the flu, but I know for a fact he stopped at the Bigger Jigger up in Bedford the night before. But since he’d covered for me so I could attend the breakfast, I decided to cut him some slack. Besides, Sara Kirschbaum said—”

“Please,” I said through gritted teeth, “start at the beginning of
Lizzie’s
story.”

Thelma glared at me, no mean feat considering the size of her peepers. “Okay, but don’t interrupt again. As I was about to say, I delivered Lizzie’s mail Tuesday morning. She had postage due on a letter, so I rang her bell. She answered it—on the first ring, by the way—and invited me in for some tea.

“While the water was boiling, she opened the letter. Right away I could tell by her expression that something was terribly wrong. I asked her what it was, but she wouldn’t tell me. Then when she was fixing the tea, I got myself a look.”

“Why am I not surprised,” I mumbled.

“Magdalena, do you want to hear the rest of this, or not?”

I gave my right cheek a perfunctory slap. “I do.”

Thelma smiled smugly. Her half of my bed was the catbird’s seat.

“I know you’re anxious, so I’ll get right to the point. There were only six words on that letter, and they were cut out of a magazine and pasted on. Like a ransom note.”

“You don’t say!”

She nodded vigorously. “
Don’t tell Anyone or you Pay.
That’s what it said. It didn’t even say ‘you’ll,’ it said ‘you.’ What kind of grammar is that? Anyway, Lizzie caught me reading it and she burst into tears. I asked her what it was all about, but she wouldn’t say. Not at first. But finally I got her to open up a little. Just a little, mind you.” Thelma folded her pudgy hands and sat back, as if through with her recitation.

“Don’t keep me in suspenders!” I wailed.

“You mean ‘suspense,’ don’t you?”

“Whatever!”

“Look, Magdalena, if you’re going to be sarcastic—”

“I’m not!
Please,
go on.”

“Well, if you insist. Now where was I?”

“You were going to tell me what Lizzie said!” I screamed.

Thelma blinked. “Oh yeah, no matter how much I coaxed her, Lizzie wouldn’t tell me who was threatening her. Only that she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to see.”

“What?”
I wanted to shake Thelma Hershberger until her jelly bean eyes rattled loose in their minuscule sockets.

The woman clearly enjoyed my discomfort. “I was getting to that,” she said slowly. “Honestly, Magdalena, you need to be more patient.”

I immediately prayed for patience but, finding it not forthcoming, prayed for a paralyzed tongue. That prayer was answered long enough to prompt Thelma to speak.

“If you must know, she wouldn’t tell me that either. Finally—well, I have a job to do, you know. It wasn’t my fault if I left her there crying. Besides, I think her husband was somewhere around. Out back, I think, in his workshop.”

“So,” I said, taking it all in, “you think Lizzie was murdered because of something she saw, and that letter was a threat—wait just one minute! You also think that
the killer—assuming there was one—saw you deliver the letter, and because Lizzie invited you in for tea, the killer—again, assuming there was one—jumped to the conclusion that Lizzie had taken you into her confidence.”

Thelma nodded.

“Whew!” I said. “That is a scary thought. Have you told the police?”

“You mean Melvin Stoltzfus?” It was Thelma’s turn to sound incredulous.

I nodded reluctantly. Rumor has it our Chief of Police was kicked in the head by a bull—while trying to milk it. This rumor, I believe, was started by his mother. At any rate, Melvin is so out of touch with reality that he once mailed a gallon of ice cream to his favorite aunt in Scranton. The only reason he has the position is because no one else in Hernia is willing to work for what we pay him.

“What about the sheriff?” I suggested.

Thelma gave me a pitying look. “Lizzie Mast died within the city limits, as you well know.”

She was right. Thanks to Hernia’s ambitious founders, most of whom were my ancestors, the city had annexed large tracts of farmland. But despite a recent influx of urban refugees, we don’t number even two thousand souls and most of that farmland is still intact. Her point, however, was that the Bedford County sheriff was not about to get involved in a case that was outside his jurisdiction.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked foolishly.

“Just what I’m doing now. I’m coming to you for help.”

“Why
me
?”

“Don’t be coy, Magdalena. Everyone knows you do the real police work for Melvin.”

“Somebody has to!” I wailed.

“Exactly. And I’ll only say this once, so listen up. You always do an excellent job.”

I beamed. It was true, after all.

“But there’s one thing I don’t get,” I said. “Why did you wait a week to tell me this? And why at three in the morning?”

The jelly bean eyes became mere slits. “Don’t you ever listen, Magdalena? I said I didn’t want to be followed, and the reason I waited until tonight was because I was trying to talk myself out of believing it.”

“But you saw the note—”

“The word was ‘
pay
,’ ” Thelma said vehemently. “It wasn’t ‘die.’ ”

“Okay, okay, simmer down.” I said that for my benefit as much as hers. “Has anything happened since to make you think the note—” I clamped a bony hand over my mouth, and then just as quickly removed it. “Good heavens, you haven’t received one too, have you?”

Thelma shook her head. “But I feel something.”

“What?” The facetious side of me wanted to ask her if it was tiredness she was feeling.

“I feel like I’m being watched.”

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t that enough? Today I couldn’t shake the feeling, as much as I tried.”

“So you came to me.” I yawned. “Look, it’s the middle of the night, and I have to teach Sunday School in six hours. But I’ll speak to Melvin first chance I get, and if I don’t learn anything from him, I’ll try to wheedle it out of the coroner. But I wouldn’t expect to hear anything until Monday.”

“Fair enough.” Thelma is surprisingly spry for a portly woman in her middle years. She hopped off the bed and, without further ado, let herself out the window.

I returned to bed feeling guilty. I know it wasn’t my fault Lizzie died, and the cause of her death was still unknown, but I was sure it was somehow my fault. It’s because I’m a Mennonite, you see—an Amish-Mennonite
to be precise. My ancestors were Swiss Amish who adopted the Mennonite faith in my grandparents’ generation. I am related by blood to virtually every Amish person alive, and perhaps half the Mennonites as well. Due to this excessive inbreeding I am, in fact, my own cousin. Give me a sandwich, and I
am
a family picnic. My point is, this restricted gene pool has produced a few interesting mutations, the most notable of which is the guilt gene. As a result, I am capable of feeling more guilt than a Baptist, Catholic, and Jew combined.

Still wallowing in this guilt, I awoke later that morning with a splitting headache and had to skip out of my Sunday School class. Fortunately I am an innkeeper and my occupation allows me to pass a good deal of guilt on to my guests, and I was expecting a new batch that afternoon.

Just for the record, passing guilt on to complete strangers is a skill, something not to be tried by the novice businesswoman. And I am a businesswoman above all else. When my parents died—squished in a tunnel between a milk tanker and semitrailer filled with state-of-the-art running shoes—I inherited the family farm. That was a dozen years ago. Since then I turned a struggling farm into a thriving, full-board inn.

At any rate, when the front door opened that delightful Sunday afternoon in June, I knew I had my work cut out for me. The couple standing there, unnecessarily intertwined, were quite obviously in show biz. I’ve dealt a lot with the Hollywood set before, and let me tell you this, for a goodly number of them, scruples is merely the name of a party game. As for sincerity, well, most of those folks have never heard of
that
S word.

But like I said, business is business. “Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn,” I said in my best fake Pennsylvania Dutch accent, and with as much cheer as I could force under the circumstances. “My nammen eez Magdalena Yoder and I am zee ownah of zees fine establiss-ment.”

The couple disentangled. The male half, a tall young man with square jaw and shoulders, dark glasses, and studio-lightened hair, smiled.

“That’s a lousy accent.”

I gasped at his impertinence. “It is not!”

He grinned and I squinted. No doubt he wore the shades to protect himself from his own smile. There were more caps in that mouth than at a high school graduation.

“I once played the part of a German guard. My drama coach was really strict about me getting it right.”

I glared at this young man. “For your information, I am not German, and this most certainly is
not
a concentration camp.”

“I can see that now. Anyway, we’re here to check in.”

I glanced at my reservations list. “Ah, yes, the Murrays from Beverly Hills.”

He extended a well-groomed tan hand. “Archibald. And this is my wife, Megan.”

“Gingko! My name is Gingko now.”

“Whatever,” I said and shook her tiny hand. She was altogether a small woman, pale as cottage cheese, and had waist-length hair the color of starlings. That this doll-like creature was capable of speech seemed incredible to me. I was tempted to spin her around and look for the key in her back. At any rate, the mite’s limp hand felt like a dead mouse. I haven’t felt a lot of those, mind you, just enough to know whereof I speak.

“Aren’t you going to ask for Archie’s autograph?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Gingko turned to her husband. “She doesn’t know who you are.”

“Of course I do,” I snapped. “Archibald Murray. We’ve just been through that.”

She giggled. “Archie’s sitcom is the hottest thing since
Seinfeld
.”

I took a sip from my glass of lemonade, which was sitting on the fried egg coaster. “Isn’t that nice.”

Frankly, I could not have cared less. My branch of the Mennonite faith does not forbid television, but we prefer to emphasize face-to-face conversation, and we do strive to avoid those TV shows that are obscene or profane in any way. In my opinion, there has not been a show worth watching since
Green Acres
went off the air.

Gingko smiled, a mistake if you ask me. Her unnaturally white skin made her teeth seem like an ear of buttered corn.

“Archie is the star of
Two Girls, a Guy, and a Calzone.
”

I shuddered at what possible pagan implications lay behind such a ridiculous title. “And what do you do, dear?”

Archibald Murray rested a manicured mitt on his wee wife’s shoulder. “Megan—I mean, Gingko—is a medium.”

“Is that so?” The woman was definitely a “small.” Even at the 5-7-9 in Pittsburgh, she’d have a hard time finding something to fit.

“She doesn’t know what that is, either,” Gingko whispered.

“But she has good ears,” I snapped. “A medium is somewhere between a large and a small, or else it is—oh, my heavens! You’re a witch!”

Gingko struggled from beneath her hubby’s heavy hand. “I most certainly am not a witch! I’m a clairvoyant.”

“Well, I’m a clarinet.” The Bible lists many sins, but being a smart aleck, thank heavens, is not one of them.

“Miss Yoder, clearly yours is not a very evolved soul.”

“Well, I never!”

“Ladies, please,” Archibald begged, “could we just get on with checking in?”

“But Archie, we might want to reconsider. I’m picking up some weird vibes.”

I prayed for a civil tongue. “That’s just the refrigerator, dear. When the icemaker comes on, it makes the
whole place shake. Now, would you be wanting A.L.P.O. ?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” I said calmly—after all, money was at stake—” Amish Lifestyle Plan Option. For a mere fifty dollars extra per day you get to clean your own rooms. It adds to the authentic Amish-Mennonite experience.”

“You’re kidding!”

Archibald gently touched his wife’s arm. “Sounds great. Sign us up.”

I nodded. You’d be surprised how much folks will pay to be abused, as long as they can view it as a cultural experience. I decided to test the actor’s limits.

“For another twenty-five dollars you get to help in the kitchen. Wash dishes, clear tables, that sort of thing.”

“Sure, why not.”

Gingko stamped a foot barely larger than my thumb. “Archie! She’s conning you.”

I smiled serenely. “And for an even hundred you get to muck out the barn and clean the chicken house. But it will cost you extra to gather eggs.”

Archibald grinned. “Can I milk?”

“Sorry, dear, but that puts you over the top.”

“Ah, man! Can’t I just pay more?”

I sighed. “Okay, a hundred fifty above the standard rate and I promise to load you down with so much honest work your head will spin.”

“Thanks, Miss Yoder, you won’t regret this.”

“I’m sure I won’t, but you—”

The door to the inn flung open, slamming into the doorstop. “Yoder!” the intruder barked.

BOOK: The Crepes of Wrath