The Crepes of Wrath (24 page)

Then I pulled my dress back up, buttoned it securely, and gathered up the stones. It’s none of your business, of course, but in the days before Little Freni, I wore a smaller model, since space was not an issue. But lately, what with growth spurts—Little Freni’s, not mine—I now sported a bigger bra. It may surprise you just how many golf ball–size stones and coal lumps can fit in a forty, double D cup. You also wouldn’t believe the weight.

As I armed myself, I could hear Darlene and Benjamin conversing. Their voices got progressively louder. What a foolish woman that Darlene Townsend was. We Mennonites don’t put much stock in the concept of saints, but if we did, we could at least remember the right name. St. Agnes, indeed! Agnes was my fifth grade teacher, the one who paddled my skinny bottom with her tennis racket because I couldn’t do long division. If
she was a saint, then so was I. The voices outside were clearly arguing now. Finally only one voice, Darlene’s, could be heard.

“Magdalena,” she yelled, “get back out here.”

“Coming,” I called cheerfully.

“Now, Magdalena!”

I held my homemade sling behind my back and stepped back outside. Darlene Townsend was pointing a gun on poor defenseless Benjamin.

“Well, it’s about time,” she said. “I was just about to shoot your friend here to get your attention.”

“Benjamin is an innocent man,” I said calmly. “You don’t want to hurt him. You want to hurt me.”

“Actually, I was thinking of shooting that ugly little kitten of yours. That way I get two birds with one stone.”

That did it. That hiked my hackles.

“Speaking of stones!” I cried, and like David the shepherd boy, I whipped my loaded sling from behind my back and let the stones fly.

They didn’t all hit their mark, of course—one or two somehow managed to hit me, and I know a couple pelted Benjamin—but the majority of my launched missiles found their target. Given her size, how could they not?

Darlene staggered, perhaps more from shock than impact, but unlike Goliath, did not topple to the earth as I had planned. However, I had just enough time to grab one of the boards Benjamin had thrown on the ground, and harnessing all the anger I could, from every hurtful thing and injustice visited upon me in my long miserable life, I whacked the so-called gym teacher on the kneecaps.

She dropped the gun, and the rest is history.

“So,” Gabe said, “this gives new meaning to the phrase ‘over the shoulder boulder holder.’ How incredibly inventive of you, Magdalena.”

I flushed with sinful pride. “You work with what you are given—or not.”

“And the board to the knees. Ouch, that had to hurt.”

“You bet. Melvin says she’s never going to walk again without limping.”

“And this makes you happy?” I heard admiration in Gabe’s voice.

“I know it shouldn’t, but I’m limping now too. My poor tootsies really had a workout. Anyway, think of all the lives she’s ruined. Lizzie is dead—and oh by the way, it was Gertrude Troyer who killed Lizzie.”

“It
was
? How?”

“Crepes,” I said. “Crepes of Wrath. The Masts knew too much, thanks to the carelessness of the Keim boys. Joseph wasn’t a credible witness, but Lizzie was. She told the boys she was going to the police if they didn’t straighten up. She actually gave them a two-week warning. Anyway, they passed that bit of information on to their supplier, who was not amused.”

Gabe whistled. “I didn’t think the Amish had it in them to kill.”

“They’re only human.”

“But still! I mean,
murder
?”

“It was all that mousy little Gertrude’s idea,” I said. Somehow it was easier to be forgiving of the handsome Jacob. “Gertrude had heard that Lizzie was an awful cook. She figured the two of them would be desperate for something palatable. She laced powdered sugar with enough Angel Dust to kill a horse and rolled the crepes in it. Kind of clever for a simple Amish woman, huh?”

Gabe whistled again. “How did Gertrude keep from having to eat the lethal crepes herself?”

“She claimed to be diabetic and hadn’t taken her insulin that day. That’s something Lizzie understood. She never suspected a thing.”

“What about that note? Was that the diabolical Gertrude at work as well?”

“You bet your bippy. She cut those words out of
The Budget
.”

“The what?”

“It’s the largest Amish newspaper in the country.”

“So how do you know all of this stuff, Magdalena, if the Troyers are still on the lam? Because as I understand it, that Townsend woman refuses to plea-bargain.”

I smiled. “You promise not to tell?”

“I swear.”

“No need to swear, dear,” I said with just a hint of disapproval in my voice. I had my work cut out for me if I was going to train the man. “You see, I uh—well, I sort of broke into the Troyer house.”

“You what?” The admiration in his voice was palpable.

“Well, Melvin was going to get a search warrant and he didn’t want me tagging along. He wanted all the credit for himself. What else could I do?”

“What else indeed?”

“Anyway, it was all there in Gertrude’s diary. She may have been a very bad Amish woman in some respects, but she was typical in others, and they love to keep diaries. Funny, but Gertrude seemed especially fixated on Lizzie’s inability to cook.”

“Well, from what I hear, Lizzie had a good heart, even if she couldn’t cook.” He held aloft a glass of wine. “May she rest in peace.”

“Yes, in peace,” I said and raised my milk.

We drank in companionable silence for a few minutes. Finally Gabe spoke.

“I hear that one of your guests is taking partial credit for your success in solving this case.”

“That would be Gingko,” I growled. “She was only partly right. True, Lizzie was murdered, but
I
most certainly didn’t die in a cave—it only felt like it. Besides, it was a coal mine, not a cave.”

Gabe winked. “Hey, take it easy. I was only pulling your leg.”

I sighed. “Sorry. It’s just that the woman drives me nuts. Now she’s predicting that I’m going to marry Jacob Troyer! Claims she saw it in a vision. Can you imagine anything as ridiculous as that? As if that mousy little wife of Jacob’s would ever divorce him.”

Gabe grunted. “She better not. But if she did—would you be tempted?”

“The man is a criminal!” I wailed. “A murderer!”

“Rumor has it they fled to relatives in one of the Midwestern states.”

“Yes, Kansas, I think. Despite all her supposed powers, Gingko is unable to pinpoint where.”

Gabe smiled. “Do you think the Troyers are likely to resume their life of crime there?”

“Gertrude maybe. But her handsome husband I’m not so sure of. I think he got a lot more than he bargained for. He was supposed to kill us—Darlene’s orders. But after knocking us out, he couldn’t even bring himself to tie us up. And of course he left the mine
unsealed. Clearly he just wanted time to get away from the whole mess.”

Gabe shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why is it the police can’t pick up a pair of Amish fugitives? How fast can a horse and buggy go?”

“Oh, didn’t you hear? They stole the Keim brothers’ car. Jacob is going have to live with a whole lot of guilt. Sooner or later, wherever he is, he’s going to confess, if not to the police, then to the elders. He’ll eventually spend time behind bars. I can almost guarantee that. Now that mousy little wife of his—”

Gabe chuckled. “Whom you clearly don’t like.”

“Well—”

“It’s all right. But what about the bogus gym teacher? What happens to her?”

“She’s being charged with first-degree murder for running down Thelma Hershberger. She would have gotten away with it, since the car was barely damaged, but poor Thelma left behind just enough of her DNA on the bumper. The arraignment is tomorrow. Melvin says we’re lucky to try her in Bedford County on the drug charges. She’s wanted in three other Pennsylvania counties and at least one in Ohio. She’s the ringmaster and chief supplier of a whole network of church and youth group–related drug rings. Thank heavens this was the only Amish one.”

“Any Jewish?” Gabe asked.

I shrugged. “Melvin was sparse with the details. He and Susannah are off to a fund-raiser tonight.”

Gabe smiled. “I know. I donated to their campaign.”

“You
what
?”

“It was only a thousand dollars. I figured it was worth it to get him off your back for a while. I made him promise not to bring you his hard cases for two weeks.”

“Thanks!” I took a swig of my cow juice. “You’ve really forgiven me?”

He sipped his wine. “How could I not? You’ve apologized a million times. Besides, the first words out of your
coal-blackened lips were ‘I’m sorry.’ I want you to know, Magdalena, that really got to me.”

“I must have looked a sight!” I wailed.

“You still do. And I mean that in the nicest way.” We were sitting on his Italian leather sofa—well apart, mind you—but he patted the spot next to him seductively. “Magdalena, I’ve been thinking. I’d like to take this relationship to another level.”

My heart raced and my hand shook so hard the milk in my glass turned to butter. “You what?” I asked in a strangled voice.

“Put your feet in my lap, Magdalena. I’d like to give your poor tootsies a nice long massage.”

It was then that I
knew
I’d died and gone to Heaven.

(In honor of Gabriel Rosen,
who gives one heck of a foot massage.)

Batter

¹
⁄2 cup flour

¹
⁄8 teaspoon salt

2 eggs, beaten

²
⁄3 cup milk

1 tablespoon melted butter

Filling

¹
⁄2 pound dry cottage cheese

2 egg yolks

¹
⁄2 teaspoon cinnamon

2 tablespoons sugar

dash salt (optional)

butter, for frying

Batter:
Sift flour and salt together; add rest of ingredients and mix until smooth. Drop about 3 tablespoons batter onto a hot 6-inch skillet. Tilt pan to cover bottom. Cook one side only until brown.

Filling:
Put cottage cheese through a sieve. Discard liquid. Add the rest of the ingredients to the cottage cheese and mix well.

Assembly:
Place a tablespoon of filling in the center of each blintz on the brown side. Fold both sides over the filling; then fold over the bottom and top, forming a tight pocket. Fry in butter until both sides are golden brown. Or you can bake blintzes in a greased baking pan. Brush the tops with melted butter and sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar. Enjoy!