The Crepes of Wrath (3 page)

The couple giggled again. Freni stared harder, but that only sent the couple into spasms. At last, my plucky little cook flapped her arms in disgust and barreled off to the kitchen. The vagaries of a wood-burning stove are within her ken, but the English will forever be an enigma.

I, on the other hand, have more experience with the ways of the world. I singled out Santa.

“Shame on you,” I said sternly. “You have just upset that nice little Amish woman.”

The man blinked and searched for a speaking voice. “Uh, uh, we certainly didn’t mean to.”

“Well, you did. All she wanted to know was whether or not you ate meat. You didn’t have to laugh at her.”

He turned the color of the real Santa’s suit. “We weren’t laughing
at
her. It was a private joke. You see, my honey bunch and I were just discussing how we were going to explain the new diet we’re on.”

I felt the makings of a headache. “Which diet might that be?”

“We’re carnivores.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We eat only meat. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“Only
meat
?”

“The rarer the better,” Mrs. Claus chortled.

I grimaced. “Surely you’re joking.”

“Oh, no,” Santa said. “We’ve each lost ten pounds on this diet.”

“When’s the last time you saw a fat tiger?” Mrs. Claus asked.

“Well, never, but on the other hand, not that many tigers pass through Hernia.”

“Good one.” He extended a pudgy paw. “I’m Keith Bunch, by the way, and this is my wife, Honey.”

“You’re serious?”

“We are now.”

I took a nervous step back. “You’re not part of some Satanic cult, are you?”

That brought guffaws. “Oh, no,” Honey Bunch said after a great deal of wasted time. “We’re just two old retirees out to see the country.”

“Retirees? Surely you’re aware of my rates.”

“We were both lawyers. Personal injury cases.”

“Well, in that case, I have some wonderful news for you,” and went on to explain A.L.P.O.

The Bunches thought the plan delightful. They signed up for every chore and even offered to make their own meals. I told them the latter was not only unnecessary, but inadvisable. The Good Lord Himself would have a hard time distributing loaves and fishes in Freni’s kitchen.

“But what about our special cake?” Honey asked.

“What special cake?”

“Tomorrow is our fifty-fifth wedding anniversary,” Keith said, putting his arm around Honey.

She nodded vigorously. “It’s a very simple recipe really. You just take a rolled rump roast—two if they’re small—and cover it with liver pâté. If the roasts are small, you see, you stack them one on the other with a layer of pâté icing between.”

“I want green icing,” Keith said and giggled.

I gagged. Thank heavens I was just steps from the powder room, and the delightful Darlene Townsend would be cleaning it later that day. When I was quite through being sick, I plastered my best hostess smile on my face, for I had yet to get a credit card or check from the plump pair.

Unfortunately the couple paid in cash.
Green
cash. I streamlined the transaction and hustled their bustles into the elevator. No impossibly steep stairs for litigious elves with a fondness for flesh.

Alone once more, I made a mental note to prescreen my guests. In the old days, when I catered almost exclusively to the rich and famous—and often infamous—my primary concern was money. Well, the Bible warns us about greed, doesn’t it? Over the years I’ve had to pay dearly for flagrantly fleecing the fortunate. On several occasions I’ve almost lost my life, and I’ve lost my dignity more times than Dennis Rodman. In the future I would at least ask a few basic questions of potential guests—like what flavor icing do you prefer?

I was lost deep in thought, Little Freni snuggled peacefully against my meager bosom, when the last of my expected guests arrived. I didn’t even hear the door open, and nearly jumped out of my cotton hose when I glanced up and saw them standing there.

“Gracious sakes alive!” I clutched my chest, waking Little Freni.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you.”

Mercifully I remembered to switch to my fake German. “Velcommen to zee PennDeutsch Inn. My nommen ist Magdalena Yoder und I see by my reservations list zat you must be zee Hansons. Zee Herr Doktor Hansons, yah?” I looked closer at the book. “Ach, zee Herr und Herren Doktors.”

Dr. Margaret Hanson and her husband, Dr. George Hanson, exchanged amused glances. They were an attractive, well-dressed African-American couple, the kind of folks I love having as guests.

I scrambled for more words to mangle. “Vat vell it be today, zee Visa or zee MasterCard?”

Their looks of amusement turned to pity.

Honesty may be the best policy, but unfortunately it is often my last resort. I sighed miserably.

“Okay, so I’m not a native Pennsylvania Dutch speaker, and maybe I’m only a Mennonite, but I
am
a native of Pennsylvania and all my ancestors were Amish, so I have a right to pretend to speak like them, don’t I? That isn’t so weird, is it? I daresay you English are not without your foibles.”

The doctors raised their eyebrows in tandem.

“English is a generic term for ‘outsiders,’ ” I hastened to explain. “People not of the faith. You aren’t Mennonite, are you?”

They shook their well-groomed heads.

“Now, your names, address, and phone number are the only things I have on your reservation card, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask a few simple questions.”

I waited an appropriate length of time for them to respond, and when they didn’t, I barreled on. “You two wouldn’t by any chance be carnivores, would you? Or practicing mediums?”

The doctors exchanged worried glances.

“I know those might sound like silly questions to you, but you wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. It started at three in the morning with the postmistress tapping on my window like a giant raven. Then one of my guests had a vision of the world’s worst cook lying on her back on a purple cloud. Minutes later my brother-in-law, the praying mantis, asks me to help him solve a murder case while he runs for public office. As if that weren’t enough, Santa and his wife ask me to make them a meat cake for their anniversary. Thank heavens the world’s tallest woman is friendly, although whom she expects to recruit in Hernia is beyond me.”

Dr. Margaret Hanson glanced nervously at the door. “Uh—I think we may have left something in the car.”

“Ah yes, the car.” Dr. George Hanson put his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulder.

“Don’t go!” I wailed. “I’m really a very normal woman.”

At that precise moment, my one-pound bundle of joy
wailed piteously from the depths of my bosom. As you may know from personal experience, Siamese cats have loud, clear voices, and can sound uncannily like a human baby.

The doctors stared at my chest.

“She’s hungry,” I hastened to explain. “Either that, or she has to use the litter box.”

Dr. Margaret Hanson smiled kindly. “Miss Yoder, have you taken your medications for the day?”

“
What?
I’ll have you know I’m as sane as the next person!”

As if on cue, the front door opened and in swirled my sister, Susannah. Behind her trailed fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric. Over her head was a cardboard carton with a square hole cut out to frame her face. Black knobs had been drawn on either side of the box and a pair of bent metal rabbit ears were taped to the top.

“Hey, Mags, how do I look on TV?”

Basic Crepe Batter

4 eggs

2
¹
⁄4 cups milk

¹
⁄4 cup melted butter

¹
⁄8 teaspoon salt

2 cups flour

Combine all ingredients in a blender and blend well. Scrape sides and blend again for 10 seconds. Or you may mix all ingredients together in a mixing bowl with a whisk or mixer.

Crepes can be made in a greased 6-, 7-, or 9-inch skillet or special crepe pans. If you use a crepe maker, follow the manufacturer’s directions since some require the crepe to be cooked on both sides, and others just browned on one side.

If you are using a skillet, grease it with oil or butter if it is not a nonstick pan. Heat the skillet first, then pour 2 or 3 tablespoons of batter into the skillet, tilting the
skillet quickly so that the batter covers the bottom of the pan before it sets. Return the skillet to medium-high heat and cook until the bottom is brown, about 1 minute. Turn the crepe carefully with a spatula and cook the other side for about 30 seconds. If the crepe tears, patch it with a little batter and continue cooking.

MAKES ABOUT
32
CREPES
.

“Go away,” I whispered.

“What?”

“Not now, sis,” I hissed. I made shooing motions that I hoped were discreet.

Perhaps Little Freni’s loud mewing was making it hard for her to hear. Susannah paid no attention to the Hansons and prattled on.

“Mags, I’m so excited! My sweetykins is going to run a political ad and he wants me to be in it. I know it’s for Melvin’s campaign and everything, but there’s always a chance someone from Hollywood will see it and want me to star in a movie. So I was talking to Sherri Hall, who’s been on TV and in a movie—if you count that video she made for her dentist on how to brush your teeth—and she said you’re supposed to wear bright colors. Do you think this is bright enough?”

“You look like a boil in need of lancing,” I said charitably. I was still whispering, of course.

My baby sister squealed with glee. “Oh, Mags, I knew you’d say that, which means this outfit is perfect! Now about my makeup—”

“Susannah, if you go away right now, I’ll donate one hundred dollars to Melvin’s campaign.”

“Hey thanks, Mags! But do you think this eye shadow—”

“Two hundred bucks if you leave without another word.”

Susannah may be eccentric, but she’s not stupid. She clamped one hand over her mouth, but then in a move that defied centuries of inbred reserve, gave me a one-armed hug. I was so touched by this gesture that I overcame my own inbreeding, and hugged her back.

While this sisterly scene might sound touching to some, it was not amusing to Little Freni, who stopped meowing and began hissing like cold water dribbled on a hot stove. Of course, this excited Shnookums, the dinky dog Susannah carries around in her bra. I’m quite sure the miniature mangy mutt would have yipped and yapped himself into a frothing frenzy, had he not accidentally piddled.

Susannah shrieked, turned white as a crock of farmer’s cheese, and fled the inn. To her credit, however, she said nothing.

I smiled warmly at the Delaware docs. “I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.”

Dr. George Hanson’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you, Miss Yoder, but we’ll be finding accommodations elsewhere.”

I pulled Little Freni from the nether reaches of my lingerie and placed her on the counter. “You see, there really was a kitten in there. And she was hungry, that’s all.” I reached under the counter and withdrew her saucer and a box of semisoft kitty chow. I poured a serving of chow on the plate, and Little Freni immediately began to wolf it down.

Dr. Margaret Hanson put a restraining hand on her husband’s arm. “I think I’d like to stay, George.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. This really is a very charming inn, and I couldn’t help but notice as we drove in that there is a very large pond across the road.” She addressed me. “Are there fish in that pond?”

“More fish than in a Starkist factory.”

“Would my husband be permitted to fish there?”

“It’s actually a requirement.”

Dr. George Hanson frowned. “I didn’t bring my tackle. Besides, I don’t have a Pennsylvania fishing license.”

“No problem. I have oodles of bamboo poles, and you don’t need a license. That’s a private pond.”

“Hmm. I haven’t fished with a bamboo pole since I was a kid. What kind of fish are in that pond, and what would I use for bait?”

“There are bluegills and bass, and Little Freni here and I will dig all the worms you want. Won’t we, Little Freni?”

Little Freni burped.

Dr. Margaret smiled, but her husband appeared unconvinced.

“My cousin Hiram caught a six-pound bass,” I said quickly. That may have been a slight exaggeration, but isn’t that what fish stories are all about?

Dr. George Hanson glanced at the door, and then back at me. “Well—”

“And if you get tired of fishing, George, it would make a lovely spot for you to set up your easel and paint.”

Dr. George Hanson looked back at the door. Apparently what he saw outside was more tempting than I was off-putting. He excused himself to fetch the luggage while his wife completed registration. I was so relieved I decided not to even mention A.L.P.O.

“You made the right decision. You won’t regret it. You’ll love Hernia, and your stay at the PennDutch in particular.”

Dr. Margaret Hanson looked at me, her large brown eyes filled with compassion. “I’m sure we will.”

I felt the need to babble. “Lots of famous people have stayed here. Streisand, Spielberg, even the Clintons. I don’t usually let guests pick their rooms, but in your
case I’m willing to make an exception. Of course, I’ll have to shuffle folks around a bit, but that’s really no problem. So which would you like, the bed Babs slept in, or the bed Bill claims he
didn’t
sleep in?”

She cleared her throat, softly, like the lady she was. “Miss Yoder, I would be happy to counsel you. We could begin tomorrow morning, say around ten?”

“
Counsel
me?” I said loud enough to make Little Freni stop eating. “You want to counsel
me
?”

She didn’t even blink. “Yes, I’m a psychiatrist. My husband is one as well, but he’s chosen to retire. So, is ten o’clock all right?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“We could make it in the afternoon if you prefer.”

“I mean about the counseling!”

“I’m quite serious. I think you could benefit from my services.”

“But I’m not the one who’s crazy,” I wailed.

“My usual fee is one hundred twenty-dollars an hour. However, given your—uh”—she glanced around my tidy, but simply furnished inn—“special circumstances, I’m willing to waive my fee.”

“You mean you’re willing to shrink me for free?”

The doctor laughed pleasantly. “I prefer to call it counseling, or therapy, but yes, I’m willing to do it for free.”

“Then ten it is,” I said, causing ten generations of ancestors to turn over simultaneously in their graves.

Big Freni—Freni Hostetler—was rolling pie crusts when I caught up with her in the kitchen. The woman has rolled enough dough to pave a road from here to California, yet she still manages to cover herself from head to toe with flour. Stout as she is, that Sunday afternoon she resembled a polar bear cub.

“Freni!” I exclaimed. “It’s the Sabbath! You shouldn’t be making pies.”

My kinswoman wiped the flour from her glasses with
a flour-covered sleeve. “Ach! The Good Lord Himself picked corn on the Sabbath. Is baking pies so different?”

“It was His disciples who picked the corn, dear. And they were hungry. You know we serve sandwiches to our guests on Sunday evenings, and all you need to do is set things up. Why aren’t you at home with your family?”

“Family shmamily. This morning I told Barbara to bundle up the little ones for the buggy ride to church. Can you guess what she said, Magdalena?”

I shrugged.

“That’s exactly what Barbara said! Nothing!” She wiped her glasses again, leaving a fringe of discarded dough hanging from her right earpiece.

“But it
is
June, dear,” I said gently. “The low temperature this morning was near seventy. Your grandbabies wouldn’t have gotten cold.”

“Yah, but in my day we dressed the little ones properly, and we did not have all the sickness like we do today.”

There was no point in arguing with a woman who firmly believes that the common cold is caused by air temperature, and not a slew of viruses. Still, Freni was obviously suffering emotionally, and there just might be something I could do to help.

“Freni, have you ever considered seeing a shrink?”

“Ach!”

“There’s nothing in the Bible against it, you know. And we just happen to have one staying at the inn. Tomorrow morning I’m getting shrunk myself.”

Freni looked me up and down, the strip of pie dough flapping with the movement. “Yah, you can afford this shrinking. Barbara too.” Then she had a thought, and suddenly I could see her beady eyes burning brightly behind the dirty lenses. “How
much
can my Barbara shrink?”

“Not that kind of shrinking, dear! I mean a psychiatrist.”

“Ach, Magdalena, how you talk. Your mama would be ashamed if she could hear you. There are no psychiatrists mentioned in the Bible.”

“It doesn’t mention glasses either, but you’re wearing them.”

Freni is adept at changing the subject to avoid losing an argument. “So how many carnivals do I cook for?”

“That’s carnivores, dear, and that’s what I came to tell you. There are two of those, one vegetarian, and the rest said they’ll eat anything. Oh, except that Miss Townsend says she hates lima beans. Now
there
is a gal who could use some shrinking.”

Freni nodded. “Yah, I saw her in the parlor earlier. She is even taller than my Barbara.” Freni clucked like a hen who had just laid an egg. “A sin if you ask me.”

“What?”

“
That’s
in the Bible, Magdalena. David and Goliath.”

It was time to dodge like the master, above whose floury face I loomed. “Well, I’m off to visit Joseph Mast. Will you watch Little Freni while I’m gone?”

“Ach!” Freni appeared perturbed by my request, but I know she has a fondness for my bundle of fuzz. A namesake is a namesake after all, even if it’s not a proper grandchild.

I extracted the mite from her cozy quarters and set her gently on the floor. Freni, like many Amish women of her generation, does not wear brassieres, and even if she did, there would be no room for a hankie, much less a kitten.

“Any pies ready that I can take to him?”

“So soon?”

“Well, I suppose I could wait an hour or so. When will these pies be done?”

“Not the pies, Magdalena. I mean it is so soon that you court this man, his wife dead now just a week.”

“
What?
I am not off to court, as you so quaintly put it, Joseph Mast. For your information, Melvin asked me to look into Lizzie’s death.”

Freni mumbled something unintelligible. I didn’t even know which language she used.

“Come again?”

Patches of Freni’s cheeks shone pink through the white mask. A godly woman, she tries not to pass judgment, but like me, she sometimes fails. This time, however, she was a saint.

“That’s okay,” I coaxed. “You and I are family.”

“I said, there is nothing suspicious about that woman’s death. It was her cooking. If you ask me, Lizzie Mast committed suicide. Accidental suicide.”

I tried not to laugh. “Bad-tasting food isn’t necessarily lethal.” And then because Freni is both family and friend, I let the cat out of the bag. “It was drugs, dear. Illegal drugs.”

I’m sure Freni blinked behind her coated lenses. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

“Something they call Angel Dust,” I said. “It’s a very powerful drug I’ve read about in the newspapers.”

“Ach, but that is impossible. Lizzie Mast was the salt of the earth.”

“Who often used too much salt,” I said and clamped a hand over my irreverent mouth.

“Yah, she was a terrible cook, but our Lizzie would never do such a thing!”

“You mean take drugs? Just a minute ago you said you thought she might have killed herself. That’s a lot worse than taking drugs.”

Freni removed her glasses and vigorously wiped them on her apron. Her action served only to rearrange the smudges.

“Yah, but I was only joking!”

“You were not.”

“Maybe half-joking.”

“I’ll grant you that. After all, Lizzie Mast didn’t have the easiest life.”

“Ach, no children and married to Joseph.”

“And you had the nerve to think I liked the man!”

Joseph Mast had a reputation for being strange. Strange and silent.

“Some women get desperate,” Freni said, and trained her beady little eyes on mine.

“I resent that remark. I am perfectly happy being a single woman.” I sighed. “Anyway, I better get this visit to Joseph over with. Not that talking to him will do any good. I’ll be lucky if he says two words.”