The Crepes of Wrath (4 page)

Freni popped her glasses back into place. “
Three
words. The man will only say three words at a time.”

“Whatever. Freni, dear, can you keep a secret?”

“Ach! That you should ask such a thing, hurts me here.” She pounded her ample bosom with a floury fist.

“I mean it, Freni. This has to stay between you and I.”

“Yah, yah,” she said irritably. I have never kept a secret from the woman, and no doubt she found my caution offensive.

“Well, I don’t have any proof, but I do have reason to believe that Lizzie’s death may not have been accidental. It may have been murder.”

Freni’s bosom got another floury pounding. “Ach!”

I told her about Thelma Hershberger’s nocturnal visit. Freni listened intently, but began shaking her head before I was halfway through.

“Ach, that woman,” she said, interrupting me, “she is the vein of my existence.”

“Do you mean ‘bane,’ dear?”

“Yah. Such gossip she spreads. Most of it lies. My Mose,” Freni said, referring to her husband of almost fifty years, “he says that Thelma Hershberger makes up these stories because she does not have excitement in her life. Can this be true?”

I shrugged. What did Mose, or any Amish man, know about excitement? Was roofing a barn exciting? How about birthing a calf?

“So you think this warning note might not have existed?” I asked.

“Yah, that is what I think!” Freni’s vehemence was a
tip-off that Thelma’s tongue had crossed her path on at least one occasion.

“So what did she say about you, dear?”

“Ach, not me! The babies. She says they are slow.”

“Slow? That’s ridiculous! They’re not even crawling yet. How can she call them slow?”

Freni rapped her head with her knuckles. “In the koph! She says they are slow up here.”

“What nonsense! Those are the brightest little babies I’ve ever seen.”

Freni beamed. “Yah, they are true Hostetlers.”

I opened the back door to the kitchen, but Freni’s stubby fingers caught my sleeve. “These illegal drugs you spoke of—this Angel powder—that’s what they do in the city, Magdalena. Not in Hernia.”

“Au contraire, dear. It’s everywhere these days.”

“But only among the English, yah?”

“Not
only,
” I said.

“But our people—
my
people,” she said, narrowing the field further, “what do they know from drugs? Who teaches them such things?”

“It’s a national sickness, Freni. I don’t know how Amish youth get started. Maybe they encounter drugs during
rumschpringe.
”

Freni recoiled. “Ach!”

But it seemed as logical an explanation as any. Rumschpringe literally means “running around.” When Amish youth enter their late teens they are given a great deal of personal freedom. Parents turn a blind eye to youths with boom boxes strapped to their buggies, nighttime excursions to movie theaters and other centers of sins, and in some cases, even the ownership of automobiles. Of course, the cars are carefully hidden in a barn by day so as not to shame the family. A few brave souls dare to leave the community altogether and, dressed in worldly clothes, head for the big cities. For better or for worse, some never return.

The Amish elders recognize the rebellious teenage
spirit and their wisdom is to allow this spirit to express itself before adulthood. When an Amish person reaches his or her twenties, they are expected to settle down. The defining moment is baptism, whereupon the applicant renounces the ways of the world and agrees to be submissive to the
Ordnung,
the rules of the church. This is expected to be a lifelong commitment. Often those who, for one reason or another, simply can’t conform elect to become Mennonites. This was the case for both sets of my grandparents.

My Mennonite faith has no counterpart to rumschpringe. In many instances, we are far stricter with our young folk than are the normally conservative Amish. On the other hand, we have more latitude as adults. The choice for us is not as dramatic. In fact, there are those who say we sit on the fence, with one foot in tradition, the other in the world. Only rarely does one of our number fall off the fence and into the Amish community. To the contrary, we tumble with some regularity into other Anabaptist denominations and, in some extreme cases, like that of my sister, become Presbyterians. But to my knowledge, even Susannah has managed to stay clear of drugs.

“Well,” I said, “I’ll just have to poke around. If Joseph Mast isn’t forthcoming, I’ll try my Amish contacts,
such
as they are.” I gave Freni a meaningful look. “Maybe one of
them
has heard of some kids recently back from the city.”

Perhaps the grimy glasses prevented Freni from picking up on my expression. Perhaps she was one of the many who, strange as it sounds, can’t hear as well when their vision is impaired. Or perhaps she was just being Freni, i.e. stubborn. At any rate, she made no offer to help.

“So,” I said patiently, “have you heard of any young people back from ‘outside’?”

Freni thumped her rolling pin on the table with such force that specks of plaster drifted down and dusted her dough.

“You want drugs?” she demanded. “Then try that English couple who bought the Berkey farm last year.”

“You mean the Hamptons?”

Freni shrugged. “Who knows from funny English names? But I see them in Miller’s Feed Store all the time. Her with a young woman’s face on an old woman’s body, and him—ach, he wears perfume! Now I ask you, Magdalena, what do English like that want in our store?”

“It isn’t
our
store, dear, it’s the Millers’. And maybe the Hamptons want garden supplies, shovels and rakes, that kind of thing.” I paused to consider any hidden agenda she might have, perhaps some rumschpringe gossip she was sitting on, but just aching to tell. “Freni, dear, you haven’t heard anything about the Hamptons giving parties, have you?”

Just a month before, a tourist couple up in Bedford had held an impromptu party in their hotel room. The guests were all Amish teenagers. Booze was the drug of choice on that occasion, and young Ben Bontrager had been hospitalized for alcohol poisoning.

At any rate, Freni refused to answer my question. Her only response, if you can call it one, was to pound my table with her rolling pin and grunt as she pushed it across the dough. No doubt it was going to be the thinnest pie crust on record.

I sighed. “Well, at least we’ll get more pies this way. Just remember to skimp on filling too.”

Not a peep.

I gave up and headed out to do my job. But I hadn’t even got all the way through the door when I bumped heads with the most gorgeous man God ever created.

I know, one doesn’t normally refer to men as “gorgeous.” But there is no other word that so aptly describes Dr. Gabriel Rosen. “Handsome” would be barely adequate if I was describing just his physical appearance. Gabe makes most men look like old nags that have been ridden hard and put away wet. He has thick dark wavy hair, chiseled features, straight white teeth, and his body—well, it would be a sin to describe it in any detail. Not that I am at all familiar with it, mind you!

Anyway, my whole point is that there is more to Gabe’s looks than just the outer layer. It is the twinkle in his eyes that bumps him from handsome up to gorgeous. Imagine, if you would, two perfectly formed roses, one unscented, the other fragrant. Gabe is the fragrant flower. His manly smell stirs the juices of my soul—okay, so perhaps that is a bad analogy. Just trust me on this one—Gabe is gorgeous.

At any rate, the doorway bump wasn’t painful. It was, however, embarrassing.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, assuming full blame.

“No reason to be sorry. It’s kind of fun bumping into you.”

“You’re fun to bump too.”

Gabe grinned. “You’re a real hoot, Magdalena, you know that?”

“You should hear me holler.”

He winked. “I’d love to.”

I blushed to the tips of my stocking-covered toes. “Did you want something, Gabe? I mean, I was just leaving and—”

“I want to ask you out.”

“What?” I jiggled a pinkie discreetly in my left ear. It’s been known to give out on me in times of stress.

“You heard me. I want us to go out.”

I tried the other ear for good measure. “Out where?”

He laughed. “Out like on a date. Where doesn’t matter to me, just as long as it’s with you. How about the movies? Surely there are theaters in Bedford.”

Just so you know, Dr. Gabriel is also an outsider. He moved here from New York City about a month before the Hamptons arrived. Although he is only my age, Gabe is retired, and was seeking a quiet place in the country where he could try his hand at writing novels. Mysteries, to be exact.

“Of course there are movie theaters in Bedford.” I bit my lip nervously before continuing. “But you see, I don’t go to movies.”

“Not ever?”

I shook my head miserably. Many Mennonites do go to movies, but I belong to one of the more conservative branches. Besides, what was the point in seeing those people act on a screen, when I could see them up close and personal here at the inn?

“Do you bowl?”

“Once. They paid me not to come back.”

“Hmm. Well, we could just go out to eat. Any suggestions?”

“How about a picnic?”

“Your farm or mine?”

“Actually I was thinking of Stucky Ridge. You ever been up there?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“I think you’d like it. It’s that mountain just south of town. There’s a little cemetery up there where all the founders of Hernia are buried.”

Gabe chuckled. “Supper with a bunch of stiffs! Well, it may help supply atmosphere for the chapter I’m working on.”

“There’s more up there than just graves. Why, there’s a nice little park with picnic benches and great views of Hernia and the valley. You’ll love it, I know. Even teenagers like it up there.”

“Ah, the make-out zone.”

“That’s not what I meant!” I wailed.

He winked. “Well, you seem pretty anxious to get me up there. What say we leave here at six?”

“Today?”

“That was my plan. But of course, we could always make it some other time.”

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Mama always used to say. Unfortunately she never said anything about dates. But since neither my hand nor my bush had seen a date in a long time, I decided I’d better jump at the chance.

I glanced at my watch. It was already close to four o’clock.

“Today will be just fine, but I was just on my way to see Joseph Mast. You know, the husband of the local woman who died last week.” I paused. Surely it was all right to tell Gabe that I was investigating the Mast case, but in the end something held me back. “So, anyway, it may take me a while. Can we make that six-thirty?”

“Super. Oh, and don’t bring anything. This is my treat.”

“You sure? I could at least bring some lawn chairs, maybe a blanket.”

“A blanket would be nice,” Gabe said, and winked again.

This time I not only blushed, I felt my knees go weak. “I’ll bring two chairs.”

“Then I’ll bring the blanket. A good picnic always involves a blanket somehow.”

I hobbled to my car while I still could.

I’d left Little Freni at home, which was just as well. The Masts never had any children, but they seemed to have every kind of animal imaginable. Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t live on a farm either, but a double lot on the west side of Hernia. Alas, our zoning laws are lax. The Masts had a llama, three goats, and a miniature horse that barely came up to my knees. That was just for starters. In order to reach the front door, I had to negotiate my way through a pack of panting pooches, a bevy of bickering bantams, and a gaggle of garrulous geese. There were lesser creatures as well, and I fear I may have stepped on a few, if the squeaks and hisses (and occasional crunch) were any indication. I didn’t dare to look down. I hate seeing a perfectly good pair of shoes ruined. It was no wonder Melvin foisted the job on me.

At any rate, Joseph didn’t answer the door when I knocked, so I trudged around to the rear of the house. The man was a carpenter—a very good one, I hear—and sure enough he was in his shop busily sanding a curved piece of wood. He was, of course, not alone. A fourth goat perched on a stool next to the workbench and regarded me with surprisingly human and somewhat lustful eyes, and in the corner a brightly colored parrot hung upsidedown from a wooden bar.

“Hello,” I said cheerily. “I’m Magdalena Yoder. Remember me?”

“Yup.” Joseph, a stout man with red hair, a galaxy of freckles, and wire-rim glasses, hadn’t even bothered to look up from his work.

“I’d like to express my condolences again, if I may. Your wife was certainly one of a kind, and I’m sure you miss her a great deal.”

“Yup.”

I cast about for a way to ease into my investigation. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“But we could always use more rain.”

“Yup.”

“So what is that you’re building there?” I pointed pointlessly at the work in progress. “An ark?”

“Nope.”

“Say, Joseph—I hope you don’t mind me calling you that—I didn’t really know your wife all that well, but I just wanted to say she was—uh, well, she was exceptional.”

“Yup.”

“One of a kind, you might say.”

“Yup.”

I was obviously not thinking fast on my feet. It was time to assume a position more conducive to intracranial activity.

“Mind if I sit?”

“Nope.”

“I was talking to the goat.”

Joseph grunted.

I turned to the beast. “Now be a dear and hop off that stool. You have four feet to my two.”

The goat grunted.

“Move it, Billy!”

“Name’s Amanda,” Joseph said.

“Wow, a multisyllabic word!” I slapped my own cheek—gently of course. “So it’s a she?”

He nodded. “Nubian nanny.”

“How original.” Joseph grunted again.

Clearly the pleasantries were over. It was time to get down to business. Quite justifiably I gave the goat a gentle push.

Amanda was not so polite. She butted my bosom with her knobby head, and I nearly fell over backward. The thud of bone hitting bone was sickening.

Now I know there are some who might think that a mature woman should let a rude ruminant remain roosting. I, however, firmly believe that the Good Lord intends us to use our attributes to the best of our individual abilities. Having said that, I don’t mind sharing that I backed up ten paces, set my purse carefully down on the sawdust-littered floor, lowered my head, and charged the recalcitrant nanny.

I may be skinny, but I outweighed the goat. Amanda flew through the air with the greatest of ease, knocking the parrot off her wooden trapeze. The parrot squawked as she fluttered to the floor, stirring a great cloud of sawdust.

“Darn!” I said, which is as bad as I can swear. “Now my purse is all dirty.”

At first I thought the parrot was laughing at me. It could not have been the goat, because as soon as Amanda hit the floor of the workshop, she bolted in a bleating blur. Then slowly I realized the high-pitched laugh was coming from Joseph Mast, the recently bereaved husband.

“What’s so funny!” I demanded, arms akimbo. That posture happens to be a distinctly un-Mennonite one, but I didn’t care. I was in an English frame of mind.

Joseph laid down his sandpaper. “You are what’s so funny! No one’s ever gotten the best of Amanda before.”

I stared at the man.

“Sit down,” he said, nodding at the vacated stool. “You’ve earned the right to sit there.”

I sat. “So you can talk?”

He laughed again. “It’s true that I’m shy around strangers. And most folks are strangers. But any woman who can put Amanda in her place is no stranger to me.”

I eyed the parrot, who was waddling through the dust, headed in my direction. “Does she bite?”

“It’s a he. His name is Benedict, and he’s a scarlet macaw. And yes, Benny could snap your finger in half
like it was a carrot stick.” Joseph reached down and, extending his own, apparently impervious finger, invited the parrot to hop on.

“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to hurt you?”

“He could. But I got him as a fledgling and hand-weaned him. Benedict and I have been buddies for twenty-two years.”

“That long?” I asked incredulously.

He lifted the parrot back up to his swinging perch. “Macaws can live to be one hundred. Now Amanda, she’s the amazing one. She’s lived twice as long as your average goat.”

“Oh great, make me feel guilty. Ousting a geriatric goat no longer seems like such a remarkable feat.”

“Well, it is in her case. She defines the word ‘stubborn.’ You see, my wife, Lizzie”—he paused to wipe away a tear—“never had any children. I guess you might say we filled the void with animals. Anyway, Amanda was our very first pet. Next thing we knew our little family was growing by leaps and bounds.”

“Pun intended, I’m sure.”

He grinned. “I’m afraid not. At any rate, it was Lizzie’s idea to name the animals starting with the first letter of the alphabet. You know, like they do hurricanes.”

“Good heavens! Have you made it to Z?”

“Twice. Zeek—that’s with two E’s—is a French poodle. You may have met him coming around the yard. And Zelda, well, she’s a giant Amazon dung beetle we bought through a mail-order catalogue. She helps keep the place clean.”

I remembered the crunch underfoot. “Not anymore.”

He raised a sparse red brow above the wire frames. “I beg your pardon?”

“Nothing. Mr. Mast—”

“Please call me Joe.”

“Joe then. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”

He nodded. “Our dearly beloved chief of police, Melvin Stoltzfus, sent you, didn’t he?”

“How did you know?”

“Well, you didn’t come carrying a cake or a pie, and everyone knows you help out Melvin when he gets stumped.”

I flushed with pride. “
Do
they?”

“Don’t get me wrong. Most folks don’t hold it against you.”

“You mean some do?” I wailed.

He had the grace to smile kindly. “Very few. Everyone knows the man is, well, how should I put this kindly—”

“A sandwich short of a picnic?”

“That analogy will do. It’s common knowledge he was butted in the head when he tried to milk a billy goat. Apparently his noggin isn’t as tough as yours.”

“Bull!”

He looked surprised.

“It was a
bull
he tried to milk, not a goat. And he was
kicked
in the head.”