The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (15 page)

“Well, I never!”

“That’s right. You haven’t been there to share in their dreadful meals.” He waved away the proffered menu and looked accusingly at me. “I was here last night, also.”

“In that case, would you like to order?”

Professor Barnes nodded. “Two eggs, please, poached well. Bacon. But not too crisp, mind you. I don’t like it when it shatters. Hmm, and instead of toast, I’ll have pancakes. And real maple syrup.” Wanda winked and the do wobbled. Annihilation was imminent.

“Professor, what would you like to drink?”

“A large orange juice and some decaffeinated coffee. Oh, and bring lots of half and half.”

Wanda beamed again, this time so broadly that even the professor edged toward the window. “I can see that you two were meant for each other,” she said, “so I’ll leave you little lovebirds alone.”

“Don’t leave me!” I wailed to her rapidly retreating back.

The professor fixed his rheumy eyes on me. “I will be expecting a partial refund, of course.”

“What?”

“Assuming my linens are changed today, and I get fresh towels. Otherwise I expect a full refund.”

“You’re off your rocker,” I said, not unkindly. “And about those pillows. Surely you can come up with something softer. Like maybe some rocks.”

“Try your head, dear,” I mumbled.

“While you’re at it, Miss Yoder, I expect you to speak to the lad in Room Six.”

My eyes widened. “Jacko?”

“I don’t know his name. But at the rates you charge—well, a good night’s sleep is not too much to ask. That jumping and hollering kept me up until the wee hours.”

“He brought the chimp this time?” I’ve never asked the man just what it is he does with all those animals. But for the record, I much prefer the llama to the chimp.

Massive eyebrows met briefly, like two land crabs greeting each other at low tide. “If we’re to use that rocker imagery, Miss Yoder, I’m afraid your rocker has gone off the porch entirely.”

“How dare you insult me like that!”

“How dare you try and pass that horrible little town of Hernia off as the Pennsylvania Dutch capital of the country?”

“But it is!” That, of course, depends on how you define “is.” And who said we have nothing for which to thank Kenneth Starr?

“Pshaw!” The pompous professor actually said that. I wouldn’t lie on a stomach that was empty, save for one piece of toast.

“Well, we don’t put the same commercial spin on our heritage here that they do in Lancaster County. But we have lots of Amish and Mennonites just the same.”

“Are you even a real Mennonite?”

“Of course. Born and bred. Although technically, I’ve never actually been bred—”

“Miss Yoder!” he said, his voice sharp with impatience.

“That’s Proprietress, dear. Remember?”

He stood. “That does it. You are simply impossible. I shall be finding new lodgings for tonight.”

“Lodgings? Beavers live in lodges for Pete’s sake. And Elks—the partying kind—hang out in lodges. The PennDutch is not a lodge, I’ll have you know. And for the record, far finer folks than you have laid their heads on my pillows and slept just fine.”

Dr. Barnes must not have been all that hungry, because he stalked off.

Although I was ravenous, I chased after him. I have been known to apologize, if it will bring a paying guest back. At any rate, I certainly did not intend to pay for his breakfast.

Alas, I hadn’t gotten more than ten feet when I tripped, and fell right into the lap of trouble.

"Susannah!” I struggled to my feet. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Watching you put the moves on that old dude, Mags. Really, sis, you could do better than that.” How could I not have seen my sister, sitting just two booths back, swaddled as she was in hot pink drapes? Love may be blind, not as blind as hunger.

“Look who’s talking?” I wailed. “Besides, I wasn’t putting the moves on Professor Barnes. I’ve already got a man, remember?”

“Who?”

“Susannah! You know darn well who.”

“Oh, you mean that hunk who bought Aaron’s old house? Did he finally ask you out?”

“No, he didn’t ask me out. There’s no need. He lives right across the road from me.”

“So?”

“So, we’re both mature adults, for crying out loud. We don’t go on dates. We just get to know each other.”

Susannah clapped her hands and squealed with glee. At least seven diners put down their forks to watch. “Did you do it, Mags?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The mattress mambo. The horizontal tango. The waltz of lust. Did you do it with Dr. Rosen?”

“Susannah!” I find it hard to believe that Susannah and I are related. Had I not been ten at the time she was born, and seen Mama just prior to, and soon after, the birth, I would have believed her story that Susannah was found under a cabbage. Due to a preponderance of evidence, I can only conclude that Mama was not the Goody Two-shoes she claimed to be, and that Susannah is the fruit of some English man’s loins and, in some quirk of nature, my little sister received all her genetic material from her father, and none from our mother. Not a single drop of Amish or Mennonite blood flows through her veins, that’s for sure. It seems probable that Susannah’s papa was a Presbyterian— given her attraction to that faith—and quite possibly he was a fabric salesman. And since Mama would never have cheated on Papa while in her right mind, I must conclude that Susannah’s father managed to intoxicate our mother. Of course, staunch Christian that she was, Mama would never have allowed alcohol to pass her lips. Therefore, it had to be something less overtly evil than booze, but just as discombobulating to the senses—like maybe marijuana brownies (not that I would know from experience, mind you). So, if you ever hear of a polyester-peddling, predestination- professing pothead, one who claims to have sowed his wild oats in Hernia in the early 1960s, let me know. I’d like to have a DNA test run on him.

My baby sister had already been served her food. She reached into a cloth-covered basket and withdrew a biscuit.

“You know, Mags, you should really get over this hang-up you have about sex. It’s a natural function. Just like eating.”

“There are plenty of natural functions one doesn’t discuss,” I said. I reached for her bread basket. “May I?”

“What’s mine is yours, sis.”

I reached into the warm basket, taking care not to lift the cloth more than was absolutely necessary. A cold biscuit makes a good hockey puck, but that’s it.

“What the—ouch!”

“Sssh, Mags! You don’t want us thrown out, do you?”

“But the rat’s in there!”

“He’s not a rat, Mags, he’s a dog. Besides, it’s nice and warm in there.”

“What’s wrong with your bra? Or your purse?” In Susannah, the boundaries of what is normal reach new limits.

She broke her biscuit in half, the wrong way, and sighed. “He’s been gaining weight, Mags. It’s been getting a little uncomfortable for me. And I left my purse at home this morning.”

I lifted the cloth napkin slowly. Beady black eyes blinked.

“Dog. Biscuits. Hmmm. I’m glad you didn’t order French toast. I’m not sure this ticker could have taken it. By the way, dear, what are you doing here, and without a purse? You don’t have a car, so how did you get here? And how do you expect to pay for breakfast?”

Susannah rolled her eyes. “You are such a worrier, Mags. I just came. I hitched a ride. And not having my purse with me is not such a big deal. I’m sure someone will pay for my breakfast. Things always work out if you let them.”

I covered the basket again. For the record, I did not take a biscuit.

“You mean, don’t you, if you let other people take care of you?”

“Oh, Mags, you always look on the negative side. Let yourself go and live a little.”

That galled me. Susannah can afford to let go because she has me—and to some extent, Melvin— around for damage control. It just isn’t fair that some of us have to toil, our considerable noses to the grindstone, so that others of us can party.

“You’re thirty-five years old, dear. It’s time you got a job.”

“I had a job, remember? I got fired.”

I remembered. Somehow Susannah got a job naming paint chips for a short-lived Bedford company, Crazy Paints. She even named an entire wheel of chips after me. Magdalena Mania. But the public wasn’t ready for such outré nomenclature. Wrinkle White, Bowel Brown, Toenail Tan, these were not something folks wanted to use in decorating their homes.

“Get another job, dear.”

Susannah gobbled what remained of her doggy biscuit and reached for another. Shnookums snarled, and Susannah wisely backed off. That minuscule mutt is not above mangling his mistress. In a minuscule, but nonetheless painful way, of course.

“I’ll think about it. Now you tell me. What are you doing here? And with that man? You still haven’t said.”

“That man was Wanda’s idea of matchmaking. It just so happens that he is—or was—a guest at the inn. Our being here at the same time was totally coincidental. I’m on my way into Bedford to do an errand for Freni, and neglected to eat breakfast.”

“Can I hitch a ride?”

“To where?” I couldn’t imagine sleuthing with a slovenly, slutty, and slothful sister in tow. It would cramp my style.

“I don’t care where. I’m not doing anything special today. And it’s so boring at home.”

“It wouldn’t be if you had children—” I pinched myself hard. Yes, I longed to hear the pitter-patter of little nieces and nephews, but was willing to wait until my sister came to her senses, divorced Melvin, and married someone human.

Susannah shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just go home. Melvin said he was going to try and find time to swing around to the house on his break, and at lunch. That’s two tries for children right there.”

I sighed. “Okay, you can come along. But you have to keep your mouth shut about what you see or hear today. You can’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Especially Melvin. Do you promise?”

“Ooh, Mags, what are you up to?”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“I’m looking for clues about Freni’s lost grandbaby.”

“The one that doesn’t exist.”

“That’s the one, only—well, I know this is going to sound weird, but I have this strange feeling he—make that she—really exists.”

“Wow, Mags, you turning psychic?”

I shuddered. We Mennonites eschew anything to do with the occult, fortune-telling, or the like. We believe firmly that God, and only God, is the author of our fates. We also believe in free will. When I’ve figured out that paradox, I’ll let you know.

“I am most certainly not turning psychic. But I have a hunch.” Hunches are, incidentally, theologically okay. And just so you know, one hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man.

“Wow! This is so cool! A little niece!”

“Cousin,” I reminded her patiently. “But like I said, it’s a hunch, and I’m a long way from proving it. In fact, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Let me help!” I don’t recall ever seeing Susannah so animated.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Really?”

“Really. Tell me everything you know about Nurse Hemingway.”

“My friend Hemmy?”

“That’s the one.”

Before my sister could as much as open her mouth, Wanda delivered our meals. Susannah got the omelet and sausages she ordered. I got two sets of bacon and poached eggs.

I raised my eyebrows.

“You’re paying for both,” Wanda said archly. “You may as well eat ’em.”

“I meant, where’s my pancakes, dear?”

Wanda pointed to the short stack at my elbow. “That’s only one, dear. I get two, remember?” Wanda stomped off in a snit. I turned to Susannah. “So, dear, what do you know about this Hemmy person?”

“Wait just one minute, Mags. What does my friend have to do with some doctor’s mistake?”

“Probably nothing. It’s just that Nurse Hemingway said she heard that Dr. Pierce—Barbara’s original OB- GYN—was a heavy drinker. Another source of mine says he wasn’t. Do you think Nurse Hemingway could be lying?”

“Hey, Mags, I resent that. Just because I stretch the truth sometimes doesn’t mean my friends do.”

She had a point. “All right, dear, I’m sorry. So, what can you tell me about her? I hear she’s from Pittsburgh. She ever talk about that?”

Susannah yawned. “Get real, Mags. We don’t talk a whole lot. We just have fun.”

“Fun?”

“Sometimes after she gets off work, if Melvin’s not home, we go out for a drink. Well, several drinks, really. But only beer,” she added quickly.

“That’s fun?” Maybe it was fun to hear Mama turning over in her grave. I couldn’t imagine it was fun to actually drink. Once in college I yielded to temptation and took a sip of beer. I did not swallow it, mind you. I merely tasted it. It reminded me of the girls’ locker room in high school.

“Oh, Mags, you need to lighten up. Live a little!”

“I do,” I said stiffly. “So, you don’t really know Nurse Hemingway all that well, do you?”

“Yeah, I know her. I know she likes guys with tiny butts.” Susannah giggled.

“That’s it? You drink the devil’s tea together, and that’s all you’ve learned?”

“Hey, I don’t pry. Not like some people.”

I let that roll off, like sewage from a drunk’s back. “Have you ever been to her house?”

“Nah. She claims she’s even messier than me.”

“Than
I
?”

“Nah, you’re pretty neat.”

“I meant—never mind. Let’s eat.”

Of course I said a blessing before we dug in, and of course Susannah rolled her eyes and slid low in her seat. Heaven forbid she should be caught thanking the Good Lord for the food He had provided. I quite wisely withheld any criticism and we dug in, eating in silence, except for a few grunts I directed toward Wanda when she returned with my second short stack. Wanda grunted back. The Sausage Barn seemed to be thriving, despite the owner’s lack of manners and poor hygiene.

To keep Wanda on her toes, and as a favor to her future customers, I didn’t leave a tip.

I decided there wasn’t much point going to Dr. Pierce’s office. It would be locked, and I wasn’t about to break and enter. Not in broad daylight.