by Lizz Lund
“That might be sufficient,” Ida answered for us both. I stared at her. “Considering an explanation. And an additional order of Buddy Burgers for Mina. She is, after all, without Gainful Employment,” she said pointedly.
I patted Ida on the back. I was glad at least one of us was opportunistic.
“Gee, really? Tough gig, man,” E=MC2 guy answered.
He reversed gears and made nice with the overworked burger guy, and added a Buddy Beasty Burger to my order. I groaned inwardly. A Buddy Beasty Burger is basically a humungous combination of meat-type patties featuring various farmyard animals, topped with a generation or two of their offspring. I shuddered. I wish I’d ordered a Furry Friendly pizza they could pay for instead. Oh well. I could always give the Beasty Burger to Bauser. Maybe he’d trade me for something a bit further down the food chain.
We carried our trays to the check out line, where E=MC2 guy paid for us all. Ida was exceedingly more pleasant to him then.
The non-Amish couple looked around and put their trays on a table, and Ida joined them. I looked around for the boys. Walter and K. and Armand were still vying over the arcade game. I shrugged and joined Ida and our non-Amish couple.
Ida was already emptying additional packets of sugar into her extra-corn-syruped cappuccino. I cringed. It made my teeth ache. But Ida looked happy. Clearly she must have felt as though she would not be allowed out on another dessert outing until half-past Christmas.
Mr. and Mrs. Not-Klink sipped their beverages and eyed us nervously. I eyed them back nervously. Ida gulped down her diabetic nightmare. Then, fully pumped, she began.
“So, why the subterfuge? Are you wanted by the Feds? Did you actually kill someone? WHERE’S THE BODY?”
Mr. and Mrs. Non-Klink and I shoved backward against our seats aghast. Where the heck did Ida come up with this stuff?
“First, let’s get this straight,” Mr. Non-Klink said. “I have not, nor have I ever – or plan to – killed anyone or hidden their body,” he said.
Mrs. Klink snorted. “Are you kidding me? It was murder to get him to stop here at a burger joint. My brother’s completely vegan,” Mrs. Klink said. “We’re twins,” she added.
Twins? Oh. Well. That would explain their appearing related. Especially since they were not Amish.
“I’m still not sure about consuming the shake,” Mr. Klink said nervously.
“Oh, puh-leese, it’s like completely soy,” Mrs. Klink said, adding, “And where the hell can a girl find a place to smoke around here?”
Ida diplomatically introduced Mrs. Klink – Dody – to Armand, who was immediately sympathetic. As well as serviceable. He and Dody made their way to the parking lot to smoke. Mr. Klink, whose real name was Jody, filled me in.
“Look, I’m not proud of this, but at least it’s a gig, man,” he said, retro hippy-style.
I nodded. “That’s cool,” I said, retro hippy back. “But what the?”
Jody nodded understandably. “Look, I used to be the manager of the music department at a Buy-A-Lots,” he said. “Anyway, after a bunch of the fires took place, and a few micro-managing binges from my boss, I got laid off.”
“Sorry,” I replied sympathetically.
“Anyway, since a lot of the Mom & Pop shops have shut down, it wasn’t an exactly ideal job hunting environment, if you want to be in retail music,” he said. “So I started trolling the internet. And then I came on a site that was asking for ‘convincingly authentic’ Amish servers.” I raised my eyebrows. He nodded his head. “Hey, man, do the math. And it’s not like they were asking for real Amish servers; just ‘convincingly authentic’ ones! I’m telling you, Dody and I showed up to our first New York City cattle call and aced it. And besides,” he added, “we’re pulling down a full week’s pay for just three nights work.”
Okay, it was all as clear as mud to me now. But I had to ask.
“So, as an ex-Buy-A-Lots employee, what’s your take on the burning Buy-A-Lots?” I asked.
“Are you kidding me?” Jody said. “Who wouldn’t want to burn a Buy-A-Lot?”
After some more pleasantries we strolled out, collecting the rest of our crew. K. and Walter were in the midst of arguing about who properly owned the newly possessed and coveted Flopsy Bunny, which ended with Walter sighing and relinquishing Flopsy Bunny to K. in exchange for a package of ancient HoHos from the vending machine. Then we met Dody and Armand outside, who were comparing notes about clove-scented and party-colored cigarettes. Dody and Jody chatted with Ida about a downtown Lancaster coffee shop that would make surreptitious deliveries of Extra Mocha Syrupy Lattés for a small surcharge and a large tip, as well as where to get the really best Amish Food.
“Schwenks,” they told us, nodding in unison.
“You’re welcome,” we replied.
We said goodbye, exchanged phone numbers with Dody and Jody (they were convinced they could help me find gainful employment) and re-loaded Walter and the rest of us back into the car. K. insisted on continuing the drive home. I ended up snoring and drooling in the takeout bags in the passenger’s seat.
A couple of lifetimes later, we pulled off the exit ramp to Oregon Pike, and took it south, past Armand’s McMansion complex and headed downtown toward Walter’s high rise apartment complex. Armand pulled, we pushed, and after we hoisted Walter onto the freight elevator, we deposited him safely back home.
We doubled back and left Armand in front of his house; it was too late for any foyer visiting now. Then we headed back across town, and pulled up to Aunt Gladys’ mansion. Ida Rose’s eyes glowed wildly in the backseat, lit by high fructose corn syrup and manic levels of caffeine. She rolled up her pit-stop bounty back into its bag and thrust it at me in the front seat. I took it and nodded.
“And don’t forget,” she hissed. “I’m going to need this tomorrow! I might actually go into withdrawal!” she stage whispered.
I nodded and again agreed to make some kind of a plan to get her sweets back to her sometime, and we pulled out of the drive once more, under Aunt Gladys’ radar. K. made a right and then a left onto State Street, and pulled up in front of his house. He yawned and undid his seatbelt. I copied him and slid out from my passenger’s side seat, stretched, and hopped back into the driver’s seat.
“Good night, sweetie. Call you tomorrow,” K. whispered. I yawned and hugged him.
I headed back toward Columbia Avenue and my half of the townhouse on Clover Nook Lane.
I pulled up the driveway, turned off the Towncar’s headlights and shut the motor off. I went inside and found the TV on and Vinnie stretched out on the sofa sleeping, sans Vito. Or Muriel. Or anyone else. I mentally genuflected.
I wandered into the kitchen and found a note from Vito telling me to listen to my answering machine, and to help myself to a plate of leftover pierogies and ham steak in the fridge. After tonight’s culinary adventure, these leftovers seemed practically exotic.
I put the plate in the microwave, poured myself a Mug o’Merlot, deeply grateful it did not contain twigs, leaves or other organic matter, and sipped. I put the mug on the counter, then carefully walked upstairs on my shredded feet. I walked into the bathroom, tore off the remaining shreds of my pantyhose, and pulled on a clean pair of jammies. I hobbled over to the answering machine, saw the flashing light, and hit PLAY.
“Mina, dear, it’s Auntie,” Aunt Muriel’s voice announced. My eye twitched. “I’m very sorry to bother you, dear, but it’s kind of an emergency. Would you please call me as soon as you get in?”
The message ended. I looked at my alarm clock; it read 12:28. I sighed. I picked up the phone and dialed Auntie.
“Hrmph?” she answered.
“Sorry, Auntie. It’s Mina. Just got in,” I explained.
“Oh, thank you, dear!” she said.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Well, you’re not going to believe this, but just about every member of the Coffee Committee called in ill for tomo
rrow!”
“OK.”
“Well, it’s Fourth Sunday!”
“Huh?”
“Fourth Sunday. St. Bart’s always has an especially nice coffee hour after the service. And Squirrel Run Acres always gives us very nice complimentary brunch trays.”
I figured Squirrel Run Acres – a local wedding factory – found a smart way to unload its end of the month leftovers for a tax break.
“Uh huh,” I replied.
“Well, the problem is, so many people on the Coffee Committee called in ill at the last minute that no one is available to pick up the trays from Squirrel Run Acres,” she said.
I yawned. “Okay, so you want me to pick up deli trays from Squirrel Run Acres in the morning for you?”
“Actually, brunch platters. If you don’t mind, dear; it would be such a help. I just can’t set up for the coffee hour and pick up the donated platters without missing the church service.”
I agreed, got the particulars and arranged the pick-up and delivery of Squirrel Run Acre’s leftover donations for early in the morning. So much for a leisurely Sunday. Oh well. From the looks of the unemployment ratings, I’d probably have my fill of leisurely Sunday mornings before the year was out.
Vinnie followed me upstairs, and was rolling around on his back on top of the bed, begging for belly rubs. “Jelly cat,” I said, rubbing his belly.
Marie yodeled from her bedroom.
“I didn’t forget you,” I shouted.
I petted Vinnie’s noggin adieu, and opened the door to Marie’s room.
I jumped. There in Marie’s room, quietly watching the end of ‘Top Hat’, was Annie McKay.
CHAPTER 17
(Saturday night into Sunday)
“Hi, I hope I didn’t scare you,” Annie started, getting out of her chair and accidentally kicking a Buddy Burger bag full of empty wrappers across the floor. Marie screamed. I looked over and saw a piece of Buddy Burger bun shoved next to her seed cup. Well, that was nice. At least Annie broke bread after breaking and entering.
“How’d you get in here?” I asked incredulously.
Annie shrugged. “Skills of the trade,” she said ambiguously. “I mean ex-trade. I quit.” She sniffed, and blew her nose into a Buddy Burger napkin.
“Oh jeez, in this economy? Are you nuts?”
Vinnie trilled next to me, and concurred by shaking his head up and down inside of the Buddy Burger bag. Marie shrieked and threw fluff up in the air. It looked like New Year’s Eve in Times Square but with cockatiel dandruff instead of ticker tape confetti. Yick.
I picked Vinnie up and scooted him out of Marie’s room, his head still inside the bag.
“Hey, c’mon downstairs. I really can’t let Vinnie hang out in Marie’s room,” I said, blowing a path through the fluffed air in front of me.
“Agreed,” Annie said, swatting the fluff in front of her face.
We left Marie’s room, and trotted downstairs, Vinnie leading the way. We walked into the kitchen.
“You want something? Soft drink? Coffee? Wine? Juice? Seltzer? Water?” I asked. I wasn’t sure of the appropriate protocol of offering hospitality to someone who had just entered your home without permission, except for maybe Vito.
Annie held out her half-full gallon cup of Buddy Burger Birch Beer. “Thanks; I’m just about floating away already,” she said.
I picked up my Mug o’Merlot from the counter, and gestured for Annie to sit down. She sat at the dining room table.
“I was thinking of quitting, anyway,” she began. “The field work just makes me feel dishonest and sneaky. And the desk work leaves me completely bored.”
I nodded with complete understanding. “Sometimes jobs can be just like jobs,” I said.
“I’ve actually been thinking about this for a long time, and I’m going back to school,” she said.
“Really? But I thought you had a college degree?” I asked. I didn’t know a lot about U.S. Marshals, but it would seem kind of odd if having some kind of degree in criminology wouldn’t be a prerequisite.
“I do,” Annie nodded. “I was also the top of my class when I was in Basic Training as a GS-0082 Deputy. That’s seventeen and a half weeks of basic training – otherwise known as Dante’s Other Ring.”
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I said. “So are you going to go into some kind of social work?”
“In a way. I’m going to become a veterinarian. I got an offer to start as an assistant vet tech from a great shelter in Utah.” I looked at her. “You have no idea how distressed I was about letting your Vinnie out accidentally,” she said. “Which wouldn’t have happened at all, if I hadn’t been spying on Vito,” she added.
I shrugged. “Yeah, but if it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else. And the someone else probably wouldn’t have gone to the extra lengths you did to make sure Vinnie got home safe,” I said.
Annie sighed. “That’s what Mike said. He doesn’t like my emotional involvement with my cases. Anyway, I sent a resignation email to him while he was doing field work today. It’s timed to be delivered tomorrow morning – this morning – about 7 a.m..”
“Isn’t that kind of sneaky?”
She shrugged. “Comes with the territory, I guess. I’m supposed to be on assignment until midnight tonight watching you and Vito, anyway. Besides, if I gave it to Mike in person, he would just talk me out of it again. It’s a pretty big decision. Once you’re out, you’re out. And it’s a big training loss for them.”
“Again?”
Annie sighed. “I really haven’t been very happy in my work,” she replied.
“So, umm…. thanks for visiting. But don’t you think you could have called?” I asked. Annie shook her head.
“Your phone’s tapped,” she answered simply.
“MY PHONE IS WHAAAT?”
Annie shrugged. “It’s done all the time really; no biggie,” she said.
I hung my head. I wondered how many CIA or FBI or whatever technicians were chuckling at the mini-melodramas of my life. Yikes.
“It’s not like they listen to every word,” Annie assured me. “There’s software that monitors for buzz words, and if any of them are picked up, then a real human person listens to the entire conversation,” she answered, as if reading my mind.
I sighed.
“So, how come the visit then? Just to let us know you’ve quit?” I asked. Annie nodded.
“I felt it was important to let you know I’m not ‘official’ anymore,” she said. “At least, in the next month or so I won’t be. I probably will have to go through some kind of debriefing period,” she mused. “But before I’m officially re-sworn to secrecy, I wanted to advise you – and Vito – to quit the prescription sample gig. You really are nice people, even if you are a bunch of screwballs.”
I smiled. “Thanks.” Wow. I guess I was fitting into Lancaster, after all.
“Besides, I don’t think I could handle putting a gang of senior citizens in the pokey,” she said.
I nodded. “As far as I know, Vito’s on it,” I assured her.
“Good,” she said, “because there will be some new attendees at St. Bart’s services tomorrow, if you know what I mean.”
I gulped. “Yikes! What do we do?”
“Nothing. Except make sure everyone’s there and no one’s out on deliveries. Especially at Madam Phang’s,” Annie said.
“Madam Phang’s gonna get busted?” I yelped.
Annie shook her head. “Nope. Just sort of visited while nobody else is there,” she said, sipping through her Buddy Burger Birch Beer straw. Annie looked at her watch. “Okay, this is way past my bedtime. And you have to pick up the brunch platters and be at St. Bart’s by 9:00 a.m..”
She got up, walked toward the door, and opened it. Then she turned back.
“Remember, your phone conversations are, umm… not exactly your own. So I wouldn’t make any phone calls tonight, if I were you,�
� she said.
I smacked myself on my virtual forehead, erased all thoughts of calling Auntie and getting her moving on her church’s phone chain, and waved goodbye to Annie from the front porch.
Annie drove off at about 1 a.m. I plodded over the driveway and rang Vito’s doorbell. There came the sound of Stanley yapping, then Vito’s footsteps shuffling down the stairs. The porch light came on.
Vito stood, rubbing his eyes, with Stanly snarling and hanging on his PJ cuffs. “Whatsa matter, Toots?” he yawned. “You need an emergency Swiffering?” he asked matter-of-factly.
“In a way,” I said, swatting at the moths collecting around Vito’s porch light. “Can I come in?”
“Sure, sure, sure, Toots,” he said, dragging Stanley inside and opening the door for me.
I looked around. This was the first time I had been in Vito’s house. It was pretty much nondescript, and pretty much what I expected. Contractor painted antique white walls and ceilings, with wall to wall beige carpeting. A decent quality but oversized brown leather lounger in the living room. There was also a glass coffee table that was supported by a statue of a large resin polar bear posed coyly on his back. And the kitchen floor really was an orange and olive green plaid. Yikes.
We chose not to talk in Vito’s kitchen.
I sat down on the edge of the leather chair, careful not to stare directly into the baby polar bear’s eyes.
“Cute, huh?” Vito grinned. “It was one of the few things the Feds let me bring with me from my old life,” he said. “Marie loved that table,” he added mistily.
I lied and made a happy face and nodded. Vito looked down at my feet.
“Hey, what did you do? Walk home from New York?”
I shook my head and handed Vito back his car keys, promising to give him the details during a normal wakey time. Then I filled Vito in about Annie and the upcoming Sunday surveillance scenario. That woke him up, and quickly.
He nodded. “This is serious.”
Stanley snarled from Vito’s tattered PJ cuff. “Dość!” Vito commanded. Stanley let go immediately, and hopped onto the arm of my chair, next to me, nose height. I got up.