“How’s the BUM business, dear?”

“Now, I recognize filthy American innuendo when I hear it,” the Zug wife said.

“Actually, dear,” an unidentified Zug twin said, “it stands for Beiler’s Udder Massage, and it’s a cream that you rub on a cow to keep the milking machine from chafing.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Might I assume that you are to be paired with the wife who just spoke?”

“You might,” said the other twin, “on account of my wife just ran off with your sister and her traveling circus.”

“Indeed? I must say, that bus has engendered a good deal of fuss.”

“That’s not even remotely funny,” my former Sunday school teacher, the ailing James Neufenbakker, said. “ Magdalena, your sister is a pagan.”

“As is the runaway Zug spouse, dear.”

“She has a name,” her husband said hotly. “It’s Annabelle.”

“Why, even that name has pagan undertones, given that it was the name of the tragic character in Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘Annabelle Lee.’ ”

“I’ve always liked that poem,” George Hooley said.

“Aren’t these short hours, even for a banker?” I asked. Without waiting for a reply, I returned to the woman from Winnipeg. “For your information, dear, Edgar Allan Poe married his thirteen-year-old cousin. That makes him a certified heathen in my book.”

“Ha,” scoffed Merle Waggler, “that just goes to show what little you know; a pagan and a heathen are hardly the same thing.”

“You tell her, Merle,” said Frankie Schwartzentruber. “Honestly, Magdalena, sometimes you’re just too big for your bloomers.”

“Why does everyone have to pick on me?” I whined.

“Stop that as well,” Frankie snapped. “I like you better with a backbone.”

“Let her dangle,” Merle said. “It serves her right.”

“You see? Besides, spineless people don’t dangle; they slump.”

“People, please,” the handsome Elias said, “can we just get this over with?”

“Yes, let’s,” I said. “Wait just one greasy, sugar-coated, Sausage Barn minute! Get what over with?”

“Well,” said Wanda, bursting into the room, “are we ready to order?”

“Absolutely,” George said. He pursed his lips several times like a goldfish kissing its reflection on the side of its bowl. “But first, what exactly is the Dieter’s Surprise?”

Wanda chuckled uneasily. “Oh, that. Ya see, I had me one too many of those big-city tourists in here, with their highfalutin ways.”

“Is that an American word?”

“To the apple core,” I said. “So what surprise do you spring on them, Wanda?”

“Fried ice and doughnut holes.”

“But that’s nothing but water and air,” the Zug wife cried.

Wanda nodded proudly. “But that’s nothing. Magdalena charges her guests extra for the privilege of doing chores.”

“You don’t!”

“They should both be ashamed of themselves,” the handsome Elias Whitmore said, “and just so you know, neither of those practices is indicative of the way most Americans conduct business.”

“Some of us weren’t born with silver spoons in our mouths,” Wanda said.

The young man colored. “Just so you know, I may have inherited BUM from my family, but the BUM Wrap is my own creation. ‘For the udder bag that’s soft and pliable overnight,’ ” he sang, keeping time on the table with the blunt end of one of Wanda’s forks, which, by the way, was anything but silver.

“That’s a catchy tune,” Merle said. “Are there more lyrics?”

“What?”

“I think that’s sarcasm, dear,” I said. Then again, I couldn’t be sure.

Wanda pulled a stubby pencil-by the looks of it swiped from a miniature golf course-from the base of her beehive. “Okay, folks, enough chitter-chattering. I have a new fry cook today who’s just itching for some splattering. There, you see, I’m a poet and I know it.”

“Forget it, Wanda,” James Neufenbakker wheezed as he laid his menu on the table. “There’s not a one of us going to order until we’ve set Magdalena straight.”

25

Ginger, Carrot, and Sesame Pancakes

Grated carrots, sesame seeds, and ground ginger give these small pancakes their distinctively Asian taste. They are perfect finger food with drinks before dinner or served as a side dish with grilled soy-marinated seafood or chicken. Once the ingredients are prepared, the pancakes go together and fry up very quickly. For the full flavor treatment, make sure to serve them with the Thai Dipping Sauce.

2 tablespoons sesame seeds

3 cups shredded carrots (about three medium)

½ cup finely chopped scallions

2 tablespoons grated fresh ginger

1 garlic clove, crushed through a press

¼ cup cracker meal

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

1 teaspoon salt

Vegetable oil

Thai Dipping Sauce (recipe follows)

1. Toast the sesame seeds in a dry skillet over low heat, stirring until golden, about 2 minutes.

2. Combine the carrots, scallions, ginger, and garlic in a large bowl; stir to blend. Add the cracker meal, eggs, sesame seeds, and salt; stir to blend.

3. Heat ½ inch oil in a medium skillet until hot enough to sizzle a crust of bread. Add the batter by rounded tablespoons and fry, turning once, until browned on both sides. Repeat with the remaining batter.

4. Serve warm with Thai Dipping Sauce.

YIELD: MAKES ABOUT 20 BITE-SIZE PANCAKES.

Thai Dipping Sauce: Combine ¼ cup soy sauce, ¼ cup fish sauce, ¼ cup fresh lime juice, ¼ cup hot water, 2 tablespoons sugar, 2 tablespoons thinly sliced hot chili pepper, and 1 minced garlic clove in a small bowl. Serve at room temperature.

26

Why was I not surprised? Not that they should gang up on me-that was to be expected-but at the folly of humankind in general. What fools those mortals be that try to hold out against Wanda’s cooking. Throw in my stubbornness, and it’s about as effective as trying to instill moral values in a lost generation by burning one tube top at a time. After all, six of their number were male, three of whom were under forty and had the metabolism of tapeworms.

“We can eat, or you folks can lecture me,” I said, looking at Wanda. “Or, if you’re really clever, you can lecture me while you eat. I recommend the cheese omelet with extra-sharp cheddar, a rasher of bacon-now, that’s a funny word, isn’t it-hash browns, toast with marmalade, a stack of hotcakes, but forget the fruit plate. Wanda’s idea of fresh fruit means that she drained syrup from the can this morning. Extra fresh means that it was packed in light syrup.”

“How’s the oatmeal?” the Zug wife asked.

Frankie Schwartzentruber, who, despite her fearsome visage, is really a kind Christian woman, howled with laughter.

Even George Hooley, who could have gotten a job injecting citric acid into lemons, forced a grin.

“It’s an urban legend,” Wanda said. “Don’t listen to them.”

“Wanda’s right,” I said. “The story about her oatmeal being used to plaster the inside of the Allegheny Tunnel is simply not true, and I ought to know. Now, let’s get down to business: which one of you killed Minerva J. Jay? Who amongst you had the strongest motive?”

After that it was harder to get rid of Wanda than it was to get rid of head lice in a fifth-grade classroom. The promise of all the money in the world couldn’t begin to compare with the amount and quality of gossip she hoped to pass on to her customers. You could almost see the woman grow roots that cracked right through the linoleum-covered cement floor, eventually connecting her to a mighty banyan tree on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur.

Frankie Schwartzentruber was the first quisling in the bunch. “Elias Whitmore did it; he’s the one with the strongest motive.”