The Death of Pie by Tamar Myers Page B

a manner that, although it could not fly, it could spin in tight circles whilst buzzing annoyingly. If you ask me, it was the perfect metaphor for Wanda.
    â€˜But I can!’ Agnes said. To my everlasting gratitude, she squeezed out of her side of the booth and hoisted herself to her feet. ‘Come on, Magdalena. We don’t need to eat here. I’ve suddenly lost my appetite for pecan waffles and smoked Virginia ham.’
    â€˜But you didn’t order pecan waffles and smoked Virginia ham!’ Wanda wailed, sounding disconcertingly like me. ‘I don’t even serve them. Where do you think you are – Cracker Barrel?’
    No sooner did she say that than a buzzer attached to her apron sounded, informing us that our correct order of eggs, pancakes, warm maple syrup and sizzling bacon was ready for pickup. Pavlov’s dogs had nothing over Agnes and me, who resumed sitting so quickly that our butts hit the benches almost before they left, making the collider in Switzerland redundant.
    â€˜Wanda, be a dear,’ I said, ‘and clean up that atrocious mess on the table. Then disinfect the table – in a spritely manner, of course – before you make haste to retrieve our orders. Cold eggs anywhere are disgusting, but when your pancakes get cold they’re like hockey pucks. Just remember, however, that I am a wealthy woman who tips generously for services rendered.’
    That last bit was quite true. While I am famous for pinching a penny until it screams, I do reward service people handsomely if they at least attempt to serve in a competent manner. The same holds true for managers who act as their own servers – even if they are old friends with hedgerow eyebrows and potentially hazardous hairdos.
    Wanda’s glare burned hot enough to keep the Sausage Barn’s coffee at just the right temperature all through a delicious lunch. The pancakes were perfect. The bacon was the best that it could be, and even the eggs were exemplary. I was true to my word, and Wanda received such a fat tip that she was tongue-tied when we departed, and hence unable to invite herself along to the next bit of trouble I was about to find myself in.

EIGHT
    I n the narrow strip of farmland between Buffalo Mountain and Stucky Ridge lies Doc Shafer’s farm. He too is some sort of multiple cousin – distant enough that legally we could wed, but on paper the math would have us being closer than siblings, despite the fact that Doc is old enough to be my father. While I hate to give her any credit, that unscrupulous author, Ramat Sreym, did pen something clever when she wrote: ‘Oh what a tangled web they weave, when Amish-Mennonites conceive!’ Indeed, this is true. The lines on my family tree crisscross over each other in a good number of places, so much so that I have had to use bits of brightly-colored embroidered floss to represent the various links between the branches.
    Doc used to be a veterinarian – back in the days when Noah had his ark. He still goes by the title ‘Doc’ and keeps a few acres of pasture turned over to a lone Jersey cow named Latte and her companion, a black billy goat he calls Ramses. Until a few months ago he had an elderly hound named Old Blue who used to meet me at the top of the long gravel lane, and which, Doc claimed, could smell me coming a half-hour ahead of my arrival. That was a nonsense claim since I was often spontaneous and occasionally showered.
    On this particular day it gladdened my heart to find Doc outside tending to a pot of chrysanthemums. When he saw the cruiser approaching with me in it he stood and waved, grinning like any old goat might. When he ascertained that I had Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, Agnes, in tow, the smile morphed into something only a ‘Doc-watcher’ might call a grimace. But Doc is ever the gentleman, and he would never hurt a lady’s feelings. Besides, he is just as closely related to Agnes as he is to me,