Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction! (50 page)

She
nodded.  “I’ll come with you.  I need another dessert.”

The
boys said they’d wait for us in the lobby.  Then they walked off to take turns
at losing change at one of those fake arcade games – the kind that cons you
into thinking you can pick up a stuffed toy you don’t need with a mechanical
arm-hook thingy that doesn’t work.  But K. was intent on winning Flopsy Bunny.

Ida
and I stood in line and wove our way through the cattle maze that snaked its
way around and eventually made its way up toward the Buddy Burger counter.  
The couple behind us bickered about what they were going to order.  Mrs. Couple
made a crack about Buddy Burger’s plastic combination-hybrid utensils.

“Yes,
be careful, they are very shc-aaararrrp,” Mr. Couple replied.

The
couple laughed.  Ida and I turned around and gaped open-mouthed at them.

“YOU!”
Ida pointed, now fully returned to Lady Macbeth mode.  “You are NOT AMISH after
all!”

“Shhhh!!!!”

“Hsss!!!”
Ida responded.

I
rubbed my neck.  My feet barked.

As
fate would have it, Mr. and Mrs. Couple were indeed the Amish Col. and Mrs.
Klink who had served (or not served, according to Armand) us our Amish Affair. 
Except that now, instead of being clad in black wool, they were wearing his ‘n’
her cargo shorts.  And Mrs. Couple wore a purple tube top, and sported a very
large tattoo of an eagle with a fish in its talons that covered her entire left
shoulder.  Mr. Couple wore a worn black t-shirt, ‘E=MC
²
’ printed
across the front in white letters.

I
stared at them.  “What the?” I asked to no one in particular.

“NEXT!”
the sweaty, middle-aged, overworked man behind the counter yelled nicely at us
all.

Ida
was immediately jolted back into the current plane of time.  “I’d like a
cappuccino with 2 shots of extra flavoring, a Chocolate Fudge and Marshmallow
Pie Pocket, a Cherry Pie Pocket, a large Berry-Berry shake, and an ‘I Win! I
Win!’ energy bar,” she instructed quickly.

The
stout man behind the counter wiped his brow and looked at her.  He shook his
head.  “You want a Buddy tooth brush with all that?” he asked nicely.  Ida
shook her head.  “You?” he asked me.

“Medium
cola and a small order of fries, extra ketchup,” I said automatically – my
usual travel mode fare.

Then,
as Ida and I were about to interrogate Col. and Mrs. Klink, they were ordered
to place their orders too.  We waited.  They ordered a cheeseburger, large
salad, onion rings, fries, a strawberry shake and a coffee.  Then the four of
us were dismissed to trudge down the line toward collecting our food.

“You
are NOT AMISH!” Ida hissed.

Mrs.
Klink shrugged.  “It’s a job,” she said simply.

“Look,
we’ll pay for your orders, okay? Just please don’t rat us out to Perpetua and
Groggin, okay?” E=MC
²
boy begged.

Ida
and I considered quickly.  I wished that I had ordered dinners for the rest of
the week.  Too bad I wasn’t more opportunistic.

“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=MC
²
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=MC
²
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 tomorrow!”

“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.