A Corpse in the Soup by Morgan St James and Phyllice Bradner Page B

get many guests these days. Now they all stay at that Doubletree Hotel in Rohnert Park.”
    “I’m on an antique buying trip.” Goldie’s smile sparkled as she thought about the good deals she negotiated with Andy. “I have a shop in Alaska.”
    “ Mein gott ! People buy antiques for their igloos? It must be all ice and snow up there. How do you get the antiques home? By dog sled?” Hilda chuckled at her own joke.
    Goldie gave Hilda a feeble smile. She had heard it all before. “Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong. Where I live, in Juneau, it rains more often than it snows. The whole city’s in the middle of a Northern rainforest.”
    “Rain?”
    “Yup, and believe it or not, we have regular houses, schools, shopping centers, movies—even two McDonald’s—you name it, we’ve got it.”
    “No igloos?”
    “Not even one.”
    “Humph! Alaska? I thought you were from Los Angeles.” Hilda was clearly confused.
    “Oh, my sister lives in Beverly Hills. She’s a...uh...journalist. She’s writing a story...uh...about the history of the Accordion Festival for the L.A. Times.”
    “But you two look exactly alike. I’m surprised you live in such different places.”
    Of course this assumption made no logical sense at all, but Goldie nodded politely.
    “Well, when she comes down for breakfast in the morning, your sister will get plenty of spicy stuff for her story from Mr. Buttons and me.” With a wink, the old lady toddled off through her curtain once again.
     
    Hilda Hammacher always treated her guests to big German breakfasts. The plates were heaped with farmer’s omelets stuffed with potatoes and vegetables. Mouth-watering aromas from the platter of bratwurst and basket of fresh-baked bread filled the air. A tray of colorful homemade jams brightened the table, and Hilda herself sat down and joined them. This morning she had a starched white apron over her faded lavender dress. “Sit down. Dig in.” She picked up the basket of bread. “We never stand on ceremony here.”
    Godiva had conked out early and slept like a baby despite the lumpy bed. This morning her fashionable gray linen suit and silk crepe blouse had Big City Journalist written all over them.
    Mr. Buttons was already working on his second helping of brats. “Hilda says one o’ you gals is writin’ a story on the Accordion Festival. Well, ya sure come ta the right place. Hilda used ta have a houseful o’ us squeezebox bums back in those good old days. Kinda tapered off now, ain’t it ol’ gal? Them stayin’ at the new hotels roundabouts an’ such.”
    “Ya, but that’s okay. I couldn’t handle all them rowdies these days. Just a few quiet guests at a time. That’s the way I like it.” She forked a load of eggs into her mouth.
    Mr. Buttons rapped the table with his knuckles. “Get out your pad and pencil, girlie, an’ I’ll spin ya some yarns.”
    “I don’t really use a note pad, Mr. Buttons, I keep it all up here.” She tapped her forehead.
    His eyes became moist and dreamy. “Oh the times we had...”
    “We’d love to hear about them, Mr. Buttons. You know, our folks were vaudeville magicians back in the day...”
    Goldie nodded. “...yeah, when we were kids, our house was always filled with strange characters, some of them were even famous. Harpo Marx used to come over for coffee all the time.” Goldie smiled over her own cup of tea.
    “What can you folks tell me about the top dogs, you know, the accordion kings?” Godiva asked, looking from one to the other.
    “We had the King himself living right there on the corner!” Hilda pulled back the dusty curtain and pointed out the window. “Buck Wellington. Wasn’t he something, Pearly?”
    “Oh, indeed! Made that squeezebox sing, you never heard nothin’ like it.” Pearly Buttons went on to describe Buck’s best loved songs in between bites of bratwurst. “He truly was the King. Don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
    “Is he still around?” Godiva asked, the