by Tamar Myers
Now where was I? Oh yes, Gabe’s mother. Don’t you agree that he could at least have discussed his intentions with me first? But no, he announced this arrangement right in front of her. What was I to do? Grin and bear it?
Well, I’d grinned until my face nearly split in two. Frankly, I didn’t know how much longer I could take it. Ida Rosen was opinionated, demanding, overbearing— at least that’s how she treated me. Gabe she treated like he was still a little boy. In the blink of an eye my dearly beloved went from batching it to living a life of pampered ease. Ida did all his cooking, cleaning, and laundry. That I could almost understand. But whenever he went out she insisted on knowing where he was going, and why. In cool weather she made him wear a jacket. Once I even saw her cut his meat!
I had to quit obsessing about Ida Rosen. Just thinking about her was making my skin itch under my sturdy Christian underwear. To take my mind off my misery, I washed the dishes by hand in scalding water. Still unable to rid my brain of frightening images of my future mother-in-law, I started to scrub the kitchen floor. This was, of course, an exercise in futility, since Freni keeps the place so clean that germs die of starvation. Nevertheless, I had worked my way halfway across the room, when the doorbell rang. That’s when I discovered, much to my dismay, that I had trapped myself by an expanse of wet floor.
“Would someone please get the door?” I hollered.
No one responded, and the bell rang again.
“Doesn’t anyone hear the doorbell?” I bellowed. After all, the front door is much closer to the front parlor than it is to the kitchen.
The bell rang a third and fourth time in rapid succession.
“Darn,” I said, which is as bad as I can swear.
Because I was still expecting one last guest, I had no choice but to answer it myself. I was not, however, a happy hostess when I flung open the door. In my mind I saw Ida Rosen, her face screwed up in a disapproving look. It took me a few seconds to adjust to reality. Unfortunately my mouth works faster than my mind.
“Now what is it?” I snapped.
“Is this The PennDutch Inn?” a small voice asked.
I stared. Standing on the porch was a beautiful Japanese girl. I knew her nationality because it was written on the reservation card. What I hadn’t known until then was her gender, thanks to a rather difficult name.
“Miss Mukaisan?” I did the best I could with the pronunciation.
She bowed from the waist. I followed her example, which prompted her to bow again. After the fourth round we both gave up.
“My name is Teruko Mukai,” she said, “but everyone calls me Terri.”
I hate being wrong. “Are you sure? I know there was a ‘san’ in there someplace.”
She smiled. “ ‘San’ is a title—like mister or miss. We attach it to the end of the name. But in English, I think, you would hyphenate it.”
“Then you may call me Yoder-san. Velkommen to zee—” I stopped my silly charade. After all, the girl spoke perfect, unaccented English, and she hailed from the other side of the globe. “Yes, this is The PennDutch Inn. And you’re a mite late, dear.”
She smiled again. “I’m sorry Yoder-san, but this is a very big country. I had no idea Pennsylvania was such a long state. And the traffic out of New York City—”
“New York? Is that where you drove from?”
“Oh no. I took a cab from Kennedy International Airport.”
“You what?” But there it was, pulling out of the driveway and onto Hertlzer Road.
“I’m afraid he was not happy with my tip, but that was all the cash I had.”
“Don’t worry, dear. I take most credit cards, and there are banks over in Bedford.” She was a mere slip of a girl, so it was easy to glance behind her. “Where is your luggage?”
Terri’s hands flew to her face. “The cab!”
I was faced with two choices: hop in my car and chase down the cab, or call the Hernia police. I’m a fast driver for a Mennonite, but what if the cabdriver refused to pull over? Or what if he did pull to the side of the road, and he was armed and still in a cantankerous mood? On the other hand, dealing with the local authorities was less appealing than a liver-flavored milk-shake. The chief is my nincompoop brother-in-law, and the only other officer is his spoony sidekick, Zelda Root. Working together they could possibly find their way out of a paper bag—if given both directions and a string to follow.
“Darn,” I said for the second time that night, and ran inside to make the call.
No one answered at the station, so I called Melvin at home. My sister, Susannah, picked up.
“Susannah! Put Melvin on the phone, please. This is an emergency.”
My sister giggled. “I can’t, Mags.”
“Is he there?”
“Oh, he’s here all right, but he can’t come to the phone.”
There was no time for nonsense. “Then take it to him.”
“We don’t have a portable, silly. You know that. Besides, he hates being disturbed when he’s—uh—you know.”
“Put him on now.”
Susannah sighed loudly and let the phone drop. Then I heard her voice in the background, followed by a whoosh of water. Finally Melvin picked up.
“Yoder, this better be good. I still haven’t read the comics.”
“Melvin, listen to me. You need to take the cruiser and chase down a cab.”
“You’re nuts, Yoder,” he said and hung up.
I know I should make allowances for Melvin, given that he was kicked in the head by a bull when he was a teenager—one that he was trying to milk—but not only is he a nincompoop, he’s arrogant. Besides, I’m not really sure he’s human. He looks just like a praying mantis, with eyes that move independently of each other and a bony carapace. The Bible commands us to love our neighbors, but it says nothing about loving insects.
Still, the man wields power in our small community, and one must give unto Caesar what is his. For the sake of Teruko Mukai I would grovel to the man who once sent his favorite aunt a gallon of ice cream by UPS. I punched redial.
My sister picked up after the first ring. “Susannah’s house of perpetual love.”
“Susannah!”
“Oh, Mags, I’m only pulling your leg. You know we have Caller ID.”
“Put Melvin back on the phone.”
“He doesn’t want to speak to you.”
“This is police business.”
“But—”
“I’ll cut off your allowance for a month.” When our parents died—squished in a tunnel between a milk tanker and a truck full of state-of-the-art running shoes—they left the farm in a trust to me. I was instructed to make sure my sister was cared for, but she was not to be given her inheritance outright until such time that she proved she was a mature adult. That was eleven years ago, and Susannah is now thirty-six. Enough said.
Susannah didn’t hesitate. “Melkins,” she called, “Mags is insisting.”
He got on the line with remarkable rapidity. “Is this extortion, Yoder? Because if it is—”
“Shut up, dear, and listen. One of my guests—a Japanese lady—took a cab from New York. He dropped her off here, but then drove away with her luggage. He was angry at her for not tipping well, and I think he means to keep her stuff. By now he’s probably halfway to Bedford.”
“But, Yoder, I’m in my pajamas.”
“Then throw a coat on. Just think, this time you’ll have a good excuse to drive fast with the siren on.”
“Hmm. Okay, but you better not be making this up.” It was my turn to hang up. Then I comforted Terri Mukai. The poor woman had been privy to my conversation, and being somewhat brighter than my brother- in-law, she was clearly concerned about his competence.
I’m convinced the Good Lord doesn’t mind a white lie if it’s meant to comfort someone. “Don’t worry, dear,” I said. “The man’s an expert at what he does.” An expert at irritating me, that’s what.
The reason there hadn’t been a helpfu
l response from the parlor when the doorbell rang is most of my guests had gone to bed early. Freni’s cooking has a tendency to produce that effect. Plus, as I’ve observed, traveling can be very tiring. What surprised me is that Alison had hit the sack as well. I don’t have a television—I have long since given away my black-and-white—but that doesn’t stop her from begging to stay up late.
At any rate, the Littletons were still awake; I could tell by the light under their door. When they heard me show Teruko Mukai to her room, they popped out to say hello. The Charlestonians were still dressed, by the way. Even though it wasn’t their business, I shared with them the sad fate of Miss Mukai’s belongings. I thought of it as a preemptive strike, lest the new arrival put an even worse spin on the story. It wouldn’t do to have my charming Southern guests think that we Yankees were nothing but a bunch of cutthroats and thieves.
Upon hearing the sad tale, Capers Littleton gave Miss Mukai a hug and then held her at arm’s length. “You know, darling,” she drawled to the new arrival, “you and I are about the same size. I’m sure I could find a few things for you to wear.”
“Please, Mrs. Littleton,” the young woman protested, “I do not want to trouble you.”
“Oh, it is no trouble. I insist. I always travel with twice as many clothes as I need. Don’t I dear?”
Buist nodded vigorously. “That’s a fact.”
“There then, it’s all settled,” I said.
Teruko Mukai bowed deeply to show her appreciation. “Americans are very kind,” she said.
I waited patiently while Capers retrieved a fresh nightgown and a set of casual clothes for the following day, and then I showed the girl her room. Her basic toiletries I supplied myself. Half my guests leave their brains at home when they go on vacation, along with half the things they mean to pack, so I am well stocked with the essentials. Usually I charge my guests by the item, but in Teruko’s case I decided to make an exception in the interest of international goodwill. Finally, the girl was settled in and I was able to totter off to bed myself.
Although Alison complains loudly when she has to share my room, the child is starved for affection and doesn’t really mind. Many times she stays in my room a few extra days on her own volition. I enjoy her company too. The only real downside is that she somehow manages to hog my king-size bed—oh, and she thrashes about like a shark out of water.
Sure enough, the girl was sprawled across both sides, snoring as loud as a chain saw. “Move over, dear,” I said and pushed her to the halfway mark.
She rolled back to where I’d found her. I pushed her again, and before she could react, I threw myself on the empty spot. A moment later the back of her hand connected with my nose. I have the prominent Yoder nose—one deserving of its own zip code—and I know it’s an easy target, but it’s just as sensitive as any other schnoz. Being bonked on it hurt like the dickens.
Because I knew the child meant no harm, I gently moved her arm away and then protected my face with my pillow. That turned out to be a good move, because four inches of feathers helped to muffle the sound of her snores. Eventually I fell asleep, although I dreamed I was on the Nina with Christopher Columbus. The ship was pitching, and every now and then the yardarm would smack me on some vulnerable part of my body. Just as I was lecturing the famous explorer on how to provide better guest services, his cell phone rang. And rang.
“Chris, dear, pick it up.”
“But Magdalena, carina, it’s your phone you hear.”
“It is?”
That’s when I awoke to find my bedside phone ringing. I glanced at my alarm clock. Five a.m. on the dot. Unlike my sister, I do not have Caller ID. Since the only folks who have my private number are family or close friends and they would all be asleep now—well, except for Babs who, given the time difference, could still be partying—I panicked.
“What happened?” I blurted.
“I didn’t catch the cabdriver, that’s what.”
“Melvin! You woke me at five in the morning to tell me you failed at your job?”
“I didn’t fail, because there never was a cab. It’s time to face it, Yoder, you’re getting senile.”
“Good night, Melvin.”
“Yoder, I’m not calling about the stupid cab, anyway.” “Susannah? Is something wrong?”
“Something’s wrong, all right, but it has nothing to do with my Sugar Boo.”
“Spit it out, dear. You’ve got to the count of three. One—”
“There’s been a murder.”
7
“What?” I sat up straight in bed.
“Yoder, are you getting deaf now too?”
“I heard what you said. What does it have to do with me?”
“The name Buzzy Porter ring a bell?”
“Loud and clear. What about him?”
“He’s the victim, and I found one of your room keys in his pocket.”
“But that’s impossible. Mr. Porter is upstairs— asleep.”
“He’s sleeping all right. The kind you never wake up from.”
“Stay right there. Don’t hang up!”
I thundered up my impossibly steep stairs and pounded on the prankster’s door. “Mr. Porter, are you in there?”
There was no answer, so I tried the knob. It was locked. This meant I had to thunder back downstairs and grab my key ring from atop my bureau. I took a second to holler into the phone.
“Stay!”
By the time I got back to Buzzy’s room, every other door along the hallway was opened. Glassy-eyed guests stood mutely on their thresholds, waiting for the night’s entertainment to continue. Ignoring them, I fumbled with the keys, and when I got the door unlocked, I flung it open with such force that the stopper broke, allowing the doorknob to punch a hole in the wall. If by chance Buzzy was still among the living, he would pay for the repairs.
And the nerve of the guy. He was lying in bed, sleeping as peacefully as a teenager—Alison excepted. I ripped off the lazy man’s covers.
“Pillows!” I roared. There was nothing in the bed but pillows and bunched-up clothes.
“Yoder-san,” Terri said, appearing suddenly in the doorway, wearing Capers’s nightgown, “is there a problem?”
“Not now, please.”
I pushed past her and thundered down the stairs yet one more time. “Melvin,” I barked into the phone, “you still there?”
“No, Yoder. I’m in Las Vegas.”
“Spare me the sarcasm and describe the corpse.”
“You didn’t say please, Yoder.”
“Please. Pretty please with sugar on top,” I added to appease him.
“That’s better. Okay, the guy’s about five ten—dark hair. His driver’s license pegs him at thirty-five.”
“That old, huh?” The Buzzy I knew had appeared younger than that, but his juvenile personality might well have contributed to the illusion of youth. “Melvin, where is he?”
“Stucky Ridge.”
“What?”
“I swear, Yoder, you need to get your hearing checked.”
“I can hear just fine, thank you. But what would someone from out of town be doing up on Stucky Ridge at this hour?”
“Beats me. Ron Humphrey found him about half an hour ago.”
“What was Ron doing up on the ridge? It’s still dark, for crying out loud.”
“Jogging. He’s practicing for some kind of marathon. Says running up the ridge is the best kind of training.”
“That figures.” Ron is Hernia’s sole Episcopalian and, next to the Babester, our most liberal resident. It is no secret that he drinks wine and other alcoholic beverages. He even has a satellite dish. I’d heard rumors that he belongs to a gym over in Bedford, an idea which, frankly, baffles me. I am convinced that the Good Lord programmed each of us with a finite number of heartbeats at birth. Use them all up, and you die. Exercise, then, is a waste of heartbeats. Unfortunately, I’d just wasted an inordinate number of heartbeats going up and down the stairs. “Yo
der, you know I never ask for much—”
“Beans, Melvin.”
“You swore!”
“So I did. But you’re always asking for favors.”
“Yes, but the election is only weeks away. I don’t have time to work on this case. You know that.”
My brother-in-law has delusions of grandeur. He’s running for a position in the state legislature, but with at least one of his eyes on the White House. Susannah is al-ready planning what color to wear at the inauguration. The style of the dress is the same as every other one in her closet: Fifteen feet of filmy fabric draped loosely around her tail-thin body. One’s first impression is not of a sari, but a half-wrapped mummy. Of course, Melvin will never make it that far, but in the event he does, my biggest fear—besides the ruination of our country—is that my beloved sister will catch her death of cold on the reviewing stand.
“Melvin, dear, I’m not a police officer. Assign the case to Zelda.”
“Yoder, you’ve helped me before. Besides, Zelda is going to have her hands full directing traffic for Hernia Heritage Days.”
“I’m afraid that’s your problem, not mine.”
“Magdalena, please.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. This was the first time the miserable mantis had ever used the M word. As long as I’ve known him, which is to say his entire life, he has called me Yoder. Okay, so maybe he didn’t call me Yoder when he was a baby, but as soon as he learned to speak—about age six—he’s used only my last name, and always with a hint of derision.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“Say it again if you want my help.”
“M-m-magdalena.”
I sighed. “Okay—but I’m only going to help you. You have to do the bulk of the work yourself.”
“Sure, Yoder. Anything.”
“Ah, ah, ah!”
“I mean Magdalena.”
“That’s better. But get this straight, dear—I have official duties to attend to in the next few days, and I plan to keep my commitments.”
