Thou Shalt Not Grill

by Tamar Myers

  “Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t think so—he was a guest of mine. There seems to be a trail of blood. I was hoping Blue could follow it.”

  “Have another sausage link, Magdalena. You can’t do police work on an empty stomach.”

  I did as my mama always told me and listened to my elders.

  There was nothing wrong with Blue’s sniffer. She tore through the woods like a hyperactive child on an Easter-egg hunt. I needed that extra sausage just to keep up. Her first stop was the spot where Melvin had found Buzzy. By then both the body and the bumbling chief were gone.

  Blue snuffled the saturated ground and then charged off on the trail I’d begun. She, of course, had much better success. She led us out of the woods to the picnic side of the ridge and didn’t stop until we’d reached a place that is popularly called Lovers’ Leap. Believe me when I say no lovers have ever leaped to their deaths from that spot. There is a sheer vertical drop of about fifty feet to the closest ledge, but the enormous trees below would prevent anyone froqi falling more than twenty feet without being snagged by branches. About the best a forlorn lover could expect is a slew of broken bones and multiple abrasions.

  This is the highest spot on Stucky Ridge and is marked by a concrete pillar that notes the elevation—a mind-boggling 2,801 feet. I know that sounds puny by Rocky Mountain standards, but for us Hernians it’s a nosebleed height. At any rate, the numbers on the pillar are almost illegible, thanks to the graffiti painted on it by generations of expressive teenagers. Because this is our town’s most significant landmark, it is also where the time capsule is buried.

  No one knows for sure how deep the metal box lies, or even whether it is under the monument, or just next to it. All that is known for sure is that the box was buried in 1904 and was meant to be dug up a hundred years later. Because the marker is in such bad shape, it is the town council’s plan to replace the old one after the successful retrieval of the capsule on Wednesday.

  “Land o’ Goshen,” I panted as we neared the spot. “Would you look at that!”

  Doc moves sprightly for a man his age and caught up with me seconds later. Together we stared at the scene of devastation.

  The marker had been toppled, its base broken into pieces by something—possibly a sledgehammer—and the ground where the pillar stood had been excavated to a depth of four feet. The hole had a diameter of a little more than two feet. At the bottom was a rectangular imprint. Clearly, whomever was responsible had gone straight for the treasure and gotten what they were after.

  But Blue wasn’t done yet. She stood at the edge of Lovers’ Leap and howled like the hound of the Baskervilles. Doc had to pull her back and then temporarily muzzle her with his hands.

  “Bet you anything,” he said, “the tools are down there, below the trees.”

  “Yes. But why drag the body all the way into the woods? Why not just throw it over the edge too?”

  “Don’t have any idea,” Doc said. “You’re the expert.”

  “I’m not an expert,” I wailed. “I am merely competent.”

  He winked. “I bet you’re more than that.”

  “Doc, please, this is serious business. I need to think of possible scenarios.”

  He released Blue’s muzzle and told her to sit. Having had a good workout, she lay instead on a pile of dirt.

  “Okay, Magdalena, how about this? Your corpse—what was his name?”

  “Buzzy. Buzzy Porter.”

  “Yeah, so Mr. Porter thinks the time capsule is worth stealing—maybe it contains some damning evidence that he’s privy to—and so he comes up here in the dead of the night to dig for it. But someone else wants it too. They clobber Mr. Porter over the head and then plan to bury him in the woods. If they just threw him over the edge, he’d get caught up in the trees, but a shovel would most likely slip right through. Anyway, the murderer is about to dig a shallow grave when that Episcopalian kid—what’s his name?”

  “Ron Humphrey.”

  “Yeah, so that kid comes along and the murderer takes off. But first he throws the tools over the cliff.”

  “Why not just put them in his or her car?”

  He shrugged. “Like I said, you’re the expert.”

  I poked a finger under the organza prayer cap that covers my bun. My scalp was itching, which for me is either a sign of inspiration or untreated dandruff. “But, Doc, it could also be that the killer was here first, and Buzzy surprised him.”

  He grunted agreement. “Any idea how an out-of-towner would know where to look?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far.” I peered into the hole. Its sides were absolutely vertical. “But I can tell you that it was a square-point shovel, not a round one.”

  He stepped closer, and Blue got up to look with him. “You’re right about that. Now, who do you know in this county who owns a square-point shovel?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Looking for a square-point shovel in this county would be like searching for a particular fragment of fodder in a haystack. Virtually all the farmers, and half the townsfolk, own square-point shovels.

  “My point exactly.” Doc stepped sideways and draped an arm around my shoulder. In order to do so he had to reach up, so it wasn’t the smoothest of moves.

  “While we ruminate on the perplexities of this unfortunate incident, why don’t we go back to my place? I’ll make you lunch.” He gave me a squeeze.

  “Doc, it’s only nine o’clock—oh my gracious! I’m supposed to announce the tractor pull at ten and I haven’t even spoken to any of my guests today. Freni’s going to be hysterical that I wasn’t there for breakfast, and Gabe—”

  He squeezed me again. “I’ve always liked a woman with purpose. Tell that people doctor of yours he’s a lucky man.”

  We turned to go, but not before Blue took one last sniff of the breeze that was blowing toward us from Lovers’ Leap. It was a cool morning, but that’s not why I shivered.

  A fuming, flailing, frantic Freni is a fearsome thing. Although she’s stout with stubby arms, when she becomes agitated she waves them so fast I’m afraid she’ll achieve liftoff. Believe me, I have no desire to learn what it is Amish women wear under their skirts.

  The moment I stepped through the outside kitchen door, Freni flew at me. “Ach, Magdalena, where were you?”

  “I’m afraid it was police business, dear.”

  She flapped to a stop. “You got another traffic ticket, yah?”

  “I’m afraid it’s worse than that.”

  My friend and kinswoman stared at me through lenses as thick as the bottoms of Coke bottles—well, back in the days when they were made of glass. “Murder?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “English, yah?” To the Amish, anyone not of the faith is referred to as English. Even my Japanese guest would be considered English. No doubt this custom derives from the fact that it was the English who were in control of this country when the Amish first arrived in the early 1700s.

  “So the victim was English, dear. What of it?”

  Freni crossed her short arms beneath an ample bosom. Her stomach is ample as well, so it wasn’t an easy position to assume.

  “Was the English a guest?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Then I quit.”

  I struggled not to smile. Freni has quit her job as chief cook and bottle washer eighty-nine times in the last six years. When she reaches a hundred, I’m going to give her a plaque. It will read WORLD’S MOST FICKLE COOK. When she asks what “fickle” means, I’ll tell her it is a synonym for “valuable.” She’ll think “synonym” is a spice and will be too confused to question me further.

  “The murder didn’t happen here at the inn, Freni. It happened up on Stucky Ridge.”

  “I still quit.”

  “But you can’t! I have eight remaining guests to feed, the murder investigation to attend to, and my festival duties to perform.” In addition to announcing the tractor pull, I was scheduled to award the prize
in the greased pig contest. These honors were bestowed on me because I am the most inbred, yet articulate, resident of our burg. The prize, by the way, was two hundred dollars, and the winner got to keep the pig.

  “Magdalena, these guests of yours are running me crazy.”

  “You mean ‘driving,’ dear.”

  “Yah, that’s what I said. At breakfast, the old one who thinks she is a movie star wants her eggs poached, instead of fried. Then she wants me to put them on muffins with bacon and Holland sauce so they are a benediction.”

  “Ah, you mean eggs Benedict.”

  Her eyes, made all the more beady by the lenses, bore into mine. I knew when to quit.

  “Tell me everything, dear.”

  Freni unfolded her arms so that she could take a deep breath. “Well, she is not the only one who gives me trouble. The Japanese English says she wants raw fish for lunch.” She made a face. “Magdalena, who ever heard of eating such a thing?”

  The Amish I know love fish, but it has to say Star-Kist on the label. “It’s called sushi, dear. Did you tell them that you are in charge of the menus?”

  “Yah, but there is much complaining.” Now that her arms were free she untied her apron. “Magdalena, if I want this complaining, I can get it from Barbara.” Barbara Hostetler is Freni’s daughter-in-law. Because the Bible commands it, they love each other in a general sort of way, but not a smidgen more. The truth is, Freni resents losing her only son to another woman’s affections. Never mind that this woman, a “foreigner” from Iowa, has supplied the Hostetlers with three bouncing babies. And all in one fell swoop too.

  I nodded gravely. “Yes, maybe it is a good idea for you to take some time off. Barbara was telling me just the other day how homesick she still gets. She’s thinking of having her mother come and stay for a month.”

  “Ach! Then I unquit.”

  The best thing was to pretend our little tiff had never happened. “Where’s Alison?”

  “That nice couple from Charlesville, they take her to watch that silly tractor game.”

  I had nothing to gain by correcting her geography. Besides, it was already twenty to ten. If I didn’t put my lead foot to good use, the tractor pull would be delayed.

  10

  I got there in the nick of time. The pull was to be held on Main Street, which really is the main drag in town. At the corners of Main and Elm sit the First Mennonite and Covenant Presbyterian churches. Across from them are the police station and Yoder’s Corner Market, a small grocery selling dusty, overpriced goods. I don’t own it, by the way. It belongs to my cousin Sam, who has the same designs on me that Doc Shafor has. Sam, however, lacks Doc’s charm.

  It is only a ten-minute drive from my inn to the center of town, but thanks to an overwhelming turnout of spectators, I had to park over on Kingdom Come. This is the name of a real street. It gets its moniker from the Baptist Church at the corner. At any rate, I was out of breath, and perhaps a mite out of sorts, when I arrived at my post. I certainly was not in the mood to be ambushed.

  “Hi, babe,” my fiance said, as he appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my arm.

  “Gabe!”

  He hugged me close.

  “Veil,” somebody harrumphed, “this is certainly not the appropriate place for this kind of behavior.”

  At first I thought the disembodied voice belonged to my dear, departed mama. The poor woman is obviously not enjoying her stay in Heaven. If she was, she wouldn’t find so much time to bother me. Perhaps the golden streets are too slippery—after all, Mama never did have a very good sense of balance.

  “Really, dear,” I whispered, “perhaps you should get back to your harp lessons.” Mama also had a tin ear.

  “You see what I mean, Gabriel? The voman’s meshuga.”

  That’s when I realized the voice was coming from below. Mama was definitely not spending eternity in that direction. My heart sank when I saw who it was.

  “Mrs. Rosen, I’m afraid I didn’t see you.”

  “That’s because you’re too tall, Magdalena. Like a bean stalk, if you ask me. But not to vorry. I hear they have surgery for that kind of thing nowadays.”

  “Somehow I don’t think so.”

  “Tell her, Gabriel.”

  “Yes,” I said, “tell her she’s been reading too many tabloids.”

  My beloved didn’t say anything, caught as he was between a stalk and a hard place.

  “So,” Mrs. Rosen said, putting her fists on her hips— at least that’s what it looked like from way up here—“you’re not going to stick up for your mother?”

  Gabe flinched. “Ma, I refuse to take sides. You know that.”

  “Then you’re taking her side.”

  “Ma!”

  I flashed Ida Rosen a triumphant look and made my way to the reviewing stand. There were three seats on the rickety wooden platform, and they were already occupied by the dignitaries of the day. Apparently I was meant to stand. Sitting ramrod straight in the middle seat was Sam Yoder, in front of whose store the event was taking place. To his right sat Reverend Richard Nixon, pastor of the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah. The good man was going to open the ceremonies with an invocation. To Sam’s left sprawled Betty Baumgartner, a Hernia teenager who had been asked to sing the national anthem. Betty’s claim to fame is that she made it to the top one thousand finalists in a TV show called American Idol.

  I’ve been blessed with a good pair of lungs, so this was not my first time as an announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen, please bow your heads for a word of prayer.”

  Hats were doffed and heads were bowed, but the leader of the church with thirty-two names delivered more than a word. After asking God’s blessing on the crowd, he prayed for the safety of the contestants, then launched into a long list of petitions that included requests for good weather, bountiful crops, and contrite hearts. So far so good, but unfortunately his mental needle got stuck in the repentance groove.

  I gave the man a nudge to move things along, but the needle skipped and landed in the fire and brimstone band of his vinyl record. This is when the reverend, who evokes a taller and ganglier Abraham Lincoln, threw his arms in the air and waved them about with all the grace of a marionette manipulated by a drunken puppeteer.

  “Repent!” he thundered, “or suffer forever the fiery horrors of hell. Behold, the last days are upon us—”

  I tugged on the tails of his frock coat. “A simple ‘amen’ would do nicely now, dear.”

  He pulled away. “—your throats will close up with unquenchable thirst, your Ups will blister like the scales of a shed snakeskin—”

  What was I to do? There were Presbyterians in the audience for pete’s sake, and they might not appreciate the reverend’s perspective on their future home—not to mention Ron the Episcopalian. Or Gabe and his mother for that matter. I was left with no choice but to punch the preacher in the soft spots behind his knees and watch him topple like the tower of Babel. Fortunately, Sam has good reflexes and caught the pontificating pastor before he could hurt himself.

  I poked Betty Baumgartner. “Belt it out, dear.”

  Alas, the child was agog with wonder at what I had done, and when that finally passed she burst into shrill laughter. It was turning out to be a typical Hernia celebration.

  “This may be your last chance at fame, dear. I hear there are talent scouts in the crowd.”

  Betty sobered instantly and grabbed the microphone. “ ‘Oh say can you see—’ “

  My mouth fell open. I assure you that I was not the only one to lose control of their jaw muscles. The girl was so off-key it would be impossible to find one note on a piano to match. I did the kind thing and prayed that she would forget the words and be forced to stop.

  Half my prayer was answered. “—by the rocket’s red glare in the dawn’s early light—”

  Just as I was
leaning forward to give her a merciful punch behind the knees, somewhere across town a dog howled. It sounded a lot like Blue. Seconds later another dog joined in. Then another. It was the crowd’s turn to laugh.

  I grabbed the microphone from a blushing Betty. “Give the girl a big round of applause, folks.”

  Sam, bless his lecherous heart, clapped first. Then, one by one, the others joined in. A beaming Betty bowed dramatically before I pushed her gently aside. She plopped in her chair and picked up a pop she’d been guzzling.

  “Everybody ready for the tractor pull?” I yelled.

  The response was deafening. Hernians love their tractor pulls. Even the Amish, who eschew the use of such modem machines, seem to have no objection to observing this competition. The crowd was sprinkled with black bonnets and straw hats. In fact, some of the more enterprising women had set up stalls on the fringes where they sold homemade cheese and preserves. One entrepreneur had brought with her a small propane stove and was frying snitz pies, a greasy pastry filled with dried apples and a thousand calories.

  I’m sure every community has their rules and regulations, but ours are simple. The contestants must be eighteen or over, and the machines they operate must belong to them. The playoffs are between pairs, who chain their tractors back to back and try to pull their opponent over a line. Think of it as a tug of war on steroids.

  It can be a dangerous sport—chains sometimes snap, tractors rear like bucking broncos and can veer off course—and is normally not played on city streets. But deep down Hernians are a wild bunch, many of whom long to run before the bulls in Pamplona. Besides, Main Street is exceptionally wide, and the high-school stadium was being readied for the greased pig competition.

  “First off we have Danny Gerber and ‘Dirty Bob’ Troyer. Danny—on my left—is driving the souped-up Massey Ferguson his dad gave him for graduation. Danny dear, did you ever finish your community service for having sprayed ‘I Love Tina’ on the overpass south of town?”

  Die crowd roared their approval and Danny gave me the thumbs-up sign.

  “Dirty Bob,” I said, “time to pick on you next.”