by Tamar Myers
“What’s wrong?” I demanded.
The Littletons jumped to their feet, but Alison remained seated, just as pale as Granny Yoder’s ghost.
“I’m afraid she has stomach pains,” Capers said. Her charming Charleston accent failed to make the words less frightening.
I flew to my foster daughter’s side. “Where, exactly?”
Alison groaned and pointed to the lower right quadrant of her abdomen.
My darling, and only sometimes obnoxious, child had appendicitis. I was beside myself with concern. Fortunately, I am beanpole thin, and two of me occupy very little space.
“Has the doctor seen her?”
Buist Littleton shook his head. “There was a nurse—Dudley, I think her name was. Said she’d be right back, but it’s been almost fifteen minutes.”
I glanced at the receptionist on duty—Thelma Umble. Bless her heart, the poor gal has the intelligence of a gerbil and the personality of an artichoke. Or is it the other way around? I had always hoped she would catch one of Melvin’s eyes and that he would marry her instead of Susannah. After all, the hospital receptionist and the Chief of Police were not only double first cousins, but third cousins five different ways—or was that the other way around? Anyway, when my sister’s marriage to the mantis became a fait accompli, I had to adjust my thinking. The descendants of this Umble-Stoltzfus union would have been genetic wildcards that might have eventually threatened national security.
Pasting a friendly smile on my mug, I waltzed over to the receptionist’s desk. I don’t mean that literally, mind you, ever aware that dancing is a sin.
“Thelma, dear, what’s keeping Attila the Hun so long?”
Perhaps I should mention that Thelma is a natural blonde who dies her hair brown. “Ooh,” she squealed, “is this a riddle? I just love riddles.”
“Sorry, but this isn’t a riddle. I just want to know what’s taking that battle-ax of a nurse so long.”
“I heard that!” Nurse Dudley has a voice that can be picked up by a seismograph—one all the way out in California. She also possesses the stealth of a Siberian tiger.
I am not exaggerating when I say I jumped out of my shoes—well, one of them anyway. A word of advice: a snoop should be just as careful about mending her stockings as she is about wearing clean underclothes. “Nurse Dudley,” I gasped, “how very nice to see you.” “Miss Yoder! Didn’t I tell you to never set foot on these premises again?”
“Well, technically, it’s only one foot. And then just my big toe, which is unfortunately poking through that hole.” I shoved the offending foot back into its brogan.
“Get out of my hospital,” the battle-ax bellowed, as fine cracks appeared in the plaster on the walls.
“Not until Alison gets help. And besides, I came here on police business. You don’t want to be cited for obstructing justice, do you?”
Nurse Dudley knew that I often functioned as the mantis’s mind, but she didn’t have to like it. She scowled so deeply one could have planted corn in the furrows of her brow.
“Very well. I’ll have the doctor see her in a minute. But first, what is this police business all about?”
“I need to see the corpse that was brought in this morning.”
The furrows grew so deep I could have planted onion sets in them. “This better be on the level.”
“As level as my chest.” I said it soft enough so that Buist Littleton wouldn’t hear. Of course, it’s no secret that I’m a carpenter’s dream, but why advertise it to men, even if I am engaged and he’s married?
Nurse Dudley saw her opportunity to pounce and grinned in triumph. “You are as flat as a board, so I’ll take that as a yes.” You can be sure she didn’t whisper.
I blushed as I addressed the Littletons. “Please stay with Alison for a minute.” I turned back to Nurse Dudley. “How do I get to the morgue?”
She handed me a ring with just one key on it. “You’ll need this. Go through those swinging doors, make a left, and it’s the door at the end of the hall. The storage unit has only three drawers and he’s in the middle one. There’s a box of surgical gloves just inside the door if you need to touch him.”
I shivered at the thought. I shivered again when I entered the ice-cold room. But I went numb with shock when I opened the middle drawer.
12
The body before me was not only stark naked, but it had once belonged to someone other than Buzzy Porter. As soon as I could react, I closed the drawer and mumbled an apology. Nurse Dudley was going to pay for her practical joke. I didn’t know when, but I did know how. She and Dr. Luther liked to golf together. I’d seen the pair on many occasions, whacking the little white balls early Sunday mornings at the Bedford Country Club. At that hour they were the only ones on the course. I didn’t belong to the club, by the way, but had to drive by it on my way into town to buy doughnuts for the Sunday school class I teach. (There is nothing wrong in bribing fifth and sixth graders into being cooperative.)
At any rate, I would make it a point to get up extra early one Sunday. A couple of bags of marshmallows scattered about the greens should prove frustrating, especially if my hunch was right and the confections swelled up from the dew. Then we’d see who laughed last.
Still mumbling, I opened the top drawer, which slid out far too easily. It was empty. I jerked open the bottom drawer, and it came nearly all the way out, knocking me flat on my bony behind.
“Ding dang darn!” I said. If I didn’t mend my ways soon, I would surely turn into a potty mouth.
The drawer had come at me so fast because, like the top one, it was empty. I glanced around the room, which was barely more than a cubicle. An icy cubicle. There was nowhere else to look for a corpse. I tugged the middle drawer open again, and risking blindness, scrutinized the body more carefully. Primarily the face.
I had been able to immediately discern that the body wasn’t Buzzy’s, because the last time I saw him he had dark hair. The body in front of me was blond—everywhere, including the eyebrows. The eyes were closed, but the patrician shape of the nose was familiar. In fact, it looked a lot like Ron Humphrey’s nose. I leaned in closer, breathing in the sickly sweet smell of death. It was Ron Humphrey in the drawer.
Anticipating my collapse, I voluntarily connected my derriere with the concrete floor. I don’t know how long I sat there—maybe five minutes—as I screwed up my courage to continue my investigation. When the time was right I struggled to my feet, all the while giving audible thanks to the Good Lord for creating me with such big ones. With enough warning, and if I planted my tootsies just right, I could fall asleep standing up. Anyone who doubts my ability to do so should ask Reverend Schrock. It’s been said that even the Almighty falls asleep during his lengthy prayers.
But before taking my lock-kneed position, I did something I never would have imagined. I donned a pair of the surgical gloves. Alas, there were no masks visible in the room, or else I would have worn one as well.
A closer look involved the support of every inch of my tootsies. Ron Humphrey’s body was a waxy blue- gray, almost translucent in appearance. If it weren’t for his distinctive proboscis and somewhat unusual hair color, I would have never recognized the man. Death is more than the absence of life; it is the absence of essence.
As an Episcopalian, Ron had existed on the fringes of our close-knit community. He and I had locked horns on a few occasions, mostly over alcohol-related issues, but we were not enemies by any means. I found him to be affable and generally very well informed. To my knowledge, everyone in Hernia regarded the young man as a hardworking citizen, deserving of the same respect afforded everyone else. He had no enemies that I knew of.
I gingerly touched one arm in a farewell gesture. It felt cool through the thin layer of latex. This meant nothing from an investigative point of view, especially since I had just taken the corpse out of cold storage.
“Good-bye, Ron,” I said, since I was totally alone with the body. “I’m sure some Episcopalian
s find their way into Heaven, and if you’re one of the fortunate ones, please say hello to my mama and papa. But if you run into Granny Yoder—well, even up there I suggest you run the other way.”
Of course, Ron didn’t respond, so I got right down to business. There appeared to be no unusual marks on his head. His chest looked fine as well—wait a minute. There was a small dark gray hole just below his left nipple. I hadn’t spotted it at first, given that it was hidden by a mat of curly blond hair. If my hunch was right, the lad had been killed by a bullet through the heart.
Dead folks seldom cooperate when you try to turn them, and Ron was no exception. I managed to pivot him onto his right shoulder so that his back was off the floor of the drawer at a forty-five-degree angle. There didn’t seem to be an exit wound, although his dorsal skin was a pale purple, a sign that blood had begun to collect there. I poked his shoulder blade with a gloved finger. Ron’s skin blanched at the point of contact.
I set him down and removed the gloves. I am not skilled in forensics, but I had learned all I needed to know. At least for now. After saying a prayer for wisdom—and a second, backup prayer for patience—I strode off to find the two people who could give me some answers.
It was a slow day at Hernia Hospital, and I found the first of my targets in the staff lounge, polishing off a glazed doughnut. Nurse Ratchet—I mean Nurse Dudley—looked a bit glazed herself. It was a pleasure to disturb her sugar-induced reverie.
“You’ve got the wrong body in there,” I barked. Nurse Dudley fumbled with her doughnut before dropping it in the lap of her pristine uniform. As any sensible person would do, she snatched up the morsel and popped it in her mouth. She also swore at me, which is just plain not nice.
“What are you doing in here anyway?” I said. “Where is my Alison?”
It was no surprise that she spoke before swallowing. “The brat’s gone home.”
“Home? But she had appendicitis!”
“She had a bad case of indigestion, that’s what.”
“Indigestion?”
The ill-tempered woman arranged her sugar-coated lips in what was supposed to be a triumphant smile. To me it looked more like she was trying to imitate a cat swallowing a canary. Unfortunately, the poor bird was still visible in her mouth.
“Dr. Luther knows how to deal with snotty delinquents. Right away he got her to confess that she’d eaten six fried apple pies and two funnel cakes. Miss Yoder, don’t you believe in teaching your foster child the basics of nutrition?”
Alison has more faults than the State of California, but nobody gets to criticize her except for her birth parents. And, of course, me. My hackles were hiked so high at that point, I could have won a Louisiana cockfight with a ten-foot rooster.
“She is most certainly not a delinquent! There is no school until Thursday.” I prayed for more patience before continuing, but I’ve learned that it is best not to wait too long after that prayer, lest it really come true. “You’d know that little fact, dear, if you had a child of your own. Oh, and one more thing—apple pies are a balanced meal, just as long as you drink plenty of milk.”
The nasty nurse has enviable bosoms—actually, she is top-heavy altogether—and she had to struggle to maintain her balance as she stood. “Get out of my hospital, Yoder!”
“Your hospital? I was always under the impression that Dr. Luther was in charge.”
“Out!” she bellowed through a spray of sugar flecks. Although she was advancing on me like a bull in heat, I did the knee-lock thing again and stood my ground. “Well, since it is your hospital, maybe you can explain why you have the wrong body in your matchbox-size morgue.”
Some people can feign bewilderment, but I honestly think Nurse Dudley lacks the guile to do so—although she definitely has the bile. She scrunched her forehead in genuine astonishment.
“What do you mean the wrong body? There is only one in there.”
“I know that. But the body in there belongs to Ron Humphrey, not Buzzy Porter.”
“Hernia’s Ron Humphrey? That cute Episcopalian boy?”
That was, by the way, the first non-confrontational sentence I’d ever heard her speak. Her sudden passivity, and the fact that her skin was as pale as Buzzy’s when I first saw him in the woods, confirmed my hunch. The woman was rude and incompetent, but she wasn’t hiding anything.
“Follow me,” I said.
It was a silly thing to say. Nurse Dudley bolted for the morgue, with yours truly close on her thick foam rubber heels. When she stopped in front of the drawer, I nearly ran into her. Her rear end is very well upholstered, so I wouldn’t have been hurt by the collision, but there is no telling what she might have done to me afterwards.
She panted like a spent sprinter for a minute before finding a voice. It certainly wasn’t hers. Nurse Dudley sounded like a grade-school girl in a screaming contest.
“It is Ron Humphrey!”
“That’s what I said.”
“But it wasn’t him when they brought him in. I mean—”
“I know what you mean. Somebody switched bodies, right?”
“Right. Magdalena, you do believe me, don’t you?” It was the first time she’d ever used my Christian name. This was turning into a banner week for me.
“Let’s say I believe you, what possible explanation could there be for this?”
She shrugged shoulders that would have looked at home on a quarterback. “I just know I had nothing to do with this, and neither did Dr. Luther. We’ve been together all morning—well, not together together, but when we didn’t have patients we were taking advantage of the lull to take inventory.”
“Are doughnuts on the list?” I know that was wicked and unfair of me, but the woman had been a thorn in my side for many years.
“One has to take a break sometime.”
The tiny room had two doors. I pointed to the one I had yet to use.
“Where does that go?”
“That’s our rear exit door.”
“But it isn’t marked. And what kind of cockeyed committee would issue a permit for a building in which one has to exit through the morgue?”
She didn’t hesitate. “You should know. You were on it.”
I swallowed my irritation. It’s one of the ways I maintain my weight.
“You should have that marked,” I said. “And you know, don’t you, that it needs to be unlocked at times when people are in the building?”
“It is unlocked—that’s why I gave you a key. We only lock the inside door to the morgue.”
I sighed. Nurse Dudley and her doctor compatriot both had the reasoning power of teenagers. On the other hand, their illogical minds had given me the edge that I needed to secure their cooperation. At least for the near future.
“I hope you realize, Nurse Dudley, that if someone reports this violation, the county can shut you down.” “It can?” Her tone was actually respectful.
“You bet your bippy, dear.”
“What do we do about it?”
“Either leave this door unlocked”—I pointed to the door that led back into the hall—”or have a contractor put in a new outside door somewhere else. But if that’s the case, clear the plans first with the planning commit-tee. In any event, you’ll need to erect a proper exit sign.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much—oh, but I need to speak to the ambulance crew before I leave.”
“You just did.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Magdalena, you know that we’re not really a hospi-tal—not in the traditional sense.”
“You mean not accredited.”
“Whatever. But we do the best we can to meet the needs of the community. Why, next year we’re thinking of hiring another doctor and maybe two more nurses.”
“Good for you, dear. But what did you mean by saying I’d already spoken to the ambulance crew?”
“Like I’ve been trying to explain, we can’t afford to keep a standing crew. When the call came in
this morning we hadn’t opened yet, so Dr. Luther and I answered it ourselves.”
“Isn’t that illegal? Aren’t paramedics supposed to be specially trained?”
She snorted, then caught herself by clapping a man-size mitt over her mouth. “You can’t get any more trained than Dr. Luther,” she finally said.
“Nurse Dudley, in addition to contacting the planning commission, I’d contact a lawyer and ask him or her to check on all the necessary regulations for running this sort of enterprise.”
“That means you’re not going to snitch?”
“No, I’m not going to snitch.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Then get out of my hospital, Miss Yoder!”
I held up my skinned hands. “But I’m wounded. I need medical care.”
“Out, before I throw you out!”
“Promises are made to be broken,” I said over my shoulder. It was wise to retreat while I still had the upper hand—even if it was missing part of its epidermis.
I tried calling Melvin on my cell phone. While I despise it when other people steer with one hand, I always seem to have a good excuse. And what could be more important than a body switched in a minimorgue? Besides, I have exceptional hand-eye coordination, if I must say so myself. The only person who ever beat me at jacks when I was a little girl was Gertrude Plank—and she had seven fingers on her right hand.
But our Chief of Police was simply unavailable. Even the 911 number didn’t work. I had no choice but to swing by the station and wait for a warm body to show up. In the meantime I dialed home.
“Jimmy, is that you?” a girl’s voice said.
“Alison?”
“Mom?”
“Sweetie, you’re supposed to answer ‘PennDutch.’ “
“Sorry mom. Hey, do ya mind getting off the phone, because Jimmy said he was gonna call right back.”
“Are we talking about Jimmy Mast, who, as we’ve discussed a million times, is far too old for you?”
“He’s seventeen, which is only four years older than me.
