by Tamar Myers
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Yoder.”
He was deadly serious, but I chose to ignore the comment. I’d just had a brainstorm, and since that region is becoming increasingly arid, I needed to act on it as soon as possible.
“Why don’t you two move in right now on a trial basis?”
“Uh—”
“I mean it. You’d have to sleep right here in the parlor on a rollaway, but that shouldn’t be a problem. This batch of guests goes to bed early, and you two are night owls, right? Of course you’d have to do chores. I’m not a sexist, so I don’t care who does what—but someone has to run into Bedford this afternoon and do the shopping. Meanwhile the other can be cleaning the bathrooms in the rooms of those who opted out of A.L.P.O. Oh, and you’ll find a pile of dirty laundry in the—”
“Forget it, Yoder. My Sweetykins and I have far too much pride to be manual laborers.”
“So you’re not going to quit after all?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I was just kidding about moving in.”
“Good. So maybe now we can talk about the switched bodies.”
“You’re nuts, Yoder, you know that?”
“Call me Macadamia, but if you don’t hush up and listen to what I have say, you’ll be scrubbing toilets before you can spell my new name.”
The miserable mantis was suddenly as mum as a politician on a polygraph.
“So you’re one hundred percent positive that the corpse you delivered to the morgue was Buzzy Porter?”
“Like I said, Yoder, you’re nuts. From the time you left, until the ambulance arrived, I didn’t leave the body alone for a second.”
“Yes, but did you ride with it to the hospital?”
“Of course not. I drove the cruiser down.”
“But you saw Dr. Mean and Nurse Meaner unload the victim, right?”
“Yeah.” He shifted in his seat to alleviate the pain Granny’s hardwood chair was inflicting on his bottom. “Yoder, we got ourselves a big problem on our hands, don’t we?”
“The biggest, dear. Perhaps we should call the sheriff in on this one. Maybe even the F.B.I. I mean, kidnapping a corpse has got to be a federal crime.”
The look of abject terror on my brother-in-law’s face was almost touching. No doubt he believed that if we sought outside help, his reputation would suffer. But au contraire. The good folk of Hernia have no delusions about their chief’s competency. If he asked for outside assistance, the majority of us would view it as a sign of latent intelligence.
“Okay, okay, we don’t need to call the sheriff—at least not yet. I believe that both murders are tied to the time capsule box, and”—I lowered my voice so that there was no chance Alison could hear us, should she be trying to listen in—”I think that at least one of my cur-rent guests might be involved.”
He rolled an eye, but refrained from commenting. “I’m also convinced that the motive is a treasure—in a manner of speaking—the key to which is a document that has been in that box all these years.”
“You mean the Hochstetler fortune?”
It’s a good thing I don’t wear dentures, or I would have had to waste precious time rinsing them off. “You know about this fortune?”
“Supposed fortune, Yoder. Anyone with any brains knows that it’s crap.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s supposed to be in a cave, you know. I looked for it all the time when I was kid. Been inside every cave and abandoned mine shaft in Bedford County but never found a damn thing. Nothing, zilch, nada.”
“Don’t swear in this house, Melvin.” My words may have been chiding, but my tone wasn’t. Frankly, I was intrigued. I’d known the police chief his entire life, and I had never pictured him doing childlike things. Childish, yes, but not childlike. The image of a large-headed little boy tramping around in the woods looking for caves was almost endearing. “Did you do this by yourself?” “Don’t be mean, Yoder. You know I didn’t have many friends. Of course I was alone. Almost died one day too, on account of those caves can be dangerous. Once, when I was about nine, I slipped inside a cave on some mud and knocked myself out. I have no idea how long I was unconscious, but when I came to I was seeing double and had a lump on my head the size of my fist. It wasn’t until the swelling finally went down that the doc noticed an actual depression. Here, you can still feel it.”
He was out of his chair and headed my way before I could stop him. “Bull!” I shouted.
He retraced his steps. “I’m not lying, Yoder. Susannah sometimes parks her gum there when she goes to sleep.”
“I believe you have the dent, but it was caused when that bull kicked you. You know, the one you were trying to milk.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Yoder. I didn’t milk the bull until high school.”
I smiled, vindicated. “Melvin, did your family tradition mention a specific cave?”
He gave me a look that would have withered a waterlogged cactus, had there been one in the room. “There is only one tradition, Yoder. You ought to know—seeing as how you think you know everything. Mama said the right cave was the one at the bottom of Stucky Ridge. Her mama’s mama’s mama told her that. I only looked in the other caves because I couldn’t find—”
“There’s a cave at the bottom of Stucky Ridge?”
Melvin smiled, looking rather vindicated himself. “So you don’t know everything.”
“Quel surprise.” I glanced at my watch, which, by the way, is a conservative Christian model. “Do you know what time it gets dark now?”
“When the sun goes down, of course. Although in the summer it sometimes stays light a while longer.”
“Stay right where you are,” I ordered.
“Can I at least sit in your chair?” he whined.
I said he could. Then I hurried off to find Alison. Alas, the child was happily bathing the pig named Babe—in my bathtub! I made a mental note to invest in Purell stock, but refrained from lecturing her just then.
“I’m leaving a note on the dining room table. The guests are supposed to make their own supper, but they have to pay extra for the privilege. You, of course, don’t have to pay. In fact, if you cook something for them—like maybe scrambled eggs and toast—I’ll double your allowance this week. And in case I’m not back at your normal bedtime, put yourself to bed. And no, you may not go over to a friend’s. I need you here tonight. Any questions, dear?”
Alison seemed remarkably unperturbed by my instructions. She kissed Babe on his pink, plastic-like snout before answering.
“Can Donna Wylie come over to see him?”
“If one of her parents does the driving. I don’t want to come back and find Jimmy here.”
“Mom, you’re so silly. Who needs boys when I’ve got him?”
Oh, the wisdom of youth. I planted a kiss on the back of Alison’s head and sized Babe’s head up for head cheese—it would take a few years—and then skedaddled. My bothersome brother-in-law just might have accidentally babbled some useful information. It was time to go spelunking with the Stoltzfus.
19
Tourists like to think that Hernia is all gingerbread Victorian houses surrounded by neat Amish farms. The truth is we have a slum, albeit a rather small one. There are two streets on the south end of the town that we locals shamefully refer to as Ragsdale. I know it’s a sin to judge others on their lack of material possessions, and I promise to repent for even sharing this bit of informa-tion. And not that it’s a valid excuse, but the habit was ingrained in us as children.
When Susannah and I were girls (at separate times, of course), our school bus used to stop in this part of town to take on students. It was common knowledge among us children that the Ragsdale kids were a breed apart. Some of them sported tattoos, many of them smoked, and on at least three occasions Miss Proschel, our bus driver, had to confiscate knives. Like many other stereotypes in this world, Ragsdale’s reputation was based on both fact and fancy.
The neighborhood remains poor, but frankly
, today I feel safer walking through it than I do visiting Foxcroft, our newest subdivision. Foxcroft, by the way, is where Susannah and Melvin live, in a house that can be distinguished from its neighbors only because my sister ignores the covenants and hangs scarlet drapes at the windows. Anyway, in the last five years since its establishment, Foxcroft has seen a homicide, eight cases of nonlethal domestic violence (that have been reported), four break-ins, and a rash of mailbox bashing. In that time period Ragsdale has been virtually crime free.
Melvin and I drove separately, agreeing to park in front of the “Block House.” This residence is locally famous because the Strubleheimers, who own it, have eighteen wheelless vehicles up on concrete blocks. Most of the cars lack glass panes and are therefore home to numerous small mammals. When this unsightly collection began, the animals were primarily mice and rats. Over the years the rodents have been replaced by cats. At one point the feline population was so large that it rivaled that of the Roman Coliseum, or so experienced travelers tell me. Recently some of our more wealthy citizens, yours truly included, have been sponsoring the spaying and neutering of these mousers. The furry explosion has halted, although occasionally one still sees a kitten or two playing in the shade of the mounted wrecks.
One might think the town could do something about this eyesore, but alas, the Strubleheimers have a grand-father clause that dates back to the days when a Strubleheimer ancestor ran a repair shop for Model A Fords. It is said to have been the first in the county. And anyway, the sad truth is that as long as the mess doesn’t spill out of Ragsdale and into Hernia proper, most folks don’t care. The only complaints we on the town council get are from tourists who accidentally stray from the official sightseers’ route, the one marked Highway to Heaven on our giveaway maps.
Melvin and I picked this spot to rendezvous because the Block House sits at the end of Tar Shingle Alley, the closest one can drive to this flank of Stucky Ridge (the portion directly below Lovers’ Leap). My brother-in-law assured me that there was an actual path that wound among the rusting hulks and into the tangle of woods that hugs the base of this outcrop. As a boy, bent on discovering treasure, he was forced to run through the maze of vehicles, and not because the supposed Ragsdale bullies were after him, but because of the giant rats. If he is to be believed a rat the size of Robin Williams—but not quite as hairy—knocked him down one day, bit his ears, and probably would have eaten them had not our hero remembered that he had one of his mother’s cookies in his pocket. He fed the confection to the rodent, which immediately toppled over dead. That part of the story I believe.
As soon as I got out of the car on that otherwise pleasant September afternoon, the scent of ammonia nearly overwhelmed me. I would either have to beef up my contributions to the spaying fund or start feeding the cats Elvina Stoltzfus’s cookies. Of course I am joking, but it was no wonder that Blue’s sniffer had gone berserk when he stood at the edge of Lovers’ Leap.
“Melvin, do you think any of them have rabies?”
“Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Yoder. I got bit by a rabid rat once, remember? Didn’t even get any treatment for it—and look at me.”
“That’s why I asked, dear.”
The cats were obviously used to being fed, and the real danger came from tripping over them as they vied for our attention. By the time I got halfway to the woods, I had a live leg warmer wrapped around each ankle. A few of the persistent pussies even followed us into the dense undergrowth at the woods’ edge. Finally the going got so tough, even they became discouraged and turned back.
“Melvin, you said there was a trail.”
“There is, Yoder. Can’t you see it?”
“I can barely see you—not that I’m complaining.”
“See that? I carved that notch into that tree when I was just a kid. That was over thirty years ago and it’s still there. Look, there’s another.”
I didn’t see a thing except dying leaves and brambles. At one point, while trying to protect my face, my still- sore right hand snagged on a blackberry vine. If Melvin hadn’t sounded so cocksure, I would have turned back and joined the pussies. A bird in the hand might be worth two in the bush, but a hand in a bush—well, that can be mighty painful.
There simply isn’t all that much woods between the Block House and the ridge, so Melvin must have led me in concentric circles. It got to the point where I wouldn’t have been surprised if we suddenly stumbled onto the Pacific Ocean. A sweating Stoltzfus and a scratched Sacagawea, that’s what we were.
The panting mantis finally stopped, and I came within inches of smacking into him. “It used to be right there.”
“What? Where?”
He pointed at the ground just in front of him. “The cave, you idiot. I swear that’s where it was.”
That’s when I first noticed that we were standing at the base of a sheer rock wall. Funny how I hadn’t noticed the ridge through the trees. At any rate, there was nothing to see where Melvin pointed except leaf clutter and a few half-rotted branches. It was what one might expect on the floor of any dense woods.
“How can you be sure this is the spot?” A terrifying thought had just occurred to me. Sure, Melvin had managed to find the cliff, but by way of San Francisco. No doubt it would be ten times harder to find our way back to the Block House. We might even get so lost we could wander over the border into Maryland, a situation for which we were not prepared. After all, one should never venture into Maryland without provisions.
“I’m positive this is the right spot, Yoder, because there’re my initials again. I carved them into the rock with the knife Mama gave me for my ninth birthday.”
“Elvina Stoltzfus gave you a pocket knife?” It’s a good thing nobody else knew that at the time, or Melvin’s mama would surely have been cited for child endangerment.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Yoder. It was a table knife—but it did have a serrated edge.”
I shuffled through the leaves and sticks to get a closer look. While I couldn’t be certain Melvin had carved them, there were indeed initials.
MS loves MY.
“Who’s MY? Mabel Yutzy?”
Unable to decipher Melvin’s low mumble, I guessed again.
“Marilyn Yost?”
“Don’t be mean, Yoder. I was just a kid.”
“I’m not being mean. Marilyn Yost is a beautiful, talented woman. It’s too bad she can’t seem to stay married. And just in case you’re getting ideas—remember that you’re married.”
“It wasn’t Marilyn Yost, damn it, it was you!”
I recoiled right into a veritable thicket of blackberry vines. So shocked was I that I forgot to chide Melvin for swearing. In fact, I didn’t even feel the pain of a thousand thorns.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. But like I said, I was just a kid, and you were so—uh, well, magnificent.”
I thrashed free of the thorns. Try saying that five times in rapid succession. Perhaps then you can imagine what it was like for me to spit out anything coherent.
“B-but I’m eleven years older than you. I would have been a twenty-year-old woman.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding wistful. “And what a woman. Smart, funny, sexy—”
“Aack!” I clamped bloody hands over my ears, but a fat lot of good that did.
“I mean it, Yoder. You are—I mean, were—every-thing I wanted in a woman.”
“A carpenter’s dream?”
“I like flat-chested women. I married Susannah, didn’t I?”
Oh what a laugh the Good Lord must be having. The same Magdalena Portulacca Yoder who never had a date in either high school or college, and who had come to think of herself as the poster woman for maiden ladies everywhere, was really a sex goddess.
“Melvin, please tell me you no longer feel that way about me.”
He brayed like a donkey, which was, to say the least, disconcerting. There are no wild asses in Pennsylvania, and it was still a good two months until deer season
, but some hunters break the rules. And neither of us was wearing red—although one of us was starting to see that color.
“What’s so funny?” I demanded.
“You got to be kidding. Of course I don’t feel that way now.”
“Oh?” It’s much nicer to be lusted after than laughed at.
“It’s because you’ve gotten arrogant, Yoder.”
“That’s not true! I’ve always been conceited.”
“You think you’re so much smarter than me. You’re always putting me down. Susannah, on the other hand, builds me up. Makes me feel like a man.”
“I never realized she was such a hard worker.”
“You see what I mean?”
Sometimes I think I’m diagonally parked in a parallel universe. Even just this morning I would have thought this entire scenario was about as likely to happen as—well, me allowing a pig to live in the inn. And almost as surprising was the fact that I wanted to argue with
Melvin, to convince him that I was still worthy of his affection. Not that I was attracted to him, mind you, but isn’t it human nature to want to be liked? Yes, I’d detested the man all these years (in a loving, Christian sort of way), but I hadn’t known there was a time when we could have actually been civil to each other.
But instead of making a fool of myself, or lapsing into familiar sarcasm, I decided to practice random acts of intelligence and senseless acts of self-control. At least until we got back to the safety of civilization. And believe you me, eighteen wheelless cars and a hundred-odd cats were starting to seem pretty normal.
“Melvin, dear, perhaps the cave and your initials are farther apart than you remembered. After all, you were a little boy.”
He grunted, which I took as agreement. I began to follow the cliff face in one direction, and he in another. After about fifty yards I gave up, but only because the sheer wall had given way to a steep, but wooded slope. The terrain no longer jibed at all with Melvin’s description.
When I returned to our starting point, I learned that he had not been successful either. “It’s a trick, Yoder.”
