Thou Shalt Not Grill

by Tamar Myers

  “Actually, these are mountains, not hills.”

  “They look like hills to me.”

  “But you’re from Kansas,” I said. “I have wrinkles in my sheets that are higher than any hills you have there. So, what do you think of our Amish?”

  “We have Amish in Kansas too.”

  “Any named Hostetler, or Hochstetler, or any variation thereof?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I don’t go around asking their names.”

  I pretended to think for a minute. It was harder work than I remembered.

  “You look somewhat like my cousin Delphia Hostetler,” I said. And that wasn’t a he, given that they both had the general human shape—Bibi more so than Delphia, I’m loath to admit. “Wouldn’t it be interesting if you and I were related?”

  “But you’re a Yoder.”

  “Prick a Yoder and a Hostetler bleeds. If you have any Amish ancestors—any at all, you and I are undoubtedly cousins.”

  “Well, that isn’t the case.” She didn’t sound the least bit disappointed.

  “How about your husband? I know Norton isn’t one of our names, but maybe through his mama—or his paternal grandmother.”

  “I think the Nortons were English all the way back. But neither my husband nor I are interested in genealogy.”

  “That’s a shame, because you never know when a little knowledge of your family history can reap dividends. Take the Hostetlers, for instance. There are family legends that mention a huge fortune, just waiting to be found.”

  “Ha, legends!” She lost her footing and thrashed a bit more. She was panting when she spoke again. “Every family has their legends, but I wouldn’t bet the farm on any of them.”

  I was at my wit’s end. “Are you sure you’re not a Hostetler? You’re just as stubborn as one.”

  “Miss Yoder, there is no need for you to be rude.”

  I gave up. “Fine. Then don’t tell me anything about yourself. But you can’t blame a hostess for showing interest in her guests. Why, even that nixnux Buzzy Porter was more forthcoming than you.”

  “Mr. Porter was no mere nixnux. That man had a mean streak a mile long. I couldn’t stand him.”

  Shocked by what I’d just heard, I stopped dead in my tracks. Because I lack brake lights on my heinie, Bibi Norton rammed into me. They say the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Well, I may be tall, but I’m also rail thin, so I fell like a ton of feathers. I may even have floated to the ground, had not sturdy Bibi been determined to land on me.

  “Ding dang,” I cried as my probing proboscis penetrated the porous forest floor.

  “You clumsy oaf,” Bibi bellowed.

  I didn’t mind being called a name. At least now that I finally had a real suspect.

  23

  I thought of pinning Bibi to the ground while I interrogated her. But given her muscles, and my lack of them, physical restraint would be about as useless as it would be for me to enter the Miss America pageant. Instead, I decided to use the darkness that surrounded us to my advantage.

  “What’s that?” I gasped.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “It sounded an awful lot like a bear.”

  “Are they dangerous?” She sounded like she was al-ready convinced this was the case.

  Somewhere I read that grizzly bears—and we have no wild ones in Pennsylvania—are one of the most dangerous animals on the planet. Eastern black bears, on the other hand, would sooner run from you than attack. Of course there are always exceptions. I addressed the exception.

  “Their claws could fillet you like a fresh salmon.”

  She pawed me with her pair of pinecones. She might be incapable of cutting open a fish with her nails, but I had no doubts she could mince meat.

  “Come on, Miss Yoder, let’s get out of here.”

  “In a minute, dear. Where did you learn the word nixnux?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Just now, when I called Buzzy a nixnux—well, you knew exactly what I meant.”

  “It’s an Amish word, isn’t it?”

  “Exactly!”

  “So maybe I picked it up from our Kansas Amish.”

  “The ones whose names you don’t even know? Look, Mrs. Norton—if that is indeed your name—we’re going to stay right here, come hungry bears or high water, until you spill everything.”

  Thank heavens the woods are filled with obliging creatures who prefer to move around at night. The noise we heard next sounded like a large male deer crashing through the underbrush. Apparently they don’t have many bounding bucks in the middle of Kansas because Bibi was all over me like gravy on Doc’s mashed potatoes.

  “All right,” she screeched, louder than any owl I’ve heard. “I’ll tell you every damn thing.”

  “Ah, ah, ah, no swearing, dear.”

  I doubt if she heard me, as fired up as she was to un-burden herself of the truth. “My maiden name is Kauffman. Both my parents have Hostetler blood. And yes we have a family story about the Hochstetler treasure, but it isn’t a legend—it’s true!”

  “And where is it supposed to be buried?”

  “Buried?”

  “Otherwise known as interment. Something that will not happen to either of us if that bear is really hungry.”

  “I know what the word means,” she growled, “but the treasure isn’t buried.”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s a city. You can’t bury that.”

  “Ah, the Bern story.”

  “Zurich,” she snapped. “Every last acre under that city is ours, and what’s on top of it too. That includes the banks, you know.”

  I was tempted to throw my arms around her in the dark, but didn’t want the gesture to be misconstrued. Here was a woman after my own heart—a woman who dared to think big. Who cared about Bern and its billions, when there was Zurich and its trillions to be had?

  “Bibi, dear,” I said, now that we were kissing cousins—just not in that way, “tell me something. Isn’t there supposed to be a buried deed somewhere?”

  An amateur might have thought hyenas had been imported to Hernia. “Haaaaa! The deed’s not buried, it’s in a Bible.”

  “It is?”

  “The Hochstetler family Bible. The one that belonged to our Great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Jacob.”

  “Add a few greats for me, dear. I’m not quite as old as you.”

  “Anyway, by my calculations, that Bible is supposed to be here in Hernia.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I lied to you, Miss Yoder. I am into genealogy.”

  “No duh,” I said softly.

  “What was that?”

  “Uh—I was just talking to myself So, if the deed is in a Bible somewhere around here, what brings you into town just as we are about to unearth our time capsule?”

  “Because the owner of that Bible is mentioned in a document that is buried in the time capsule.”

  Leave it to a relative to split hairs so thin they couldn’t be seen on a bald man under a spotlight. “So you were after the time capsule.”

  Her anger emboldened her. Either that, or her eyes had adjusted to the dark. At any rate, she pushed away from me. She even bared her teeth—unless a dozen fireflies, in an unprecedented act of cooperation, had aligned themselves in two straight rows.

  “I did not kill Mr. Porter. I’m not saying I’m sorry he died, but neither I, nor Chuck, had anything to do with his death. Our plan was simply to buy the document. Barring that, just to get a good look at it.”

  “You keep mentioning this document. What sort of document is this?”

  “A list of the founding fathers.”

  “What?”

  “My grandmother was there when they buried the time capsule. She was just a little girl, of course. She said that she remembers there being an argument about whose name should be on this list. There was one person everyone wanted to omit, because his descendants refused to l
et anyone have a peek at their Bible—the one in which the deed to the Hochstetler family fortune is recorded.”

  I must admit that this particular family legend sounded more plausible than most. The Bibles of my ancestors were filled with annotations of a personal nature: genealogies, birthdays, even a hand-written marriage contract in my grandmother’s well-worn tome. Why not a deed? Indeed, it made a great deal of sense.

  “How old did you say your grandmother was when the capsule was buried?”

  “Let’s see, she was born in ninety-four—1894.”

  “But then she would have been only ten. How could she remember something so grown up as a list of founding fathers?”

  “Oh, she didn’t remember that. Her mother filled her in on that later. She remembered the fistfight.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “The fight was quite famous. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. One man had his jaw broken—by the one who kept insisting his ancestor should be included. Anyway, we already know—thanks to our genealogical and historical research, who all the founding fathers were. Now we just need to know who is not on the list. Then we can track down the Bible, buy it, and the fortune is ours.” The last words were delivered as a sigh, the sort one might emit after a particularly satisfying dinner.

  “Well, is that all?” I said. Yes, I was about to lie, and yes, I had a good reason. I also had enough of a con-science to recognize the impending error of my ways. “You should have just asked me for the list when you registered.”

  Her eyes glowed with greed. Either that, or there truly was a large wild animal in the vicinity.

  “You have the list?”

  “Of course.” At least I had a list. Like any good Mennonite woman, I keep a pad and paper in the bathroom, in the little stand that holds my collection of Reader’s Digest. Who knows when inspiration is going to strike or I might want to jot down a shopping list for my next trip to Mystery Lovers bookstore in Pittsburgh.

  Her mission almost accomplished, Bibi wrenched herself free from my grip, ready to take on the monsters of the night if need be.

  “Miss Yoder,” she practically bellowed, “I’m sure we can make a deal.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound—of sin, I mean. Instead of answering her, I hauled myself to my feet and resumed my trek to the inn. Bibi crashed along behind me.

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  “Eighty, twenty,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the one who did all the research. I’ll give you ten percent.”

  “I’m afraid you have it wrong, dear. I’m offering you the twenty percent.”

  “What?” she barked.

  “Look, I have the list. And I have all the same genealogy books. I probably don’t even need them, because all the founders are buried in Settlers’ Cemetery up on Stucky Ridge. All I have to do is peruse the graveyard. Their headstones are specially marked. Anyway, it shouldn’t take me more than a few minutes.”

  “Fifty, fifty.”

  “Hmm, that would make us equal partners.”

  “Not quite,” she snapped. “Father and I have to share our hall”

  “As well you should. The two of you are married, after all. One flesh that no man should put asunder, or whatever the vows say. So, do we have a deal?”

  She mumbled her assent. Still, it was loud enough to send roosting birds shrieking from the treetops.

  “Good. But now that we’re partners—fifty, fifty—we have to be absolutely straight with each other.”

  “I did not kill Mr. Porter, if that’s what you’re getting at. And neither did Father.”

  “You sure? I mean, if you did—well, what’s one paltry human life compared to that much moola?” I tried to sound casual, but probably didn’t. In our tradition there is no justifiable reason to take another human life. Our ancestor’s wife was scalped because he refused to defend her when the Delaware attacked on the evening of September 19,1757. Of course, Bibi’s blood had been diluted—at least I assumed it was. She was clearly not of the faith.

  “Miss Yoder, if we had killed Mr. Porter, we would have the list now, wouldn’t we? There would be no use for this conversation.”

  I finally believed her. And if Bibi Norton was innocent, so was her husband, Chuck. That left just six suspects, five if you counted the Littletons as a unit. No doubt all five were now back at the inn with my precious Alison, who had only a pig to protect her—assuming that Babester and his meddling mama had gone home like they were supposed to.

  “Come on, dear,” I cried. “There’s no time to waste!” I charged down the trail with all the intensity of an infuriated rhino. These beasts, I am told, have difficulty seeing. Well, I couldn’t see the trail either, and although my feet are used to it, they are also used to operating under much calmer circumstances. I made a few wrong moves, smacked into the odd bush or tree, but emerged onto Hertlzer Road without losing Bibi and having suffered only minor cuts and scrapes. Trust me, my engine was still only getting revved when I burst through the kitchen door.

  “What do you mean she refuses to leave? She doesn’t have any choice. This is my house, and I want her out—at least for now.”

  Gabe squirmed. “Shhh. Ma’s in the kitchen. She’ll hear you.”

  “Hear, schmeer. The two of you are supposed to be out of here. As in gone home.”

  “We couldn’t leave when we found out about the pig.”

  “The pig isn’t any of her business.”

  “Magdalena, you don’t understand.”

  “Then enlighten me.” I had already ascertained that Alison was safe in my room, trading swine-raising tips over the phone with Donna Wylie.

  Gabe grabbed me by a narrow shoulder and tried to steer me out of the dining room, where we’d been standing, and into the parlor. The guests, thank heavens, had all gone upstairs to dress for dinner. I allowed him to pull me as far as the foyer, where I keep my little office. “You see, Magdalena, pigs aren’t kosher.”

  “I know that, but your mother doesn’t keep kosher. And it’s not like I’m asking her to eat it.”

  “Yes, but it goes beyond that. A lot of foods aren’t kosher, but ham and pork have become symbolic of what is forbidden. Historically our enemies have used pigs to torment us. In some cases Jews have been forced to either eat pork or be killed.”

  “That’s horrible. But I still don’t see how I can ask Alison to give up her pet. She’ll see me as a double-crosser.”

  “You can’t be sure of that. She’s a very bright girl.”

  “But I can’t risk it, either. She’s just now beginning to trust me—she’s been betrayed so many times. Gabe, I just can’t do it.”

  His fingers slid off my shoulder. They felt like icicles. “Does this mean you’re choosing a pig over me?”

  “That’s not at all what I said!” Gabe had taken my words and twisted them like a pretzel. A master baker couldn’t have done a better job. And some women have the nerve to think of men as simpleminded creatures. “Shall I take that as a ‘yes’?”

  “What does letting Alison keep her pet have anything to do with choosing, or not choosing, you?”

  “Because I already told Ma that she could live with us. And I can’t go back on my word, either, Magdalena. She’s my mother—my flesh and blood mother.”

  That did it. That hiked my hackles so high they scratched my armpits.

  “Are you trying to tell me that Alison doesn’t count because she’s not my biological daughter?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. But as long as you’ve brought the subject up, whose biological daughter is she?”

  “You know the answer to that. She’s Aaron’s—and his wife’s. His first wife.”

  “Enough said.”

  I had plenty more to say, and believe me, I would have said every regrettable word, had not Ida Rosen burst into the room. Pausing only long enough to look up and see where I was, she came right at me, like an angry pit bull.

  “So now
she stabs me in the back.” Her eyes were on me, but her words obviously directed to her son.

  “Ma, I told you I’d take care of this.”

  “Stay out of this, Gabey.”

  Gabey?

  “Ma!”

  Ida was all eyes and no ears. She glared at me as she poked me in the sternum with a finger no longer than a Vienna sausage.

  “I make supper for your little one, and you vant to repay me by letting her sell the leftovers to your guests?”

  “Who squealed?” I squealed. “Alison?”

  “Don’t blame her, Miss Yoder. But she is in the kitchen now, putting my leftovers into serving bowls. Big money, she says, she’ll get for my food.”

  “Well, you are a good cook.”

  The Babester didn’t poke me with a finger, but he glared at me as well. “How could you take advantage of my mother like that?”

  “She wasn’t supposed to find out,” I wailed. “What she didn’t know wasn’t supposed to hurt her.”

  Gabe put a strong tanned arm protectively around his mother’s shoulders. “Come on, Ma. I’ll take you home.”

  “But vhat about my food?”

  “Forget about it. You can make some more at home.”

  “Vhat? And let this gonef keep it?”

  I stamped a long, narrow foot. “Take that back, Mrs. Rosen!”

  “You see, she vants I should take it back, Gabey.”

  “I meant the name. I keep the food—rather, Alison does. You made it for her.”

  “I take back nothing, and I keep the food.”

  “She has a legal right,” Gabe said. “She paid for it.”

  “But she gave it away. Besides, you’re a doctor, not a lawyer.”

  “Yes, a doctor,” Ida said, shaking her head like a terrier with a rat in its mouth. “He could have had his pick of women back in the city. Good Jewish girls too.”

  “Instead he retired to the country to become a paperback writer. And now he’s engaged to a simple Mennonite woman. That must really get to you, doesn’t it, Mrs. Rosen?”

  “Magdalena,” Gabe said sharply. “That’s my mother you’re speaking to. Your future mother-in-law.”