by Tamar Myers
“And what about these two scalloped circles?” she asked.
“Ah, well, this one is the Neunschwander farm, and the other one is the Berkey place. They’re just on there as points of reference. What’s important is this long narrow rectangle with six circles in it.”
They stared at the design for great-grandpa’s outhouse. “What does it mean?” Augusta demanded. Her breath was as hot as any August day, although not nearly as sweet.
“You see,” I said, praying for inspiration, “this long skinny rectangle is Stucky Ridge. That, of course, is where we’re standing right now. The circle on this end is the cave just below Lovers’ Leap—but you already know all about that one. There are five caves just like it, only they’re harder to find. Now this”—I tapped the slanted line that indicated the location of the outhouse door—”tells us which cave contains the treasure.”
“You said there wasn’t a treasure map,” Stanley said. The boy was far smarter than I gave him credit for. “Now you tell us you know where the treasure is buried. Grandma, I think she’s conning us.”
Where in tarnation was the Stoltzfus? What were the chances he’d sneaked up on us and was lurking in the underbrush, just seconds away from being my hero? Frankly, it was about as likely as Charlie Sheen joining the NRA. No doubt Melvin was still at home, lollygag- ging about in his La-Z-Boy recliner, watching One Life to Live. If I got out of this predicament alive, I would pull strings with the finance company he used and get his TV repossessed.
However, now was not the time to appear anything but serene. I tapped the map again.
“This circle is right below a rock feature we call The Old Man. If we get closer to the edge you can look down and see his nose. It’s almost as big as mine.”
“I don’t remember a rock called that,” Augusta said. “Well, it has other names as well. But look, there it is.” I’d been stepping sideways toward the cliff, and they, unwittingly, had been moving with me. Just a few more steps and I might be able to trip or push one of them, and send him or her crashing into the foliage below.
“I don’t see a nose,” Augusta said, craning her neck. “Do you, Stanley?”
“Maybe it’s because I’m taller than either of you,” I said, “but I can see it. I’m sure you will too, if you get closer.”
They each took a couple of steps forward. In fact, they were now nearer the edge than I was. When opportunity knocks, you either open the door or rue the day you didn’t. This was my opportunity, so I took it.
32
I pushed Stanley. Because of his youth and testosterone, he was the biggest threat to me. Besides, he was the one holding the gun. And it was Stanley who had shot Ron Humphrey when Augusta found herself unable to run the jogger over with her car.
Alas, the youth had the reflexes of a cat. One foot went over the edge, but he managed to whip around and grab my left arm. Using me as a fulcrum, he pivoted so that both his feet were back on the cliff. Then, instead of being generous of spirit, he pushed me off the cliff.
“Sayonara,” I heard him say, as I sailed out over the abyss.
Okay, so it was a rather short cliff, but you try falling thirty feet, even if there are trees in the way to block your fall. To this day I thank the Good Lord that I have never given in to the temptation to wear slacks. My broadcloth skirt contains almost as much material as your average parachute. And in addition to my sturdy Christian underwear, I am never without a slip. These modest garments saved my life.
To say that I floated into the trees below would be an overstatement, but at least I didn’t crash. In fact, I never even made it to the ground. The hem of my frock caught on a bare branch, in two places, and just feet below the ledge. I continued to fall a couple of feet more, so that when I jerked to a stop, both skirt and petticoat were up around my face.
I saw this as God’s mercy. If I was to be shot at close range, at least I would not have to see the actual pulling of the trigger.
“Thank You, Lord,” I said. “Thank You for all the blessings. You’ve given me throughout my life. I truly am grateful. But please don’t let this be a painful death—although I probably deserve it for grilling my guests like weenies. I’m not really big on pain, you see. Even if it hadn’t been against Your will, I still would not have pierced my ears. And whenever the dentist works on my teeth, I make him use laughing gas—oops, that’s not a sin, Lord, is it? Well, I guess I better sign off and let the Angel of Death do his stuff Oh, just one more thing, please tell Mama and Papa I’ll be seeing them real soon.”
No sooner had I finished my brief prayer than the gun fired. In fact, it fired several times. There was nothing I could do but close my eyes and try to relax as much as possible while the bullets zinged through me. Perhaps they wouldn’t hurt so much if my flesh was pliable. I was, after all, a sitting duck—make that a hanging woman. Cooperation with my killers could well be the last gift I gave myself
There was shouting as well, but I did my best to tune it out. The quicker I left this world and its concerns be-hind, the quicker I entered Heaven. In fact, I was starting to get excited. What fun to be fitted for my celestial robes. I sure hoped we got fitted for halos as well, be-cause it would be hard to find a ready-made halo my size. And I could hardly wait to see my mansion. Just as long as I wasn’t expected to play a harp. I tried playing Susannah’s guitar once and got blisters on my fingertips. Perhaps St. Peter would issue me an oboe instead.
The gunfire ceased. Well, now that was a big surprise; dying wasn’t half-bad. I mean, it hadn’t hurt at all. My wedding night with Aaron—well, never you mind. Trust me, dying was a lot more pleasant.
I opened my eyes. What on earth was my skirt still doing in front of my eyes? And why weren’t my feet resting on golden streets? Metallic avenues had always seemed a mite dangerous to me, but I was willing to give them a try.
“Help me, Lord,” I implored. “Help me to at least die right.”
The Good Lord had a surprisingly high-pitched laugh. “I see London, I see France, I see Yoder’s under-pants.”
“Don’t tease me, Lord—hey, you’re not God at all! Are you?”
“Your sister seems to think so.”
“Melvin Stoltzfus!”
“Quit horsing around Yoder. Get back up here and give me a hand.”
“If I could get back up, I’d give you a flock of birds, Melvin.” You see what having a trash-mouthed sister has done to me?
“Then go hang yourself,” he said.
“I did not say that.” Melvin punctuated his statement by giving me the evil eye with his right orb. Meanwhile his left eye was surveying the Founder’s Day Picnic, which, I shudder to mention, had hastily been renamed Melvin Stoltzfus Day.
The mouthwatering smells emanating from dozens of portable barbecue grills did nothing to ameliorate the bitter taste of jealousy. I had done all the work, and now the Mantis was reaping the glory. How fair is that? The time capsule, which truly did contain nothing more interesting than-the oversized outhouse plans, had been safely returned from the trunk of Octavia’s limo.
“You left me hanging, Melvin, and you know it.” Susannah, who was standing next to me, and whose fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric was flapping in my face, had to open her big yap. “That’s because my Babykins had to drive the two killers, which he handcuffed all by himself, down to the jail. Really, Mags, you should be grateful.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have had to do it all himself if he’d come straight up here when I called for backup.” Melvin forced his left eye to leave the crowd of picnickers and focus on me. “I already told you, I had just gotten the call from the Harrisburg police.”
“Right. But they caught the cabdriver who stole Miss Mukai’s clothes; you didn’t have anything to do with it.” Gabe’s fingers encircled my biceps. “Hon, can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Yes, but first—”
My on-again, off-again, fiance pulled me away from my family’s grill. Melvin couldn’t boil water if gi
ven written directions, yet he somehow manages to excel on a grill. It must be a guy thing—one that includes male mantises. That day he was cooking a side of ribs that smelled so delicious, half of Hernia was leaning our way, inhaling the breeze.
“I’m sorry,” Gabe said, without a preamble. “From now on I’m putting you first.”
“I’m sorry too. And you don’t always have to put me first. After all, Ida is your mother—I mean, Alison is my daughter, and there might be times when I—”
You should have heard the collective gasp as hundreds of Mennonites and Amish assembled on that ridge saw the Babester silence me with a kiss. On the lips, no less. First base, right out there in the open, in broad day-light. They could have been more shocked only had we broken into a jig. Or maybe the highland fling.
“Ooh,” Susannah squealed, “how come you never kiss me like that, Babykins?”
“But I do, Sugar Poodle.”
“I think I’m gonna be sick.” I recognized the voice as belonging to Alison.
“Hon,” Gabe said to me, “do you want me to do it again?”
Of course I did! Just not in front of the entire town.
“Yes, let’s talk.”
Gabe grabbed my hand and ushered me through the gaping crowd. Neither of us said anything until we reached the cemetery. This was, incidentally, the least populated spot on the ridge. The wooded area in which Buzzy was found dead was full of teenagers. Because of their youth, no one cared if they got to first base. And believe me, Cornelia Unruh and one of the Bontrager boys (they all look alike) had just rounded second and looked eager to press on to third. But the cemetery, for the most part, remained the domain of its long-term residents.
My beloved knew me well enough to keep away from my parents’ plots. We sat on the grass next to Ebeneezer Schrock’s headstone. This man, by the way, was no relation to Lodema or her husband. Ebeneezer Schrock was an itinerant preacher who had no business being buried on Stucky Ridge. This unfortunate event happened well over a century ago, and nobody alive is quite sure of the circumstances. My point is that since Ebeneezer has no descendants in Hernia, his plot is seldom visited.
“Hon,” Gabe said, when our privacy was assured, “for your own sake, you have got to let go of this.”
“But it’s Melvin,” I wailed. “For years I’ve done all his work for him, and now, suddenly, he gets lucky and ends up a hero.”
“He did single-handedly apprehend Augusta Miller and her grandson.”
“He shot her in the toes when his gun accidentally discharged!”
“Nevertheless, this is his shining moment, and you’re a big enough person to let him have it.”
“But I’m not! And it just isn’t fair.”
“What’s not fair,” Gabe said, his Ups so close to mine that I could feel their heat, “is that I didn’t meet you twenty-five years ago.”
“But I—”
I fully intended for Gabe to silence me again with a kiss. He seemed happy to comply.
Discover Tamar Myers
An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes Series (PennDutch)
Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Crime
No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk
Just Plain Pickled to Death
Between a Wok and a Hard Place
Eat, Drink, and Be Wary
The Hand that Rocks the Ladle
The Crepes of Wrath
Gruel and Unusual Punishment
Custard’s Last Stand
Thou Shalt Not Grill
Assault and Pepper
Grape Expectations
As the World Churns
Hell Hath No Curry
Batter Off Dead
Butter Safe than Sorry
PennDutch Mystery Box Set 1-3
Belgian Congo Mystery Series
The Witch Doctor’s Wife
The Headhunter’s Daughter
The Boy Who Stole the Leopard’s Spots
The Girl Who Married an Eagle
Den of Antiquity Series
Larceny and Old Lace
Gilt by Association
The Ming and I
So Faux, So Good
Baroque and Desperate
Estate of Mind
A Penny Urned
Nightmare in Shining Armor
Splendor in the Glass
Tiles and Tribulation
Statue of Limitations
Monet Talks
The Cane Mutiny
Death of a Rug Lord
Poison Ivory
The Glass is Always Greener
Non-Series Books
Angels, Angels Everywhere
Criminal Appetites (anthology)
The Dark Side of Heaven
About the Author
Tamar Myers was born and raised in the Belgian Congo (now just the Congo). Her parents were missionaries to a tribe which, at that time, were known as headhunters and used human skulls for drinking cups. Because of her pale blue eyes, Tamar’s nickname was Ugly Eyes.
Her boarding school was two days away by truck, and sometimes it was necessary to wade through crocodile infested-waters to reach it. Other dangers she encountered as a child were cobras, deadly green mambas, and the voracious armies of driver ants that ate every animal (and human) that didn’t get out of their way.
At sixteen, Tamar's family settled in America, and she immediately underwent culture shock: she didn’t know how to dial a telephone, cross a street at a stoplight, or use a vending machine. She lucked out, however, by meeting her husband, Jeffrey, on her first day at an American high school. They literally bumped heads while he was leaving, and she entering, the Civics classroom.
In college Tamar began to submit novels for publication, but it took twenty-three years for her to get published. Persistence paid off, however, because Tamar is now the author of three ongoing mystery series: One is set in Amish Pennsylvania and features Magdalena Yoder, an Amish-Mennonite sleuth who runs a bed and breakfast inn; one, set in the Carolinas, centers around the adventures of Abigail Timberlake, who runs an antique and collectable store (the Den of Antiquity); and the third is set in the Africa of her youth, with its colorful, unique inhabitants.
Tamar now calls North Carolina home. She lives with her husband, a Basenji dog named Pagan, two rescue kitties: a very large Bengal named Nkashama, and an orange tabby cat who goes by the name of Dumpster Boy. Tamar enjoys gardening (she is a Master Gardner), bonsai, travel, painting and, of course, reading. She's currently working on her next Amish mystery.
tamarmyers.com
