by Tamar Myers
That really hiked my hackles. “Hold on, dear,” I whispered to Matilda. Then in a burst of righteous fury, I hiked her hock halfway up my hip.
The poor cow bellowed in outrage, but remained standing. From her neighboring stall, Betsey bellowed in sympathy.
“You see! No blood!”
Any other lawman would have apologized, both to Matilda and myself. But oh, no, not Melvin Stoltzfus.
“That still doesn’t prove she didn’t do it. Maybe she wiped her hoof on all this straw.”
One of the paramedics, a baby-faced man named Sean, cleared his throat. “Actually, sir, it’s not likely that the cow is responsible.”
At least one of Melvin’s eyes turned in the direction of the speaker. “What the hell are you talking about, boy?”
“Well, sir, when we were putting him on the stretcher I noticed a gash—or maybe a stab wound— on the back of his neck. I don’t think it’s likely that the cow kicked him in the face, turned him over, and then cut his neck.”
“And you waited until now to say that?” I screamed.
Melvin had to paddle fast to save face. “Okay, so maybe the damned cow didn’t do it. But she’s a witness. Yoder, you are forbidden to sell or otherwise remove that cow from these premises, until I have completed my investigation.”
“Would it be all right to trade her for a handful of beans?”
Someone other than myself giggled. That may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. I have never seen him so mad. He lit into me like a fox in a henhouse. When he was through ripping me to shreds, he turned his fury on the paramedics.
“You incompetent bunch of morons! Why the hell didn’t you point out that neck wound earlier? Is this what passes for professionalism these days? My eighty-year-old mother could do your job with blinders on and both hands tied behind her back!”
More words followed, most of which were unfit to repeat. Not all of them were mine, either. By the time he ran out of breath, Melvin had so thoroughly alienated the Bedford paramedics that they threatened to leave without the body, or—in the words of young Sean—“maybe two bodies.”
Had I not been a good Christian woman, I would have taken the empty milk bucket, put it over Melvin’s head, and drummed a rousing rendition of the “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B.” Instead I chose to settle for “When the Saints Come Marching In.”
Unfortunately, Melvin didn’t cooperate with my drum session—in fact, he threatened to call it assault. Matilda, unhappy with all the commotion in her stall, began milling around and accidentally stepped on Melvin’s toe. Had it not been for the timely arrival of Freni, I would have ended up in the hoosegow, along with my Holstein.
Fortunately, Freni is not only a distant relative of Melvin’s, she is his sainted mother’s best friend. In less time than it takes to knead a pound of dough, Freni had the body in the ambulance, and Melvin out of the barn. Of course Melvin had to investigate the crime scene first, but there really was nothing else to see, and Matilda refused to answer direct questions. Before he left, Melvin declared Matilda’s stall off-limits to anyone except himself, but thanks to Freni’s intervention, he graciously allowed me to move Matilda.
I milked the witness in Betsey’s stall while my cousin tried to calm me down.
“Ach, never mind him. He’s a silly man. Everyone knows his bite is worse than his teeth.”
There was no point in correcting her. “This barn is cursed,” I wailed.
Freni flapped her arms, and then folded them across her stomach. For a second I thought she wanted to hug me.
“Ach, there is not such thing as a curse.”
“Two murders, Freni! That one with the pitchfork last year, and now this! This barn is over a hundred years old, and before I came to own it, how many murders were there?”
To my surprise, Freni was nodding her head. “It’s the English. Always so violent. It’s not my place to say so, Magdalena, but maybe you should give up on this inn idea.”
I was aghast. “And do what?”
“Become a missionary to Zaire. Or is it the Congo now?”
“And Susannah? Who will take care of her?”
Freni wagged a stubby finger at me. “There you go again, always trying to control other people’s lives. Susannah is a grown woman now. She is responsible for herself.”
“But aren’t I supposed to be my sister’s keeper?”
“Yah, but sometimes it is better to keep loved ones at an arm’s length.”
“But I don’t want to give up the inn,” I wailed. “It’s my life. I enjoy meeting all the people that come to stay here. It’s only every now and then that I get a really bad apple, and there have only been two murders, after all.”
“Three,” Freni said. “Remember the woman who was pushed down the stairs?”
“So? Only three, then. Pick up any mystery book–one that’s part of a series—the death rate can be far higher than three.”
Although I do not watch television on principle, my principles do not prevent me from reading, and Mystery Lovers Bookshop in Oakmont, Pennsylvania, is one of my favorite out-of-town destinations. Freni, however, reads only the Holy Bible, Reader’s Digest, and The Budget, a weekly publication that chronicles Amish and Mennonite news from around the country.
“Maybe, but you would make a good missionary, Magdalena. That skinny head of yours would look good in a helmet, and you wouldn’t have to worry about cannibals wanting to eat you.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure they have cannibals these days.”
“So? The lions won’t want to eat you, either. Or the leopards. Even those big mosquitoes that carry malaria and sleeping sickness will leave you alone. And the snakes—a python will take one look at you, and say, ‘Not worth the trouble. Too many bones.’ ”
“Freni!”
“But skinny is good, Magdalena. You won’t get so hot in that tropical sun. Just remember to stay out of the sun as much as possible.”
“I know. I don’t want to get skin cancer.”
“Yah, that too. But Agnes Brontrager from over by Somerset went to Africa for three years as a missionary, and when she came back she looked just like a prune.”
“With or without a pit?”
“Ach, make fun, Magdalena. But I’m just trying to help you look on the bright side and give you a few tips.”
“Is that it?”
“Yah. Agnes had to shake out her shoes every morning before putting them on.”
“Is that a missionary ritual?”
“Ach, no! Scorpions! They crawl in the shoes at night. And never sleep with your mouth open, Magdalena. Agnes almost choked on a cockroach the size of a baby robin.”
Suddenly it occurred to me what Freni was doing. “I love you,” I cried, and despite four centuries of breeding to the contrary, I threw my bony arms around her, gave her a bear hug, and hoisted her into the air like a sack of potatoes.
“Ach!” Freni squawked, her short arms flailing. “Put me down.”
I dropped her. “You’re so clever, dear. You know exactly how to put things in perspective. So what’s a couple of corpses compared to scorpions in my shoes?”
Freni shook her head. “Ach, you are a strange one.”
“Me? You’re the one who entered a contest so you could get rid of your daughter-in-law.”
Freni frowned. “Do you suppose that now the contest will be canceled?”
“My, how you talk! A man died here sometime this morning! But speaking of your daughter-in-law, how is she? Jonathan said she had the flu. And how is Mose?”
My cousin swallowed back her disappointment. “Mose is better, but still a little shaky. Barbara—ach, what do the English say? A woose!”
“You mean a wuss?”
“Yah, a woose. She wants Jonathan to drive her to the doctor in Bedford. For the flu, yet!”
“Just pitiful,” I said and burrowed my head into Matilda’s warm side. I couldn’t help but smile. It was comforting to know that so
me things never change.
Chapter Fifteen
Alma Cornwater’s Curried Lamb Loaf with Peach Chutney
Lamb loaf
¾ pound ground lamb
1 pound ground beef
½ to ¾ cup rolled oats
3 tablespoons tomato ketchup
2 eggs
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon curry powder
½ teaspoon ground cumin
½ teaspoon pepper
Mix above ingredients thoroughly with hands. Add just enough rolled oats so that meat becomes dough-like and holds its shape. Form into a loaf in center of 9 x 13 glass baking dish. Do not use loaf pan. Loaf will brown nicely on all sides. Bake in 350- degree oven for approximately one hour.
Serves 4-6.
Peach chutney
5 or 6 fresh peaches, peeled and sliced
1 green pepper, finely chopped
¾ cup sugar
¾ cup water
¼ cup vinegar
¼ teaspoon curry powder
¼ teaspoon ground ginger
1 teaspoon salt
dash nutmeg
dash cayenne pepper (to taste)
Mix above ingredients and bring to boil in nonstick pot. Reduce heat and simmer for approximately one hour, or until peaches and pepper have become soft and jamlike. Stir occasionally and add water as needed to keep from sticking. When cool, serve as condiment for lamb loaf.
Chapter Sixteen
When I got back to the house, Melvin had all my guests rounded up in the parlor, except for Ms. Cornwater. Even Susannah was there, somehow managing to look sleepy, baffled, and alluring all at the same time. Well, she didn’t look alluring to me, but you get the picture.
“Has anyone seen Ms. Cornwater?” Melvin has an advantage in that he can scan a room in two directions simultaneously.
No one answered.
Hernia’s pitiful excuse for police chief unsnapped a miniature bullhorn from his belt and held it to his invisible lips.
“I repeat, has anyone seen Ms. Alma Cornwater?” Fortunately, the tiny instrument distorted more than it amplified.
“She told me she was going for a walk,” Ms. Holt said. “Officer, is there a problem?”
Although it was not yet seven a.m., an hour that, in my experience, finds few Englishwomen out of bed, Ms. Holt was fully dressed and coiffed. I hate to admit this, but she looked elegant in a vanilla-colored cashmere turtleneck dress with matching kidskin boots. The dress was what Susannah refers to as “Episcopal length.” That is to say, it came down almost to her ankles, and not for religious reasons either. Ms. Holt’s shiny auburn hair was arranged in a flawless French twist, and held in place with a mother-of-pearl comb. A lesser woman might have been tempted to slap Ms. Holt silly.
Melvin was clearly impressed with the woman. Both eyes were stuck on her, like a fly on wallpaper. If he kept it up for long, Susannah was not going to be a happy camper.
“Did she say where she was going?”
“The woods, I think.” No doubt she was referring to the woods behind the cow pasture, the one that separated the Hostetler homestead from my place.
“So then, we’re all here?”
“Mr. Mitchell isn’t here,” Mr. Dolby said.
Heads nodded.
“Ah, so he isn’t,” Melvin said.
“Aw, man,” Carlie said, “you don’t suppose he went with her? I mean, that wouldn’t be fair, would it? Screwing a judge in the woods like that?”
“Stop it!” I snapped.
Although that was no way to speak of the dead, to be truthful, I was more irritated at Mr. Dolby than I was with the child. He had picked up my poker and was jabbing at the log in my fireplace as if it were his own hearth. What’s more, I had no recollection of building that fire. True, I do tend to keep the inn on the cool side, but a neat sign, laminated and tacked to the mantel, specifically states that guests must ask permission before building a fire.
“What the hell are we doing here?” Art asked. His swear word aside, it was a reasonable question.
Ms. Holt picked an imaginary piece of lint off her cashmere-clad chest. “Maybe if we are all quiet for a minute, Chief Stoltzfus will tell us.”
Melvin graced her with a smile as rare as Cuban frost. “Thank you, Ms. Holt, and you’re exactly right.
But now, before we begin, I’m going to lay down some ground rules. First—”
“First, let the rest of us get dressed,” I suggested sensibly.
Everyone nodded, except, of course, for Ms. Holt. She was the only one dressed. The others, myself included, were wearing a pathetic collection of nightclothes and bathrobes. Two of our number, Susannah and Carlie, had wrapped themselves in quilts, and frankly, I doubt if either of them had a stitch on under them.
Melvin’s smile became a smirk and his left eye abandoned Ms. Holt’s comely face and settled on mine.
“Fashion is not an important consideration at a murder scene.”
Everyone gasped except for Freni and me. It was such a predictable ploy, I wanted to gag.
“Murder?” my guests said in unison.
Melvin was in seventh heaven. “The victim was a white male, age fifty-seven. George Mitchell was his name.”
More gasps.
“So, you see why I gathered you all together, don’t you? As soon as Miss Cornwater returns, we’re going to have ourselves a nice little roundtable discussion. Because one of you”—he paused for dramatic effect— “is the killer.”
“That’s preposterous!” Without any makeup, and wearing a hooded white terry robe, Marge Benedict looked like death warmed over. I’ve seen corpses, George Mitchell’s included, that showed more vitality.
Melvin turned to his challenger. “Oh, is it?”
Marge all but disappeared inside her terry shell. “I only meant that it isn’t logical. It’s not like the inn is part of a gated community. Anyone could have sneaked onto this property and killed George. The killer could be hiding in the barn right now.”
Melvin’s spindly frame straightened. “Barn? Now, why would you say barn, Miss”—he consulted his notes—“Benedict?”
“Well—I—or the woods,” she said.
“Aha! But you said ‘barn’ first.”
“Give her a break,” Gladys said, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the flames. She was wearing thin polyester pajamas, no robe, and was shivering.
Melvin wheeled. “Who said that?”
I took a step forward. “Does it matter? You’ll have your chance to grill them all like weenies, but first you’re going to give them a chance to get dressed.”
“Yoder!”
I cannot be cowed by a coward. “This is my inn, and I’ll not have anyone catching their death of cold.” Of course that was nonsense, since colds are not transmitted by temperature, but Melvin has a hypochondriac streak in him a furlong wide.
“What the hell are you talking about, Yoder? It’s hotter than blazes in here.”
I pretended to sneeze. Quite frankly I am a very good actress, and if Hollywood were not the den of iniquity—believe me, I know—I would have accepted Babs’s offer for a bit part in her next movie.
“They say that new strain of flu from Japan is spreading a mile a minute.” I sneezed again.
“All right. Get dressed—the bunch of you. But I’ll be keeping both the front and back doors covered. Anyone who tries to escape will be—”
I snatched the bullhorn from his scaly hand. The darn thing wasn’t even turned on. A flip of a switch rectified that. I may be a simple Mennonite woman, striving to shun the ways of the world, but thanks to six weeks spent with a film crew, I knew my way around amplifiers.
“Just get dressed,” I boomed. “See you in five.”
Fortunately Melvin was too embarrassed by his technical ineptitude to chew me out.
I prefer a long hot shower in the mornings, but there was no time for that. I had to settle for what Mama used to call a spit bath—a coupl
e of licks with a wet washcloth and a fresh swipe of deodorant. At least I didn’t use real spit, like Mama sometimes did, and of course I put on clean underwear. Other than that, it was yesterday’s outfit.
Much to my surprise, I was the last one back in the parlor. Except for Melvin, that is. If I played by my own rules, not only would I have to miss out on the questioning, but I might have to skip breakfast.
“Where’s Hernia’s finest?” I asked brightly. My cheery tone and informal reference were intended to set my guests at ease. The last time I saw so many nervous faces in one spot was when I caught a raccoon in the henhouse.
“He’s outside,” Ms. Holt said. The woman had actually changed her clothes, if you can imagine that. Now she was wearing a red silk dress—also Episcopal length—with a belt that had an enormous buckle, the kind schoolbook illustrations show the Pilgrims wearing. Unlike the Pilgrims, Ms. Holt’s buckle was gold, and quite possibly the real thing. Between you and me, however, the red dress clashed with its wearer’s auburn hair.
“Guarding the doors, no doubt,” I said.
Art shook his head. “No, some woman drove up, and now they’re off some place together. I think they went back to the barn.”
“Was she a short little thing with broad shoulders, huge bosoms, and no hips?”
“Yeah,” Art said.
“A man’s haircut, no chin, rabbit teeth, and a nose like Karl Malden’s?” Trust me, I was being kind.
“Yes, that’s her exactly,” Ms. Holt said.
“Does her makeup look like it was applied with a trowel?”
“Yes,” they chorused.
“The mystery woman is Zelda Root,” I said. “She’s a policewoman. Hernia’s second in command. She and Melvin used to be a thing.” I eyed Susannah.
“Used to,” my sister said. “Chief Stoltzfus is all mine now.”
The front door opened and a few seconds later Melvin and Zelda walked in.
“Speak of the devil,” I said. Then I nodded to his companion. “Good morning, Zelda.”
