Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

  “What I mean to ask—how should I phrase this delicately—will the offering plate be as happy to see you now as it has been in the past?”

  So that was it! Let it be known that I tithe. That is to say, I give to the church one tenth of my considerable income. That makes me Beechy Grove Mennonite Church’s largest contributor. But I would never dream of withholding money from God, just because the pastor’s wife had a bee in her bonnet.

  “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s,” I said quoting the King James version of Matthew.

  “Does that mean you’ll continue to give?”

  “If you’ll talk some sense into one of your congregants.” We Mennonites do not use the term parishioner.

  “Magdalena, I’m sorry about what Alberta Weaver said about you at choir practice. Believe me, I chewed her out good.”

  “That’s not who I’m talking about!” I wailed. As if Alberta Weaver had room to talk. Her husband was serving a three-year prison sentence for growing a crop of cannabis along with his corn.

  “Oh, you mean that little skit Alice Kauffman put on for the adult Sunday school class last week? The one she titled ‘God Loves Harlots Too’?”

  “I’m talking about that idiot Melvin Stoltzfus,” I screamed.

  “Put the idiot on the phone,” the good reverend said.

  For all intents and purposes, my interrogation was over.

  “So how did it go?” I asked Freni.

  She had been the second to step into that torture chamber formerly known as my boudoir.

  “Melvin, shmelvin,” she said. “Just wait until I tell his mama what he said about me. Elvina will put that boy over her knee and give him a good paddling.”

  “We could save her the trouble and call the Orkin man,” I said, not uncharitably. After all, Elvina Stoltzfus was a widow woman in failing health. Bunions were just one of her many burdens. “But, just out of curiosity, what did he say about you?”

  “Ach! He said I was as stubborn as a team of mules. Do you think I’m stubborn, Magdalena?”

  I turned away, crossed all my fingers, my eyes, and even a few of my toes. “Of course not, dear.”

  “If that boy had half the sense of a mule, he’d know that the killer couldn’t be one of the five contestants.”

  I turned to face her. “Please elucidate.”

  “Ach, I am not elucidating! That boy—”

  “What I mean is, please explain your theory that the killer is not a contestant.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? You always talk in riddles, Magdalena. You are worse than Samson.”

  “Humor me,” I begged. “Make me a beneficiary of your wisdom.”

  “No wisdom, Magdalena. Even a dumpling knows not to kill the hen that lays the golden eggs.”

  I scratched my head. “I believe that’s goose, dear. But what you’re saying is that the contestants stand nothing to gain by killing Mr. Mitchell, and everything to lose. Therefore the murderer had to be someone from the outside. Right?”

  “Yah, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “It is rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Like the nose on your face.”

  “Freni!” I rubbed my proboscis. It is maybe a tad on the large size, but it’s the one God gave me, and I have no plans to change it. Besides, Babs said she would no longer speak to me if I did.

  “So, you have the Yoder nose,” Freni said. “Me”— she patted her ample bust—“well, I look like a Miller.”

  “Whatever you say, dear. But you know, a wealthy man like George Mitchell could have had lots of enemies. His killer, or killers, as the case may be, might have followed him to Hernia, waited until he or they got him alone, and then—pow!”

  “Ach! Lock the doors, Magdalena.”

  “Now who’s thinking like a dumpling? George Mitchell is dead. You can rest assured that his killer is long gone.”

  “Back to New York?”

  “Not all killers are from New York, dear. Remember, California has its share. Anyway, East Coast Delicacies is headquartered in Philadelphia.”

  “Pennsylvania?”

  “There is only one Philadelphia. I wonder if Mr. Anderson might be able to shed some light on the subject.”

  “Ach, he might even be the killer! And such a nice man he was.”

  I rolled my eyes, taking care not to roll them in the get-stuck position. “He’s in the hospital, for crying out loud. Suffering from food poisoning.”

  “Yah, but maybe he’s just—how do the English say it...”

  “Faking it?”

  “Yah.”

  “It’s not likely, dear, but I suppose anything is possible. I’d run out there and pay him a visit, if it weren’t for one small problem.”

  “Magdalena! Did you get in trouble with that Danish doctor again?”

  “Susannah did, but I was there.”

  “And that crabby nurse with the hemorrhoids?”

  I hung my head. “The hemorrhoids are just a rumor that I started. But yes, consider me banned from the Bedford County Hospital.”

  Freni shook her head, but I knew her well enough to know she wasn’t really angry. “Where there is a will, there is a way. You find a way to speak to that Englishman, Magdalena.”

  I thought of a way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Barbara Hostetler was delighted to see me. Jonathan had yet to take her to the doctor. On his way back from dropping off Freni, he’d noticed a stretch of fence that was down, and had doubled back to fix it. Apparently fifty-eight Holsteins had been stuffing themselves silly on the Mishler brothers’ hay.

  “Not to worry, dear, I’d be happy to take you. But just so that you don’t worry, the flu is really no big deal for someone your age.”

  Barbara beamed. “Yah, I know, but this isn’t the flu, Magdalena.”

  I tried not to smile. No doubt the woman had some Stoltzfus blood in her. Oh, well, the easiest way to deal with hypochondriacs is to humor them.

  “What sort of disease are you hoping for?”

  Barbara laughed. “I don’t think it’s a disease.”

  “So you’re just pretending to be sick?”

  “Can you keep a secret, Magdalena?”

  “Was Jacob Amman Swiss?” That’s the Hernia equivalent of asking if the pope is Catholic.

  Barbara glanced needlessly around. Mose was in bed, and Jonathan had several dozen cows to round up.

  “I think I’m in the family way,” she whispered.

  “Nonsense. You’re not in Freni’s way, and don’t you let her make you believe it.”

  “Ach no, not Freni’s way—the family way. You know ...”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, dear. Just spit it out.”

  “I think I might be pregnant."

  “No way!”

  “Oh, yah. My Jonathan and I—”

  “I know how it happens, dear, it’s just that it’s a bit of a surprise.”

  “For me too!” She giggled.

  “How sure are you?”

  “Pretty sure. That’s why I want to see a doctor. My friend Hilda says that prenaval care is very important.”

  “Prenatal, dear. Well, I guess congratulations are in order.”

  But that’s as far as I could go on the subject. To be honest with you, I had suddenly come down with a severe illness of my own. Jealousy. I, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, would never feel life stirring in my womb. I was doomed forever to be as barren as the Mojave Desert.

  Perhaps it was a blessing that Aaron’s seed had fallen on stony ground, but that had been my one and only chance at motherhood. Even then, my biological clock had already wound down so far by the time I married that it would have taken more than the Energizer bunny, as Aaron sometimes called it, to get my clock running again. I know, these days even the elderly are giving birth, but I will never marry again. The only pitter-patter of little feet I’ll hear will be when Shnookums leaves the sanctuary of Susannah’s bra.

  “Tha
nk you,” Barbara said, “but remember you can’t tell anyone yet. Especially Freni!”

  “My lips are sealed tighter than a clam at low tide.”

  “So, you’ll take me to the doctor?”

  “I’d be delighted to, dear, but on one condition.”

  Her face fell. “What’s that?”

  “Let me borrow your clothes.”

  Barbara Hostetler is two inches taller than me, and a good twenty pounds heavier, but I’d rather flop about in someone else’s clothes than be strangled by them. Her feet, unfortunately, are a full size smaller than mine, but I made do by curling my toes inside the high-topped brogans. Her apron and bonnet fit perfectly.

  “Yah, you look Amish,” she said with satisfaction. “Have you ever considered changing churches?”

  “Not really.” The truth is, I have. Oh, I wouldn’t become Amish, mind you, but maybe Methodist. There are times when I get a hankering to watch television (other than Green Acres), and I’ve even toyed with the idea of wearing lipstick—a very pale pink shade, to be sure. Of course I would never be so radical as to become a Presbyterian and paint my nails or—God forbid—drink beer.

  Barbara took a step back to further admire her handiwork. Then to my dismay, she shook her head.

  “Ach, you look Amish, but you also look so—well, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. What is it?”

  “You still look so much like you.”

  I involuntarily fingered my schnoz. “Lots of Amish have the Yoder nose, dear.”

  “Yah, but you have the Hostetler eyes too.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Like shiny beads,” Barbara said, and then prudently bit her tongue.

  “Beady-eyed and beak-nosed,” I wailed. “It may as well be the mark of Cain.” No wonder Mama wouldn’t let me wear blue jeans—all the genes I could handle were already on my face.

  “Just a minute,” Barbara said, and fished about in a chest at the foot of her bed. “Here, these are my old glasses. Put them on.”

  I put them on. It was like looking through the bottom of a cola bottle.

  “Yah, now you look different.”

  “You mean my eyes are no longer beady?”

  “Ach, no. Now we look like sisters.”

  I looked at my reflection in Barbara’s hand mirror. It was amazing how a bonnet and a pair of glasses could change a person’s appearance. I did look just like Barbara—well, maybe two Barbaras—apparently her old prescription was making me see double.

  “Barbara, dear. Look closely at this mirror. Is that a crack in the glass?”

  Barbara put her head next to mine and looked. Sure enough, there were four of us. Prudently, I decided not to wear the glasses while driving.

  Fortunately, Barbara’s doctor was right on our way to the hospital, and by the time I dropped her off, we were almost giddy from laughing so much. Amish folk do accept, and sometimes even solicit, rides to distant places, but you will never catch an adult person of the Amish faith behind a steering wheel. You will most certainly never see them driving a cherry-red BMW. Folks in Bedford are familiar enough with Amish ways to know that, and the startled looks we drew as we approached town were a hoot.

  At the stoplight on Penn Street, one old geezer actually lost his dentures. A young woman in a flashy yellow sports car was so astounded by the sight of us that she put on her windshield wipers, instead of shifting. However, we were not responsible for the three-car fender-bender on the comer of Thomas and Penn Streets.

  Of course I parked the car in the far reaches of the hospital parking lot, and I made sure no one was looking before I got out. The second those automatic doors hissed open I put on the glasses and became Barbara Kauffman Hostetler.

  You can rest assured the real Barbara didn’t know I was going to borrow her identity, in addition to her clothes. Many faithful Christians have yet to figure out that the Good Lord doesn’t mind a white lie or two, as long as it’s for a good cause.

  The receptionist didn’t suspect a thing, and was therefore quite pleasant. I had forgotten that visiting hours are between two and eight p.m., but much to my relief, I discovered that an Amish outfit is every bit as much of an entree as is a nun’s habit or a Roman collar (don’t ask me how I know this).

  “Ich hahf koom to see Meester Anderson,” I said in my best fake Amish accent, which admittedly is not very good. But it was good enough for Lauren Brightwell.

  “He’s in Room 134,” she said brightly. “Just go down that corridor and hang a right.” And then thinking perhaps I didn’t understand such complicated English, due to my attire, she paraphrased her instructions in loud, torturously slow baby talk.

  “Danke!” I screamed back.

  I couldn’t have timed my arrival any better. It was after breakfast and morning baths, but well enough before lunch to allow for a leisurely chat. What’s more, my luck seemed to be on a roll because Mr. Anderson was sitting up in bed, watching television. He looked remarkably perky.

  “Good morning, Mr. Anderson.”

  The poor dear was clueless. I whisked off my bonnet.

  “Do I know you, ma’am?”

  Off came the Coke-bottle lenses.

  “Oh, it’s you, Miss Yoder. Good morning. How are things back at the inn? Is the contest in full steam?” Obviously the man hadn’t heard about his employer’s unfortunate demise, so I would have to tell him. Much better that he should hear the news from me than from Melvin, but I wasn’t going to do it with the TV on. Some talk show hostess with an alliterative name was interviewing women who first beat their husbands, and then sleep with their husbands’ fathers’ mistresses’ former boyfriends. Apparently it was the first time the topic had ever been discussed on national television.

  “Do you mind if we turn this off, dear?” I reached for the remote.

  “Actually, I do. Grace there beat her husband with a Teflon spatula, and that same afternoon was cozying down between the sheets with her father-in-law’s mistress’s ex-boyfriend who, as it turned out, was Grace’s seventh-grade math teacher. It’s such a small world, isn’t it?”

  I snatched the remote from his tray table and zapped it off.

  “Hey! What’s that all about?”

  “It’s about George Mitchell, dear. The man is dead.”

  “Dead? How? Where?”

  “He was found dead early this morning in my barn. He was murdered.”

  Mr. Anderson turned the color of Freni’s best meringue. “He what?”

  “Mr. Anderson—may I call you James, dear?”

  “Jim will do nicely,” he croaked. “Tell me about George.”

  “Like I said, he was murdered. The police don’t know who did it yet. They’re not even sure what he was murdered with, but it appears that he was hit in the face with a hard, heavy object. Oh, and stabbed or cut on the neck.”

  “God,” Jim groaned. “I didn’t really expect that to happen.”

  “Well, neither did I, dear, but—what do you mean, you didn’t expect that to happen?”

  Perhaps my voice was a little too loud, or my tone too strident, but before Jim could answer, Nurse Dudley poked her head in the door.

  “Everything all right?”

  I slapped on my bonnet and glasses. “Yah.”

  Nurse Dudley gave me the fish eye.

  I nudged Jim. “We’re just fine,” he called.

  “Oh.” But Nurse Dudley didn’t budge. She was a few watts brighter than Lauren Brightwell, and no doubt she found it odd for an Amish woman to be visiting an out-of-town executive.

  “Tell her we’re praying,” I whispered.

  “We’re praying,” Jim said.

  “Praying? How nice—say, you look awfully familiar.”

  “Ach, we all look alike,” I said, trying to sound like Barbara Hostetler.

  “Come to think of it, you even sound like someone I know.”

  “Shush,” I said, putting a bony finger to my lips. “The prayer isn’t over.”r />
  I grabbed Jim’s hand, closed my eyes, and cast about for something to say in Pennsylvania Dutch. Alas, I know very little.

  Although my parents were Mennonites, Mama’s parents were Amish, as were Papa’s grandparents. Both my parents were fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch and sometimes spoke it to each other, but I couldn’t be bothered to learn something so quaint. Not when my friends at school were more modern, with-it Mennonites, or in one case, heaven forfend, a Methodist. I don’t pretend to think fast on my feet, so at least give me credit for coming up with something.

  “Eens, zwee, drei, vier, fimf sex, siwwe, acht, nein, zehe. ”

  Counting can sound like praying if one varies the cadence and emphasizes every third or fourth word.

  “Amen,” Jim said loudly.

  “Wait a minute,” Nurse Dudley said, taking a step inside the door.

  My ticker was thumping like a flat tire on asphalt.

  “My Brutus could use a prayer or two. I found him dead on his side of the bed this morning, all stiff and cold, and I haven’t been able to get that picture out of mind.”

  “You have my sympathy,” Jim said, and extended his hand.

  Nurse Dudley ignored the gesture. “It was awful, believe me. Brutus and I had been together almost eighteen years.”

  Poor Nurse Dudley. It just goes to show you how one shouldn’t judge. Who even knew the old battle-ax was married? But Brutus Dudley, what a name!

  “But still you came to work,” Jim said, shaking his head. “Now that’s what I call dedication to one’s calling.”

  “Yes, well, a calling is a calling, but a snake is a snake.”

  “Ach, that’s no way to talk about a husband,” I said on Barbara’s behalf. Aaron might have deserved that epithet, but Jonathan was the salt of the earth.

  “Husband? Brutus was not my husband! He was much more than that.”

  “Ach!” Just because I was an inadvertent adulteress does not mean I believe in unsanctified hanky-panky.

  “Your lover?” Apparently Jim played by a different set of rules.

  “My lover? Like I said, Brutus was a snake. A Burmese python.”

  “Ach!” Then my curiosity got the best of me. “What was he doing in your bed? How did he die?” After all, Nurse Dudley is no small woman. It was quite possible she rolled over on Brutus, and squashed him flat as a pancake. Shnookums is not the first little mutt to hitch a ride in Susannah’s bra.