Soon she was back. “Come in,” she said.
“This is my husband, Bishop Stoltzfus.” A gray-haired man, at least 70, sat in a well-worn overstuffed chair. He put down a magazine with a tractor on the cover and took off his reading glasses. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand. As he shook I could feel the calluses.
“Welcome,” he said, not quite smiling. There was a gentleness about him that softened the impression he made, kind of like a cross between a pilgrim and an undertaker.
“Forgive me if we seem inhospitable,” he said. “We don’t get many strangers here.”
“The people at the furniture store seemed to respect your authority,” I said. “I can see why.”
He chuckled. “For us, a bishop is a servant. I am a volunteer and oversee two districts.” He paused and looked from me to Stephen to Stuart. “Let’s sit down, shall we?”
As we settled his wife entered, trailed by her Mini-Me. “Would you care for garden tea or lemonade?”
We all picked lemonade. The little girl—her granddaughter, I assumed—went to work on a wooden jigsaw puzzle by the Genuine Amish Fireplace.
“Are you Old Order or New Order?” I asked as Mrs. Stoltzfus handed me a Mason jar of lemonade.
“New,” the Bishop said. “But we have no issue with our more traditional brethren.” A hint of a smile curled above his beard. “Why, I’ve even broken bread with a Baptist.”
“I’m practically one of those.” I paused. “We have a request. It’s more than a bit out of the ordinary.”
“I see,” he said, and sipped his drink.
I explained our situation. Stephen kept interrupting to mansplain. I failed to show the proper gratitude.
When I was done the Bishop shook his head. “Sounds like Witness.”
“You’ve seen that?” Stuart exclaimed.
“Thankfully, no. Our daughter told us about it before she left.”
The smile left his face; his faded blue eyes were pools of sadness. There was a story there, but I didn’t want to know it.
“The last thing I’d want to do is endanger the community,” I said.
The Bishop and his wife gazed at each other. I wondered how long they’d been married. Each seemed to know what the other was thinking.
“Hebrews 13:12,” he said. “Show hospitality to strangers. We may be entertaining angels without knowing it.”
She looked away.
He bowed his head and closed his eyes, apparently praying.
The silence was long. I looked over at Stephen, who was fidgeting in his Genuine Amish Chair. It may have been awkward for Stephen and Stuart, but holy for me.
The Bishop raised his head. “There is a smaller barn at the edge of our property. Would you be willing to stay there?”
“It was good enough for Harrison Ford,” Stephen said.
“Would you wear plain clothes and work beside us?”
I nodded.
“You must stay no longer than two weeks. And one more thing: Please report daily to Aaron, the young deacon who works at the furniture shop.”
Stephen looked at me and grinned mischeeviously.
I ignored him.
“It’s a deal,” I said, trying not to look too happy.
Chapter 7
Being unready to play plainpeople, we went to a motel. I expected to see a sign that at least silhouetted a horse and buggy, maybe named SCRAPPLE INN AND SUITES, but it only said LODGING.
We checked in. The man behind the desk looked like Methuselah’s grandfather. He was dressed in a gray Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt. I had to guess the rest, the counter standing in the way.
Apparently hard of hearing, he cupped his hand to his hairy, long-lobed ear as I asked whether we could get a couple of rooms.
“Say again?”
I turned up the volume. “We’d like to stay.”
He grinned. His teeth were so few and far between I could have counted them at a glance if I’d had the stomach for it.
“Sign here,” he said, pushing a dusty ledger in my direction. I looked around for the quill pen, but found only a ballpoint that said LANCASTER COUNTY BANK on it.
To my surprise, he took a credit card. But this time it was Stephen’s.
“Not fair,” he said. “I’m just a poor boy; I need some sympathy . . .”
I snorted. “Don’t misquote ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’ That’s heresy. You’ll get no sympathy from me.”
The ancient desk clerk held out two key cards. “Rooms 211 and 212.”
“Thanks.”
“If you want anything, give me a ring. But I’m dead to the world after nine p.m.” He turned and walked back behind a curtain, allowing me to confirm that he was indeed dressed from the waist down.
“Let’s go to my room,” I said, and handed Stuart the key to 212. “Want to call Mr. Gallagher.”
The decor in 211 was early yard sale, and not the kind of stuff you’d want to buy. But the smell of Febreze was reassuring. Sitting on the bed, I took out my phone and hit SPEAKER.
When I got Gallagher’s voice mail, I sighed. At the beep I said, “Mr. Gallagher, if you’re there, pick up. It’s Carolyn Neville.”
There was a click. “Where are you?”
“Lancaster County. An Amish community’s agreed to take us in for two weeks. God knows why. We’re at a motel now.”
“Is your car out of sight?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
There was a snapping sound.
“I’m hearing a weird noise.”
“Nicotine gum. The patch wasn’t working.” He paused. “Call me at the first sign of trouble. Not that I can do much from here.”
“I feel safe now.”
There was one more snap, then nothing.
Stuart opened the curtains a little and watched for Jeremy.
Stephen picked up his smartphone and poked it. “You can’t act Amish without listening to this.”
“This better not be ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”
He shook his head and held out his phone. A YouTube video was loading.
As I walk through the valley where I harvest my grain,
I take a look at my wife and realize she’s very plain . .
“‘Amish Paradise,’” he said. “Weird Al Yankovic.”
“Doesn’t help.”
I picked up the room phone and dialed the front desk. The old man answered.
“Do you know where we can get some Amish clothes?”
“Say what?”
I switched to my outdoor voice, the one I use when Hunter Thicke lacks understanding.
“Amish clothes. We need some. Is there some kind of store—”
“You don’t need to shout. Try Amanda’s Mercantile on Main Street.”
“Thanks.” I hung up.
“Time to go shopping,” I announced.
“Who’s buying?” Stuart asked, still pulling the curtain aside.
“Your turn.”
“Oh, God. I hope there’s a sale.”
We were the only customers. The girl at the counter probably wasn’t Amanda herself. Too young. Too much makeup. But at least she wore a traditional outfit. The combination was jarring.
“We close in twenty minutes,” she said.
Like contestants on Supermarket Sweep, we took off in all directions and grabbed stuff off the racks.
“I’m glad to get rid of my shirts to keep from getting noticed, but I doubt I can find my size,” Stuart said, standing in line with me to use the only dressing room.
Stephen emerged from trying things on. “What do you think?” he asked, snapping his suspenders and tipping his straw hat. “Think I’ll grow a beard to go with my new wardrobe.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“No, seriously. How do I look?”
“Like Harrison Ford’s unfortunate younger brother.”
He ignored me as Stuart took his turn. When he came out, he looked like a pious Mr. Pickwick. “I can barely button up,” he said. “But
these are the biggest pants they’ve got.”
“Just keep inhaling,” I said.
I opened the door and tried on my outfit. I avoided looking too closely in the mirror, no thanks to Jenny Craig.
I settled for a mostly brown ensemble that would give me plenty of room for shoo-fly pie.
But not so much that Aaron might lose interest.
Ow.
Something was sticking me in the ear. I rolled over in the opposite direction, only to have more of it jab me in the face.
I sniffed. Straw.
Blinking hard, I raised my head. Turns out there was a pillow under it, full of feathers and embroidered with the words THIS IS THE DAY THAT THE LORD HATH MADE.
Slowly it all came back to me. Our first day among the Amish—Saturday.
I sat up. The first hints of orange sunrise streamed through the barn loft window, motes of dust floating in the air. I sneezed.
Rooookarooookaroooooh! something screeched. Raptor or rooster? The latter seemed more likely.
“Urrrf!” Stephen sounded strained, as if Stuart were sitting on his back. “I’ve had enough of farm livin’.”
I looked down at the two very separate gentlemen brushing off bits of chaff. Stuart picked something out of his hair, peered and it, and dropped it like a hot tarantula.
There was a knock at the barn door. A moment later it rumbled slowly to the side. A man stuck his head in and removed his straw hat. It was Aaron.
“Sorry to bust in, but we tend to rise before the sun. The Bishop wanted me to show you around.”
Stuart sneezed, then wiped his nose on his Amish sleeve. “Do you people have handkerchiefs?”
Aaron scratched his chin. “I believe Sister Stoltzfus has one, but I’ve never seen her use it.”
“When’s breakfast?” Stephen asked, rubbing his eyes.
“After chores.”
Stephen picked up his pillow, punched it, and tossed it on the floorboards. “Remember, Carolyn, this was your idea.”
“Remember, you didn’t have any.”
Aaron put his hat back on and cleared his throat. “There’s a privy behind the barn if you need it.”
“Is that what I think it is?” Stephen asked. “An outhouse?”
Aaron nodded.
Without speaking, the three of us lined up and did what had to be done. I found it resembled a gas station restroom, except that everything was wooden and there was a copy of something called The Amish Heresy lying next to the throne.
“So,” Aaron said when we’d completed our eliminations, “let’s start with a few facts. There’s 110 acres here, one of the bigger farms in the county. About a hundred head of livestock—mostly cattle, poultry, and hogs. We grow melons, oilseed, sweet potatoes. Just started on Christmas trees.”
He waited as if for a reaction.
“Quite a . . . spread,” I said.
“You’ll be doing the usual chores.”
“Such as?”
“Milking, shoveling manure, feeding horses and chickens.” He paused. “Unless you know how to drive a tractor or run a harvester.”
We looked at each other. “Not much call for that in our neck of the woods,” I said.
“Let’s check the cows first.” He led the way to the other side of the barn, where cattle stood in stalls, chewing their cuds—and actually lowing.
He reached over the stall door and patted a black one with a white diamond shape on its forehead. “This is Dorcas. My favorite. Delivered her fifth calf last spring.”
Stephen coughed. “Man, that manure is pungent.”
“You get used to it,” Aaron said. He looked down at the floor of Dorcas’ stall and frowned. “Now, that’s not right.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Got the runs. Color’s not good, either.” To my surprise, he pulled a smartphone from his pocket. “Better call the doc.”
Stephen held his nose. “Just like All Creatures Great and Small. I can hardly wait to see whether the vet shows up wearing a herringbone jacket with patches on the elbows.”
Aaron turned away from the cow and described the problem on the phone. He paused, listening. “Eleven o’clock, then. We’ll be here.”
He turned back to us. “Okay,” he said. “Since we’re here, let’s start with milking. Anybody done this before?”
We all shook our heads. “Some of the dairymen around here use milking machines—but with our small herd we do it the old-fashioned way.”
He reached up to a nearby shelf and took down a box. “Agriculture Department wants to use rubber gloves nowadays.” He gave each of us a pair of blue ones. We pulled them on, which was more of a struggle than I expected.
At the third stall he patted a sleepy-looking brown cow. “Rachel’s easy to get along with. She’s already secured with a rope. The key is to be gentle. They don’t mind being milked if you do it right. Do it wrong, though, and you could get kicked in the head.”
Stuart looked around as if trying to find an escape route.
“Carolyn, let’s give you the first shot.” He pointed at a three-legged stool. “Sit there and pull up a bucket.”
There being no dignified way to reach the level of that stool, I dropped like a stone and almost lost my balance.
“Want to use some Bag Balm?” Aaron asked.
“Do I have to?”
“Nope.” He paused. “Now strip each teat to get the bacteria out. Gently squeeze it a few times like you would a leaky tube of toothpaste.”
Keeping an eye on those hooves, I did it.
“Good. Now put the bucket under the udder. Take two of the teats and gently clamp them with your fingers.”
When I tried it, the poor animal started making warning sounds.
“Don’t pinch,” Aaron said.
I prayed a quick prayer, then squeezed as gingerly as I could.
“Just a touch harder.”
I tried again.
“You got it. Now, do that until a quarter of the bag looks deflated.”
Swallowing, I worked the program until he told me to quit. “Nice,” he said. “Rachel would thank you, but the Lord didn’t give her the power of speech.”
I struggled to my feet and relinquished my post to Stuart, then Stephen. They seemed to pick it up more easily than I did. Apparently coming from Idaho wasn’t enough to make you a natural.
When we were done, we moved on to less specialized tasks like shoveling manure and feeding the chickens. By then it was time for breakfast, a feast of ham with oatmeal and honey. Most of the family was already out in the fields.
After thanking the Bishop’s wife, Aaron led us downstairs to the root cellar and showed us the canned goods. It looked like the shelves in a laboratory of body parts, mostly eyeballs and viscera, but of course it was cherries and berries and jams of all kinds.
“Wow,” said Stuart, and sat down on a rickety-looking chair which promptly broke. Aaron helped him up.
There was an old striped mattress, no linens, in the corner. Three of us sat on it. I was next to Aaron, but tried not to look at him.
Stephen took a jar from the shelf. “Are these apricots?”
“Peaches,” Aaron said.
“Mind if I try some?”
“Be my guest. But I don’t have a spoon.”
“No problem.” He popped off the lid with his thumb and fished out half a peach with his fingers.
“Eww,” I said.
“Aaron, ever heard ‘Amish Paradise’?” Stephen asked.
Aaron hesitated, as if Lucifer were asking a trick question and the answer might determine his eternal destiny.
“I’ve heard it,” he finally confessed.
“You can listen to the radio?”
Aaron held up his smartphone. “Spotify.”
“We won’t tell anybody,” I said.
“I don’t think I’m the only one. But the rest usually pray for Al Yankovic. They’re more spiritual.”
I looked up at the cella
r’s dirt ceiling. “The Lord has given us all good things to enjoy.”
He nodded, but his expression was doubtful.
“Pass the peaches,” I said.
Aaron rolled the barn door open after lunch. An orange truck from Home Depot drove up behind him.
“Got some four-by-fours,” he said. “Fifty of ’em. Can’t haul that many in a wagon.”
The driver, a sunburned guy with a neck tattoo, popped out of the cab and started unloading the timbers. Aaron pulled on some leather gloves and joined him.
Stuart backed up a step. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
Aaron laughed. “Work is worship. Don’t worry, you don’t have to do this part. But we’re going to have a hands-on lesson in sinking fence posts.”
“I’m allergic to splinters,” Stephen said.
“You’ll find plenty of gloves in that box next to the pitchfork.”
We found three pairs. They were all too big for me, and Stuart’s had a dead spider in it.
Aaron and the driver made a stack of lumber the size of a Sherman tank. Aaron tipped him and he drove away. The tip surprised me, but I wasn’t sure why.
“We’ve already got the stringers,” Aaron said. “But first we have to use the post-hole digger.”
He went to a corner and dragged out a tool that looked like two wheelbarrow handles with a circle of steel between them. “Some of the English have gas-powered augurs for this. I think this kind builds character.”
He pointed to the horizon. “Need to replace the fence and cattle guard. We’ll sink about a quarter of the posts in concrete today and more tomorrow.”
We looked at each other. “There’s still time to surrender to the Boudreaux family,” Stephen mumbled.
“You could use some character,” I said. “Maybe there’ll be lemonade at the end.”
He scuffed his shoe in the dirt. “Harrison Ford didn’t have to do this.”
“Let’s go,” Aaron called.
The next three hours were occupied by a form of worship I hope never to participate in again, having gotten used to the kind that did not involve physical injury. Suffice it to say that when we were done, I was covered in enough sweat and grime that I could be mistaken for a mud wrestler in the middle of the Dust Bowl.
Murder Most Unlucky: A Cozy Mystery (A Carolyn Neville Mystery Book 5) Page 5
