Grape Expectations

by Tamar Myers

  The wisest thing to do was to drive straight to the relay station of most of Hernia’s gossip: Little Samson’s blacksmith’s shop—and from there to the birthplace of the gossip: Sam Yoder’s Corner Market. Instead, I flagged down every passing car and buggy, informing them of the imminent arrival of Sodom and Gomorrah, urging them to make a beeline for Ed Gingerich’s place.

  Hermans love a good cause as much as anyone, and by noon virtually every able-bodied soul, as well as a few disabled bodies, had converged at the Gingerich place. The few exceptions were a dozen or so hard-drinking Methodists, seven Presbyterians, and one heretofore closeted, imbibing Baptist. Even our two wine-sipping Jews were there to show their support for Ed Gingerich and our way of life—although the fact the one of them was my fiance and the other my future mother-in-law may have had something to do with their appearance. Curiously absent were Hernia’s first Muslim couple, Ibrahim and Faya Rashid.

  Trust me, I’ve had plenty of experience with the media, the tabloids in particular. Not that it took any arm-twisting to get them involved. What better photo op could there be than a line of Amish buggies miles long, wending their righteous way to aid an “English” neighbor? All three major television networks were there, plus a slew of others. Diane Sawyer looked stunning in a pale yellow blouse and white slacks, and Matt Lauer—well, let’s just say, if any man could turn my head, it would be this long, lanky—I think he was wearing clothes. Yes, I’m sure he was.

  The photogenic Amish men, as well as others of our community, emptied Ed’s house of its contents, and those of us with trucks carted off his belongings to be stored in various homes until the situation was resolved. I fully expected the Bacchustellis to capitulate, given the immense pressure on them to do so and the assuredly negative press. But I underestimated the wine peddling pair from Grape Expectations. They showed no signs of weakening, even after Agnes Mishler handcuffed herself to the metal hitching post in front of Ed Gingerich’s porch.

  Agnes is an experienced grandstander. A few hours later, when the cameras stopped clicking and the footage stopped rolling, and most especially the mosquitoes started biting, out came the key, which had been hidden in her bra the whole time. I no longer watch television now that decent shows like Green Acres are off the air, but I heard plenty about Agnes’s many appearances on TV—after she released herself of course. The next several days Agnes was on every talk show, even the late-night ones, where, reportedly, she cracked the hosts up with her dry wit and droll recollections of life in backward Hernia. Just how Agnes managed to come up with even a modicum of wit in such a short time remains a marvel to me. I can only assume that a professional wrote her lines and she read them from a prompter.

  As for Ed Gingerich, he stayed with me for a few days in one of my rarely vacant guest rooms. After that he rotated among a variety of homes, while a team of top-notch attorneys from Pittsburgh worked feverishly to undo the disastrous deal.

  In the meantime Grape Expectations carried on with their plans. The Gingerich farmhouse was razed (I am ashamed to say that most of Hernia was there to see it happen), and the foundations for the spacious lodge were poured. The site chosen was halfway up Stickleback Ridge, affording the guests a bird’s-eye view of Hernia, including the roof of my inn, which is five miles out of town in the opposite direction, nine miles in all by road but just seven as the crow flies.

  I was sitting in the kitchen of my inn one eventful day, chatting with my cook, Freni Hostetler. Amish families intermarry as a matter of course, and since my family was Amish until my parents’ generation, I am related by blood to ninety percent of the Amish in this country. Freni and I are cousins every which way but Tuesday (when we are aunt and niece), and I am even my own cousin. Hand me a sandwich when I’m outdoors, and I become a family picnic.

  At any rate, that particular day we were discussing Freni’s favorite topic—her daughter-in-law, Barbara, whom she loathes yet loves because the Good Lord commands her to. Barbara, by the way, hails from the Iowa Amish and stands six feet in her thick stockings. Her chief sin was marrying Freni’s only son, Jonathan. The fact that Barbara produced three grandchildren in one fell swoop has done little to mitigate the ill will between these two otherwise pious women.

  “Ach, she brushes their teeth three times a day, Magdalena. Who ever heard of such a thing.”

  “Teeth brushing is a good thing, Freni.”

  “Yah, but these are the baby teeth, the ones that will fall out. If she spends this much time on brushing the little ones’ teeth, how can she have time to help my Jonathan with his chores?”

  I took this to be a rhetorical question. As I sipped my second cup of coffee of the day, I watched Freni make her prizewinning cinnamon rolls. First she rolled out a rectangle of sweetened bread dough on my sturdy oak table. Then she slathered the dough with softened butter. Over the butter went liberal sprinklings of cinnamon and sugar. The dough was then rolled up and sliced with a razor-sharp knife. I was salivating into my coffee by the time she popped the first pan of rolls into my industrial-size oven.

  Freni wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, pushing up her floury glasses in the process. “Yah, so now I wait for your answer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The chores. A wife is supposed to help her husband, yah?”

  “Yah—I mean ‘yes.’ ”

  “Ach, and the children. Such beauties they are—just like their father. But they do not help with the chores, either, Magdalena. In this, I think, they are like their mama.”

  “But they’re only three years old, for crying out loud. They’re barely out of diapers.”

  Freni frowned. “Now you are such an expert on raising children?”

  “That’s a low blow,” I wailed. “The fact that I’m as barren as the Gobi desert is not my fault—unless you wanted me to do the mattress mambo without the benefit of marriage.”

  “Always the riddles, Magdalena.” Freni reached for another ball of dough from the rising kettle.

  I opened my mouth to say something—even the gist of which is forgotten now—but closed it again, the better to hear. Was that a faint tapping at the back door, or was that yet another loose piston in my brain? Forty-eight isn’t old by any means, but already even some of my seldom used parts have expired warranties.

  No, that wasn’t my brain; that was definitely my door. Unfortunately, the only folks to knock that timidly are schoolchildren coming around to sell cookies or other treats to raise money for good causes. Invariably when I answer the door, I find them halfway down the steps. I’m beginning to think they expect me to grab them and toss them into my industrial-size oven. Of course I would never do such a thing, as they are always either too scrawny or too fat.

  I was certainly surprised to see Police Chief Olivia Hornsby-Anderson standing there. At her side stood her very handsome deputy, Chris Ackerman.

  4

  “Good morning, Magdalena,” she said. “May we come in?” I’d detected nervousness in Chief Hornsby-Anderson’s voice, which was downright silly. My oven is not large enough to hold adults—of any size.

  “By all means, come in. You know my cook, Freni, don’t you?”

  “I am her cousin too,” Freni said, not taking her eyes off the dough ball she was kneading. “I am not just the cook.”

  “Unless it’s Tuesday.”

  “Yah.”

  Chief Hornsby-Anderson is a mildly attractive middle-aged woman who has no reason to fear starvation anytime soon. She is a native of San Diego and a veteran of the police force there. She’s also a widow with three grown children, all of them living out West. We picked her to serve our community precisely because she has no local relations and therefore is likely to be impartial.

  Chris Ackerman was her choice for a deputy, and we on the council unanimously approved him for the position. He is also from California and had spent five years working under our new chief—well, not technically under, if you know what I mean. That was, and is, most unlike
ly to happen. A young man still in his late twenties, Chris bats for the other team, as my fiance Gabe explained to me. How Gabe knew this is still uncertain. Suffice it to say that at the time he was hired, Chris’s team affiliation was not an issue, and I am of the opinion that this should remain the case. Recently there have been rumors floating around that don’t bear repeating—so I won’t.

  “Mmm, something smells good,” the matronly chief said.

  Freni beamed. “Yah, you think so?”

  “Smells like my mother’s kitchen,’’ Chris said.

  “Such a handsome boy,” Freni said. “It is a shame you are not married.”

  “My mother says that too.”

  “Miss Yoder,” the chief said, “I’m afraid I have some troubling news.”

  “Please call me Magdalena, but if that doesn’t suit you, then call me baroness.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just something I read in a book—ha, ha. But shoot; I’m all ears.”

  “Always the riddles,” Freni said to her lump of dough.

  “It’s about a Mrs. Felicia Bacchustelli,” the chief said, undeterred.

  “Ah yes, the Devil’s mistress—were I to use such strong language.”

  “Then I’m afraid she may be with her lover right now.”

  “That’s only her brother-in-law— Excuse me, what did you say?”

  “She’s dead, Miss Yoder.”

  “Face-up in one of the foundation ditches,” Chris said.

  “It’s December,” I said. “Who digs ditches in December?”

  “Someone who wants to get a leg up on the competition,” Chris said, and winked.

  The chief groaned, while I glared.

  Freni’s deep sigh blew some of the flour from her glasses. “I cannot understand these riddles,” she confided to her dough ball. “I think maybe these English speak a foreign language.”

  “Grape Expectations’ construction site?” I asked.

  “Yes,” the chief said. “The coroner’s initial estimate is that she died late yesterday afternoon.”

  I motioned for them to sit, which they were only too glad to do. Freni’s stubby arms were cranking away like the pistons on a locomotive as she punched air bubbles from the dough ball. She really is a dear, sweet Christian woman, otherwise I would be tempted to suggest it was her daughter-in-law, Barbara, who was getting the makeover. Nevertheless, it was a sight to behold.

  “I assume the crew discovered her this morning,” I said. “Actually, it was Agnes Mishler. She gave me a call a little after five a.m.”

  “What on earth was Agnes doing out there so early—or at any time, for that matter?”

  “She said she was praying. Miss Yoder—”

  “Please, I asked you to call me Magdalena.”

  “Miss Yoder, is it a Mennonite custom to pray at construction sites?”

  “The Bible tells us to pray without ceasing. It also says that women should have their heads covered when they pray. That is why some of us wear these caps—prayer caps, we call them.” I patted my own white organza cap to illustrate. “Tliat way we can pray wherever we are. But we don’t normally go around and pray at construction sites. If indeed Agnes was praying there, it wasn’t part of a Mennonite ritual.”

  “Miss Mishler doesn’t wear a cap,” Chris said. “What’s up with that?”

  “Agnes and I belong to different churches that have their own traditions. You see, a few years ago most Mennonite groups merged into a single conference, and some of the more conservative practices were abandoned. My church, however, retains the old ways—as the Good Lord intended. But speaking of dear Agnes, I’m surprised she hasn’t called me with the news.”

  My phone rang.

  “Go ahead and get it,” the chief said. “I gave this number to the coroner.”

  I got up and ambled to my wall phone. It’s an old- fashioned, sturdy black model, the type I’m sure Jesus would use if He were here today. “Hello?”

  “It’s Agnes. Magdalena, you won’t believe what I’m about to tell you. I was out—”

  “At the Grape Expectations construction, site and discovered the body of Felicia Bacchustelli face-up in a cement footer. Am I right?”

  Her gasp somehow made it through the phone line and sucked the rest of the flour off Freni’s glasses. This is only a slight exaggeration, mind you.

  “Magdalena! How did you know?”

  “Chief Hornsby-Anderson and her sergeant are sitting at my kitchen table watching Freni punch the living daylights out of my future cinnamon rolls.”

  “Harrumph.”

  “Are there any details you’d like to add, dear?”

  “Details?”

  “Like if she struggled when you pushed her—”

  Agnes need not have slammed her receiver down quite so hard. The woman has a few rough edges, if you ask me.

  “Well, there’s your suspect numero uno,” I said to the chief “Would you like me to tag along while you bode her? Just in case she tries to confuse you again with church-speak.” “Church-speak?”

  “Actually, it’s something I made up just now. Pretty clever, though, if I have to say so myself”

  Handsome Chris scratched his chin. “No, I’ve heard the term before.”

  “Children should be seen but not heard, dear.”

  “I’ve definitely heard that one before.”

  “Shall I repeat it?” I asked patiently.

  Fortunately, the chief came to his rescue. “Miss Yoder, I will not be booking Miss Mishler. In fact, part of the reason I’m here is to inform you that I have another suspect, about whom I may have to make some decisions soon.”

  “You do? Oh, not Ed! Yes, the man’s a little thick—I mean, everyone knows that the fine print is where one gets taken—but since when is deceit a crime? Most of Hollywood, and half our presidents, would have criminal records, if it were.”

  “Miss Yoder, I’m referring to you.”

  “Moi?”

  “Ach!”

  I’m not sure how it happened, but the ball of dough escaped from Freni’s pudgy hands and was sent flying through the air. The four of us watched open-mouthed, but otherwise immobile, as thousands of calories’ worth of God-given carbs came to rest in Chris Ackerman’s lap. The poor lad grunted and turned white. His irises obligingly began to slowly disappear, leaving his eyes white as well.

  “Quick, he needs mouth to mouth,” I shouted.

  Chief Hornsby-Anderson merely leaned over and rolled the offending dough onto the floor. Apparently, it had been pressing against the young man’s diaphragm, because almost immediately he sputtered to life. Freni, meanwhile, sputtered with vexation.

  “Why me?” I demanded, now that CPR was no longer needed PDQ.

  “Miss Yoder, I have a witness who claims that you threatened the deceased.”

  “Rumpled-silt-skin?”

  “Ach, more riddles,” Freni said, this time from underneath the table, where she’d ducked to retrieve her dough. Waste not, want not.

  “Mr. Bacchustelli,” I hissed. “But it wasn’t really a threat—more like a stern warning. I told them to give poor Ed back his property and hightail it out of here.”

  “And what did you tell them would happen if they didn’t leave?”

  “I didn’t get specific. I just said that they’d save themselves a lot of trouble.”

  “That sounds like a warning to me, chief,” Chris said.

  I gave him my infamous “look,” which is one step beyond a glare. My pseudo-stepdaughter, Alison, and my sister Susannah call it the evil eye. My fiancl, Gabe, goes one step further and claims I look like a constipated frog.

  The chief was apparently neither amused nor intimidated by the “look.” “Miss Yoder, this contended threat aside, I have another reason to speak to you.”

  I breathed an enormous sigh of relief, stirring clouds of flour that then settled like snow showers on my navy blue dress. Freni was still under the table, so her glasses were sp
ared.

  “Speak to me!” I cried.

  “Perhaps you prefer that we speak in private.”

  “Whatever.” I turned to Chris Ackerman. “See you later, alligator.”

  “Miss Yoder,” the chief said with surprising sharpness, “it’s Mrs. Hostetler who should leave the room.”

  “Ach!” Freni squawked. Then we heard a thump that could mean that her septuagenarian head and the two-hundred-year-old planks connected. “Ach, du tieber.”

  I spread my legs so I could bend over and peer under the table. “Are you all right, dear?”

  I need not have worried. Freni and I both have guardian angels who work overtime. Freni’s angel has a sense of humor as well. My kinswoman was on her hands and knees, but wedged between her head and that table was the dough ball. “Having fun, dear?” I asked.

  Her dark beady eyes bored through the bottle-thick glasses. “I will not leave the room, yah?”

  “Yah.” I straightened. “She stays.”

  “Very well,” the chief said. She sighed and looked down at her hands. The fourth finger on the left hand bore a telltale band of lighter skin. Although she’d said she was single during her job interviews, rumor had it she was in the process of divorcing. The more vicious gossipmongers claimed her soon-to-be ex-husband had traded in a forty for two twenties.

  “Christmas is coming, dear,” I said gently.

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s just so long an old Amish woman can spend on her hands and knees—unless we’re talking about Esther Schwartzengruber—” I slapped a hand over my wicked mouth. “My point is, time’s a-was ting!”

  “Yes, of course. Miss Yoder, I don’t know how else to say it. You are the number one suspect.”

  “Ach!” The table bucked like it was assuming a life of its own.

  “What did you say?”

  “You have the most at stake if Grape Expectations is a success.”

  “Perhaps, but do I look like a killer to you?”

  “Killers come in all sizes, shapes, and colors,” Chris Ackerman said.

  “Et tu, Brutus?” I wailed.