by Tamar Myers
“Believe me, by the time we are through, you won’t be a stranger. I taught my sister to drive in these mountains. I wore a hole through the floorboards on the passenger side of the car.”
She bit her lip. “Ibrahim will be very angry when he learns that I have disobeyed.”
“Leave it to me, dear. I’ll point out how much money he’s saved on driving lessons. Not to mention how much more money you will make as a doctor instead of a housewife.”
“But my beauty—I am afraid the jealousy will not change.”
“Hmm. Do you have scissors?”
“What?”
“Snip, snip. It will only take a second, I promise.”
She looked at me with horror. “Miss Yoder!”9
“Oh no, dear, I didn’t mean your hair. There’s a humongous thread hanging from the sleeve of your robe.”
“Please, Miss Yoder, my heart is pounding. I have not been so setup since I see this house.”
“Setup? Trust me, no one has set you—ah, upset!”
“Yes, upset. Ibrahim, I say, for what do we need five thousand square feets, when we have no children? ‘They will come,’ he says. Be patient. In the meantime, I should be glad we are not living in a small house like we did in New Jersey.”
“Five thousand square feets—I mean, feet?”
“A shame, yes?”
“An infraction of the rules, dear. Hernia has an ordinance limiting residences to thirty-five hundred square feet. The intent is to— Never mind the intent. The fact remains that your husband broke the law. Technically, the town council—and that includes yours truly—can require that he tear down fifteen hundred of those square feet to comply with the ordinance.”
Dr. Faya Rashid’s olive skin turned polar bear pale. “This infarction you speak of, this means to break a law?”
“That’s infraction, dear. Infarction is a medical term. But yes, that’s what it means.”
“My husband will be most—uh—upset. This house means a great deal to him. It is his house of dreams.”
“Let’s make a deal,” I said.
“Like in the television program? I choose door number two!” She giggled nervously.
Of course, I have never seen the show, but the phrase it made popular is now part of the American lexicon. “Then you’re a very lucky woman, Dr. Rashid. Behind door number two are free (hiving lessons along with a promise that your husband will not object too strenuously. If so—well, he’ll have less property taxes to pay next year. So you see, it’s sort of a win-win situation.”
Perfectly arched eyebrows came together for a second or two. “I do not understand everything you say, Miss Yoder, but I like you.” She smiled unexpectedly. “When do the driving lessons begin?”
“Soon, dear. Right now I’m hot on the heels of a coldblooded killer.”
There are two Best Cleans in Bedford, at opposite ends of the city. Fortunately, Highway 92 from Hernia passes directly in front of the southwestern store. I pressed the pedal to the metal and drove the twelve miles in record time.
The thing that has made the Best Clean chain such a success is that it lives up to its name. I personally believe in a good washing machine, but Mends and guests who’ve used Best Clean rave about it. They all say that hands down, Best Clean is head and shoulders above its competition when it comes to removing stains and underarm odors. I am inclined to believe them, because once this company got a foot in the door, its competitors found themselves scrambling like one-legged soccer players. Of course, there were a few people across the state who complained about the “foreigner” with a stranglehold around their necks, so to speak, but I’m proud to say that most folks living in Bedford County don’t have the stomach for bigotry.
As a faithful Christian I don’t believe in luck, but if I did, I’d have to say that so far that day, it was with me. Ibrahim Rashid was not only on the premises of the nearest Best Clean, he was standing behind the counter, entirely accessible.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“My name is Magdalena Yoder. I am—”
“I know who you are. Do you have your ticket?”
“Ticket?”
“You’re picking up, right?”
“Not exactly. Mr. Rashid, do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” He called a middle-aged woman named Beth from behind the revolving racks of clothes and asked her to man the register. Then he led me into the cubicle that served as his office. I could see that low overhead was yet another way he made his business profitable. In fact, his desk was one of those put-together jobs from Home Depot. “Please, have a seat,” he said, offering me the only chair.
“Thanks, don’t mind if I do.”
“Would you care for something to drink?”
“A cup of hot chocolate would be nice. And some ladyfingers, if you happen to have some handy.”
He flashed me an abbreviated smile. “I’m afraid your choices are limited to water and diet cola.”
“In that case I’ll pass. Mr. Rashid, how did you know who I am?”
“Everyone in Hernia knows who you are, Miss Yoder. You’re practically an institution.”
That was the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me, using the word “institution.” Already the man was piling up points in the credit column. And I suppose I should mention the fact that he started out with a bunch because next to the Babester, the founder of Best Clean was the most handsome man I’d ever seen.
“You’re something of a phenomenon yourself,” I said. “Miss Yoder, I don’t mean to be rude, but Beth is still being trained. Besides, as I’m sure you well know, time is money.”
“So much money, so little time to spend it.”
“Miss Yoder—”
“I know, hurry it along, right? Okay. I’m here because this morning a corpse was discovered in one of the foundation ditches of the forthcoming Grape Expectations complex.”
Other than the flicker of incredibly long, dark eyelashes, he offered no physical cues about his mental state. “I fail to see how this concerns me—or you, for that matter.”
“Well, dear, it concerns me because I’m working with Chief Hornsby-Anderson on the case, and it concerns you because you and your charming wife were observed just steps away from the scene of the crime.”
This time a vein at his temple twitched. “It is true, Miss Yoder, that my wife and I were out there in the wee hours this morning, but neither of us had a clue that there was a corpse nearby.”
“What were you doing there, Mr. Rashid?”
He didn’t pause a beat. “What was your witness doing there. Miss Yoder?”
“Praying.”
Now that got his attention. “Did you say ‘praying’?”
“Indeed. Now it’s your turn, Mr. Rashid.”
“Uh, my wife and I have been married for only two years. It was a beautiful, moonlit night and—uh, I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Whether I do or don’t is none of your business. But I’m afraid your explanation won’t suffice. At the time my witness observed you, it was teeth-chattering odd, and you and your lovely spouse were doing anything but the horizontal hootchy-kootchy.”
“Excuse me?”
“The mattress mamba. The scaly fosturepedic polka. The bedspread bossa nova. The sleeping bag—”
“I get the picture,” he said, fighting back a grin. “Okay, you win. There are two things my wife and I argue about almost constantly: her desire to return home to Lebanon, and her desire to get a Pennsylvania driver’s license. Frankly, I can’t remember which of those we got into last night, but since your spy appears to be on top of things, I’ll confess to both of them.”
“Confess?”
“A poor choice of words. You know what I mean.”
“Mr. Rashid—”
“Please, call me Ibrahim. Or Abe, if you prefer.”
“Ibrahim,” I said, attempting to roll the r, “what were you doing way out there on Hungry Neck Road?”
�
�We were coming back from Pittsburgh, and I was tired of driving, so I thought I would take a shortcut. If you must know, we stopped because I had a nicotine craving. In a serious way. The smoke bothers Faya more than it does most people.”
“Ever think of giving it up?”
“They say that nicotine is even more addictive than heroin. Of course, I’ve tried giving it up.”
So far his story jibed with hers. “Ibrahim, why didn’t you and your wife attend the community protest against Grape Expectations?”
“Believe me, Miss Yoder, I would have liked nothing better. I was in Harrisburg that day—the next day as well. But I saw it on TV that evening on the news, and the same thing the next morning. I even saw you.”
“You did? How did you know it was me?”
So help me, if he said it was my nose or the fact that I am vertically enhanced, or made some comment about me weighing less than my shadow...
“Miss Yoder, you are an uncommonly attractive woman. A man would have to be blind not to notice you.”
“I am? He would?” I brushed a wisp of hair from my cheek and tucked it into the beginnings of a braid.
“Please don’t misconstrue what I said, Miss Yoder. I am a Muslim—albeit a rather liberal one—and a married man. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a thing of beauty. And I must say that in your case the veil would be indicated.”
“It would?” It would certainly hide my probing proboscis, not to mention my uncommon attractiveness—his comment could mean just about anything. “Wait just one Mennonite minute! I’m not sure that was a compliment!”
Ibrahim Rashid smiled broadly and shook his handsome head. “Miss Yoder, you certainly are everything they say you are.”
“And more,” I said modestly. “By the way, Abe, are you aware that your house exceeds Hernia’s zoning limitations?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s too big.”
“Who told you that?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, do you see any other houses that large around town?”
His eyes flashed. “No.”
“Why do you suppose that is?”
“I doubt if anyone else in this multi-horse town can afford one as large as mine.”
“That’s beside the point, dear. The code prohibits single-family dwellings from exceeding thirty-five hundred feet. How big is yours? Six thousand feet?”
“It’s five,” he said through clenched teeth.
You see how easy it is to get an admission? “Oh, dear. Which fifteen hundred are you prepared to lose?”
“I’m prepared to fight the town council. I can afford the best lawyer in Pennsylvania. Those fossilized old goats won’t know what hit them.”
“Baaaaa.”
To his credit, he barely blinked. “We’re both businesspeople, Miss Yoder.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you offering me a bribe?”
He swallowed my bait—hook, line, and sinker. “No, of course not. But I am willing to negotiate. Isn’t that what businesspeople do?”
“Well, in that case... sure, I’ll negotiate. But it’s sight unseen.”
“Excuse me?”
“I won’t mention your building infraction to the other council members—in fact, I’ll defend you if the subject ever cranes up—and you, my dear, make me a promise.”
“A promise to do what?”
“I can’t tell you in advance. That’s what makes it sight unseen.”
“Does it involve religion, politics, or my finances?”
“It does not. It’s really a very minor issue. You have my word.”
He shook his head. “They should have warned me about you in business school.”
“Then you attended the wrong one, dear. I’m told there are several schools out there now with a course titled Magdalena Yoder 101.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but a gal has a right to hope, doesn’t she? Look, Abe, what I want from you is a good thing. And it will enable you to keep your oversized house intact. Conspicuous consumption—isn’t that the American Dream?”
He sighed. “Okay, I promise—although I know I’m going to regret this. Now what is it?”
“That you won’t get mad at your wife.”
“My wife? Why would I get mad at her— Wait one boring Hernia minute. This is about her driving, isn’t it?” “Eventually. In the meantime, it’s about me giving her lessons.”
Abe glared at me. “How dare you,” he said, spitting each word out as if it were a nail shot from a carpenter’s electric gun. “My family life is none of your business.”
“Ah, but your house size is. And this old goat can be mighty cantankerous at times.”
He continued to glare, but I focused on the tip of his nose. That way I appeared to be returning the look yet didn’t have to make quite the same emotional investment. Of course, I didn’t say anything. A wise woman once said that a tongue held is worth two in the bush—or something like that Her point was that silence is a powerful although often elusive weapon.
“Someday, Miss Yoder, I’m going to be elected to town council. When I am, two-bit motel owners are going to find themselves under the gun.”
That hiked my hackles so high they scratched my armpits. “The PennDutch is neither two-bit nor a motel. You will rue the day—Uh, does this mean you’ll permit your wife to take driving lessons? Without immediate recrimination, that is.”
“Bingo. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m sure Beth needs my help. This is only her second week on the job. New employees—you know how that is.”
“Actually, I don’t Freni Hostetler has been with me from the beginning. Look, dear, just one more question, and I’ll go on my merry way.”
“The interview is over.”
“Just one more,” I pleaded. “Honest, Abe.”
But I was speaking to his back.
A gal can get plenty hungry trying to sort out the truth, and I had yet to connect with a cup of hot chocolate—piled high with marshmallows, of course—since leaving the inn. Fortunately, the Sausage Barn is only a stale biscuit toss from Best Clean. Unfortunately, this greasy spoon eatery is owned and run by Wanda Hemphopple.
Wanda is a liberal Mennonite, and although she does not wear the traditional prayer cap, she does wear her long hair piled high in a beehive. In fact, it was she who invented the beehive hairdo back when the Good Lord Himself was just a boy, and I don’t think she’s washed it since. like the Tower of Babel, Wanda’s do strives to reach the heavens. Should Hemphopple’s tower topple, Hernia could be obliterated by an avalanche of dandruff and assorted vermin. Rumor even has it that the U.S. military has been begging Wanda to travel to various hot spots in the world and let down her hair. I did not start that particular rumor, by the way. I merely passed it on.
But I digress. For some reason I get under Wanda’s dandruff-flecked skin. The Good Lord knows I try to love the woman, despite her feelings toward me, but I’m not always successful. My point is that a visit to the Sausage Barn is, for me, a double-edged sword: I must fight to keep my tongue under control, as well as stave off the sin of gluttony. Wanda’s Mennonite roots manifest themselves in her attitude toward the food she serves—fat is where it’s at.
“Good morning, dear,” I said with a pleasing smile as I breezed past the front counter.
“Come back here, Magdalena! You’re not allowed to seat yourself.”
“But the place is half empty.”
“For all you know those tables are reserved.”
“You don’t take reservations,” I said, still smiling pleasantly.
“Quit sneering at me, Magdalena.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Now, where do you want to sit? Tables six and eight are open, and so is thirteen.”
“My usual would be fine, dear.” Not only is this table close to the kitchen, ensuring that at least some of the fat served will Still be molten, but it is curtained off by
a wall of plastic plants. Hot fat and privacy—can it get any better?
“Your usual is occupied,” she said triumphantly.
“It is?”
“That young police officer from California. The one who everyone thinks is—well, what about you, Magdalena? Do you think he’s gay?”
“I’m sure it’s none of my business, dear. But speaking of him, I believe I’ll join him.” I trotted down the aisle, between tables, with Wanda nipping at my heels.
“You can’t do that! You can’t seat yourself, and you certainly can’t disturb one of my customers.”
But I did. I swooped into the booth and plopped my patooty on the faux-leather bench. Sergeant Chris Ackerman dropped his fork with a loud clatter but otherwise retained his composure.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
“He certainly does.” Wanda’s beehive had taken a second to catch up with her, and it was wobbling precariously.
“Actually, I don’t,” Chris said.
“There, you see? He doesn’t—Officer, are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I pretended I was sucking on a stalk of rhubarb so that Wanda wouldn’t think I was gloating. I may have gotten the seat I desired, but it was within Wanda’s power to sabotage my order.
“Harrumph,” Wanda said. “So, Magdalena, what is it you want?”
“Some privacy would be nice, dear.”
“You have to place your order first, because I’m doing double duty today. Caitlyn threw up all over table fourteen so I sent her home, and Opal doesn’t start until two.”
“Eggs poached hard—but not to the point that the yolks are dry, bacon—crisp, but with a little play at both ends; and raisin cinnamon toast—pale, of course. I don’t ingest charcoal. Oh, and a tall orange juice—not from concentrate, pulp preferable; coffee—freshly ground, not from a can; and so much cream that Bessie begged for mercy.”
Wanda rolled her eyes like a teenager. “Will that be all, Your Royal Highness?”
“No. I’d like a glass of sky juice as well.”
“All we have is orange, grapefruit, and tomato. Although I suppose I could round up some prune juice. Have you reached that age yet, Magdalena?” She twittered as the tower on her head teetered.
