by Tamar Myers
“You look snazzy,” I said.
He gave his outfit the once-over. “What? This? These are just some things I picked up in Pittsburgh on one of my many trips to see my lawyer.”
“By the way, how is that going? Any chance of overturning the sale?”
“They’re still looking into it. But so far it looks good. The Bacchustellis misrepresented themselves—there’s no denying that But these things take time.”
“Why Pittsburgh? Aren’t there any good lawyers in Bedford?”
“I’m sure there are. But for something this important it made sense to bring in the best.”
I nodded. “And by the best, you mean Sand, Hammerhead, and White, right?”
He nodded in turn. “Best of the best. Cream of the crop.”
“Do they handle murder cases as well?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. Is there something you’re not telling me, Magdalena?”
“I guess you haven’t heard. A woman was killed early yesterday morning, and it would appear that I am one of the suspects.”
“You don’t say!”
“Oh, but I do. This isn’t the first time—or the second, for that matter—that it’s happened, but believe me, it never gets any easier.”
“I’m sorry to hear this. Who are you accused of killing?” “Someone you knew very well—at least much better than I did.”
“Peggy Roughgarden?”
“No. It’s—Wait just one Mennonite minute. Why on earth would I want to kill Peggy Roughgarden?”
“After what she said about you at the covered dish dinner last month, I don’t much blame you. Of course, murder is a sin, so I didn’t mean that literally—but still, what she said was really unforgivable. You know what I mean.”
“I do? No, I don’t. What did she say?”
“Well, it was really more how she said it. I’m sorry, Magdalena, I can see that I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Just give me a hint,” I cried. “Please, pretty please, with a bow on top.”
“I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”
Being a farm girl, born and bred, I knew there was no sense in beating a dead horse. But I also knew—thanks to my French guests—that a freshly dead horse can be turned into steaks or, at the very least, dog food and glue. I was far from through with the topic of Peggy Roughgarden.
“I respect your desire to protect my feelings, Ed. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to tell you what I came to say.”
“Go ahead.” He seemed resigned rather than curious. “The murder I mentioned happened on your farm— your former farm. The body was discovered lying face up in a flooded and frozen foundation ditch. A footie, I believe it’s called.” I was playing ignorant in order to build up suspense.
“Footer.”
“Are you sure? That doesn’t sound right.”
“Positive. Don’t make me wait, Magdalena. Who was it?”
“Felicia Bacchustelli.” I leaned forward, the better to observe any reaction.
Ed’s face ran the expected gamut of emotions: surprise, disbelief, shock, even anger.
“You don’t think I did it, do you?”
“I didn’t say I did.”
“Who would want to kill Felicia?”
“I would—but I wouldn’t. I mean that it appears that I have a motive, but I don’t. Do you know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Well, it’s this whole competition thing. No doubt some folks will think that I killed Mrs. Bacchustelli because I was afraid that Grape Expectations would take business away from me—which it wouldn’t, because my guests are a totally different crowd.”
Ed licked lips that were as dry and cracked as hens’ feet. “What would my motive be?”
23
“Revenge. The Bacchustellis lured you into betraying the community for thirty pieces of silver. Metaphorically speaking. In real life you lucked into more moola than an old coot like you could ever spend. But it cost you the respect of the community. The only way to regain that is if Grape Expectations pulls up stakes and moves out of here. But what if they don’t? I spoke with Vinny Bacchustelli yesterday—helped him pick out a casket—but he didn’t say anything about leaving. Frankly, I don’t think he’s the type to back out of anything. Even when it involves the death of his sister-in-law.”
To my consternation Ed wiped a tear from his cheek. “Have you already tried and found me guilty, Magdalena?”
“By no means! Ed, I’m sorry. I really am. You put me on the defensive, and I guess I sort of overreacted.”
Ed rubbed his other cheek with the back of a speckled hand. “It’s all right. I figure this makes me a member of a very elite group.”
“Excuse me?”
He smiled wanly. “A Magdalena Yoder apology—there can’t be too many recipients of that. Am I right?”
I am quite capable of giving tit for tat. “Did you want the medal, dear, or will the certificate be enough?”
I’m sure Ed would have volleyed a clever retort had not Belinda burst into the room carrying a tray loaded with comestibles. Although dismayed, I made a move to help her.
“Magdalena, now you sit right back down and have some breakfast. You too, Ed.” She shoved aside some magazines, placed the tray on the coffee table, and began pointing at the various items.
“Found out I was low on hog wart tea, so I made you each a nice cup of hot Colgate.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You take two tablespoons of toothpaste—mint works best—three teaspoons of sugar, a pinch of cinnamon, boiling water, of course, and—”
“I’m allergic to cinnamon.”
“Me too,” Ed said, not missing a beat.
Poor Belinda was crestfallen, but she did her best to assume a hostess smile.
“I’ve got flax seed muffins, grapefruit squares, and if you want something a little hardier, there’s pickled herring with peanut butter wraparounds. I make the flat bread myself with oat bran. John and I have the lowest cholesterol scores our doctor has ever seen.”
“You really shouldn’t have gone to all this bother,” I said. “I really have to be going. But Ed here was just saying how much he craved one of your wraparounds”
“Really? Because I’ve never made them for him before.”
“Then he’s in for a treat.”
Ed treated me to a look that undoubtedly curdled every drop of milk for miles around. If offered coffee I would have to drink it black—or not at all.
I chose the latter. “Belinda, you’ve been the hostess with the mostest, but I really ought to be running.”
Her face fell. “But you can’t. The main course will be ready in about twenty minutes. You can smell it now, in fact.”
I twitched my sniffer. One of the advantages of having a nose this large is that I am usually the first, in any given group of people, to smell something. Apparently not this time, because Belinda was right. The heavenly aroma of an herb-roasted chicken was not only detectable but nearly overpowering. How could I have missed it? But still—who on earth, besides Belinda, serves a multi-course breakfast? “What is the main course?” Ed asked.
“Texas chicken.”
“Really?” I said. “Are Texas chickens any different than their Pennsylvania counterparts?”
Belinda smiled at my ignorance. “It’s armadillo, Magdalena. The finest ones come from someplace called Longview, Texas. They ship them packed in dry ice. I usually order a dozen at a time. The company includes a booklet of recipes, but I’ve only ever tried one. You serve it in its own shell, garnished with acorns. First you grind up the meaty parts—”
“Gag me with a spoon,” I said, borrowing from my sister’s colorful Presbyterian vocabulary.
Poor Belinda appeared stunned by my callous comment. It behooved me to repent immediately.
“Sorry, dear, if that sounded harsh. What I meant was that—well, does one eat them with a spoon?”
“Exactly.” Her eyes s
hone with renewed excitement. “Magdalena, you’ve eaten armadillo on the half shell before, haven’t you?”
I licked my lips, which is not the same as lying. “Alas, no time for delicacies today,” I cried, and scooted my scrawny patooty out the front door without further ado.
I had a question knocking about in my smallish brainpan, somewhere beneath my prayer cap, a question for the brutish chauffeur, Otto. But I had yet to eat, and a hungry investigator is a crabby investigator and likely to elicit anger rather than information. Therefore, I had a moral imperative to stop by the Sausage Barn and load up on pacifying pancakes and assuaging sausages.
Although the days were getting longer, and the shadows getting shorter, this morning was cast in a panoply of grays. Driving up Highway 96 was not the pleasure it usually was. The mountains appeared low and gaunt, their bare trees like the claws of dead, upturned ravens. The new Mozart
CD I’d been anxious to play was disappointingly funereal. All this is to explain my state of mind when I saw the tall figure draped in flowing Mack robes and shuffling along the edge of the road.
“Oh, Lord,” I gasped, “must you take me now?”
The Good Lord, as usual, took His own sweet time to answer. In the meantime, I slowed so that I was driving alongside the figure in black. I even lowered my window an inch, lest I be required to make conversation with the ghoulish stranger. One must always appear dignified, especially in death. It would indeed be in bad form to race down the highway with the Grim Reaper loping along behind in mad pursuit. Such a sight was certain to scare small children and put the hens off laying.
“Lord,” I begged, “can we please get this over as soon as possible? I’m not very fond of pain, as you well know. And please see that my family is cared for. Both Gabe and Alison come across as a lot stronger than they really are. As for Freni, I’m the daughter she never had. She’s going to take it really hard.”
“What about your sister?” the Reaper rasped. “Susannah?”
“Do you have another?”
I stopped the car. The Reaper stopped as well. “Actually,” I said, “I do have another sister. And I have a feeling she might be a mite relieved if I were to say goodbye to this cruel world—one less sticky relationship with which to deal. But as for Susannah, I don’t think my passing will affect her one iota.”
“What makes you say that?”
The raspy voice sounded familiar. Perhaps I’d been premature in my assessment. Could it possibly be...? No. Susannah swaddles herself in colorful wispy chiffons. She wouldn’t be caught dead—no pun intended—in Mack rags. And a hood? I don’t think so. My baby sister refused to wear a veil at both her marriages on the grounds they messed up her hair too much.
“I asked you a question,” the Grim Reaper said. He—it is a he, isn’t it?—tapped a long narrow foot clad in a plain black lace-up shoe.
Holy guacamole! Nobody has feet as narrow as Susannah’s. Realizing that it was my sister, I lowered the window all the way.
“Susannah! What on earth are you doing in that getup?”
“I’m in mourning, Mags. Or haven’t you figured that out?”
“Mourning for whom?”
“My Melkins, of course.”
“Hop in,” I ordered.
She wasted no time. In fact, I’ve never seen her move that fast, unless it was at a fabric sale at Material Girl.
Immediately I regretted my own haste. My sister smelled like a farmer who’d been baling hay all day.
“Uh, be a dear, will you, and sit in the back.”
“Mags!”
“All right, but keep your window down.” I pressed the pedal to the metal. “What’s this all about, Susannah?”
“I told you. I’m in mourning for my sweetykins. I’m not going to shower, brush my teeth, or even wear makeup for thirty days.”
I jiggled a pinkie in my right ear, just to make sure it was in working order. “Did you say ‘no makeup’?”
“Look at me, Sis.”
I glanced at her face, which was turned toward me. It wasn’t my fault I lost control of the wheel, and my side mirror dinged Catherine Beiler’s mailbox. I hadn’t seen my sister’s naked face since she was eighteen and theoretically free of our mother’s strictures. I’d totally forgotten that without war paint she was the spitting image of Granny Yoder.
“I know,” she said, “it’s really awful, isn’t it?”
“Catherine Beiler will never notice. Last year someone stuck a plastic sunflower in her petunia bed. It’s stayed there for six months. But if my car’s been damaged— Never mind. Susannah, what were you doing walking along the highway like that?”
“Because I no longer get to use the cruiser, and my old clunker is officially now a junker. It wouldn’t even start this morning. I couldn’t get anyone to give me a ride.” “Where are you headed?”
“Bedford County Jail.”
“But that’s twelve miles away. Probably more, since it’s on the other side of the city.”
“I was hoping someone would give me a ride—and you did. Mags, you wouldn’t believe how rude people can be. Honking their horns, shouting really nasty things. You’d think I killed someone”
“Reality check, Susannah. You’re dressed like the Grim Reaper. Besides, your sweetykins did kill someone He murdered a pastor, for crying out loud.”
“Mags, he hasn’t been tried yet. He’s innocent until proven guilty.”
“But he confessed! Plus which, he tried to kill me as well. Where’s your loyalty, Susannah?”
“Don’t you see? I am being loyal. I promised to cherish and love him until death did Us part—which it hasn’t done yet.”
“Tell that to Reverend Schrock’s wife. Death departed her husband, and she loved and cherished him so much that she went around the bend when he was murdered by your husband.”
“Mags, I’m not going to take this. Stop the car. I want to get out.”
“Too bad, dear. I have to go to Bedford anyway. Besides, I have something really important I need to talk to you about”
“Save it, Sis. I don’t want to talk about how you and the Babester can’t agree on who officiates at your wedding. At least you have a choice. My hunky-dunky doesn’t get any choices now.”
Hunky? How deluded can love make one? The only hunky thing about Melvin Stoltzfus was the hunk of coal he had for a heart. And shouldn’t that be chunky, not hunky? And what, pray tell, does dunky mean? Unless, she meant to say donkey—ew! Papa used to own a pair of donkeys: Matilda and Herman. He got them as payment for a year’s worth of fresh milk from another farmer who’d fallen on hard times. Although Matilda was a bit stubborn, she was extremely gentle. Especially with children. I remember Papa leading her around the barnyard, me on her back. I must have been four. Herman, on the other hand, was as mean-tempered as a summer day is long. He was also in possession of a considerable male attribute that led this four-year-old to ask questions my very flustered papa wouldn’t answer. The thought of my spindly brother-in-law being similarly endowed was enough to make me want to poke out my mind’s eye.
“This has nothing to do with Gabe, dear. This is earth- shattering news that involves you.”
That did it. “Me?”
“Yup.”
The bundle of black rags bounced in expectation. “Spill it, Sis. You know how I hate surprises.”
“Indeed, I do. That’s why I’m going to wait until I have a tummy full of flapjacks.”
“The Sausage Barn?”
“Do you know any other place where one can live as dangerously and not break any laws?”
She giggled. “Fat’s where it’s at, right, Mags?”
“It’s good to hear you laugh, Susannah.”
My baby sister grabbed the rearview mirror and turned it toward herself. “Do I really look so bad, Mags?”
“Like death warmed over. In fact, I thought you—”
“Don’t look now, Mags, but there’s someone following us.”
24<
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I snatched control of the mirror away from her. Susannah, whose first smile occurred when observing her own reflection, snatched it back.
“I said don’t look now.”
“Then why do you get to look? Never mind. Who is it?”
“How do I know? It’s just somebody in a car. I can’t see their face.”
“How do you know they’re following us?”
“Because when you stopped to pick me up, this same car was behind you—way behind you. But it stopped too.”
I grabbed the mirror again. “That could just be a coincidence. Maybe the driver stopped to change a CD. That is the safe way to do it, you know.”
Susannah rolled her eyes. She has the ability to roll them so far back the irises disappear. The effect now, given her macabre hood, was bone-chilling.
“Oh, Mags, you’re usually the one to jump to conclusions, but sometimes you miss things that are as plain as that nose on your face. I bet you wouldn’t see a tiger if it jumped out of the bushes and bit you. Believe me, that guy’s tailing us.”
I eased back on the accelerator. The vehicle behind us appeared to slow as well. I then stomped on the brakes. So did our follower—and by then I was convinced that my sister was right. Well, the Good Lord didn’t give me big feet just for standing. I gripped the wheel tightly as I pressed the pedal so far into the metal it nearly disappeared into the floorboard.
Highway 96 has more twists than a Slinky. We sailed around some, screeched through others, and it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say that our tires connected with asphalt only half of the time. All the while my sister emitted high-pitched noises, the likes of which I haven’t heard since my honeymoon with my pseudo-husband, Aaron Miller.
About a quarter mile before the Sausage Barn I made a flying right turn onto Applegate Lane. Very few folks other than the ones who live along this road are aware of its existence. That’s because the entrance to Applegate Lane is all but obscured by a pair of enormous rhododendrons that billow over the roadway and are trimmed only when the few residents of this back road have difficulty entering the highway. Susannah, much to my disappointment, was not only familiar with Applegate Lane but whooped with delight.
