by Tamar Myers
Outside, in back of the Inn, where the old six-seater outhouse (the largest in the county) used to be, there now stands a white, wooden gazebo. To the left of that there is the chicken coop, then the barn, and then acres of cornfields backed by acres of woods.
My point is that there is plenty of space for my guests, and there was absolutely no reason on earth for Dr. Brack to be lurking outside my private door. When I opened it, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Ha, I must have scared you,” he said.
“Can I help you?” I snapped.
Even under the best of circumstances, Dr. Wilmar Brack gave me the willies. Primarily it was because his age was indeterminate, probably due to extensive plastic surgery (believe you me, the frailer sex is not above going under the knife these days!). Judging by the amount of glint left in his eyes, however, I presumed that he was possibly in his fifties. He had thick gray hair that grew everywhere it was supposed to except for the crown of his head, which was capped by a perfectly round, shiny circle, looking for all the world like the photos of alien landing pads in the British papers. Three long hairs had been trained across the pate from right to left, and then lacquered into place.
At any rate, Dr. Brack didn’t even have the decency to appear taken aback. “You promised to let me bend your ear for five minutes.”
“My ears are already folded, stapled, and stamped. Besides, I’m really very busy.”
“Two minutes of your time, then.”
I let out a sigh that was heard as far away as Oregon, and led him to the sitting room. I gestured to the most uncomfortable hard-back chair in my collection.
“Bend away.”
Dr. Wilmar Brack lit up like a two candle jack-o’- lantern. “You know who I am, of course.”
“You won the Nobel prize. You’ve told me that five times.”
He squirmed. The chair was as hard as I had hoped.
“I said I was nominated for the Nobel prize. I didn’t actually win. Still, it’s quite an honor, don’t you think? After all, the Nobel prize is worth far more than some damned Pulitzer.”
I winced at his language. One more time, and I’d have to chide him.
“I’m sure it is. Who nominated you?”
He squirmed again. “The nominations are confidential, but I can tell you, it was one of the most thrilling moments of my life. Almost as thrilling as that time in Africa when I assisted Dr. Schweitzer in surgery. He was my mentor, of course, although some say that Al should have shared the prize with me that year.”
“You don’t say.”
Even if Dr. Brack shared Cher’s plastic surgeon, it was doubtful he was more than sixty. Since Dr. Schweitzer won the Nobel prize in 1952, that would have made Dr. Brack fourteen at the time.
“But enough about me,” he said with a cap-revealing smile, “I want to talk about you.”
“Me?”
“You have the worst posture I have ever seen in an adult woman not afflicted with scoliosis.”
It was a good thing the windows all had screens, or I might have caught a mouthful of flies.
“You were aware of that, weren’t you?” he asked, just as casually as could be.
I found my jaw muscles. “Well, I never! That was the rudest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Oh, but I meant it in the nicest way. With your back and my brace, we could make millions.”
I stood up, as straight as a flagpole. “I don’t think so.”
“But I found a factory in Honduras that will make the brace for pennies per piece.”
I walked away.
“You’d make the perfect poster girl,” he called after me. “We could show a before shot without the brace...”
Chapter Four
I was not in a good mood when I answered the phone. “PennDutch Inn!”
“Magdalena, this is Melvin—”
“My nemesis?”
“You pantsed me in seventh grade. You started it.”
It was true. I had tugged on Melvin’s overalls, but only because they were unsnapped. He was asking for it. Had Melvin been the decent guy he claims to be, he would have done me a favor and not worn underwear that day, in which case, I would still be a single woman.
“What is it, dear?” I asked patiently. “Is your cast itching you again?”
With uncharacteristic maturity, he ignored my jibe. “The preliminary coroner’s report is in. Of course it’s a little complicated—the language and all—and I wouldn’t expect you to understand everything—”
“Read it to me, Melvin.”
It wasn’t complicated at all. Anyone with as much English as a New York cab driver could understand the report. It was distressing, however. The body, as yet unidentified, showed a bruise that corresponded to a horse’s hoof print, and another linear bruise an inch and a quarter wide. The latter was possibly two bruises, one superimposed and slightly overlapping the other.
“Sounds like our mystery lady was run over by an Amish buggy,” I said midway through the report.
Melvin snickered. “The first rule in police work is not to jump to conclusions, Magdalena. There are other possibilities.”
“It wasn’t Santa and his reindeer,” I snapped.
“There was one linear bruise, Magdalena, not two. Hernia area buggies have two sets of wheels.”
“Yes, but the wheels are at least four feet apart. Clearly, the buggy ran over her with just one set of wheels.”
“Will you let me finish, Yoder? There is a lot more.”
I let him finish. There was indeed a lot more. Before being run over by the buggy, our mystery woman had been strangled.
“By what?” I asked.
“It doesn’t say. This is just a preliminary report, remember?”
“Well, I can tell you right now, it may have been an Amish buggy that ran over her, but it wasn’t an Amish person who strangled her.”
The static I heard next was Melvin bristling, I’m sure. “What makes you an expert so suddenly?”
It was time to backpedal a little. As much as I disliked dealing with Melvin, helping him with the case would be preferable to having my ear bent by Wilmar “Bragging” Brack.
“Of course I know nothing about police work, dear, but I do know something about the Amish. It just doesn’t fit.”
“Yeah? Well, there have been documented cases of Amish committing homicides, you know.”
“Yes, but aren’t most, if not all, of those victims Amish as well?”
Melvin has the world’s only telephonic sneer. “There is always a first time for everything.”
“Melvin, dear, do you want my help, or not?”
The silence that followed was long enough to ripen a melon. A more pious person would have knitted during the dead time. “Idle hands are the Devil’s playground,” Mama always said. Just what she meant by that, I wasn’t sure. But given how far off she was in her veiled allusions to my wedding night, I don’t ever want to know. From now on I would have my knitting bag handy whenever I called Melvin.
“Of course,” he said at last. “But keep them close to the chest, Magdalena.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“Your cards. The few facts we do know. When you talk to the Amish give away as little information as possible. Make them give you the information. That’s how you trap them.”
I tried to visualize Melvin the monstrous mantis preying on a swarm of black buggies. The buggies kept getting away.
“Whatever you say, dear,” I said sweetly.
It was indeed fortunate that I had been conscripted to help poor Melvin on the case, since Melvin was not privy to the Amish grapevine. That’s putting it mildly. The man has, through every fault of his own, managed to put the entire vineyard out of his grasp.
Although the Amish strive to love their neighbors— even the English—and are famous for turning the other cheek, they are only human. And alas, Melvin has, over the years, taxed their patience beyond human endurance.
The
Amish would never tell you this, so it is up to me, I suppose. The first day on the job Melvin started writing warning tickets to those Amish whose vehicles had emission problems. In other words, the horses left deposits (“road apples” we used to call them as kids) on the streets of Hernia. Melvin wanted the horses to wear giant diapers when they were in town. The Amish obediently complied with this demand and swaddled their horses’ hinies with squares of black cloth. But this was not enough for Melvin, who insisted that the diapers had to be fluorescent orange. Melvin claimed this was necessary in order for him to tell at a glance which horses were clad, and which weren’t.
But fluorescent orange was far too worldly for the Amish, and the day after this ridiculous dictum the diapers disappeared altogether. Melvin then began writing tickets—thirty-seven in all—and the Amish meekly paid them. It wasn’t until a visiting Amish bishop—who owned a prolific horse—was ticketed three times in one day, that the Amish put their collective feet down. If their horses weren’t welcome au natural, then neither were they. Since the few businesses in Hernia depend heavily on Amish patronage, and contribute substantially to Melvin’s salary, reason won out.
Of course the Amish forgave Melvin, but they didn’t forget. I have heard Amish children refer to Melvin as mischt kaupf—which even a polite person would be forced to translate as “manure head.” Since the Amish rarely make disparaging remarks, there can be no doubt about his lack of popularity. So you see, Melvin needed me.
I ignored several of Melvin’s suggestions and decided to begin my investigation by interviewing Annie Kauffman. Annie is a short, but ample, woman, about my age, with a beak that would put a hawk to shame. She is an excellent cook with a reputation for the best shoo-fly pie in Bedford County. She also has an exceptionally sharp tongue for someone of her religious persuasion.
Normally—being the shy and retiring sort that I am—I tend to give folks like her wide berth. But, Annie, I have observed, receives even more than she gives, and as a consequence is privy to more information than a plethora of peeping priests. Not a thing goes on in Hernia that Annie doesn’t know about, and of course she has an opinion on everything. It was time to pay her a visit.
I drove out to Annie’s place in my brand-new fire-engine red BMW318I. Actually, it was a wedding present Aaron and I gave ourselves, but if the truth be told, I paid for it. And, while I’m being so frank, the car was Aaron’s idea, not mine.
My Pooky Bear had originally promised me a honeymoon trip to Japan, a country that has always fascinated me, but the day after our wedding he inexplicably changed his mind and suggested that we buy the BMW instead. His timing was impeccable. I was still in such a state of shock that I signed on the dotted line in a virtual trance.
Believe me, I never would have picked red on my own. No doubt Mama is still turning over in her grave over that decision. Sinfully Red, Susannah calls this shade, and she ought to know. At any rate, I’m the first practicing Mennonite in Bedford County to own a red BMW and you can see the tongues wag when I drive through Hernia.
Between you and me, I sort of enjoy the attention. Of course I know that this is a form of pride, and therefore a sin, and I truly am sorry about that. But since Aaron insisted that I sell my gray 1978 Chevy sedan, I have no choice but to drive the new car. I’m sure that God makes allowances for circumstances such as mine, although I suppose I could just solve the problem by becoming a worldly Presbyterian. But five hundred years of religious history is a lot to give up, so until the Good Lord smites my engine, I’m going to consider this new car one of my life’s many blessing.
At any rate, I found Annie Kauffman squatting on her haunches in back of her farmhouse, plucking chickens. She was observed by a flock of free-ranging chickens, none of which seemed particularly upset by the murder of their companions, and two small children, one of whom was presumably the last of Annie’s brood of eight. Annie stood up when she saw me, wiping her hands on her apron.
“If it isn’t Magdalena Yoder.”
“Miller,” I said. “I got married last month.”
“Yah, that’s right. I heard. You finally found yourself a man.”
“Aaron was worth waiting for, I assure you.”
“Let’s hope you didn’t wait too long. Even for a young woman it wouldn’t be easy having children with hips like yours.”
“What’s wrong with my hips?”
“Ach, you’re nothing but skin and bone, Magdalena. And all of it up and down. Even Jonas, our scarecrow, has better birthing hips than you.”
The children twittered.
I glared at the barefoot urchins. One had the decency to hide behind Annie’s skirts, but the other insolently stared back.
“Who says I even want children?”
“That’s in the Bible, Magdalena. Be fruitful and multiply, it says.”
The staring child was now sticking her horrid little tongue out at me.
“Perhaps some of us are meant to be fruitful without multiplying,” I said.
“Why, Magdalena, your mother would turn over in her grave if she heard you say something sacrilegious like that.”
“You leave Mama out of this. You barely even knew her!”
The beak recoiled, temporarily rebuffed at my passionate outcry.
“You may be prolific,” I added, “but your children are rude. Especially this one.”
“Ach, that’s little Mary, my neighbor’s child. She’s English, but she likes to dress our way. She comes over almost every day to play with my little Lizzie.”
A missile came hurling at me from behind Annie’s skirt. I yelped and clutched my knee.
“Ach, you were always a strange one, Magdalena. So English in your ways.”
“Me?” I shrieked. “Your precious little Lizzie just threw a stone at me.”
Annie stared at me in horror. Despite her razor tongue, she was a pacifist through and through. Yet, with one fling of her arm, little Lizzie had overcome five hundred years of breeding and gone where no Amish had dared go before.
“Ach, Magdalena! I’m so sorry! Lizzie—”
The little girl scampered off, Mary at her heels.
“Lizzie! Mary!” Annie was clucking like a hen whose chicks refused to obey.
“I’ll be all right.” I limped over to the Kauffmans’ unpainted porch and sat down.
Annie seemed to stare at me, but I could see that her mind was racing. How could she possibly undo the unspeakable? She started toward me, froze, and then a second later spun around and swooped up the half-plucked chicken.
“A wedding present,” she panted, as she thrust the fowl at me.
I blushed. Chickens, turkeys, it was only a matter of size. And this one, as chickens go, was unusually well-endowed.
“Thanks, but I didn’t come here soliciting gifts. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”
She literally jabbed me with the dead bird. “Take it. It’s rude to refuse a gift, and my range-fed chickens are said to be the best in the county.”
I took the chicken reluctantly, holding it by one scaly orange leg. Annie had just committed the cardinal Amish sin of pride, and I am ashamed to admit that it pleased me.
“Thank you.”
“Now, what is it you wanted to ask?” she asked, and sat down next to me.
I had rehearsed my first question all the way from home. “I—uh—well—uh…”
“Out with it, Magdalena. I haven’t got all day. Eli will be in from the field soon, and expecting lunch on the table.”
“Well, this might take some time. Perhaps I could talk to you while you work.”
She shrugged. “If you insist.”
“What are you making for lunch?” I asked pleasantly.
Her long plaintive sigh was worthy of a teenager in top form. “Well, we were going to eat the chicken you’re holding.”
It was my turn to thrust the chicken. “Here. I want something else for my wedding present. Something wrapped.”
She took it without p
rotest and immediately resumed plucking. Feathers flew everywhere.
While she worked I explained that there had been a “disturbance” in town the night before involving an Amish buggy. Did she know of any situations— emergencies, possibly—that might have required an Amish person to drive through town in the middle of the night? I purposely did not tell her that a young Asian woman had been killed. Play it close to the chest, Melvin had advised, and with a figure like mine that meant smack against the sternum.
Annie shook her head vigorously. “First you become an innkeeper, Magdalena. What are you now, a policeman?”
I spit out a mouthful of feathers. “In a manner of speaking,” I said too proudly for my own good.
“Who ever heard of a woman policeman,” Annie sniffed. “It’s not in the Bible.”
“I’m not a policeman, dear. I’m a policewoman. Well, actually I’m not even that—I’m just helping out.”
“Who?”
“Our local chief of police.”
“Ach, a friend of Melvin Stoltzfus,” she said, shaking her head.
I smiled brightly. “I seem to recall that Melvin’s mother and your father were first cousins.”
Her feathered hands flew to her face. “Ach, how you talk! They were second cousins.”
“Blood is blood,” I said.
“I see that marriage has not tamed your tongue a bit.”
“Nor has it yours, dear. Please, we were getting along so nicely. I simply want to know who drove through Hernia in the middle of the night.”
She looked down at the chicken, pretending to search diligently for pin feathers she may have missed. “Why do you want to know? Was there a disturbance?”
“You might say so,” I said just as cagily.
“Are you sure it was Amish?”
“Just as sure as you are, dear.”
She glanced up at me, and then away. “I keep my eyes open, Magdalena, but I don’t see everything.”
“Perhaps not, but how’s your hearing?”
Annie mumbled something about the English and their nosiness. I prudently let that one slip on by.
I stretched out my injured leg. It no longer hurt, but I grimaced anyway. Please don’t get me wrong. I am dead set against lying, which is a sin. Feigning an injured leg, however, is not the same as lying. Birds feign injured wings all the time, and animals, as any God-fearing person knows, are incapable of sin.
