by Tamar Myers
“Sam,” I whispered, “as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, Colonel Custard is dead.”
The grocer tried unsuccessfully to tear himself away from my grasp. I am after all a penny-pincher par excellence, and over the years my bony fingers have evolved into talons. But although he tried to escape, my cousin appeared genuinely surprised.
“What did you say, Magdalena?”
“I said he was dead.”
“No, I mean who?”
“Colonel Custard.”
“How? When? Why? Where?” He was asking all the questions reporters should ask but seldom do anymore.
“A bullet to the head, a couple of hours ago, because he was going to ruin our town, and where else?”
“Not your inn?”
“Saaam,” I wailed, like the siren on Melvin’s squad car, “who’s going to want to stay at a place that has seen so many deaths?”
“You could always turn that into the PennDutch’s main attraction. You know, bill it as the world’s most haunted full-board inn. Eat and sleep with the ghosts, that kind of thing.”
“Well, I guess I could substitute C.A.S.P.E.R. for A.L.P.O.”
“Casper?”
“Cavorting Among Specters Plan—” I slapped my mouth for the umpteenth time that week. What on earth was I doing discussing business with one of my prime suspects? It’s just that it was so hard to think of Samuel Nevin Yoder as a cold-blooded killer. All through elementary school he’d tormented me—putting gum in my braids, making rude noises behind his hands, and sitting on my sandwiches at lunchtime. This, I later learned, was because he liked me. Anyway, the man was blood kin, and Yoders are genetically incapable of murder—or are they? A man who would trade his heritage in for tinned peas and rubbery heads of lettuce was capable of anything.
Sam knew me too well. “You actually think I might have something to do with the colonel’s death, don’t you?”
“Well, dear, you did have a motive.”
“Not half as good as yours. Sure, my store might eventually have had to give way to one of those chains, assuming that hotel really did bring in development, but it would have happened slowly. The PennDutch, on the other hand, would have gone belly-up the first week.”
“Says who?”
He had the temerity to laugh. “Let’s see, what would the average person rather do, spend bundles of money for the privilege of making his or her own bed, or be coddled like a newborn?”
“Not everyone has the same tastes,” I snapped. Sam didn’t seem to understand the secret to my success. It isn’t just the quaint surroundings that have made my place so successful, but the fact that people don’t mind—even insist on—paying extra for abuse, just as long as they can view it as a cultural experience. If that’s not the case, why is Paris such a popular destination?
“Face it, Magdalena. You’re your own best suspect. I suggest you go home, fix yourself a cup of strong tea, and start asking yourself hard questions.” He tried again to pull free of my talons, but to no avail.
“Do you have an alibi for this morning?” I demanded.
Sam has the Yoder nose, and his is every bit as big as mine, deserving of its own zip code. He pointed it at the ceiling in mock resignation.
“Let’s see. This morning when I opened—at precisely eight o’clock—Thelma Kreider and Rachel Gerber were already waiting for me. Thelma bought three cans of corned beef and—”
“Just a minute.” I fished in my purse and came up with an old grocery receipt—to Pat’s I.G.A., my store of choice, all the way over in Bedford—and a much chewed pen. The teeth marks, by the way, belong to Freni. Little Freni, not Big. “Continue, dear,” I said, pretending to write.
“Uh—yeah, facial tissues is what else she bought. Rachel picked up a bottle of chocolate syrup, a box of elbow macaroni, and a loaf of bread.”
“And Rachel claims she bakes her own!”
Sam, who loves to spread gossip, grinned despite himself. “At eight fifteen Lovina Kenagy ran in and picked up a box of cream of tartar and...”
Cream of tartar, I wrote on the back of my receipt. I had no earthly idea what it was, but Freni said she needed some the next time I was in town.
“… and then at eight twenty-nine, Ed Fisher popped in. Said his wife needed a jar of spaghetti sauce...” Spaghetti sauce. Freni needed that too.
“... but Ed said her homemade sauce will turn your stomach inside out. Then at eight forty-six—no, eight forty-seven—Catherine Troyer raced into the store...” There was no need to hear more. It’s a little-known fact, but Sam’s mind was the inspiration for the computer chip. It may be small, but it holds an astonishing amount of information. By the time he started school, Sam knew not only his times tables but the periodic tables, and he was the undefeated spelling champ every year that I can recall. Sam wouldn’t even have gone to school with the likes of us had there been gifted programs back in those days. Alas, the only option was to skip grades, something his strict Mennonite parents thought immodest.
That brilliant mind could have gone on to do anything. Instead, it married Dorothy the Methodist. Or perhaps it was Sam’s loins that married Dorothy, because she was, admittedly, a rather attractive girl with a budding personality. Today Dorothy’s middle-aged spread threatens to spread into adjoining counties, and the personality that promised to bloom has long since withered on the stalk.
But where was I? Oh yes, I had no doubts that what Sam was telling me was true. His register tape would confirm it. There was certainly no need to interview any of his alibis. I released his wrist.
“Well,” I sniffed, “you might want to do a little dusting in here. And some of those veggies over in that bin have been around since Methuselah was a boy. I know, because I carved my initials in a head of iceberg lettuce last summer, and it’s still there.”
Although he was free, and there was somebody waiting for him at the register, Sam didn’t budge. Instead he smiled.
“Magdalena, if you ever get tired of that fancy New York doctor—well, you know where to find me.”
“Sam! You’re married, for crying out loud.”
“There is such a thing as divorce.”
“I am not about to do the horizontal hootchy-kootchy with a cousin.”
“Suit yourself. But like I said, if you ever get tired—” I left Sam standing in the dust.
By then it was already three in the afternoon. I drove straight from Sam’s over to Miller’s Feed Store, and parked as close to the front door as I could. There was no telling how Elspeth was going to react to the sight of me, especially now that we were allies of a sort. Under normal circumstances she’s been known to a take a swing at me. Why it is she hates me I can’t for the life of me figure out. At any rate, in case she took to throwing pitchforks at me—and I mean that literally—I wanted to be able to make a fast getaway.
Because the majority of Elspeth’s customers are Amish and she was running a sale on harnesses, all the good parking places were taken by black buggies and stomping horses. I had to watch very carefully where I stepped. Although Hernia has an ordinance requiring horses to wear nappies, it is no longer enforced. Melvin tried that, and found out just how unpopular he was with the Plain People.
I nodded and smiled my way through the throng of shoppers. I know, at least by sight, everyone in the Amish and Mennonite communities. In fact, I know just about everyone in this hamlet. There are a few Presbyterians I’m still fuzzy on, but given that some of them have been known to drink alcohol like our lone Episcopalian, they’re probably fuzzy on me too.
Since her husband Roy’s disappearance, Elspeth has hired three young clerks, strapping young men all, to help her. She no longer does any of the actual work herself, but flits about snapping at her employees. I know that owls can’t get rabies, but if they could, I’d be tempted to say there was a dangerous bird loose in Miller’s Feed Store.
I found her in her usual foul temper, berating an employee in front of embarrassed customers. While
my appearance was serendipitous on his part, it filled my quota of good deeds for the day. Elspeth flew at me in a rage, the young man’s incompetence all but forgotten. “You! What are you doing here?”
“What if I said I came to buy everything in the store?”
“I would not sell to you.”
“But you do. Mose buys chicken and cattle feed here all the time.”
“Mose Hostetler only works for you. It is not the same.”
“Elspeth, we’re on the same side, remember? We’re both against the huge hotel and any subsequent development.”
“Yah, but the colonel stays with you. You are a Benediction Arnold.”
I smiled. “As usual, dear, you’re half right. About the colonel—well, I’m afraid he isn’t staying with me anymore.”
“You kick him out?”
“Unfortunately not. He was murdered.”
Her eyes flashed behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “You did this, yah?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You are a stronger woman than I thought.” For the first time I heard respect in her voice.
“I didn’t kill him!” I wailed. Yes, I know, I wail a lot. But it is one of my more charming attributes, don’t you think?
“He was an evil man, Magdalena.”
“He was ambitious. That’s hardly the same.”
“But he did not care that he would destroy our way of life.”
Our way? Yes, Elspeth’s native tongue was German, and she used it to communicate with the Amish, who spoke an Americanized dialect of that language, but our way was hardly hers. She didn’t even go to church, for Pete’s sake, and I have it on good authority that she has been seen around neighboring Bedford knocking back beers with her bratwurst.
“There is no justification for taking a human life.” If Elspeth had really been one of us, she would have known we Mennonites and our Amish cousins are pacifists. During colonial days, when my family was Amish, they refused to defend themselves against a Delaware Indian attack. As a result two of my ancestors were taken captive, and another, my great-great-great-great- great-great grandmother, was scalped.
“There are always exceptions, yah? Magdalena, you do not need to be shy with me. I understand these things.”
“For the last time, I didn’t kill the colonel.” Our conversation was generating a lot more interest than discounted harnesses, but I didn’t care. “As a matter of fact, I came here to question you.”
“Me? You think I killed the colonel?
There were gasps and muttering in Pennsylvania Dutch, but the crowd edged closer. Agnes Bontrager, a buxom woman with a nose for news, actually nudged me with her bosoms. I have no doubt her intent was to push me forward into Elspeth’s space, in hopes of escalating the confrontation. Agnes may be a pacifist by conviction, but her hobby is spectator sports. This is a pastime the Amish don’t normally make time for, and I think the big-breasted woman was hungry for some action.
I smiled pleasantly at my friends and neighbors, at least those I could see. “I haven’t made any allegations, Elspeth. I’m merely here to ask a few questions.”
“There will be no questions, Magdalena. You will leave now.”
“Of course we don’t have to have this conversation in the open. How about we retire to your storeroom?”
“Out! Out! Out!” With each word she flapped her arms, but was unable to achieve lift off. “Get out of my store, you pigamist!”
“What did you say?”
“You heard me—pigamist.”
“Ah, you mean bigamist. I hate to tell you this, dear, but that is such old news it’s not worth wrapping the garbage in.”
A number of the Amish present murmured their agreement. There wasn’t a soul in Hernia, with the exception of our five hearing-impaired citizens, who hadn’t heard the story of Aaron and me, and if once, at least a dozen times. The Amish, more than anyone, know the futility of beating a dead horse. One by one they turned away to pursue their business. It was all I could do to keep from neighing gratefully.
“So,” I said, “are we going to have our little chat in the back room, or out here?”
“You!” Elspeth cried, as if it was the worst insult she could think of. Then, as preposterous as it sounds, she did achieve lift off, I’m quite sure of that. Although Elspeth comes only to my sternum, she managed to butt me on the chin. It’s true what they say; the bigger they are, the harder they fall. I teetered on my narrow heels for a second or two before landing on my back like a ton of Freni’s pound cakes.
“She’s dead,” I heard someone say, just before it all went black.
12
I didn’t die, of course, but I have no doubt that I was knocked cold. When I came to, I could hear birds chirping. Bavarian cuckoo clock birds. I tried to raise my head, and nearly fell forward on my face. It would seem that someone had propped me in a chair.
A smart Magdalena would have opened her eyes before moving. A really smart Magdalena would have closed them the second she opened them. I did neither, and found myself staring across a small desk at Elspeth Miller.
We were in a room the size of a broom closet—proof it wasn’t Hell. And like I said there was Elspeth—proof it wasn’t Heaven. I know that’s an unchristian thing for me to say, and I’m not supposed to judge, but sometimes I can’t help it. At any rate, the scrawny woman was perched on a chair of her own across the desk. Between us was a mound of paperwork, and on the wall behind Elspeth was a walnut cuckoo clock.
“Ah, you are awake,” she said.
“Am I?”
“How many fingers do you see?” She held up two digits, both of which I could see quite clearly.
“Three.”
The look of alarm on her face was worth the pain in my head. “Don’t play games, Magdalena!”
“One,” I said. Since I was merely counting in a random order, it wasn’t exactly a lie.
“You are sure!” The owl had turned white behind the horn-rimmed glasses.
I glanced at the cuckoo clock. “Now I don’t see any fingers.”
“Now how many?” She had folded her index finger, leaving only the middle one. Like I told you, Elspeth Miller was not one of us.
I sat bolt upright. “I could sue, you know. Or get you arrested on assault and battery. Maybe I should do both. After all, there were tons of witnesses.”
“But you will not do either, yah?”
“Says who?”
Elspeth smiled. As you might expect with a bird, she had no teeth. Well, at least they weren’t visible.
“Your witnesses were all Amish, Magdalena. You know how much they hate to go to court. So, I suggest that we make a deal.”
She was right about the Amish. They are, perhaps, our least litigious segment of society. They take care of their own, and prefer to handle all but the most pressing problems “in house,” so to speak. Finding an Amish witness to testify against Elspeth would be as hard as pulling a hen’s—make that Elspeth’s—teeth.
“What sort of deal?” I asked warily. I am a woman of principle and cannot be bought. Besides, I have enough money of my own.
Elspeth pushed up her glasses just enough to massage the bridge of her beak. “If you promise to stop harassing me, I will give you some information that you might find very helpful in this little investigation of yours.” The word “little” grated on me like sixty-grit sandpaper. She was making it sound like a hobby. The truth is I am the law in Hernia, just not officially. Between the two of them, Melvin and Zelda don’t have enough mental amps to power a flashlight. But since Mama always said that honey catches more flies than vinegar, and Elspeth was definitely capable of flight. I gave the storm trooper’s daughter the thirty-two-teeth salute. Besides, it takes fewer muscles to smile than it does to frown.
“I haven’t exactly been harassing you, Elspeth, but I’d be happy to hear your little bit of information.”
She leaned forward just as the door in the clock above her popped open and the little w
ooden bird stuck its head out. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo.
“Oh my gracious, Elspeth, it’s four o’clock. I’ve been out even longer than I thought. Please make this fast.”
“The clock is not accurate, Magdalena. Now where was I?” Please understand that is only an approximation of Elspeth’s words, since her w’s were v’s, and the other way around—which leads me to think the Germans may have intended to name their arthropodan automobile “Wolksvagon.”
“You were about to enlighten me in regards to the very complicated case I’m working on.”
“Yah. I was about to tell you that you are shouting up the wrong tree.”
“That would be ’barking,’ dear.”
She glared behind the flaring frames. “Anyway, the person you need to talk to is Lodema Schrock.”
“Lodema?” I was genuinely surprised. Sure the two women knew each other—in a town this small a merchant and a pastor’s wife are both part of the upper crust—but I never, in a million years, would have expected Lodema’s name to just roll from Elspeth’s lips. Although a Lutheran by birth, Elspeth does not belong to any church, and Lodema would have no use for farm supplies.
Elspeth clearly enjoyed my shock. “I keep my eyes and nose open, Magdalena. There is much I know.”
“You mean your ears,” I cried.
“That is what I said.”
“Tell me more,” I begged, my conk on the head all but forgotten.
She gave me another toothless smile. “I think I have told you enough. So, now you talk to Lodema, yah?”
“Yah—I mean, yes. But can’t you at least...”
