by Tamar Myers
“Hey, I didn’t think it was, like, any kind of emergency. Except for my Gaps being stolen. I mean, she knew this dude—at least she said she did.”
“Did you hear his name?”
She shook her thick, dark blond mane. “Nah. But you could just tell them two knew each other. She weren’t afraid of him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
By now, my legs were wobbly, so I elected to sit on an overstuffed chair—one that bore the remains of someone’s breakfast. Crushed Cheerios and sticky milk stains were suddenly meaningless.
“Levina, do you know what Alison’s dad—uh, my husband—looks like?”
“Yeah, who doesn’t? I mean, he’s really good-looking for an old guy, Miss Yoder. At least that’s what the other girls say. I wish my dad—”
“Was it him?”
Her locks got another workout. “Nah.”
Denial is not just the name of an Egyptian river. Who knew that I could be so good at it? Ever since my wedding night, I’d been living with the fear of Melvin Stoltzfus resurfacing in Hernia, but up until this moment, I had not entertained the possibility that Alison’s whereabouts might be linked to the murdering mantis. Neither had I considered this an explanation for Gabe’s disappearance.
I exhaled deeply several times, all the while praying for strength. “Levina, did this man with the pickup truck have a huge head set on a spindly neck, and did his eyes bulge and look in separate directions?”
“You mean like that police chief we used to have?”
“Exactly!”
“Nah, it weren’t him. This guy was more regular-looking.”
“Regular-looking? What does that mean? Can’t you remember anything else?”
She gave my questions a second or two of thought. “Honestly, Miss Yoder, I didn’t look at him all that much. Him being old and all, there weren’t no point. Then when he took off with my Gaps, I was so ticked I gave him the finger.”
“A lady doesn’t offer the finger, unless they’re ladyfingers, and in which case they should be served with hot chocolate that’s topped with whipped cream.”
“Geesh! You’re even crazier than I thought.”
“Coming from you, that is indeed a compliment.”
“And who the heck says indeed all the time? That’s just plain weird. I mean, ain’t that Spanish or something?”
“Definitely something. Now focus, dear. What color was the truck? Was it a pickup? What make? Did you see the license plate?”
Despite the fact that it was still April and cool outside, the big gal was wearing shorts, and a tank top that exposed a considerable portion of her midriff. But it was downright cold inside the Nichols apartment, and I could see the gooseflesh on her tummy and hefty biceps.
“It was a truck. That’s all I know. A pickup, I guess—you know, like one of them trucks that’s been hauling them cow trailers into town all week. It might have been white, or a light color like that. Oh yeah, and it smelled like cow manure.” She actually used a less polite word, one Ida might have uttered, had she tried to say “sit.”
Although mine is an unscientific poll, let it be known that it is easier to squeeze water from a stone than it is to extract facts from a fourteen-year-old on a subject about which she is uninterested. It was time to quit while Levina merely disdained my mental state. After all, I might need to put the screws to her again.
“Thank you, dear, you’ve been very helpful.”
“Yeah, I guess I have. So, you gonna pay me?”
“Pay you? For what?”
“You know, like they pay them TV whatchamacallits.”
“They’re called interments,” the cousin pronounced with utmost confidence. “It’s a fancy word for tattletales.”
Suddenly, the goose that had been puckering Levina’s tummy pranced over my grave.
32
With Ida and Agnes to support me, I filed a missing person’s report with the Bedford County sheriff and, of course, our own young Chris Ackerman. Sheriff Dewlapp explained that since there was no ransom note, Alison would be treated as a runaway, which meant that the FBI would not immediately be involved. He did, however, issue an all points bulletin for the county, and sent a photo and description of her to every sheriff’s department in the state, as well as to several counties in Maryland. As for the Babester, because he was an adult, he would not be officially considered missing for another thirty-six hours.
Although I didn’t like it, I understood the sheriff’s position. What I couldn’t understand was Gabe’s position on his precious mother. Why had he agreed to have her live with him when he was single? And now with us? If it was to cut his meat for him—well, I’ve heard that capuchin monkeys have been trained to do similar things for the blind.
“So maybe,” Ida said, pointing a stubby finger at the sheriff’s midsection, “my son has run avay from his vife.”
“Excuse me?”
“That would be me,” I said. “I’m the vife.”
“Such a bossy voman you heff never seen.”
Sheriff Dewlapp stroked his neck. “Well, my wife can be pretty, uh, directive—but I would never consider skipping out on her. Not without at least leaving a note.”
“Yah? But mit a note you vould?”
“I’m not saying that—”
“You might as well save your breath, sheriff. The elder Mrs. Rosen hates my innards. You see, I’ve committed the terrible crime of getting her son to love me. Plus, I refused to take her along on our honeymoon.”
He smiled. “That bad, are you, Magdalena?”
“Even worse. Her precious baby boy and I danced the mattress mambo—if you get my drift. More than once, in fact. Not that it’s anyone’s business.”
“Oy, such a mouse on dis von. Eez it any vonder my Gabeleh’s gone back to New York?”
“New York?” The sheriff seemed to pay close attention to Ida for the first time.
“Yah, dat eez vhere vee leef.”
“Dat eez vhere you leef,” I snapped. “Gabe leefs here.”
“Ladies, please, I don’t speak Jewish.”
“It’s not Jewish, sheriff. It’s English with an accent—one that seems to get worse by the minute. And if you believe her preposterous story that my husband ran out on me, then don’t think for one minute that I’m going to continue to contribute to your reelection fund.”
“Why, Magdalena Yoder, is that a threat?”
“Don’t be silly, dear. We still have freedom of speech in this country, and I’m simply exercising that right. Besides, I didn’t say that I wouldn’t continue my support, I merely told you not to think it.”
“Miss Yoder—uh, Rosen—for someone who disapproves of dancing—with the notable exception of the bossa nova—you have mighty fine footwork.”
“You really think so?”
“Absolutely. You ever consider being a lawyer?”
“What? And lie?”
“With your record of stretching the truth, they might even waive law school. All you’d have to do is take the bar exam.”
“That is really not fair to lawyers,” Agnes said stoutly. “Many of them are more ethical than Magdalena.”
“Et tu, Brute?”
“I told youse to stop speaking Jewish,” the sheriff snapped. “Now ladies, I’ve done all I can do for the moment. Go get yourselves a bite of supper or something.”
We chose the bite.
Agnes was the only one who was hungry, but since the Sausage Barn is as good a place as any to collect one’s thoughts and put together a plan, I acquiesced to dropping by. In a similar vein, Ida needs no special venue in which to vent her intense dislike of yours truly.
Only Wanda Hemphopple seemed to disapprove of our plan. “What are you doing here, Magdalena?” she demanded. “We only serve breakfast, and it’s almost suppertime.”
“Too true, dear. But the breakfast you do serve is available until ten p.m.”
“Humph.”
“That’s harrumph, dear.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Look it up in Webster’s, if you don’t believe me.”
“As it so happens, I did look it up. They’re both in there, and ‘humph’ is exactly what I mean in this context.”
Agnes, ever the friend, stepped in to rescue me. “Can we please dispense with the semantics before I starve to death?”
Ida stepped back in alarm. “Oy, and now dis von is anti-semantic. Vhen vill it ever shtop?”
I extended a rakelike arm, and pulled the little woman back into the conversation. “Wanda, what will it be? A big fat tip for some mediocre food and bad service, or no coins for your coffer, which, by the way, seems to be mighty hungry tonight as well?”
Wanda glanced around at her practically empty restaurant, and then zeroed in on me with a glare. “Okay, I’ll seat youse, but just so youse know, the Fat’s Where It’s At Platter is unavailable this evening on account of the new fry cook threw up in the grease catcher, so there’s nothing with which to adequately grease the griddle.”
“Grease the griddle, wear a girdle,” I said gamely, in an attempt to patch things over. Just because Wanda hates my guts, is no reason that I shouldn’t be concerned that our relationship might deteriorate to the point where she despises me.
“Was that supposed to be a joke?” she snarled. “Because if it was, I don’t get it.”
“Magdalena, Magdalena,” Agnes chided. “Fat jokes are so not in.”
“But it wasn’t a joke; it was merely a witticism, and not aimed at anyone in particular. Honestly, Wanda, you’re almost as touchy as that Pearlmutter woman.”
“Jane Pearlmutter? The one whose Holstein took first place in the competition?”
“The very one. It makes you wonder what that very handsome husband sees in her. By the way, how do you know who won? I mean, the competition has only been over for a couple of hours. Were you there when the prize was presented?”
“Humph. Some of us have to work, Magdalena. Besides, this is Hernia we’re talking about. I bet you a dozen people either called with the news, or stopped in before the guilty party itself showed up.”
“The Pearlmutters were here?”
“You sound surprised. You think them New York types are too highfalutin for my establishment?”
I glanced at Ida. “I certainly wouldn’t say that; I’d be more likely to say that the word ‘establishment’ is a bit highfalutin for a place like the Sausage Barn.”
“Oh yeah? They must have liked my food, because they weren’t gone more than twenty minutes when they came back for more. You should have seen what they carried out with them.”
“Wanda, dear, asking for a doggie bag is not the same as endorsing one’s cuisine. Maybe they just didn’t want to offend you by leaving it on their plates.”
She rolled her eyes—and I’m not exaggerating when I say that the left one almost got stuck in the “up” position. “These were orders to go, you idiot.”
“When did you start offering carryout service?”
“Only for the last eight years. I’m sure it’s skipped your notice because you’re too busy licking the last speck of my terrible food off of your plate.”
“Well, I must say that no restaurant in the tri-county area can cook bacon like your guys. Nice and crisp on both ends, with just a little play in the middle.”
She grinned happily. “Just the way you like it. Now these people—the Pearlmutters—how many children do they have?”
“None, as far as I know.”
“Humph. Well, when they came in the first time, they ordered regular meals: eggs, bacon, toast, juice, coffee. But the second time around, when they did the takeout order, they asked for three orders of pancakes—one buttermilk regular, one buttermilk silver dollar style, the third one buckwheat—regular toast, cinnamon toast, French toast—both plain and stuffed, like them fancy places like IHOP make—scrambled eggs, and four orders of sausage links. Oh, and two large milks. Two juices as well. I just assumed they had kids with them this time, and they were waiting in the car.”
“Buckwheat?” Agnes asked. “I didn’t realize you still offered those. I haven’t had a buckwheat pancake in ages.”
“They’re by request only.” Wanda tipped her beehive hairdo at some invisible spies and lowered her voice. “They’re from a mix. I keep some on hand because every now and then some relic from the past shows up and asks for them. ‘We Aim to Pleez.’ That’s our motto. Says so right on the menus.”
In the interest of saving both time and energy, I bit my tongue so hard that I felt it all the way to my toes. How will kids these days learn to spell if their computers automatically correct them, and if they are constantly subjected to what I call bizspell? The clever names that companies think up for themselves are, in fact, signposts on the road to literary perdition. And to what end? Puns? I eschew puns, viewing them as nothing more than intellectual laziness!
But I digress. Something Wanda had said was percolating through my brain. Buckwheat pancakes—particularly the ones the Sausage Barn served—were Gabe’s favorite. As for Alison, she could never make up her mind, so I always ordered both kinds of French toast for her, knowing that the Babester would happily polish off what she couldn’t finish. After all, my sweet pseudo-stepdaughter was in the middle of a growth spurt, and invariably started her breakfasts at the Sausage Barn with silver-dollar pancakes, followed by a small stack of buttermilk flapjacks.
Both of them loved Wanda’s link sausage, and commonly ordered double helpings. Milk and juice were also staples of a visit to the Hemphopple Temple of Icky Stickiness (as Alison calls it, in reference to all the maple syrup she spills, which never gets cleaned up). That left just the scrambled eggs and plain toast unaccounted for, but on the days when Gabe is particularly stressed, or decides to work out, his appetite soars.
The thought that was beginning to make my blood run cold was simply this: what were the odds that the Pearlmutters would eat breakfast at the Barn, and return twenty minutes later and order the same meal my sweet patooties habitually consumed? It just didn’t seem like a coincidence. And if it wasn’t a coincidence, then the Pearlmutters had to know the whereabouts of my darlings. But beyond that, it could also be that the half-dashing duo from the Garden State were holding Gabe and Alison against their will. But why?
A poke in the arm from Agnes brought me back to my surroundings. “You in there somewhere, Magdalena? If I wasn’t a practicing Methodist, especially one of Mennonite extraction, I’d say you’ve been abducted by aliens, and this is only a shell I’m looking at.”
“Humph,” Wanda said, just to spite me, and then turned her venom on Agnes. “I thought you Methodists believed in the possibility of extratesticles—or whatever they’re called.”
“I don’t think we have an official position. Personally, I find it hard to reconcile the gift of salvation through Jesus with alien life forms. It doesn’t say anywhere in the Bible that Christ died for them as well.”
“That’s because they don’t exist. Frankly, Agnes, you wouldn’t have this crisis of faith if you’d remained a good Mennonite.”
“I’m not having a crisis of faith! And as long as we’re being frank, Wanda—”
My shell sprang into action. “Ladies! I have reason to believe that there’s been a real abduction. Those people, the Pearlmutters, for whatever reason, have taken Alison and Gabe hostage.”
“Hostage? My Gabeleh? My only son?” It was as if Ida, who had been behaving herself up until then, had stuck her finger into a light socket.
“Ida dear, that’s not for sure. I’m just jumping to conclusions like I usually do. Who knows, maybe they’re off playing peewee golf somewhere.”
“Oy veys meer,” Ida said. She looked ready to faint.
There was no reason to tell the Babester’s mother the rest of my theory. Her eagle-eyed son, the famous heart surgeon, had detected something unkosher—if I may be pardoned the incorrect usage of this term—about the Pearlmutters’ entry
. As Jane was a plastic surgeon, and udder enhancement was the most common way to cheat in dairy cow competitions, it followed that my husband had spotted a suture line in the bovine’s feminine expression—so to speak.
It had also occurred to me that Alison was the first to be abducted, and that they’d used her as a pawn to get Gabe to move the competition along at lightning speed, just as fast as a dog wants out of a roomful of mother cats. It was possible that Gabe might have been able to save his own handsome neck at any point along the way by calling the police, but as long as the welfare of his pseudo-stepdaughter was at stake, he would have cooperated with Satan himself. My heart glowed with love.
“Magdalena,” Agnes said, “are you in there someplace?”
“What? Of course I’m in here! I don’t believe in astral projection; I barely know the word.”
“Well, you said they could be playing peewee golf, right? But what if they’re really tied up in an abandoned lumberyard somewhere. A giant table saw with two-inch teeth is spinning just in front of them. Suddenly, two hooded men in black grab Gabriel and push him in the direction of the blade—”
“Agnes!” I barked. “This is not your creative writing class. What you just said could be really happening.”
“Sorry, Magdalena. I guess I got carried away. What would you like me to do?”
“Call Sheriff Dewlapp, and tell him that I have a hunch that the Pearlmutters have my missing husband and foster daughter. If he refuses to take it seriously, tell him I said that a hunch from a woman is as good as two facts from a man, and remind him of all the times I’ve been right.” I turned to Wanda. “In the meantime, I’m going to stock up on provisions, because I feel a trip to Maryland coming on. Wanda, dear, lead the way to your pantry.”
Wanda’s ominous do teetered and tottered as she shook her head. “I don’t even think so. This is isn’t a grocery store, you know.”
I patted my pocketbook. “Have you forgotten that I am a very wealthy woman?”
“Okay, but I’m going to Maryland with you.”
