by Tamar Myers
Just a month before, a tourist couple up in Bedford had held an impromptu party in their hotel room. The guests were all Amish teenagers. Booze was the drug of choice on that occasion, and young Ben Bontrager had been hospitalized for alcohol poisoning.
At any rate, Freni refused to answer my question. Her only response, if you can call it one, was to pound my table with her rolling pin and grunt as she pushed it across the dough. No doubt it was going to be the thinnest pie crust on record.
I sighed. “Well, at least we’ll get more pies this way. Just remember to skimp on filling too.”
Not a peep.
I gave up and headed out to do my job. But I hadn’t even got all the way through the door when I bumped heads with the most gorgeous man God ever created.
7
I know, one doesn’t normally refer to men as “gorgeous.” But there is no other word that so aptly describes Dr. Gabriel Rosen. “Handsome” would be barely adequate if I was describing just his physical appearance. Gabe makes most men look like old nags that have been ridden hard and put away wet. He has thick dark wavy hair, chiseled features, straight white teeth, and his body—well, it would be a sin to describe it in any detail. Not that I am at all familiar with it, mind you!
Anyway, my whole point is that there is more to Gabe’s looks than just the outer layer. It is the twinkle in his eyes that bumps him from handsome up to gorgeous. Imagine, if you would, two perfectly formed roses, one unscented, the other fragrant. Gabe is the fragrant flower. His manly smell stirs the juices of my soul—okay, so perhaps that is a bad analogy. Just trust me on this one—Gabe is gorgeous.
At any rate, the doorway bump wasn’t painful. It was, however, embarrassing.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, assuming full blame.
“No reason to be sorry. It’s kind of fun bumping into you.”
“You’re fun to bump too.”
Gabe grinned. “You’re a real hoot, Magdalena, you know that?”
“You should hear me holler.”
He winked. “I’d love to.”
I blushed to the tips of my stocking-covered toes. “Did you want something, Gabe? I mean, I was just leaving and—”
“I want to ask you out.”
“What?” I jiggled a pinkie discreetly in my left ear. It’s been known to give out on me in times of stress.
“You heard me. I want us to go out.”
I tried the other ear for good measure. “Out where?”
He laughed. “Out like on a date. Where doesn’t matter to me, just as long as it’s with you. How about the movies? Surely there are theaters in Bedford.”
Just so you know, Dr. Gabriel is also an outsider. He moved here from New York City about a month before the Hamptons arrived. Although he is only my age, Gabe is retired, and was seeking a quiet place in the country where he could try his hand at writing novels. Mysteries, to be exact.
“Of course there are movie theaters in Bedford.” I bit my lip nervously before continuing. “But you see, I don’t go to movies.”
“Not ever?”
I shook my head miserably. Many Mennonites do go to movies, but I belong to one of the more conservative branches. Besides, what was the point in seeing those people act on a screen, when I could see them up close and personal here at the inn?
“Do you bowl?”
“Once. They paid me not to come back.”
“Hmm. Well, we could just go out to eat. Any suggestions?”
“How about a picnic?”
“Your farm or mine?”
“Actually I was thinking of Stucky Ridge. You ever been up there?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“I think you’d like it. It’s that mountain just south of town. There’s a little cemetery up there where all the founders of Hernia are buried.”
Gabe chuckled. “Supper with a bunch of stiffs! Well, it may help supply atmosphere for the chapter I’m working on.”
“There’s more up there than just graves. Why, there’s a nice little park with picnic benches and great views of Hernia and the valley. You’ll love it, I know. Even teenagers like it up there.”
“Ah, the make-out zone.”
“That’s not what I meant!” I wailed.
He winked. “Well, you seem pretty anxious to get me up there. What say we leave here at six?”
“Today?”
“That was my plan. But of course, we could always make it some other time.”
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, Mama always used to say. Unfortunately she never said anything about dates. But since neither my hand nor my bush had seen a date in a long time, I decided I’d better jump at the chance.
I glanced at my watch. It was already close to four o’clock.
“Today will be just fine, but I was just on my way to see Joseph Mast. You know, the husband of the local woman who died last week.” I paused. Surely it was all right to tell Gabe that I was investigating the Mast case, but in the end something held me back. “So, anyway, it may take me a while. Can we make that six-thirty?”
“Super. Oh, and don’t bring anything. This is my treat.”
“You sure? I could at least bring some lawn chairs, maybe a blanket.”
“A blanket would be nice,” Gabe said, and winked again.
This time I not only blushed, I felt my knees go weak. “I’ll bring two chairs.”
“Then I’ll bring the blanket. A good picnic always involves a blanket somehow.”
I hobbled to my car while I still could.
I’d left Little Freni at home, which was just as well. The Masts never had any children, but they seemed to have every kind of animal imaginable. Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t live on a farm either, but a double lot on the west side of Hernia. Alas, our zoning laws are lax. The Masts had a llama, three goats, and a miniature horse that barely came up to my knees. That was just for starters. In order to reach the front door, I had to negotiate my way through a pack of panting pooches, a bevy of bickering bantams, and a gaggle of garrulous geese. There were lesser creatures as well, and I fear I may have stepped on a few, if the squeaks and hisses (and occasional crunch) were any indication. I didn’t dare to look down. I hate seeing a perfectly good pair of shoes ruined. It was no wonder Melvin foisted the job on me.
At any rate, Joseph didn’t answer the door when I knocked, so I trudged around to the rear of the house. The man was a carpenter—a very good one, I hear—and sure enough he was in his shop busily sanding a curved piece of wood. He was, of course, not alone. A fourth goat perched on a stool next to the workbench and regarded me with surprisingly human and somewhat lustful eyes, and in the corner a brightly colored parrot hung upsidedown from a wooden bar.
“Hello,” I said cheerily. “I’m Magdalena Yoder. Remember me?”
“Yup.” Joseph, a stout man with red hair, a galaxy of freckles, and wire-rim glasses, hadn’t even bothered to look up from his work.
“I’d like to express my condolences again, if I may. Your wife was certainly one of a kind, and I’m sure you miss her a great deal.”
“Yup.”
I cast about for a way to ease into my investigation. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“But we could always use more rain.”
“Yup.”
“So what is that you’re building there?” I pointed pointlessly at the work in progress. “An ark?”
“Nope.”
“Say, Joseph—I hope you don’t mind me calling you that—I didn’t really know your wife all that well, but I just wanted to say she was—uh, well, she was exceptional.”
“Yup.”
“One of a kind, you might say.”
“Yup.”
I was obviously not thinking fast on my feet. It was time to assume a position more conducive to intracranial activity.
“Mind if I sit?”
“Nope.”
“I was talking to the goat.”
Joseph g
runted.
I turned to the beast. “Now be a dear and hop off that stool. You have four feet to my two.”
The goat grunted.
“Move it, Billy!”
“Name’s Amanda,” Joseph said.
“Wow, a multisyllabic word!” I slapped my own cheek—gently of course. “So it’s a she?”
He nodded. “Nubian nanny.”
“How original.” Joseph grunted again.
Clearly the pleasantries were over. It was time to get down to business. Quite justifiably I gave the goat a gentle push.
Amanda was not so polite. She butted my bosom with her knobby head, and I nearly fell over backward. The thud of bone hitting bone was sickening.
Now I know there are some who might think that a mature woman should let a rude ruminant remain roosting. I, however, firmly believe that the Good Lord intends us to use our attributes to the best of our individual abilities. Having said that, I don’t mind sharing that I backed up ten paces, set my purse carefully down on the sawdust-littered floor, lowered my head, and charged the recalcitrant nanny.
I may be skinny, but I outweighed the goat. Amanda flew through the air with the greatest of ease, knocking the parrot off her wooden trapeze. The parrot squawked as she fluttered to the floor, stirring a great cloud of sawdust.
“Darn!” I said, which is as bad as I can swear. “Now my purse is all dirty.”
At first I thought the parrot was laughing at me. It could not have been the goat, because as soon as Amanda hit the floor of the workshop, she bolted in a bleating blur. Then slowly I realized the high-pitched laugh was coming from Joseph Mast, the recently bereaved husband.
“What’s so funny!” I demanded, arms akimbo. That posture happens to be a distinctly un-Mennonite one, but I didn’t care. I was in an English frame of mind.
Joseph laid down his sandpaper. “You are what’s so funny! No one’s ever gotten the best of Amanda before.”
I stared at the man.
“Sit down,” he said, nodding at the vacated stool. “You’ve earned the right to sit there.”
I sat. “So you can talk?”
He laughed again. “It’s true that I’m shy around strangers. And most folks are strangers. But any woman who can put Amanda in her place is no stranger to me.”
I eyed the parrot, who was waddling through the dust, headed in my direction. “Does she bite?”
“It’s a he. His name is Benedict, and he’s a scarlet macaw. And yes, Benny could snap your finger in half like it was a carrot stick.” Joseph reached down and, extending his own, apparently impervious finger, invited the parrot to hop on.
“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to hurt you?”
“He could. But I got him as a fledgling and hand-weaned him. Benedict and I have been buddies for twenty-two years.”
“That long?” I asked incredulously.
He lifted the parrot back up to his swinging perch. “Macaws can live to be one hundred. Now Amanda, she’s the amazing one. She’s lived twice as long as your average goat.”
“Oh great, make me feel guilty. Ousting a geriatric goat no longer seems like such a remarkable feat.”
“Well, it is in her case. She defines the word ‘stubborn.’ You see, my wife, Lizzie”—he paused to wipe away a tear—“never had any children. I guess you might say we filled the void with animals. Anyway, Amanda was our very first pet. Next thing we knew our little family was growing by leaps and bounds.”
“Pun intended, I’m sure.”
He grinned. “I’m afraid not. At any rate, it was Lizzie’s idea to name the animals starting with the first letter of the alphabet. You know, like they do hurricanes.”
“Good heavens! Have you made it to Z?”
“Twice. Zeek—that’s with two E’s—is a French poodle. You may have met him coming around the yard. And Zelda, well, she’s a giant Amazon dung beetle we bought through a mail-order catalogue. She helps keep the place clean.”
I remembered the crunch underfoot. “Not anymore.”
He raised a sparse red brow above the wire frames. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Mr. Mast—”
“Please call me Joe.”
“Joe then. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.”
He nodded. “Our dearly beloved chief of police, Melvin Stoltzfus, sent you, didn’t he?”
“How did you know?”
“Well, you didn’t come carrying a cake or a pie, and everyone knows you help out Melvin when he gets stumped.”
I flushed with pride. “Do they?”
“Don’t get me wrong. Most folks don’t hold it against you.”
“You mean some do?” I wailed.
He had the grace to smile kindly. “Very few. Everyone knows the man is, well, how should I put this kindly—”
“A sandwich short of a picnic?”
“That analogy will do. It’s common knowledge he was butted in the head when he tried to milk a billy goat. Apparently his noggin isn’t as tough as yours.”
“Bull!”
He looked surprised.
“It was a bull he tried to milk, not a goat. And he was kicked in the head.”
“Is that so? Well, that would still do the trick, wouldn’t it?”
I nodded in agreement. “So, Joe, may I start with the questions?”
He held up a callused hand. “Yup, but I can save you a whole lot of time. If you’re thinking my Lizzie’s death was no accident, you’re right. What’s more, I know exactly who killed her, and why.”
8
“You do?”
“Yup. It was the neighbors.”
“Your neighbors?”
“Amish,” he said with surprising vehemence.
“What is that supposed to mean? Your ancestors were Amish, for Pete’s sake.”
“Yup. But what I mean is the Keims have ten children. All sons.”
“So?”
“Rumschpringe. You know what that is?”
“Yes, I do, but—”
“The oldest two Keim boys are of that age. Hellions on earth, if you’ll forgive my language.”
“Just barely, dear. Please elaborate.”
“I can’t keep their names straight, but the two older ones have a car, a dilapidated bright yellow Buick they keep hidden behind a haystack up in the north forty. Anyway, they tear around in that thing at night and don’t give a damn who or what they hit.”
“Now that’s too much.”
“It’s the truth.”
“I meant your language, dear.”
“Sorry. I was in the army.”
My eyes widened. Not many Mennonites serve in the armed forces. Both we and the Amish have a centuries-old tradition of being pacifists. This is based directly on scripture, like Matthew, chapter five, verse thirty-nine: “But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other.”
It is this staunch belief that set the stage for the massacre of some of my ancestors in 1750. True, my great-great-great-grandmother, Mrs. Jacob Hochstetler, wasn’t following the Lord’s teachings when she refused water to a hunting party of Delaware Indians at the height of the French and Indian War. But when the homestead was attacked that night, it was to my ancestors’ credit that they refused to fight back. Granny Hochstetler was stabbed and scalped, an infant daughter scalped as well, and Jacob and two sons were taken hostage.
At any rate, a Mennonite with army credentials is a rare beast. “Were you drafted?” I asked.
“Yup, it was the Vietnam War. I could have gotten a deferment, but some of my buddies from high school were getting drafted, and it didn’t seem right for me to get out of serving when I wasn’t really a pacifist.”
“You weren’t?”
“Not then. Not at eighteen.”
“Are you now?”
He shrugged. “That depends on the situation—so I guess the answer is ‘no.’ ”
That explained why Jos
eph Mast seldom darkened the door of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. I took a deep breath and asked a question that was none of my business, but one which I’d been dying to ask.
“Did you ever kill anyone? In Vietnam, I mean.”
Red lashes blinked. “Yup.”
I waited patiently for him to expound. When he didn’t, I reluctantly got back to business.
“So, we were talking about the Keim kids. You said they don’t care who or what they hit with that old jalopy of theirs. What exactly did you mean by that? Have they tried to hit you?”
“Nope. But they ran over Queequeg.”
“Who?”
“Our pot-bellied Vietnamese pig.”
“Oh.”
“And Dora.”
“Dora!” The parrot’s sharp voice made me jump. “Watch out for Dora!”
Joseph smiled sadly. “Dora was an albino ferret. Friendliest thing you could ever hope to meet, although Benedict hated her. I think he thought Dora wanted him for lunch. Anyway, Dora would crawl right up your pants leg if you let her.”
I shuddered. “Did the Keims apologize? Did they offer to pay for replacements?”
Joseph picked up the sandpaper and resumed sanding with vigor. “You can’t replace friends.”
I thought of Little Freni. Big Freni too.
“You’re right,” I said. “That was insensitive of me. But did they at least offer to compensate you for new animals?”
“Nope.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Yup.”
“Oh no,” I wailed, “we’re not back to single syllables, are we?”
He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I tend to shut down when I feel threatened. It’s a Nam thing.”
“Moi? Threatening?”
“Like I said, Miss Yoder, you have a reputation.”
I smiled proudly, then gave myself a mental slap. “Please, call me Magdalena. Now, if you don’t mind telling me, what did you do after they killed Dora?”
“Dora,” the stupid parrot squawked. “Dora lunch. Dora lunch. Dora lunch.”
Joseph made a futile attempt to stare his bird into silence. Finally he gave up and turned to me.
