by Tamar Myers
‘No woman should deny herself a ride on a three-legged washer with unbalanced load,’ I roared. ‘That is a God-given right in America. And as for that blazing look of lust in your eye, I was about to say: “Down boy.” The Countess Aubrey and her daughter, the Lady Celia, are so hideously deformed that when they emerged from their vehicle a flock of starlings dropped dead from the sky and all the flowers along the front walk immediately wilted.’
‘Not to mention the sidewalk cracked under their weight,’ Toy said.
At last the good pastor saw the light. ‘What must I do to save the day?’ he asked.
‘Hie thee back to thy sacred space,’ I said. ‘That is to say – our church – and have the ladies pack up the food. Then have everyone drive up to the picnic area atop Stucky Ridge. In the meantime, Toy and I will waste no time in getting the errant aristocrats back into some suitable Christian clothes. That done, we will meet you there. Oh, and bring the hymnals. It’s about time we subjected those Anglicans to some rousing American hymns.’
‘Huh?’ said Toy. ‘You mean like hymns written in the late nineteenth century, back when God was still in charge of things?’
‘Exactly. Tra-la-la-la-la,’ I sang in my pleasant but off-key voice as I all but pushed the pastor out the door.
When my thick front door had closed securely behind my clergyman, I turned back to Toy. ‘A word before we retrieve any naked nobs.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Don’t you think it very strange,’ I said, ‘that he referred to poor Miss Yoko-san being in the elevator shaft?’
‘Yes, ma’am, I did,’ Toy said. ‘And not only that, it sounded like he thought it might be problematic for the others. It was as if he’d just been called with the news of her discovery and he knew that she was still in there.’
‘So what do you think that means?’ I said. I started to tremble. Ever since I’d started down the road of playing detective – not my choice, mind you – it has become ever more apparent that no one is so spiritually evolved that they can be held above suspicion.
Toy scratched his perfectly formed head. ‘It means that I’ll take care of the body. In the meantime, you attend the picnic and watch the reverend like a hawk.’
Honestly, that was what I intended to do. It really was.
SEVENTEEN
Stucky Ridge is a marvellous place for a summer outing. The highest point in the county, it offers unparalleled views that stretch all the way to the Maryland border. The flat top of the ridge is divided almost equally into three strips: a grassy picnic area on the south side, a copse of birch and pine trees in the middle strip and Settlers’ Cemetery on the north side. This way a multi-generational family has its needs met simultaneously. The parents and young children can enjoy a picnic while appreciating the scenery, the teenagers and young adults can engage in questionable activities in the woods and the old folks can visit their friends in the cemetery. This is not to say that I approve of the woods. Au contraire; as acting constable, when the Village of Hernia has been between professional officers, it has fallen on me to police that area. One would not believe the depths of depravity that I have encountered there. Sometimes I have had to take a long second look, just to make sure that I had not jumped to any conclusions before I blow my whistle.
On this particular day, when the Brits and the Mennonites picnicked together, I expected a different demographic distribution. For one thing, Agnes had assured me that the British are all, without exception, great walkers. Agnes watches BBC America on the ‘telly’ just about all the time, and it was her contention that every British person except for the Queen and our guests wore sensible shoes, and was forever hiking up and down the hills of the Lake Country and along the cliffs of Cornwall. For some reason that she couldn’t remember, Agnes was also ‘almost positive’ that the Grimsley-Snodgrasses would be dying to see the cemetery. She was certain, however, that they would stay out of the woods.
Agnes was partly right. Aubrey eventually wandered off towards the cemetery but I had too much to keep track of to allow me the luxury of accompanying her. The Beechy Grove Mennonite Church was rife with mini-miscreants – that is to say, other people’s children. Oh, I’m sure that each and every one of them was a precious little saint, but not that day. They shrieked and ran about, turning deaf ears to their worried parents, or shrieked at their parents before running them over. It was absolutely horrifying. At any moment one of the little darlings could run right over the edge of the ridge, and perhaps all because their parents had asked them ever so nicely, a thousand times, to ‘please, settle down.’
And then we heard it. It was a scream that was said to put the hens off laying in three surrounding counties, and for the next six months. It was a scream that caused Herman Hooley’s mule to kick open its stall and run halfway to the Maryland State line (where none should venture without provisions, including animals). It was a scream that had some of our faithful citizens staring joyfully up at the sky in great anticipation, believing as they did that the trumpet of the Lord had at last sounded and they would momentarily be caught up into the heavens with their Lord and Saviour. It was a scream that brought a fair amount of consternation to the wicked woman, Wanda Hemphopple, who awaited trial in the county jail on one charge of murder and two charges of attempted manslaughter. Although she was a lapsed Mennonite, clearly of the progressive sort, she too thought that the scream might be the trumpet of the Lord, and she feared mightily that she would be left behind on account of the grievous sins that she had committed. This was a needless fear, I might add, for she had already repented of her sins, and God forgives all whose repentance is sincere.
At any rate, in the end it was indeed just a scream, not a trumpet. It was, in fact, a British scream. Although it may come as a surprise, allow me to assure all doubters that British women can scream just as loudly as their American counterparts. Also, since hysteria knows no accents, the ‘aaah’ part was pretty much a boiler-plate scream. But after a couple more really intense vocalizations, Lady Celia finally got around to sharing some information that seemed pertinent. Of course, it was incumbent on me to first supply her with many ‘there, there’s and ‘it’ll get better’s, even though I already knew that this would not be the case.
Finally it was time to cut to the chase. ‘What happened?’
I was astonished when she answered in a very calm and collected manner. ‘I wanted to see Lover’s Leap. I’d read about it in the brochure that you sent to Mother. It sounded so romantic – two young Indians dying for love.’
‘I think it sounds painful.’
‘Yes, a dreadful way to die! That’s why I screamed.’
‘But dear,’ I said, ‘those young lovers – if they even existed – plunged to their deaths hundreds of years ago. It’s the fires of Hell that they’re feeling now because they were never saved, unless God in his infinite mercy has come up with an escape clause for all the nonbelievers who never had the opportunity to hear the gospel preached in his, or her, lifetime. But then, don’t you think it would just be simpler if God didn’t allow heathen people to live in other places until Jesus came and they had a chance to learn about the gift of salvation? I mean, I’m just saying – as you young people are so fond of saying.’
‘Shut up!’ Lady Celia said. When she said those awful words her eyes were tightly closed and her small porcelain white fists clenched at her sides. Clearly, such extreme rudeness did not come easily to her. As for me, I was so shocked that my thick cotton hosiery slipped free of my garter belt and puddled around my ankles. Had I not had my brogans securely tied, the little Lady from across the Pond might literally have knocked my socks off.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.
‘Listen to me,’ the teenager shrilled. ‘My brother, Rupert, is dead; he has got to be. He just fell off this very same cliff.’
‘What?’
‘Are you suddenly deaf, you old cow?’
I was rattled by her claim and angry at being in
sulted, but I certainly was not deaf.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I saw it myself. I was right here.’
Perhaps I have a thing about the cliffs along Stucky Ridge, having been pushed off one by the most evil man in the world, the escaped murderer, Melvin Stoltzfus. I edged as close as possible to the cliff edge and peered over. Although the Good Lord saw fit to bestow my body with meagre blessings, He did equip me with vision worthy of a chicken hawk. Frankly, I’ve never quite felt it was a fair trade. I would rather have bottle-thick glasses and bazoombas large enough upon which I could rest a book instead of a chest that is a carpenter’s dream (i.e. flat as a board). My point is that I could see the ground below Lover’s Leap quite clearly. In fact, I could see into the nearest house which was a quarter of a mile away.
I gasped in indignation. ‘I knew it! Jill Kaufman’s pie crusts are not homemade!’
‘What about my brother, you blithering idiot,’ Cee-Cee said. ‘Do you see him down there?’
‘No; hence the blithering, I’m afraid. Are you positive that you saw him go over?’
‘Aaah!’ This second scream curdled bottled milk throughout Hernia, shattered even refrigerated eggs and convinced Wanda Hemphopple that the Angel of Death was headed directly for her cell. She even suffered cardiac arrest but unfortunately survived.
The second ear-splitting sound of frustration by Lady Celia finally brought a swarm of concerned folk, including most of the Grimsley-Snodgrass family, my family, Agnes and a goodly number of our fellow picnickers from the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. For the record, it takes two ear-splitting screams to get the attention of my church’s merrily munching members and guests, so tasty are their comestibles.
‘What is it, Hon?’ the Babester asked. He was the first to reach us, given his long, strong legs. He also happened to be carrying Little Jacob astride broad shoulders.
‘She said that her brother Rupert went over the edge here’ – I pointed – ‘but there isn’t anyone down there.’
‘How does she know?’ Lady Celia shrieked. ‘You can’t know unless you go down there and actually look. No one has eyes that good.’
‘Normally, I’d say that’s true,’ my sweet husband said, ‘but my wife has perfect vision. She literally could find a needle in a haystack.’
Then the crowd surged around us along the edge of the cliff, and the situation worsened considerably.
‘Mind the babies,’ someone said. ‘Take hold of your toddler’s hand. I doubt if Magdalena has enough insurance to cover all of us. Ha, ha.’
‘And be careful not to step on any specimens of the rare night-blooming Libella wiscrapia,’ someone else said. ‘It’s a horrible little plant with ugly brown flowers and an obnoxious odour, but the government will sue you to Kingdom Come if you as much as crush one leaf.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about either of those things; falling babies or crushed wiscrapia. We’ll just make Magdalena pay our expenses, ha, ha. Pastor says that she is richer than God and King Midas put together. Besides, isn’t that what her insurance is for?’
My insurance? And me richer than God? Stucky Ridge was a village park, for crying out loud. It was in the public domain. Any flower-crushing dolts were irresponsible parents who were going to have to contend with their own insurance companies. I had quite enough on my own plate, thank you very much.
‘Mother!’ Lady Celia began jumping in place like a Masai warrior. ‘Mother, where are you? These crazy foreigners aren’t doing anything about Rupert.’
‘Rupert? What about Rupert?’ Suddenly Lord and Lady Grimsley-Snodgrass, and Rupert’s younger brother, Sebastian, materialized along the edge of the cliff out of nowhere, much as if God had pressed the lever on His giant Viewmaster. It was a clear summer day, and with the soft greens of the valley behind them, backed by the purple ridges of our low Allegheny Mountains, it would have been a perfect photo opportunity had Little Lord Fauntleroy not been missing.
I hauled my poor, stressed, middle-aged body up to its nonetheless imposing height. ‘Aubrey, your daughter has quite an active imagination. She thinks that she saw Rupert fall over the edge of Lover’s Leap.’
‘I did!’ Lady Celia said. ‘Mother, I know what I saw!’
‘At any rate,’ I said calmly, ‘perhaps we should all stand back a little ways. These rocks are somewhat unstable.’
‘Papa,’ Lady Celia said, grabbing her father’s well-manicured hand, ‘there’s more.’
‘I’d shut up if I were you,’ Sebastian snarled. ‘No one will believe you.’
‘Believe what?’ Countess Aubrey asked.
Meanwhile, my fellow church members, who’d been too much in awe of British people in general, and nobility in particular, to get any closer to them than an arm’s length, underwent a startling group metamorphous. Whereas before they’d been milling about like ants from a disturbed mound, now they pressed inward so as not to miss a word. In essence, they formed a virtual compression bandage of pious people.
Lady Celia was not afraid of her younger twin brother. ‘The truth is that Sebastian pushed Rupert off the cliff.’
‘Did not!’
‘Did so!’
‘Liar!’
‘Cee-Cee,’ Countess Aubrey cried. ‘Say it isn’t so! I shan’t be able to stand it if that’s the truth.’
‘But it is, mummy. I swear on Granny’s grave that it is.’
‘Sebastian,’ the earl roared, ‘is your sister telling the truth?’
‘No, Papa,’ Sebastian said. ‘Cee-Cee is always lying – you said so yourself.’
‘Papa,’ Lady Celia said, ‘I swear on your best hunting dog’s life that I saw Sebastian push Rupert over this very cliff not more than five minutes ago.’
The earl’s eyes bulged to the point that his monocle slipped. Seeing both of his eyes free of obstacles sent chills up my spine. Here was a man who was not to be trifled with. ‘What is my best hunting dog’s name?’ he said.
‘J. Edgar Hoover,’ she said without a second’s hesitation. ‘You named him after the head of the American spy organization that went after communists and homosexuals, even though J. Edgar Hoover used to dress in women’s underclothes.’
‘Allegedly,’ the earl said. ‘I won’t be sued for libel on this side of the Pond!’
‘Not to worry,’ I said tiredly, ‘it’s common knowledge here. But let me remind you, you Brits don’t get off scot-free. We all have skeletons in our closets.’
‘Or in our elevators,’ quipped the beautiful countess.
‘Et tu, Aubrey?’ I wailed.
‘Magdalena,’ she said, ‘I don’t know what is going on here but I positively don’t like it. First, you bring us up to this wretched place, and then when my sweet, precious, darling daughter swore that she saw her beloved brother go over this cliff, you called her a liar.’
Well, that burned my barnacles, and I had yet to set a foot in saltwater. ‘I didn’t call your spoiled brat a liar; it was your younger son who called his sister a liar.’
The Countess of Grimsley-Snodgrass, Mistress of Gloomsburythorpe Manor, looked as if I’d slapped her across the face with a bag of marshmallow fluff. ‘Uh – well, you said that you couldn’t see Rupert at the base of this cliff, which is a totally ridiculous thing to say. No one has eyes that good, not even reporters who work for the Guardian.’
No one likes to be accused of uttering ridiculous verbiage, most especially a Mennonite motor-mouth such as myself. We have a reputation as peaceful folk, speakers of truth, whose ‘yeas’ mean yes and our ‘nays’ mean no. We are even exempt from having to swear upon the Bible in court. How dare this English-English woman, this Philistine, so-to-speak, dare to cast aspersions on my veracity? Forsooth, at times I have been known to embroider the truth, but not since high school have I out-and-out lied.
‘You take that back, you over-pampered peeress,’ I said in a most unchristian tone. Oh, rue the day that I set myself up as a shining beacon of light to the world. Here was one
heathen Anglican who was bound to remain as such, thanks to my hair-trigger temper.
‘That pretty little foreign girl is the one who’s telling the truth,’ someone said.
‘What?’ I said. I clapped both my ears to make sure that they were working correctly.
‘In fact,’ the speaker said, ‘I’ve seen this skinny, funny-looking foreign man, and he’s kinda struggling with this other man – he too was a foreigner. You can tell by their noses, I always say. They both had noses on them like the sails on one of them small boats, so I think they was British – yeah, like this man.’ She pointed directly at Sebastian, who, admittedly, possessed a bit of a shnoz.
It is common knowledge that all English males have prominent proboscises, having only to lie on their backs in a stiff breeze and they can hitch a free ride to France across the Channel. In as much as that is true, it is common knowledge that all American women are loud and brassy and socially unacceptable, along the lines of Wallis Simpson. It is a fact, and so I state this out of a heart filled with charity, that Daphne Diffledorf is one of the loudest, brassiest, coarsest, crudest, homeliest – oh, but now I am beginning to judge.
The church members, who were dangerously close to crowding us all off the cliff, roared with excitement. They claimed to have witnessed fisticuffs, grappling and shoving, even Brit-on-Brit murder! Surely there could be no better way to spend an afternoon in Hernia, Pennsylvania. After Daphne started the ball rolling, it didn’t stop until sixteen other people claimed to have seen poor, plain Mr Sebastian push his titled brother over the edge of Lover’s Leap.
I wouldn’t have blamed the younger son for making a run then, even if he wasn’t guilty – and I was sure that he wasn’t. After all, what was he supposed to do, just stand around and twiddle his thumbs? Was he supposed to wait for some overly excited male version of Daphne Ditherspoon to push him over the edge? Of course, no blue-blooded Brit could ever just melt into the American landscape, for we are a tacky and somewhat wacky people who do not put baked beans on our toast, nor do we eat with our forks held upside-down. Sooner, rather than later, Sebastian would be outed for his superior manners and I would still be no closer to finding Yoko-san’s killer.
