by MYERS, TAMAR
And although the farmhouse that Minerva bought had been built on a solid chunk of land, the same could not be said for the other potential lots. Of the dozen lots sold, only two were viable as home sites. Minerva had advertised that county utilities were available, but she didn’t say when, and didn’t say where. When the two brave couples who had bought into Minerva’s grand scheme learned that she had her own generator and pumped her water from an underground stream, they sued and won the right to back out of their contracts.
Today Thousand Caves Retirement Village consists of the loneliest house on planet Earth. If I had an imagination—which, sadly, I don’t, or a sense of irony—I could probably envision a murder mystery being set in this strange landscape of seemingly bottomless pits and elfin tress. One could, theoretically of course, toss a body into one of these black gaping holes and it would never be found, because even a thousand and one detectives from Dalmatia, each with their own Dalmatian, would not be enough to scour each and every man-size opening in the porous limestone that underlies the thin layer of topsoil.
I’d been to Minerva’s house only once before, and that was many years prior, when she, uncharacteristically, hosted the Mennonite Ladies Sewing Circle. Perhaps I just spoke too harshly, but I also remember that everyone was surprised when Minerva volunteered to do so, and that virtually everyone in the group attended because we were all curious to see what living out there was like. But I, for one, was so “freaked-out”—as Susannah would say—by what I saw that when I got home that night I fell on my knees and thanked the Good Lord that I lived in a bustling community like Hernia.
After all, not a day goes by that I don’t hear the clip-clop of a horse pulling an Amish buggy—sometimes even twice or more a day—out on Hertzler Road, and once a family of Parisian tourists rapped on the kitchen door and demanded that I tell them how to get to Rio de Janeiro. (I told them that the most direct way was to continue on down Route 96 to Cumberland, Maryland, then head east until they caught I-95, which they should follow all the way to Miami. After that they should swim like mad until they got to the coast of Brazil, from whence they could get further directions.)
Now, where was I? Oh yes. I hadn’t been out to Thousand Caves Road for many years, but nothing seemed to have changed—at least not for the better. There was no sign of the two homes that had been started, and Minerva’s solitary house looked just as lonely and out of place as a petunia in an onion patch. Still, it was a very nice house, so Minerva’s finances must have been halfway decent.
The house was set close to the road, because there wouldn’t have been much point to a lawn in this earth-eating landscape. Even from a hundred yards away I could see the brightly colored bands of crime scene tape that crisscrossed the front door, forbidding entry to the curious—of which we have plenty hereabouts, I assure you. Anticipating that very thing, I’d brought along a pair of scissors and a roll of duct tape (I fear that one day this marvelous invention may be our only means of repairing the fractured world we live in). Before getting out of the car I checked to make sure that my cell phone was charged; it was. Then I hoofed it to the porch and snipped away.
The key I’d purloined from the chief’s desk drawer fit the front door perfectly. I’d been almost positive that it would. What I found odd was that it had now been eight days since Minerva’s death, and the chief had yet to mention anything about the envelope being tampered with, or that Miss Jay had left him with yet another puzzle to solve. Perhaps he really didn’t care if he solved it, and that was why he’d been so eager to fob it off on me, the untrained amateur. Curious, isn’t it, that fob should mean two very different things. Land O’ Goshen, there I go again, interrupting the narrative flow, which is something a real novelist would never do; thank heavens that I am merely an innkeeper with a phenomenal memory. (This is a fact, so it is by no means meant to be braggadocio.)
Even a house that has been shut up for only eight days takes on a musty odor, but Minerva’s house was as fresh as one might expect a house out in the wilds of weirdom to smell. I concluded, therefore, that someone, probably Chris, had been there recently, also looking for clues. And since jumping to conclusions is what I do best, I outdid myself that afternoon and got in a great deal of exercise.
Could it be, I reasoned, that the chief had been shown the key before it was sealed in the envelope, and that he’d agreed to fetch me the milk on the day of Minerva’s death because he knew I’d snoop around? Perhaps he still hadn’t mentioned it because his search of her house had revealed nothing that shed light on her case, and he was actually hoping that I would break and enter. Well, if the latter was true, I didn’t know of what use my piddly detecting abilities were going to be, because once I noticed that the house didn’t smell particularly bad, the second thing I noticed was that it was in total disarray.
Now, I’m not referring to your typical teenager it’s-my-room-why-can’t-I-keep-it-the-way-I-want? kind of disorder, or the slovenliness that I normally associate with my sister. I’m talking about the everything-dumped-out-on-tabletops-desks-or-floors kind of thoroughness that I’ve observed before, but only after the police have gotten through searching a place. Where was I to even begin looking? Perhaps I’d be just as well off checking to see if Minerva kept any unopened bottles of water or juice in her refrigerator, and then after gingerly lowering my still sore nether regions to the couch, flipping through the stack of photo albums on her coffee table. After all, they say that the camera doesn’t lie—it’s Photoshopping that fibs up a storm—and from my personal experience family albums can be a treasure trove of information: most of it embarrassing, of course.
I’ll spare you the descriptions of the ad nauseam snaps of the chubby baby Minerva, or the pudgy preadolescent, or the plump early adolescent, or the quite frankly fat high school student, or the alarmingly obese college woman, just as I’ll spare you descriptions of her parents, whom I remembered as not being very nice. And, most probably, no one really cares to know about the disturbingly large number of dogs Minerva owned during her middle school years alone, or that one of them was named “Minerva’s Revenge.” Ditto, I’m sure, regarding the fifty-seven photos—I counted them—that depicted Mimerva in her senior prom dress, although there was not one picture of a boy in that album.
Suffice it to say, there was a photo album dedicated to just about every topic one could imagine, and each was neatly labeled on the outside—all except for one. This last album was tucked into the middle of one of three stacks, but was in every other way unremarkable. As I began to flip through it I noticed that the photos displayed inside were also unlabeled, and that George Hooley’s hangdog face was one of the likenesses included.
“Chef Boyardee!” I exclaimed, invoking the name of my favorite childhood supper; Mama was not much of a cook.
I looked at the photo just before George’s. Lo and behold, there were Frankie Schwartzentruber and James Neufenbakker standing next to each other, and they had their arms wrapped around each other ’s waists. What was that, an April Fool’s joke? Whatever it was, it had been taken at least ten years earlier, which explained why I’d glossed over it so easily: James still had some hair and Frankie’s eyes had yet to be yanked up to forty-five-degree angles.
The very next photo was of the perpetually smirking Merle Waggler, and it was almost exactly four years old. I could date that photo because it had been taken for inclusion in the church directory. Norma Rae Fields had been in charge of selecting the backdrop that year, and her choice had been a boil pink and ear-wax orange chenille bedspread with half the nubs missing. Since our policy has always been that “she who does the work calls the shots,” the rest of us had naught but to grin and bear it (although some wag went so far as to whisper privately that she was half tempted to actually bare it, in order to distract from the hideous bedcover).
But the aforementioned three were not the only members of the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church Brotherhood I spotted in that unlabeled book. Separated by many othe
r faces, several of whom I recognized, and some whom I didn’t, I happened upon an excellent photograph of the handsome Elias Whitmore, and immediately below this, a thumbnail-size likeness of the Zug twins. The former had also been taken with Norma Rae’s chenille monstrosity as a backdrop, but the snapshot of the twins was no doubt the product of some sort of camera gimmick and, given that they were both looking away, possibly even taken without their knowledge.
The remainder of the album was a total waste of my time, given that my comely visage was nowhere to be found. I say that with Christian charity and a generous dollop of humility, so you know that my heart is in the right place. But let’s just be fair for a moment; I am the mayor of this thankless little burg, as well as its primary benefactor. I am also its perennial whipping girl. And, as previously noted, I am not unattractive. Therefore, why would one not want a photograph of me to dress up the otherwise hohum pages of her collection of local mug shots?
“Then, phooey on you too,” I said, and slammed the book shut.
The sound of the album cover closing with such force took me somewhat by surprise, and I leaped to my feet. Whilst, like the Shulamite, I may have thighs as beautiful as jewels, a navel as round as a goblet which lacks no blended beverage, and breasts like the twin fawns of a gazelle, unlike the Shulamite, I have two very large feet—both of them left. In my attempt to stand on them, one of my clodhoppers struck a leg of the coffee table, and the resulting jolt was responsible for the toppling of a fancyschmancy vase. When that shattered, so did my last nerve, and I was out of there like kids from a one-room schoolhouse on a Friday afternoon.
After all, there were no clues to be gleaned from Minerva’s erstwhile residence that the chief himself hadn’t already uncovered. If and when he chose to divulge the information, then I would bother to add it to my mental data bank. Until then, I’d be better off following the more direct approach.
All of the Suspicious Seven had been in attendance at my son’s bris—except for George Hooley. A banker, George lives and works in Bedford, the nearest real town. However, the man was born and raised in Hernia and has been a lifelong member of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. George is a contemporary of mine, and many are the times we had to share double desks in elementary school. In both my adoptive and birth lineages, the man is also a cousin of some sort, but to what degree I am uncertain, and have never been motivated enough to sort out.
A generous biographer would say that George Hooley is tall and gaunt with sunken cheeks; his eyelids hang slack, and his lips are gray and shriveled, yet he manages to project an air of someone—or something—well preserved. He is not unlike a sachet that has been closed in an airtight drawer for a very long time. In fact, George Hooley even smells of lavender and other floral scents. On the plus side, he is a dapper dresser, never to be seen without a suit, tie, and pocket handkerchief. Some of the less charitable folks in our community refer to the man as Fastidious George—of course, not to his face. If you ask me, that’s a lot better than some of the nicknames the Amish use to distinguish the members of their large broods, and quite openly at that. Of course, that’s just my humble opinion.
George Hooley has repeatedly described himself as “a confirmed bachelor.” Perhaps there really is such a thing—and indeed, George Clooney comes to mind—but in a community as tightly knit as ours, we are well aware that certain of the “confirmed bachelors” and “maiden ladies” in our midst are quite content with their status, and do not really wish to be paired up with anyone of the opposite sex. Nonetheless, George Hooley goes to great pains to enact a role that has fooled no one since he was in the third grade and made the serious mistake of volunteering to play the part of Little Bo Peep in a school skit. Rather than ham it up, as the other boys might have, George made such a good shepherdess that most of the parents watching the performance were unaware that Bo Peep was really a boy Peep.
At any rate, not quite three weeks after the bris, while Little Jacob and his papa were sleeping (neither of them had slept much during the night), I called on George at the bank. Perhaps I should say that I attempted to call on him.
“Who did you say you were again? And what is it you want?” After fielding my request to see him, Miss Assistant Manager cum Miss Screener of Scum had disappeared into the office quite clearly marked George Hooley, whereupon I’d heard two voices: one hers, one his. Had she been in there so long that she’d forgotten everything I’d said?
“Look, dear, tell him I’m the wealthiest woman in Hernia—perhaps in all of Bedford County—and that my investments with this bank total well over two million. Of course, if he’s too busy to see me . . .” I waggled my eyebrows and nodded toward the door, through which could be seen the bank across the street.
“Is that a threat, Miss Yoder?”
“Oh, so you do remember my name. Well, keep reminding yourself what it is, so that when I buy this bank I won’t have to waste so much time training the staff. That is, if I decide to keep any of you on board.”
“But, Miss Yoder, I—we—haven’t done anything wrong.”
“In the meantime, him tell that my accountant will be in touch—”
Miss Assistant Manager popped back into the office, and then almost immediately out again, this time with George Hooley hot on her tail. Behind him wafted the scent of bath salts and the odor of dry-cleaning fluids.
“Magdalena! How nice it is to see you.” We Mennonites are not into the “kissing cousin” thing, but George acknowledged our kinship by grabbing my hands and holding them in his for all of one second, and almost two-thirds of the next.
I flashed Miss Assistant Manager a so-there look. Admittedly that is not the Christian way to act, but we are all works in progress, are we not?
“Cousin George,” I said, “I need to speak to you privately.”
“Certainly. Magdalena, if this is about why I didn’t attend the bliss of your baby, I can explain.”
“I think he means bris,” Miss Assistant Manager said. She hadn’t budged an inch.
“No, he didn’t,” I said. “And it really was bliss. Just ask my husband—or his mother. Now if you’ll excuse us.”
“Well,” she said, “I’m not going anywhere. It’s my job to sit out here and screen—I mean assist—customers.”
“George,” I snapped, “your office now!”
Perhaps George’s reaction to my tone harkened back to forty years ago when I had to periodically get tough with him in order to stop him from organizing my side of our shared desk. Whatever the reason, it was as if he’d been released from an evil spell and was momentarily free to do my bidding. So, while Miss Assistant Manager glared at us, I marched him back into his inner sanctum. It was he, however, who locked the door behind us.
“Have a seat, Magdalena.” He gestured to a pair of black leather armchairs that faced the largest desk I had ever seen.
Although I took him up on his offer and slipped into the closest chair, my intention was to sit ramrod straight and immediately launch into my investigation. However, the leather was exceptionally soft and smooth.
“This is really nice,” I said.
“Lean back and put your feet up,” George said. “Then you can enjoy the massage features. There are four zones, and right now it’s set on all of them, but you can pick and choose. The control is right there beside your purse.”
I did as bid, but not before tucking my skirt securely under my calves. George might not be batting for my team, so to speak, but that was no reason to give him a peek at home base. That said, I picked up the device, which was the size of a potato, and pushed the ON button.
There are few words in my vocabulary to describe the sensation that George’s leather chair ignited in my exhausted, post-delivery body. I honestly thought I would never be privileged to experience such pure physical enjoyment of this earthly shell ever again. It started as a tingle that began to build gradually, and then grew stronger and stronger, ever rapidly, like a river in flood stage, a thousand streams e
mptying into an accelerating current, heading toward a dam that would surely burst—I leaped to my feet.
“Get behind me, Satan!”
George blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“That chair is of the Devil. How could you, George?”
“Uh—”
“On the other hand, what’s done is done, right? If the sin’s already been committed, so to speak—not that one actually occurred, mind you—but if it’s been, then what would be the harm in lingering longer in the gentle embrace of such a manly chair, yet one whose manhood does not interfere with the guilty pleasure of one’s sweet surrender?”
“That’s because it’s a chair, Magdalena, not a man.”
“Indeed.” I sniffed. “But admittedly not just any chair. By the way, how much did it cost?”
“Thirty-five hundred dollars.”
I calculated the amount it cost to keep the Babester (an aspiring mystery novelist) and his mother fed and clothed in the style to which they’d been accustomed in New York. That came pretty ding-dong close to $3,500 a month—every month—whereas the chair was a onetime purchase.
“Does it come in other colors?”
“Besides black, there’s dark brown, golden brown, reddish brown, deep tan, pale tan, and pink.”
“Hmm.”
“But you didn’t come here to furniture shop, Magdalena. My guess is that you’re here to grill me like a weenie. Isn’t that the quaint expression you’re so fond of using?”
“Sarcasm does not become you, George. And why on earth would you think that?”
