by Tamar Myers
“Gobi.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Forgive me, Miss Yoder, but I’ve heard this story before—actually, several times before. You always say Gobi Desert. And another thing, I hope you weren’t implying that animals don’t feel pain when they have their young, because they can feel pain. But I didn’t ask you over here to discuss animal sounds or birthing pains. This is a very serious matter, and you must listen to me. Please. Without any interruptions. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear, although being of the humble persuasion, I use glass, sometimes even blue glass, but if, perchance, I did use crystal, and it was blue, would that make me of the crystal blue persuasion?”
“Please! Not another word.”
I folded my arms across my ample bosom. “I’m all ears.”
Young Chris Ackerman did not need to sigh as deeply as he did to get his point across. And the crossed eyes were simply overkill.
“It’s about the chief.” He shook his head and sighed again. “Dang it, Miss Yoder, sometimes you really torque me off. Before I go further, I just want you to know that this is a very bad time for me, and for you to make me lose it by crossing my eyes when I should be crying, well—dang it all to pieces. Sorry, I just had to say that—heck, no I’m not sorry. You deserve more of a dressing-down than that. From now on, you’re going to be quiet and listen. Do you understand?”
I nodded mutely.
“Good. So anyway, as I was about to say, Chief Hornsby-Anderson is dead. She was murdered.”
I clamped both hands over my mouth, so tightly, in fact, that traces of bruises lingered for several days. Nonetheless, I was not successful in suppressing all sound.
“Hmphurdyknl?” I said.
Chris wisely ignored me. “I got a call early this morning from one of her condo neighbors. He was getting his morning paper when he noticed that the chief’s front door was open. He investigated and found her lying on the floor of her bathroom. There was a gunshot wound to her head, but no weapon. Doctors at Bedford County Memorial Hospital pronounced her dead upon arrival. You may speak now.”
I removed my hands from over my mouth. “This is horrible. I can barely believe it. She was such an—intelligent woman. A progressive thinker.”
“She was like a mother to me.” Chris burst into loud sobs, his shoulders shaking with each one.
“There, there,” I said, employing my entire vocabulary of comforting words. “It will be all right.”
“No, it won’t!”
Occasionally even a walnut-size heart like mine is capable of overriding an emotionless upbringing. Here was a young man, young enough to be the son I never had, who needed more than words. And I had nothing to lose, possibly even something to gain, by going against my nature. It took a bit of a fight, but I’m happy to say that the good half of the walnut won. I gave Sergeant Ackerman the hug of my lifetime, and I didn’t even make patting motions on his back.
“It will be all right,” I repeated, “because I’m going to make it right.”
32
With no one to ticket me, I broke a speed record getting home. I know, it’s probably a sin to speed, but I’m not the only Christian to do so. Travel any highway and observe the driving habits of those folks who own cars with fish symbols on the back. Of course the fact that others break laws is no excuse for me to do likewise. I merely feel the need to point out that I am not alone.
At any rate, once back at the PennDutch, I filled a large thermos with Freni’s hot chocolate—which is made from scratch, not some little packet—and loaded a wicker basket with cinnamon rolls and oatmeal cookies (one must eat healthy foods as well). Then I had the distinct pleasure of breaking the law once again on my return trip to the police station.
I doubt if Chris had moved since I left him. “You’re back so soon?”
“I had a tailwind; Freni served beans last night. Now, stay here and hold down the fort.”
“What do I do?”
“Nothing—except answer the phone if it rings, and eat what I brought you. I’ll handle everything else.”
“But you’re not even a police officer.”
“So deputize me.”
“I can’t. I don’t how it’s done. Besides, I’m only a sergeant.”
“Well, I am the mayor, and since I hired you, I do hereby deputize myself.”
“Is that legal?”
“Legal-shmegal. All I’m going to do is get to the bottom of this. And when I do, I’ll get back to you, or I’ll call the sheriff.”
“The sheriff?”
“You have called him, right?”
“Uh—no.”
“Then, don’t worry; I’ll call him. He needs to know what’s going on in his county. The chief was killed within Hernia town limits, but we don’t know if her killer has stuck around or is elsewhere in the county. Once he—or she—steps one foot outside the town limits, he becomes the sherrif’s business as well.”
“Miss Yoder, I can’t begin to thank you.”
“No thanks needed, dear.” I eyed with envy the gun strapped around his slim waist. Of course I could never bring myself to use a gun, but wearing one might still make me feel safer. Or not. I read recently in the paper about a ten-year-old boy in Philadelphia who was shot by gang members because he was playing with a toy gun in his front yard.
“You want to take my weapon, don’t you?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Believe me, Miss Yoder, I would give it to you if I didn’t think it might get you into trouble. But I do have something you might consider.”
“Tear gas?”
He shook his head as he pulled open his desk drawer. “Tear gas is tricky. You’d need training. But here.” He handed me a can barely larger than a salt shaker. “It’s pepper spray. A very potent variety. I took if from a tourist who was drunk and needed to be temporarily confined. She never asked for it back, and it’s been more than ninety days. You’re welcome to take it.”
I took the tiny can and slipped it into my purse. It was surprisingly heavy. It also made me feel surprisingly safe. My sister, Susannah, had been bugging me for years to carry pepper spray, but her pleas had fallen on a pair of shapely, but selectively deaf, ears. The Good Lord, I’d told her repeatedly, will watch over me, and when my time comes, it won’t matter what I have in my purse. Perhaps I’d been foolish on that score. God helps those who help themselves, some say. And if I helped keep myself safe with the aid of a little can, confiscated though it was—whose business was it but mine, and the Good Lord’s?
“Thanks, Officer,” I said.
“No problemo. Just remember to point the nozzle away from you. Otherwise you could have a very bad day.”
I smiled. I had every intention of being careful, and it wasn’t me who was going to have a very bad day. As a wise woman once said, “A hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man.” I had a hunch that the chief’s killer and the person who murdered Cornelius Weaver were one and the same. That person was going to have the bad day.
The man who answered the door was an absolute stranger to me. Bob Bigger was the given name of the neighbor who had discovered the chief’s lifeless body. Bob appeared to be an affable man, rendered just a mite subdued by his gruesome discovery. But the first thing I noticed about him was his peculiar accent. My guess was that Bob was born in one of the square states well to the west of Pennsylvania.
“Mr. Bigger,” I said, flashing him what was meant to be a disarming smile, “my name is Magdalena Yoder, and I’m mayor of this charming burg.”
“Please feel free to use my bathroom. I know how it is when you’re on the go, with no place to go. Heh-heh.”
“Excuse me?”
“That look on your face; I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“I was trying to be disarming, ding-dang it.”
“Oops. So then, what can I do for you?”
“Like I said, I’m the mayor, and also an unofficial deputized officer of the law. You may
call me Your Honor, or Pseudo-Sergeant, or just plain Miss Yoder, or even Barrenness.”
“Baroness?”
“Close enough. Do you mind if I come in?”
“Not if you don’t mind looking at clutter.”
All men should be the kind of clutterbug Mr. Bigger was. The only disarray I could see was a scattering of books across a large coffee table. One of the books was open, and I saw that it was printed in a foreign language. I have no doubt that foreigners could read it, but to me the strange markings were even less decipherable than chicken tracks. When viewing the latter, I can make out the tracks of my rooster, Chanticleer III, and my favorite hen, Pertelote.
“It’s Sanskrit,” Mr. Bigger said. “It’s the classical language of Hindus, and the parent language of all Indo-European languages, including English. It wasn’t until 1789 that Sir William Jones, an English official in India, observed that Sanskrit bore systematic similarities to Greek, Latin, and even Persian.”
“You can read it?”
“Yes, but not perfectly. I’m teaching myself, you see.”
“My fiancé—well, make that ex-fiancé—can read Hebrew.”
“That is not an Indo-European language. Its closest relatives are Arabic and Aramaic. But I’m sure you did not stop by to discuss linguistics. If I were a wagering man—which I am not—I’d bet that you are here about to question me in regards to the untimely demise of my neighbor, Chief Olivia Hornsby-Anderson.”
“You’d have won your bet. That is indeed my business. Please, tell me everything as it happened this morning.”
“I already told the young sergeant everything there is to know.”
“Yes, but he is a bit farklempt—I mean, emotional—at the moment, so I’m afraid I’m going to need you to rehash it.”
He rubbed a large, rough hand across his eyes. “Okay. Well, I was retrieving my paper when I noticed Olivia’s door was open. I stuck my head in and called, ’Good morning,’ but she didn’t answer. It seems that more times than not, we pick up our papers at the same time, and occasionally we have coffee together. But she’s never left her door open before, and besides, her paper was still lying there. I thought I’d bring it in and put it on the dining room table, but this morning I had a really strong sense of foreboding, so I kept calling for her. Then I started searching, and that’s when I found her in the bathtub, with a bullet through her head.”
Hearing the account firsthand from her discoverer had a powerful effect on me, particularly my knees. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
“Not at all.”
We both sat.
“So then,” I said, “you called Sergeant Ackerman?”
“Not right away. It was obvious Olivia was dead, but what I didn’t know was the whereabouts of the killer. I hightailed it back to the kitchen, grabbed one of Olivia’s butcher knives, and searched the closets. Under the beds too.”
“That’s police work, Mr. Bigger. You might have gotten yourself killed.”
“Baroness Yoder, I served in the Iraq War, doing house-to-house searches. I know how to protect myself.”
“I’m sure you do, but a knife is not a gun.”
“True. But this killer doesn’t like to make a mess, so I knew there wouldn’t be any shooting at close range.”
“What do you mean by ‘doesn’t like to make a mess’?”
“Olivia was fully dressed and in the bathtub. The killer made her get in it so that there wouldn’t be a mess. Then the killer ran the shower to wash down all the blood.”
“Hmm. It sounds like you know a lot about this sort of thing.”
“Only from what I read. And from what I see on TV.”
I noticed for the first time that one entire wall seemed to be taken up by a giant television screen. It was, however, too flat for that.
His eyes followed mine. “That’s a plasma TV screen.”
“Where’s the motor—you know, the stuff that’s inside?”
“It’s in there.” He picked up a remote control, like the one used by Susannah, and pushed a button. The picture that appeared was startling in its clarity.
“Is that thing expensive?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Bigger, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what do you do for a living?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Get out of town!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s just an expression; I didn’t mean it literally. It’s just that this town is crawling with writers. Do I know your books?”
He pulled a slim volume from a shelf sagging from the weight of books. “This was my first book. Actually it’s my doctoral thesis, which was a novella in French. I despise the cover, don’t you?”
I took the book from him and turned it over. It was predominantly black, with the title, Je suis un hareng rouge, and the author’s name printed in red.
He extracted a much thicker book from the crammed shelf. “Here’s my most recent effort.”
When he handed me the tome, I nearly dropped it; I’ve raised sheep that weighed less than that. I’ll admit that it was with some trepidation that I perused the title. Heaven forfend I’d read the book and hated it. If Mr. Bigger threw it at me, that would mark our town’s second murder for the day.
Existential Questions Raised by Quantum Mechanics in the Post-Modern Age.
“So you’re a philosopher as well as a writer?”
“Nope.”
“A physicist?”
“Nope.”
“But the title—”
“Believe it or not, it’s a novel. My editor thought up that title. He thought it might be different enough to be catchy. All five people who bought the book must have thought the same thing.”
“It looks very interesting,” I said, invoking the common law of decency number three, the one that permits white lies that are told in order to protect someone’s feelings. “I’ll keep it in mind next time I’m at Barnes and Noble.”
He smiled. “You asked what I do for a living, but I wasn’t honest with you. I do write for a living—at least that is my intent—but it’s hard to make a living that way. I admit that if it wasn’t for my parents’ trust fund, I’d be forced to find a more honest way to support myself.”
“Drustara Kurtz can support herself.”
“The Drustara Kurtz? The one who was on Oprah?”
“The very one. You know, she’s very attractive, and very single. You two probably have a lot in common.”
“Somehow I don’t think so. She writes scintillating prose, and I write books that put college freshmen to sleep.”
“We all need our sleep, dear, so don’t put yourself down. Where are you from?”
That simple question took him aback. “What makes you think I’m not from here?”
“Your accent, for starters. For another, I was born and raised here, and know virtually everyone by name. Except for the tourists.”
“Yes, well, I was one of those. I’m originally from Iowa. Decided to drive across the country last summer, starting in New York, got as far as here, and never left.”
“Oy!”
“Is something wrong?”
“Just that my information links have been falling down on their jobs.”
“Come again?”
“I used to know every bit of gossip—from how large Amos Graber’s wart had grown, to the number of lumps in the gravy Tina Blough served her mother-in-law. The answer, by the way, is twenty-one.”
Mr. Bigger laughed. “Well, I keep a low profile. We writers tend to be solitary.”
“Yes, but there is no excuse for me not hearing about someone as big—uh—as famous as you. I mean, you’re not that big. Barbara Hostetler is taller than you, and could probably whip you with one massive hand tied behind her back, which of course she wouldn’t, and not just because she’s Amish, but because she’s one of the sweetest people in the world. And come to think of it, she’s from Iowa as well. Do you know her?”
; “No. I used to know all the people in Iowa, but there’s been a flux of newcomers from Latin America. Is she Hispanic?”
“Hostetler Hispanic? You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Weren’t you?”
“What?”
“When you asked if I knew her.”
“Oh, that.” I had not been joking, and I certainly had not been thinking. We Mennonites often know a number of coreligionists in other states, and when we meet folks from those states, we try to make connections to the people we know. We call this the Mennonite Name Game. Gabe says Jews do the same thing, except they call it Jewish Geography. But it was plain stupid to think that a nonethnic person such as Bob Bigger would know an Amish girl such as Barbara Hostetler simply because they both came from the same state, even a smallish one such as Iowa.
There are few things I hate worse than making a fool of myself. Both times it’s made me crabby. And although being crabby is something at which I excel, I have found that I need to apologize less if I keep my mug tightly shut until the crabs have all dissipated. As for Bob, his crimson complexion made it quite clear that he was profoundly embarrassed for having embarrassed yours truly. Thus it was that we sat in awkward silence until I stood up to the plate.
“If Olivia’s killer was as neat as you say, that pretty much eliminates one of the suspects on my list, but highlights another.”
“Unless the killer was only pretending to be neat so as to throw the police off his, or her, tracks.”
“Or the killer could be you, and you’re playing games with me.”
“That’s always a possibility.”
“You could be a neat person pretending to be a messy person who wants to create the impression of neatness as a decoy.”
“Neatly said, but at this point I would like to state, for the record, that I have never knowingly killed anyone, Olivia included.”
“Duly noted.” I moved to the door.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he said.
