by Tamar Myers
“This is absurd.”
“Do you want to call for help or not?”
“I do, but first I want that hot chocolate I smell.”
“Aren’t you afraid it’s going to be poisoned?”
“Well, you’re obviously going to kill me, so what difference does it make? Besides, aren’t death-row prisoners entitled to a last meal?”
“I suppose you’ll be wanting the ladyfingers as well.”
“Certainly. This is no time to be counting calories. Not when it appears that I’ll be losing weight rapidly over the next several months. Hey, I just thought of something. After I die, you can dig me up every now and then, and record my rate of decomposition. Then you can write a self-help book titled Death: The Ultimate Diet. It’s guaranteed to be a bestseller, given America’s obsession with weight loss, and you’ll become fabulously rich, thereby rendering your stepson’s murder pointless, and probably hard to prove, and all because of me. So you see, it would behoove you to treat me nicely, since I am the reason for your future good fortune. Therefore, I implore you to put the carving knife down—it should only be used to sever the tails of visually challenged rodents—and make nicey-nice with your good friend Magdalena.”
“Enough!” Veronica was clearly annoyed by my blathering, but not so much so that she forgot and turned her back on me.
I, in the meantime, saw this is as my last opportunity to dissuade her from dismembering my very attractive composite of bodily members. I decided to start with reason.
“If you turn yourself in, dear, you can plea-bargain. Or you could claim temporary insanity. Keep your fingers clean in the lockup, and you’ll go up for early parole. These days murderers serve less time than folks who were caught smoking marijuana back in the sixties.”
“Haufa mischt.”
“Trust me, it’s true. And think of all the advantages. You’ll probably be taught a trade, you can certainly take some classes, and you won’t have to worry about what to wear. Food, shelter, TV and magazines, medical and dental plans—it’s all there. There are billions of people in this world who would be thrilled for this kind of setup. To paraphrase the words of a certain president’s mama, you’ll be better off than you are now.”
“If that’s really the case, then let one of the billions about whom you speak serve my time for me.”
“That means you’ll do it?” Hope springs eternal even in the most shapely breast.
“Heck no. Now, drink this.” She set the cocoa down on a laminate countertop, next to the handcuffs.
“Where are the ladyfingers?”
She scowled but fumbled for the package of goodies. “You can have two. No more.”
The Babester, who doesn’t speak Hebrew, nonetheless taught me the English translation of a Hebrew saying by a great rabbi, Hillel: “If I am not for myself, then who is? If not now, then when?”
There was no time for me to think, so now was all I had. I picked up the mug of steaming cocoa and without missing a beat flung it into Veronica’s eyes. She screamed as the butcher knife clattered to the floor.
I lunged for the knife, but just how close I came to it, I still don’t know. At some point I blacked out, and when I came to I was sitting on the floor of the tiny kitchen with my arms above my head. Looking up caused my head to spin, but I did it anyway. My hands, I finally realized, were cuffed to the refrigerator door.
“Witch,” Veronica spat, coming from another room. (If you must know, she actually used the preferred AKC term for a female dog.) “You could have blinded me.”
“Then I assume that I didn’t succeed?”
Down as I already was, there was no point in her kicking me in the ribs. “Is this the thanks I get?” she barked.
“For what?”
“All those compliments I gave you.”
“You mean I don’t sing like a lark?”
“More like a lard bucket—if one could sing. You may be beautiful, Magdalena, but you have a horrendous voice. Everyone in Hernia would agree with me.”
Easy come, easy go, as they say. And at least I had my looks. I decided to pose a reasonable question.
“So, now what are you going to do with me?”
Her answer was to kick me in the ribs again.
“Ouch!”
“You deserve that.”
“Moi? What for?”
“You are so dang inconvenient, Magdalena. I honestly didn’t think you’d catch on. I’m not in the least bit prepared. Thank heavens my dear, departed Latrum enjoyed handcuffs.” She sighed, revealing the fact that she did not floss on a daily basis. “Now I have to run all the way into Bedford to get some rope, and maybe some dynamite.”
“Dynamite! Whatever for?”
38
“I figure the easiest way for me to dispose of you would be to find an old abandoned mine shaft, and then blow it down around that hard head of yours. Sure beats digging a hole. Besides, I’m really too squeamish to follow through with the knife bit.”
“Then, hand it to me. I’m quite adept at slicing and dicing. Splicing as well, but for that I’ll need the rope.”
“Shut up.”
“Certainly, dear.”
“Oh crap! I just remembered, my car’s on the blink again.”
“You mean on the blocks. Concrete blocks, to be exact.”
“We’re not all rich like you. Where are your keys?”
“My keys won’t fit your car—oh, no you don’t!”
She ducked around the counter and snatched up my purse, which I’d set on the floor by the door. Then she dumped everything out on the counter. Had not the only witness to this debacle been a whacko killer, I would have died from embarrassment, thereby saving her the trip for dynamite.
Out sailed three weeks of church bulletins; my cell phone; a half-filled tin of curiously strong breath mints; one rolled-up dirty pair of pantyhose; my dog-eared wallet, an especially bright blue jay feather; an empty gum packet; a half-empty bottle of hand sanitizer; a fistful of grocery receipts; loose change—mostly pennies—that rolled everywhere; a comb with enough hair stuck in it to coat a small mammal; a sample-size tube of hand lotion; and a teeny-weeny, itsy-bitsy bottle of Baileys Original Irish Cream liqueur.
“Why, Magdalena, you lush!”
The accused lush blushed. “That’s not even mine—I mean it is, but it wasn’t my idea. Doc Shafor brought that back from the plane when I flew him and Ida to Bora-Bora. He said to keep it with me for emergencies. For medicinal purposes. You know, like snakebite or something.”
“Snakes in Hernia?”
“Other than yourself? We’ve had a plague this year. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”
“Shut up. Where are your car keys?”
I moved my lips soundlessly.
“Stop being a smart aleck.” She grabbed a cast-iron skillet from the top of her miniature stove and shook it at me. “While I really don’t care for knives, I have nothing against frying pans. I’d be happy to rearrange your hairdo for you.”
“All right. Don’t get your knickers in a knot. The keys are in my car.”
“I should have thought of that. This is Hernia, after all. Well, amuse yourself while I’m gone by reviewing your pitiful life. That way, you won’t have to rush through it the last minute before you die.”
Before stealing my car, Veronica unplugged all her telephones and stuffed them into a tote bag. She stopped at the front door just to taunt me one last time.
“After you’re done reviewing your life, feel free to browse through the fridge for something to eat. You know, for that last meal you were talking about.”
“Got milk?”
“There’s almost a half gallon of two percent.”
“Got mayo?”
“Shut up.”
“I keep trying, but I can’t seem to get the hang of it. You might want to pick up some duct tape as well.”
“Good idea.”
“Toodle-oo, dear.”
The door slammed behind
her.
There was nothing in Veronica’s fridge that loaned itself to digitless dining, except for a stick of butter left open on a bread plate. While I am fond of butter—no substitute will do for me—there is only so much one can eat without a companion food. But butter is primarily a saturated fat, which is only a slightly more appetizing way of saying congealed grease, and there are a number of things that can be done with grease.
Suddenly I had the nucleus of a plan. It was a long shot, but since it would probably be my parting shot, it was worth trying. Of course I prayed, as well as planned. And while I do believe in miracles, I think they have nothing to do with the intensity of one’s prayers. I’m not sure why they happen when they do; I just know that I reject the notion of a God who plays with humans like a child playing with dolls. The folks who do not survive plane crashes, or hurricanes, or tornadoes, may be praying just as hard as the ones who do. I’m sure a few heathens survive now and then too.
At any rate, the next step in my plan was to turn the stove on—oops, that would be difficult even with my comely attributes. I meant, turn on the stove. Veronica’s trailer, although small, contained a flat-surface stove. I leaned toward it, bent at the waist, and using my teeth for hands, I managed to turn the closest burner on low. I waited a few minutes, then, ducking my head into the fridge, grabbed the butter stick in my teeth and touched it lightly to the burner. It began to melt immediately.
It took me several attempts, but eventually I got enough melted butter to drip down into the right cuff for me to slide my hand out. Freeing the second hand was easier. At the front door I had to wipe my hands on my skirt in order to turn the knob, and I hereby confess to using my entire repertoire of swear words on that account. Ding, dang, dong, darn—I said them all.
Fortunately, the road back into town was all downhill. Unfortunately, it’s still a long way to go on foot. One can only imagine, then, my joy upon hearing a car approach from behind. I waved frantically, and nearly plotzed from happiness when the vehicle came to stop in a cloud of dust.
“Thank God!” I cried.
“Yes, and you can thank me too.”
“Thelma Unruh, it’s you.”
“The last time I checked. Magdalena, what are you doing way out here?”
“Never mind that. Open the door, dear, so I can hop in.”
“Open it yourself.”
“I can’t. I’m covered in butter from my elbows down.”
“Oh, all right.” She obliged me and I slid in.
“Thanks.”
“I suppose you want a lift too?”
“No, I thought I would just sit in your car for a minute and see what it feels like. You know, in case I ever want to buy a clunker like this.”
“I don’t like sarcasm, Magdalena. You know that.”
“Sorry. Do you have your cell phone with you?”
“Yes.”
“May I use it, please? It’s an emergency.”
“But like you said, you’re all buttery.”
“Quite. Then you use it for me.”
“It’s not charged.”
“Land o’ Goshen, Thelma! Why didn’t you—never mind. Just drive as fast as you can to the police station.”
“I have to stop by the house first.”
“No, you don’t. This is police business.”
“What is?”
“This!” I waggled butter fingers in her face.
“That’s real butter, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Unsalted, but still very tasty.”
“You know, there isn’t a substitute on the market that approaches the real McCoy.”
“Why, I was just thinking the same thing myself. And nobody makes butter better than the Amish—Wait! You’re trying to distract me. Like I said, I’m on police business.”
“Since when did baking become police business?”
“I wasn’t baking. I had just caught Cornelius’s killer when I got conked on the head—you don’t really want to hear this, do you?”
“Of course I do. Look, I have to swing by the house to pick up my glasses. Then I’ll take you anywhere you want. But in the meantime, I’m all ears.”
“Thelma, dear, you’re wearing your glasses.”
“I am?” She touched her tinted specs. This was a woman who hoped to compete with me in the hostelry business?
“Don’t worry, it happens to me all the time. Except I don’t wear glasses, so it’s my—Hey, you were supposed to go straight. The police station’s that way.”
“Okay, Magdalena, I confess. But you can’t tell anyone, or I’ll die of embarrassment. You see, I was visiting Amanda Church, who, by the way, isn’t getting any better. And you know how filthy her house is, and that was before she got sick. So I had to hold it in, but I couldn’t quite manage to hold it all, which is why now I’ve got to get home ASAP. You can use my phone at home—after you’ve washed the butter off your hands.”
“Oh my. Two near deaths caused by embarrassment in one day—who would have thought? But not to worry. These lips are sealed. After all, been there, done that, as they say nowadays. But one can always learn from one’s lesson, right? Or else they wouldn’t be called lessons.”
“And what did you learn, Magdalena?”
“To always carry a spare set of sturdy Christian underwear, especially if traveling to Maryland. No offense to Marylanders, but most of the underwear they sell there is fit only for heathens, and fit heathens at that, which, alas, not many are.”
“What makes underwear Christian, Magdalena?”
“You know. I mean, it’s obvious.”
“Not to me. Describe them, so I know what to look for next time I go shopping.”
“Well, they have to be white—colors are just too provocative. Especially red and black. And they must be one hundred percent cotton; synthetics are the Devil’s playground. And last, but most importantly, they have to cover everything. If your body squeezes over the top, or bulges out at the bottom, you may as well be wearing a sign that says ‘harlot.’ Oh, and it’s better if the underwear is hard to take off. Think of all the folks who might have been saved from following their carnal urges, if only their Hanes Her Way had put up more of a fight.”
“Why, I’ll be dippty-doodled, to borrow one of your colorful phrases, Magdalena! I’ve been wearing sturdy Christian underwear all along, and not knowing it. Does that earn me extra points?”
“Points for what?”
“Minibar privileges in Heaven, that kind of thing.”
“You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
“You think?”
“Why, Thelma Unruh, shame on you! And here I thought we could be friends.”
“You thought no such thing, and you know it. We’ve never liked each other, Magdalena, and we never will.”
“You’re just jealous because I’m a successful businesswoman, and you’re only a wannabe.”
“A wannabe what?”
“Give it up, Thelma. No one is going to want to stay in that drafty old relic of a house you own, with that spooky wall running through it.”
“It’s about to get even spookier.”
“Why is that? You planning to hang Halloween decorations on it?”
“I’m about to build an addition with a corpse inside. Actually, I’m using some of the old brick so no one will be able to tell.”
“Thelma, if you don’t mind me saying so, that’s weird even for you.”
“Have you read ‘The Cask of Amontillado’?”
“By Edward Allen Poe. You see, I’m not quite the rube you think I am.”
“Oh, I’ve never thought of you as a rube, Magdalena. Just an arrogant buttinsky who needs to learn her place—inside my wall.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m going to kill you, Magdalena. But not right now. First I’m going stick you in the wall. Don’t worry, I’m going to leave one brick out, so that I can hear you scream—hopefully for a long while.”
&nb
sp; That’s when I noticed that Thelma was driving with only one hand, and the other held a gun, one that was pointed right at the side of my abdomen. I jerked away, which she found rather amusing.
“At this close range—Miss Have Everything—I’ll blast your liver to smithereens. Your large intestine as well. Even if you survive, you’ll soon be begging to die.”
39
“Thelma—dear—what is this all about? What have I done to you?”
“Shut up. As if you don’t know.”
“Not you too! I can’t stand being told to shut up.”
“At least quit sniveling. It’s so unbecoming for a beautiful, elegant woman like you, who has everything.”
“There you go again with the everything. Would you care to explain?”
Thelma had slowed to well below the thirty-five-mile-per-hour city speed limit; apparently holding someone at gunpoint was not routine for her. If only I could manage to unbuckle my seat belt without being noticed, I could hurl myself to the pavement and try for a headfirst landing. My noggin, thanks to all the milk Mama made me drink, was as tough as a Kevlar helmet. Therefore, my best plan of action was to keep Thelma occupied until I could come up with a suitable distraction, one that demanded all of her attention. Perhaps if I passed gas…
“You’re not listening, Magdalena! You ask me to explain, but you look like you’re off on another planet.”
“I was. But I’m all ears now. Tell me why you hate my guts so much.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re rich, you’re gorgeous, you’re intelligent—need I say more?”
“Yes! Don’t stop there.”
“And you throw away hunky men like yesterday’s newspaper.”
“I only threw away two hunks—hey, how did you know about the second one?”
“Magdalena, everyone knows you dumped that handsome Jewish doctor, and for the stupidest reason imaginable.”
“That he isn’t saved? That’s practically the most important thing in life—no, it is the most important thing. We are all born to be saved—that’s our main purpose in life—otherwise God would have created us all saved in the first place. And don’t confuse me by throwing free will into the mix. Who needs free will anyway, if the result of a wrong choice is eternal damnation?”
