by Tamar Myers
“Oh?” They were both interested again.
I stamped my foot. If big is beautiful, my feet are gorgeous. I stamped loud enough to scare away a crow that had been eavesdropping on the telephone line.
“See here! My Aaron isn’t guilty, and neither is his father. That barrel had been sitting around in his root cellar since who-knows-when. Twenty years at least. When Aaron Senior heard that I was serving sauerkraut at my wedding supper, he sent it over as a gift.”
Zelda made the kind of face I used to make when Mama fed me castor oil. As for Melvin, it is hard to tell when he makes faces.
“Ugh,” Zelda said. “What kind of present is twenty-year-old sauerkraut?”
I shrugged. She had a point. Good sauerkraut can be made in a couple of months. And frankly, I had been bitterly disappointed when the two Aarons unloaded the barrel that morning. I had been hoping for a new clothes dryer—one of my recent guests had deposited a wad of gum the size of my fist in the inn’s dryer, and I was having an awful time getting it all out.
“Aaron Senior grew up during the Great Depression,” I said, trying to be loyal. “Folks who’ve lived through that don’t throw anything away.”
Zelda nodded. “My grandmother saves all her used tea bags. She claims they make good mulch for roses, only she hasn’t grown roses for as long as I can remember. She must have over a thousand used tea bags in a big canister under the basement stairs.”
Melvin snorted. “Well, I’m not buying this frugal bit. If that barrel came from the Miller farm, I’d say that makes Aaron Senior a prime suspect.”
I forced myself to swallow my rage. If anger had calories, I would have blown up like a balloon. “Look, my Aaron was in Vietnam then, but if his father did it, why would he deposit the incriminating evidence on my back porch?”
“Some people can be awfully stupid,” Melvin had the nerve to say.
I gained a few more imaginary pounds but managed to hold my tongue.
“And there is the issue of familiarity,” Zelda said placidly. “Aaron Senior was Sarah’s uncle, and most murderers know their victims, you know.”
I whirled. “People in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, dear.”
“What?” followed by “What?”
I addressed the soprano exclamation.
“I mean, who was dating Sarah back then? Melvin, right?”
“It was only one date. You said so yourself.”
“One date—that I know of. Maybe there were more. Maybe Melvin tried to put the moves on her. Maybe she resisted. Maybe—”
“That’s ridiculous!”
I glanced at Melvin, who was as white as a sheet got back in the days when Mama used to boil hers in borax.
“Maybe none of us should jump to conclusions,” I said softly.
There were no more accusations that day.
“Call her father, dear,” I said to Aaron after everyone had left.
“Can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I don’t know where he is, that’s why.”
“Then ask your father. He’ll know. He knows—”
“Pops doesn’t know either. Nobody does.”
“What?”
“Uncle Jonas moved out of Hernia the summer following Sarah’s disappearance. He never wrote, and he never called.”
“Not anyone?”
“Not a soul. Uncle Jonas was a strange man, Magdalena, even before that terrible summer. Then his wife disappeared and, only a month after that, their daughter. It put him over the edge.”
I tried to recall a face, but I have trouble keeping track of my own relatives. Undoubtedly one could populate a small nation with lost kinfolk of mine.
“Well, then, turn the job over to Melvin. He might as well do something useful.”
“I already spoke to him about it when you were inside getting cold drinks. He doesn’t think he’ll have any luck either. Says he wants to put Pops down as next of kin.”
I shuddered. Jonas’s absence seemed somehow to add to the horror of the situation. Poor Sarah had been hanging around for twenty years in a barrel of kraut. She had a right to be buried with her father in attendance.
“They’re all coming for the funeral,” Aaron said. “They’ll be here as fast as they can.”
“Who’s coming?” I asked. Whoever it was had better not want any supper. Freni had gone home as soon as the police left, and since there were no guests at the inn—on account of my upcoming wedding—I hadn’t bothered to cook that evening. Neither Aaron nor I was hungry, and Susannah had yet to come home.
“The Beeftrust,” Aaron said.
“Pooky Bear, we’re having ham at the wedding, remember? And ribs to go with the kraut. Sorry, dear. We’ve gone over the menu a million times.”
Aaron laughed. My beloved is breathtakingly handsome, with black hair, bright-blue eyes, and incredibly white teeth. When he laughs you can see every single one of those shiny pearls.
“The Beeftrust is not a meat company. It’s my aunts.”
“Aaron!”
He laughed again. “That’s what they call themselves. You remember how big they are, don’t you?”
I shrugged. I hadn’t seen Aaron’s aunts for years. At one time they had all been neighbors, and then gradually they moved out of Hernia, some of them to different states. In that time a lot of water had passed under my bridge. A lot of dirty water, and a lot of scalding water. Not much of it had been suitable for drinking.
“Well, I’m sure it will all come back to you when you see them. But be prepared, at any rate. Auntie Veronica is six two and two hundred pounds. I think she’s the oldest.”
I gulped. Visions of behemoth Millers were indeed coming back to me. Eveningmares, more than visions. None of the aunties—that I could remember— was fat, but they were all huge. Beefy, I guess, was the perfect way to describe them, although they possessed other physical peculiarities as well.
“Ah, yes, your aunt Veronica. She’s the one with the—uh, uh, preposterous proboscis,” I posed politely.
My Pooky Bear winced, and I felt ashamed. It wasn’t true that Auntie Veronica’s schnoz required its own Zip Code, no matter what folks said.
“Well, tell me about your aunt Leah,” I said by way of deflection.
“Auntie Leah is the next oldest, and she’s the tallest. She’s six four, and she looks just like you.”
“I’m five ten,” I said pleasantly through gritted teeth.
“Oh, I meant her face. You two look enough alike to be related.”
“We probably are related somehow, but let’s hope she looks older.”
“Yes, of course, that’s what I meant. Auntie Lizzie, however, looks nothing like you. People say she looks English.”
“Thanks.” I wasn’t sure what Aaron meant by that. When an Amish man says someone looks English, he means they look worldly. But Aaron, who had seen the world, could have meant anything.
“Auntie Lizzie always had the most incredible skin. Peaches and cream, Mama called it.”
I bit my tongue. It wouldn’t do to snap at my Pooky Bear so close to the wedding.
“Auntie Rebecca is, of course, still missing. She was the shortest of my aunties. Only a scant six feet in her stockings.”
“Wasn’t she the crabby one?”
“No, that’s Auntie Veronica. But you would be crabby too if you had a nose like that,” he added defensively.
It was time to change the subject. Believe it or not, a few of my detractors claim that I am crabby— mean-spirited, they have called me. And while my schnoz wasn’t worthy of its own Zip Code, a P.O. box was not out of the question.
“Don’t all your aunties have children? And aren’t they coming as well?”
Aaron laughed heartily. “Of course they have children, but they’re all grown now and have children of their own. Anyway, don’t worry about that, because my cousins are too busy being moms and dads to come to a funeral and a wedding. I guess the good news
is that they’ve all chosen the wedding.”
That would have been good news, had I any sauerkraut to serve. “Well, what about the uncles? Are they coming for the funeral?”
“Yes, to the man. I hope you don’t mind, honey, but I told them it would be all right to stay here. At the inn.”
My Pooky Bear had just handed me a two-edged sword. It was the first time he had ever called me honey, and I wanted to leap for joy. Maybe even click my heels together and then leap again. But I didn’t want company!
It had been no easy feat clearing the PennDutch Inn for my wedding. Bill and Hillary had been very polite about it, but I had to give the bum’s rush to you-know-who. And as for the Hollywood crowd, if that woman ever slaps me again, I’m calling the cops.
My point is, it was at great sacrifice to my wallet that I had opened up the full calendar week leading up to my wedding. I needed that time. That was time meant for me to prepare myself, both physically and psychologically, for my impending nuptials.
Believe me, it is no easy thing, getting married— even to someone as drop-dead gorgeous as Aaron. And I don’t mean all the food preparations and such. Or the horrendous experience of trying to find a dress that is perfect. I’m talking about the institution itself, the irrevocable tying together of two human beings via the bonds of matrimony. It was especially difficult at age forty-four.
Sex would be too, I imagined. Of course I was a virgin. And no, I don’t count that one time I accidentally sat on the washing machine during the spin cycle. My point is, I had a lot to think about, and the Beeftrust and their husbands were not on my schedule.
I smiled coyly at my Pooky Bear. “Can’t your aunties stay at your house, dear? I mean, they are your father’s sisters.”
“Papa hasn’t been feeling all that well, as you know, and anyway, you know how it is with two bachelors. The place is a mess.”
I smiled. It is much easier being patient with Aaron than with Melvin, but nonetheless, it isn’t always a piece of cake.
“Well, dear, your aunties were going to stay in motels for the wedding—what’s a few extra days going to hurt? And isn’t one of them so rich she just took a month-long cruise?”
Even before he opened his mouth, I realized I shouldn’t have said it. Some people think of motels as being cold, impersonal places, and, alas, my Pooky Bear was one of them.
“These are my aunties, honey. I can’t do that to them.”
Well, he had just done it to me again. Slipped me the “honey” word when the going got tough.
“In that case, I’d be tickled to death to have them here,” my lips said of their own volition.
As Julius Caesar might have said, let the games begin.
Chapter Three
Aunt Veronica Gerber arrived later that same evening. She lives in Fox Chapel, a suburban community to the northeast of Pittsburgh, about a two-hour drive from here. Rumor has it that the maids in Fox Chapel have their own maids, and the Rolls-Royce that rolled up did nothing to dispel such idle gossip.
I hate to be cruel, but her nose was by far the first thing through the door. The rest of her followed presently, encased in a full-length mink coat. Given the fact that it was a warm spring evening, even the minks were sweating.
“Welcome!” I cried. I tried flinging my arms around her, like Aaron had done, but Aunt Veronica would have none of that from me.
“You would think the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation would do a better job of marking these back roads. We’ve been driving in circles for hours.”
I stifled my impulse to remind her that she’d grown up here and should know these roads as well as she knows the spider veins on her nose.
“Have you eaten supper yet?” I asked graciously.
She stared down that long spidery nose at me.
“Goodness, child, you couldn’t possibly expect us to be interested in food at a time like this.”
I peered around the dead minks, looking for the other half of “we” and “us.” Sure enough, she did have someone with her, a pudgy man, short (compared to her), who had silver hair and silver-rimmed glasses. Except for the Armani suit and five-hundred- dollar tie he was wearing, he would have blended in with any crowd of men in his age group. That is, if you didn’t look too closely at the eyes behind the silver glasses: they were mere slits. I’d seen newborn kittens with larger pupils.
“Your chauffeur?” I asked politely.
“My husband, Rudy,” she snapped.
“Uncle Rudy!” I extended my hand.
The slits closed, and then opened. Then ignoring my hand, he flung his arms around me and clasped me in the tightest embrace I have ever known. The sharp rims of his glasses dug into my bosom, meager as it is.
“Prepared to die, buster?” I mumbled over the top of his head.
He released me and began fiddling with that expensive tie.
“An apology would be nice,” I said pleasantly.
“Magdalena!” Aaron said sharply.
For my Pooky Bear’s sake I forced back my anger and with the utmost dignity led the way to the parlor. After we had settled them into the most comfortable chairs, Aaron and I attempted a few minutes of consoling conversation. Uncle Rudy said virtually nothing. Aunt Veronica, however, took every opportunity to preempt us with her acquired Fox Chapel accent.
Finally she just stood up. “Well, I don’t know about younz’s, but my feet are killing me, and I need to get to bed.”
I glanced down to see the tiniest feet imaginable on a six-foot-plus woman. In their miniature black leather pumps they were like little round hooves. Tipping her over would be easier than tipping a sleeping cow. Not that I’ve done much of the latter, mind you.
“Right this way,” I said graciously. I began leading the way up the quaint, winding stairs that my inn is so famous for.
“Not on your life, child!”
I looked down to see that although Rudy and Aaron were behind me, Veronica hadn’t budged.
“There are back stairs,” I called kindly. “But it’s a fire escape, perhaps a mite too steep.”
“The thing you’re on is steeper than Jacob’s ladder,” she snapped. “Don’t you have a room down here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Pssst,” said Aaron through gleaming teeth.
I ignored him.
“What’s this room back here that says Private on the door?”
“That’s the storeroom,” I said quickly. It was in fact a lie, and I would have been very ashamed of myself, except that in this case the lie really was told for a good cause. My bedroom, the only one downstairs, was filled with my wedding things. There was no use in getting her hopes up only to have them dashed.
Aunt Veronica must have picked up some terrible manners in Fox Chapel. My room wasn’t locked, and so she barged right on in. I squeezed past Rudy and Aaron, but before I could reach the bottom of the stairs she had emerged with a triumphant smile on her face.
“I’ll take this room,” she announced.
“Over my dead body.” I said it as calmly and lady-like as I could under the circumstances.
“Magdalena, please,” Aaron whispered. “She is the oldest of the aunties.”
“I don’t care if she’s Methuselah in drag,” I said. “I’m not giving up my room.”
“Sweetie, are you just going to stand there and let her talk to me that way?”
For a minute I thought she was talking to her husband, Rudy, but the woman was smarter than that. No doubt she had been the “sugar-auntie” of Aaron’s childhood. The strings she was pulling were attached to memories of lollipops.
“Mags?”
I looked into Aaron’s incredibly blue eyes and felt my resolve melting. If my Pooky Bear really wanted me to sacrifice not only my inn but my very room to the Beeftrust, so be it.
I took a deep breath. “Well—”
“Get on in here, Rudy, and give Big Mama a hand. There’s junk spread all over this bed.”
Th
at did it. That hiked my hackles. The so-called junk was my bridal veil and an assortment of dried flowers from Mama’s bouquet when she married Papa. I had been painstakingly sewing some of the flowers into the net of my veil when Freni opened the barrel.
“Step into my room again and you won’t have a hoof left to stand on,” I said sweetly. “Your room is upstairs, the last one on the left. If you look hard you may find a clean towel in the linen closet at the end of the hall. I was planning to wash the sheets tomorrow. I wasn’t expecting guests, you know.”
Aaron should have seen things my way, because I was, after all, his honey. His soon-to-be wife. I guess at that point, blood was still thicker than water, and Aunt Veronica shared more blood with him than I did. At any rate, he didn’t say another word to me the rest of the evening. In fact, as soon as he had washed and dried the sheets for his precious auntie, he was out of there. I didn’t see or hear from him until the next morning.
I was sound asleep dreaming that Aaron and I had reconciled and had just dived (with our clothes on!) into Miller’s Pond, across the road from the PennDutch Inn, when the real-life PennDutch Inn got hit by a tornado. At least that’s what it sounded like. Tornadoes, I’m told, sound like trains, and that’s exactly what I heard as I swam up through the dream-thick waters of the pond and broke the surface of consciousness.
“Hit the cellar!” I yelled, rolling out of bed.
It appeared to be too late to take cover. The inn was shaking violently. At this point it was every woman for herself. You understand, of course, and I’m sure you would have rolled right under that bed the same as I did.
This tornado, however, possessed human lungs, and as full consciousness returned, I realized its vortex was located just outside the front door. The thing didn’t quit howling until I’d let it in.
“Well, it’s about time!”
My gaze wandered up and up until, just below the lowest cloud strata, it encountered a vaguely familiar visage. Despite Aaron’s claims, she does not look like me. If indeed she ever did, then something terrible has happened to one of us.
