Just Plain Pickled to Death

by Tamar Myers

  “Damn! I think my leg is broken!”

  I ignored his profanity. “You all right, Diane?”

  “Except that every bone in my body aches and my head feels like it’s about to explode, I’m okay.”

  “Well, then shake a leg,” I said pointedly. “We have a funeral to make.”

  Just outside the door we found a decorative hurricane lamp containing kerosene, a pile of rags, and some long matches. The rags were really pairs of Delores’s cotton underwear, and they looked in perfectly good condition to me (although I couldn’t believe she wore only a size eight!). Apparently Rudy, who was obviously in a hurry, had simply raided her panty drawer.

  “He really was going to roast us alive,” Diane said. She sounded shocked.

  “He’s a wicked, wicked man, dear, but he has a terrible memory. He brought everything but the spices.”

  We both laughed. That’s when Uncle Rudy cut loose with a string of four-letter words that would make the Whore of Babylon blush.

  “That does it!” I said.

  A pair of Delores’s size eights, and the panty hose I had brought in my dress pocket but had yet to put on made an effective gag indeed. That done, we hurried off to look for Uncle Jonas and Delores.

  It was Diane who found the pair. They had been trussed like turkeys as well and stashed in the walk-in closet in Delores’s bedroom. They had been more docile than we, and consequently had not been hit. They had, however, been gagged. Poor Delores was going to have to rewash all her panties. Still, other than a few raw spots where they had struggled against their ropes, they were both fit as fiddles.

  “I told you I was innocent!” Uncle Jonas crowed.

  “And I told you I didn’t steal the diary!”

  We hugged each other joyfully, which, given our similar genetic and religious backgrounds, is saying a lot. Inspired by our example, Diane and Delores hugged each other too. Unfortunately Delores’s exuberance got a little out of hand and I saw Diane wince.

  She touched her head gingerly. “Who would have thought it was Rudy?”

  “Not me!” I said.

  “Me either,” Uncle Jonas said. “Not until he barged in here waving that pistol.”

  Delores draped a wrinkled brown arm around Uncle Jonas’s shoulders. She had more liver spots than a leopard but obviously considered herself still in the game.

  “Well, I knew Jonas had nothing to do with this from the beginning. I don’t harbor criminals at my establishment.”

  I rolled my eyes but politely said nothing.

  Much to his credit, Uncle Jonas casually shrugged off Delores’s arm. “It was Rudy who stole the diary! Can you believe that? He was afraid something in there would incriminate him. But he was especially afraid of those letters Aaron dropped off this morning.”

  “Yes, the ones from Auntie Catherine to Auntie Rebecca.” I patted his arm. “I’m so sorry, Uncle Jonas. About Auntie Rebecca, I mean. I know she passed on a long time ago, but the fact that they found her just this morning has got to be hard on you.”

  He gently patted the hand that was patting his arm, and I took the hint and withdrew it. “You know,” he said, “now that we’ve got the real killer— all tied up, so to speak—I just want to put it all behind me. After a proper funeral, of course. It’s time to get on with my life.”

  “Indeed,” said Delores hopefully.

  I glared at her, as did Diane.

  “I only wish I hadn’t been so stubborn and told the two Aarons to stuff it when they were here. We could at least have had Sarah’s funeral this afternoon.”

  “We still could,” I said, brightening. “You weren’t supposed to know this, but we were going to go ahead and have a memorial service anyway. I don’t see any reason why we can’t turn that into a proper funeral for both.”

  “For both?” he asked. “Doesn’t there have to be some sort of official investigation?”

  “Well, like you said, we have the killer. It’s worth giving it a shot. Delores, where’s your phone?”

  Delores pointed. “Melvin Stoltzfus will never agree to this, Magdalena.”

  “But it makes sense!” Diane declared.

  “That’s my point.”

  I started to dial. “I have my ways.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Sarah Weaver and her mother got the dignified burial they deserved late Wednesday afternoon.

  That evening Jonas Weaver moved back into the PennDutch, desperate to escape the clutches of the vamp Delores. There was plenty of room now that the Gerbers had found other quarters—behind bars.

  Thursday and Friday passed in a blur. There were a million wedding details to be completed, but fortunately my soon-to-be family pitched in and helped where they could.

  Freni and Auntie Leah buried the hatchet and settled into a marathon cooking spree. Altogether two hundred and fifteen people had responded affirmatively to the post-wedding buffet dinner, but the two women got carried away and made enough food to feed three hundred—Mennonites, that is. Since a fair number of the guests were from other denominations, there was really enough food for four hundred.

  Auntie Lizzie never did apologize for her cutting remarks, but given her exquisite taste, I was thrilled when she volunteered to oversee the decorations. She recruited Aaron, who was a basket of nerves, and together they constructed a spectacular ribbon and floral gazebo in the side yard away from the barn.

  In all modesty, I have to say that Hernia had never seen the likes of anything this grand.

  Auntie Magdalena had no obvious talents, so I assigned her to housework. Unfortunately she had no talent there either, and Mama, with her white-glove test, would have been appalled with the results. Fortunately the reception was going to be outside. If any of the guests needed to relieve themselves, there was always the cornfield.

  As for the uncles, as long as they napped in the parlor, we left them alone.

  Thank goodness Susannah loved her job. She had taken off work for Sarah’s funeral, but the next morning was right back at it again. If she kept it up, she was bound to get an actual paycheck—her first. If that kept up, she might have to start paying taxes. Who knew, someday she might even move out on her own. The possibilities that life dangled before her were endless, and all because she had a way with colors.

  “I’m really good at it, Mags,” she said proudly to me. It was Friday night, after the rehearsal dinner, and I was just about to hop into bed and will myself to sleep.

  “That’s nice.”

  “No, I mean I’m really good. I won first prize in a contest they were running at work.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” I said kindly. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

  “But you’re getting married tomorrow,” she whined. “Let me tell you about it now.”

  I sighed. So what was a few minutes less sleep? I probably wasn’t going to sleep a wink anyway. I may as well be nice to my sister one last time as a single woman. Come tomorrow I would be a married woman, a matron. And not only that, I would be married to the most handsome man in six counties. I could afford to be generous.

  “Do tell, dear.”

  Susannah’s eyes glowed. “It’s your wedding present, Mags.”

  “What is?”

  “What I won in the contest. You’re going to love it!”

  “You won a Porsche?”

  She laughed gaily. “Don’t be so silly. I won a color book for you.”

  “But I have a hard time staying between the lines,” I said modestly.

  “Mags, you’re a hoot. I’m not talking about a coloring book; this is a color book. At Crazy Paints, Inc., a color book is like a new line. You know, one of those things that spreads out into a fan, with all the colors and their names on it.”

  “You named a color after me?” I was touched.

  “No, silly, I won the right to name the entire book of colors after you. It’s going to be called Magdalena Mania, and it will be available to distributors sometime this fall.
”

  I was stunned. I have tried to be a big sister, but undoubtedly I’ve failed more times than I’ve succeeded. Still, I must have done something right in a major way for Susannah to honor me so. Mama and Papa would both be proud.

  “Thanks, dear.” I gave Susannah a quick squeeze. Neither of us likes to get mushy with the other.

  She beamed. “I’m glad you like it, Mags. And you’re going to love the colors, I know. Of course I haven’t worked there long enough to be responsible for all their names, but some of the best ones are mine.”

  “Like what?” I asked. How easily I forget.

  She hopped up on my bed and settled back against the headboard. “Let’s see, there’s Wrinkle White, Decay Gray—”

  “What about Brutish blue?” I asked and whacked her with my pillow.

  I finally fell asleep around three a.m. By then the first hundred sheep I had counted had multiplied to the point that they were about to overrun Australia. When I awoke, I thought I was still sleeping and in the middle of a bad dream. Real life, I knew, couldn’t be that bad. It was raining!

  And I don’t mean drizzling, either. Or even just a nice steady rain. I mean a real frogstrangler. A gullywasher. I snapped on the radio.

  “... and the good news is that Bedford County residents won’t have to water their lawns this weekend.” The announcer chuckled mercilessly. “The bad news is that you can expect this stalled front to remain in place until the early part of next week. Our forecast for this period calls for steady rain, locally heavy at times. There is a flash flood watch for low-lying areas. My advice, folks—he chuckled again— “is to build an ark. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

  I snapped it off and peered out my bedroom window through the deluge. The ribbon and floral gazebo was in tatters. The ribbons hung in sodden clumps, the flower petals had long since washed away.

  I turned my eyes heavenward. “Mama, Papa, do something!” I wailed.

  Mama was always a fast worker, but I hadn’t expected the phone to ring immediately.

  “Magdalena, is that you?”

  “Mama?”

  “Don’t be silly. This is Lodema Schrock, your pastor’s wife. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  I clenched my free fist. “Spill it.”

  “Remember the wedding you were going to have here this afternoon?”

  Who did she think I was, Melvin’s identical twin sister? “Of course I remember. I’m the bride!”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to make other plans.”

  “If that skinny bucktoothed little windbag of a preacher has canceled my wedding for an afternoon of fly-fishing, he can cancel my membership,” I shouted into the receiver. “And I tithe!”

  It’s true. I give ten percent of my considerable income to the church. But if Rev. Schrock thought tying a fly was more important than tying a knot, I would be happy to give that ten percent to some other worthy cause.

  “Magdalena!” Lodema gasped.

  “And another thing. You really should stick to the notes in the hymnal, dear. Last Sunday it sounded like a band of raccoons were scampering across that keyboard.”

  “Why, I never!”

  “And neither will I,” I wailed, “unless I get married this afternoon.”

  “Then quit feeling sorry for yourself and think of a way,” Lodema snapped. “But whatever you do, let me know. If you’re going to bail out, I’m not going to bother pressing Michael’s suit pants until tomorrow morning.”

  “What? I thought the Reverend was off fly-fishing in West Virginia.”

  Lodema’s laugh sounded like a fistful of jacks in a jelly jar. “It’s raining there too. Michael’s with the rest of the men, trying to get that tree off the church roof.”

  “What tree?”

  “That old oak that used to stand between the church and the parsonage. All this rain was finally too much for it. It toppled over on the church about an hour ago.” The jacks rattled again. “I would offer to let you use the parsonage, but that band of scampering raccoons you mentioned has messed it all up.”

  “I’m terribly sorry about that,” I said quickly. I was, in fact. It is one thing to hold a reception for two hundred and fifteen people in one’s yard, but it’s quite another thing to cram that many into one’s house. Not to mention that the Beeftrust was far messier than any band of raccoons.

  “How sorry?”

  I racked my brain. “Enough to buy your pineapple upside-down cake at the next bake sale.”

  It was the wrong answer. Actually, it was the right answer, badly put. Lodema Schrock can’t give her cake away, a fact that has caused everyone in the women’s fellowship a great deal of embarrassment.

  “What I meant to say,” I sputtered, “is that I would be delighted to buy your cake if no one else wants it.”

  She hung up.

  I was married at 4:23 Saturday afternoon—in a barn. Because of the heavy rain only about fifty of the invited guests showed up. For the same reason, two uninvited guests showed up as well.

  “Really, Mags,” Susannah whined, “did you have to let the cows in? They’re animals!”

  I smiled bravely. “It’s their home, dear. But speaking of animals, where’s Shnookums?”

  “Why, in my room, of course! I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”

  I was tempted to frisk her, and might have done so, if Diane Lefcourt hadn’t started playing the introduction to “O Promise Me.” Of course I don’t keep a piano in my barn, but Diane, I learned, never travels anywhere without a harmonica. Apparently it was part of her act in the carnival.

  Suddenly Barbara Hostetler’s high soprano voice filled the air. Although the woman is certainly gifted, the acoustics in the bam left something to be desired. What would have sounded like the voice of an angel inside Beechy Grove Mennonite Church sounded instead like someone had stepped on Cyrus the cat. Freni, who was adjusting my veil, beamed.

  “Shame on you, Freni,” I chided her.

  Freni rolled her eyes, an unbecoming gesture on someone well into their golden years.

  “Remember,” I whispered to Susannah, “as soon as she begins singing the second verse, you start walking up the aisle.”

  Susannah patted my arm in a rare show of sisterly affection. “That isn’t an aisle, Mags. It’s a hay- covered barn floor.”

  I patted her in return. “Then be careful and walk slowly. This hay is slippery.”

  Barbara began the second verse, and my baby sister dutifully set out for the far side of the bam, where Aaron, his father, and Rev. Schrock waited. I am pleased to report that, for one of the few times in her life, Susannah was wearing a proper dress—one that had been sewn together with stitches. While this may sound like a victory for my side, let me assure you this was a compromise. Black is not an appropriate color for weddings.

  But then again, I suppose taste is in the eye of the beholder. There were those who advised me not to wear a full-length white bridal gown, on the grounds that I was of a “certain age.” An off-white or cream suit, they said, was far more appropriate. But I defied them. It was my wedding after all, and I was only going to have this one.

  The dress I chose would have made Princess Diana weep with envy, which is probably the real reason she stayed away. (Thanks anyway, for the sterling-silver escargot holders, Di.) My gown was white satin silk and floor length. The bodice was covered with literally hundreds of seed pearls, as was the hem of the full skirt. Under the skirt I had to wear three crinolines to give it shape. But my favorite thing of all was the train. It was an absolutely frivolous five yards of material, with no other purpose except to trail behind me, but it made me feel like a queen. Mama would never have permitted such an extravagance.

  Then came the big moment, the one I had been waiting for my entire life. Diane, bless her soul, hit the first note of the wedding march loud and clear.

  I took my first step down that makeshift aisle, the first step of the most important journey of my lif
e. Why, then, Mama, didn’t you somehow intervene and prevent me from planting the left heel of my new white pumps in a knothole on the barn floor? Was it because you were jealous of my happiness, Mama? Well, I hope it pleases you to know that what happened next was the most embarrassing moment of my life.

  Even now it is too painful to remember in any detail. Suffice it to say that my pump remained put while I hurtled forward. Freni, always a fast thinker but not particularly knowledgeable about English fashions, stepped on my train to hold me back. Unfortunately the train was not detachable from the skirt, but the skirt was detachable from the bodice. I continued my forward movement with my top intact, but having shed my skirt easier than a snake sheds its skin. Thank the good Lord I was at least wearing the three crinolines.

  Susannah heard me stumble and turned to help, but I waved her on. When faced with a situation like that, one has but two choices: find a hole large enough to crawl into or proceed with the greatest of dignity. Because the knothole was too small, I chose the latter. Aaron told me later that he had never been so proud of anyone or anything in his life. This supportive statement from my Pooky Bear almost made up for the rumors that have since circulated through the Mennonite grapevine that I got married in my skivvies. One particularly vicious wag way out in Indiana is supposed to have claimed that she saw me get married in the buff.

  “Why, I never!” Lodema Schrock gasped loudly as I passed her seat.

  “You wouldn’t have the guts,” Susannah said over her shoulder.

  As for the good Reverend, he didn’t as much as flicker an eyelash. Perhaps, as a man of the cloth, he had seen it all before, although quite probably his mind was off in West Virginia—fly-fishing. The service continued without any further hitches—until the next disaster.