by Tamar Myers
“The Butcher disappeared without a trace. However, the Scorpion left a short trail in Italy. I think he was murdered—I should say executed—by the Mafia. No doubt something to do with a money-laundering scheme gone awry.”
“And what about Achim, dear?” It was fun just saying the name.
“Now that’s a good one. He was kind of a big guy, but he ended up as a belly dancer in Newark. Went by the name of Fatima.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Well, Miss Yoder,” Bob said, eager to take over the reins again, “that’s all going to be water under the bridge soon. In a few years there won’t be any of us left—”
“Speak for yourself!” Marjorie Frost had placed a protective hand on her husband’s arm.
“No offense, little lady. It’s just that Frank there is—well—he’s my age, and I don’t plan on hanging around forever.
“We do,” Doris cooed and nuzzled her husband’s neck.
“Please, dear,” I said, “not at the table.”
“The truth is,” Jimmy said as his wife blissfully ignored me and nibbled her way up to her chubby hubby’s ears, “I consider myself lucky. No one in my family—on either side—has lived past sixty-five. Heart attacks on my father’s side, cancer on my mother’s.”
“Yeah, but Jimmy works out and watches what he eats,” Doris grunted, her mouth full of lobe.
“That’s true, babe, but I’m still going to die.”
“Then I’m going to die with you.” Doris ceased her naughty nibbling long enough to look pointedly at Marjorie. “Jimmy and I are only six weeks apart.”
“Well, my Frank is in better shape than any of you,” Marjorie said, her eyes blazing. “He’ll live to be a hundred and ten.”
“And how old will you be then, dear?” I asked pleasantly. “Thirty?”
“I’m twenty-four, and Frank’s seventy-six. I already told you that!”
Dixie Montgomery cocked her large, pleasant head. “It’s hard for the young to accept death,” she said, in her charming Minnesota accent.
“I have no problem with death,” Marjorie practically screamed. “It’s you old fossils that drive me crazy.”
Clearly it was time for me to intervene, and trust me, it is something I’m quite skilled at. “Please, dear,” I said to eager Bob, “regale us with more of your war stories.”
Bob beamed. “Be happy to, ma’am. Did I mention—” The doorbell rang and I nodded at Sam to get it. He responded immediately, which was no surprise, because he had been butling beautifully all evening. To think that I had been missing out on such service all these years... perhaps if I offered him Susannah’s room, now that she was moving in with Melvin—she was moving out, wasn’t she? My heart raced. My sister hadn’t said a thing about that. Still, they couldn’t possibly be thinking of him moving in here! Susannah knows that Melvin gets under my skin like a chigger in June, and that if he were to move in I would surely kill him and end up you-know- where. There is no shortage of double beds in that place. Even a few triples, I’ve heard. That would of course appeal to Susannah, but...
“Magdalena,” Sam whispered in my ear, “that woman is here to see you.”
I shook my head to clear my brain of cobwebs. “Which woman?”
“The one who meddles.”
“You mean Freni’s back?”
“Ach, not her. The Mennonite preacher’s wife.”
“Ach!” I squawked. “Lodema Schrock?”
Sam nodded soberly.
Twelve
“Please,” I begged, “let’s go into the parlor. It’s so much more comfortable than standing here in the foyer.”
“Comfort is but a worldly illusion,” Lodema snapped. The woman should know. She looks like she’s never been comfortable a day in her life. Although only in her early fifties, our pastor’s wife could pass for his mother—except that Reverend Schrock’s mother is really much prettier. Lodema has a hard, pinched look about her that can be obtained only through extreme suffering or by religious zeal.
“Oh, no, dear, my furniture is quite real. After the tornado, I replaced all that stark wooden furniture of Mama’s with upholstered pieces. I even have a sofa now.”
“Soft furniture, for soft minds. It will only lead to laziness and idle hands, and as we all know, idle hands are the devil’s playground.”
I clasped my hands as if in prayer. “Well, perhaps we could step outside then.”
“It’s chilly out there, Magdalena. Do you want me to catch my death of cold?”
I bit my tongue.
“So, what is this I hear about you harboring criminals?” I rearranged my size elevens into a more comfortable stance. I was going to need that sofa when Lodema left.
“There aren’t any criminals here—not to my knowledge, at any rate.”
“I’ve heard otherwise. I’ve heard they’re hardened killers—the lot of them.”
I small sigh escaped me. “They’re war veterans, dear. Heroes.”
“But they’ve killed other men, right? And women and children, too?”
I rocked slowly on my heels. “I didn’t ask them for a body count.”
“No, of course not. You wouldn’t. If their money is green, you’ll take it, right?”
“The Bible tells us not to judge, dear.”
“Magdalena, you are a Mennonite. All your ancestors were either Mennonite or Amish. Do you know what that means?”
“That I have fifty percent fewer genes than the average American?”
“It means that we are pacifists,” she hissed. “We shouldn’t have anything to do with the warring English.” The Amish may refer to outsiders as English, but we Mennonites seldom, if ever, do. But somehow, Lodema Schrock—perhaps because she is the pastor’s wife—has elevated herself to a higher level of exclusivity without having to make the accompanying sacrifices.
I gave Lodema’s pinched hardness the once-over. “Those cheap plastic combs you wear in your bun are from Walmart. Ditto for your faux turtleshell eyeglass frames. And that dress you’re wearing isn’t homespun, is it? Looks more like polyester. And those leatherette shoes—where did you get them? Payless? Chances are they were made by the English in China—”
“Okay, I get your point. Just don’t blame me if something terrible happens this week in Hernia.”
“I won’t.”
“Because something evil is going to happen. I can feel it in my bones.”
“It’s probably just a touch of arthritis, dear.”
“And I’m not talking about that so-called wedding that your sister is having Wednesday.”
“Oh?”
“It won’t count in God’s eyes, Magdalena—you do realize that, don’t you? In the Lord’s eyes your sister will be an adulteress.”
That did it. Susannah might be the bane of my existence—well, Freni aside—but she is my baby sister. No one has the right to say anything critical about her except for me. And who was Lodema to tell me that God would disapprove of Susannah’s second marriage? The woman’s husband was doing the knot tying, for pete’s sake.
“Tell that to your husband, the reverend,” I said.
“Oh, Reverend Schrock will not be officiating. You can be sure of that.”
“Of course he will. Susannah might have defected to the Presbyterians, but that was years ago, and she’s learned her lesson since then. Besides, Melvin is still a Mennonite—well, loosely speaking.”
Lodema Schrock’s smirk can spoil milk. “That may be so, but the reverend is out of town.”
“That’s silly. I saw him at church yesterday.”
“But that was then, and this is now, like the young folks say today. No, I’m afraid the reverend is off flyfishing in West Virginia until Friday.”
“But he can’t be! Susannah is getting married Wednesday out at Elvina Stoltzfus’s place. Just ask anybody. Ask Freni Hostetler!”
The smirk swelled, becoming a full-fledged grin. “There’s no need to ask anybody. I already know about the so-
called minister your sister has lined up.”
“Oh, Susannah brought in a woman minister? Well, there’s nothing wrong with female clergy, dear—”
“Oh, this one’s a woman, all right, but she’s definitely not clergy.”
“Then what is she? The pope’s pajamas?”
“She’s Diana Lefcourt.”
My heart sank into my stomach, which in turn sagged until it bumped against my knees. “The same Diana Lefcourt who changed her name to Sister Anjelica Houston?”
“The very one.”
“Who heads a commune in Bedford called Convent of the Broken Heart? That Sister Anjelica Houston?”
“Yes, except now she goes by the title Mother Anjelica Houston.”
“Oh.” There was nothing else to say. Diana Lefcourt, a.k.a. Mother Anjelica Houston, is to New Age religion what Shirley MacLaine is to we Mennonites. She’s so far out on that limb that there’s nothing left to cling to but twigs and leaves. Diana actually believes she is able to call forth into the present, via channeling, the very person of Pharaoh Tutankhamen. It started out as a scam, but tragically progressed far beyond that. Now, not only does Diana swallow her own bunk, but she bunks with the buried. That is to say, on those nights she’s not Mother Anjelica Houston, Diana sleeps in a sarcophagus.
“Even you wouldn’t approve of a marriage performed by that nutcase, now would you, Magdalena?”
I humbly mumbled something.
“What was that? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.”
“I said I’d talk to her, dear.”
“You do that. The Good Lord knows that girl would be so much better off if only she had a proper mother.”
“She’s in her mid-thirties,” I wailed. “You can’t accuse me of child neglect.”
“Just the same, if your mother was still alive, your sister would not be getting married by the high priestess of some satanic cult.”
I avoided Lodema’s taunting eyes. “You’ve made your point, dear. Now if you’ll just skedaddle, I have guests to attend to.”
“Magdalena, are you giving me the bum’s rush?”
“Truer words were never spoken, dear.” I gave her the gentlest of pushes.
“Why, I never! Just wait until the Mennonite Women’s Sewing Circle hears about this.”
They say that the best defense is a good offense, and I can be quite offensive if I put my mind to it. “Believe me, they will hear about this—from me. You see, I have a phone right here, and you, dear, don’t have a cellular phone. By the time you get home everyone in the circle is going to know about your visit—and that of your dear friend, Lady Marion.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know anyone by that name.”
“Formula number twelve—Peach Bark, I believe the color is called.”
Lodema stifled a gasp. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do, dear. Under those cheap plastic combs of yours is a mop of hair that hasn’t been its true color for years. What is the true color, dear? Asphalt gray?”
“Why, I never!”
“Sure you do, dear. What is the schedule? Once every six weeks or so?”
Lodema’s hands flew to her head. “How did you know? Are my roots showing?”
I leaned closer. “Why, yes they are.”
She turned the color of her hair, which was more the color of cigar ash. “You—you—won’t tell anyone, will you?”
“That depends, dear. Can you get Reverend Schrock back in Hernia by Wednesday?”
The ashes lightened. “He fishes in the mountains, Magdalena. In wilderness. I really have no idea where he is or how to reach him.”
It occurred to me that my pastor might possibly be partying in Parkersburg. No, that was on the Ohio River. More likely, he was in the mountains—the Reverend is smart enough to stick close to the truth—and was having a highland fling with a lass with even fewer forebears than I. Of course, I kept my suspicions to myself. There is no point in wasting ammunition, after all.
“Doesn’t your husband usually fish with Hugh Gingerich?”
“That’s who he’s with now, but—”
“Give Hugh’s wife a call, dear,” I said, giving her an-other gentle push. “Maybe she knows, and even if she doesn’t, she might have some clues that the two of you could piece together. If Reverend Schrock ties Susannah’s knot, not a word about the devil’s dye will pass these lips.”
Lodema can move pretty fast for a woman with half a century under her belt.
Speaking of women in their golden years, that night I dreamed Freni came crawling back to me on her hands and knees. I mean that literally. She was even wearing garden knee pads and gloves. I should have known it was all a dream when Freni not only apologized for leaving me in the lurch, but offered to lick my muddy shoes. After all, I never wear muddy shoes.
At any rate, I guess I had Freni on my brain when I went to sleep. Sam had been the perfect butler and had even helped me wash the dishes afterward, but he moved at half the speed of Freni. The gangly Marjorie had tried to pitch in, but after she broke her third plate, I kindly showed her to the kitchen door. Samantha went straight to her room after supper, and as for the others—well, if that new sofa in the parlor sprung a spring, someone was going to pay. So, I guess I’m going to have to come right out and say it: There is no one on God’s green earth quite as efficient as Freni Augusta Hostetler.
“Lick the left one a little more,” I instructed kindly. “Up along the tongue.”
“Ach!”
“I don’t know what the big deal is, dear. You licked my right one until it sparkled.”
“For shame, Magdalena! How you talk!”
I opened one eye, which by rights should already have been opened. Cautiously I opened the other eye. Binocular vision only confirmed Freni’s presence. Indeed, my squat bulky cousin was sitting on the bed, just inches from my face.
I popped up faster than a jack-in-the-box. “Freni! What on earth are you doing in my bedroom? And what in heaven’s name are you doing on my bed?”
“Ach, I was just trying to wake you up. You’re like a bear in hydration.”
“That’s hibernation, dear, and that still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
“Me? Explain? It’s you who should explain, Magdalena.”
“I don’t think so, dear. You’re the one who was fired, and now it seems you’ve stooped to breaking and entering.”
“Ach! I quit before I was fired, so that doesn’t count. And I didn’t break anything, Magdalena.”
“That’s a legal expression—it deals with trespassing.”
“Ach! Me trespassing? I was here when you were born, Magdalena. Right in this room, right in this bed!”
“Well technically, dear, it wasn’t this room. After the tornado—”
“But it was this bed, Magdalena. And I remember it like it was yesterday. Your mama was a skinny thing like you with no hips to speak of. Ach, you should have heard her scream—like a sow being led to the butcher stand. ‘Push,’ I kept telling her. ‘Push harder.’ But it was thundering and lightning so bad, she couldn’t even hear me. Of course, I could hear her. Rachel Kreider said your mama’s screams put the cows off milking for three weeks. But what could I do? We were alone in the house—just your mama and me—”
“And me.”
“Yah, and you. Your papa, you see, had gone off to get the proper midwife, and old Doc Shaffor—well, his wife had just died and he was—ach, such a shame to say it—”
“In his cups?”
Freni frowned. “He was drunk, Magdalena.”
“So he was, dear,” I said graciously. “Go on.”
“So what was I to do? ‘Freni,’ I said to myself, ‘what would your Mose do if he was here, and not off buying horses in Lancaster?’ Then I remembered that pincher thing.”
“Mama’s food tongs?”
“Yah. Mose uses big ones just like that when he births horses. So, I ran to the kitchen to get the pi
nchers and when I got back, there you were, lying on the bed—all eight and a half pounds of you—and screaming even louder than your mama.”
I must have heard the story a million times, but it never failed to warm the cockles of my heart. “And wasn’t I just the cutest thing?”
“Ach, such a red, wrinkled face! Like a shriveled apple.”
“But a very large apple, right?”
“Yah, a very large, shriveled apple. So, Magdalena, do you want your breakfast now?”
“What?”
“I could serve it to you in bed, even.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Buckwheat pancakes—real maple syrup, of course— melon, and some delicious fried SPAM® luncheon meat.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Mama always said it was a sin to eat in bed, and if I remember correctly, you always agreed.”
“Sin, shmin, what your mama doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”
I braced myself against the hard, wooden headboard of Granny’s bed. If American scientists could harness the energy created when Mama rolls over in her grave, we would never again be made impotent by Middle Eastern potentates. This time, however, I didn’t feel as much as a quiver. Perhaps it was lunchtime in Heaven.
Freni noticed the uncommon stillness too, and took advantage of it. “Your mama, rest her soul, was always too hard on you. Give my Magdalena a break, I used to say. You remember all those times I stuck up for you, yah?”
“No.”
“No? Well, maybe I should have. But you were always a queer bird, Magdalena—but a nice queer bird. Don’t get me wrong.”
“Aha, I get it! Freni, you’re playing the sycophant, aren’t you?”
“I am doing no such thing! I feel perfectly well, Magdalena. Here, feel my forehead.”
“You just want your job back, that’s why you’re being so nice.”
“Ach, is that such a terrible thing to want?”
“You tell me, dear. I thought I was impossible to work for.”
Freni gulped. She was still wearing her black traveling bonnet, and I could see the bow bob under her chin.
“Ach, I—”
The loud rap at the door was sure to summon Mama back from lunch.
