by Tamar Myers
“Even so, Bob likes them young. Heather, now she can’t be a day over twenty-one, and Angie, well, I have things in the back of my fridge that are older than her.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said kindly. Frankly, I was flattered that Bob had deemed me young enough to be his playmate—I mean, teammate.
Bob, however, was clearly taken aback. “You know about Heather and Angie? Why haven’t you said anything?”
Sandy shrugged. “Emil helps take my mind off things,” she said to me in a low, conspiratorial voice. Apparently, it wasn’t low enough.
“Who the hell is Emil?”
“I don’t allow swearing on these premises!” This time tines touched tissue.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but Bob Hart knew even more swear words than his wife. I poked him into submission and turned to Sandy.
“Do tell, dear.” Now, lest you judge me, I must hasten to say that yes, Jimmy Carter was right, it is a sin to lust in one’s heart. But I can find nothing in my Bible that says it’s a sin to listen to the lust of others.
Sandy sat back in chair and smiled. “If Bobby can have his bimbos, then I can have my boytoy. Right, Miss Yoder?”
“What’s good for the gander is good for the goose, dear.” I wasn’t condoning her behavior, mind you, since geese of both sexes seldom die of natural causes on my farm.
“Yeah, you hear that, Bobby? Miss Yoder here sees things my way.”
“Not hardly dear. For one thing—”
Bob Hart held his elbows clamped against his sides, but his gaze was on me. “You see what you’ve done?”
"Me?"
“I told you she was ill, Miss Yoder.”
Sandy stood, and in the process managed to knock over Samantha’s water glass. Although perturbed, the petite pianist was apparently far too polite to protest—although perhaps she was simply afraid.
“And that’s another thing,” Sandy screamed. “You’re always telling people that I’m ill. Well, there is nothing wrong with me! I am not a manic-depressive. You’re the one with the problem, not me.”
“Shut up, Sandy.”
“Don’t you tell me to shut up! I want everyone here to know that—”
“They are invited to a party tonight!” Trust me, I can scream louder than Sandy. When you’re five foot ten, your lungs are like boats.
“A party tonight?” someone echoed. I think it was Dixie Montgomery, because I heard traces of that delightful Minnesota accent.
“That’s right, a party. My sister Susannah is getting married tomorrow, and tonight’s the celebratory bash.” It would serve Susannah right to have a bunch of senior citizens crash her party. Besides, my guests, who had for the most part been transfixed by the domestic discord, needed a new and even bigger diversion.
“Ooh, Cuddle Buns,” Doris cooed obscenely to her tubby teddy, “a Mennonite party! Doesn’t that seem like fun?”
Sandy sat. “Will there be buggy rides?”
I looked meaningfully at Sam, who had been lurking quietly in a corner. While it’s not true that a glance from me can turn small animals into stone—Mama’s could, you know—some of my stronger stares have produced remarkable results.
“Yah, buggy rides,” Sam said, shaking his head.
“I forget what they call it,” Doris said, disengaging herself from her hubby for the purpose of illustration, “but will they throw us up in the air and catch us on a quilt?”
“That’s the Eskimos, dear, and I believe they use walrus hides.” I kindly refrained from pointing out that anyone throwing a seventy-year-old, overweight woman into the air had best catch her on an ambulance stretcher.
“Horseshoes,” Scott said, his accent just as charming as his wife’s. “I hope they play horseshoes. I haven’t had a chance to play in years.”
“Scott was the state champion back in 1956,” Dixie added proudly.
“My Frank was the Missouri state champion in 1956 and 1958,” Marjorie said in a less charming accent, although she did have a strong, clear voice.
Dixie nodded. “That’s right. I remember. Scott and Frank played against each other in the nationals.”
Marjorie turned to her husband. “You did? You never mentioned that. Who won?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Sandy sniffed, “that would have been before your time.”
“Way before,” Doris said and giggled.
“I won,” Frank said. I do believe those were the first words I’d heard him utter since checking in the day before.
“You did? Honey, that’s wonderful. How come you never told me that?”
“Because he cheated,” Dixie said. You might think it impossible to sound vehement in that lovely lilt, but believe me, it isn’t.
I was running out of diversions. “Well, now, are we all ready to begin the search?”
“What search?” Marjorie asked.
“Honestly,” Sandy said, “doesn’t your husband tell you anything?”
I tapped on my water glass with my knife. The fact that I got melted butter and maple syrup on the glass did little to improve my mood.
“Breakfast is over, dears. Now go to your rooms, brush your teeth—do whatever you need to do—and meet me in the parlor in half an hour. Just make sure your beds are made and your rooms are swept first.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sandy snapped. “She’s treating us like we’re children, instead of paying guests. Bobby, do something.”
“She’s magnificent,” her husband mumbled.
“What did you say?”
The hedgerows rose to new heights in mock surprise. “I didn’t say anything, hon.”
“Yes, you did.”
I tapped on my glass again. “The last one to leave this room gets to wash the dishes. And I mean it.”
The room cleared in record time. Even Sam made himself as scarce as pearls around an Amish neck.
When I was quite alone, I loaded up my plate with another stack of pancakes and a couple slices of delicious fried SPAM® luncheon meat. After all, it is a sin to skimp on breakfast since that is the first meal Adam and Eve ate in the Garden of Eden. Okay, so maybe I don’t have any proof of that, but neither is there any proof to the contrary. At any rate, what I should have done was gone back to bed and pulled the covers up over my head.
Fourteen
I ate fourteen pancakes. This is not something I do on a regular basis, but Sam’s were the lightest, fluffiest pancakes I’d ever set teeth in. Plus, the man had the audacity to serve freshly churned butter and genuine maple syrup that had been heated and was still warm at the time of the grand exodus. I was feeling satiated, to put it politely, when the doorbell rang.
“Sam!” I yelled. How quickly one acclimates to luxury.
Alas, Sam was not forthcoming. After an irksome number of rings I waddled to the door and jerked it open.
“Yes?”
“Yoder!”
I stared at the repulsive face of my nemesis. That fact that he was just hours’ away from becoming my sister’s husband did nothing to mitigate my feelings of revulsion. All right, so the Bible tells us not to hate, but it says little about loathing.
You’d loathe Melvin too, if you knew him like I do. The man is a snide, arrogant, know-it-all who, like many of this ilk, actually knows very little at all. The only thing Melvin Stoltzfus excels at is getting under people’s skin. Even if the Gypsy story isn’t true, I know for a fact that
Elvina Stoltzfus took her son to Pittsburgh and tried to lose him on the subway. Unfortunately, the city only has one line and for half the distance the train is above ground. Well, so much for last year’s plan. Maybe Susannah will come up with something better this year.
“Hey, Yoder, you know that when you gawk like that, with your mouth wide open and everything, you look just like a turkey on a hot day? You even have those wattles under your neck.”
The reasonable part of me wanted to slam the door in Melvin’s face and pretend the wind did it. “This better be offi
cial business, dear.”
“Oh, it’s official, all right. I’m here to arrest you for the murder of Irma Yoder.”
I belched in astonishment. The mantis never ceases to amaze me.
“Does your keeper know you’ve figured out the trick to unlocking your cage door, dear?”
“Yoder, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right—”
“To call the wedding off!” I wailed.
He didn’t exactly push his way inside, because I backed up voluntarily. The man has the hygiene habits of a hyena.
“Yoder, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.” Not having an electric cattle prod handy, there was nothing I could do but scoot around and close the door. It was still chilly out and there was no need to heat up all of Bedford County.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to try and make some sense,” I said, exhibiting the patience of a saint. “And that’s only out of consideration for my baby sister.” Melvin’s eyes function independently, like the shopping cart wheels at Sam’s Corner Market. His left eye, which is considerably larger than his right, appeared to focus on my face.
“Well, you were right, Yoder—of course you would be, you’re the one who made the call.”
“Right about what?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“Spill it, knucklehead!” I screamed. “What was I right about?”
I know this may strike you as sacrilegious, but if Melvin had been alive in Jesus’ day—okay, maybe that’s going too far. But surely Ghandi would have grabbed a gun and added a few more holes to Melvin’s cranial collection.
No doubt you are wondering how Melvin ever managed to get the job of police chief in the first place. Well, the answer is simple: No one else wanted the job. Besides, having a public official we can all legitimately hate has been the greatest unifying force our little town could possibly have. And barring a war on American soil, or some horrible natural disaster, we really don’t need someone more competent. So we tend to think of our police chief as a malevolent but manageable plague. Outside of this, there are actually a few good things that Melvin does for the community, but I don’t have time to think of them now.
Melvin took so long to answer my question that even Mother Teresa, God rest her soul, would have tried to strangle his scrawny, insectile neck. The Good Lord knows I had my hands poised and ready.
“Somebody finally got to Old Irma. But why am I wasting my breath?”
I gasped. “You found her body?”
“Of course not, Yoder. You’re too clever. No corpus, no habeus.”
I sighed. “Yes, dear, I remember. You flunked Latin in high school. So you didn’t find a body. What makes you think somebody did her in?”
The left eye drifted, its gaze replaced by its smaller companion. “The blood. Yoder, how careless can you get?”
“Pretty careless, dear. I accidentally let you in, didn’t I? Now what’s this about blood? Strubbly Sam didn’t say anything about that.”
“You left blood on the kitchen faucet handles, Yoder. I got me a sample and I’m sending it in to Harrisburg. I should have the results back in three days. Now, if you’ll just cooperate and give me a sample of your blood—”
I took a menacing, un-Mennonite step forward. “You want blood?”
Melvin took a Stoltzfus step backward. “Why did you do it, Yoder?”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“Don’t even try to deny it, Yoder. Both Mishler brothers say they saw your car parked in Irma’s driveway Sunday morning. Both brothers, Yoder. And as we all know, you’re the only one in Hernia with a red BMW.”
“Which proves nothing. I was offering the woman a ride to church.”
“Ha! She has her own car, Yoder.”
“That she does. But a few of us are trying to see to it that she drives it as little as possible. The woman drives like a blind teenager on steroids. She’s clipped more mailboxes than Freni’s clipped coupons.”
Melvin smirked. “Yeah, she helps me meet my ticket quota.”
“Melvin, why do you do this to me? Why do you constantly accuse me of things you know I haven’t done? Of things that haven’t even been done?”
Melvin’s mandibles moved silently for a full minute before the first sound escaped his lipless mouth. “Because you always have an answer.”
“I do?”
“I’m only going to say this once, Yoder, but you’re kind of smart.”
“What did you just say?” I longed to sit, but the nearest chair was behind the check-in counter, and legs weren’t going to carry me that far.
For just an instant both of Melvin’s eyes met mine. “You’re like the big sister I never had.”
“Expound, dear.” The brother I never had would have been nothing like Melvin.
“You always have the answers, Yoder. It’s like you think, or something. Anyway, I just know I can always come to you for help.”
“Is that what you call it? Accusing me of murdering a centenarian?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Yoder. I didn’t say anything about a Roman soldier.”
“Let me get this straight, dear. Your asinine accusations are merely your way of asking me for help?”
“This man has his pride, Yoder.”
“If only this woman had a can of Raid. Melvin, you’re pathetic, you know that?”
He actually hung his monstrous head in shame. For the first time ever I felt sorry for him, not just sorry that I knew him.
“Yoder, you’ll help me, won’t you?”
Okay, as a Christian woman it is behooving to me to be totally honest, so I will confess that for a mere nanosecond I had the impulse to clasp his carapace to my scrawny bosom and give him the love Elvina obviously had not. Thank the Good Lord the impulse passed so quickly.
“Yeah, I’ll help you.”
“You will?” Both eyes rotated upwards in their sockets and I knew he could see my face even though his nose was pointed directly at the floor.
“But you have to agree to let me be in charge.”
“Agreed.”
“I mean totally in charge.”
“Uh—okay.”
“Great. Now go home, Melvin, and get ready for tonight’s party, not to mention your wedding.”
The huge head lifted slowly. “I can’t do that. I mean, someone needs to keep an official eye on things.”
“Then our deal is off—you’re on your own. Swivel those orbs any direction you want, just not on me.”
“Okay, Yoder, I’m going.” He took a single step backward.
“Then be gone!”
“You drive a hard bargain, Yoder.” Two more steps and he was almost to the door.
“Look, Melvin, we don’t know what happened to Old Irma. Maybe she cut her thumb making breakfast, or maybe that’s blood from a piece of meat. At any rate, I have a search party organized and—”
“You do? Wow, Yoder, I have to hand it to you. You’re really on the ball.”
“Thanks, dear.” There was no need to tell my numb-skull nemesis that a guest of mine was missing as well, was there? After all, omitting information is not a sin.
Just pick your Bible if you don’t believe me. There is plenty missing from that book.
I could tell by the way his arms were twitching that Melvin was coming dangerously close to hugging me. Since I would sooner dance naked in downtown Hernia, I gave him a helpful push and slammed the door behind him.
The next thing I did was dial Lodema. Thankfully, she answered on the first ring.
“Reverend, is that you? It better be, because I have an emergency on my hands. I probably don’t need to tell you that it involves that old spinster, Magdalena. Big Magdalena, that is.”
Of all things! Who would have guessed that the pastor’s wife addressed him by his title in the privacy of their own home? My shock rendered me temporarily speechless. For the first time in months I could hear my heart pound.
“Reverend, are those bongos I
hear in the background? Look, Reverend, you better not be up in Pittsburgh at your mama’s house. I’ve told you a million times I won’t stand for a mama’s boy.”
I kindly hung up and dialed again. “This is Magdalena,” I said before Lodema had a chance to blink, much less speak. “I need your help.”
“What? Magdalena, did you just call?”
“Don’t be silly, Lodema. Did you get in touch with your husband?”
“Yes and no.”
“I don’t have time for riddles, dear. Pick an answer— just make sure it’s the right one.”
“Well, he’s not at the motel where he said he’d be staying, but I think he rang just a minute ago. Your call must have disconnected us.”
“Think again, dear. We’re part of the Bedford calling area now, and it’s all computerized. Did you check with Esther Gingerich?”
“Hugh didn’t go fishing,” Lodema said in a tiny little-girl voice. “He has the flu.”
“Oh. Well, that’s too bad, I’m sure.” Now that was a lie. But an understandable lie, of course. You see, after my bogus marriage to the bigamist Aaron became public knowledge, Hugh had been one of my most vocal detractors. If Hugh had had his way, I’d still be picking feathers out of my teeth and scrubbing tar from between my toes.
“Is that all you wanted, Magdalena? To nag me about getting the reverend home in time for your sister’s wedding? Well, I’m doing my best. It’s not my fault he gave me the wrong motel phone number.”
“Of course not, dear. And I didn’t call just to nag. You are a multifaceted woman, after all. I thought we might explore another facet of you.”
“Now who’s speaking in riddles? Get off the phone, Magdalena. The reverend might be trying to call.”
“Okay, but I need to ask you a quick question.”
“You can buy formula number twelve at Sam Yoder’s Corner Market. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“This has nothing to do with hair dye, dear. It’s about Irma Yoder. Old Irma.”
“What about her?”
“How well do you know her?”
Lodema’s sigh rustled the thin blond hairs on my arm. “The woman has a tongue that could slice Swiss. You don’t want to get on her bad side. I can tell you that.”
