by Tamar Myers
When we got to the gorge everyone tumbled out except for Susannah. I suppose that was just as well, since getting her resituated would have been too time consuming, but still, I worried for Peggy’s sake. The overlook for the gorge is a long way from the parking lot, and we barely knew Susannah. Any woman who can transform herself from a waitress into an unwrapped mummy within minutes is undoubtedly capable of hot-wiring a car.
The gorge was indeed breathtaking and well worth the stop, but needless to say I was relieved to see the white Lincoln Town car right where we had left it. Susannah, however, was gone.
10
There is a small museum with an information desk at New River Gorge, and we did a thorough search of it, including the men’s room. The latter was Peggy’s idea, as you might have guessed, and totally unnecessary. When Wynnell asked the girl at the information desk if she’d seen someone answering Susannah’s description, we were immediately handed a note. Actually it was a length of toilet tissue with a lipstick message in two colors.
“She said to give you this.”
I took the paper from her with the tips of two fingernails. “She say anything else?”
“No, but I can tell you what happened. I was just getting off my break when you guys pulled up. I saw the rest of you head to the overlook. Just about a minute later this Jaguar pulls up with this real handsome guy in it. About five minutes later she comes inside, goes into the bathroom, and comes out with that.” She pointed to the tissue. “You can bet she rode off with him.”
“Do you know which direction they went?”
“South. The Jaguar had Florida plates. You wouldn’t believe though some of the things I’ve seen working this job. Like one time—”
I thanked her politely and reluctantly called the number Susannah had left. I placed the call from a pay phone that had seen better days and the reception left something to be desired.
“PennDutch Inn,” a less than cheery voice answered.
“Hello. My name is Abby—”
“Abby Van Buren?” The voice was suddenly ebullient.
“No, Abby Timberlake.”
“Ach, I should have thought of that. Just like your sister’s real name isn’t Ann Landers.”
“I don’t have a sister, ma’am—”
“That’s all right, I understand. There are people around you, right? Believe me, I know all about that. Here at the PennDutch we are used to celebrities. So, Abby, you got my letter?”
I was on the verge of hanging up. The static sounded like someone was running an electric razor over a high school gymnasium microphone. But something—call it gut instinct—told me this woman would somehow figure prominently in the drama that was my life.
“Do you have a sister named Susannah?” I asked.
“Of course. That was in the letter, wasn’t it? I tell you Abby, that woman drives me crazy. If I hadn’t promised Mama and Papa”—she was drowned out by the static for a few seconds—“so you see, all I can do is take one day at a time.”
“That’s all anyone can do,” I said. “That, and don’t sweat the small stuff.”
“Ach,” she said, “you are so wise.”
I am ashamed to admit what happened next. I can assure you it never would have happened if I hadn’t been cheated at an auction, had my mother run off to a convent, had my picture found in the wallet of a dead man, and found my underage children boozing it up in their grandma’s house. It was the stress that broke this camel’s back and made me take advantage of a simple Mennonite woman with a lap full of problems of her own.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any vacancies in your inn?” I asked.
“Well, normally—but Dear Abby, of course I’ll find a room.”
“What are your rates, dear?”
“Ach, for you, nothing.”
“I have three friends with me.”
“Hmm. Do you mind sharing a room with your staff?”
“No,” I said, and hoped that Mama would say an extra prayer for me that night in her cell.
We made good time getting to Bedford, Pennsylvania, but had a devil of a time finding Hernia. Peggy had directions in her guidebook but they were about as clear as tomato soup. That portion of Pennsylvania is traversed by parallel ridges and the roads run between them. For some reason—and I do not take responsibility just because I was the navigator—we were always one ridge away from Hernia. When we finally found the town we realized that we had driven through it at least two times already. Apparently we blinked.
So it was well after dark when we pulled into the gravel drive that leads to the inn. The lights on the front porch were burning, and I could see a row of rocking chairs just like at the Cracker Barrel. In each of the tall, narrow windows light bulbs masqueraded as candles. The inn looked cozy and inviting.
“What a dump,” Peggy said. “I can’t believe people spend hundreds of dollars a night just to sleep in an old farmhouse.”
“It’s the atmosphere,” Wynnell said sleepily.
“Lord have mercy!” C. J. cried. “This looks just like my granny’s farm near Shelby.”
Peggy craned her neck, studying the cars in the small parking lot. “None of them have California plates. I don’t think Brad Pitt is here. Or Tom Selleck either.”
I gave her a comforting pat and turned in my seat. “Now, remember what I told y’all. Susannah’s sister—Miss Yoder—thinks I’m you-know-who. Y’all promise not to give me away, right?”
“Right,” they chorused. They may as well have been ten-year-olds promising to brush their teeth at camp.
I was understandably nervous as I led my troop up the walk and to the door. I hesitated before ringing the doorbell and just as I got up the nerve, the door swung open and a woman in Amish-looking clothes greeted us.
“Welcome to the PennDutch,” she said. “I’m Magdalena Yoder. I’d prefer it if you call me Magdalena.”
I gazed up at her with the awe I reserve for those people who extend through several climate zones. But not only was Magdalena tall, she was angular as a geometry problem and sported a nose that would have made an eagle proud. This aquiline proboscis was all the more prominent thanks to her hairstyle, which featured muskrat brown hair pulled severely back from the face and knotted in a bun. And to be perfectly honest, she suffered from a deficit of chin.
Her clothes fit her physiognomy. A plethora of tiny pleats gave structure to her dark blue dress, which fell midway between her ankles and her knees. Her black leather shoes were the kind of lace-up pumps I remember Granny Wiggins wearing when I was a little girl, and which I thought had long gone the way of smelling salts and lavender bath powders. Yet despite this somewhat harsh description, she was not unattractive. Her dark eyes were full of life.
I extended my hand. “Hi. I’m Abby.”
The dark eyes flickered. “You really should have a new picture taken, dear. The one in the paper doesn’t do you justice.”
“Bad hair day,” I mumbled.
She nodded and gestured to my friends. “Your staff?”
I sheepishly introduced Wynnell as my personal assistant, Peggy as my chauffeur, and C. J. as my hairdresser. Those were only white lies, mind you, and therefore not prohibited by the Big Ten. Besides, Wynnell has at times brought in my mail and made me tea, and I once allowed C. J. to streak my hair. The Peggy part was, of course, the gospel truth.
If Magdalena saw through our little deception, she didn’t let on. She proudly ushered us in and immediately commenced with the fifty-cent tour. She even introduced us to several of the guests, none of whom I recognized—although Peggy later told me that the tall skinny woman with frizzy blond hair was a famous mystery writer. I remembered then having read some of her books, and they were really pretty good.
I must say that I agreed with Peggy’s initial assessment. If I’m going to shell out an amount equivalent to my monthly mortgage payment for a single night’s lodging, I want some bang for my buck. The PennDutch Inn, however, didn’t even pop. It w
as just as plain as the proprietress. No private Jacuzzis, no big screen TVs. It didn’t even have a gym.
But the furniture, now that was another story. I had never seen such a handsome collection of seventeenth-and eighteenth-century pieces outside of a museum. The dining room table in particular caught my eye.
“Oh, that,” Magdalena said modestly. “That was made by my great-great-grandfather, Jacob the Strong. He made it so large because he had sixteen children.”
“Would you ever consider selling it?” Wynnell asked, reaching for her checkbook.
Magdalena laughed, sounding just like the wild turkeys I’d seen on the Discovery Channel. We interpreted her answer as “no.”
The room we were given contained one double bed and two army-style cots. Because the trip was my idea, I would have thought the bed—at least half of it—was mine for the taking. My companions, however, had other thoughts. After a lengthy discussion it was decided that Peggy would get half of the bed as a reward for driving. The other half was to be decided by guessing a number Peggy chose. Alas, young, hearty C. J. was the winner.
For the record, I barely slept a wink, thanks to the sagging cot and the peculiarities of my three, roommates. First, Peggy selfishly and unabashedly kept us up late giving herself a facial. Then when we did hit the sack—and I meant that literally—Wynnell’s snores made it impossible to fall asleep. A couple of times I actually drifted off, only to be awakened minutes later by muffled screams. C. J., as it happens, suffers from chronic nightmares, and Peggy, bless her heart, is able to muffle someone without waking.
The next morning I stumbled downstairs for breakfast at the last minute. Morning carbohydrates are a must for me. Magdalena had made it very clear the night before that breakfast was a set meal, served at a set hour. Either we showed up in time and ate what was served, or we did without. My three roommates chose to do without.
Magdalena was sitting alone at the massive table. Her outfit was identical—if not the same—to the one she was wearing the night before. The only difference was an organza cap, barely larger than a muffin, that was perched atop her bun.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Ach, good morning.” She seemed surprised to see me.
“I hope I’m not too late.”
“My paying guests have already eaten, but there’s still something in the kitchen. Will your staff be joining us?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, but they’re not morning types.”
She rang a little brass bell that was shaped like a plantation belle in a hoop skirt. A few minutes later the kitchen door opened and a short, stocky woman with gray hair and enormous bosoms bustled in bearing a plate piled high with every fried breakfast food imaginable. When she saw me, the portly woman scowled.
Magdalena flashed her a wry smile and turned to me. “This is Freni Hostetler, who is both my cousin and my cook. Freni, this is—”
“Ach, I don’t have time to chit-chat, Magdalena.” With that the cook plonked the platter of grease on the bare table in front of me, and bustled back to the kitchen.
I ate hungrily of the repast which, because of its fat content, was just about the best food ever to pass these lips. Only Bubba Wong’s chicken fried steak with gravy has earned more stars from my palate.
“Well, Abby,” Magdalena said when I was almost done, “what are your plans for today?”
I chased some half-congealed butter around with a scrap of French toast. “You mean after I write my morning column?”
“Yah, after that.”
“Well, after that I thought I would take a little time off and explore the countryside. After all, man does not live by bread alone—even French toast.” I chuckled pleasantly.
Magdalena’s dark eyes—which, to my surprise, were blue—bored into me. “Look dear, I may be a simple Mennonite woman, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes. You’re no more an advice columnist than I am. You’re certainly not Abigail Van Buren!”
My throat constricted. “I’m not?”
“Susannah called late last night to let me know she was on her way to Orlando. She told me how you met, and that I should expect you. Besides, I had my suspicions from the moment I saw you.”
“The hair, right?”
“Your face, dear. You’re no older than I am, and I’ve been reading Dear Abby since I was fifteen. I cater to the rich and famous and I can spot a knife job at a hundred paces. Most of my guests have to close their eyes just to open their mouths.”
“Must be hard to eat,” I said.
She nodded vigorously. “How else do you think that crowd stays so slim?”
“So that’s why there’s no tablecloth!”
“You’re a smart woman, Abby. So don’t underestimate me. What is it you’re really up to? Who are those three English women with you?”
“English?”
“Ach, that’s anyone who isn’t Amish or Mennonite.”
“They’re my friends. We’re antique dealers. They came up here to buy old Amish quilts and furniture. I came primarily to do some research on a man named Billy Ray Teschel.”
Magdalena frowned. “What kind of research?”
Already I knew better than to try and put one past her. “Let’s just say that I was cheated out of a lot of money and this Billy Ray guy may have something to do with it.”
“I see.”
There was a caginess to her tone that I didn’t like. It reminded me of my children’s promise not to throw any more wild parties in my absence.
“Do you know this man?”
“No, we’ve never met.”
“But you know of him?”
She shrugged. Her shoulders were so bony they looked like they might pierce the thick, starched fabric of her dress.
“As you know, Hernia is a small town. I went to school with some Teschels, but I don’t remember a Billy Ray. Did you look in the phone book?”
“Not yet. There wasn’t any in our room. Come to think of it, there wasn’t even a phone.”
She smiled, and I was struck by how straight her teeth were. “That’s my room. I took the phone out when I let you have it. I don’t supply my guests with phones. They actually seem to prefer it that way.”
“Your room?”
She nodded. “That’s only because I thought you were Dear Abby, of course—well, that is until I met you. You didn’t honestly think I had an empty room?”
“Well, I—”
Magdalena gobbled like one of the turkeys on Discovery Channel did when he discovered the joys of procreation. “I’m booked up solid for three years.”
“Did you say three years?”
The shrewd eyes were scanned me. “Besides, dear, I don’t think you could afford my rooms.”
I straightened. “The Den of Antiquity does very well, thank you.” I waggled the enormous sapphire. “I am not hurting for money. So, how much does one of your rooms cost per night? If one were available, I mean?”
Magdalena named a sum that was equal to the gross national product of at least seven Third World countries, or the cost of three government-made screws, take your pick.
I threw back my shoulders. “We’ll stay in Bedford.”
“Not this week, dear. It’s the Bedford Third Annual Ail-Star Golf Tournament. You’d have to go all the way to Somerset to get a decent room. That’s a forty-five-minute drive.” She cocked her head. “Don’t people in the Carolinas call ahead for reservations?”
The arch disappeared from my back and I hung my head in shame. We four were not fit to be ambassadors of the South. We should turn in our hoop skirts and drop a vowel from each word.
“On the other hand,” Magdalena said slowly, “if you’re really desperate—”
“We are!”
“Well, there’s the Motor Coach Motel on Old Business Route 220. I’ll call them for you if you want me to.”
“Yes, please. But tell me, why did you give us your room if you had us figured out?”
“Well, I a
lmost didn’t. But you looked so pitiful—like something the cat dragged in—”
“Oh, my God!” 1 shrieked. “Dmitri!”
I knocked over my chair and nearly tipped Magdalena backwards in hers in my haste to get to the door.
11
Dmitri was thirsty, but fine—certainly in far better shape than Peggy’s car. Unfortunately I had forgotten to set out his litter tray. Fortunately Magdalena had cleaning supplies and a powerful disinfectant. Dmitri was, of course, thoroughly vexed with me and vowed to stay in a huff for the rest of the trip.
The day went downhill from there. My three roommates were harder to rouse than a teenager the morning after the prom. I had to resort to all the tricks and threats I once used to get my kids off to school, and then some. By the time I got them up, showered, and dressed, I was ready to go back to bed—just not one of Magdalena’s beds.
“Now, I’ve got good news and bad news,” I said, eyeing the disarray of clothing and toiletries that only four southern women are capable of producing. “Which do you want to hear first?”
C. J. gave me a “you should know better than to ask” look. “Never tell the bad news first, Abby. My Uncle Remus bought an orchard near Shelby, but he had a devil of a time raising peaches. No matter how much he fertilized his trees, the peaches never grew larger than an egg, and they were always as hard as rocks. Every October the stunted things shriveled up altogether and fell to the ground. Finally Uncle Remus sent a couple of peaches to the County Agricultural Extension for analysis. They sent him back a letter saying that the trees in his orchard weren’t even peach trees. Uncle Remus dropped that letter like it was a hot potato and ran out to the orchard and cut every last one of those trees down. Then he read the second half of the letter—” C. J. paused dramatically.
