Butter Safe Than Sorry

by Tamar Myers

  “But you can’t quit on me now,” Agnes pleaded. “You were supposed to arrange a sleepover with the Royal Moroccan Marching Band. They’re only going to be in town one night.”

  “What?”

  “Magdalena, you’re getting very forgetful. My rendezvous with the Shriners was Saturday night in Somerset; it was my breakfast in bed with the Jaycees—”

  “No, no, I won’t!”

  “Magdalena, it’s only me—Gabe.”

  “Gabe? Best friend or not, you get your hands off my Cuddle Buns!” I lunged for Agnes with both hands, claws bared.

  “Hon!”

  “What?” I popped up in bed as the bad dream drained away like the remains of a large soap bubble.

  “You were having a nightmare, hon, and were fighting back at something tooth and nail; I have the scratch marks to prove it.”

  “I’m so sorry! There’s some hydrogen peroxide under the sink—”

  “Don’t worry about me. There’s someone here to see you.”

  Unconsciously my hands balled into fists.

  “Agnes?” I bleated guiltily. Now that’s a fine “how do you do” for a woman with five hundred years of pacifist blood flowing through her veins. Clearly I was in need of a vacation somewhere: just me and my hunkylicious Babester and my precious little Babykins—preferably someplace far away from Hernia. The Marquesa Islands in the South Pacific came to mind.

  “No, not that busybody; it’s the police chief.”

  Chief Jerry Memmer is a pleasant, mild-mannered man who hails originally from somewhere near Indianapolis. So far his sensible Hoosier ways seem to be just what Hernia needs.

  During the year and a half that he’s been running the show, our crime rate has fallen substantially. There have been no murders committed, no horses stolen, and no overpasses painted. The only case of a “malicious mischief” reported involved slit diaper bags on the horses tied up outside Yoder’s Corner Market one morning. Either someone had it in for Sam, or the Amish who were shopping inside, but apart from a few spilled “road apples” there was no real harm done.

  It helps that the Memmers are good Christian folk of the conservative bent, who put noodles on their mashed potatoes. They have blended into the fabric of Hernia almost seamlessly, and that has been a blessing for me, because at this stage in my life, I would like nothing more than to leave civic responsibility behind. Jerry Memmer is an avid model-train enthusiast, and his wife, Marilyn, can quilt along with the best of our local quilt masters, which is saying quite a lot. In short, I couldn’t ask for more qualified and congenial replacements.

  Jerry is even pleasant to look at, albeit a bit shy. Perhaps my appearance in a bathrobe was too much for the devout man, because he squirmed in his parlor chair, like a grub on a weenie roasting stick—not that I’ve roasted many grubs, mind you.

  “Yes, Jerry, what is it?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rosen—uh, Miss Yoder—uh—”

  “How about Magdalena, like I’ve asked you to call me a million times?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to show up at three in the morning. Honest—”

  “Ding dang dong! Is that what time it is?”

  “Magdalena! You have the mouth of a truck driver!”

  I slapped the offending lips. “So I do; and I assure you that they are ever so contrite. Now, tell me, what is the problem? Has your wife overdosed on chocolate again?”

  “No, it’s about a woman named Amy Neubrander—up in Bedford.”

  Although nowhere near a standing body of water, much less one with a current or influenced by tides, I felt the undertow. “What about Amy?”

  “She’s dead, Magdalena. The sheriff asked me to tell you, on account of I know you better than he does.”

  I felt my way to a straight-backed chair—all the chairs in my parlor are purposely uncomfortable—and sat. “How did she die? When?”

  “Apparently just hours ago. A neighbor in her building heard a shot, but by the time he got the super to open up—Well, there was nothing to be done by anyone. She was shot at close range in the back of the head.”

  “Dong dong dong,” I said slowly, letting the cussword roll off my tongue like a seasoned pro. “What a cowardly schmuck!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Melvin—Melvin Stoltzfus. It was an execution-style murder, performed either by him or one of his band of not-so-merry robbers.”

  Chief Memmer’s eyes bulged and he swallowed hard. “The Melvin Stoltzfus? Your brother? Elvina’s son?”

  “We supposedly share some genes, but the jury’s still out, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Have you been tested?”

  “This is hardly the time for idle chitchat, Chief.” The truth of the matter was that I feared the outcome of such a test. I would rather go through life living with the possibility that what Elvina said was true—Melvin was my brother—than with the certainty that it was so. The latter would cause me to seek a complete blood transfusion, comprehensive flesh replacement, and universal bone substitution. The last I’ve heard is that one or more of those procedures is still impossible.

  “I’m sorry, Magdalena. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes, actually there is.”

  “Anything.”

  “Keep your guard up. Melvin hates authority of all kind. It wouldn’t surprise me if he stages an attack on you—either at home or at the station.”

  “But my wife! Marilyn has nothing to do with my job; she’s a retired nurse who gave back so much to the community in Indiana.”

  “Then you might see that she returns there until Melvin is caught. Believe me, I know firsthand how this monster’s mind works, and it ain’t pretty—pardon my use of the vernacular.”

  “I see,” he said, but I’m not sure he did. In any case, he sent his pretty wife packing the next morning.

  22

  I knew that the sheriff wouldn’t let me get anywhere near Amy’s apartment at that hour, so I returned to bed. It was with a bit of a jolt that I awoke the next morning and recalled that Amy had been senselessly murdered—but then aren’t all murders senseless? I hadn’t known the girl well enough to form a personal attachment, but the fact that she was so young, and died at the hands of someone I did know well, haunted me.

  My long-suffering husband took it upon himself to cook breakfast for the gang from New Jersey, because he makes an almost-edible Southwestern-style omelet. Meanwhile I set out some boxes of cornflakes and two platters of toast that were sure to please: one pale and the other bordering on burned. Then I rang my five-pound dinner bell.

  Tiny Timms was the first to appear. “Good morning, Miss Yoder,” she said, just as perky as Katie Couric after a good night’s sleep.

  “And good morning to—Oh no, you don’t, missy! Not again!”

  “What? What’s wrong with this one?”

  The tiny woman with the enormous assets was dressed in what has been described to me as a baby- doll negligee. Over that, she wore what was supposed to be a duster, but both were constructed from fabric so sheer that I could tell she wasn’t a natural blonde.

  “It’s heathen—that’s what. Even National Geographic wouldn’t photograph you in that. Now go upstairs and change before a good Christian man like my husband sees you and is led astray.”

  “Your husband is Jewish, Miss Yoder.”

  “That’s all the more reason, dear. Now am-scray.”

  She reluctantly did as she was told, and I prematurely breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the morning would go smoothly after all. But then, of course, along came George and Barbie Nyle.

  “Not you too,” I wailed. “Now you see what you’ve done? I’ve officially given up wailing—given that it’s both annoying and unnatural—but this! What is this? Some kind of pajama game? We put on clothes for breakfast here at the inn, and, George, the sight of all that chest hair is—Well, it brings to mind all the brambles I need to have cleared away in the north pasture before
I can let the cow in there to graze come spring.”

  Chastened, the Nyles scurried back up my impossibly steep stairs, but they must have squeezed past Olivia Zambezi, who was on the way down. At least she was in proper attire: a blue knee-length frock, long sleeves, mock turtleneck. Her prematurely aged face was freshly spackled, but her thick gray locks were askew. Who knew the woman wore a wig!

  “Good morning,” I said, perhaps a bit too cheerily. One has a way of overcompensating when one is uncomfortable, doesn’t one? Or was it just me?

  “Is it just you, or does everyone in Hernia shout in the morning, Miss Yoder?”

  “Oh, it’s our local custom, all right. In Pennsylvania Dutch we call it shout-an’-Freud.” Okay, so it was a small lie; but I had to say something, or else I was in danger of blurting out something that might embarrass her.

  “Funny, but I don’t recall being deafened yesterday morning when I came down to breakfast—then again, I was greeted by the pleasant Mrs. Hoffenstetter.”

  “Her name is Hostetler, dear,” I said through clenched teeth, “and she isn’t all that pleasant all of the time—not that I’m telling tales out of school, mind you.”

  Olivia raised a thick black eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Well, you know, the usual. She’s human—that’s all. We all get grumpy from time to time.”

  After arranging her thick features in a skeptical mold, she pulled out her chair and plunked her patooty down without further ado.

  “We’re not going to eat until everyone is here and the blessing is said,” I informed her crossly. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already know the rules.

  “What if I’m an atheist?”

  “Then it’s even more important that you hear grace.”

  “What about your husband? How does he feel about having to sit through one of your interminable prayers?”

  “Would everyone just leave my husband out of it?” To say that I wailed would be too kind; “braying” would be a more apt description. From the distance of a good mile away, I could hear Kaye Cornmesser ’s pet mule bray in response.

  Olivia smiled. No doubt she was happy that she’d struck a nerve.

  “It must be hard for your husband, living in this closed, judgmental community.”

  “Your wig’s on crooked.”

  “What?”

  “It looks like someone tried to scalp you last night, but got stopped in the middle of the act. You haven’t seen a tomahawk lying about, have you? It would be an awful thing to stub one’s toe on, don’t you think?”

  Olivia flushed as both hands flew up to her head. “You are a wicked woman, Miss Yoder. A wicked, wicked woman.” Then she was gone.

  But, in the end, everyone returned, hair in place, or properly clothed, as the situation warranted. I said my interminably long grace, after which they were rewarded with one of Gabe’s fabulous omelets—well, part of one, at least.

  We were halfway through the scrumptious repast when who should fly in the front door but a nun on a mission. The truth be known, I am loath to refer to the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy as nuns, since none of these so-called nuns has had any theological training, nor are they required to believe in anything except the philosophy that apathy is the best approach to dealing with the stresses life throws one’s way. Some of the pseudo- sisters are even too apathetic to subscribe to that concept.

  “Whoa,” I said, to the flying nun. “Hold your horses. A truly apathetic person would never be in such a hurry.”

  “Ma?” The Babester can instantly recognize his mother, no matter how many times she changes her habits.

  “Ya. Who else?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “You tink mebbe I come to twiddle my tumbs?”

  My husband was on his feet. “Ma! What’s the problem?”

  “Yes, dear,” I said with remarkable patience. “What is so urgent that you had to storm in here—without knocking, I might add—and disturb our breakfast? Especially on a day when I have a particularly unruly lot from the Garden State that I have just now managed to calm down—”

  “ ‘Subjugate’ is more like it,” said Carl Zambezi. For the record, he hadn’t been too thrilled by the toast selection, preferring as he did a medium brown hue.

  I prayed for a patient tongue. It was a very brief prayer, as I have learned over the years that it is not cost effective to pray for things that are unlikely to happen.

  “We serve food family style here,” my tongue said. “You would be wise to remember that I am the mama in this family.”

  “Is that some sort of a veiled threat, Miss Yoder?”

  “Oh, not at all, dear. I think it’s quite clear: if you continue to complain, you’ll have to leave the table.”

  I fully expected there to be an uproar, but everyone fell silent except for Mother Malaise, aka my mother-in-law. “You see, dis von’s a tyrant.”

  “I am not!”

  “Eet’s a good ting,” the real tyrant had the chutzpah to say. “Das vhy I vant you to be my replacement someday.”

  I couldn’t believe my ear pans. “You do?”

  “Of course! Who else? You’re meshuggeneh like me, no? Und you like to control zee people around you, ya? Bossy, dat is vhat vee are. Dat eez our God-given talent.”

  “I think she might have a point,” the Babester said.

  “But I’m not apathetic!” I wailed.

  “I thought you were going to stop wailing.” The Babester looked away when he spoke, which was a wise move on his part.

  “I am, but there is a time and a place for everything. It’s in Ezekiel—that’s in your Bible too.”

  “Dun’t vorry,” Mother Malaise said, exhibiting remarkable generosity. “Someday you vill be apathetic, and by den Sister Disgruntled vill heff moved on to greener pastures, so you can heff her name. Eet vill feet you pearfectly.”

  I turned to the guests. “Eat, dears. This isn’t a floor show.” I turned back to mother-in-law. “So, you ran all the way over here on your—uh—petite—legs to recruit me for that distant day when Sister Disgruntled will stand before her Maker and account for her time spent in your loony bin?”

  “Mebbe not so distant, ya? Sister Disgruntled is eighty-four and loves bacon—fey! But you are right dis time; I heff come here because of a very beeg problem.”

  “What is that?” the Babester asked.

  “Zee ooncles!”

  “Zee vhat?” I said. It was unconscious on my part, believe me.

  “Zee ooncles!” Ida shouted. “Zee brudders of zee modder of Agnes.”

  “Ah, the uncles,” the Babester and I said together. “What about them?” I added.

  Ida inclined her head toward my guests, as if any of them would have what my mama referred to as “gentle ears.” She waggled a brow that could have used a good trimming with hedge clippers.

  “Dey are in zee boof.”

  “Ah,” Gabe and I said, again in unison.

  There followed a moment of silence, after which my dear husband dared speak first. “Ma, what is a ‘boof’?”

  Mother Malaise clapped her liver-spotted hands in annoyance. “Dey are nekkid.”

  That I understood. “Holy guacamole,” I cried, swearing like a sailor, “they promised to keep their robes on! They said that they looked forward to having fun playing monk midst all your nuns.”

  “My, my,” Olivia opined, “monks running amok amongst nuns. Isn’t that a bit risky? Sort of like having a rooster loose in a henhouse?”

  I glared at her. I couldn’t help it.

  “They’re more like capons, dear—not that it’s any of your business.”

  “What’s a capon?” Tiny asked.

  “Just a kind of chicken, dear. Which reminds me”—I turned back to Barbie Nyle—“I read on your guest survey that you play the piano. As you can see I have no Steinway, but I’ll do my best to get you a henweigh by three o’clock.”

  “What’s a henweigh?” Olivia demanded rudely.

  “Ab
out four pounds—plucked. But I’ve had some old fryers that have topped the scale in the six-pound range. Tough old birds though.”

  It was Olivia’s turn to glare. “I suppose you think that you’re funny.”

  “Au contraire, dear. I don’t have a funny bone in my body. In fact, I eschew humor. Now, about those ooncles—Have you spoken to Agnes?”

  “Oy vey,” Mother Malaise said, and rolled her eyes. “Do I look like a cabbage? Of course I speak to her.”

  “Nu,” I said, just a tad impatiently. Sometimes learning a foreign language comes in very useful.

  “Und she said that dis is America, de land of de free, und dat her ooncles vere yust exercising der rights.”

  “Rights, shmights, she’s wrong. It’s your convent, and you make the rules. Besides, they could be a bad influence. Who knows? Maybe some of your nuns will bare all, and pretty soon the place will turn into a nudist colony. Boy, wouldn’t that just be a fine “how do you do”? Movie stars can officially check in here, but spend their time there gawking. Maybe even a few will shed their clothes. If that happens, and you get some good pictures—Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if the National Enquirer would be willing to pay millions.”

  “You tink?”

  “Too much, it seems.”

  “Hon,” Gabe said, “I know what you’re doing, and it isn’t fair to her.”

  “She’s a grown-up, dear. Ida, you’re old enough to make up your own mind, aren’t you?”

  “Ya?”

  “You don’t sound sure. Either you are, or you aren’t. If you aren’t, you can always come to me for advice, and my advice is to throw Agnes and her funny ooncles out on their respective ears. The last thing you need to see is Brad Pitt or George Clooney in the altogether, if you know what I mean”—I paused to waggle my eyebrows—“because at your age such a sight could precipitate a heart attack. Besides, if you were successful in selling some photos to the tabloids, you’d be so rich that you’d probably move back to New York, and then what would I do about my most reliable—if somewhat kooky—babysitter?”