Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

  “You threatened him in public, Magdalena.”

  “I did not!”

  “Yes, you did. I have depositions from at least five witnesses who say they heard you threaten to kill him.”

  My heart began to pound. “I said something to the effect that he could shoot that lurid scene only over my dead body. I certainly didn’t threaten to kill him.”

  “You said over his dead body,” said Melvin pompously.

  “I don’t see what difference that makes. You know I didn’t mean it.”

  Melvin’s left eye swiveled ever so slightly, but independently, in its socket. “The difference is that his body, not yours, was found nailed to the center beam in your barn.”

  “Forked,” I corrected him.

  I don’t think Melvin heard me. “And, Magdalena, what makes this even more interesting is that it was your sister, Susannah, who found the victim first.”

  “Why, Melvin Stoltzfus!” I said loud enough to make Zelda jump. “You leave Susannah out of this. How can you even imply such a thing? She is your girlfriend, after all.”

  Melvin’s right eye began to swivel now, away from his left. Perhaps he did have hindsight, a trait undoubtedly useful to a detective. “Can you account for your time up until Susannah discovered the body?”

  I felt suddenly relaxed. “Of course I can. I was in the inn all morning. Either in the public rooms with the others, or in the kitchen with Freni and Mose.”

  “And they’ll swear to it?”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Freni and Mose won’t swear to anything. It’s against their beliefs. You know that.”

  Melvin’s eyes swiveled back into alignment. “The others, I mean. Are you sure you have alibis?”

  “Then I am a suspect?” I glanced quickly at Zelda, but as usual she was inscrutable. I’ve seen hens with more facial expression than Zelda Root.

  “Let’s just say that at this point everyone out here is a suspect.” Melvin began to rub his hands together briskly. “And you, Magdalena Yoder, are what we might call suspecto numero uno. ”

  “Speak English, Melvin,” I said crisply, although it’s possible it may have sounded like snapping.

  “He means you’re our number one suspect,” said Zelda dispassionately. I am one hundred percent sure that the woman’s family tree and mine have never intertwined their branches. We are at polar ends of the nervous spectrum.

  I held out my wrists. “I demand to see my lawyer.”

  Melvin’s eyes swiveled away from center for a second, then locked back into place in a prolonged stare. “You aren’t under arrest, Magdalena. Not yet, at any rate. But I am going to have to ask you not to leave the area.”

  “Shucks. My flight to Paris was nonrefundable.”

  Either Melvin smiled slightly, or his mandibles twitched. “I’ll solve this case before you know it, Magdalena. It’s simply a matter of gathering the facts and arranging them in the proper order. Yessiree, it’s all a matter of facts.”

  “What about gathering evidence, Melvin?”

  Melvin’s mandibles mangled themselves into what approximated a self-satisfied grin. “The body is halfway to Bedford by now, Yoder.”

  “And the murder weapon? Have you collected that yet?”

  It was like an entire marquee of light bulbs had flicked on in Melvin’s head. “I was getting to that, Yoder. First things first. Now, let me see this pitchfork.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Withholding evidence will land you in the hoosegow immediately, Yoder, without even a chance to pass go.”

  “Go fish, Melvin. I don’t have the pitchfork, or I’d let you have it.” I then proceeded to explain to Melvin a million times that the pitchfork was missing. You wouldn’t think that would be such a hard concept to grasp. I mean, by the time Melvin and Zelda arrived, there had been the body, surrounded by a crowd of people, but there had been no pitchfork. There was only a thin line of blood, along with some other horrible ooze, where Steven had tossed the pitchfork. There was no sign of the fork itself.

  For the next two hours Melvin and Zelda ransacked my barn, but of course they didn’t turn up any pitchfork. It was gone, just like I’d said. You can bet your bippy I made them put everything back in its place. A barn should be kept just as tidy as a house. After all, the good Lord was born in a barn, wasn’t he?

  “If it shows up, call me at once, Yoder,” said Melvin needlessly. Of course I wouldn’t call him—not until after I’d had a good long turn at examining the thing. Even then I might forget to call him, or even accidentally lose the pitchfork again, depending on what I discovered.

  “Will do,” I said, and smiled. When you have to lie, it is wise to smile. Smiling helps keep one from blinking, the sure giveaway of a liar. Now, don’t get me wrong: lying is a sin, but it is one of the more necessary sins. And since I don’t indulge much in the other sins, having never committed adultery or coveted my neighbor’s ass, I don’t feel too bad when I have to lie. And when it comes to dealing with Melvin, having to lie is a given.

  After Melvin and Zelda drove off in Melvin’s restored Studebaker which doubles as his squad car, I went to check on Pertelote. To my relief, nothing was amiss. She had settled back on the duck eggs, and although she had to spread out as thin as a crepe suzette to cover the things, she seemed as happy as a clam, or whatever it is happy hens resemble. She seemed much happier, at any rate, than an old hen had a right to be. Clearly, whatever had disturbed her earlier was a thing of the past.

  “Good girl, Perty,” I said reassuringly. “Keep up the good work.” The duck eggs were scheduled to hatch in just one more week, and I had been looking forward to the event for three weeks already. Normally, a hen has to sit for only three weeks altogether, provided they are chicken eggs she is brooding. Fortunately, Pertelote, like most of my other hens, couldn’t count.

  Pertelote acknowledged my encouragement with an angry cluck, warning me to keep my distance. One would think she would welcome distractions, but that is not case.

  “You’re looking at an extra week, dear,” I said charitably, and turned to leave.

  It was then that I noticed a grocery slip lying on the floor on top of the straw. It was from Sam Yoder’s Corner Market, and came from one of those cash registers that prints the name of the item along with price. Although a cousin of mine, Sam had married a Methodist, and then become one himself, which might explain his modern ways.

  Anyway, I picked up the slip and was about to crumble it and put it in my pocket to be thrown away later, when something printed on it caught my eye. “Parsley,” I read aloud in disbelief.

  I wadded the paper but kept it in my fist. That did it. Freni Hostetler was going to get a piece of mind. Spending good money on parsley, when we had some growing out by the back door, was a sin. A sin worse than lying, if you ask me. Undoubtedly, it had to do with her fascination with the Arthur Lapata. Apparently our parsley wasn’t good enough for him and the Hollywood crowd. As if Sam’s parsley were any better! I stomped out of the henhouse louder than I should have, much to Pertelote’s displeasure.

  I found Freni in the kitchen, humming to herself. The nerve of that woman! Although I love her dearly, sometimes Freni Hostetler has all the sensitivity of a stone.

  “Freni! How dare you?” I know, perhaps my tone was harsh, but I was having a bad day.

  Freni blinked a couple of times, and then comprehension spread slowly over her broad, plain face. “Ach, yes. You are right, Magdalena. The hairy man might have been English, but he was one of God’s children, after all. I should not have been humming.”

  “Humming, shmumming. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about parsley.”

  Freni blinked again. “Perhaps you should take a nap, Magdalena. Although it is a sin to be idle, surely these are special circumstances.”

  “Parsley!” I almost screamed. “Why did you waste good money buying parsley at Sam’s, when there’s enough of that stuff out by the back door to stuff a mattress?”r />
  “That does it,” said Freni, untying her apron. “I quit, Magdalena. I’m not going to be accused again of something I didn’t do.”

  “You can’t quit, Freni. Your agreement is with Reels and Runs Productions, not with me. But since I’m backing your little operation, I have a right to see that my investment isn’t wasted.”

  “But you have no right to speak to me that way, Magdalena. Buying such a thing as parsley! Imagine that!”

  “So you didn’t buy it?” I got out the crumpled grocery slip and smoothed it out. I’d let the evidence speak for itself.

  Freni snatched the slip from my hand and scanned it. Her already wrinkled brow began to crease further, first with concentration, and then with horror. She dropped the list like a hot potato. “Your mother would be ashamed of you, Magdalena. Showing such a filthy thing to me.”

  I scooped the list from the floor and began to read aloud. “Parsley, 59 cents. Creamed corn, 75 cents. Plastic wrap, $2.25, ketchup, $1.45, feminine deodorant spray—”

  “Stop!” cried Freni. She sounded like a desperate woman about to be executed.

  I stopped. Clearly, this was not Freni’s list. Frankly, I was surprised the woman even knew what such a thing was.

  “I’m sorry, Freni. Really, I am. I hadn’t read the entire list before. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” I stepped forward in an act of reconciliation. I wasn’t going to hug her or anything. Just maybe pat her on the arm.

  Freni backed up a couple of steps. Perhaps she feared the fire and brimstone were still forthcoming. “Take that nap, Magdalena. That’s what your mother would tell you to do if she were here.”

  “But she isn’t here!” I wailed. Mama had no business dying while I was still alive.

  I took that darn nap anyway. If it’s true that joy cometh in the morning, then at least a little cheer can be expected from a sound nap. I slept like a log.

  I woke up with a pounding head. After washing my face with cold water and downing three aspirin, I drove straight out to see old Doc Shafer. Like most people in Hernia, Zelda excepted, Doc is a distant cousin and a lifelong friend. Doc claims to be eighty-three years old, although sometimes I think he pads his age a little, just for the added respect. At any rate, Doc used to be sweet on my mother, and now he’s sweet on me. At least I’m pretty sure old Doc is sweet on me: he tries to kiss me, and he once patted me on the behind. But to me Doc is just a friend—a sympathetic ear and a source of usually good, sound advice.

  Doc is a veterinarian with a now-limited practice. He lives on the opposite side of Hernia from me in a rambling old white frame structure that houses both him and his resident patients. The four-legged kind, I mean. Perhaps I shouldn’t mention this, but Doc does treat humans from time to time.

  Because Hernia’s one medical doctor, Alvin Hostetler, is a little on the arrogant side, many of our old-timers seek Doc out when they suffer from minor ailments. Of course Doc knows that treating humans is, for him, against the law. But the way Doc figures it, at his age, what does he have to lose? Anyway, Doc’s human patients never pay him directly. Suffice it to say, Doc’s lawn is never in need of mowing, and the fruits and vegetables that pile up on his front porch are top-notch.

  Any description of Doc would be woefully incomplete if one were not to mention that he is a superb cook. The old coot lives to eat, not the other way around. Doc Shafer firmly believes that there is a direct correlation between a hearty appetite and passion. I’m beginning to think so too. Whenever I visit, I can be assured of a large meal and a not-so-subtle advance. So far the food has been worth it.

  It was a warm, late August afternoon, and despite the traumatic events of the day, I enjoyed the ride out to Doc’s. August has its detractors, those who say that it is too hot and dry, and that it is the faded end of summer. The dog days, they call it. I love August. I love driving down the shimmering asphalt of the narrow county roads when the corn is tall. For some reason, it makes me think of the ocean, which I’ve never seen. I love the high, shrill sounds of the summer insects, the closest I’ll ever come to a night in a tropical forest. The cottony cumulus clouds of an August day are unsurpassed. The warm August nights are soft, like brushed velvet. August is magic to me, and if I have to be accused of a murder, I’d rather it be then than in any other month.

  I was in a fairly good mood when I drove into Doc’s long, circular driveway. During the drive from town I had managed to shed the entire murder business, Melvin and all. In fact, I had no intention of even bringing up the subject to Doc then. And, as if he’d been cued, old Doc showed up at the door with a spatula in hand. Doc’s food will take your mind off everything but your taste buds.

  “It’s potato pancakes with apple sauce, fried pork chops, and fresh green beans,” he said.

  “Do you have enough for two?” I asked foolishly. Doc normally cooks enough for four, and if no surprise visitors show up, eats it all himself. The endocrinologist who discovers the secret to Doc’s metabolism is going to end up a rich woman.

  “There’s green-tomato pie for dessert, and homemade ice cream, if you’ll crank it yourself.”

  “Cranking is my specialty.”

  Doc and I settled down to a long dinner that began very pleasantly. He told me about Esther Millhouse’s pet Labrador who had somehow managed to swallow a waterproof watch with an alarm, and who now, every morning at five, barked when it felt the alarm go off. Esther much preferred the barking to the sound of the alarm, and had simply wanted to know if leaving it in the dog would be harmful.

  “And would it?” I asked with a mouth full of pork chop.

  “The point is that Esther was concerned about it being harmful to the watch, not the dog. She didn’t want me operating as long as the watch continued to work and the alarm went off on schedule. So I took a little magnet off one of those little refrigerator doohickies, wrapped it up in some dog food, and fed it to Rover. The next day Esther called me up and said the watch had stopped.”

  “You didn’t!”

  Doc grinned. “Then Esther brought the dog back in and I removed both the watch and the magnet. Rover’s back in the kennel there now, doing just fine.”

  “You’re quite something, Doc.” I think that was a mistake.

  “So are you, Magdalena.” Doc pretended to reach for another potato pancake, but he had something else on his mind.

  I dodged, nearly spilling the apple sauce. “Watch it, Doc.”

  Old Doc frowned. “You still dating that guy down in Baltimore?”

  “We aren’t dating, Doc. I haven’t even met him yet. We just talk on the phone. We’re good friends.”

  “He isn’t right for you, Magdalena. That Maryland crowd is a wild bunch anyway, but hooking up with someone over the phone is asking for trouble. It’s like answering one of those personal ads in the back of a magazine. They’re all weirdos, you know.”

  I ignored Doc’s comments. It was clear that he was jealous of my deepening relationship with Jim Fortuna of Baltimore. True, I had met Jim on the phone, but it was purely accidental. A federal drug enforcement agent working undercover had been murdered at the PennDutch, and when I was calling the work number listed on her registration, Jim had answered the phone. It was Jim’s number all right—the number for Jumbo Jim’s Fried Chicken and Seafood Palace, and the federal agent had simply usurped it. Ever since then, Jim and I have been planning to get together—just to chat face-to-face, mind you, but it has never quite worked out.

  “What kind of a man calls himself Jumbo Jim?” Doc persisted in asking. “Isn’t that a little arrogant?”

  I could feel myself blushing. “The jumbo part stands for the size of the portions he serves, and you are a dirty old man.”

  Doc grinned happily in acknowledgment. “Just as long as he stays south of the Mason-Dixon line, I don’t mind too much. But like I said, those Marylanders are a tough bunch, so you’d be wise to keep it a long-distance relationship.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a l
ittle too late for that,” I said dangerously.

  Docs eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  I swallowed hard. I hate hurting Doc, but I do have my own life to live. “Jumbo—I mean Jim—is coming up this weekend. At least he was planning to before what happened this morning.”

  “You mean the murder out at your place?”

  I don’t know why it surprised me that Doc already knew about it. When Roy Beiler died of a heart attack in Emma Rumple’s bed, Doc knew about it even before Mrs. Beiler did. I have long suspected that Doc has strategically placed spies. “You seeing Zelda?” I asked boldly.

  “What?” said Doc. He seemed genuinely astonished.

  “Never mind. Doc, you know I didn’t do it, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, how do I prove to Melvin that I didn’t?”

  “That’s not your job, Magdalena. In this country, at least last time I checked, you are considered innocent until proven guilty. Not the other way around. It’s Melvin’s job to come up with the evidence against you.”

  “Yeah, I know, but this is Melvin Stoltzfus we’re talking about. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he produced Elvis as his eyewitness.”

  “Guess I shouldn’t have treated him when that horse kicked him in the head.”

  “Bull.”

  “Whatever. From what I gather, the most damning piece of evidence is missing. At least that’s in your favor.”

  I must have stared at Doc with my mouth wide open, because the next thing I knew he had shoved a piece of pork chop in. I spit it out. “Doc! What do you mean by damning evidence? You know I didn’t do it.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But your fingerprints are all over that pitchfork, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but so are Mose’s, and, come to think of it, Steven Freeman’s. And that’s all in addition to the killer’s.”

  “Right, but like you said, you are dealing with Melvin, and... uh... and—”

  I did the mature thing and decided to save Doc a little embarrassment. “You mean I opened my big fat mouth and shouted out something that might have sounded like a threat.”