Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

  Norah took forever to answer, and when she did, she was wearing a sort of orange kimono thing. Perhaps she thought of it as a bathrobe, but whatever it was, Susannah would have loved it. “Yes?”

  “Norah, it’s me, Magdalena. May I come in?”

  “I know who you are, Magdalena. Frankly, I’m a bit busy right now. Can you come back later?”

  How busy can you be in a bathrobe, I wanted to ask. “When later?” I asked pleasantly.

  “People with manners always ring first, before they call on you,” said Norah coolly, not answering my question.

  “I’ll remember that next time they shoot a movie out at my place and you and Sherri pop up.”

  Norah’s mouth began to twitch, but before she could sputter out any words, a man’s shape loomed up behind her. He too was wearing a kimono, a blue one, but he most certainly was not Ed Hall.

  “Hi there,” I said in my friendliest voice.

  He grunted a greeting.

  “Magdalena, this really isn’t what you think it is,” said Norah predictably.

  I didn’t stifle my laugh. Susannah has used that phrase on me a million times, and invariably she’s right. Whatever is going on isn’t what I initially think it is, it’s much worse. “I’m not here to pass judgment, Norah. I simply need to ask you a few questions.”

  “He’s not married, if that’s what you think, and no, Sherri isn’t here, she spent the night at a friend’s.”

  “Uh-huh. But that’s not what I wanted to know. It has to do with the movie they’re making out at my place.” Norah’s face had the look of a little girl being forced to choose between her favorite ice cream and her favorite candy. “All right, Magdalena, come in, but just for a second. You don’t mind excusing us, do you, Garth?” Garth? But of course, what other name would an adulterer have? I followed Norah into the perfectly decorated living room, perfect in that its furnishings were identical to the ones in the surrounding houses, with, perhaps, slight variations in color schemes. Garth, after having grunted a few more words, retreated docilely into a another room.

  “Please, have a seat,” said Norah.

  I sat down on a puffy, cream-colored sofa, and Nora settled her kimono in a puffy, cream-colored chair.

  “Arthur Lapata sends his greetings,” I lied. It is all right to lie, you know, if your life is at stake.

  Norah beamed. “Such a dear, talented man. I’ve seen every one of his movies and loved them all. Have you see Seven Little Nerds and How They Grew?”

  I waved a hand noncommittally. “Oh, yes, Art is very special. Not like Don Manley was.”

  Norah frowned. “Manley was a rude, arrogant boor. He couldn’t see talent if it bit him. Whoever did him in was doing the world a favor.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Of course, I knew there would be other opportunities. I just didn’t think they’d come so soon.”

  “God works in mysterious ways. I suppose you went straight home that morning? I mean, after Manley so cruelly and wrongly dismissed your daughter.”

  Norah’s brow puckered even more. “Of course I didn’t go straight home. What kind of a mother do you think I am? My daughter was destroyed by that man, Magdalena, absolutely destroyed.”

  The angrier Norah got, the happier I became. It’s when Susannah is the angriest that she’s the most likely to spill the beans. “So then, after that scumball of a man destroyed your daughter, what did you do?”

  Norah’s cackle would have made my hen Pertelote proud. “Why, I took her into Somerset to do some serious shopping! What else do you think one does at a time like that?”

  “You mean you didn’t hang around my place for a while? Maybe take a walk out to the barn?”

  The orange kimono popped up off the cream-colored chair. “And just what are you trying to get at, Magdalena? You don’t for a second think I might have had something to do with that creep’s death, do you?”

  Lying to save oneself embarrassment is only marginally acceptable, but I did it anyway. “Ha, that’s a good one! Of course not. I was only hoping that you might have seen something suspicious.”

  “The only suspicious thing I can think of is your motive for coming here. Arthur Lapata didn’t send you out here to give Sherri another chance, did he?”

  I must admit, that one took me by surprise. “No, but I’m sure he’ll keep her in mind for his next picture.”

  “Anything else you wanted to know, Magdalena?”

  I thought of asking how much she had paid for the slime-green wing chair no one had chosen to sit in, but prudently decided to stick to business. “You weren’t by any chance roaming about my henhouse, were you, dear?”

  It may have been just my imagination, but I thought I saw the woman blush. “Most certainly not! This is a cholesterol-free family. Now, is there anything else you wanted?”

  “Actually, some tea would be nice. With cream and sugar.”

  Norah didn’t even smile. She didn’t exactly drag me to the door, but she did put her hands on me. I left without resistance. Four hundred years of pacifism is a hard thing to shake.

  Hernia is a fairly homogeneous town, but there are two small streets on the south side that are frequently, and uncharitably, referred to as Ragsdale. When Susannah and I were girls (at separate times, of course), our school bus used to stop in this part of town to take on students. It was common knowledge among us children that the Ragsdale kids were a breed apart. Some of them wore tattoos, many of them smoked, and on at least three occasions Miss Proschel, our bus driver, had to confiscate knives. Like many other stereotypes in this world, Ragsdale’s bad reputation was based on both fact and fancy.

  I will admit that I was nervous when, after leaving Norah’s bland burb, I headed toward Ragsdale. At the first sign of a broken-down sofa on a front porch, my pulse began to race. When I spotted the first washing machine beside one of these broken-down sofas, my heart began to pound. Call me prejudiced, but I just can’t help it. I know that the depth of my feelings is irrational, but ever since Billy Scott sat on the bus beside me and demonstrated without a shadow of a doubt that he was too poor to wear underwear, I have been devoid of middle-class guilt.

  The Biddle house fit the Ragsdale profile perfectly. It was long and narrow with a gray, tar-shingled exterior. The front porch sagged under the weight of two broken-down sofas, plaid, of course, and a washing machine. The screen in the front door was slashed in at least three places, and through it I could see the light emitted by a huge TV set. Some silly game show was in progress. I think the woman who spun the wheel was called Vanity White.

  Since there was only the loose end of a wire where the doorbell should have been, I knocked. Even that was tricky. The screen door had neither a spring nor a hook, and when I knocked, it swung open in front of me, bidding me to fall in after it. I grabbed the much-gouged lintel. “Hello?” I called.

  Nobody answered.

  I didn’t exactly just walk in then, but, still holding on to the lintel, I leaned in as far as I could. “Hello? Anybody home?”

  Slowly, like Lazarus might have risen from the dead, somebody sat up on the inside sofa. In the dim light and cigarette haze, it was hard to make out any details. “Whatcha want?” said a gravelly voice.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Biddle, please.”

  “Who’re you?”

  “My name is Magdalena Yoder. I own the PennDutch Inn, where the movie is being filmed.”

  The figure on the couch stood up and shuffled to the door. It was only when it was about ten feet from me that I realized it was a woman. She was wearing purple stirrup pants, pink bunny slippers, and a black and yellow striped polyester tank top. Her hair was set in huge, lethal-looking rollers the size of orange juice cans. If the loose doorbell wire ever came in contact with one of those, the wearer would have a permanent that was indeed permanent.

  “What’s it about? My daughters okay?”

  I had no way of knowing. The Biddle sisters weren’t even schedul
ed that day, and they certainly hadn’t shown up at the PennDutch to my knowledge. “As far as I know, they’re just fine. It’s not them I wanted to see, but you and your husband.”

  “Red’s in the tank, down in Bedford.”

  “Does he clean aquariums?”

  She looked at me like Susannah does when I say something dumb. “Red’s sleeping off a drunk. Speaking of which, you wanna drink?”

  I am ashamed to confess this, but I was sorely tempted. Except for the snakebite remedy Papa used to hide in the basement, these lips have never tasted alcohol. Just once I’d like to take a swig—make that several swigs—of the real stuff and see what all the hoopla’s about. Of course, I would really never do such a thing, because my body is the living temple of the Lord. That’s what I teach to my students in Sunday school. And besides, Mama said that if you drink alcohol, it shows up in your veins somehow, and people in the know can take one look at you and see that you’re a sinner. Mama also said that people could tell if you’d lost your virginity or not, but I never did notice when Susannah lost hers.

  “No thanks,” I said ruefully.

  “Well, you wanna come in and sit down at least? You’re letting the flies in.”

  I glanced at the ripped and flapping screen, but curbed my tongue. “Sure, that’d be fine.”

  I was fascinated by her decor. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to dent, scratch, or otherwise mar the furniture and walls so thoroughly. As for the floor, the bits of this and that that had accumulated on it through the years made it look like a ticker-tape parade had passed through.

  “Here, you can sit here,” she said. She swiped a couple of pounds of crushed chips, stray rollers, and used cotton balls onto the floor. There might have been a couple of used emery boards in there too.

  I sat down, but didn’t put all my weight on my buttocks until my knees finally gave out.

  “So, what’s this all about? What do you wanna see me and Red for?”

  This necessary lie had been well prepared, and I was able to spit it out quickly and smoothly. “Well, I’ve been hired as chief personal liaison between Reels and Runs Productions and its short-term employees. My job is to ascertain whether or not a harmonious and mutually beneficial atmosphere exists between said parties.”

  Mrs. Biddle was cooler than a snake in a bucket of ice water. She sucked on her cigarette a full minute before responding. “Come again?”

  “What I meant to convey is that I am now acting as a mediator between management and its temporary employees in order to nip in the bud, so to speak, any festering grievances that might later lead to a full-blown labor dispute.”

  The woman finished sucking the life out of that cigarette and reached for a new one. “You’re full of excrement, Miss Yoder. Odious, odoriferous offal.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Okay, to put it more simply, you’re full of—”

  “I know what you said! What I want to know is, where did you learn such, ah—”

  “Big words, Miss Yoder?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m bilingual, Miss Yoder. I can speak hifalutinese like you, or plain old everyday Ragsdalese.”

  “Well, you don’t have to be so rude about it” was all I could think to say.

  She lit up the new cigarette. “Remember Rissa Armbruster from your high school days?”

  “Sure. She was in my class. She was valedictorian.”

  “Have you ever wondered what happened to her?”

  Of course I had. Many times, especially in the years immediately following graduation, I’d secretly hoped that Rissa Armbruster would meet with some terrible calamity. If not a maiming automobile accident, then at least a severe case of disfiguring post-adolescent acne. Not only was Rissa the prettiest girl in my grade, but she beat me out for valedictorian by one-tenth of a grade point. “I guess I’ve thought about her now and then,” I admitted. “Why?”

  “Because I was also voted most likely to succeed, that’s why. And here I am!”

  “You!”

  “C’est moi. Now, when your mouth can close far enough for you to regain the power of speech, tell me why you’re really here.”

  “To see how you and your husband feel about your two young daughters playing bimbo parts in some grade-B movie,” I finally managed to say.

  Rissa lackadaisically blew a trio of beautifully formed smoke rings. “We support them all the way. They might be bimbos to you, Miss Yoder, but then again, anyone would be, wouldn’t they?” She didn’t wait for an answer, which is a shame, because I had one ready. “You come from a different world, Miss Yoder. No, make that a different universe. But what the hell difference does it make to you what my children do, or how I feel about it?”

  “Because I’m about to be accused of murder,” I blurted out stupidly.

  “And you think we Biddles might have had something to do with it?”

  Rissa put the cigarette back in her mouth, to free up her hands. I didn’t resist this time either, but frankly, she was a lot rougher than Norah had been.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Presbyterian parsonage on Grove Street is a two-story white frame house that was built around the turn of the century. It is Victorian in style, with gingerbread trim here and there, and boasts a couple of interesting stained glass and lead windows. Grove Street is not pretentious, but it is pleasant, with ancient spreading trees and tidy but not fussy, lawns separated by wrought iron fences. The classy people who don’t have to prove it live on Grove Street, and on neighboring Elm, Maple, and Hickory streets. Susannah claims that the Cleavers, the Andersons, and the Stones all retired there, whoever they might be.

  The Martha Sims who answered the door did not look at all like the Martha Sims I had seen on the movie set, or the Martha Sims I had seen at community church affairs. Presbyterians, at least those of Martha’s ilk, are permitted to wear makeup, and the Martha Sims I knew, always did.

  She also had a reputation for being a natty dresser who not only knew her color chart, but yours as well, and was quick to point out when she thought you have deviated from your appropriate hues. Susannah much admired Martha Sims, despite their differences in taste. But then again, why wouldn’t she? It was the Presbyterians who got Susannah started on the wide and winding road to moral decay and spiritual degradation to begin with.

  While I personally would not refer to Martha Sims as the whore of Babylon, as Freni has been known to do, I do think she sets a bad example for the wives of clergymen everywhere. A minister’s wife is supposed to be dowdy. After all, when you’re on the right track—that straight and narrow road—if you don’t look at least a little bit frumpy and grumpy, how are people supposed to know you are sincere? Anyway, the Martha Sims who opened the door to me that morning was wearing blue jeans, of all things, a Bart Simpson T-shirt, and not a hint of makeup.

  “Is your mommy home?” I asked before remembering that Martha and Orlando Sims had no children.

  “Very funny, Magdalena. Incidentally, that shade of blue just isn’t right for you. You’re a spring, not a winter.”

  “It’s summer, Martha. August. Remember?”

  The woman didn’t even have the courtesy to invite me inside. “We honor God by doing the best with what he gave us, Magdalena. And you could do so much with yourself.”

  I tried to smile pleasantly. After all, a little pain makes one feel more alive. “Martha dear, I didn’t come here to talk about fashion.”

  Martha did not return my smile. “As I’ve told you before, I’m not responsible for whom your sister married.” She tried to push the door closed in my face, but I’ve had a lot of practice pushing back against salespeople, and, in some cases, Susannah’s boyfriends.

  “I’m not here to see you about my sister.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “It’s about the movie. Arthur Lapata sent me.” Although it isn’t any easier, it is definitely more fun to lie to a minister’s wife. I know it sounds awful to
hear me say that, but I’m only being truthful.

  Martha stopped pushing. "He sent you?”

  I tried the same sort of smile that Buick Bob uses when he so rudely interrupts Green Acres with his four-minute commercials. “Art is now in the process of writing a new script, and he wants some directional feedback from people in the community who are both knowledgeable and influential.” How Bob manages to hold that smile for four minutes, while talking the entire time, is beyond me.

  “Come in, Magdalena, please,” said Martha quickly. She didn’t exactly pull me in, but she might well have had I not be so quick on my feet.

  Martha bade me sit on a walnut burl Victorian love seat upholstered in antique-blue cut velvet. It was really quite attractive. While Martha trotted off to the kitchen to fetch us both some tea and pound cake with strawberries and whipped cream—her idea, not mine—I glanced appreciatively around the room.

  The love seat was only part of a well-preserved matched set. In addition to the Victorian furniture, the Sims house contained many other treasures that piqued my interest. I was in the process of examining a bronze statuette of a nude but not unattractive man riding a fish, when Martha returned with her tray.

  “That’s a copy of Antonio Berretta’s The Dolphin Hunter.” There was obvious pride in her voice. “We found that in a flea market over by Cannonsburg. Only fifteen dollars, I think it cost us. It’s signed, you know. There are only three signed copies in existence, and this is one of them.”

  I tried not to look or sound too impressed. “Where is the original again? I forget.”

  “Florence, of course.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. Where else?”