Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

“That there was a young woman admitted as a patient thirteen years ago, and the facts pretty much line up with the ones in Martha Sims’s story.”

  I inhaled hard enough to extinguish one of the candles Doc had so thoughtfully lit before dinner. “You mean Martha was telling the truth? Norah did have a complete breakdown?”

  Doc shook his head. “No, not Norah. It was Martha who came unglued.”

  Of course, the news chilled me to the bone, and Doc and I hashed it over for at least an hour before we figured out what to do. Finally we agreed that in the morning we would go together to see Reverend Sims at his office at the church. In the meantime, there was nothing else to do but to polish off the pineapple upside-down cake. Fortunately Doc was still a little off his feed, so I got the lion’s share. Why is it that standard cake pans don’t come any larger than nine by thirteen?

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The night was still young. After the cake was gone, and after trying to dodge Doc, who is not at all as doddery as he should be, I was faced with one of those agonizing decisions that almost make you wish you were living under a strict totalitarian regime where everything is decided for you. It wasn’t until I hit Main Street in downtown Hernia that I decided not to go into Bedford that evening to visit Heather and her new baby. After all, I hadn’t had time to make a decent gift, and I didn’t want to insult either of them with something store-bought. Plus there is the safety factor, you know. Bedford might not be the Sodom and Gomorrah Mama always said it was, but there are a few undesirable elements living in town. By that I mean strangers; people who might foolishly try to take advantage of me in darkened parking lots, forcing me to rake them across the eyes with a fistful of keys.

  In Hernia, on the other hand, I feel perfectly safe. No one has bothered me since that night almost ten years ago when Jimmy Harshman, wearing a ski mask, tried to snatch my purse outside Sam Yoder’s grocery store. Jimmy now lives in Coos Bay, Oregon, and reportedly sings high tenor in his church choir.

  Having made up my mind not to go into Bedford made it easier for me to live happily with choice number two. Not that I should have felt guilty in the first place. How often does a back-to-back marathon of Green Acres reruns occur on noncable television? I know, three or four hours of such fare might be considered decadent by some, but I don’t smoke or drink, engage only in the safest sex there is, and tithe religiously to my church. Still, Mama would never have approved of such idle, self-indulgent behavior. For my own peace of mind, I stopped impulsively at Yoder’s Market and bought the largest bag of Cheese Crunchies I could find. Hopefully, the noise would drown out the sounds of Mama turning rhythmically in her grave.

  I was letting myself in by the back door, when I heard the door on the six-seater slam. It was a still, cloudless night in August, the kind with fireflies and crickets, and the distant sound of whippoorwills. There simply wasn’t enough breeze to ruffle a cobweb. Besides which, the door to the six-seater was locked, its clasp securely jammed into place with a piece of maple branch. But raccoons have remarkably agile hands, and are forever removing the lids of my garbage cans and scattering trash from here to kingdom come. The last thing I wanted was a clan of furry bandits taking up residence in the six-seater, just yards from the garbage-can corral.

  “Shoo! Scram! Beat it!” I yelled angrily. “Head for the woods while you still have four good paws to run on!” I don’t wear fur coats, but I’m not above raising my voice at those who do. Just because their fur is not easily detachable doesn’t mean they should get special treatment.

  But no coon clan was forthcoming. In exasperation I grabbed the sidewalk broom from the back steps and headed for the six-seater. If war was what the coons wanted, war was what they’d get. Unless one or more of the masked marauders had rabies, they’d soon be running with their tails between their legs. I may be a pacifist by breeding, but when provoked enough, I can be just as ferocious as the English. While I have yet to actually bite a living animal, I do own a strong, healthy set of nails.

  When I slammed the six-seater door open again, I fully expected to be greeted by the smug smiles of a coon platoon. But there was nothing. Just six empty wooden stalls. It took me only a few seconds to scan them all and determine that those cagey coons had outfoxed me once again. I bolted for the exit just as the door slammed one last time—almost in my face.

  “I’ll get you yet, you lily-livered vermin,” I yelled.

  I shoved hard at the door, but it didn’t budge. Now, some of the coons we have around Hernia are so big you wouldn’t want them stepping on your feet, but none of them is big enough to blockade a door. And besides, from the way the door gave a little at both the top and bottom, it was pretty clear someone, not something, was behind these shenanigans, and the maple stick had been jammed back into the clasp. At first it was irritation, not fear that followed the realization that someone was playing a practical joke.

  “Give it up, Susannah,” I growled.

  Susannah didn’t answer, which was no surprise. My sister has the memory of a politician. Sometimes she forgets things even as she’s doing them.

  I tried the door again. Still, it did not budge. “Okay, okay. It’s a very funny joke, and it was very clever of you to think of it, but enough is enough. You’ve had your fun. Now, open the door and let me out before I forget that you’re my sister.” All this was said in a voice loud enough to wake the dead—including Mama, who was always a little hard of hearing—-just in case Susannah had indeed forgotten and wandered off someplace.

  The door remained unmovable. “I give!” I shouted. “I surrender. Uncle!”

  My answer was the slosh of gasoline against the outside wooden planks. Suddenly my predicament became eminently clear. I was as vulnerable as a trussed turkey on the fourth Wednesday of November. “Who are you, and what is it you want?” I asked, hoping that my voice reflected respect and not fear.

  My answer was the whoosh of flames and an immediate rise in the temperature of my confined space. Like the Thanksgiving turkey, I was going to have my goose thoroughly cooked unless I came up with an escape plan. Fortunately, I have more brains than your average turkey. Knowing that Great-Grandpa Yoder had been a carpenter of some accomplishment, I didn’t waste even a precious moment trying to break through the roof. Instead, I set my sights quite a bit lower.

  Great-Grandma Yoder had been a woman of considerable girth. It always surprised, and even amused guests that one of the six seats was a lot larger than the rest. I’m sure Great-Grandma never dreamed that the size of her caboose would someday save the life of one of her descendants, but had she known, I’m sure it would have made carrying all that weight around worthwhile.

  Without a second thought I lifted the sturdy wooden seat and lowered myself into the dark, cool pit. It was a drop of about ten feet, but my adrenaline, fueled by the crackling flames above, prevented me from feeling any discomfort when I hit the ground. At first I thought it was also adrenaline that prevented me from smelling, or feeling, anything unmentionable, but I was wrong. Great-Grandpa’s outhouse had not been used in thirty years. Anything unpleasant had long since returned to dust, and I found myself standing in a dry, cool pit, not unlike a small cave.

  “Thank you, Lord,” I prayed. I must confess, though, that I also prayed whoever had done this to me would suffer from a terrible and incurable case of eczema. I’m sure that God in his mercy took into account the stress I was under.

  Although the air in the pit was originally cool and completely breathable, as the structure topside continued to burn, conditions began to change. Since there was no one around to see me anyway, I removed my half slip and wrapped it around my face like a scarf. I also decided to seek refuge in one of the corners of the pit, against that time when the row of seats, which had just began to burn, collapsed and sent down a shower of flames. It was as I was making my way through the half dark to the nearest corner that I stumbled across something painfully sharp.

  “Ow!” I screamed. Given that I was th
e only one present in the pit, with a burning outhouse to shield me from the disapproving eyes of the world, I may even have cursed. But a fairly benign curse, mind you.

  Reaching down, I felt around cautiously. When my finger gently made contact with the offending object, it took my brain what seemed to be several seconds before it could, or would, process the information. What had jabbed my leg, and now my fingertips caressed, was nothing other than a pitchfork. Perhaps even the pitchfork. It took my stubborn and reluctant brain another second or two to send me a message that, though it remained unspoken, was deafening. Whoever it was who had locked me in the outhouse and started the fire was also undoubtedly Don Manley’s murderer. And he or she meant business this time as well.

  Chapter Thirty

  Freni Hostetler’s Rendition Of Tom Yam Goonk

  Makes four servings.

  3 cups chicken broth

  1 cup coconut milk

  1 can straw mushrooms, drained

  Juice of two limes

  1 bunch scallions, chopped

  1 stalk fresh lemongrass, sliced, or zest of ½ lemon

  1 tablespoon fish sauce

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  ½ teaspoon galanga powder (if available)

  1 hot green chili pepper, chopped (optional)

  ¼ pound peeled and deveined raw shrimp

  Bring all ingredients but the shrimp to a boil. Add the shrimp and cook at reduced heat for another three minutes, or until the shrimp are done. Serve piping hot in bowls, with white rice on the side.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I thought it was only moments, but it was actually eleven hours later when I woke up in the Bedford County Memorial Hospital. The last thing I could remember was a shower of sparks and burning wood as the outhouse collapsed on itself, plunging the row of potty seats down into the pit. Apparently it was a loose lid that hit me on the head.

  “Where am I?” I asked Nurse Dudley. Of course I knew where I was. Any conscious idiot, no matter how badly concussed, can tell by the white uniforms and characteristic smells that they’re in a hospital. But certain questions are expected at times like this, and one is likely to gain more cooperation by going along with the plan.

  “You’re in the hospital,” said Nurse Dudley delightedly. “And I’m a nurse.”

  “Mama, is that you?”

  Nurse Dudley patted me joyfully. Her work was cut out for her. “No, dear, I am your nurse.” Even Cousin Agnes Yoder, at age ninety-three, isn’t deaf enough to warrant that many decibels.

  I smiled, a slow-spreading smile of recognition. “Hospital? Nurse?”

  “That’s right, dear. Now, you just lie right there while I go and get the doctor. I’ll be right back.”

  What did she think I was going to do, skip down to the gift shop and buy a magazine? The woman deserved to have her chain yanked a little. “Doctor?” I asked. “You’re a doctor?”

  Nurse Dudley smiled appreciatively. My delirium had quadrupled her salary and given her a modicum of respect. “Now, you be a good girl and just lie there. I’ll be right back.”

  While she was gone, I picked up the TV remote control from my bedside table and flicked through the channels. The Green Acres marathon had ended, and all I could find were three talk shows. The first show had on some politician so slippery they almost had to tie him in the chair. The second one featured an evangelist turned actor who was talking about how God had told him to steal from the offering plate to cap his teeth. The third was at least a little interesting. It featured lesbian nuns of Spanish origin who were starting up a gladiola farm just outside Tel Aviv. One of the nuns even sang on the show; a snappy hymn done to the tune of an Elvis Presley song. Frankly, I would have watched more of that show, but when I heard footsteps coming down the hall, I switched off the set and prudently resumed my delirium.

  “Mama, is that you?”

  Dr. Rosenkrantz was not amused. “Can the dramatics, Yoder, and just tell me how you feel.”

  I remembered I’d met him before. He’d been Susannah’s doctor the time she was whacked on the head with a bottle of beer in some honky-tonk down in Maryland. The hospital there was even smaller than the one in Bedford. “Moving up in the world, are we?” I asked.

  Dr. Rosenkrantz made a few hen scratches on my chart. “She’ll be fine,” he said to Nurse Dudley, not me. “I’ll keep her in for observation another twenty-four hours, then she’s free to go. Oh, one word of advice. Don’t go running yourself ragged on her account. The woman’s got more tricks up her sleeve than an octopus magician.”

  I graciously accepted the compliment by turning the TV back on. The nuns had somehow talked the host of the show, a man, into donning one of their habits, and one of the nuns was futilely trying to teach the dullard a few words of her newly acquired Hebrew. Surely this was American entertainment at its best. I watched nervously, aware that I was being seduced by a force more powerful than drugs or alcohol. As I watched, I began to appreciate that it was for good reason I had heretofore limited myself to one quality show. Television is definitely addictive.

  “Get behind me, Satan,” I said as I clicked off the set only moments into the next show. It was another talk show, this one featuring the obese children of one-legged accountants, and even though I failed to see the connection, I was mesmerized. Had it not been for the power of prayer, and a sudden urge for a candy bar, I would still have been watching TV when my visitor arrived.

  I might have expected Susannah to show up, or even Freni, if given a lift, but Aaron Miller’s was the last face I expected to see looming over my bed. I must have been dozing when he came in, because one minute I was alone, and the next thing I knew there was Aaron, twice as big as life and three times as handsome. Suddenly the room felt very hot.

  “How are you today?” Aaron asked kindly, if not stupidly.

  “Hot,” I said. “Would you mind turning up the a.c. please?”

  Aaron fiddled with some buttons. Then he had the audacity to come over and place his hand on my bare arm. His hand was as hot as a branding iron. “Well, I bet you don’t feel as hot as you did last night.”

  “You lose. Anyway, how would you know how hot I felt last night?”

  Aaron’s smile revealed flawless teeth. “I felt you then. I mean, I was the one who carried you out of the pit.”

  “You?”

  The sinfully blue eyes twinkled shamelessly. “Yeah, me. Hernia has only a volunteer fire department, and I live right across the road, remember?”

  “Actually, no. The doctor says I may suffer from amnesia for some time to come.”

  Aaron shook his head. “That’s too bad. The children want to visit you too, but now I guess they should wait until their mother remembers them. Otherwise it could be traumatic for them, don’t you agree?”

  “Very.” I tried not to smile. “Is little Miriam remembering to brush her teeth?”

  Aaron had the nerve to sit on the foot of my bed, even though there was a perfectly good chair in the room. “I couldn’t help noticing the fire. At first I thought it was a bonfire and you were throwing a party without inviting me.”

  “Oh! I plum forgot to mail the invitations.” Aaron’s left hand was resting disturbingly close to my toes, and seemed to be inching closer and closer. If he so much as touched me, I would scream my head off, although I wouldn’t necessarily verbalize the sounds.

  “But all’s well that ends well,” said Aaron airily. “Pop put in a call to Melvin, and by the time I got there, half a dozen cars were pulling up. We got the fire out in minutes. You know, one of the things I’d forgotten about Hernia was that everybody pulls together here. There’s a real sense of teamwork, you know.”

  Since I had nothing to lend, I decided to borrow some trouble. “Since there was a team of you there, why was it you who got me out of the pit?”

  Those blue eyes twinkled infuriatingly. “It was the team’s consensus, Magdalena, that I was the only one strong enough.”

  I threw my plastic pit
cher of water at him. Unfortunately the water missed him, but hit my feet.

  “That’s one way to cool yourself off,” said Aaron arrogantly.

  I tried glaring at him. It was like trying to glare at a cloud-streaked sunset or a bouquet of daylilies. “For all I know, you were the one who locked me in there and set it on fire.”

  Aaron flashed me the kind of smile that would have made my knees buckle had I not be lying down. “Why on earth would I do such a thing? That old place had special memories for me. When we were little kids, maybe five or so, we sneaked in there when the grown-ups weren’t looking and—”

  “I remember no such thing,” I said. Okay, so Aaron and I did play together sometimes as children, but there is no point in remembering all the embarrassing details. Anyway, Mama washed my mouth out with soap the next day after I’d confessed what we did on that one occasion. That should have been the end of it.

  Aaron was easily amused. “You’re blushing! Ah-ha! So you do remember.”

  I willed the excess blood to drain from my face. “I have more important things to think about now than our childhood shenanigans. Like who it was who tried to kill me, for starters.”

  The blue eyes took on a serious but still handsome look. “Do you have any ideas at all? Any clues to who it might have been?”

  I shook my head, and shaking your head is not the same as lying. After all, what was the use of sharing my suspicions until I had something a little more concrete to go on? It would just worry people, and undoubtedly make me look silly in the bargain. For the moment, I was quite safe where I was. A hospital is about as public a place as one can hope to find.

  ‘‘As usual, you’re being honest to the core,” said Aaron accusingly.

  ‘‘I do my best.”

  “In that case, I’ll have to do my own investigative work.”

  “Good luck,” I said. I had tried to sound irritated, but of course I was flattered. And worried too. Aaron knew virtually none of the players. Although some of them seemed more pathetic than dangerous, there was obviously at least one very dangerous soul out there. Hopefully Aaron would not tangle with that individual until I came up with the evidence I needed.