Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

  The foot of my bed was still wet when Freni Hostetler sat down on it. “Ach Du Aimer!” she squawked. “Why, Magdalena, you should have asked the nurse for help.”

  “It’s only the water I threw at Aaron Miller.”

  “Aaron Miller was here?” Susannah was practically panting like a dog. A big dog, not the pint-sized Shnookums she had so brazenly sneaked into the hospital in her bra.

  “Yes. He was, until I made him leave. And why on earth would that interest you?”

  Susannah took Shnookums out of the nether reaches of her bosom and plopped him down on the bed near my pillow. “I ran into him at Yoder’s Market yesterday afternoon. What a hunk, Mags. He’s absolutely gorgeous!”

  “Down!” I snapped. I meant Susannah, not the dog.

  “Ask me what’s new,” said Freni, beaming.

  I refused to bite. “Tell Art I’m sorry about holding up the shooting schedule, but the doctor says I can go home tomorrow.”

  “Art shmart,” said Freni tartly, “who cares about the English and their films?”

  “I do. That film is currently my bread and butter.”

  “You always did have expensive tastes,” Susannah had the nerve to say.

  “Forget about bread and forget about Art,” Freni said. “The big news is that Barbara is taking a trip.”

  “You were finally able to book her on the space shuttle?” I asked.

  Freni smiled. She could obviously afford to be magnanimous. “Barbara’s going back home to visit her parents. For two months!”

  “Who is going to help with the corn harvest?”

  Freni shrugged. “God will provide. My John will have all the help he needs. Maybe I can cut back my hours at the PennDutch and give him a hand. And Mose can too.”

  "In a pig’s ear,” I said.

  Freni made some clucking noises that indicated I would have a fight on my hands if I wanted to keep the best cook east of Pittsburgh. Of course I was mildly irritated by this turn of events, but I didn’t mind as much as I would have just twenty-four hours earlier. A near-death experience, while not something I would recommend, can do a lot to provide perspective. Then, too, I was feeling unusually optimistic for some reason. Something I couldn’t quite define was working on my psyche. Despite a lump on my head, and a wet bed, I was feeling strangely happy. Maybe even happier than I had ever felt before. You might even say I was feeling goofy.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I was still feeling goofy when Nurse Dudley brought in my lunch tray. “Since you weren’t a patient yesterday morning when it was time to order today’s meals, it’s potluck for you today,” she informed me smugly.

  "That will be fine.”

  “And if you don’t eat well, I’m going to write it down on your chart.”

  "There’s a pen in my purse,” I said pleasantly. "It’s in that little, tiny, miniscule closet over there.”

  Nurse Dudley glowered at me. “A poor appetite may be a sign of complications. If you don’t eat, the doctor might keep you here longer than you want.”

  Her threat rolled off me like rain off a duck. “It’s actually a very nice room. Will they let me get new curtains?” Nurse Dudley stamped a white-shoed foot and charged from the room, leaving me alone with the controversial lunch. I lifted the hard plastic cover and peeked gingerly inside. It looked like a hodgepodge of tapioca, mashed potatoes, and creamed onions. I tasted it. It was ambrosia. Maybe I could hire the hospital chef if and when Freni quit on me.

  As I was licking my spoon for the last time, Steven “Bugsy” Figaretti slithered into my room. “Hey, Yoder,” said Bugsy blithely, “how’s it going?”

  I pulled my covers up around my chin. Reptiles of any kind make me nervous. “That depends. You wouldn’t mind terribly if I smelled your hands, would you?”

  Steven smiled obscenely. “I’ve got to admit, that’s a new one.”

  “I’d be sniffing for gas.” Okay, so I may have tipped my hand, but my reputation will follow me to my grave, and if Steven was going to finish the job, I might as well set him straight.

  “Sniff away,” said Steven smugly, “but I have an airtight alibi. If you have any doubts, ask Melody, the day clerk at my motel. She knows how to make a visitor feel welcome. I rang her chimes three times.”

  “Ah, yes, Melody, formerly known as Marvin Brubaker.”

  Bugsy blanched. “Anyway, Art sent me to convey his best wishes for a speedy recovery, and to tell you to take all the time you need to mend. He has to fly back to L.A. this afternoon anyway. He’ll be gone a couple of days.”

  “Had to see his therapist, did he?”

  “Yeah,” Steven smirked. “How did you know?”

  “His mother substitute was just in here.”

  “You mean Susannah?”

  Clearly, Hollywood families were different from those in Hernia. I told Steven to run along and play, but to be just as careful in Bedford as he would be back home. He probably thought I was warning him about AIDS, which can happen in Bedford, and even in Hernia, but I was not. If Marvin Brubaker, Melody’s husband, caught up with him, Steven wouldn’t live long enough to know he had a disease. Marvin Brubaker had been a national weightlifting champion until steroids made him so mean, he was jailed for biting a pit bull.

  Having discovered the seductiveness of television, and promising myself it was only a temporary aberration that would cease the moment I stepped out of the hospital, I allowed myself to watch, for the very first time, one of those daytime dramas the English call soap operas. They are very aptly named, you know. Mama would have washed my mouth out with soap, and my eyes too, if she had caught me so much as glancing at such filth. Still, they are entertaining. In the one I watched, the siren (who had apparently been married six times and was currently dating her step-grandson) was having a catfight with her rival (a frisky vixen who had a habit of marrying the siren’s rejects). Much to my surprise, I found myself identifying with the frisky vixen, even though I have never been married, and would most certainly never even date someone Susannah had looked at twice.

  The siren and the vixen were rolling around on the floor, pulling each other’s hair and just generally slapping each other around, when Melvin Stoltzfus and his sidekick, Zelda, walked in.

  I zapped off the TV. ‘‘How nice to see you,” I trilled. If Reverend Gingerich found out about my lapse in judgment, I might become the Sunday school teacher at the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church.

  Thankfully, Melvin and Zelda were so engrossed their conversation that for a few seconds they didn’t even notice me. “She has a right to know,” Zelda was saying. “Even a chicken knows it’s going to be killed when you tie it up by its feet.”

  “But she isn’t a chicken,” countered Melvin. “And let’s leave her feet out of this. Even if she washed them, she’d still have to go.”

  I glanced surreptitiously under the covers. Nurse Dudley hadn’t said anything about my using the shower, although having been pulled from a cesspit the day before, I suppose it did make sense.

  “But she’s your mother,” said Zelda emphatically.

  I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Melvin Stoltzfus had been threatening to send his mother to a nursing home for the past six years. Everyone in Hernia knew about it except the old lady herself. Fortunately everyone in Hernia understood there was nothing to be gained by enlightening Mrs. Stoltzfus. Since Melvin lacked the cartilage to move out of his mother’s house in the first place, it followed that he lacked what it took to ship her off to the Bedford County Home for the Mennonite Aged. If Zelda wasn’t so enamored of the man, she would have seen that he was a spineless arthropod.

  “Yoder,” said Melvin warmly when he came to his senses and realized where he was and that I was looking at him.

  “That’s my name, Melvin. Don’t wear it out.”

  Melvin strained to focus both eyes on me. “Proud of playing the heroine, are we?”

  I considered fixing Melvin up with Nurse Dudley, but then dropped the id
ea like a hot potato. On the off chance that the two of them hit if off and produced children, my name would live on in the infamous annals of history along with Hitler, Stalin, and Idi Amin. “Melvin dear,” I said sweetly, “whatever do you mean?”

  Melvin’s mandibles mashed futilely a couple of times before he produced a word. “Next time, leave the detective work up to professionals, Yoder. Apparently the killer almost roasted you alive.”

  “Ah, so you’ve removed me from your short little list of suspects?”

  Melvin looked at Zelda and me simultaneously. “I never officially accused you, Yoder. And you must admit that I had a good enough reason anyway.”

  “I’ll admit to no such thing. Now, what is it you want with me, Melvin?”

  “Magdalena, did you hear or see anything suspicious last night before the fire?” asked Zelda quickly.

  “Was Jacob Amman Swiss?” I asked. That is the Hernia equivalent of asking if the Pope is Catholic.

  “Just give me the details,” urged Zelda, who had one eye on Melvin, who had at least one eye on me.

  I told Zelda everything, which wasn’t much. An outhouse door that refused to stay closed wasn’t much of a clue. And gasoline and matches could be purchased by anyone in Hernia. “But, of course, there might be prints on the pitchfork,” I concluded.

  Zelda and Melvin exchanged glances, and I knew it was still up to me to find out who had forked Don and tried to barbecue me to cover their tracks.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It wasn’t Nurse Dudley who brought in my supper tray, but Martha Sims.

  “Hello, Magdalena dear,” she bubbled. “The nurse had her hands full with a cranky patient two doors down, so I volunteered to lend her a hand. Guess which hand?” I simply stared at her. What is there to say when a grown woman acts like a fool to try and cheer you up? Some people shout at foreigners to make themselves understood, and others act like idiots in a hospital for much the same reason.

  “Ooh, looky, what have we here?” said Martha unabashedly. She’d lifted the lid off my entree and was sniffing at it like a hound dog on a fresh scent.

  I simply can’t abide people sniffing my food. Great-Uncle Harry used to sniff everything at Thanksgiving dinner, and he once sat through an entire meal with whipped cranberry chiffon clinging to his nose hairs because no one had the nerve to say anything. Even though Martha’s schnoz was not as hirsute as Great-Uncle Harry’s, I felt compelled to speak up.

  “You breathe on it, you eat it,” I informed her politely.

  Martha immediately decided that being nosy wasn’t worth lima beans and chipped beef in white sauce. “So, how are you feeling, Magdalena?”

  “Like a million bucks after seven-digit inflation has set in. Why?” I hardly considered Martha a friend. To be honest, I wouldn’t have visited her in a hospital.

  “Well, you look good,” said Martha generously, “considering all you’ve been through.”

  I would have smiled my appreciation, but Mama always said it was rude to show your food.

  “Would you like me to pour your chocolate milk for you, Magdalena?”

  I shook my head no.

  “It’s no trouble at all,” said Martha breezily. She reached for the carton, but I snatched it away just in time. I didn’t want anyone else’s thumb poking into the cardboard spout of my carton.

  “Hey, this crummy thing’s already been opened,” I said. Truly, it disgusted me. And as for those people who take swigs out of bottles and cartons and then put them back in the fridge, they should have their lips sewn together and cauterized.

  Martha smiled proudly. "Oh, that was me. I shook it and opened it for you before I brought it in. I know how it is. When one feels bad, one appreciates having the little extras done for one.”

  “Done for one?” I said perhaps a bit caustically, but then quickly changed my tune. Martha was a far cry from Mother Teresa, but she was making an effort to accommodate, which counted for something. “Well, in that case, would you mind terribly feeding me? I seem to be having trouble lifting this fork.”

  Martha beamed her appreciation at being allowed to serve. What a shining example she was of Christian charity. Surely this was a woman from whom I could learn a lesson or two. Without so much as a wince, she picked up my fork and shoveled some chipped beef onto it. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pour your milk?”

  My mouth was already open like a baby bird waiting to be fed, but I quickly rearranged it for speech. “Positive. What you can do, though, is hop out there into the hall and see if you can chase down the dinner cart. They might have some extra milks you can snag.”

  Martha put the laden fork down, which in some courts might be construed as cruel and unusual punishment. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Magdalena. This was the last of the chocolates.”

  “White will do, then,” I said. “I’m not prejudiced.”

  “I didn’t see any more of those either,” said Martha smoothly. “Tell you what, I’d be happy to fetch you a glass of water.”

  “Water is for livestock,” I said stupidly. I drink water all the time, but Martha wasn’t playing straight with me, and I aimed to find out why. Had she done the unforgivable and sneaked a sip from my carton?

  “Oh, don’t be so fussy, Magdalena,” said Martha as if reading my mind. “I simply opened your milk for you. I didn’t poison it.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said obligingly. “Actually, I’m not that thirsty after all. Why don’t you drink the milk while I eat my supper? If these lima beans get any colder, we can use them to seed clouds.”

  Martha seemed agitated by my remark. Perhaps she was fond of cold lima beans. “But you must drink your milk, Magdalena. It has calcium in it. A woman in your condition needs her calcium.”

  I almost choked on an ice cold bean. I pushed the lethal legumes aside. “Martha dear, I am not pregnant, contrary to any rumors that might be circulating around Hernia at the moment.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Martha hastened to assure me. “Besides, I refuse to listen to those nasty rumors. What I meant was that your body needs extra calcium now because of your fall into the pit. You know, your bones were all jarred up. That sort of thing.”

  It was becoming clear just how much of a basket case Martha really was. “My bones are not all jarred up,” I explained patiently. “I didn’t fall into the pit, Martha, I climbed down into it.”

  Martha looked strangely disappointed. “Well, anyway, women our age should drink as much milk as they can, while they can. Osteoporosis is just around the corner.” That did it. Mama may have gotten away with making me drink my milk, but Martha Sims was not my mama. Like the defiant little girl I wish I’d been, I picked up the open carton and started to dribble it over my lima beans.

  You would have thought I’d threatened Martha’s very life. The next thing I knew, she reached into her purse and whipped out a gun. A tiny gun, smaller than most toy pistols, granted, but a real gun nonetheless. “Drink it!” she ordered.

  Mama had never needed to go that far. “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll drink the stuff. But only if you join me. You can even have first sip.” I may be slow, but something was definitely rotten in Denmark, and at the moment Martha looked Danish to me.

  “Drink it now!”

  I slowly raised the carton to my lips. But before partaking of the much-discussed liquid, I stalled one last time.

  “Have you ever considered taking up a hobby, Martha? I hear ceramics is fun. Or how about volunteer work?” God forbid she should volunteer as a candy-stripper.

  Martha was not amused. “Drink!”

  I pretended to drink, just as I had with Mama. Of course, sooner or later Mama always caught on, as would Martha. Sipping and swallowing is easy to fake, but an empty milk carton is not. Still, I was at least postponing the inevitable.

  “It’s your fault, Magdalena.” Martha sounded close to tears.

  I pretended to swallow a gulp, and even wiped my mouth on my sleeve. “How is tha
t?”

  “If it weren’t for you, the movie company wouldn’t have come to town. That’s where it all started.”

  I tried to look sympathetic. “They are a horrible bunch, aren’t they?”

  Martha shook her head, which made the diminutive pistol shake even more. “You still don’t understand, do you? My whole life I wanted to be somebody.”

  “You are somebody, dear. You are a very special person.” Prudently, I omitted the word “loon” from my sentence.

  Martha wanted more from me. “No, no, you don’t understand. I didn’t want to be just anybody. I wanted to be an actress, like my grandmother.”

  “ The Cassandra Hicks?” Thank the good Lord for an ironclad memory.

  “Exactly. But I couldn’t, you see. Not after I married Orlando. And especially not after we moved to Hernia. Ministers’ wives in Hernia do not pursue acting careers.”

  “But you are a Presbyterian,” I pointed out. I was no expert on Presbyterians, but I did know they were permitted to do gobs of things we Mennonites hadn’t even heard of.

  “But I’m still a minister’s wife!” Martha practically shrieked. “I have to set an example.”

  I mimed another sip. “You’re a snappy dresser,” I said quite honestly. “Your shoes and purse always match beautifully.”

  Martha was not appeased. “That isn’t the point, you idiot. The point is that I had managed to put aside my dreams, hard as it was, and then you had to go and open Pandora’s box by inviting that movie company to town.”

  If loose lips sink ships, then mine could sink a navy. “I didn’t invite them. They came on their own. I simply gave them permission to film at the PennDutch.”

  “And they made you the star!” There was genuine pain in her voice, and surprisingly, I could understand it. In eighth grade Mrs. Oberlin ran a writing contest, with first prize being a trip to Pittsburgh to meet a real live, professional writer. I had wanted to win that contest more than anything in my life, before or since. And I had written a good story, I knew it. It may even have been a great story. But it was Billy Pascoe who won first place with a story he wrote about baseball. Baseball! And instead of taking him to meet the writer, Miss Oberlin took him to a Pirates game! That was my first real taste of just how unfair life can be.