Gruel and Unusual Punishment

by Tamar Myers

  "Who did you think it was?"

  "Uh—you, of course. It's just that you startled me. What are you doing here?"

  "Me? I live here, in case you've forgotten. The question is, what are you doing here?"

  "I thought you'd been kidnapped," I said. Exercising an active imagination is not the same as lying. "I was looking for clues."

  Zelda propped balled fists on nonexistent hips. "You should be looking for a loony bin that caters to rich Mennonite innkeepers."

  I hopped to my feet. "Why, I never!" I paused to consider her suggestion. "Are there such places? And do you think they'd give back rubs? I'm prepared to pay a premium for a good masseuse."

  "Magdalena! I'm not letting you get away with this. Either you tell me what you're doing in my house, or I'm running you in."

  "You can't do that! I'm working for Melvin. Saint Melvin."

  Zelda ignored my snide remark. "But I can. No police officer— even a real one like myself—is above the law." She snapped her fingers. "Rats! I haven't gotten around to cleaning the ladies' cell since our last female prisoner. And I certainly won't have time to wash those sheets today. Oh well, you'll just have to make do."

  "At least the food is good," I wailed.

  "Yeah, if it doesn't kill you first." She shook her head slowly. "You sure do a lot of wailing, you know that?"

  "I can't help the way I speak. And that comment about the food was unfair. You know good and well that neither Freni nor I poisoned Clarence Webber." I tapped the toe of a brown brogan on Zelda's cheap carpet. "If you must know, dear, I'm here to investigate you."

  The normally nimble Zelda teetered on her black platform shoes. "Why me?"

  "You sure you wouldn't like to sit first? We could go into your living room. There's all those beanbag chairs and—"

  In an effort to steady herself, she grabbed my left shoulder— and the black talons dug into my collarbone. I felt like I'd fallen on a rake.

  "Magdalena, just tell me what this is all about."

  I extricated the dark claws and prayed I wouldn't get tetanus. "You lied, it's as simple as that. You were married to the deceased, for Pete's sake."

  Zelda swallowed so hard, I saw traces of an Adam's apple. Perhaps it really was Jimmy Hoffa hiding under all that makeup.

  "I didn't lie, Magdalena. I just neglected to tell you something. How did you find out?"

  "I can't squeal on my sources, dear. But you were married to Clarence, weren't you?"

  She nodded.

  "Yet you worship Melvin. What gives?"

  "I don't worship, Melvin. I merely venerate him. There is a difference, you know."

  "That is so wrong." I know we are not supposed to judge, but surely the Good Lord intends for us to make exceptions, otherwise He would not have chosen to include the book of Judges in the Bible. "Besides, Melvin is—uh—how should I put this?"

  "Melvin is the dearest, kindest man who ever lived. Just ask your sister, why don't you?" Zelda then launched into a litany of Melvin's supposed good qualities.

  I clapped my bony hands over my ears. Unfortunately they acted more like hearing aids than plugs.

  "Stop it!" I finally screamed. "You don't know the whole story. Melvin Stoltzfus and Saddam Hussein are identical twins, separated at birth. Their mother—Elvina Stoltzfus—was touring the Middle East and had a layover in Baghdad. I mean that literally, if you get my drift. Elvina returned to Hernia and gave birth, but the father followed her here, and kidnapped the son he thought looked most like him. If you don't believe me, look it up in the encyclopedia."

  Zelda's eye muscles struggled to lift lids weighed down by heavy loads of mascara. "Is that really true?"

  "No. But we shouldn't even be discussing Melvin. We should be discussing you. Why did you marry Clarence Webber?"

  Zelda's sigh sent a cloud of face powder into the ozone. If El Nino returns, I am not responsible.

  "All right," she said, "I'll tell you everything. But first let's go into the living room and make ourselves comfortable."

  17

  "Comfortable" meant the beanbag chairs. There is nothing comfortable about having my thighs and neck aligned at forty degrees, both at right angles to my back. The only thing comfortable one can do with beans is add ham hocks and make a good soup. Zelda's furniture could go a long way toward alleviating hunger in some small Third World country.

  I made myself as comfortable as I could on what should have been somebody's supper. "Spill it," I said.

  Zelda settled into her chair. "I married Clarence to make Melvin jealous."

  "Say what?"

  "Well, he married your sister, didn't he? So I married Clarence to get even."

  "Melvin knows about this?"

  "Of course."

  "I wonder why he didn't tell me? Or at least Susannah—who would have told me for sure."

  "Because I made him swear not to. Magdalena, it's not like I loved Clarence. It was—well, frankly, it was embarrassing."

  "Did it at least work?"

  Tears welled up in Zelda's eyes. "All he said was congratulations. And that I could have the day off."

  "That cad!" I wasn't being sarcastic, mind you.

  The floodgates opened, threatening to reveal the real Zelda. I was both fascinated and repelled by the transformation. Once- smooth cheeks were now fissured by gullies and, in some spots, deep ravines. Even an all-terrain vehicle would find it almost impossible to drive across that face.

  "It was a horrible mistake," she sobbed. "I know I should never have done it. But just so you know, Magdalena, we never actually—well, you know what."

  "Thank heavens for that!" I must confess, however, that having actually engaged in you-know-what with my pseudo-husband Aaron, I am of two minds on the subject. On one hand I deeply regret losing my maidenhood to a lying, two-timing scoundrel. On the other hand, now I know what all the fuss is about—in my case, about three minutes.

  Zelda quit sobbing and gingerly fingered her new crevasses. "I know what you're thinking, Magdalena. You're thinking that I killed Clarence so I'd be free again for Melvin. But in case you haven't thought of it, that would be just plain stupid. I mean, why not just get a divorce?"

  "Why not indeed?"

  She frowned, and the gullies on her forehead grew so deep I thought I heard the distant shout of coal miners. "I was going to get a divorce until he got arrested. But then after that, it was just too embarrassing. They publish divorce proceedings in the paper, you know."

  "Indeed I do."

  "Indeed this, indeed that. Magdalena, you're starting to sound pompous."

  "Moi?"

  "You see? Anyway, I certainly wouldn't have killed him in jail. Not where I work. What kind of idiot do you take me for?"

  I allowed Zelda the privilege of listening to the dulcet sounds of silence, during which I pondered the situation. The woman had a point; she was anything but stupid, and it would have been the epitome of stupidity to kill Clarence in the Hernia jail. Especially considering the fact that I'm prone to sticking my probing proboscis in there with some regularity. In the end, I decided to cross her off my mental list. After a minute or two I cleared my throat.

  "You were married in Cumberland, Maryland, weren't you?"

  She sat ramrod straight, an amazing feat in a beanbag chair. "How did you know?"

  "The justice of the peace lived in this big white house on top of a hill, and his wife Bonita made your bouquet from rhododendron blossoms. You honeymooned at a brand-new motel on 1-70 right next to the Cracker Barrel. Am I right?"

  "They were lilacs, not rhodies. Magdalena, were you spying on me?"

  "Unfortunately not. Zelda, I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Apparently Clarence Webber was a bit of a lothario. In fact— I don't know how else to say this—you were not the only woman he married in Cumberland."

  "Why, that's utter nonsense, Magdalena. Who put you up to this joke? Susannah? It's not very fu
nny, you know."

  "It's not a joke, dear. It's the truth."

  Zelda sank back into her bag of beans with a soft moan. "I can't believe this is happening. I'm a policewoman. I should have known."

  "Woman's capacity to deceive herself is even greater than her capacity to deceive others. Words of wisdom from yours truly."

  Zelda was shaking her ravaged head slowly. "Who told you I was married?"

  "Reverend Nixon, but I twisted his arm."

  "Clarence was insisting we get married by this J.R, but I wanted a preacher there as well. He finally agreed if I paid all the expenses. I only picked Reverend Nixon because Clarence suggested him. Apparently he goes to that little church up by the turnpike. I can't ever remember its correct name."

  "I don't think the Reverend can. It has thirty-two of them."

  "Who?" she asked weakly. "Who was Clarence married to?"

  "Sometimes it's better not to know the details. A little self- deception in this case might well be the antidote."

  "Magdalena, quit talking riddles and cut to the chase. Who was that blankety-blank-blank [I wouldn't dream of quoting Zelda word for word] married to besides me?"

  I took a deep breath. Don't for a second imagine I felt any pleasure in my task. Now, if it had been a case of Reverend Schrock cheating on Lodema, that might have been different story.

  "Clarence was a busy man, dear. It seems he married Dorcas Yutzy, Emma Kauffman, and Agnes Schlabach. Possibly even more. But I'm pretty sure he never got around to marrying Richard Nixon."

  My attempt to cheer Zelda went unnoticed. "Those were all women who visited him in jail. Under my nose! If Clarence were alive, I'd kill him." She clapped a black-tipped paw over the remains of her mouth. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

  "Of course not, dear." I struggled to my feet. "Well, tempusfugit."

  "What is that supposed to mean?" She sounded testy.

  "It's Latin for 'time flies.' I've got to skedaddle, dear."

  Zelda walked me to my car, which proved, if nothing else, that she was a brave woman. "You do believe me, Magdalena, don't you? That I didn't kill Clarence."

  Although Zelda was now off my list, it didn't hurt to keep her hanging. The Good Lord knows I've been wrong before.

  "Mine not to reason why," I said. "Mine but to do and die."

  "Riddles!" Zelda cried. "More riddles!" She sought to detain me with her lethal talons, but I dodged them deftly this time and made my getaway.

  There is nothing like a nice drive to clear the cobwebs from the brain, but a car trip without food is like a bath without soap. Okay, so maybe that is a bad analogy, but in both cases something critical is missing. At any rate, rather than go all the way back to the Penn- Dutch to stock up on provisions, I elected to visit Yoder's Comer Market, which was right on my way to Cumberland.

  But first I stopped to use Hernia's only public phone. It hangs on the wall of a small wooden shed, a mere stone's throw away from the little grocery. This is where the Amish—who don't own phones, by the way, but are not averse to using them—make their calls. Usually there are several folks waiting in line, but today there must have been a dearth of news.

  There must not have been too much happening back at the inn, either, because Alison picked up on the first ring.

  "Hey, where are you?" she demanded.

  "I'm out doing some errands, dear. Are you behaving yourself?"

  "If you call doing nothing 'behaving'."

  "Have you been out to see the cows yet?" Frankly, the reason I was calling is because I was worried the child might get too bored with life at the inn, and opt for reform school. While that decision wouldn't exactly break my heart, I was getting rather used to the idea of having her around.

  "No, I ain't been to see the cows. Hey Mom, how come ya have this picture of my dad?"

  " What picture?"

  "The one ya got hidden under your undies and things."

  "Alison Miller!" I shrieked. "Are you in my drawers?"

  She giggled. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. I was only looking for a place to stash my stuff."

  "Stay out of my drawers!" I roared. The truth be known, I was more embarrassed than angry. I'd buried that photo under my unmentionables the day Aaron revealed he was legally married to someone else. It was just too good a likeness to throw away. Although a part of me had always been aware that it was there, at the same time I'd also been—up until now—for the most part able to block it out.

  "Okay, okay," Alison said, not without attitude. "I'll stay out of your stupid drawers. But you know what? I think it's kinda funny that my dad looks like that man who lives across the road."

  "He most certainly does not!"

  "Man, you sure get upset easily. You know that?"

  "I do not!"

  "Like now, see? You keep this up and you're gonna bust a gut."

  I said good-bye to Alison before her prediction could come true.

  Samuel Nevin Yoder, the owner of Yoder's Corner Market, is my first cousin. He recently revealed that he's been carrying a torch for me since childhood—"has the hots" was his cruder way of saying it—and has been trying to talk me into having an affair. Even if Sam were the third or fourth last man alive, I wouldn't consider his offer. For one thing, he's married. For another, the very thought of doing the horizontal hootchie-cootchie with a cousin, even were it legal, is repulsive to me.

  Ever since Sam first told me about his feelings, I've tried my best to stay away from the store. But Yoder's Comer Market is the only place to buy food for humans in Hernia, and one should never venture to Maryland without provisions.

  I steeled myself against Sam's advances and strode briskly into the store. Sam, thank Heavens, was nowhere in sight, but I nearly ran over Susannah with my shopping buggy.

  "Sis," she cried delightedly, "I've been trying to reach you. Where've you been?"

  "Playing tiddlywinks, dear. What's up?"

  "I've decided to throw a dinner party, and I want you to come."

  "When?" With any luck, I already had something scheduled for that date.

  "Tonight. Say, sevenish. Oh, and you can bring that little girl of yours if you like."

  "She isn't so little, and I'm afraid I can't make it tonight anyway. I have to go to Maryland."

  "Maryland?" The excitement in Susannah's voice was palpable. Maryland had been her stomping grounds as a rebellious teenager. No doubt it still held fond memories.

  "It's business, dear, not debauchery."

  She pursed her lips in disgust, but then smiled slyly. "I invited

  Gabe. He said he would come—provided you were there. Sorry, sis, but I told him you already said yes."

  "Susannah!"

  "Well, he is your babe, isn't he? Your boy toy?"

  "He's the same age as me," I wailed.

  "He is? Get out of town!"

  "In fact, he's six weeks older."

  She shook her head. "Really, Mags, you should do something about the way you look. Like cut your hair. Just because Mama wore her hair in a holy bun doesn't mean you have to. And I don't mean to be disrespectful, but lose that prayer cap as well. And your dresses—geez, they're from the dark ages. Hey, what's that word they use to describe Queen Elizabeth?"

  "Dowdy," I said dolefully. "But she's really not. She's really a rather snappy dresser."

  Susannah has selective hearing. "Yeah, that's what you are. Dowdy. That might work for a queen, sis, but not for you. Hey, if you want, I could give you lessons on how to dress. I wouldn't even charge you a dime."

  That hiked my hackles. I pointed to the fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric that flowed over and around her skinny frame. "You look like a half-unwrapped mummy, dear. There's no way I'm going to wear that."

  "Of course not, sis. This style takes attitude to wear. No, I was thinking about a skirt—say, mid-thigh length, and a nice little twin set. Tangerine would be a good color on you."

>   "I'm a conservative Mennonite for crying out loud, not a go-go dancing Presbyterian."

  Susannah laughed loudly. "Go-go? That is so retro, Mags. Hey, but let's not argue. You'll come, right?"

  I nodded. Boy toy indeed. Still, if folks thought that was the case, it said less about my dowdy appearance than it did about my charming personality. Not every middle-aged Mennonite innkeeper can snag herself a boy toy.

  Maryland might be only thirty-two miles away, but it is across the state line. The only time I'd been out of Pennsylvania was to go to Ohio. I hadn't needed a passport then, or shots for that matter, but that was Ohio, and I was there to visit Amish relatives. I was almost positive a passport wouldn't be needed for Maryland, but shots were probably a good idea. Alas, there would be no time for that if I wanted to make it back for Susannah's dinner party. I had no choice but to live dangerously on that account.

  Just to be as safe as possible under the circumstances, I put the following items in my buggy: two one-gallon jugs of bottled water, a roll of double-ply toilet paper, three cans of Beanie Weenies, two cans of sardines, a six-pack of Three Musketeers candy bars, one large box of granola, one medium-size box of low-fat powdered milk, one small box of plastic spoons, a package of Styrofoam bowls, a single bag of trail mix, a jumbo bottle of that sanitizing hand gel that's been so popular lately, and a ball of string. One can never have too much twine, if you ask me. The last thing I plopped in the buggy was a roll of duct tape, an item that should be on the "must" list of every traveler contemplating a trip abroad.

  Susannah had long since disappeared by the time I made my decisions, and Sam was at his usual place behind the register. He eyed my buggy with amusement.

  "Going camping, Magdalena?"

  "I'm going to Maryland."

  "Then you'll need matches."

  "You're right!"

  He tossed a box on the counter. "On the house. So, how long you going to be gone?"

  "Two hours minimum. Maybe three."

  He nodded gravely. "Pays to play it safe."

  "Say," I said casually, "you ever hear anything about a J.P. down there popular with the Hernia crowd?"

  As proprietor of Hernia's only food store, Sam is privy to a lot of gossip, most of which he is happy to pass on. He threw a second pack of matches on the counter.