by Tamar Myers
"How silly of them," I said, and moistened a finger that I then used to pick crumbs off my lap.
"Well, it happens. Believe me, I know. That's how I make my living."
"Falling in love?"
She laughed. "I wish. No, I write historical romances."
"You don't say! You mean those bodice-rippers I see on the rack at Wal-Mart?"
"Please, Portulacca, we don't like to call them that. That's a pejorative term. Most of them are very well written. Just because they appeal to a wide audience doesn't mean we aim for the lowest common denominator. In fact, my latest, The Piet's Pecs—set in medieval Scotland—won three literary awards. Yet, unlike most literary novels, it was a New York Times best-seller." She beamed. "I don't mind telling you it sold over a million copies."
I could feel my eyes bulge. I've never been very good at math, but it was beginning to sound like I was the third richest woman in Bedford County.
"Just what is your royalty rate?"
"Eight percent," she said guardedly.
They say write what you know. I tried to imagine a romance novel set amongst the conservative Mennonites I knew, even the Amish. It wouldn't be a bodice-ripper, that was for sure. More like a cape-grabber. And when I got down to writing that essential nitty-gritty scene, I'd have to draw on a well of experience so shallow you couldn't dip a braid into it. After all, Aaron Miller was not exactly Casanova. Still, isn't that what the imagination is for? To create fantasy? And for the right sum, I can be mighty creative.
"What was your advance?" I asked innocently.
Virginia was kind enough to allow me to finish my sandwich before escorting me to the door.
On my way back to Hernia I stopped off at the church with thirty- two names. I was just pulling into the gravel parking lot when the significance of the number thirty-two struck me. That was the same number of cats Agnes Schlabach owned. Surely it was just a coincidence. After all, the average human has thirty-two permanent teeth, and there couldn't possibly be a connection between chompers, cats, and church.
I knew there would be no fooling Reverend Nixon with Susannah's disguise, so I whipped off the wig at the last moment. As usual, I found the good preacher inside the tiny church. This time he was on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor. As he worked he was whistling a tune familiar to me as a Mennonite: "Shall We Gather at the River." As a way of gently breaking the news that I was still alive, I whistled along with him.
For the first couple of bars of our duet he didn't seem to notice. It wasn't until we got to the refrain, and my whistle ran dry (causing me to come in late) that he looked up. The poor man's face turned to chalk as he gave a strangled cry. Then, before I could reach him, he slumped to the floor, knocking over the bucket of Murphy's Oil Soap and water.
I read somewhere that folks who have fainted should have their heads elevated. Or perhaps it was their feet. Since the Reverend was lying face down in a pool of soapy water, I didn't think it would hurt to start with his head. I dragged him to a dry spot about ten feet away and propped his narrow head on a pile of hymnals. I briefly considered pinching his nostrils together and breathing into his mouth.
Fortunately, before I could commit to such an intimate gesture, the good Reverend came to. However, upon seeing my comely mug so close to his, he fainted again. I gently slapped his gaunt cheeks, and managed to revive him. Alas, a slightly longer glance at me, and he was out once more.
I waited patiently until he came around the third time. "It really is me," I blurted. "Magdalena Yoder. Big as life and twice as ugly."
His eyes flickered but finally remained open. "Where am I? Heaven?"
"I don't think so, dear. Not that I wouldn't be there to greet you, mind you—assuming, of course, my arrival date preceded yours."
"Hell?" He was in danger of fainting again.
"You're not listening, dear. I said my name was Magdalena Yoder. I'm certainly not in Hell. I'm not dead, and neither are you."
He struggled to a sitting position. "But it was in the papers. It was even on television."
"They said I was dead?"
"Not exactly. But they said you were missing. I knew you were working on the Webber case, as of course did Chief Stoltzfus, and, well—it just kind of got around that you had—uh—"
"Kicked the proverbial bucket?"
He nodded. "There were reporters here from all over the county. Law-enforcement personnel too. Someone even brought in a psychic, which, frankly, I think is a sin."
"It wasn't that Diana Lefcourt, was it?" I cried, although I was relishing every word that spilled from Richard Nixon's wafer-thin lips.
"Yes, that was her name. She dressed even stranger than your sister, if you don't mind my saying so. And half the time she didn't speak in English."
"That's because she thinks she's the queen of Egypt."
"But Egypt doesn't have a queen."
"You're quite right, dear, but Diana thinks she's the wife of Pharaoh Tutankhamen. She calls herself Ankhesenamen."
"She really believes that?"
"I think so. The woman is as nutty as a pecan pie. Anyway, what did she say about me?"
He frowned. "She claimed to have talked to you 'on the other side.' Said you told her that you had drowned in Miller's Pond. That nice Jewish doctor who lives there now brought someone in to drag the pond. Of course, they didn't find you. However, they did find a four-foot channel catfish. Who knew they could get so big? I don't suppose you could talk that doctor into letting me fish—" He caught himself. "Magdalena, as a Christian, I hope you don't believe in that stuff. The Bible quite clearly warns us about consulting with witches and the like."
I waved a hand dismissively. I hold no truck with psychics, if only because the concept of a working psychic is an oxymoron. Anybody who could really see into the future—or the past, for that matter—wouldn't have to work for twenty-five dollars a reading. Now, fortune cookies are another matter. Who's to say that the Good Lord doesn't speak to us through those little slips of paper?
"I want to hear more about my supposed death. How did folks react?"
"Well, that doctor friend of yours was pretty broken up. Your sister too. In fact, it was her that asked me to lead the Lord's Prayer at the community memorial service."
"There was a memorial service?"
"Well, it didn't start out that way. It started out as a community prayer service to pray for your safe return. Somehow it ended up as a series of tributes to your life and contributions to the community. We all gathered at the picnic shelter up on Stucky Ridge."
"Move over," I said.
I made him scoot so I had plenty of room to spread out as I laid my horsy head on the heap of hymnals. Neither Gabe nor Susannah had said anything about a memorial service. No doubt they thought my head was far too big already.
"Was it well attended?" I asked.
He nodded. "Virtually everyone in Hernia, and it seemed like half the people in Bedford. That's why they held it outdoors."
"Details!" I cried.
He rubbed his eyes, as if still not quite believing I was a flesh- and-blood woman. "Well, your Reverend Schrock preached the sermon. His wife sang."
"Thank heavens I missed that! Was she off-key?"
"Every note. Oh, and the Hernia High band played 'Amazing Grace.'"
"On key?"
"A few of them. Anyway, then members of the community stood up and delivered short eulogies—well, most of them were short. Melvin Stoltzfus—may the Lord forgive me for what I am about to say—droned on interminably."
"That figures. He didn't launch into one of his political speeches, did he?"
"Oh, no. It was all about what a wonderful woman you were— I mean, are—and how much he was going to miss you. Toward the end he was even crying."
"He was?"
"Magdalena, practically everyone there shed a tear at one time or another. I, myself, confess to having been misty-eyed. Especially d
uring the mayor's speech."
I bobbed to a sitting position. "Her Honor spoke at my memorial?"
"Hers was the final eulogy. She praised you for being such a solid citizen, for always keeping the folks of Hernia foremost in your mind, heart, and deeds. You would not be just another highway statistic, she said. You would never be forgotten. She even hinted that someday there might be a statue of you erected in Founder's Park."
"Get out of town!" I am ashamed to say it, but those past few minutes with Reverend Nixon in the church with thirty-two names had been the happiest of my life. The real Heaven, with its slippery gold streets and mollusk-secreted gates, couldn't possibly have been any better—except, of course, for the presence of the dear Lord. But He is, after all, everywhere, isn't He? I mean, a statue of moi in Founder's Park? How much better could it possibly be?
"A life-size bronze statue," Reverend Nixon said.
I thought my heart would burst with joy. "I don't even care if pigeons poop on me!" I cried. "Do you know what pose they'd like? When do they want to get started?"
Reverend Nixon reached for my nearest hand. His fingers felt like unbuttered toast.
"Magdalena, look at me," he said gently.
"I am looking at you."
"Now look around you. Where are we?"
"In your tiny little church. So, what's your point?"
"We're not dead, are we?"
"That's right. That's what I kept telling you over and over—" My heart sank. If I hadn't been sitting, it would have ended up somewhere near my skinny ankles. "There isn't going to be any statue, is there?"
"I'm afraid not. There will, however, be a great deal of rejoicing.
"You really think so?"
"I'm positive."
I hauled my bony carcass off the floor. "Wow! You know, Reverend, I really enjoyed talking to you."
He unfolded his even bonier frame and, in a series of jerky moves, managed to hoist himself to a standing position. He pointed to the nearest bench. I sat as bid, and after another series of awkward maneuvers he joined me. It was like watching a life-size marionette.
"What brought you back to see me?" he asked without further ado.
"It's about Clarence Webber, of course."
"What about him?"
"Well, I've begun to see a pattern in the women he was involved with."
"What sort of pattern?"
"For one thing, two of the women were surprisingly wealthy. I mean, I never knew Zelda Root had money. And I wouldn't have guessed that about Agnes Schlabach. Emma Kauffman is, of course, another story. For what she charges for those paintings—well, I was thinking of going to art school. Now the fourth, Dorcas Yutzy, appears to be just an underpaid teacher, but I wouldn't be surprised to discover that she too was sitting on some sort of golden egg."
"Is that the only similarity you've noticed between those four?"
"Funny you should ask, Reverend, because it's not. I don't mean to sound judgmental, but all four of them are what my sister Susannah would call DOMs."
"DOMs?
"Desperate old maids. Only thing is, now none of them are old maids. Not since they married that scoundrel Clarence."
"I see. Magdalena, you've obviously been giving this a great deal of thought. How honest have you been with yourself?"
"What do you mean?"
Reverend Nixon looked away from me to a plain wooden cross that hung on the wall behind the pulpit. The interior of the little cinder-block church was as dark and gloomy as any dungeon, but a thin strip of light had somehow managed to penetrate and was illuminating the left edge of the cross.
"Magdalena," he said softly, "you're a very wealthy woman, are you not? Please be honest with me."
"Well, I couldn't buy and sell Donald Trump, but I can afford brand names at the grocery store."
"I asked you to be honest."
"Okay, so I could afford English brand names flown in special from London if I wanted. But what has that to do with Clarence Webber?"
"Are you married, Magdalena?"
"Of course not. You know the answer to—hey! Just what is that supposed to mean? Do you think I'm desperate?"
"I don't," he said quickly. "But do you think Clarence might have thought that?"
"Well, if he did, then he was a fool." We Mennonites, incidentally, do not use the word "fool" lightly. "I have a boyfriend, you know."
"I know that now. But did Clarence? Magdalena, tell me how you met him?"
I huffed with irritation. "Well, if you must know, it was when I sold my BMW through an ad in the paper."
"What were your first impressions?"
I tried to re-create the dead man's face in my mind. His living face, mind you.
"He was okay-looking, I guess. If you like the blond Adonis type, which I assure you I don't."
"How did Clarence seem?"
"Well," I said grudgingly, "he was charming in that oozing sort of playboy way. Not that I hang around a lot of playboys, you understand. But I've had a few stay at my inn."
"Were you attracted to him?"
"Absolutely not! I already have a boyfriend, like I told you."
"I'm not suggesting you acted on your desires, Magdalena. I merely wanted to know if you were tempted. And," he added quickly, "being tempted is a very normal thing. It is not a sin. Even Jesus was tempted."
"Stop it!" I shouted, placing both hands over my ears. "I don't want to hear any more of this nonsense."
"Very well," Reverend Nixon said. "I think you have your answers."
28
I left the church with thirty-two names in a snit. What a silly notion that I, a respected businesswoman, leader in my community, and pillar in my church, could possibly fall for a con man like Clarence. That was just absurd. Preposterous.
Yes, the man had charisma, but so did our recent President, and you didn't see me throwing myself at him when he stayed at my inn. And anyway, I certainly wasn't desperate. I'd been married, for Pete's sake, if not in name, then in deed. Besides, like I said, there was Gabriel Rosen. Do you think the other ladies had a handsome Jewish doctor waiting in the wings? Of course not.
Okay, so Clarence Webber had asked me out to dinner the night I sold him the car. Big deal! It was just dinner at the Coach Room Restaurant on South Richard Street. It didn't mean anything. The only reason I didn't tell Gabe was because I knew he would be jealous, and I didn't want to hurt him.
Neither can I help it that Clarence asked me out to dinner the following evening. I had to accept. It was either that or hurt his feelings, because, you see, I'd learned the night before that Clarence Webber was an extraordinarily sensitive person. And when that second evening, in the main dining room of the famous Jean Bonnet Tavern, he leaned across the table and kissed me, how was I supposed to react? Was I supposed to scream and slap him? I think not. Although it's really none of your business, I will share with you that when he drove me home afterward, and tried to kiss me again, I turned and made him kiss my cheek.
Now that I've come clean, it's imperative that you believe me when I say I was not jealous when I saw him the next afternoon, riding around Bedford in my red BMW with a bleached-blond floozy at his side. For all I knew, the bimbo could have been his sister. The fact that I followed them for several blocks is not germane to this issue either. I was merely waxing nostalgic over the car, savoring that one last glimpse.
I am a sensible, God-fearing woman with both enormous feet planted squarely on the ground. I simply do not fall for the Clarence Webber type. However, Reverend Nixon was another story. Don't get me wrong. I wasn't at all attracted to the latter's lanky frame, not in the least. But, just to show you how honest I am, I will confess to being attracted to his title. Reverend and Mrs. Richard Nixon, now that had a nice ring to it.
Here in Bedford County, being a preacher's wife counts for something. As a preacher's wife I could give that snooty Lodema Schrock a run for her hymnals. Maybe Beechy Grov
e Mennonite Church was ten times larger than Reverend Nixon's cinder-block structure, and had a proper congregation, but the Mennonite church didn't have thirty-two words in its name. Sure, a church with an unwieldy moniker might be seen as a turn-off by some, but with the right woman at the good Reverend's side, it could be turned into an asset.
I had no doubt that with my tutelage, Richard Nixon could be turned into the next Robert Schuller. Like the Crystal Cathedral, the church with thirty-two names could become nationally famous. Of course it would have to be expanded a good deal, maybe even turned into a complex containing an Amish theme park. Amishworld, we'd call it. We could offer buggy rides, taffy pulls, bam raisings, quilting parties—
"You stupid idiot!"
My reverie was ended by the owner of the car next to me. My thoughts had managed to see me all the way into downtown Bedford. It was rush hour (and believe me, they have one) and I had inadvertently drifted halfway into the neighboring lane.
"Sorry!" I shouted, and pulled into the nearest available parking space.
It was an eight-minute walk from my car to the Bedford County Courthouse. Completed in 1829, it is the oldest courthouse in Pennsylvania still in use for judicial purposes. At any rate, it was five on the button when I arrived, and apparently not a good time to do business.
"We're closed," the clerk said crisply over her shoulder. Her voice was oddly familiar. "We've all gone home for the day."
"No, you haven't; you're right there."
"We're still closed," she said, without even looking at me. "Come back tomorrow morning at nine."
"All I want is to look up somebody's death certificate on your computer. It will only take a minute."
"You're not going to make me call security, are you?"
"Go ahead and call them, dear." I whipped off the blond wig, which I'd worn into town. "Call the newspapers too. Because they're going to have a field day when they learn you refused service to a dead woman."
The stubborn clerk turned, and when she did, her mouth opened like the unsecured tailgate of a truck. My mouth, which was a good deal smaller, opened wide as well.
