Gruel and Unusual Punishment

by Tamar Myers

  "Magdalena!" she gasped. "It can't be!"

  "Thelma? Thelma Rensberger?"

  The clerk—and it was indeed Thelma—closed her mouth. Fortunately she closed her eyes as well, because she'd started to faint. It would be awful to have to see the floor rise up to meet one's face, wouldn't it?

  I still had a sore rib, but somehow I managed to vault over the counter and catch Thelma Rensberger by the armpits before she beaned herself on historic marble. I laid her gently down the rest of the way.

  She came to almost immediately. "It is you!"

  "As big as life, and twice as ugly. Especially now that my nose seems to be headed off in two directions."

  Thelma struggled to her feet, gave me the once-over, and threw herself into my arms. "I can't believe it's really you!"

  "Seeing is believing, dear. It's not necessary to squeeze me like a lemon over a pitcher of iced tea."

  "Same old Magdalena," Thelma said happily. She was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

  "Same old Thelma," I said.

  Indeed, Thelma was a childhood friend, who didn't seem to have aged a day since I last saw her twenty-some years ago, waving to me through the window of a Trailways bus bound for the Big Apple. The woman was under the illusion that she was the next Beverly Sills. If the opera didn't pan out, at least she would wow them in Broadway musicals. I hadn't heard from her since.

  "Everyone thinks you're dead," Thelma said. She tried to pinch my arm, but I slapped her hand away.

  "And I was under the impression that you were living in New York. Why didn't you write to me?"

  Thelma blushed. "It was all so overwhelming. Do you know they charge thousands of dollars' rent for a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan?"

  I did some quick mental arithmetic. "That's really not too bad for a year's accommodations, dear."

  "Not a year, Magdalena. A month."

  "Get out of town!"

  "That's exactly what I did. I moved to New Jersey and got a job teaching music in an elementary school. Then I got married and had three kids. The kids are grown and scattered now, and Carl died last year. A couple of months ago I decided I really missed Pennsylvania, so I put the house on the market. Do you know it sold the next day? Anyway, I moved back here last month and right away started looking for a job. I'm really lucky there was this opening. It has nothing to do with music, of course, but it keeps me occupied."

  "You could have called me," I said accusingly.

  She hung her mousy brown head. "I know. It's just that it's sort of embarrassing for me to have come back to Bedford County without having fulfilled my dreams. Especially since I made such a big deal of it when I left. You'd think I'd know better, though. Almost every day someone I know from the past comes in, and I have to explain all over again. Gee, I may as well just take an ad out in the paper."

  "Well, welcome back."

  "You too. All everyone's been talking about is your death. I kept hoping they had the wrong Magdalena. I was pretty sure of it, in fact, when I heard you'd been married."

  "Thanks a lot!"

  "Oh, don't get me wrong. I didn't mean that you couldn't find a husband. It's just that you were always—well, sort of picky."

  "And plucky." The heavy front doors to the courthouse clanged shut, and I could hear the security guard rattling her keys. "Look dear, why don't we do lunch soon? Then we can take our time yapping. In the meantime, there is something I really need to find out now."

  She sighed. "Yes, I did smoke pot. But I didn't inhale. Magdalena, you have to believe me. Everyone in New Jersey was doing it back then."

  "I don't care about that! I came here on a quest, and that's to look up Clarence Webber's death certificate."

  She stared at me. "How odd you should say that."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because I had to process his will. It was my second day here on the job, and my first solo assignment. I guess it kinda stuck in my mind."

  I had hoped to find a copy of his death certificate, and if luck was really on my side, a copy of his birth certificate as well. You see, I had a nagging suspicion that Clarence Webber was somehow connected to those sleazy Benedicts down in Cumberland. How else could he get away with all those illegal marriages? At any rate, I certainly had not anticipated the opportunity to scrutinize his will.

  "You'll let me look at his will?"

  "It's in probate," she said. "Anyone can look at it. Are you thinking of contesting?"

  "Moi? Why would I do that?"

  "Why else would you want to see it?"

  I lowered my voice to a whisper, even though the constant clanging of doors and clinking of keys made eavesdropping next to impossible. Still, there's a lot of truth to that adage about the walls having ears. Around here they tend to have eyes as well. When they start speaking, I'm packing up my Samsonite and moving to New York City. I can afford three thousand bucks for a nice apartment.

  "Look dear, I'm surprised it didn't come up in one of the dozens of conversations you must have had about me during my recent demise. But you see, I've been investigating Clarence Webber's death."

  "Oh yeah, I remember now. Someone did say something about you playing second fiddle to that incompetent police chief down there in Hernia."

  "Second fiddle, my eye! I'm first violin!" I took several deep breaths to calm myself. "So how about it, dear? When can I see the will?"

  She glanced at the guard who was approaching us. "Not now. You have to wait until morning. Can you be here at nine?"

  "Nine's fine, but now would be ever so much better." I gave her my best sad puppy-dog face, which is quite a feat considering I look a lot more like Trigger than Rover.

  She squirmed. "I can't. I might lose my job. Is there anything specific you want to know? I remember a few of the details."

  "Like what? Spill it all."

  "Well, for starters, Mr. Webber left his entire estate to his parents."

  "He did?" Who knew that snakes kept track of their families?

  "Yeah. The funny thing is, though, their name isn't Webber." "What is it?"

  "Some kind of eggs. That's what it made me think of. But I forget the word right now."

  "You mean like boiled or scrambled?"

  "No, something fancier."

  "Poached? His real name was Clarence Poached?"

  "No—Benedict! That's what it is. Arnold and Bonita Benedict." "Eureka!" I yelled as the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  29

  My yell brought the security guard running. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one's point of view, the lady in uniform was someone I knew: Louise Tidweiller, who lives down the road from me in Hernia. When Louise saw my resurrected face she stooped to kiss the marble. But she wasn't hurt, I'm sure. While Thelma revived Louise, I slipped out the still unlocked east door.

  Now, I'm a firm believer in following the rules of this great country. Breaking the law is a sin. On the other hand, we are all sinners, are we not? The Bible clearly says so. But since I don't dance, drink, smoke, or cheat on a spouse—and I've never committed murder—I find myself in need of some small transgression so as not to disprove the Good Book. Therefore, I have chosen speeding as my sin of choice.

  I pressed the pedal to the metal, and while Gabe's car was no BMW, I made record time traversing the distance from Bedford to Hernia. And since this small sin was in the pursuit of justice, my guardian angels kept Smoky the Bear out of my way. I saw neither hide nor hair of the men with sirens, and when I reached Dorcas Yutzy's tiny house the predominant sound was the screech of my tires.

  Despite my noisy arrival, I had to ring the bell five times before

  Dorcas answered. "Hi there," she said, when she finally opened the door. "I was hoping you'd come by."

  It was my turn to register shock. "Aren't you going to faint?"

  She giggled. "Should I?"

  "I'm dead, dear. That deserves at least a semi-swoon."
>
  "But you're not dead."

  "Well, I'm supposed to be. Don't tell me you didn't know. Reverend Nixon said virtually everyone in Hernia was at my memorial service."

  "Oh, I was there, of course. But you see, Magdalena, Mary Mast just called to tell me that Lodema Schrock had called and told her the news. That your death had been a mistake."

  "Schrock!" I shrieked. "How did Lodema know about me?"

  "Reverend Nixon, I think."

  So much for the sanctity of the confessional—well, the wooden bench in this case. Richard Nixon was definitely off my list of marital prospects. Having the word Reverend on one's address labels would not be worth the lack of privacy. Without a doubt he'd look in my drawers.

  Dorcas must have seen the furrows on my forehead. "We're all glad you're alive and well. At least Mary is."

  "I'm sure Lodema is too," I growled. "Who better to pick on than moi, Hernia's resident bigamist?" I slapped my mouth when I realized my faux pas. "Strictly speaking, Aaron was the bigamist, not me, which means you're not really a polygamist." I slapped my mouth again. Sometimes it takes a little more to make it behave.

  Dorcas started to shut the door. "Well," she said, "I'm really glad to see for myself that you're really all right. Thanks for coming by."

  I slipped a size eleven in the ever-narrowing crack. "Aren't you even going to ask me in?"

  "Well, Magdalena, I would, but you see, Mother's already in bed and—"

  I sniffed the air. "Something smells delicious."

  Dorcas beamed. "That's just supper."

  "What are you having?"

  "Pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy. And green beans cooked with bacon. Oh, and for dessert there's strawberry shortcake with genuine whipped cream."

  "I don't suppose you'd have enough for a guest?" Gabe's idea of fine cuisine was splashing Worcestershire sauce over Lean Cuisine.

  Dorcas nodded. "Come in," she said, but she didn't sound at all happy.

  "You're going to what?" Gabe was clearly an unhappy babe.

  "She asked me. I can't very well hurt her feelings."

  I could practically feel his pheromones through the phone. "But then you'll come straight home, right?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Magdalena, what the hell is going on?"

  "I have a theory—about who killed Clarence Webber."

  "Dorcas Yutzy?"

  "Look dear, I'm not at liberty to talk now." I held my hand loosely over the transmitting end of the receiver. "Just water will be fine," I called.

  "What was that?"

  "Drink orders," I said. "Did you know Dorcas Yutzy drinks wine?"

  "No, I didn't, but—"

  "Her mother drinks beer, if you can believe that. Funny thing though, I never see her mother around. Maybe it's all that beer. She's in bed right now."

  He sighed. "Magdalena, what time can I expect you home?"

  Home! There was that H word again, and what a lovely word it was when emanating from Dr. Rosen's luscious lips. Alas and alack, to share a home with Gabe wasn't within the realm of possibility. I could never give up my belief that Jesus was the Messiah and Gabe—well, one can't very well browbeat another person into becoming a Christian, can one? Although it's been done before, forced conversions seem to me to be the antithesis of Christ's message. Besides, even if I came to accept his continued status as a Jew, what about my commitment to poor little Alison Miller? It had been a long day.

  "I'll be there when I get there," I said patiently. "It won't be days this time, I promise."

  Gabe hung up without another word.

  "So what did he say?" Dorcas Yutzy asked. Despite her large size she'd managed to materialize out of nowhere wielding a large wooden spoon.

  "He said to tell you hello."

  Dorcas lit up like a jack-o'-lantern with two candles. "Oh really?"

  I felt bad about my little fib. Perhaps speeding wasn't my only sin after all.

  "Listen, dear," I said, in an effort to both change the subject and get down to business, "I came to ask you a favor."

  The lights in Dorcas's pumpkin burned even brighter. "Anything. You know that. We're friends, Magdalena."

  "Good, I was hoping you'd say that. Because after supper I need you to ride with me down to Cumberland."

  Dorcas gulped. "Tonight?"

  "Sure. It's a beautiful evening and—"

  "Magdalena, it's supposed to rain."

  I chuckled pleasantly. "Well, that's why they make cars with roofs. Come on," I coaxed, "it will be good for you to get out of the house."

  "I can't leave Mother alone, Magdalena. Not at night. And there's no time to get a sitter."

  "Then we'll take her with us. But I'm afraid she'll have to stay in the car when we get there."

  "Uh—we can't take her."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, for one thing, it would be rude to wake Mother. She had a rough night last night, and she's just now gotten to sleep. Besides, she gets carsick. You don't want that to happen, do you?"

  I considered the consequences briefly. It was Gabe's car, after all. And he was a doctor. Weren't they used to a bit of yuck?

  "I don't get it," I finally said. "You leave your mother alone all day during the school year, don't you? Why can't you just let her sleep for a few hours?"

  The big galoot took a step back. "What's so important about Cumberland?"

  "There's something I need to check with the Benedicts. And I need you along for protection."

  Dorcas blanched. "Why me?"

  "Well, you're big and strong. You teach gym, don't you?"

  "Yes, but why not just go to the police?"

  "Because I only have a theory. I don't have proof. Besides, seeing you again might jog their memories. At the very least, it will put the fear of God in them." I smiled pleasantly. "I mean that in the nicest way."

  Dorcas stared at me through the thick lenses. "I should think seeing you risen from the dead would be enough. Anyway, can't it at least wait until tomorrow?"

  "Apparently not. I want to catch them off guard, and thanks to Lodema Schrock's dialing finger, it may already be too late."

  Dorcas sighed. "Okay, we'll let Mother sleep while I come with you. But first let's eat."

  "It's a deal."

  I followed her into the tiny kitchen. The smell of Dorcas Yutzy's pot roast was as seductive as any man. Bottled, it would make an excellent cologne for the Babester.

  I had just popped the last cream-slathered berry in my mouth when I felt the thump under my feet. I licked my lips so as not to spray when I spoke.

  "That's odd," I said. "It feels like there's someone tapping under your floor." The Yutzy home had linoleum flooring, but the dinette table was centered on a brightly colored area rug. The vibrations were coming from beneath the rug.

  Dorcas grinned. "You're a hoot, Magdalena, you know that?"

  "Hoot! Hoot!" I flapped my arms, pretending they were wings.

  Dorcas stood. "You have such an active imagination. It's only the water pipes." She stretched, literally touching the ceiling. "Come on, we better get going."

  "Not without doing the dishes, dear."

  "Oh, don't worry about them. They'll still be there when we get back."

  I shook my head in wonder. And to think Dorcas's people had once been Mennonites. If I so much as left a coffee mug in the sink, Mama rolled over in her grave. Perhaps that's what I was feeling under my feet: Mama doing a preemptive roll.

  "Let's at least rinse them, dear," I suggested. "Once roaches find you—oh my gracious! Did you feel that?"

  "Feel what? I didn't feel anything." Dorcas Yutzy had me by the arm and was dragging me to the door.

  "It felt like an earthquake under my feet. Well—not that I've felt a real earthquake, mind you—but I can imagine what one feels like, and that was it. Either that or Mama. It certainly wasn't water pipes."

  Dorcas pulled harder. "Yo
u're so silly, Magdalena."

  I dug my heels into the linoleum. Because they're so narrow, they make great crampons.

  "Aren't you the least bit curious?" I demanded. "Okay, so maybe it wasn't Mama, or an earthquake, but there's something going on under your house. It wouldn't surprise me if it was termites. They're not capable of pounding, of course, but if there are enough of them, they can make an entire building shimmy and shake. Fall down even. Last summer the Neuhauser family over in Somerset had the floor drop out from underneath them. One minute they were lying in bed, the next thing they knew, they were in the cellar. Broke every one of Lizzie Neuhauser's jars of preserves." The truth is, the Neuhausers weren't just lying in their bed, if you get my drift, but I didn't know Dorcas well enough to tell her that.

  Dorcas nearly tugged my arm out of its socket. It was, of course, wasted effort. For a gym teacher she was remarkably out of shape. She panted while I preached.

  "Or it could be raccoons living under there. You certainly don't want that. Cheryl Bontrager had a family of raccoons living in her attic, and they stole all her silverware. Didn't even leave her a spoon. Of course Cheryl could stand to lose a little weight—"

  "Magdalena," Dorcas begged. "Can't we just go?"

  Whatever it was under the house was now tapping out a regular beat. Three long beats, then a short one. The pattern repeated itself. It had to mean something.

  I wrenched free of Dorcas's grasp, and flipped back one end of the rug. I squatted, not quite believing what I saw.

  "This is a trapdoor, isn't it?"

  Dorcas said nothing.

  "I know about the tunnel," I said. "It's legendary. But I didn't think the entrance would be so obvious. However, it looks like you tried to cover it up."

  She remained silent, but the tapping grew louder. I could hear the muffled sound of a human voice.

  "There's someone down there," I cried. "Did you know you have company?"

  "Leave it alone, Magdalena." Dorcas's voice surprised me with its sharpness. "Please, just go home."

  "No can do, dear. Hold on," I called to whoever was on the other side of the door, and shouldered the table aside. The door popped open like a jack-in-the-box.