by Tamar Myers
‘Oh, quit your whining,’ said the grossly overweight lawman. ‘This is my county, and I can do what I want.’
Toy, bless his relatively bean-sized heart, puffed out his chest. ‘Sheriff, you are infringing on my jurisdiction here. Hernia is my town. I am more than competent to investigate this crime scene. I strongly suggest that you return to Bedford or attend to more pressing matters elsewhere in the county.’
To watch someone the size of Sheriff Stodgewiggle belly laugh can be downright unnerving, so I didn’t dare look any lower than his chins. To be fair, the sound of me laughing causes jackasses, of the four-legged variety, to leap their paddock fences and seek me out for a romantic rendezvous.
‘Ho-ho-ho,’ the sheriff boomed, ‘you’re quite an amusing little man. More than competent. It’s no wonder you people lost the Civil War.’
Toy rested his balled fists on his slim hips. ‘If my itty-bitty granny was in this room, she’d have jumped up and boxed both of your corpulent ears – one at a time. Her granddaddy fought in that war which, by the way, she called the War of Northern Aggression. In school I was taught to call it the War Between the States, because there was nothing civil about it.’
‘Oh yeah? Your defensiveness leads me to believe that the three of you are trying to cover up for something.’
That did it! That hiked my hackles practically up to my armpits.
‘Get out of my town, you bullying interloper,’ I hollered. ‘Go pick on a crowd your own size – like at a football game!’
‘Are you fat-shaming me, Magdalena Yoder?’
‘Indeed I am not,’ I said. ‘You did it to yourself with the sin of gluttony. Four burritos, extra cheese, two large orders of fries, and a supersize soda for breakfast. Then a dozen glazed doughnuts for your mid-morning coffee break—’
‘Are you spying on me?’ Sheriff Stodgewiggle hissed.
‘I heard that’s what you ate the morning I was waiting for my arraignment, when you had me arrested for a murder that I didn’t commit. Some of the good folks who worked at the county jail that day said that you were ill, but instead you were feeding your bottomless belly. And they said it was an unusually light order for you.’
‘Get out of my way, you idiot,’ the sheriff roared, and barrelled out of Sam’s office.
Toy waited a couple of minutes and then took me out back to the dumpster bin. By mutual agreement Sam remained inside. Even if he weren’t going to take another peak at the pair of putrefying corpses, his absence was a good thing. I say that because it seemed like half of Hernia was already there, jostling to get as close as possible to the site where our village’s umpteenth murder victims had been unceremoniously deposited. It was all our other police officer, Lucinda Cakewalker, could do to keep them from breaking through the yellow crime scene tape. In a village where seemingly nothing ever happens, we take our pleasures where, and when, we find them.
SEVEN
For pleasure these days I read the sort of books that fall into the genre of ‘cozy mysteries’. No cozy mystery author worth her salt would even allude to such a gruesome scene as this. However, should one of those authors foolishly ignore this convention, she should at least have the courtesy to announce her attentions beforehand. If I was a writer of cozy mysteries I would state it thusly: ‘Gentle readers, those with delicate constitutions are advised to skip over the following eight or ten paragraphs, as they may be a wee bit too intense for your well-bred sensibilities.’ Then again, not being a novelist, what do I know?
Because the day promised to be a real scorcher, and the garbage bin was in full sun, Toy had wisely ordered that the lid remain open. The trapezoid shape of the bin, with the opening facing the store, prevented the public from seeing its contents, but it welcomed every fly in Hernia to come in to dine on the refuse of the past several days, plus the two new entrees. After staring at the corpses for several minutes, I’d seen all that I’d needed to know about what had happened to my prospective guests.
Once my head was out of the bin, I gulped for fresh air, and in the process I swallowed a fly. The rest of the horde I swatted away from the corners of my mouth, which I then wiped on my modest, elbow-length sleeve. Then I tugged on Toy’s arm.
‘Let’s go back inside, dear. Sam’s going to have to donate some mouthwash to the cause.’
Then once Toy and I were fully restored and refreshed, and Sam had been gently shooed from his own office, Toy got down to business.
‘Now don’t wimp out on me, Magdalena,’ he said. ‘You know that’s why I dragged you down here. Besides the fact that this couple were your intended guests, you almost always see something that I’ve somehow missed. I swear, Magdalena, you should have become a professional detective, and not an innkeeper.’
‘Ha,’ I said. ‘That’s what Gabe says, except that he means it sarcastically. He also says that if I wasn’t an innkeeper, the total number of murders in Hernia over the last twenty years would be a fraction of what it is today.’
Toy grinned. ‘He’s right. But enough about that. Let’s get started: what did you learn?’
‘The most obvious thing about this case,’ I said, ‘is that the killer has done this before.’ As I spoke I scrutinized Toy’s face to see if he agreed. All I could tell was that he didn’t strongly disagree.
‘Please explain,’ he said.
‘Well, for one thing, there isn’t a blood trail across the parking lot leading to the bin. The asphalt is crazed with a jillion tiny cracks. It would have been impossible to clean up.’
‘Not so,’ Toy said. ‘Pour hydrogen peroxide directly onto blood, and it eats it right up. That stuff is available in any pharmacy in the first aid section.’
‘That may be so,’ I said. ‘But you’d need gallons of it to be able to clean the parking lot, the way this woman bled. He stabbed her in the aorta. My guess is that the killer brought a plastic sheet with him, rolled her body up in it, and then dragged her from the car to the bin.’
Toy shook his handsome head slowly. ‘Then where’s the sheet?’
I nodded my horsey head vigorously. ‘That’s it! I know it is.’
‘What is? No wait! Answer my question: where’s the darn plastic sheet? If he’d unwrapped her in the bin, and then pulled the sheet out, there would be one heck of a bloody mess to clean up.’
‘Watch your swearing, dear,’ I said sweetly. Episcopalians like Toy (America’s version of Anglicans) sometimes use salty language.
‘Explain that darn plastic sheet now,’ Toy growled, ‘or you’ll have one heck of an irritated police chief on your hands.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ I said with a stiff salute, and in the process jabbed my thumb into the bridge of my prominent Yoder proboscis. ‘You know that I am not a betting woman, but if I was, I would wager that you have not moved the bodies.’ I paused long enough for another wrinkle to form on my fifty-some face, and when no confirmation seemed forthcoming, I plunged on. ‘Anyway, dear,’ I said, ‘these bodies weren’t just thrown into the dumpster bin – they were placed in it. The scene was staged. I think that when you move the woman’s body, you will probably find the plastic sheet folded up beneath her.’
Toy was staring at me wide-eyed. But whether it was because he thought I was on to something, or was just plain nuts, he wasn’t ready to say.
‘I’m not going to take another look,’ I said, ‘but if you do, you’ll see that the garbage is mounded up around her, as if to hide something. That will be the plastic sheet.’
He rubbed his lean, but strong, jaw. ‘You’re describing a psychopath. You know that?’
‘Aren’t most people who commit double homicides psychopaths?’
‘Well, people do commit crimes of passion.’
‘So you’re saying those folks merely suffer from momentary lapses of good judgment?’
‘Come on, Magdalena, now you’re just being silly.’
I stood. ‘That’s me, all right: I’m just a silly old woman. A silly, billy, willy-nilly who doesn�
��t care for frilly, but I’ll leave you with the following bit of advice. Take a closer look at the front of the bin, on the side where the man is. The metal along the top front edge is fairly sharp, and not entirely smooth anymore. In a small stress fracture along the crease you will find a bright fuchsia thread. See if forensics in Bedford can match it to a snag in the gentleman’s Hawaiian shirt.’
Toy shook his head. ‘Magdalena, you’re—’
‘Silly.’
‘I was going to say incredible, darn it!’
An uninformed onlooker, upon observing me peer into the dumpster, might have concluded that I was in shock, or incapable of experiencing a normal range of human emotion. Neither of those assumptions would have been correct. Alas, these peepers have beheld sights far grizzlier than that of the two bodies in the dumpster.
At any rate, instead of driving straight back to The PennDutch Inn, as I should have done, I left my son and guests in the quasi-capable hands of my nonetheless hunky husband and stopped by to see my best friend, Agnes. She and I grew up together, having even shared bathwater together when we were babies, so that gives us a special bond, if you ask me.
Agnes used to be a country gal but has lived in the heart of the village for the past four years. She shares her snug Cape Cod cottage with her two elderly uncles who are both committed nudists, and who both should be committed. The trouble is that Agnes won’t stand for it, but then neither is she able to control their behaviour. Unfortunately, the sight of these two naked octogenarians striding briskly down the Primrose Lane, vigorously pumping their arms in unison, their still quite considerable body parts wagging in the self-generated breeze – well, this has become quite a draw with tourists, particularly amongst women of a ‘certain age’.
However, Hernia does have a couple of attractions that are more family friendly. For instance, we have what bills itself as the World’s Smallest Museum of Amish History and Memorabilia. We have a working blacksmith shop, where one can sit and watch real, working horses being shod while their Amish owners wait (next door is a car repair shop). One of our biggest attractions is our collection of Victorian-era homes with intricate scrolled woodwork along their wraparound porches. Guided tours are available every day at ten, two and four o’clock, except for Sunday during the summer months. Tickets for the tours cost twenty dollars for adults, and ten dollars for children. All the proceeds go into our local schools.
I knew that Agnes would be home from work, where she manages the upscale, eclectic restaurant, Asian Sinsations. Once upon a time, this was The Sausage Barn and was owned by Wanda Hemphopple, my second worst enemy. Back then the menu featured the three Amish food groups: fat, sugar, and starch. But Wanda made the mistake of trying to kill me and she ended up in the slammer. Her college-age daughter was given the restaurant but would have gone into bankruptcy had she not sought my help in running the place. I reinvented this greasy spoon with an imaginative menu and a new name for the joint, but enough tooting my own horn. The truth is, I couldn’t have done anything for the place had it not been for dear Agnes.
Now where was I? Oh yes! Because Agnes has to get someone to sit with her uncles while she’s away from the house, the poor woman never goes anywhere on her days off. When I rang her bell, I expected to see Agnes. Therefore, I was thrown off guard when I beheld Uncle Fred in all his natural glory.
‘Hel-loo, Magdalena.’
‘Cover your shame, Fred. Or need I remind you what happened to Noah’s son, Ham? Only this time the curse might be in reverse, given that I am a God-fearing woman and you are a heathen who has subjected me, unwillingly, to the sight of your abomination.’
Fred scowled and pursed his withered lips. ‘You religious types are such prudes,’ he said, before sauntering away. ‘Ned,’ he called over his shoulder in a loud voice, ‘the doorbell was for you.’
I heard a toilet flush somewhere. ‘Be right there,’ Ned, the other brother, shouted.
‘No, you won’t!’ I shouted back. ‘I came to see Agnes, not to lose my vision permanently. Agnes, Agnes, wherefore art thou, Agnes?’
‘Hark, tis my beloved Romeo,’ Agnes sang, as she teetered in from the direction of her dining room. Agnes’s perfectly round body is supported by matchstick ankles atop feet barely larger than chocolate eclairs. The latter she crams into six-inch high heels, in the misguided notion that flexed calf muscles miraculously make her look tall. Instead, she looks like a croquet ball that’s been balanced on one of the wooden end stakes, and is just waiting to be knocked off. Don’t get me wrong, though – appearances in this case are deceiving. This gal is not only sure-footed, but she has assisted me on many investigations which required the dexterity and stamina of an Olympic-winning gymnast. OK, perhaps that’s a slight exaggeration.
‘I assume that this is rather important,’ she said when she stood directly in front of me, eyeball to collar bone level. ‘Magdalena, from what I understood, you have important guests arriving this morning?’
I looked around her tastefully decorated living room. ‘Is there anywhere we could sit? I mean, someplace that’s off limit to your uncles.’
‘Oh, you’re so squeamish,’ she said, but led me to a small back porch which was shaded by a large, looming maple tree. ‘They never sit on these wicker chairs,’ she said. ‘They find them uncomfortable.’
I got down to brass tacks. ‘My important guests are now artfully arranged in Sam Yoder’s dumpster bin.’
Agnes blinked. ‘Come again?’
‘They were murdered last night, and the killer has posed their corpses inside his garbage bin.’
Agnes gasped. ‘Posed? How?’
‘Well, for one thing, they weren’t just dumped; they were laid on their backs.’
‘Poor Sam,’ Agnes said. ‘Imagine taking a bunch of wilted lettuce and some loaves of stale bread out to your dumpster bin and discovering a pair of corpses.’
‘Ha,’ I said. ‘You know that my cousin would never throw away wilted lettuce or stale bread. The lettuce he would mark down and resell as rabbit food, and the bread he would try and market as a do-it-yourself crouton kit. Besides, it wasn’t Sam who discovered the bodies; it was Monotone Mona.’
‘Of course,’ Agnes cried, ‘who else? That makes perfect sense! Did Toy arrest her yet?’
‘Calm down, dear,’ I said. ‘I don’t think that she’s even a suspect. Yet. Why should she be? Just because of that unfortunate event she experienced as a little girl?’
‘Unfortunate event?’ Agnes said. ‘That event turned her into a cannibal, for goodness’ sake!’
‘That’s not fair, Agnes. We don’t know that for sure.’
‘Well, I suppose her parents could have gnawed on each other,’ Agnes said.
‘Agnes!’ I said sharply. ‘Sarcasm does not become you. Besides, the primary reason that I’m here is to inform you that our annual Billy Goat Gruff celebration is still on, despite what rumours you may well hear in the near future. And since I’m the one calling the shots here, I’m determined that nothing is going to stop us, except for a genuine Act of God.’
EIGHT
My pal’s petite hands flew to her pudgy cheeks. ‘Golly, I hadn’t even thought about cancelling the festival. About Sam warehousing all the candy, and some people thinking maybe Sam was somehow involved with the murders. You know how people talk in this town. It’s like that game “telephone”, but in this case it could have disastrous results.’
‘That’s where you come in,’ I said.
‘Me?’ Agnes said.
‘Gabe has foisted his cousin on me until after the celebration.’
‘What cousin?’
‘Get this: she’s his mother’s niece and has been estranged from the family for thirty-five years. And she lives in Australia!’
‘Crikey,’ Agnes said. She fancies herself an excellent mimic, especially of British accents. She’d be livid if I were to tell anyone that once, when she was attempting to speak with a brogue to one of my guests from Scotland,
that guest said that he was sorry, but he didn’t understand a word of Swedish.
‘You’ve got to meet this gal,’ I said. ‘She does speak with an Australian accent – I think – but she’s so pushy and manipulative, there’s no doubting her American origins. Oh, and the most interesting thing is that she had a leg bitten off by a saltwater crocodile in Australia.’
‘Double crikey,’ Agnes said.
‘My tale of woe gets better, dear, because this means I have to give up my downstairs bedroom suite. And all because my mother-in-law stole the election for Hernia Citizen of the Year.’
‘Triple crikey,’ Agnes said. ‘Does this mean that you’re going to stay in a hotel?’
‘What?’
‘Tell me that you’re not planning to sleep in one of your own ill-appointed guest rooms,’ Agnes said with a wry smile.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘I’m also going to strike you from my will. Do you want to hear the piece de resistance, or not?’
‘I do, I do,’ she said, nodding vigorously. As a single woman who doesn’t have many friends besides me, Agnes feeds on gossip like a vulture on roadkill.
‘Well, this cousin, whose name is Miriam, by the way, brought her pet dingo all the way with her from the land down under.’
‘That’s terrible – wait, what’s a dingo?’
‘You don’t know what a dingo is? Don’t you watch the National Geographic channel on TV?’
‘Remember Mags, if I wish to see wildlife, all that I have to do is look at my uncles. And speaking of whom, I’ve made arrangements for my uncles to spend a few days at a nudist camp for seniors so that they won’t get into any trouble during the festival. I’m taking them there this afternoon.’
‘Excellent idea. Anyway, a dingo is an Australian wild dog.’
‘Quadruple crikey!’
‘Lemon curd tarts!’ I cursed. ‘Stop saying “crikey” before I croak. You haven’t even heard the worst. Cousin Miriam wanted to have that wild canine sleep in my bed with her. But I refused, of course. Instead, I’m making her put him in Little Jacob’s old crib. She can keep that by her bed.’
