Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

  “Who knows how he died? And what does it matter?” Nurse Dudley grabbed my hand. “Now pray for me,” she ordered.

  I silently prayed for a prayer, and getting no answer, gave her the numbers eleven through twenty. That sounded so convincing, I repeated the numbers in reverse order.

  “Zwansich, neinzeh, achtzeh, siwwezeh, sechzeh, fuf- fseh, vazeh, dreizeh, zwelf elf.”

  “Amen!” Jim intoned.

  “Amen.” Nurse Dudley smiled. “You know, I feel better already.”

  “Haufa mischt,” I said. Horse manure.

  “Thank you,” Nurse Dudley said, and released my hand. “I know who it is you remind me of now.”

  I recklessly decided to take the bull by the horns. “Magdalena Yoder? Because she’s my cousin, you see—”

  “Heavens no, you’re much prettier than her. Barbara Kauffman—yes, that’s it. Mrs. Kauffman was a patient of mine last year. Do you know her?”

  How stupid of me to forget that Barbara had had an emergency appendectomy. When she came home from the hospital she raved about how kind the nurses were, one in particular.

  “Never heard of her,” I said.

  “Well, if you ever run into her, say ‘hello,’ ” Nurse Dudley said, and strode from the room.

  The second the hem of her white skirt disappeared around the door, I turned on Jim. “Out with it, buster! What do you mean you didn’t expect that to happen? What is that?”

  “George’s murder, of course. I set it up.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “What do you mean, you ‘set it up’? You arranged to have George Mitchell killed?”

  Jim squirmed like a worm about to be impaled on a fishhook. “Maybe I should speak to my lawyer first.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. Out with it. Are you some kind of Mafia hit man?”

  For some reason that was worth a laugh. “Nothing like that, Miss Yoder. I’m just plain old Jim Anderson. What you see is what you get.”

  “You have yet to deny that you arranged to have that nice man killed.”

  He laughed again. “Nice? George? If I was locked in a room with George, Saddam Hussein, and a snake, and had a gun with just two bullets, do you know what I would do?”

  “So that’s how Brutus died!”

  “Huh? No, what I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot George Mitchell twice.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Not actually, of course. But the man certainly deserved it. I gave that man the best twenty years of my corporate life, and do you know what I have to show for it?”

  “A position as a highly paid executive at East Coast Delicacies?”

  “That’s a laugh and a half. A flunky, is more like it.”

  I took off my bonnet, which was stifling, and the glasses, which were hurting the bridge of my nose. “But you are an executive, and you get to travel around and hold exciting contests—”

  “That’s a flunky’s job, damn it. A kid’s job. I should be back at headquarters making executive decisions. Actually running the show. God knows George wasn’t qualified.”

  “Don’t speak of the dead that way,” I said sternly. “And George Mitchell was qualified. E.D.C. turned a handsome profit last year. I’ve been following it in the Wall Street Journal.”

  “Ha! Last year was a fluke. George inherited the company from his father, you know. He could have turned it into something really big, like General Foods or Procter and Gamble. But thanks to his leadership, it’s gone from a second rate to third rate. How many people in Middle America have ever heard of East Coast Delicacies?”

  I shrugged.

  “That’s my point. It could have been a household name by now.”

  I took a cautious step back. There was a lot of anger emanating from this man, and over what? Someone else’s company? That didn’t make a lick of sense. Jim Anderson definitely had a screw or two loose. No, make that a bucket. He should have been admitted to a metal-working shop, not a hospital.

  “You don’t kill somebody just because they won’t turn their business over to you,” I said in a soothing voice.

  “What about if he takes your wife?”

  “Well—”

  “And then dumps her—really dumps her—throws her out on the trash heap. And then that ex-wife of yours—the only woman you’ve ever really loved— turns to drugs for comfort. Drugs that George gave her. Then before you know it, she’s someone you don’t even recognize. Is that reason enough to kill somebody?”

  “George Mitchell did that? To your wife?”

  His eyes fixed on a water spot on the ceiling. “Marcy and I met in high school, for chrissakes. We dated all through college—got married the week after graduation. Had three kids together. Then George took a group of us executives and our spouses on a junket to St. Thomas. A motivational seminar, he called it.”

  “That sounds pretty generous to me.”

  “Oh, yeah, real generous. Lots of boring sessions we were forced to attend, only George didn’t attend any of them himself, you see. While I was stuck inside some hotel meeting room, George took Marcy out on a catamaran. Somehow George managed to have the mast break, and they were struck overnight on a deserted little island. Just them, the mosquitoes, and enough heroin to keep New York high for a week. Next thing I knew Marcy was filing for a divorce.” He paused, still looking at the spot on the ceiling. There were tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “Then what?” I asked gently. “Did she marry George?”

  “That was the plan. She moved out—left me and the kids just like that. But three weeks later George had picked up with a new woman. By then my Marcy was hooked. She’s been in and out of rehabs since then, but can’t seem to shake that monkey off her back. The last time I saw her, she looked like a walking skeleton. Still, she was trying to turn tricks.”

  I must have given him a blank look.

  “She became a prostitute, Miss Yoder. That’s how she supports her drug habit.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He finally looked at me. “So, that’s not reason enough to want George dead?”

  I should have kept my big mouth shut. “To want him dead, yes, but—”

  “You’re a religious woman, Miss Yoder. Doesn’t the Bible say that wanting someone dead is the same as killing them?”

  “Words to that affect, yes.”

  “So, since I was already guilty of wanting him dead, why not go just one teensy step further and grant my own wish?”

  “That’s not the same,” I wailed in frustration. “Just because we feel strongly doesn’t mean we have to act on those negative emotions. That Scripture passage does not give us license to commit actual murder.” Believe me, I know how hard it is sometimes to keep from doing what one wants. The Good Lord knows I wanted to strangle Aaron after he finally confessed his horrible secret, but I did nothing worse than offer to pack my Pooky Bear’s clothes. It was the devil that made me rub poison ivy in all eight pairs of his underpants.

  “Well, I did take that teensy step—but then again, I didn’t kill the man.”

  “You make as much sense as Braille instructions on an ATM machine at a drive-through window. Either you did, or you didn’t, kill George Mitchell. It wasn’t a halfway job. I saw his dead body.”

  “Ah, those words are music to my ears. I told you I set up his death; however, I didn’t do the actual deed.”

  “But you paid someone to—”

  “Now you’re jumping to conclusions,” he said with a smug smile.

  Jumping to conclusions and dodging criticism are the backbone of my exercise program. I spread my hands, palms up.

  “Well, excuuuse me.”

  “I didn’t pay anyone to kill George Mitchell. I simply gathered together a bunch of people who had their own reasons to kill him.”

  “Come again?”

  Jim smiled broadly. “Every single one of those contestants back at your inn had it in for the bastard.”

  I gasped. “Not F
reni Hostetler!”

  “You’re absolutely right, not her. But I needed a nice quiet, out-of-the-way place where the ingredients of my stew—so to speak—could work their magic.”

  “Their evil magic! And I still find it hard to believe. Gladys Dolby wouldn’t step on an ant if you paid her, and as for Alma Cornwater—”

  “Never judge a cookbook by its covers.”

  I stared at him.

  “What?” he said. “Surely you don’t still suspect me. Perhaps it’s escaped you, but I’m in a hospital. I have more alibis than you can shake a thermometer at.”

  “Do you know who the killer is?”

  He had the temerity to chuckle. “That’s the beauty of it. I haven’t the slightest idea. It could be anyone of four people, or even a combination of those four. And you know what the best part is? I couldn’t even be sure that old George would actually get bumped off. And so soon in the game! I would have settled for major trouble—a lawsuit, or a first-class scandal. Speaking of which, that’s another reason I picked the PennDutch Inn.”

  “What?”

  “Thanks to your inn’s reputation as a vacation spot for the rich and famous, you have almost as many reporters sniffing around there as they do down at the White House.”

  “You are a wicked man.”

  “Right now I’m a very happy man.”

  “Let’s not forget despicable. If you ask me, what you did is every bit as bad as if you had been the one to bludgeon and stab George Mitchell.”

  He frowned. “Well, I don’t recall asking you.”

  Perhaps I had gone too far. It was time to turn off the vinegar, and turn on the honey, if I didn’t want the fly in the hospital gown to get away. “Still,” I said, shaking my head as if in wonder, “it was ingenious of you to gather a bunch of George Mitchell’s enemies together. What did Alma Cornwater have against the man?”

  “Oh, no you don’t, Miss Yoder. You’re not getting any more information out of me. Not until I talk to my lawyer.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Pretty please,” I begged. “I love puzzles, you see. Riddles of any kind. Can’t you just give me some clues? Sort of a mix and match test. You tell me the motive, and I’ll match up the contestant.”

  I think Jim Anderson was about to crack, but Nurse Dudley burst into the room, her arms flapping like a rooster about to crow. Her face and neck were as red as any wattles.

  She pointed at me with a spur. “Aha! Just like I thought! It is you!”

  “Moi?”

  “Barbara Kauffman, indeed!”

  “But I am she.” Strictly speaking, this was a clever evasion on my part, not a lie.

  “How can you be Barbara Kauffman when she’s in the lobby asking for someone else?” She paused to gulp some air. “And that someone else is Magdalena Yoder!”

  “Well, I couldn’t possibly be her, now could I? I’m much prettier than her, remember?”

  Nurse Dudley glared at me. “Where are your glasses? And why aren’t you wearing your bonnet?”

  I popped on the glasses, nearly jabbing my left eye in the process. As for the bonnet, it had slipped off the foot of Jim Anderson’s bed, and I must have inadvertently kicked it under during the heat of our conversation. I had to get down on all fours to retrieve it. When I stood up I experienced a moment of vertigo, and that’s why I plopped the bonnet on backward, completely covering my face.

  Nurse Dudley was not amused “Security!” she screamed. “There’s an Amish impersonator in Room 134.”

  I flipped the bonnet around. “Calm down, dear. There no need to get your knickers in a knot. I’m sure I can explain everything.”

  “I bet you can! Dr. Rosenkrantz said to have you, and your sister, thrown out the second I saw you.”

  “Well, Susannah maybe, but—”

  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you caused?”

  “Me?”

  “Three patients called the Board of Health and complained about that rat you brought in.”

  “That was a dog! And a very clean dog, I might add.” Trust me, I never thought I’d be defending the mangy menace.

  “Security!” she screamed again.

  The distant thunder of footsteps in the hallway made it clear that Bert, the security guard, was already on his way. No doubt this will come as a surprise to you, but I do not suffer manhandling well. The last time an authority laid a hand on me, I ended up in Hernia’s hoosegow. It was not a pleasant experience. I saw no need to give the Bedford County jail an equal opportunity to damage my fragile psyche.

  So said, I hiked up my skirts and hightailed it out of there like a bat out of a cave at sundown.

  The real Barbara Hostetler was beaming like the searchlight in front of WalMart when they run their Labor Day sale.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I snapped.

  “Magdalena!”

  I grabbed her by the elbow and did my best to steer her toward the door. The woman must wear suction cups on the bottoms of her shoes.

  “Aren’t you suppose to be at the doctor’s, tinkling in a cup?”

  “Ach, how you talk! I’m done at the doctor.”

  I dragged her through the hissing doors. “So soon?”

  “Yah, there was no need to make in a cup. The doctor listened to my stomach and said—well, you know.”

  “That he heard it growl?”

  “No!”

  “Let me guess then—you’re pregnant?”

  “Yah. Very.”

  I looked at her. Amish aprons cover a multitude of sins. Obviously Barbara was a lot further along than I’d expected. Most probably further along than even she had expected.

  “What do you mean by ‘very’?”

  “Ach, I’m going to have triplets!”

  “What? You mean twins?”

  “Triplets!” She held up three fingers.

  Believe me, I nearly swooned right there on the sidewalk. Twins are rare enough among my people, but I’d never actually known anyone who’d given birth to triplets. As a staunch Amish woman, Barbara had most certainly not undergone in vitro fertilization. Such matters are always left up to the Creator. But like they say, when it rains it pours, and the once barren Barbara was now harboring a clutch of fertilized eggs. I was so jealous I nearly screamed.

  Instead, I smiled graciously. “Three! Wow! And you’re entirely sure about this?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Yah. He said he heard three heartbeats.”

  “When are they due?” I wouldn’t have been surprised, merely annoyed, if she had gone into labor there and then.

  “The end of March.”

  I did some quick mental arithmetic. “But that means—Barbara, didn’t you suspect anything earlier?”

  “Yah, of course. That’s why I came to see him today.”

  “No, I mean earlier. Didn’t your monthly visitor cancel his visits?”

  “Ach, that.” She had turned the color of old rhubarb. “Magdalena, I’m over forty. I thought the visits had stopped.”

  “I didn’t know women got morning sickness into their fifth month,” I said. It’s possible that there was envy to be heard in my voice. Imagine that! Here I was, a successful businesswoman—friend and confidante of the stars, and I was jealous because a distant cousin’s wife was puking into the john every morning.

  “The doctor said each person is different.” Barbara giggled. “He said except for that, I have the construction of a horse.”

  “You mean constitution, dear.” Suddenly it hit me like a dozen of Mama’s pound cakes. “Freni is going to be a grandmother!”

  “Yah! And my Jonathan a papa!”

  “Let’s not forget Mose. He’ll love being a grandfather. He loves children.”

  We were halfway to the car by then, but Barbara suddenly stopped. “Do you think she’ll like me better now?”

  “Who, dear?”

  “Freni.”

  I thought guiltily of my complicity in Freni�
��s scheme to oust the barren daughter-in-law from the family, even though she stood no chance of installing a new, more fertile one. Freni didn’t want anything or anyone to come between her and her beloved son, but if someone did, and that someone was actually three someones—weighing in at less than five pounds each—and her own flesh and blood, would she change her tune? In a heartbeat.

  “She’ll worship the ground you walk on, dear.”

  Barbara beamed, brighter than that Wal-Mart searchlight. “I told the doctor I don’t want to know the sex of my babies—until they’re born, I mean. But if one of them is a girl, I’ll name her Lily after my mama.”

  “And if there’s a boy?”

  “Jonathan.”

  “What if there are two boys?”

  “That’s easy. Mose. My father’s name is Mose too, you know.”

  “How fortunate.”

  “Yah. Otherwise it would be hard to choose. Jonathan’s father has been like a father to me. Maybe all three babies will be boys.” She giggled.

  I decided to take the old bull by the horns again. What did I have to lose, except my pride?

  “What if more than one is a girl? What other names are you considering?”

  Barbara grinned from ear to ear. The Kansas Mose had been unwilling, or unable, to pay for braces.

  “Well, Freni of course. But if there are three girls—” She paused dramatically.

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking Magdalena.”

  I threw four hundred years of inbred standoffishness to the wind and gave her a big hug.

  “But promise me you won’t tell Freni.”

  “Oh.” That was like asking a child not to open her Christmas presents until the day after Christmas.

  “Promise?”

  I crossed my fingers behind my back, but really meant it when I told her that wild horses wouldn’t be able to drag the secret out of me. It seemed like a safe thing to say at the time, since feral equines are few and far between in Pennsylvania.

  “I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I tell her,” she said. “All these years of feeling like I don’t belong—ach, that will all change now, won’t it?”