Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

  “Did you say ‘a lawyer’?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You know, an attorney.”

  “Who?”

  He grinned. “A Mr. Stackrumple.”

  I clapped my hands against the sides of my head. “Ach!”

  “Pretty funny name, isn’t it?”

  “Funny name, maybe, but the man’s a shark. He’ll eat Carlie for lunch. If she wanted to confess, she should come to see me. Now—”

  He waved his hands in a desperate attempt to stop me. “She’s not confessing to anything, ma’am, except that Mr. Mitchell was her father.”

  “He what?”

  At that very instant Freni came flapping into the room, as silently as a barn owl.

  “I need to see you now,” she screeched for the second time.

  “Tough turkeys, dear,” I said, exercising commendable patience. “I’m in the middle of a very important conversation.”

  “Magdalena Portulacca Yoder! You come with me this very minute or I’ll—” She raised a hand hip-high, as if to give me a swat on the behind. Although pacifists, Amish, like we Mennonites, do not consider a swat on the bottom to be violent. That is, most of us don’t. As the unfortunate recipient of a good number of those nonviolent acts (most of which Susannah deserved, if anyone) I beg to differ. Hitting—especially when done out of anger—is no way to teach peaceful coexistence. On the other hand, we two pacifist denominations have one of the lowest, if not the lowest, murder rates in the country.

  “Hey, y’all, I’m out of here.” Art stood up, and holding his hands up, as if he were taken hostage, backed out of the room.

  “Now see what you did,” I hissed at Freni. “That man just dropped a bombshell on me.”

  “Ach!” she squawked, her beady eyes darting around the room.

  “Not a real bomb! It’s an English figure of speech. It means—never mind. What is so all-fired important that you have to barge in here and interrupt our conversation? Do you realize just how rude that must seem?”

  “Rude shmude,” she snapped. “What’s the matter with Barbara?”

  “Barbara?”

  “Ach, is there an echo in here?” Freni has picked up one too many of Susannah’s annoying phrases.

  “That does it. If you’re going to be rude too...”

  I meant to stride righteously from the room, but Freni’s nails dug into my arm. They were every bit as sharp as claws, and reminded me of the time Rahab the cat climbed up my skirt. “Let go!”

  “Not until you tell me what the doctor said.”

  “What doctor?” Honestly, I had already put Barbara’s good news out of my mind. Besides, since Freni does not have a telephone in her house, there was no way she could have called her daughter-in-law. The last Freni heard, Jonathan was going to use the family buggy to drive his wife to Bedford.

  “You told me to back off the supervising,” she said accusingly, “so I went out front to gather black walnuts. You said I could take as many as I wanted.”

  “Yes, so?” I tapped my right clodhopper. Unless Freni got right to the point, she could add me to her bucket of nuts.

  “So, Elizabeth Mast drove by, and said she’d stopped in to see how Mose and Barbara were doing.”

  “And?” Tap, tap, tap.

  “Mose is up and moving around, but that Barbara!”

  My pulse put the Indy 500 to shame. “Is something wrong with Barbara?”

  “Ach, isn’t there always. Elizabeth said the silly girl was jumping around—dancing, she said—and singing!”

  “Good for her!”

  “But she’s supposed to be sick. What kind of sick is that?”

  I shrugged.

  “Ach, you should know, Magdalena. Elizabeth said Barbara told her you took her to the doctor. That’s all Barbara would tell Elizabeth. Nothing else. Is that true?”

  “I suppose it is, dear. I don’t think Elizabeth lies.”

  Although she keeps them short, Freni’s nails are capable of drawing blood. “You know what I mean, Magdalena. Did you take Barbara to the doctor?”

  “Suppose I did?”

  “Well, what is it? Is it that mad cow disease Mose was reading about in The Budget?”

  I stifled a laugh. “I hardly think so.”

  Then the most extraordinary thing happened. For only the second time in my life I saw tears well up in Freni’s eyes. The first time that happened was at my parents’ funeral. Even that had surprised me. But to cry because of a little good-natured verbal sparring? Surely not the same Freni Hostetler who could wring a chicken’s neck and gut it, all without flinching. “Freni! What is it?”

  “Ach, as if you don’t know! You have always taken Barbara’s side against me, Magdalena. And you, my own flesh and blood!”

  “I have not,” I cried indignantly. For me justice is not only blind, she is often deaf. She is seldom, however, mute.

  “Yah, you have,” Freni wailed, and then shocked me with a full-blown sob.

  “What? When?”

  “That very first day Barbara stepped off the train in Pittsburgh, you said she was beautiful.”

  “I did not. I simply said how nice it was for Jonathan that his new wife wasn’t vertically challenged. But what if I did say she was beautiful, how does that hurt you?”

  “Ach, there you go again, pretending you don’t know. Everything is Barbara this, Barbara that—only you don’t know what that woman has done to me!”

  I grabbed Freni. I wanted to shake her by those sloped shoulders until her eyes fell out. This was all about Jonathan, of course. The apron strings that attached Freni to her son were forged out of steel. No, make that industrial diamonds. Weren’t they supposed to be the hardest substance in the world? Well, there was only one thing in the world that could cut, or at least loosen, those unnatural bonds.

  “I’ll tell you what she’s done! She’s gotten herself pregnant. She’s about to make you a grandma!”

  Freni fainted.

  I screamed.

  “You didn’t need to give her mouth-to-mouth,” I said crossly to Art.

  It was sweet of him to come running back into the room when I screamed, but not every woman in a prone position needs a man’s breath to get her on her feet again. When poor Freni, who was out only for a few seconds, realized what was happening, she fainted again. This time I had to run to the refrigerator and retrieve that lump of Limburger cheese I save just for that purpose.

  “Ach!” Freni sat up abruptly, her face greener than the cheese.

  “Feeling better, dear?” I moved to help her up, but she slapped my hand away.

  “Say it again.”

  “Feeling better, dear?”

  “Ach, not that! What you said before!”

  I took a deep breath. When the cat is out of the bag already, you have only two choices as far as I can see: pretend you let the cat out on purpose, or put the bag over your head and suffocate. Since Art was there, ready to resuscitate me with a lip-lock, I had no choice but to go with the former.

  “I said she’s pregnant. She wanted to tell you herself, of course, but the smell of Limburger cheese makes her sick, so I thought it best that I break the news. Now when she tells you, remember to act surprised.”

  Freni wasn’t listening. “With a baby?”

  “That’s usually how it goes, dear, unless you’re Melvin Stoltzfus’s mother.”

  Freni was on her feet in a nanosecond. Before I could resist, she had my face between her worn hands, and was pulling my head down.

  “Magdalena, look me straight in the eye.”

  I did.

  “Is this true? Is my daughter-in-law pregnant?”

  “Yes, but, Freni, remember to act surprised.”

  “Yah, yah,” Freni said, hopping about like a frog on hot pavement. She was literally beside herself with joy.

  “Freni, you have to promise!”

  “Yah, yah, I promise.”

  Alma appeared out of nowhere. “What’s going on? I would have come sooner but
—”

  Freni grabbed Alma in what can best be described as a clumsy embrace, and then kissed the top of her graying head. “I’m going to have a baby, I’m going to have a baby!”

  Alma struggled free of Freni’s grip. Clearly she was in the presence of a madwoman.

  “Miss Yoder,” she said sternly, “aren’t you going to do something for her?”

  “Like what?”

  “Give her whatever medication she’s normally on.”

  “She’s just happy about the baby, dear.”

  Alma’s brown eyes widened. “It isn’t true, is it? I mean, it couldn’t be true.”

  Art winked at me and grinned. “You never know these days. Mothers keep getting older and older.”

  “Yes, but”—she paused, and I could sense the light clicking on in her head—“I get it! Congratulations, Mrs. Hostetler. Is this going to be your first grandbaby?”

  “Yah, yah, my first grandbaby!”

  Alma smiled broadly. I should have guessed she was up to something.

  “I hate to spoil the moment, Mrs. Hostetler, but I broke that big glass bowl you set out for me. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Freni didn’t as much as frown. “Ach, what’s a bowl, when there’s a baby?”

  “When there’s three babies,” I almost said, but wisely didn’t. Barbara wasn’t going to accuse me of telling her entire secret.

  “Okay,” I said to Art Strump, “Ms. Cornwater’s back in the kitchen, and Mrs. Hostetler is somewhere off on cloud nine. It’s time for you to spill the beans.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Sit”—I pointed to a chair—“you and I have a lot to talk about.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Ma’am me all you want, but you’re not getting out of this one. What did you mean when you said George Mitchell was Carlie’s father?”

  He swallowed. “Well, I suppose it’s all going to come out anyway, so I may as well tell you everything now.”

  I nodded vigorously. “Leave out one word, dear, and you’ll end up on my compost pile.”

  Art spilled enough beans to fuel a gas-powered engine from coast to coast.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “What you’re saying is that George Mitchell abandoned Carlie when she was a baby?”

  “No, he never even knew about Carlie. Not at first. It was Carlie’s mama George Mitchell skipped out on.”

  “What was she in the pecking order?”

  Art’s eyebrows fused. “Ma’am?”

  “I mean, was she his first wife, second wife, whatever?” Not that it mattered, but rumor had it that George Mitchell had been married a handful of times. I have a theory that oft-married men, if given enough time, will eventually gravitate back to their first wives. Perhaps not for their physical needs, mind you, but for emotional security. First wives are, after all, the ones who really raise men.

  “She never was his wife. She was a lounge singer in Charleston. An itty-bitty woman by the name of Gardenia. Well, that was her stage name, the one Mr. Mitchell knew her by.”

  “You don’t say. Did he hook her on heroin too?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Never mind. Do you know this woman?”

  “No, ma’am. She died—killed herself—when Carlie was just a baby. But I’ve seen a picture. She was beautiful. Imagine Carlie without all the rings and stuff.”

  I tried to imagine the girl without apertures in inappropriate places. It was like imagining Swiss cheese without holes.

  “I’ll take your word for it, dear. Did Gardenia kill herself because of George?”

  “No, ma’am, she was already over him. She killed herself over some other dude. Women, go figure!”

  “Indeed! So, if Gardenia, uh—dated—more than one dude, as you so elegantly put it, how does Carlie know George Mitchell is really her father?”

  “Gardenia left a letter in a safety deposit box. Mr. Mitchell wasn’t quite the hot stuff then that he was up until yesterday—he was just a salesman—but Carlie’s mama had a feeling he was going somewhere. She had the name of the company written down. East Coast Delicacies—only then it was East Coast Treats. Something like that.”

  I vaguely remembered East Coast Treats. And I remembered was that their products were not such treats—gelatinous meat loaf and dry mashed potatoes accompanied by cardboard vegetables. When I discovered E.C.D. several years ago, I never even associated the two.

  “That doesn’t prove much, dear. Anyone can make a paternity claim.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but Carlie’s mama was no fool. She wrote down a couple of Mr. Mitchell’s—uh—most distinguishing features as proof that she really knew him.”

  I willed away thoughts of poultry. “That still isn’t enough proof. Carlie is going to need DNA tests to back up her claims.”

  “Exactly. That’s why she had to see Stackrumple right away. We’re going to need tissue samples from Mr. Mitchell.”

  “What if his next of kin won’t allow that? I can’t imagine allowing some stranger to scrape cells from my sister. Then again, since my sister is not a man, it’s not likely to be an issue to raise its ugly head.” Art gingerly fingered the spot where my proboscis had almost probed his cranium. At least there didn’t seem to be a dent.

  “Mr. Mitchell has only one living relative, an elderly aunt living in a nursing home out near Phoenix. According to the staff there she is in advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t think she’ll object.”

  I chewed on that. “Well then, is her approval necessary?”

  “Not if Carlie can show reasonable proof that her claim is true.”

  “Carlie certainly seems to have done her research, I’ll grant you that. It might even appear as if she was waiting and ready.”

  "Ma’am?” My statement so startled him, he almost fell off his chair.

  “Of course this is just an amateur’s opinion. Who knows what a professional would think.”

  “Ma’am, are you implying that Carlie killed Mr. Mitchell?”

  “Well, let’s see if we have the three basic ingredients... first, motive. I’d say being the sole heir to a wealthy man is enough motive, wouldn’t you? Throw in a jilted mother, and a difficult childhood that no doubt could have been made easier by money and—well, gobs of people have killed for far less.”

  “I don’t know about any gobs, ma’am, but Carlie didn’t kill anyone.”

  I ignored his feeble protest. “Next we consider means. Carlie might be a scrawny little thing, not much bigger than a bantam rooster, but she’s young. That counts for a lot. I have no doubt that she was capable of bludgeoning George Mitchell with a heavy object.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but—”

  I waved a hand impatiently. “Don’t you ‘but’ me until I’m done, dear. Then I’ll give you an opportunity to speak—which brings me to my third point. Opportunity. What better opportunity to kill someone than to spend a week with them sequestered on some isolated Pennsylvania farm? Agatha Christie couldn’t have come up with a better location.”

  He looked positively stricken. His mouth opened and shut a couple of times, like a baby bird begging to be fed.

  “If the shoe fits,” I said smugly.

  He was on his feet. “No, ma’am, not this shoe. Carlie would never do such a thing. Anyway, entering this contest was my idea.”

  “How fortuitous for her. Also, a bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  He licked his lips. “Excuse me?”

  I stood up as well. As a woman of stature, I often prefer to be seated in the presence of men, particularly short men with fragile egos. But I was trying to prove a point, and felt at a definite disadvantage seated in my chair.

  “I mean, what are the odds that her benefactor would enter a contest sponsored by her absentee father? Hmm, this smacks of collusion, if you ask me.”

  His eyes flashed. “Okay, okay, just don’t put the blame on Carlie. It was all my idea.”

  “Keep right on spilling, dear.”
>
  “Ma’am?”

  “The beans, Art. And get to the point. Tempos fugit, and I don’t have all day.”

  “Yes, Carlie knew that her father would be here, but she only wanted to confront him, not to kill him. It was while doing the research on her father that Carlie came across the announcement about the contest. You’d be surprised what you can find on the Internet.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Alas, as a technologically challenged person, I would never know this firsthand. I find an electric can opener daunting.

  “Anyway, it seemed like a perfect opportunity. I stood to win one hundred thousand dollars—I really am a good cook, Miss Yoder—and Carlie could check out her father.”

  “And if you didn’t win the contest, you could always bump him off. How much do you think he’s worth dead? Two hundred thousand? Maybe even a million?”

  The muscles along the left side of his jaw twitched. “No offense, ma’am, but you’re really pissing me off.”

  “I beg your pardon!”

  “Carlie did not kill her father,” he said through clenched teeth. Then, without as much as a by-your-leave, he turned and strode from the room.

  I went for a walk. I love the woods at any season, but particularly in the late fall, when a few colorful leaves still cling to the trees, but there are enough already on the ground to give crunch to my footsteps. Thanks to Alma’s unfortunate experience, I knew to avoid the Mishler brothers, and of course I always stay well away from Dinky Williams and his Lady Godiva wife. But just between you and me, a woman whose adipose deposits have drooped to the point she could stand while nursing a child lying on the floor should seriously reconsider nudity as a way of life.

  At any rate, directly across the road from my house is the old Miller farm, which was just recently bought by a conglomerate, but just down the road, toward Hernia, is a lovely stretch of woods that has somehow managed to escape development. This bit of woods is my favorite, because it contains many large boulders, some almost as big as a house. Many was the time when I humored Susannah and played hide-and-seek with her among the rocks.

  Because there are a lot of brambles growing between the woods and the highway, the best way to get to this idyllic spot is to follow the road about a quarter of a mile and enter where some trees overhanging the road have shaded the brambles back into submission. Susannah always had a hard time with this; walking along a highway was a “geeky” thing to do. I rather enjoy it. Hertlzer Lane sees very little motorized traffic, and as for the Amish buggies, the clip-clop of the horses and the grating of metal wheels against asphalt is music to my ears. Besides, I know virtually all of the occupants of those buggies, and with the exception of Annie Zook, we are all on good terms.