by Tamar Myers
Chapter Twenty-nine
“—one Alma Louise Cornwater for the premeditated murder of George Reagan Mitchell.”
Derrick was stronger than I hoped, and was able to force my hands away, but not until after Alma’s name was read.
“He’s a tabloid reporter!” I screamed.
“Is that so? Well, you win some, and you lose some. It looks like Miss—”
Derrick’s ears, which were rather large, were easy targets. Unfortunately the man has the reflexes of a fly, and once warned, was able to duck.
“Alma Louise Cornwater,” he said gleefully. “Any relation to Barry Cornwater of Arizona?”
“That’s Goldwater, dear. You wouldn’t, per chance, be related to Melvin?”
“Ah, Alma Goldwater. Is that with two D’s, or one?”
“Three,” I said. “She’s Lithuanian. Lodema, be a dear and tell Mr. Simms all about the mole they removed from Anna Lichty.”
Lodema’s face lit up like Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh when the Pirates are in town. Next to me, Anna Lichty is Hernia’s favorite subject. Imagine carrying a six-pound mole around for twenty years. Not the animal, of course, but the skin condition. Boggles the mind, doesn’t it? Then when the mole is finally removed, one of the surgeons faints because the mole, when seen from the reverse side, bears the exact likeness of the Virgin Mary. I know it’s hard to believe, but Anna kept it in a huge pickle jar, so I saw it for myself. Hearsay has it that when Harriet Hammond saw the heavenly hunk, her herpes was healed. Rumor even has it that the Vatican has made inquiries into buying the disgusting thing, along with Ripley’s Believe It Or Not.
“I don’t want to hear about some damn growth,” Derrick Simms growled. “I want to hear about the Goldwater murder.”
“Oh, you’ll want to hear about this,” Lodema said, her voice rising with excitement.
She was right. Next week’s edition of the National Intruder read: “Holy Moley: Vatican Vies for Virginal Visage.” There was nothing in it about Lodema, or the murder of George Mitchell. Much to my relief, there was nothing about me either.
Alma had class, I’ll say that for the gal. She remained absolutely calm while the maniacal Melvin manacled her. It was only when she was being led away to the squad car that I saw her lips quiver.
“Freni,” she said, avoiding eye contact with me, “I hope it’s not against your religion or anything, but would you please do me a big favor and call home.”
“Yah,” Freni said, choking back a sob. Tears streamed down her faintly fuzzy cheeks.
I practically leaped in front of Alma and Melvin. Had the mud puddles not been frozen, I would have lain across them and let her walk on my back. Melvin and Zelda, however, were out of luck.
“I can call.”
“You’ve done enough,” Alma said flatly.
“It wasn’t my fault that the coroner called Melvin a second time and reported your thumbprint on the knife blade.”
Police Chief Melvin Stoltzfus produced one of his more smarmy smiles. “You see, Yoder, my little plan worked.”
“That wasn’t a plan! That was a pack of lies. You said you knew everything about Alma and the knife. I just assumed that somehow you’d heard that she’d lost her paring knife.”
“And then,” Melvin said, mandibles barely moving, “you volunteered the information that East Coast Delicacies, presided over by the deceased, stole her recipes. That was the clincher, Yoder. Since we already knew Miss Cornwater was up at the time of the murder, we have everything we need to make a case: motive, method, and opportunity.”
“You still haven’t proved that the knife is hers,” I wailed. “And even if it was, somebody else could have stolen it from her drawer.”
To her credit, Zelda at least shrugged her broad shoulders and glanced at Melvin.
It was a small opening, but I can squeeze through a wormhole, if I have to. “You see? Zelda thinks it’s possible. I mean, what about Marge Benedict?”
“What about her?”
“Not only did she hate George Mitchell, but she obviously doesn’t have any scruples. She stole Alma’s recipes to impress George.”
Melvin sneered. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that the human dartboard has a motive as well?” “Carlie? As a matter of fact—”
“Can it, Yoder. I don’t tell you how to do your job, so you don’t tell me. Got it? I’m going to prove that Miss Cornwater killed George Mitchell. In the meantime, Zelda here will make her very comfortable at the Hernia Hotel. Won’t you, Zelda?”
The poor woman gave me a pained look. She might be in love with Melvin, but she has got to recognize that he is a doofus. Even Melvin’s mama can’t help but see the truth. It broke my heart the day poor Elvina Stoltzfus confessed in church that she had not given birth to her son, but found him under a cabbage. What saddened me so was that less than half of the congregation believed the desperate woman.
“You feed her three squares a day,” I admonished, “and no strip searching.”
“Ach!” Freni was the color of bleached flour, and poor Susannah looked like she was about to jump out of her skin, leaving a pile of polyester behind.
“He’ll be good,” Zelda said firmly. “Besides, I search the female prisoners.”
Susannah and Freni sighed in unison.
Melvin stretched and yawned, quite obviously satisfied with a job well done. If he’d been a rooster, instead of an insect, he would have crowed.
“Thanks for everything, Yoder. I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t sung like a canary.”
Freni shook a plump finger at me. “Yah, a canary. Well, Miss Big Bird, I quit!”
“I’m sorry,” I wailed. “I was tricked.”
“It’s all right, Miss Yoder,” Alma said softly. “I shouldn’t have come down so hard on you.”
I gave Alma a quick hug. “I’ll do anything I can to help. You need bail money? I’m loaded. Whatever you need, I’m there for you.”
“Thanks.”
Susannah grabbed the sleeve of Melvin’s coat. For a second I thought she was going to try and talk some sense into him.
“You going to call me, Lamb Pie?”
“Not now,” Melvin muttered, and rudely shoved her aside.
“Bye,” Alma said bravely as she climbed into the back seat of Hernia’s only official squad car.
“Don’t worry!” I called to her. “I’ll find the killer!”
I turned to Freni and Susannah. “I mean it. I won’t leave one stone unturned until I find the person who really killed George Mitchell.”
Susannah touched my shoulder in a rare display of affection, and then went back inside.
“Yah, just like a sparrow,” Freni hissed, and trotted after her.
“That’s canary!” I yelled, and then burst into tears.
Perhaps there are a few who would disagree, but I see myself as essentially a cheerful person. Jovial might be taking it too far, although surely good-natured would be an appropriate term to describe yours truly. There certainly isn’t a lick of truth to the rumor that I am a cantankerous and mean-spirited woman. Grandma Yoder maybe, but not me.
Therefore, it surprised even me when I couldn’t shake the cloud generated by Alma’s arrest. For example, an hour after it happened, one of the guests— Ms. Holt, I think—spilled coffee on the seat of Papa’s favorite chair in the den. The old Magdalena would have been upset, maybe even demanded that Ms. Holt get married, have a child, and subsequently hand over her firstborn in payment of the blotched fabric. The depressed me hardly noticed.
“Mags, darling,” Susannah said, doing her best to cheer me up, “I’ve decided to run away, get a million tattoos, and join the circus. What do you think of that?”
“Peachy keen,” I mumbled.
“But that’s not all, Mags. Melvin Stoltzfus is coming with me. He’s going to join as The Mantis Man.”
“Whoop-tee-doo,” I said, twirling my index finger.
Even Shnookums got into the act,
nipping me playfully through the folds of Susannah’s flowing fabric.
“Nice dog,” I said, and scratched him obligingly behind the ears.
The next thing I knew Freni was plying me with cake and hot chocolate. “Ach, so I don’t quit, already.”
“Suit yourself, dear.”
“So, I’ll never quit. Will that make you feel better, Magdalena?”
I shrugged, too worn-out and dispirited to say anything more. My life was at the bottom of the outhouse, so to speak. My parents were dead, my pseudo-husband was living with his real wife, and now this? An innocent woman was on her way to the hoosegow, and all because I’d had the weakness of character to give in to Freni’s request. I should never have agreed to that silly contest. Allowing a bunch of disparate and desperate strangers into my establishment was one of the stupidest things I’d ever done. It isn’t even the love of money that is the root of all evil, it’s competition.
“Ach!” Freni fluttered around me pretending to plump pillows, but since I keep only two in the den, she soon ran out of things to do. After a while she gave up and, more true to her character, clomped sullenly back to the kitchen. The dear woman does not handle rejection well.
Who knows how long I sat there in my stupor— maybe two hours all told—when I became aware that I was once again not alone. Perhaps it was the pheromones he exuded, but I could sense General Gordon Oliver Dolby’s presence, even with my eyes closed. And I hadn’t heard him enter the room either. I’m telling you, that man could walk like a cat.
“Miss Yoder?”
I attempted to will him away.
“Miss Yoder, I need to fly to Pittsburgh this afternoon. Would you care to come along?”
I opened one eye.
“Of course it’s only a little Cessna 182, but you might find it fun.”
I opened the other eye. “You have your own plane? I mean, you flew it here from Baltimore?”
“Yes, ma’am. I never go anywhere without my wings.”
“But—but—you drove up in a car.”
“Yes, ma’am, with Pennsylvania plates. I rented it at the Bedford County airport.”
That’s what I get for not requiring my guests to record their license plate information. They are, after all, an upscale crowd. In recent years most of my guests have flown into Pittsburgh, where they rent cars, or else they drive in from the East Coast. Except for Bill and Hillary, of course, who—never mind, I’m not at liberty to discuss that.
“Your own plane, huh? And you’re inviting me along.”
“Yes, ma’am. Gladys hates to fly—won’t do it more than she has to—anyway, I thought you might like to get away from things for an hour or two.”
Would I! Besides, I had never had the privilege of flying. For years I’ve had to listen to my guests moan about the declining service on airplanes, the shrinking seats, and the insipid food. All the while I wanted to tell them to just shut up and count their blessings. You see, at first I couldn’t afford to fly anywhere, but then when my business grew and I could afford to go just about anywhere I wanted, I no longer had the time.
But now, at my weakest point ever, when I couldn’t care less about schedules and responsibilities, the good Lord in His mercy had sent an angel to fly me above my troubles. “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles,” the Book of Isaiah says. Okay, so an airplane wasn’t the same as an eagle, but I for one don’t think we are required to take everything in the Bible literally.
“You bet your bippy, I’d like to fly with you,” I cried. We Mennonites eschew betting, and shame on me for using the word, but that’s what I said. “How soon can we leave?”
“How about now?”
I could feel life ebbing back into my veins. God had sent me an eagle, and G.O.D. was going to fly me on it to Pittsburgh and back. I couldn’t wait.
“Now it is!”
People do look the size of ants from that high up. Houses are as small as matchboxes, cars even tinier, and trees are no bigger than broccoli tops. Only now that it was November, the trees looked more like miniature gray lace doilies than vegetables.
“Do you think we can see the PennDutch Inn?” I shouted.
I never imagined that a plane could be so loud. Gordon—or Gordy, as he asked me to call him—had given me a set of spongy earplugs, but they did little to muffle the roar of the engine. It was Gordy’s voice I could no longer hear.
I cupped my hands to my mouth. “What did you say?”
He banked the plane and pointed vigorously.
Frankly, at that angle I was afraid to look down, but by leaning away from the door and stretching my neck to giraffish proportions I got a glimpse of two matchboxes, one larger than the other, and several doilies that might have been the PennDutch and surrounds.
Then the plane abruptly straightened and we flew higher and higher until we actually pushed up through the clouds. I was astounded. They were far more wispy than I thought. It didn’t seem possible for an angel to sit on one, certainly not one holding a heavy metal harp. I was going to have to do some theological revamping, once I was safely back on terra firma.
Despite the racket, it was so peaceful up there. Just a sea of cottony clouds, and an autumn sun hanging low in the sky. There were, of course, no roads, no cars, and most important, no people. I might not be able to sit or lie on a cloud, but that withstanding, I could live up there indefinitely.
“Where’s Magdalena?” folks would ask of Freni or Susannah, and they would point to the sky, where I lounged, floating above a bed of white, dining on white seedless grapes and ladyfingers, or whatever else it is they serve in heaven.
My reverie was short-lived when Gordy banked the plane again, this time steeper than the first.
“Pittsburgh?” I asked in surprise. We couldn’t have been in the air for more than twenty minutes.
Gordy shouted something that sounded like “out.”
“What?”
He pantomimed removing my earplugs, which I gratefully did. The silly things tickled.
“What did you say?” I shouted. “It sounded like out.”
Finally I could hear him. His voice cut through the engine noise like a knife through one of Freni’s gelatin molds.
“That’s exactly what I said. Out!”
Chapter Thirty
Gladys Dolby’s Tomato Brunch Cake
2 cups cake flour
1 cup brown sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon ground ginger
1 cup tomato juice
¼ cup chopped golden raisins
¼ cup chopped dried apricots
¼ cup chopped dates
Cream shortening and sugar. Sift flower with salt, spices, and soda. Slowly add tomato juice, then beat into smooth batter. Dust dried fruits with flour and stir into batter. Pour into greased, no-stick loaf pan. Bake at 325 degrees for one hour. Slice when cool and serve with a dollop of whipped cream.
Approximately 8 slices.
Chapter Thirty-one
Removing the earplugs seemed to have improved my vision as well. Retired General Gordon Oliver Dolby was waving a gun at me.
“But—”
“Open the damn door.”
“Don’t be silly, dear, we’re hundreds of feet up into the air.”
“Five thousand two hundred and eighty, to be exact. I thought you might like to join the Mile High Club.” He laughed coarsely.
“I’ve never parachuted before,” I said, glancing wildly around for one. I had no idea what a parachute looked like when folded. Perhaps it resembled a knapsack.
“There aren’t any parachutes in this plane, Miss Yoder. You get to do the ultimate in free fall.”
I gulped. “No thanks, dear. I think I’ll pass.”
He brought the gun up and pressed it aga
inst my left temple. If I live to be as old as Zsa Zsa Gabor, I will never forget the feel of that cold metal against my bare skin.
“You don’t get a choice, ma’am. You see, you have far too big a mouth.”
I pursed my lips and rolled my eyes down as far as they could go. All I could see was a blur. Funny, but it was usually the Yoder nose that drew comments.
“Anybody ever tell you that you ask too many damn questions?”
“Oh, that kind of mouth. Well, actually, my husband Aaron used to say that all the time. Susannah and Freni do their fair share of complaining as well. But who are they to talk? I mean, Susannah says words all the time that I would never dream of saying, and Freni is constantly yabbering away to herself in Pennsylvania Dutch. As for Aaron, well—he wasn’t really my husband, you know? No, I think—”
“Shut up.”
Normally I might have, given that he had a gun. But I suddenly realized that the plane had rolled out of its bank and we were flying level again. Despite what he said, talking seemed to help.
“All right, dear, if you say so. But first, can you at least tell me what I asked you that was so offensive? I mean, no has ever wanted to throw me out of a plane before just because I’m inquisitive. Of course I’ve never been in a plane until now, but had I—”
“I said, shut up! You know damn well why I got you up here. Well, whoever finds you is going to have a lot harder puzzle to solve than the one involving poor George Mitchell. Hell, I made that one almost too easy.”
Although I recoiled in shock, the gun barrel remained snug against my temple. Gordy had quick reflexes, I’ll grant him that.
“You? You killed George Mitchell?”
“Yes, ma’am. I could have done a far neater job of it, but I wanted it to look like an amateur—a civilian— did the job. It worked too, didn’t it?”
“Sure, if that’s what you call sending an innocent mother to prison for the rest of her life.”
“Someone had to die, didn’t they?”
“Did they?”
“You’re damn right, they did. Food poisoning obviously didn’t put a stop to that damn contest.”