Grape Expectations

by Tamar Myers

  Agnes stared at me with eyes the size of coffee mugs. “Oh no,” I said, and laughed reassuringly. “I don’t mean real lady fingers. I mean the cake variety—the kind you buy at the store.”

  That seemed to do the trick. “I’m sorry, Magdalena, but I can’t invite you in.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear. I already know you’re a terrible housekeeper. Everyone in town knows that.” Come to think of it, it wasn’t a good idea to drink out of Agnes Mishler’s mugs unless one was midway through a course of antibiotics.

  Agnes Mishler puffed up like an overinflated air mattress. “What did you say?”

  “Uh—well, I’m sure it’s perfectly normal to name your dust bunnies. Besides, who is Nora Ediger to talk, anyway? In second grade she named her lunchbox Billy.”

  “That was me.”

  “Oops. Well, I just need a few minutes of your time, dear. I suppose if you really insist, we can do it outside.”

  “I didn’t do it. That woman was dead when I found her. I know you don’t believe me—”

  “I do believe you. I didn’t come here to accuse you of murdering Mrs. Bacchustelli. I came here because you are a very observant woman, and I want to pick your brain for details.”

  A much relieved and only somewhat indignant Agnes deflated until she was her normal size. “Come on in,” she said, and stood aside to let me pass.

  I put one foot over the sill but then stopped short. I thought I was prepared for anything, but what I saw, just stepping halfway into her house, shocked me from the top of my bun to the tips of my stocking-clad tootsies.

  7

  Agnes Mishler was a pack rat. Perhaps there was even a pack of rats living within her shifting shape. Every flat surface in the front room was piled as high as she could reach with everything imaginable, including soup and nuts.

  A cursory glance revealed, among other things (besides the two aforementioned dinner courses), clothes, dirty dishes, books, empty bottles, newspapers, a slew of presumably defunct electrical appliances, and tub after plastic storage tub of gewgaws and doodads.

  A narrow winding aisle disappeared between a stack of gewgaws and carpet samples, but there was no place to sit as far as I could see. What is the use of having feet as large as mine if one can’t think fast on them?

  “Uh—on second thought, I don’t have the time to come inside.” I tried to slip past her, but she’d inflated again, blocking my exit.

  “Sure you do. It doesn’t take any more time to talk inside than it does out.”

  “Yes, but I left my dog in the car. And as you can see, it’s really getting cold outside.”

  “You don’t have a dog, Magdalena.”

  “I don’t? I mean, of course I do. You see, I’m keeping my sister’s mangy mutt—”

  “Shnookums lives in Susannah’s bra. Is he in your bra now, Magdalena? Because I know that poor little pooch, and he is, terrified of riding in cars unless he’s surrounded by a nice padded cup.”

  I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. It is a gesture learned from my pseudo-stepdaughter, Alison.

  “Duh!” I said. “I totally forgot that Susannah got back from her trip last night.”

  “Why, Magdalena Yoder, shame on you! You just lied to me.”

  “I did? I mean, I did no such thing.”

  “There you go again. I guess that prayer cap you wear doesn’t prevent your mouth from breaking one of the big ten.”

  “But it was for a good cause,” I wailed.

  “And what would that be? To spare my feelings?”

  “That’s ridiculous— Okay, you’re right. But like I said, my intentions were good.”

  “Maybe so, but now they’re paving stones for the road to Hell. Magdalena, if you really want to do the Christian thing, then come all the way inside. Better yet, have that cup of hot chocolate you so rudely requested.”

  I took a deep breath, one that might have to last me for the length of my visit. Without waiting for instructions, I followed the winding aisle to the kitchen. There were several other aisles that spurred off in various directions, but I let my Yoder nose lead the way. While Agnes obviously lacked the Mennonite clean gene, she nonetheless possessed the extra cooking chromosome with which most of my people are blessed. I’d inadvertently (Agnes knows better than to label her dishes) eaten her goodies at community potlucks, and I knew she was a master of the craft.

  Perhaps she was concerned that I would get lost in her amazing maze. At any rate Agnes trailed so closely that twice she stepped on my heels. It was all I could do to suppress yelps of pain, knowing as I did that I’d have to breathe afterward.

  “Magdalena, you’re not fooling me. You’re going to have to come up for air sometime—if you expect to ask me any questions.”

  “I do?” I managed to say without inhaling.

  “It’s not as if by breathing, you’re going to topple over like a miner’s canary.”

  “Don’t be silly, dear.” I’d reached the kitchen, which was cleaner than I’d expected. What had begun as a sigh of relief ended as a gulp for oxygen.

  Agnes chuckled happily over her victory. “Now, where were we? Oh yes, first some nice hot chocolate, and maybe some ladyfingers—am I right? Or, given the cold outside, would you prefer something a little stronger?”

  “How strong? I’m not opposed to you putting two pouches of instant cocoa into my cup.”

  “I never use the instant. But no, I meant a little wine.” She picked a bottle off the counter and held it out. “I don’t drink the really hard stuff, just what Jesus drank.”

  “That’s a mistake in translation,” I said.

  “Is that so? Then how about the passage that says not one jot nor one tittle of the Bible will be changed before the end of time?”

  “So the jots and tittles haven’t changed, but maybe the word for wine did.”

  Agnes returned the bottle of forbidden beverage to its place on the counter. “Hot chocolate it is. You want two packets, right?”

  I nodded, but my attention was captured by something moving in the far corner of the room. “Uh—Agnes, we seem to have company.”

  She turned, seemingly not the least surprised. “Oh, that’s just Mickey.”

  “Mickey’s a field mouse.”

  “Yes. Apodemus sylvaticus. Very good, Magdalena. Not everyone can distinguish a field mouse from a house mouse.”

  “Field mice sometimes find their way into the PennDutch when it’s really cold outside. Freni and I try to catch them alive and release them in the woods. My fiance thinks this is crazy. But then again, he calls all mice rats. If he sees one, he practically jumps on the sofa.”

  “You don’t say. Did you know, Magdalena, that rats traveling with early Polynesian settlers often had deleterious consequences on the fauna of newly discovered islands?”

  I was too busy observing a second mouse to answer. “I suppose this one is Minnie,” I said.

  “Right gender, wrong name. Look at her closely, Magdalena.”

  “Oh my gracious,” I said with a start. “She looks exactly like Doreen Hershberger.”

  “Although Doreen’s eyes are beadier.”

  I know it wasn’t Christian of us, not to mention mature, but Agnes Mishler and I laughed until our sides hurt. We laughed so hard we scared Mickey and Doreen away, which caused us to laugh even harder. When it got to the point I had to either stop or risk using Agnes’s toilet, I closed my eyes and recalled the time Mama spanked me for dropping a forkful of rhubarb pie on her new Sunday dress. This is a little trick I learned in church. When something strikes my funny bone so hard that I am in danger of losing control in an inappropriate situation, I try to conjure up a vivid image of something sobering. Mama’s “this hurts me more than it will hurt you” sessions usually do the trick. Although sometimes I have to go so far as to conjure up mashed boiled turnips. That morning, in Agnes Mishler’s rodent-infected kitchen, I brought Mama, boiled turnips, and fried liver to life.

  It took A
gnes even longer to calm down. “Magdalena,” she finally said, “don’t take this the wrong way, but I think I like you.”

  “Ditto,” I said.

  “You’re not the snobbish prig everyone says you are—oops!” She clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “They say that?” Truth be told, I was feeling a mite flattered. It’s when folks stop talking about me that I start to worry.

  “Do you want the truth?”

  “Nothing but.”

  “You’re just about all everyone does talk about. ‘Did you hear what Magdalena said?’ ‘Can you believe the nerve of that woman?’ ‘How on earth does she snag such handsome men?’ ”

  “Go on,” I purred.

  “It would take me all day, and I promised the uncles I would take them shopping in Pittsburgh. They’re hoping to find this new kind of body lotion they’ve seen advertised that will keep them from getting so chapped.”

  “Clothes aren’t an option? As long as we’re being honest, dear, your uncles are giving young women the wrong impression of what to expect in their connubial beds. After my wedding night—illegal, though it was—I couldn’t look at a turkey neck again without blushing. Your uncles, however, bring to mind sparrows.”

  My new friend grinned. “Magdalena, you’re so naughty. Who knew?”

  As enjoyable as the conversation was, it was time to cut to the chase. “Moving right along, dear, please tell me more about what happened this morning. Were you really praying at the construction site?”

  “I was. Only I wasn’t praying that Ed Gingerich would get his farm back; I was praying for myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “You may not have noticed, Magdalena, but I have a slight affliction.”

  These days one has to admire a woman who uses the word “affliction” in a sentence, even if said woman is sailing down Denial River in a felucca. “Are you referring to your propensity to hoard junk like an army of Depression-era retirees?”

  “I try to throw away things, Magdalena. But I just can’t. Lately, I’ve been taking long walks early in the morning, even before the cows get up. That’s when I do most of my praying.” “I see. So you were praying, and then what?”

  “I’d just asked the Lord to give me a sign that I would be cured, and I opened my eyes, and there was that woman staring back at me. But dead, of course. I immediately called the police.”

  “Details, dear. Details.”

  “As you know, it rained a couple days back, and the whatchamacallit—”

  “I think it’s called a footer, dear.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, there was lots of water in the ditch, and she was lying on her back with her eyes open. The water just barely covered her face, but it was cold last night so there was a thin sheet of ice over her eyes. It made them look bigger, like they belonged to someone else’s face.” “Then she’d obviously been dead for a while. Of course, the autopsy should tell us how long. Are there any other details you remember that stand out? In a murder investigation—and I’m not saying it’s officially been ruled that— anything might be important.”

  “Even if it’s considered gossip?”

  “Of course—well, that depends. Is it really juicy?”

  “No. And you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. I don’t want to be misunderstood.”

  “Okay. But make it quick, dear. I have an investigation to conduct, remember?”

  “It’s about that. Magdalena, I wasn’t the only person at the construction site this morning.”

  “Oh no, not Ed! I told him—”

  “It was that new couple. The Rashids.”

  “Get out of town! What on earth were they doing there, and at that hour?”

  “Arguing.”

  “About what?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s hard to understand her, you know.” Indeed it was. Mr. Ibrahim and Dr. Faya Rashid are Hernia’s newest and most exotic immigrants. Ibrahim Rashid is a second-generation American of Lebanese ancestry who, of course, speaks flawless English. He was born and raised in New Jersey. His wife, Faya, who is a distant cousin, hails from Beirut.

  Faya has a medical degree from an Italian university. In addition to Arabic, she speaks fluent Italian and French, but her English is heavily accented. Dr. Rashid is in the process of getting her license to practice medicine in America but has, according to the rumor mill, run into a few accreditation problems. In the meantime, this exceptionally beautiful and gifted woman keeps house while her husband runs a very successful dry-cleaning chain, Best Clean, that stretches across the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

  The Rashids picked lowly Hernia as the place to live because the Best Clean headquarters is in nearby Bedford and because our little town shares similar values with our first Muslim family. The Rashids are far from being fundamentalists, but they do shun alcohol and place a strong emphasis on family and what we call “just plain clean living.” At any rate, you couldn’t find a nicer woman than Dr. Rashid. English, however, is not Faya’s forte.

  “Well, what did he say?” I prompted.

  “He was begging her not to go home. ‘Give it one more year,’ he said.”

  “Go home? To Lebanon?”

  “That’s what it sounded like. Apparently, her mother still lives there, and Faya’s very homesick. When she was a med student in Italy, she got to go home more often, because Rome is not that far.”

  “Did they talk about anything else?”

  “Not really. Oh, except that he wants her to cut her hair, and she doesn’t want to. He says she’ll look more like an American if she does.”

  “Well, good for her,” I said. Dr. Faya Rashid wears her long hair piled high and held in place with jeweled combs, displaying to its best advantage a neck that I’m sure is the envy of swans. Although few waterfowl admire my neck, I too wear my hair long and piled high, albeit in a bun and held in place with bobby pins. So what if her hair is a luxuriant dark chestnut and mine a mousy brown? We seem to both believe that a woman’s hair is her crowning glory, and not to be shown to just anyone.

  Agnes Mishler has short thick hair. If you glued a Ping-Pong paddle to her head, she’d make a convincing beaver.

  She shook this pelt vigorously to underscore her disagreement.

  “This is the twenty-first century, Magdalena. I think it’s great that her husband is encouraging her to become a modem woman.”

  When the going gets tough, change direction. “Did the Rashids say anything about Grape Expectations?”

  “Not a word—that I heard.”

  “Did they see you kneeling there, as you were praying in front of a dead body?”

  “I don’t always kneel when I pray, Magdalena. And no, they didn’t see me. I had just arrived and was leaning against a cement truck, catching my breath, when they drove up in their Hummer.”

  “Their what?”

  “It’s a type of car—a sort of weaponless tank the rich and wasteful are fond of driving these days.”

  “Ah yes, I have seen those. Go on.”

  “So anyway, I heard them drive up, but I didn’t know who it was, so I stayed behind the cement truck. They both got out and immediately started waving their arms and yelling—like they’d been into it for a while and just needed a place to pull over.”

  “But the lodge Grape Expectations is building is halfway up the mountain.”

  “That’s what happened, Magdalena, like it or not.”

  I didn’t, so I jotted down that detail. “Agnes, you said you were catching your breath. What was the reason for that?” “You would too, if you’d jogged eight point two miles.” “You jogged all the way out there?”

  “Round-trip. In case you haven’t noticed, Magdalena, I’m not beanpole thin like some. I may be fat, but I’m fit, and fit is what it’s all about.”

  “Consider the shrew,” I said shrewdly.

  “What?”

  “The shrew is the smallest of all mammals. The elephant is the largest. They share the same number of heartbeats before
their respective tickers wear out. The shrew lives only two years, the elephant as much as sixty. The moral of the story? Save your movements. Don’t waste them on exercise. The second you use up all those heartbeats, that’s the second you’ll topple over dead.”

  “Magdalena, you’re every bit as loony as they say.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, dear. Now, where was I? Oh yes. What was the Rashids’ reaction when they saw the body lying half-frozen in a ditch?”

  “They didn’t see it—at least not that I’m aware of. They argued for about ten minutes and then took off. I was breathing rather heavily for the first few minutes—I was scared to death they’d see me. I mean, how would I explain my presence behind that cement truck? They might think I was some sort of pervert.”

  “Indeed. So it wasn’t until after they drove away in their Beamer that you discovered Mrs. Bacchustelli’s body?” “That’s Hummer, Magdalena.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Your answer, by the way, is yes.”

  “Agnes, why didn’t you tell Chief Hornsby-Anderson that you saw the Rashids at the scene of the crime?”

  “Because it was obvious they didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Obvious to whom? No offense, Agnes, but that’s a matter for the police to deride.”

  She sighed and rubbed her eyes, creating that squeaky sound I find so distressing. “Magdalena, use that huge intellect God blessed you with. Folks are already suspicious of them just because they’re Muslim and she’s from overseas. Then there’s the fact they’re teetotalers. If I told the police, the next thing you know people would be accusing the Rashids of being hate-mongering fundamentalists who would do anything to stop the construction of a business that was based on a product that violated their religion.”

  I put that huge, God-given intellect—her words, not mine—through its paces. Thinking, incidentally, does not contribute to Dead Shrew syndrome.

  “You’re right,” I said. “At the moment there’s nothing to be gained by telling anyone. But just so you know, I might have to at some point.”