by Tamar Myers
Wanda Hemphopple did not become a successful businesswoman by backing down. “She’s not eating anything. If she’s not eating, she’s not a customer, so she’s got to go.”
I snatched a strip of bacon from Hiram’s plate and popped half of it into my mouth. “I’m eating now.”
“You know what I mean, Magdalena. I want you out immediately.”
There are many ways in which to become the center of attention, but this was not among the preferred. After all, I have my position in the community to consider.
“I was just leaving, dear,” I said, and slid my bony butt off the genuine imitation leather and stretched my frame to its full four feet twenty-two inches.
“Good riddance,” Wanda muttered.
“Look, a quarter,” I said as I passed her.
As she looked down at her grease-smudged floor, I dropped the remaining half of my bacon into the gaping crater that presented itself I’m ashamed to say it wasn’t the first time I’d stooped so low.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Chris said once we were safely inside my car. He was not as amused as I’d hoped he’d be.
“I’m not the only one,” I wailed. “Virginia Dorfman stuck a French fry in there once, and last year Albert Rickenbach dropped a miniature flashlight in there two days before Christmas. Wanda’s head glowed until January second. Folks who didn’t know any better thought she’d had a religious experience. And oh, did I mention the time Susannah lost her dog in that dangerous do?” “Shnookums?”
“You know the mangy mutt?”
“I had the unfortunate experience of giving your sister a speeding ticket. It seemed to leap out of nowhere and attach itself to my hand. You can still see the marks here.” He held out his right hand. “Were you aware that thing lives in her bra?”
“Nature abhors a vacuum,” I said. I sighed wistfully. “All the talk of empty spaces makes me miss my pussy. You see, Little Freni was a Siamese kitten I carried around in my Maidenform for some of the happiest weeks of my life. Then Alison came to live with me. Alas, the poor child is highly allergic to cats, and I had to give my pussycat away. Don’t get me wrong: the joy of raising a real child is greater than that of stroking one’s pussy—well, it ought to be, at any rate.”
“Miss Yoder, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but—”
“Yes, dear, I know. I shouldn’t mention titillating words like ‘Maidenform’ in front of a man, and for that I apologize.”
“Apology accepted, but—”
“Well, shall we get cracking?”
“Yes, but—”
“Either we crack, or we don’t. Which is it?”
“Crack, I guess,” he sighed. “Where to?”
“It’s time to grill our most likely suspect.”
“Mr. Bacchustelli?”
I felt a rush of disappointment. “How did you guess?”
“That’s what they taught us in police academy. Start with the family—that’s sort of like the Golden Rule of crime solving, right?”
“It is? I mean, forget the rules, dear. This is Hernia, not California.”
“Whatever you say, Miss Yoder.” From the corner of my eye I could see that he was biting his lip.
“Okay, out with it You think I’m a silly old woman who doesn’t know the first thing about law enforcement, don’t you?”
“No, but—”
“Come on, spill it. You’ve been dying to say something. Now’s your chance. Don’t worry. I can take it.”
“It’s just that I don’t have your fifty bucks.”
“Excuse me?”
“That fifty bucks I stuffed down behind the seat she wouldn’t give it back. Said possession was nine tenths of the law, and because the booth was hers, so was the cash.”
“Wanda, you wily weasel,” I hissed into the rearview mirror.
The Sausage Barn disappeared as I drove around the first curve, but my indignation was going to take a long time to dissipate. Wanda Mae Hemphopple was going to yearn for the days when plastic puke from Juvenile Jokesters in Pittsburgh was the worst trick this Yoder could conjure up.
Steaming from one ear—my right ear had a slight buildup of wax—I drove in silence the rest of the way to the Bacchustellis’ condominium in downtown Bedford. By the way, the very fact that the pair had chosen to live in this bustling county seat of 5,385 instead of bucolic Hernia was indicative of how they saw their place in the community. As far as I knew, they weren’t even planning to live in the lodge once it was built.
As I pulled into a parking space opposite the condos, Chris’s cell phone rang. “Yes, Chief,” he said before the second ring.
Silence reigned as I studied my nails. I am proud to say they have never been painted. In recent years, however, they have gone from being as smooth as pearls to as rutted as washboards. Perhaps I wasn’t eating enough Jell-O.
“We’re just about to pay a visit to Mr. Bacchustelli,” Chris said. “That is, if he’s home.”
I looked at my laugh lines in the rearview mirror. Not bad for my age, but not as good as Evelyn Blough’s skin. Of course she was a redhead who never went anywhere without slathering sunscreen on first. Once, when in a hurry, she smeared toothpaste on her face by accident, which turned it bright pink.
“I’ll certainly do my best, Chief.”
I softly tapped my foot on the floorboard as I sang “Bringing in the Sheaves” in my head. When I was a little girl, I used to think the word was “sheep,” instead of “sheaves.”
“Yes, Chief I’ll tell her,” Chris said after an annoyingly long period of silence on his end.
“Tell me what?”
“No, Chief I won’t. You have my word.”
During the ensuing silence I sang all the verses to “Rock of Ages” and “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” my least favorite hymn.
“I understand, Chief Believe me, I do. My lips are sealed.”
“But mine aren’t,” I wailed. “If you don’t get off soon, I’ll start singing out loud.”
“Got to go, Chief”
The young sergeant must have heard rumors of my spectacularly bad voice. For a long time I was in denial, under the illusion that it was actually better than most folks’, and that’s why it sounded so—uh—different. Then one warm day last spring, as I was sitting on the banks of Miller’s Pond, I raised my voice in praise of the Lord. Within minutes dead fish began bobbing to the surface, belly up.
Of course, I was devastated. But after much prayer I came to the conclusion that the Good Lord doesn’t make mistakes, hence my exceptionally bad voice had to be a blessing of some sort. Perhaps the armed forces could use me to sing enemy troops into surrendering. At the very least I could always feed the poor—and myself—by giving concerts along the shores of lakes and rivers.
“What was that all about?” I demanded. “You took forever.”
“The chief just wanted to know where we were.”
“That’s not all. She told you to tell me something, and then later she told you not to tell me something. What did she say?”
He started to open his door, but I have arms that are the envy of orangutans. I grabbed the handle from him and slammed the door shut.
“I wasn’t kidding. I’ll sing if I have to.”
Chris chuckled. “I was going to tell you as soon as we got out—but here goes. She told me to tell you that a preliminary report was just faxed to her from the coroner’s office. Mrs. Bacchustelli was killed by a deer rifle. A bullet to the heart. The shot came from a long way away and had slowed considerably, so it was still in her. Also, she was already dead when she entered the water. That’s all the coroner can say at the moment. It will take about three days for a more thorough exam.”
“You said something about you doing your best—what’s that about?”
“The chief wants me to protect you. She said she’d tan my hide and tack it up on her office wall if anything happened to you.”
“And what is it you aren’t allowed
to tell me?”
“Just that she—Hey, I’m not falling for that. A promise is a promise.”
“But they’re made to be broken.”
“Not where I come from.”
“You’re from California, for crying out loud. Half the people there promised to love and cherish their spouses until death did them part, but have since gotten divorced. What about that?”
“Like I told the chief, Miss Yoder, my lips are sealed.”
“Oh, come on. Please, pretty please?”
“The chief said you would do that. She said you had a reputation for being pushy and that under no circumstances was I to give in.”
I treated the young man to one of my infamous withering glares.
“Are you all right, Miss Yoder?”
“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“I’m sure we can find a bathroom for you somewhere close. Maybe in the courthouse over there.”
“For your information— There he goes now,” I said, and hopped out of my car, a woman on a mission.
I practically had to throw myself in front of the Grape Expectations limo to get the driver to stop. To be fair, due to the angle of the winter sun and the subsequent shadows it cast, he probably thought I was a telephone line. When he did see me, the driver, a thick-necked man from the Garden State, first leaned on the horn and then rolled down his window and let loose with a string of invectives worthy of Lucifer.
“I need to speak to Mr. Bacchustelli,” I said, still struggling to remain vertical.
“He ain’t here.”
“Mind if I take a peek myself?”
“Look, lady, ya better scram if ya want to keep that skinny body of yours all in one piece.”
“Is that a threat? Because if it is, you undoubtedly just broke the law, seeing as how I’m subbing for the Chief of Police.”
“Oh yeah? I don’t see no badge.”
“He has one!” I pointed to Chris who, curiously, was no longer there. “Well, he does! Just give me a minute, and I’ll find him.”
“Lady, if you’re not outta my way in a minute, someone’s going to have to peel you off of my treads.”
“Really? Who would that be? My backup team, which is on its way right now?”
“Yeah, right. I’m counting to three, lady. Then the pleasure of running you over is all mine.”
“Go ahead and count. But just so you know, you won’t look good in stripes—not if your neck size is indicative of anything.”
Mr. Thick Neck put the limo in park and raced the engine. I will admit that my heart beat faster and that I was just a hair away from losing my morning’s coffee, but I did not budge. Then much to my astonishment the jerk from Jersey actually allowed the limo to creep forward.
“Help!” I screamed. “He’s trying to kill me.”
As the car inched forward I grabbed the hood ornament and hung on for dear life. I tried walking backward, but was soon unable to keep op the pace. It was only when I felt the engine’s hot breath against my diaphragm that I panicked.
“Help! Help! This time I’m really serious. Oh Lord, take me now. Please don’t let me get squished like my parents.
13
They say that in life-threatening circumstances one’s life flashes before one’s eyes. Mercifully, the only vision that I saw was a plate piled high with ladyfingers and a mug of hot chocolate from which cascaded an avalanche of miniature marshmallows.
The people of Bedford are kind and generous souls. Therefore I must conclude that every single resident of this benevolent berg was away for the day. Well, not counting Mr. Bacchustelli. And that’s exactly who saved my life. The rear door of the limo opened and out stepped Vinny Bacchustelli, looking as dapper as any man on the cover of the GQ magazines I’d seen for sale at Pat’s I.G.A.
“Good morning, Miss Yoder,” he said, just as calmly as if we’d met in the lobby of the Bank of America across the street.
“I’m having you arrested,” I said between gasps.
“Miss Yoder, I’m very sorry for what just happened. Please accept my apologies.”
“You tried to kill me.”
“I assure you I didn’t. I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“You’ve got that right, buster. Assaulting an officer of the law—perhaps even a pseudo-officer—is a felony. An apology is not going to cut it.”
“Otto here thought you were a reporter.”
“Well, I most certainly— He did?” The Bible admonishes us not to hate anyone. In fact, it exhorts us to love all of God’s children, including reporters. But reporters have behaved grievously to me in the past, slandering me, my loved ones, and even my inn with their lies. One tabloid reporter went so far as to say that I was Bigfoot and pregnant by Hernia’s ex-Chief of Police, the diabolical Melvin Stoltzfus. Had I been in a vehicle when I read that article, with that reporter right in front of me, I would still be eating my meals off a tin plate slipped under the bars of my one-room digs.
“Miss Yoder, I am so sorry I didn’t recognize you earlier. I heard Otto yelling, but he’s from Hoboken. Need I say more?”
“I’m sure there are some lovely people in Hoboken, just like there are in Maryland. And why is that man named Otto, anyway? I thought that was a dog’s name.”
Vinny Bacchustelli smiled, despite the grief he must have been feeling. In doing so he displayed teeth so bright I’m sure the flashes they emitted could be seen in outer space. By the way, it is a myth that the Great Wall of China can be seen by astronauts—not unless they visit China. Yes, it is the longest fortified structure built by man, but it isn’t any wider than a four-lane highway, and highways can’t be seen from up there.
“Otto is certainly built like a bulldog,” the vineyardist said, “but his mother named him Otto. You’d have to ask her about the name.”
“You talking about my mama?” the chauffeur growled. Just as my luck would have it, he was looking at me instead of his boss.
“Absolutely not, dear.” I glanced at my car. Sergeant Ackerman was nowhere to be seen. “Uh—Mr. Bacchustelli, I was wondering if you could spare me a few minutes. I have some questions I need to ask. I promise to make this brief.”
“Miss Yoder, perhaps you weren’t aware of the fact that my sister-in-law died.”
“Yes, I am. That’s why I am here.”
“I appreciate your condolences, Miss Yoder.” He started to climb back into the maw of a limo that seemed to stretch on for blocks. Fortunately, I was on full Yoder mode and lunged after him, grabbing the sleeve of his merino suit jacket.
“Wait! I have to speak to you—about how she died.” He stepped down again. We stood eye to eye; mine were both blue, and his were both brown. His hair, unlike mine, had made up its mind as to which color it would be: black, and so thick and curly I wanted to rub my fingers through it. Maybe even my toes. His nose had elected for a classical shape, unlike that of moi, which could, if I lied a little more, be used to pick litter up along the highway. The only thing above his waist for which I had no counterpart was that three-day growth of beard, which has been perpetuated by the Hollywood crowd for far too long. Since stubble stings (so I’ve been told), I am forced to conclude that the significant others in the lives of these unkempt individuals are either masochists or in need of dermabrasion.
“My sister-in-law drowned,” he said emphatically. “She stumbled in the dark and fell into one of the foundation troughs. Once we dug them, it got too cold to pour concrete. I told her that we ought to wait until spring, but there is—was—no arguing with Felicia. Although what the hell she was doing out there in the middle of the night, I’ll never know. But it’s my own damn fault; I should have insisted we wait.”
“She didn’t drown, Mr. Bacchustelli. Maybe it’s not my place to tell you this, but she was shot”
The poor man recoiled. “Are you saying she was murdered?”
“I’m afraid that’s the most likely scenario. Though I suppose it’s possible she was hit by a
hunter’s stray bullet or maybe someone target practicing.”
“Miss Yoder, may I ask why it is you who is talking to me, and not the police?”
“Certainly. You see, Hernia is a small, tightly knit town, with a large Mennonite population and surrounded by
Amish farms. Because I know virtually everyone in town, the chief thought I would make more headway in the investigation than either she or her sergeant, both of whom are from the land of fruit and nuts.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oops, I meant to say the land of milk and honey.”
“They’re Israeli?”
“Californians. Isn’t that America’s promised land?”
His dark eyes sparkled briefly. Perhaps I’d amused him. In that case my sometimes lacerating lingua had inadvertently performed a good deed—a matzo, as my Jewish fiance would say.
“I see what’s in this for the police, Miss Yoder, but what’s in it for you?”
“Well, I—uh—I get to perform matzos for my community.”
“Excuse me?”
“Good deeds. I get to help out people by giving than the benefit of both my shrewd observations and my rapier wit Surely helping one’s neighbors is not a foreign concept to you—is it?”
“Ah, mitzvoth. Miss Yoder, matzos are squares of unleavened bread. Kind of like big unsalted crackers.”
“Are you sure?” I know I hadn’t heard Gabe wrong. He’d stopped listening. “Why would anyone kill Felicia?”
I cleared my throat. “You are aware that Grape Expectations was viewed by almost everyone as being a huge threat to the morals of Bedford County. The next Sodom and Gomorrah—that’s what some are calling it.”
“But it’s just a vineyard and winery. Plus a spa and hotel. What’s objectionable about that?”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Didn’t you do any homework, dear? We don’t drink down here. Even our Baptists feel compelled to drink in their closets. You should see Craig Bachman’s closet. Uh, anyway, I thought we made that clear from the beginning.”