No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk (An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes (PennDutch #3))

by Tamar Myers

  Susannah and I elected not to attend the funeral itself, because it was in German and would last for several hours. Besides which, at the burial there would be another, much shorter service, and we could just as well pay our respects there. Of course, this meant taking my car, not that there would have been room in the Troyer buggy for Susannah and me and five bawling boys.

  It was just as well we took separate vehicles. I needed to make a phone call, and Susannah needed a last puff on a cigarette before we hit the cemetery. It had been hard enough getting my sister to dress appropriately for the funeral. Fortunately Lizzie just happened to have twelve yards of black material, and Susannah, once she had skeptically draped herself in it, decided that she looked like some TV character named Morticia. She thought it was highly appropriate for the occasion, and for once I didn’t comment. The real secret of happiness, I’ve finally discovered, is knowing when you’re ahead.

  I found a gas station on the way that had a public telephone, and I dialed while Susannah dragged.

  “Hello, PennDutch Inn,” the voice on the other end said.

  I felt my knees go weak, and I clutched at the phone-book shelf for support. “Aaron?”

  “Yes. Magdalena, I presume?” He has the only eyes that can twinkle over a phone wire.

  I took a deep breath, envying Susannah’s ability to inhale. “How are things at the inn?”

  “Cozy.”

  “What?” If there was panic in my voice, it’s because one of my guests that week was a leggy blonde who had maneater tattooed on her forehead. I made a mental note to require photos when I took reservations.

  “What I mean is that we’re snowed in,” dear sweet Aaron explained. “Last night we got eighteen inches of snow, and they’re predicting another ten inches for today. Didn’t you get any snow in Ohio?”

  I glanced around at the frozen ground. All I could see was black pavement and brown grass. The late-winter sun shone brightly. “No.”

  “Well, we sure got it here. I heard on the news this morning that the turnpike is closed. In fact, the governor has declared a state of emergency and asked that all nonessential travel be curtailed. So I guess that includes you, Magdalena. You’re just going to have to stay put after the funeral. For a day or two at least.”

  “But—”

  “Hooter Faun went to Pittsburgh for a concert and is now stuck in Somerset,” Aaron said, reading my mind. “The Allegheny Tunnel is closed, and we don’t expect her back for a day or two either.”

  “That’s a shame,” I said in all sincerity. What I meant was that Hooter is a shameful name to call oneself. And no, I don’t believe for a minute her parents named her that.

  “Yeah, well, anyway,” Aaron said, “the two old geezers and I are looking after things just fine, and there’s no need for you to worry. So relax and enjoy yourself. Not the funeral, of course, but just being away for a while.”

  I said goodbye reluctantly. Like most advice, Aaron’s was easier said than done. How was I going to survive, much less enjoy myself, when I was billeted with a brood of bawling bread-eaters? How was I going to occupy my time?

  Okay, so I would speak to Stayrook Gerber if I could, and maybe learn a little about what really happened the day Levi Mast died, which, it suddenly occurred to me, might somehow be connected to Yost’s mysterious death. But I was certainly not going to spend my time getting tangled up in a murder investigation. I took a mental breath. I knew from experience that murder and I did not mix well. Twice before, in two separate instances, the murderer read my motive as meddling and minded very much. I wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

  The Amish cemetery on Hershberger Lane isn’t marked, but on that cold February day a blind fool couldn’t have gotten lost looking for it. Even Melvin Stoltzfus, my Hernia nemesis, might have found the place. All one had to do was listen to the sound of horse hooves. The cloppity-clop of hundreds of hooves on the highways and byways in the Farmersburg area made the ground vibrate. Since all the hooves were headed to the same place, all one needed was a good ear—and maybe a good nose.

  “What goes ‘Clop, clop, clop—bang’?” Susannah asked.

  “What?” I said absently.

  “An Amish drive-by shooting!” My sister howled at her own joke, and Shnookums, always an easy laugh, yowled along with her.

  When we got near the cemetery I was pleased to see at least fifty cars caught in the tide of bobbing black buggies. Perhaps some of the former belonged to tourists, or townspeople who had chosen an unlucky route, but I suspected that most of them were there for the funeral. Many upstanding Amish, and Yost was certainly one of them, have admirers among the community at large. Undoubtedly some of the cars were driven by Mennonites, but I suspected that a fair number of English had shown up for the funeral as well.

  I parked the car along the edge of a frozen alfalfa field about a quarter of a mile from the cemetery entrance. I was lucky to get that spot.

  “You don’t expect me to walk that far, do you, Mags?” My sister pointed at her feet. She was wearing a pair of ridiculous platform things, which I refuse to call shoes, and which, while they might make sense in the Mississippi flood basin come spring, were totally inappropriate for Farmersburg in February. I would have made her change back at the Troyers’, but she had nothing more sensible to change into, and not even Sam Troyer had feet as large as Susannah’s.

  “Sorry, sis,” I said calmly, “but if I lose this space, we might have to walk twice as far.”

  “I mean, why don’t you drop me off at the cemetery gate, and then find a spot? You don’t mind walking a little ways, do you?” Susannah had the audacity to smile at me then and blink her baby blues beseechingly.

  I put the key back in the ignition. “Of course I mind. Why don’t you stay here and save this spot, and I’ll drive on past the cemetery and see what the parking looks like ahead. If it’s more promising, I’ll come back and pick you up and drop you off at the gate.”

  “But I’ll look like a fool just standing here!”

  I bit my tongue and took the key out of the ignition. “But I’ll do it anyway,” Susannah said quickly.

  “Be here when I get back,” I admonished her.

  One summer, when Susannah was about twelve, Mama made me drive her to the county fair in Bedford. Apparently even she had gotten tired of Susannah’s bored whining and needed a breather. At any rate, I wanted to see the quilt judging, but my sister insisted on attending the 4-H lamb show. There were boys there, she said. Cute boys she knew from school. Non-Mennonites even.

  I was twenty-two at the time, and should have known better, but I agreed that we would split up and meet under the giant apple that marked the entrance to the fairground at precisely five that afternoon. Not a minute after, I warned. Susannah blithely promised to be prompt. Of course, she was a no-show. Seven long distance phone calls and two and a half hours later I learned that Susannah had arrived back at the farm safe and sound, if somewhat the worse for wear. Apparently she had gotten bored well before five, and had accepted a ride home with two teenage boys whom she had just met, but who were “very nice.” Unfortunately the boys had even less sense of direction than my sister, and the three of them headed off in the opposite direction from Hernia. They might still be wandering around in the mountains of central Pennsylvania had it not been for their car radio. It was when the Bedford station began to get fuzzy that the three of them figured out it was time to turn around and try another road.

  Needless to say, Mama was fit to be tied and the whole fiasco was somehow my fault. Sweet little Susannah had been the victim of my selfishness. I should have taken her to the lamb show and held her sticky hand while she ogled the 4-Hers. Of course, Mama didn’t say that exactly, but Mama didn’t really know what Susannah was like either. I did. I knew that the Susannah my parents saw was the darling, dimpled daughter of their dotage, while the real Susannah— well, never mind.

  I’m sure it didn’t even occur to Mama, or Papa either, tha
t I also might have been worried about Susannah. She was my sister, after all, and I loved her.

  True, I loved her because she was my sister, and not because of any special qualities she possessed—we certainly were not friends—but it was love nonetheless, and they should have given me credit for it. I still love Susannah, although I honestly can’t say that I like her any better now than I did then. But she is my closest family, and that counts for something, even though I can’t explain why.

  “Promise me that this time you’ll be here,” I pleaded.

  Susannah rolled her eyes, but nodded her head. That was as much of a promise as I was going to get. Stupidly, I allowed history to repeat itself.

  Chapter Eight

  There were no closer parking spots past the cemetery entrance, and I had been foolish to look for one.

  Because of the heavy traffic I had to go at least three miles down the road before I could find a place to turn around. By the time I got back to where Susannah was supposed to be waiting, she wasn’t.

  Parked where my sister was supposed to be standing was a silver Mercedes-Benz. Somehow it seemed to fit. Not that you’ll find a Mercedes at your average Amish funeral. The odds are overwhelmingly against that. What I mean is that if there is trouble, and it involves Susannah, it’s bound to be trouble with a flair. My sister has come a long way since riding off in the wrong direction with two teenage boys.

  By the time I finally got the car parked, I might as well have stayed home. There was nothing for me to see but a wall of black backs. As for hearing anything directly connected with the funeral, I will confide here that while Bishop Kreider is undoubtedly a godly man, and is in fact almost as old as God, he has the voice of a six-year-old child. Even the deceased, had he not been so, would have had a hard time hearing his eulogy.

  I heard other things, of course.

  “Move closer this way,” a young woman said in Pennsylvania Dutch to a small boy at her side, “and let the English woman pass. She might be an important person.”

  The boy barely budged, but regarded me somberly. “She looks like Mrs. Troyer.”

  The woman snorted. “Ach, what a silly thing to say.” She cast another glance sideways at me. “Well, maybe just a little. But Lizzie would never wear such worldly clothes.”

  It was my turn to give myself the once-over. A mid-calf gray coat over a mid-calf gray dress was hardly worldly garb. Even Mama would have approved of my outfit. Of course, Mama would not have approved of my underpants, which had the word “Thursday” embroidered on them in tasteful gray thread. It was only Wednesday, after all.

  “Do you mean Lizzie Troyer?” I asked in English. “Married to Samuel? Mother of five darling little boys? Lives on Leesburg Lane?”

  They should have both been happy that there were no flies to fill those mouths. “Mennonite?” the woman asked at length.

  “Yes. I’m Magdalena Yoder, from Hernia, Pennsylvania. But Lizzie Troyer is my cousin. Well, sort of. I mean, she’s related.”

  The woman nodded knowingly. “Barbara Hooley. This is my little brother, Peter.”

  There might well have been a dozen Barbara Hooleys in a crowd that large, but I decided to take the chance. “Were you the one engaged to Levi Mast, dear?”

  She looked quickly away. “This is my second funeral in just over a week. I’m sure the good Lord has a purpose in all this.” Her voice trailed off, and she began to sob quietly into her hands.

  If there had been a grave for me to crawl into, I would have. I had not meant to cause the poor woman any distress, but now that I had, what was I to do? I am not demonstrative by nature, and to put my arm around and comfort a stranger was unthinkable. With no one to advise me, I did the best I could. I patted her gently but repeatedly on the arm, and I patted her little brother Peter on the head. They might well have been two farm dogs, fresh home from chasing rabbits.

  “Ach, you’re hurting me,” Peter said, and slipped around to the other side of his sister.

  I stopped all patting. “Lizzie told me all about it,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Barbara Hooley wiped her tears on a black gabardine sleeve. “Levi was such a good man,” she said. “So good!”

  “And a good farmer too, I bet.” Too late, I tried to bite off that last word. Amish, and Mennonites more careful than I, do not refer to betting, even as a figure of speech. Gambling is just too big of a sin.

  Even with her tear-streaked face, Barbara would have made a pretty bride. “Ach yes, Levi was an excellent farmer, but it was his cheese that was so special. Some say that it was the best in the county. Of course, Yost Yoder made good cheese too,” she added generously.

  “Ach, yes, Yost made wonderful cheese,” someone in front of us said. Clearly the black wall of backs had ears.

  “That’s why Yost and Levi were asked to form the cooperative,” Barbara whispered. “They were the best cheese makers in the county.”

  “Ah, the cooperative,” I said. I would ask the Troyers about that first chance I got.

  “It would have been very successful too, Magdalena, if Levi hadn’t slipped from the silo, and Yost hadn’t drowned.”

  “I thought Levi jumped from the silo,” Peter piped up.

  “Levi slipped,” Barbara hissed.

  “But I heard Mama say—” Apparently a gloved hand had found its way over a little boy’s mouth.

  I should have clamped one of my gloved hands tightly over my own mouth then, but I didn’t, and there’s no use crying over spilled milk. “Your Levi was too smart to climb up a silo in February,” I whispered softly, hoping that Peter wouldn’t hear. “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  Barbara not only refused to answer, but she managed to push her way through the sea of black backs before I could stop her.

  There was nothing I could do but wait for the funeral to end and the crowd to disperse. Maybe then I would find my sister and whoever it was who drove a silver Mercedes. Of course they were together; I’ve heard it said that money is a powerful aphrodisiac, and Susannah is—well, herself. On the off chance that the owner was a woman, I would cheerfully eat my hat. After zucchini-and-Kool-Aid butter, what did my taste buds have to lose?

  I was right. The “Englisher” was not only a man, but a good-looking man. Not that it mattered to me, mind you. Nobody was better-looking than my Aaron. I was also right about Susannah’s reaction to his money. She was wrapped around his cashmere coat like an extra scarf. Neither did it surprise me that this shameless behavior was going on right in front of Bishop Kreider. What surprised and disappointed me was that Bishop Kreider didn’t even seem to notice. He certainly didn’t look disapproving.

  I approached the gravesite as silently as possible. Except for Susannah and her new beau, there remained just the bishop, and a powerfully built Amish man who was carefully filling in the grave, after the family’s token shovelfuls.

  “Nice service, Rev,” I heard the Englisher say.

  Bishop Kreider shifted a heavy leather-bound Bible from one hand to the other. “It was pretty much a standard graveside service,” he said in his boyish voice. “You should have come to the funeral itself. That’s where you would have heard good preaching.”

  “Yeah, well, this was nice just the same. Not nice that the fellow’s dead, but nice that so many folks came out to see him off.”

  “Yost Yoder had a lot of friends.”

  “And family,” Susannah said.

  The bishop seemed to notice her for the first time. “Yes, the Yoders are a large family.” He stared at my sister’s outfit. “You aren’t a Yoder, are you?”

  Susannah laughed with forced gaiety. “Me? No, I’m an Entwhistle.”

  The man filling in the grave paused for a moment and stared at Susannah. In a far corner of the cemetery a crow cawed.

  “Funny,” said the bishop, “but you have the Yoder nose.”

  Susannah’s next attempt at laughing reminded me of Mad Elmo’s mule. When I was a little girl in Hernia, Elmo
and his mule used to go door to door selling rags. Elmo sold the rags; the mule didn’t. Mama always used to buy two or three rags (which she later burned), and I was allowed to give the mule a sugar cube. Each time, before I gave the mule his cube, I would tell him to laugh, and he would oblige me by throwing back his head and braying. Susannah hadn’t even been born then, but somehow she had perfected the mule’s laugh.

  “Hyawwwww! No, this is an Entwhistle nose! A Presbyterian nose. Hyawwwww!”

  The crow cawed again.

  Bishop Kreider stepped back to avoid the spittle. “Wouldn’t surprise me if there was Dutch in you somewhere, though. You look very familiar to me.”

  “Presbyterian back to Adam,” Susannah said, as the crow cawed a third time.

  It was time for me to step forward. “Susannah! There you are!”

  My sister blanched. “Margaret, what a coincidence! Fancy meeting you here.”

  I refused to play her game. “Not such a coincidence, dear—we came together in my car. You were supposed to save that parking spot, remember?”

  Susannah disentangled herself from the Englisher and pulled me rudely off to the side. “How dare you, Mags! Don’t you know who that is?”

  “Looks like an Amish bishop, an Amish grave filler, and an Englisher to me,” I said.

  “The Englisher is Danny Hem! The Danny Hem.”

  “Oh, that Danny Hem. I think I saw his picture once in the post office.”

  Susannah paled again. “Did you really?”

  “No, but should I have?”

  Susannah stamped a long, narrow foot. It might have been impatience, but then again, clog sandals on a freezing day, even a sunny one, are probably not that comfortable. “Of course not! Danny Hem is not a criminal. He’s a rock star.”

  “He is?” What did I know? In another life I had been briefly but madly in love with Mark Dinning, after hearing “Teen Angel” on my friend Cheryl’s radio. When I tuned our family radio to the station that played his songs, Mama almost had a heart attack. You would have thought I had invited the devil into our house. Even though I was already in the fifth grade by then, Mama washed my mouth out with soap, which struck me as terribly unfair. It was Mark who had crooned the blasphemous words, not me.