by Tamar Myers
He nodded. “Anne isn’t much of a people person. So, we have a deal?”
“Deal.” I slid over the leather, which didn’t feel nearly as soft on the way out. I should have been happy for the extra moola the impending field trip would bring, but I felt more like a goose was walking over my grave. Quite possibly this one was wearing shoes.
8
Rumors are like chicken pox. They pop all over the place and demand attention. If you scratch them the slightest bit, they spread even faster. Alison’s Bigfoot rumor spread like the pox in a fifth-grade classroom. When I woke up the next morning there were half a dozen reporters camped on the front lawn.
Having played hostess to the stars, I am a veteran in dealing with the paparazzi. My approach may be unconventional, but it works for me. Give them what they want, I say, because they’re going to make it up anyway. One might as well have a little fun.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” I said, appearing at the door in my best broadcloth dress and whitest organza cap. My brown brogans, by the way, were polished shinier than any apple. “The rumors you’ve heard are absolutely true.”
Magically the six reporters tripled their ranks and within seconds there were microphones crowding my face. I smiled pleasantly.
“Not only was Bigfoot seen on this property, but”—I paused for dramatic effect—“she, and it was definitely female, was caught cavorting in my barn with a certain Melvin Stoltzfus.”
There were gasps, both of disgust and of delight. No one seemed to be astonished. Apparently, either you believed in the beast, or you didn’t.
A woman I recognized from the National Intruder shoved her mike within millimeters of my mug. “Did you see this yourself?”
“Heavens, no! But I’ve heard from a reliable source that this is true.” Strictly speaking, this wasn’t a lie. I had told myself that story while getting dressed, and under normal circumstances I am a very reliable source.
“Who is Melvin Stoltzfus?” someone called from the back of the pack.
“He’s Hernia’s Chief of Police,” I said and proceeded to spell his name.
“And your name, ma’am?”
“Lodema Schrock. Miss Yoder asked me to speak on her behalf.” Okay, that was an out-and-out lie, in that I was actually bearing false witness against my neighbor. Melvin, incidentally, I consider a relative, not a neighbor. In either case, I planned to repent fully the moment the reporters left.
“Miss Schrock,” the woman from the National Intruder said, “can you give us any more details?”
I pretended to remember. “Well—I’m sure you’d find this out anyway, so there’s no harm in telling—apparently this isn’t the first time Miss Bigfoot has done the horizontal hootchy-kootchy with our Chief of Police. I think the hairy harlot might be pregnant.”
More gasps. By now the more reputable journalists were edging toward their cars, but the woman from the National Intruder and a young man from Outrageous inched closer.
“Anything else, Miss Schrock?” Miss National Intruder demanded.
Alas, I found myself unable to hold out for a private repentance. A wave of guilt washed over me like fumes from the skunk, which, by the way, was still lying on the highway.
“I lied!” I wailed. “I’m not Lodema Schrock; I’m Magdalena Yoder.”
Mr. Outrageous scribbled furiously. “How many personalities would you say you have, Miss Schrock? And is this Stoltzfus guy one of them?”
“Definitely not!”
Miss N.I. shoved her microphone so close to my lips I could taste the metal. “Which one of your personalities slept with Bigfoot?” She happened to glance at my shoes. “Or are you really Bigfoot, and that’s a disguise?” When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping, but there isn’t any place worth dropping bucks at in Hernia, unless you’re in need of cattle feed or day-old bread. Feeling utterly desperate, with my bony back literally up against the wall, I grabbed the broom I use to sweep the porch. I certainly did not intend to hit anyone with the broom, merely to brandish it in a threatening manner. Can I help it that my palms were sweaty and the worn wooden handle slipped from my grip? Well, you would have thought the young woman from the National Intruder had been walloped.
“Did you see that?” she cried, her voice rising to decibels only a Chihuahua can hear. “She tried to kill me!”
“I did not,” I wailed. “Besides, you can’t prove it.”
“What about all these eyewitnesses?” the wench hissed.
There, you see? I had no choice. To shut the woman up, and avoid an expensive lawsuit, I gave her an exclusive interview in the kitchen. I told her that I was indeed the legendary Bigfoot, masquerading as a mild-mannered Mennonite maid. Yes, I said, I had to shave my entire body every day, a process which took a good three hours because I was still fairly new at it. There were only a handful of us left, the rest still roaming the wooded mountains of southern Pennsylvania. I missed my hirsute family terribly, I said, and was seriously considering returning to the wilds. Then, after making the reporter sign a paper terminating her rights to sue, I posed for a few photographs.
That seemed to satisfy the juvenile journalist and she left, eager to post her story. The other reporters, sensing she was on to something, trailed her like bloodhounds after a dripping steak. I had the feeling I hadn’t seen the last of them, but I took advantage of the lull to whisk an oblivious Alison off to school. Then I turned my attention to my charges for the day.
Just as I had expected, Anne Thrope and Ivan Yetinsky were not ideal tourists. Anne found fault with everything, beginning with my car, which apparently wasn’t fancy enough for her. She wanted to take the limo, which was still parked in my drive, but of course we couldn’t. Although I must say I was tempted to tell the colonel that if he wanted to run into Pittsburgh, we either had to exchange cars or else that roll of duct tape I keep in my kitchen junk drawer was going to find a new use.
Ivan didn’t mind the make of my vehicle, but it was a chore getting him to fit into my Toyota Camry. Fortunately I had a clean spade hanging in the tool shed, and was able to use it much like a shoehorn. Getting Ivan extracted was going to be much harder, but he assured me he had a strong bladder and didn’t need to get out again until we returned home. If the man was willing to see Freni’s farm from the backseat of a Japanese car, that was his business, but as we left the driveway he kept trying to look behind him. Fearing he would rip the overhead upholstery, I had to reprimand him as if he were a small child.
Once we were on the road, I thought things would go smoother, but Anne continued to criticize everything she saw, and Ivan the Terrible actually fell asleep. I didn’t know which was worse, to hear my hometown run down by Miss Anne Thrope, or hear Ivan snore while I tried to elucidate the finer points of Pennsylvania Dutch customs.
Anne took forever to hike the Slave Creek Trail, if indeed she hiked it at all. For all I know, she hoofed it back to the PennDutch and caught a few z’s.
I know Ivan did. He continued to snore so loud I had to sit on a log fifty feet away with my hands over my ears.
As for the picnic up on Stucky Ridge and the visit to Freni’s farm, they were a complete waste of time. If only that’s all they were. Freni took umbrage when Anne not only pronounced the Hostetler farm primitive, but turned up her nose at a jar of homemade preserves my elderly relative gave her. Freni, bless her heart, threatened never to work for me again if this was the sort of guest I was going to subject her to. Ivan behaved with Freni, but he spilled so many things on himself during the picnic that when we returned to the PennDutch, he was able to slide out of the backseat without any help. You better believe that Colonel Custard was going to have to pay for some new upholstery.
And speaking of the colonel, the man had somehow managed to make it to Pittsburgh and back, plus see a doctor, in just over five hours. The round-trip journey into the city takes me four and a half hours. Either the crafty colonel had pulled a fast one on me and decided to stay at the inn, alone, or that be
hemoth of a limo of his was capable of sprouting wings.
Whatever. Miss Antisocial and Mr. Slippery went upstairs, while I headed straight for my private bathroom. My new philosophy, formed while I schlepped the ungrateful duo around, was that when the going gets tough, the tough take a bath. I figured I had just enough time for a long relaxing soak before Alison came bursting into the house from school, since she normally takes the bus back. Baths, I’ve discovered, are where I do my second-best thinking, and I had a lot to think about. Ever mindful of my modesty, lest Alison get home early, I locked the bathroom door.
I had just removed my sturdy Christian underwear and had one toe in the water when I felt the house shake. My first thought was that it was a tornado. I’d lived through one of these devastating storms, but I’d been fully clothed then.
“Please, Lord,” I begged now, “just let me get my clothes back on, and you can blow the entire house away. Take me too, if that’s what you want. Just don’t let the rescue workers find me naked.”
Believe it or not, during those few seconds I managed to get fully dressed. They say that a room without windows is the safest place to be during a storm of any kind, and my bathroom definitely doesn’t have any of those. So, you see, there was no place for me to go. I sat on the throne, the lid closed, awaiting my fate. If the pearly gates opened, I was at least dressed and ready.
But the tornado, which should have been just wind, now had a voice. “Miss Yoder, are you in there? Miss Yoder, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Lord.” Funny, but God sounded a bit like a woman. Who knew?
“Miss Yoder, open up! It’s a matter of life and death.” I flew from the pot to the door. Why the Good Lord didn’t have the archangel Gabriel bust down the door was beyond me. But who am I to argue?
Yes, I fully expected to meet my Maker on good terms because as a woman of faith, I am assured of my salvation. What I did not expect was to come face-to-face with Miss Anne Thrope.
“What?”
“Well, it’s about time, Miss Yoder. I’ve been pounding on the door until my fists are sore.”
It took me a second or two to shift gears. “I was in my bath, if you must know. And guests are not allowed in my room without permission.” To get to my bathroom, the crabby interloper had to tromp right through my boudoir.
“I didn’t have time for civilities. Something terrible has happened upstairs. You need to call 911.”
“Uh—that would be Melvin, our Chief of Police. Why? What’s happened?”
“It’s the colonel. I think he’s dead.”
I was upstairs in less time than it took to pull the drain plug. I’ve had other deaths at my inn, and they’ve never been anything but trouble.
Sure enough, lying on his back on the floor of my largest guest room was Colonel Custard. He looked remarkably peaceful, I thought, despite the fact that he was quite clearly dead. Murdered, in fact. I know—I’m no doctor, but I could see the neat round bullet hole in his forehead, and the gun lying beside him on the floor. Had it been suicide, there would have been a much nastier entrance wound.
Besides, in a corner of the room hunched the monstrous Ivan. The slippery hulk was weeping bitterly, his tennis racket-size hands barely covering his face. What other evidence did I need? I strode over to the victim, bent, and with the hem of my skirt scooped up the gun.
Fortunately, I had recently installed phones in the guest rooms (I’d held out for years). I dialed Melvin just as Miss Thrope thundered in the door.
“Did you call?” she gasped.
“I’m doing that now.” Why hadn’t the frenzied woman called 911 herself? Unless she felt incapable of giving directions to the PennDutch. Well, that was certainly silly. In these parts, no directions are needed.
“Hernia Police,” said a cheery voice on the other end of the line. “How may I help you?”
“Zelda? Magdalena here. I’ve had a bit of trouble at the inn. Is Melvin there?”
“Magdalena, it’s not another murder, is it?”
“How did you know?” I wailed. “I don’t have that many!”
Zelda sighed. “So it is a murder. Well, as it happens, my sweetiekins has the day off and took that wife of his into Bedford grocery shopping.”
“His wife happens to be my sister Susannah, and Melvin is not your sweetiekins.”
“Hmph. Do you want me to call the hospital so they can dispatch an ambulance, or do you want me to come over?”
“Both,” I said. Zelda is a kosher policewoman in her own right, but over the years her excessive makeup has permeated her skin, possibly reaching her brain. Her bulb burns a little brighter than Melvin’s, but not much.
“Be right over,” she said and hung up.
Then I turned to the killer.
“Okay, Mr. Yetinsky, try to get a grip on yourself.”
“But the colonel wasn’t just my boss; he was my friend.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you killed him.”
“He didn’t kill him, you idiot.”
I whirled to stare at Miss Thrope. “What did you say?”
The gourmet cook shrugged like a Frenchwoman. “Okay, so maybe ‘idiot’ was too strong a word. But Ivan here didn’t kill anyone.”
I pointed to the corpse with the barrel of the gun. I was still holding it swaddled in my skirt, so I wasn’t incriminating myself. “The evidence would indicate otherwise.”
“What evidence?”
“A dead man, a gun on the floor, this blubbering behemoth.”
“Now who’s being unkind? Tell me, Miss Yoder, did you hear a gunshot?”
“No—but there’s been a lot of strange noises coming from up here. I’ve been trying to tune them out.”
“I’m telling you, Miss Yoder, I know Ivan didn’t kill him because we were together all morning. In fact, you were with us.”
“Yes, until we returned to the inn. Then you two went upstairs by yourselves.”
“That’s correct. But we went straight to my room—together.” She didn’t even have the decency to blush.
“You’re claiming each other as alibis?”
“That’s exactly right. Only we weren’t in my room but two minutes. Just long enough to drop off my purse and that stupid jar of preserves your so-called cook gave me.”
So that’s all they were doing? Well, why couldn’t she say so to begin with? I get enough exercise jumping to conclusions on a normal day. I tried to review the timeline of events. I had gone straight to my bathroom and shed my clothes. I had the water going as I did so. It was possible that Miss Thrope, despite her youth, had taken that long just to get up my impossibly steep stairs. My elevator, she claimed, wasn’t big enough for a dwarf sardine.
“Those preserves are scrumptious, dear,” I said in Freni’s defense. “Do you mean to tell me that the two of you found the colonel lying like this, in a pool of his own blood?”
Ivan stopped blubbering and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“If you don’t believe us,” Miss Thrope said, “feel him. He’s as cold as the roast beef you served us for lunch. Or was that supposed to be leather?”
“Those were sandwiches! The beef was supposed to be cold.” I shifted the gun to my left hand and stooped to touch the dead man’s forehead. It’s not the first time I’ve touched a corpse, mind you, but I hope it’s the last.
The colonel felt even colder than my roast. The man had obviously been dead for some time. Perhaps hours. It wasn’t possible for either of them to have done the dastardly deed—unless Anne had indeed made it back to the inn on her hike. Still, that was pretty unlikely. Although it would explain why she didn’t have enough energy to beat me to the top of the stairs.
For the moment I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Okay,” I said, “so maybe you did find him like this—”
“Freeze!” Zelda shouted as she burst into the room, her own gun drawn.
9
“Let me get this straight, Yoder,” Melvin S
toltzfus, the Chief of Police, said, arranging his mandibles in a sneer. “Zelda caught you red-handed, and you still deny that you killed the colonel?”
We—Melvin, Susannah, Gabe, and I—were sitting in my parlor, the body having long been moved to the morgue of Hernia’s tiny hospital. Tracking down Melvin and my sister had not been an easy job, given that he has a penchant for turning off both his cell phone and beeper whenever he leaves town. If it hadn’t been for Gabe the Babe, I might now be sitting in the hoosegow with an overzealous Zelda inserting bamboo slivers under my fingernails. Melvin loves to torment me, but he doesn’t really think I’m capable of murder. He is, after all, married to my sister, who has been known not only to fish flies out of her soup, but to give them mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
At any rate, the Babester didn’t find them at Pat’s I.G.A., which is their favorite haunt, but at their first runner-up, Madame Terri’s House of Tricks. This establishment, I am ashamed to say, does not sell rabbits in hats and other sleight-of-hand novelties—although perhaps a few of their wares could be classified as that. The ugly truth is that Madame Terri’s sells sex toys. I know—it’s hard to believe that such a thing exists. It’s even harder for me to believe that my flesh and blood sister would frequent a shop like this. If Mama were alive—well, thank the Good Lord she isn’t. It’s bad enough she turns over in her grave with such regularity that the town council has considered installing a generator in the cemetery. As long as Susannah didn’t mend her ways, Hernia could get at least half of its electricity for free.
I glared at Melvin. It was more a ritual than an expression of emotion. “Yes, I was holding the gun. In my left hand. I’m right-handed, and you know it.”
“But your prints are going to come up all over that piece.”
“You’re wasting time, dear. Doc Rosenkranz already called from the hospital and said that in his best guessti-mate, the colonel had been dead five hours when his staff found him.”
“So you killed him, and then took off on that sight-seeing trip.”