by Tamar Myers
“Aren’t you going to ask for Archie’s autograph?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
Gingko turned to her husband. “She doesn’t know who you are.”
“Of course I do,” I snapped. “Archibald Murray. We’ve just been through that.”
She giggled. “Archie’s sitcom is the hottest thing since Seinfeld.”
I took a sip from my glass of lemonade, which was sitting on the fried egg coaster. “Isn’t that nice.”
Frankly, I could not have cared less. My branch of the Mennonite faith does not forbid television, but we prefer to emphasize face-to-face conversation, and we do strive to avoid those TV shows that are obscene or profane in any way. In my opinion, there has not been a show worth watching since Green Acres went off the air.
Gingko smiled, a mistake if you ask me. Her unnaturally white skin made her teeth seem like an ear of buttered corn.
“Archie is the star of Two Girls, a Guy, and a Calzone.”
I shuddered at what possible pagan implications lay behind such a ridiculous title. “And what do you do, dear?”
Archibald Murray rested a manicured mitt on his wee wife’s shoulder. “Megan—I mean, Gingko—is a medium.”
“Is that so?” The woman was definitely a “small.” Even at the 5-7-9 in Pittsburgh, she’d have a hard time finding something to fit.
“She doesn’t know what that is, either,” Gingko whispered.
“But she has good ears,” I snapped. “A medium is somewhere between a large and a small, or else it is—oh, my heavens! You’re a witch!”
Gingko struggled from beneath her hubby’s heavy hand. “I most certainly am not a witch! I’m a clairvoyant.”
“Well, I’m a clarinet.” The Bible lists many sins, but being a smart aleck, thank heavens, is not one of them.
“Miss Yoder, clearly yours is not a very evolved soul.”
“Well, I never!”
“Ladies, please,” Archibald begged, “could we just get on with checking in?”
“But Archie, we might want to reconsider. I’m picking up some weird vibes.”
I prayed for a civil tongue. “That’s just the refrigerator, dear. When the icemaker comes on, it makes the whole place shake. Now, would you be wanting A.L.P.O. ?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” I said calmly—after all, money was at stake—” Amish Lifestyle Plan Option. For a mere fifty dollars extra per day you get to clean your own rooms. It adds to the authentic Amish-Mennonite experience.”
“You’re kidding!”
Archibald gently touched his wife’s arm. “Sounds great. Sign us up.”
I nodded. You’d be surprised how much folks will pay to be abused, as long as they can view it as a cultural experience. I decided to test the actor’s limits.
“For another twenty-five dollars you get to help in the kitchen. Wash dishes, clear tables, that sort of thing.”
“Sure, why not.”
Gingko stamped a foot barely larger than my thumb. “Archie! She’s conning you.”
I smiled serenely. “And for an even hundred you get to muck out the barn and clean the chicken house. But it will cost you extra to gather eggs.”
Archibald grinned. “Can I milk?”
“Sorry, dear, but that puts you over the top.”
“Ah, man! Can’t I just pay more?”
I sighed. “Okay, a hundred fifty above the standard rate and I promise to load you down with so much honest work your head will spin.”
“Thanks, Miss Yoder, you won’t regret this.”
“I’m sure I won’t, but you—”
The door to the inn flung open, slamming into the doorstop. “Yoder!” the intruder barked.
3
I shuddered. It was Melvin Stoltzfus, Hernia’s Chief of Police. I’d been unable to get hold of him, but had left a message. For a split second I regretted it. The man is both a menace and a mantis.
I don’t believe in evolution, but if I did, I’d also believe that mankind evolved from insects, not apes, and that Melvin is the missing link. He has bulbous eyes that operate independently of each other, virtually no lips, and a neck as big around as my wrist. His thorax is bony and protrudes through his shirts in suspicious little bumps, and recently I’ve come to suspect that his baggy pants hide an extra pair of legs.
Of course Melvin’s peculiar physique would be none of my business, were he not married to my sister, Susannah. But he is married to my only sibling, and although they have yet to breed, it breaks my heart to contemplate the fact that someday I may find my nieces and nephews in the rose garden eating aphids.
I glanced under my desk for a can of bug spray and, finding none, smiled pleasantly. “Yoder is my name. Please don’t wear it out.”
“Very funny. Yoder, you said we need to talk.”
“We do. Privately.”
“Yoder, either we talk now, or I leave.”
“I’m in the middle of conducting business,” I hissed.
“Then I’m out of here.” He turned and headed toward the door.
“Wait! It’s about Elizabeth Mast.”
“What about her?”
I eyeballed the California couple, but Melvin didn’t get my drift. He headed for the door a second time.
“She was murdered,” I wailed, “wasn’t she?”
Melvin stopped abruptly and turned in his arthropodan tracks. “Don’t be stupid, Yoder. Nobody killed her. She died of a drug overdose.”
“Drugs?” That was not the Lizzie Mast I knew.
“Her system was full of it.”
“Antacid?” I asked incredulously.
“Guess again.”
“Just tell me!”
“It was Angel Dust,” Gingko said.
Melvin’s left eye focused on Gingko while his right eye remained on me. “How did you know?”
“I had a vision,” Gingko said.
In a rare instance of ocular solidarity, Melvin’s right eye joined the left. “What did you say?”
“She’s from California,” I hastened to explain. “The land of fruit and nuts. Her name is Filbert.”
“It’s Gingko!”
“Whatever.”
“Let her speak, Yoder.”
Gingko smiled smugly. “I’m a psychic medium. My specialty is clairvoyance, although I’m pretty good at clairaudience and clairsentience. A couple of times I’ve even channeled.”
Archibald nodded so vigorously his sunglasses slipped. He pushed them back into place with a pampered pinkie.
“Yeah, she channeled James Dean. Man, that was awesome.”
“Give me a break,” I said.
Melvin waggled a finger at me presidential style. “Yoder, I’m warning you. This is official police business. Let them talk.”
“Talk away,” I said blithely. “Chitter-chatter to your heart’s content. Pretend I’m not here.”
They did just that. I pretended not to listen, but how could I not? It was my inn, for Pete’s sake, and they were talking about a dear friend of mine. Okay, so maybe not a dear friend, but still, a woman who was responsible for one of my most intimate experiences. After all, the only time I’d ever hugged a toilet bowl was after eating one of Lizzie’s concoctions.
Gingko seemed delighted to pretend I wasn’t there. “I had the vision just now when you came in,” she told Melvin. “Some visions can last a long time—sometimes an hour or more—but usually they’re just fleeting impressions. This was the quick kind.”
“What exactly did you see?”
“Colors mostly. Bright swirls of color—like in a really good painting. But I saw a lady too. She was lying on her back on a purple cloud and holding a jar filled with phencyclidine.”
“That’s the scientific name the coroner used!” Lacking antennae, Melvin scratched his head with a fingernail. “But how did you know that’s what it was?”
“She probably knows from personal experience.” I slappe
d a bony hand over my mouth.
Gingko glared at me. “I had a sense that it was Angel Dust. Maybe it was the cloud, or the way the woman was lying. Visions give you impressions, but they don’t spell everything out in black and white.”
“How convenient,” I muttered.
Much to my surprise, Melvin ignored my remark. “Miss—uh—”
“Mrs. Archibald Murray.”
Melvin’s eyes swelled to twice their usual size. He turned to face his prey.
“The Archibald Murray? The star of Two Girls, a Guy, and a Calzone?”
Archibald’s blinding grin would have been answer enough. “Yeah, that’s me. It’s probably these shades,” he said, reading Melvin’s meager mind. “Had that laser surgery everyone’s been getting, so I have to keep them on a few days. Hey, you’re not going to spread this around, are you?”
“Well, I do know the folks at the National Intruder,” I said and instinctively held a hand out, palm up.
The actor paled to the point his chompers looked dingy. “You do?”
“I’ve had real celebrities stay here.”
“Don’t worry,” Melvin said quickly, “she won’t say a thing. Will you, Yoder?”
“Is that a threat, Melvin?”
“No threat, Yoder. I’m just remembering that you have a fondness for speeding and—”
“My lips are sealed,” I wailed.
“Good. Now where was I? Ah, yes, can I have your autograph, Mr. Murray?”
A grateful Archibald was happy to comply. Although I have plenty of paper at my desk, Melvin insisted that the television star sign his name on the police chief’s back. His bare back—or should I say carapace?
When the embarrassing spectacle was over, when Melvin was quite through making a horse’s cousin out of himself—because believe me, it got a lot worse than that—Melvin turned back to Gingko. To her credit, the girl was still there.
“Mrs. Murray, did you see anything in your vision that told you how the lady died? Did she eat the Angel Dust? Was it on purpose?”
Gingko shook her head, and the long black hair rippled down her back. “She didn’t do it on purpose. And I don’t think it was just an accident. You know, like a normal overdose. No, I had another feeling altogether, like—well, like it was murder.”
“Aha!” I practically shouted.
Melvin turned to me. “Yoder, maybe we do need to talk.”
A lesser woman—say, the Magdalena of a decade ago—would have railed at Melvin for giving credence to a California kook while discounting his country cousin. But I have grown over the years and know when to zip my lip. Especially if doing so helps fill my coffers.
“You bet your bippy we need to talk. But first let me check these folks in.”
Much to my surprise, Melvin waited patiently while I took down credit card information. He didn’t interrupt once! Kind soul that I am, I rewarded him by allowing him to sit in my chair while I escorted my guests to their upstairs room.
My inn has both an elevator and an impossibly steep stairs, and the Murrays chose to use the latter. No doubt they were on a health kick. I, on the other hand, believe that we are born with a finite number of movements; use them all up and we die. Therefore, I have learned to get my exercise from jumping to conclusions and rolling my eyes. I took the elevator.
I was gone only a few minutes, but it was long enough for Melvin’s uncharacteristic patience to evaporate. He pounced on me as if I were a juicy aphid.
“Yoder! Where the hell have you been? I haven’t got all day.”
“You do if it’s your job.” I proceeded to tell him about Thelma’s predawn visit.
The mantis looked more miserable than menacing by the time I was through. “You know I’ve decided to run for the state legislature. Running a campaign is a lot more time-consuming than I thought. The last thing I need right now is a murder case.”
“I’m sure Lizzie Mast felt inconvenienced too.”
He blinked at me. “Yeah. But Yoder, I’ve been thinking—”
“There’s a first time for everything, dear.”
To his credit, he plowed right through. “So anyway, Yoder, it’s occurred to me that—well, maybe I could use your help.”
“I don’t do exorcisms.”
“Very funny. You’re not making this easy, you know.”
“Sorry. Perhaps that was a little harsh.”
My apology seemed to throw him. He looked around the room, as if searching for my evil twin.
“Yoder,” he finally said, “I’d like you to help with this case.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Yoder. I need your help.”
“Why me?”
“I’m busy, Yoder.”
“I said, ‘Why me?’ ”
“Don’t make me say it, Yoder.”
“Say it!” I grabbed a broom from behind my check-in counter and waved it at him. It was a mock threat, of course.
“Well, you’ve helped me before and you were. . .” He mumbled something unintelligible through clenched mandibles.
“Speak up, dear, I’m losing interest fast.”
Melvin sighed. “You were good, Yoder. You were damn good.”
“Don’t swear in my inn, Melvin,” I said sternly. Then I smiled. “I was good, wasn’t I?”
“Enough, Yoder.”
“Okay, but understand that I don’t really know the Masts that well. Lizzie came to our prayer breakfasts and occasionally to church, but her husband almost never came.”
“Just do your best, Yoder. That’s all I’m asking.”
“What exactly is it you want me to do?”
“You know, ask a few questions.”
“Easier said than done.” From what I’d heard about Joseph Mast, he was on the taciturn side. “Anything else?”
“Look around for me. Keep your eyes open, that kind of thing. The coroner said Lizzie had enough of that stuff in her to keep half of California high for a week. I want to know how it got there.”
“I see. In other words, you want me to handle the entire case for you, don’t you?”
Melvin squirmed. “Unofficially, of course. When you solve it—”
“You mean, if, don’t you?”
He hesitated. “You’re smart, Yoder. Don’t make me say that twice.”
Like I said, I’ve learned when to quit. “Okay. Let’s say I solve it. So then what?”
“I get the credit.”
“Of course. I’m sure it will be a big boost for your campaign. But tell me, what do I get out of this?”
Melvin looked like a sheep who’d been asked an algebra question. “Uh—well—”
“Never mind, dear, I’ll do it.”
“You will?”
I nodded. Even if Melvin hadn’t asked for my help, he would have gotten it. Solving Lizzie’s murder—and it had to be just that—was the least I could do for her. Even then, how could I possibly forgive myself for praying that the woman would stay away from church, while at the very moment she lay dying?
No matter what it took, I was going to solve Lizzie Mast’s death.
4
I had my back to the door a moment later when I heard it open. Just for the record, I prayed for patience. Unfortunately that’s my least-answered prayer.
“Go away, you bothersome bug, or I’ll whack you with this broom.”
“Is that a traditional Pennsylvania Dutch welcome?”
I whirled. Standing just inside my door was the tallest woman I’d ever seen. I’m five foot ten, skinny as a rail, but this big-boned gal loomed over me. I couldn’t help but gasp.
“Hi. My name’s Darlene Townsend,” the woman said and extended a hand the size of New Jersey.
I allowed my hand to be swallowed by hers. “I’m Magdalena Yoder, and welcome to the PennDutch Inn.” Too late I remembered my charming fake accent.
Miss Townsend’s raised eyebrows nearly brushed my ceiling. “Funny, but you don’t sound like you did on the phone when I m
ade the reservation.”
“How do you mean?”
“The woman I spoke to had an accent.”
“I’m bilingual. The accent comes and goes.” It was only a pseudo-fib. I’m the daughter of bilingual parents, and I’ve heard Pennsylvania Dutch spoken my entire life. What did it really matter if I couldn’t speak the lingo?
Darlene smiled. She had soft brown eyes in a pretty face framed by a bob of auburn hair.
“I’m bilingual too.”
“Oh, what other languages do you know?”
“FORTRAN.”
“You’re Fortranese?” I asked pleasantly. Ever since the breakup of the Soviet Union, it’s been hard to keep track of all those little countries.
Darlene laughed heartily. “That’s a good one. Confidentially—and I don’t mean to brag—I’m somewhat of an expert on UNIX too.”
I held the broom protectively in front of me. “Your sex life is none of my business, dear.”
The giantess laughed again. “You’re a real hoot, Miss Yoder. I can see that I’m going to enjoy my week here.”
Keeping the broom between us, I maneuvered behind the counter and checked my reservation book. I was indeed expecting a Darlene Townsend, but her mailing address was Philadelphia, not Fortran. She’d stated in her letter that she was an athletics instructor at a private girls’ school and was looking forward to a working vacation. The work—if you can call it that—was to recruit girls who could play basketball.
“How will you be paying?” I asked suspiciously. No Hernia teacher could afford a night at my inn, even excluding A.L.P.O.
Darlene handed me a platinum credit card.
“Would you like an authentic Amish experience?” I asked.
“Does that involve a broom?”
I chuckled grudgingly. “Yes, but not on the behind. For a bit more money, you get the privilege of doing chores.” I showed her a list of fees.
Her dark eyes sparkled. “What a clever idea! Sign me up for everything.”
No doubt I beamed. There is a sucker born every minute, and I definitely have a sweet tooth.
“You’re a wise woman, dear. You’ll enjoy the Amish experience.”