Just Plain Pickled to Death

by Tamar Myers

  “No, there is not a casino attached to the inn. What I’m trying to say is that I have to turn your lucrative offer down on account of my soon-to-be-husband’s aunties have taken over the place.”

  Before I hung up I accepted an offer from him for twice as much money as his previous one, but for the following week instead. In the meantime the persistent potentate was going to purchase a small New Jersey town in which to stash his happy harem.

  The receiver was in its cradle for exactly three seconds before the phone rang again.

  “Oh second thought,” I said smoothly, “I think a deposit of ten thousand is in order.”

  There was silence instead of static.

  “I mean, what if your ladies decide to make veils out of my curtains?”

  “Magdalena? Have you gone totally off your rocker?”

  “Melvin? Melvin Stoltzfus?”

  “That’s Chief of Police Stoltzfus to you. And what the hell kind of game are you playing?”

  Thank the good Lord I don’t own one of those newfangled telephones that shows your picture on a screen. Undoubtedly I was three shades darker than pickled beets.

  “Why did you call, Melvin?” I asked evenly.

  “Oh, that. I called to officially inform you that Sarah Weaver is dead.”

  I am not surprised by anything Melvin can say. Which is not to say I’m never dismayed.

  “Is there a point to this, Melvin?”

  “I just got the coroner’s report back, and like I said, Sarah Weaver is definitely dead.”

  “I see.” What else could I say?

  “And she’s been dead a long time.”

  “You don’t say. Anything else?”

  “It was murder.”

  “That crossed my mind too,” I said. “Any idea as to how she died?”

  “The coroner wants to send some tissue samples off to Harrisburg, but he’s pretty sure the cause of death was a blow to the head. Possibly a hammer.”

  “That’s it?”

  “A blow to the head can be fatal, you know.”

  I bit my tongue.

  “Where did you get that barrel of sauerkraut from, Magdalena?”

  I put my hand over the speaker holes before sighing a long, deep sigh that would have made Magdalena Fike proud.

  “I already told you, Melvin, so I’m only going to tell you once more. The sauerkraut was a gift from Aaron’s father. He’d had it in the back of his root cellar for years and finally decided to get rid of it. He and Aaron brought it over yesterday morning. Freni is very particular about the kraut she serves, so she decided to give it a preview taste. After all, the barrel looked ancient. That’s when she found the body.”

  “Was it in the barrel at the time?”

  “No, Sarah had gotten out to take a brief stroll— Melvin!”

  “I am being thorough, Magdalena. Asking as many questions as I can think of is part of my job.”

  “Then why don’t you ask them of Aaron’s father? He’s the one who made the sauerkraut and then gave it to me as a gift twenty years too late.”

  I felt a sudden need to do a little whimpering of my own. What kind of family was I marrying into? The ideal father-in-law, I had imagined—when I was but a mere idealistic girl—would give brood sows and freshened heifers as gifts, not sauerkraut. Given enough time, I can make my own sauerkraut.

  “I’m one step ahead of you, Magdalena,” Melvin crowed triumphantly. “I plan to see old man Miller this afternoon.”

  It was my turn to crow. “No, you’re not, dear. Aaron has taken his father into Bedford to buy him a new suit. If they can’t find what they want there, then they’re off to Somerset. At any rate, I don’t expect them back until after supper.”

  Melvin said something that even Uncle Elias would have found difficult to decipher. After I made him repeat it four times I realized it was some sort of profanity and unless I wanted to risk undergoing an autopsy of my own, I was better off without a translation.

  “You could come over tomorrow after church,” I said graciously. “Papa Miller is going to be joining us for Sunday dinner.”

  He exploded with an expletive I recognized as one that Susannah used.

  “Or why not just chat with him at the funeral luncheon on Monday? There is going to be a funeral, isn’t there?”

  “Don’t count on it, Magdalena,” he said, and to his credit, he said it without gloating. “Not by Monday. These things take time. This is a murder investigation, you know.”

  A blood-red flag had just been raised inches from my eyes. Fate was waving it tauntingly.

  “I’m getting married a week from today, Melvin, after the funeral,” I screamed.

  Clearly it was going to be up to me to see that I did.

  Chapter Five

  Magdalena Yoder’s Wedding Feast, from Soup to Nuts

  Great-Granny Yoder’s Onion Cheese Soup

  1 cup onions (finely chopped)

  ½ stick butter

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon pepper

  4 cups milk

  2 tablespoons cornstarch

  4 cups chicken broth

  ½ teaspoon dry mustard

  2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese

  Saute onions in butter, salt, and pepper until trans-parent. In measuring cup or small bowl, whisk together one-half cup of cold milk with the cornstarch. Pour mixture over onions, stirring constantly. Add chicken broth and remaining milk. Add dry mustard. Sprinkle shredded cheese over top while continuing to stir. Cook over low heat until the cheese is melted. Serve in bowls and garnish with croutons.

  Serves 4.

  Chapter Six

  Auntie Leah had decided to take a nap, so I was up to my elbows in sandwich fixings—trying desperately to get lunch on the table for the mass of milling, masticating Millers—when Freni finally showed up.

  “I quit,” she said.

  “What?”

  She threw down an apron that she hadn’t even bothered to put on. “And you didn’t even have the nerve to tell me!”

  “Tell you what, dear?”

  “Don’t you give me the runaround, Magdalena Portulaca Yoder. I diapered you when you were a baby.”

  It was true. Besides my doctor, Freni is the only other living soul who has seen me naked. Not even Susannah has seen me in the buff. At Hernia High, because of the large concentration of Mennonites and other conservative folks, we didn’t have to dress for gym.

  Freni, who is Amish, is not only a kinswoman but a lifelong friend of the family. Prior to my parents’ death, she and her husband, Mose, had both been employed on our farm. After Mama and Papa died they stayed on, and when I sold off most of the land and turned the farmhouse into a bed-and-breakfast inn, they became my staff. Mose tends the grounds and our two milk cows, and Freni cooks. They are long past retirement age but will not hear of it. Still, for reasons known only to her, Freni feels compelled to quit on a weekly—if not daily—basis.

  I sat down on a kitchen chair that had been made by my great-grandfather. “Okay, Freni, spill it. What have I done to offend you this time?”

  Freni’s back stiffened. “Who said you offended me?”

  “Don’t I always manage to offend you?”

  Freni whisked off her black traveling bonnet and patted the net prayer cap back into place over her coiled braids.

  “You asked me to cook for your wedding, Magdalena—”

  “I didn’t ask, Freni. You offered. It was your wedding present.”

  “Yah, but you accepted, and that’s the same thing.”

  I ignored her logic. After all, Freni thinks cheese is a vegetable. Enough said.

  “What is the real reason, Freni? If it’s because of Sarah, then I understand. Believe me, I can appreciate how much of a shock that was.”

  Freni tapped a black brogan impatiently. “It isn’t Sarah—it’s Barbara!” She was talking about her daughter-in-law.

  That hiked my hackles for the second time in as many days. It
was none of Freni’s business who I chose to sing a solo at my wedding. I knew, of course, that Freni saw it differently. She comes as close to hating Barbara as the Bible will allow. Barbara’s sin is that she is married to Freni’s only child, John. That, and the fact that Barbara hails from the heathen hinterland of Iowa.

  “Freni Hostetler! You should be ashamed of yourself. Poor Barbara has never done anything to hurt you.”

  Freni’s eyes flashed volumes.

  1 shrugged casually. “Well, then, I guess if you’re not going to cook for my wedding, I’m just going to have to ask Auntie Leah. The breakfast she made this morning was simply delish.”

  “Leah Troyer?”

  “The very one.”

  Freni looked as though I’d just slapped her. She pulled a chair out for herself and sat down heavily. Her breath was coming in irregular gasps.

  “Of course, her cooking couldn’t hold a candle to yours.”

  Her breathing became more regular.

  “And the folks who are expecting a genuine Freni Hostetler feast will be disappointed.”

  Her breathing returned to normal, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  “You have quite a reputation hereabouts, you know,” I said. It was the truth, depending on how you took it.

  “And even in other states, yah?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Well, in that case I will have to do my duty, no matter now unfair some things may be.” She cast me an accusing look.

  “Duty above all else,” I said charitably. “Now, how about you help me by finishing up these sandwiches while I go wake Auntie Leah? She’s napping and asked for a twelve o’clock wake-up call.”

  Before I could get up, Freni leaned over and grabbed my left wrist. Despite her age, she has the grip of a sumo wrestler.

  “You be careful of this bunch of Millers, Magdalena,” she whispered. “They are a strange lot.”

  I sat back down. The sandwiches could dry out and Auntie Leah oversleep for all I cared.

  “What do you mean, Freni? These people are Aaron’s cousins.”

  She maintained the viselike grip. “Yah, they are his family, but he isn’t like them. You can thank God for that.”

  “Freni!” I tried prying her fingers loose, but they were like bands of steel. “What is going on? What about the Millers?”

  “Ach, where do I begin?”

  “How about the beginning?”

  Freni let go of my wrist, but her hand hovered above it, ready to pounce again if I tried to escape.

  “How well do you remember the year Sarah Weaver disappeared?”

  I shrugged. “Well, I was about twenty-six then. I think I remember it pretty well.”

  “Do you remember that her mama disappeared a month before she did?”

  “Of course. At the time you told everyone that she had run off with the devil himself and was having a weekend of unbridled lust in the Poconos.”

  Freni glared at me. “Ach, how you twist my words. I said no such thing.”

  “Well, you did accuse her of hanky-panky with the accordion-playing evangelist who had come to town. Not all Baptists play that kind of drop-the- hanky, you know.”

  “I did see the two of them riding together in his truck,” Freni snapped. “They could have been heading for the Poconos.”

  “We digress,” I said pleasantly. “Tell me more about that summer. Wasn’t it around the Fourth of July when Rebecca disappeared?”

  Freni wrested control of the situation by waiting just until I opened my mouth to urge her on. “She ran off, like I said. And it was the end of July. The week of Aaron and Catherine’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and—”

  “Aaron and Catherine who?”

  Freni stared at me like I had just spoken Japanese. “What?”

  “Who were the Aaron and Catherine who were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary?”

  “Ach, have you lost your memory altogether, Magdalena? It was Aaron and Catherine Miller. Your Aaron’s parents.”

  I laughed, albeit nervously. “It’s your memory that’s hit the skids, dear. If I was twenty-six, and my Aaron is the same age, then how could his parents have been celebrating their silver wedding anniversary?”

  To her credit, Freni covered her mouth, so I only saw the tips of her smile. “Your Aaron was twenty-four that summer, not twenty-six. You were born the year a tornado took down Wagler Hooley’s barn.”

  I felt my stomach fill with lead and sink to the floor. “You sure?”

  “Positive. And Aaron was born two years later when we finally raised Wagler Hooley’s new barn.

  Wagler was so lazy, he wanted a whole year off from farming. Wouldn’t let us build him a new barn any sooner.”

  She was at least right about the barn raising. Mama had gone into labor while helping to serve the community meal. Her water broke just as she was pouring the Amish bishop a glass of cider. Because Papa’s car was blocked in by a sea of buggies, our Mennonite pastor drove Mama home, where I was born. I’d had to suffer through that story a million times.

  Because there were two clergymen peripherally involved in my birth, Mama had declared that I would marry a man of the cloth. Instead, I was about to marry a man two years younger than I. A mere child. Perhaps Freni was right; perhaps I really was losing it. I should have remembered that although Aaron and I rode the same school bus, we were not in the same classes in high school. Somehow those two years had gotten lost among the intervening years in my memory.

  “Tell Aaron how old I am and I’ll tell your son everything you’ve ever said about his wife,” I said kindly. I’ve made worse threats, if truth be told.

  “Deal,” Freni said quickly. “Now do you want to hear about that summer or no?” She barreled on anyway. “Well, Catherine had never been a very healthy woman, and no one thought she would live even that long, so it was an important occasion. The whole family was there to help celebrate, except for you- know-who.”

  “Aaron was in Vietnam,” I reminded her.

  She tossed her head at such a lame excuse. “Anyway, there was talk about bad feelings among some of the relatives.”

  “Which relatives? What sort of bad feelings?”

  “Ach, do I get to tell the story or not?”

  I hung my head in contrived shame. Years of experience had taught me how to appease the woman.

  “The talk was that Rebecca’s husband, Jonas, was jealous of one of the brothers-in-law. That Rebecca was paying too much attention to him and not to Jonas.”

  “Which of the brothers-in-law was that?”

  “Ach, what does it matter now? It was that Baptist with the accordion that Rebecca had her eye on. After she ran off like that, and then Sarah disappeared, Catherine went downhill fast. Blamed it on herself for having invited everyone to Hernia. She died the following winter.” Freni looked at me accusingly. “Again no Aaron.”

  I returned her look. “By then Aaron was a prisoner of war in a bamboo cage a tenth the size of our chicken house.”

  Freni volleyed it right back at me. “Ach, the English and their strange ways. Volunteering to go to war.”

  “He would have been drafted anyway. He had a very low lottery number. And anyway, Aaron’s not English, he’s a Mennonite, as you well know.” Of course, as a Mennonite, Aaron could have avoided the draft, but I wasn’t going to remind her of that.

  Freni rolled her eyes, but I maturely ignored her challenge.

  “Do you or do you not recall which of the brothers-in-law was the object of Rebecca’s attention?” I asked.

  “Rudy Gerber. But I’m sure the other men got their share of attention too. Rebecca Miller was a wanton woman.”

  “Why, Freni, how you talk!”

  “It’s true, Magdalena. Her parents should have named her Rahab, after that harlot in the Bible.”

  I was shocked. Freni is a one-woman Supreme Court, but words like “wanton” and “harlot” don’t come easily to her lip
s. Rebecca Miller Weaver must have led a wild life, even by today’s standards.

  “Freni, you implied earlier that the whole Miller bunch was strange. What exactly did you mean?”

  “You’ve seen them,” she practically shrieked. “Calling themselves the Beeftrust. Imagine that!”

  “Being tall and big-boned is no sin, dear,” I reminded her charitably. Freni, who is only a smidgen over five feet tall, harbors a deep resentment of anyone who can cast a shadow after ten in the morning.

  “But they all married shorter men, Magdalena. The Bible warns us not to get unequally yoked. You know, like hooking oxen together with asses.”

  I smiled patiently. If you let her, Freni would prove that the pope is Jewish.

  “The Bible is talking about spiritual equals, not physical. Just because they call themselves the Beeftrust doesn’t mean they’re oxen.”

  Freni’s stuck her lower lip out so far that had she been in a rainstorm she would have drowned. I knew she was thinking hard, sorting through almost seventy-five years of memories for proof that the Millers really were a weird bunch. Her eyes brightened suddenly.

  “They all moved out of Hernia, didn’t they?” she crowed triumphantly.

  “And that makes them strange?”

  “Well, even you haven’t moved away from Hernia!”

  I turned my head so she wouldn’t see me stick my tongue out. “Try again, dear. If remaining in Hernia is a sign of relative normality, then your daughter- in-law, Barbara, is supernormal. After all, she moved from somewhere else to here.”

  “Ach du lieber!” Freni clearly saw the logic in what I had said. It was the same sort of logic that had her convinced that eggs were a fruit.

  “Well?”

  She stared at me, beaten but far from broken. “Well, I wasn’t going to bring this up, but now you’ve forced me to. Right, Magdalena?”

  “You’re absolutely right, dear. Consider yourself forced.”

  She sighed in relief. “In that case, you should know that in the autumn the Miller family held a private memorial service.”

  “Why, of course! They had every reason to suspect that something terrible had happened to Sarah. And it had.”