by Tamar Myers
“Sir! Private Melvin Stoltzfus reporting to duty, sir!”
“At ease, private,” I said kindly.
He rubbed his giant orbs with both fists. “That isn’t funny, Magdalena. I worked Zelda’s shift last night—she’s sick. That was the first chance I had to close my eyes since yesterday morning. I guess I fell asleep and was dreaming. You know, I could arrest you for breaking and entering. And assaulting a police officer.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“Want to bet?”
I opened my pocketbook and whipped out a little pink book with a gold clasp. “You’d lose, dear.”
His eyes took turns inspecting the pink book. “What’s that?”
“Susannah’s diary. The unabridged version.”
He sat down again as abruptly as if he’d been pushed.
“What is it you want, Yoder?”
“Your official cooperation.”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“The diary is pink, dear. Inside, however, it’s red hot.”
He tried bluffing, a mistake for male mantises. The female gets them every time.
“So? Sex is the national pastime. Nobody’s going to care.”
“The taxpayers will care.”
He turned whiter than Cousin Sam had. “Get to the point, Yoder.”
Allow me to assure you that I had not even skimmed Susannah’s diary, much less read it. I knew that she kept the book under a pair of black lace panties in her left bottom dresser drawer, but I had no idea where she kept the key. However, on more than one occasion, Susannah has let slip references to things that Melvin did, or places that he took her to, that he had no business doing in a city-owned car.
“Like I said, I simply want your cooperation, Melvin.”
“Details, then, please.” He said it almost politely.
I pulled up a chair that had been wasting its time in a comer. “I know where there’s proof that Rebecca Weaver—Sarah’s mother—was killed. Proof that Sarah saw it happen and her life was in danger when she disappeared.”
“Where is this proof?”
“In a diary.”
His mouth opened and closed, and he began madly mashing his mandibles. “This is ridiculous,” he said at last. “I may have had the hots for Sarah’s mother—all the boys did—but I never told Susannah that. And I certainly didn’t kill Mrs. Weaver.”
Dawn came slowly to my aging brain, but it brought a smile with it. “I’m not talking about you, or this diary at the moment. I’m talking about another diary. One that belonged to our victim herself.”
“I’m not in it?” He sounded almost disappointed.
“I’m sure you are,” I said kindly. “But I’m also sure you are not the one she saw kill her mother,” I added soothingly.
But was I? Jonas wouldn’t tell me who the killer was over the phone. But of course it couldn’t have been Melvin. The man was as irritating as a mosquito up your ear, but he wasn’t a killer. There wasn’t a violent bone in his body—or was there?
Susannah had said once that he slapped her. There is never an excuse for hitting a woman—or any human being—but that’s only a fine and dandy theory when Susannah’s in the picture. Susannah’s talent for lying aside, that woman could provoke Mother Teresa into picking up an Uzi and spraying a roomful of sleeping babies. Melvin may have slapped Susannah, but even if he had, the man wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. I would stake my inn on that.
“Where is this diary?” Melvin demanded. “It’s police business, and I want you to hand it over immediately.”
I smiled patiently. “It’s on its way here from the Pittsburgh airport, dear. But, like I said, I want your cooperation.”
He stared at me with both eyes, quite a feat of cooperation in itself. “Details, Yoder.”
“The diary belongs to Sarah’s father now. Jonas Weaver. As you surely know, diaries can contain some very personal information, and this one does. Information that has nothing to do with the case. It—”
“It’s up to me to decide that, isn’t it?” he snapped.
I held up Susannah’s plastic-bound secrets. “Ah, ah, ah! No, you don’t. That’s why I brought up the subject of this little gem. It’s very important to Jonas that we read only the parts that pertain to the murder.”
“We?”
“You and I, of course. Who else is going to keep an eye on you?”
“The hell you say, Yoder. If Mr. Weaver wants to sit beside me and turn the pages, that’s all right, but you’re not going to be anywhere around. The last thing I need is for you to get some crazy ideas from what’s in there and then nm off and try to play hero.”
“Moi?”
But it was no use trying to act innocent. Melvin knew from experience that I am not one to sit idly by while the police take their own sweet time with things.
“Let me put it this way, Yoder. If you get in my way at all, I’m going to arrest you for obstructing a police officer in the pursuit of his duty.”
It sounded like a bogus charge, but it didn’t matter. As long as Melvin did the job we paid him to do, then I would stand back, and gladly. I had a million things still to do for the wedding, and none of them had anything to do with solving twenty-year-old murders.
“Pursue your duty, then.” Before I left his office, I waved the pink diary at him one more time for good measure.
Chapter Thirteen
I drove up to Stucky Ridge without a picnic lunch. Most people do. The crest of Stucky Ridge is the highest point for miles around, and while it offers wonderful picnic views, most of its visitors are teenagers who park along the rim and do everything but look at the scenery. They, of course, come at night.
Stucky Ridge is what we in the East often call a mountain, but what folks in the West might call a wrinkle, or a hill at most. According to geologists, Stucky Ridge was once at the bottom of a primeval swamp, and as a consequence was blessed with a collection of swamp creatures which somehow got compressed and turned into coal. Clarence Stucky, who owned most of the ridge, strip-mined the coal and then turned the denuded mountain over to the town of Hernia for use as a city park. That was thirty years ago, and thanks to the valiant efforts of the Greater Hernia Plant and Pick It Garden Club, the scars left by the strip mining have been concealed, if not healed.
The north end of the ridge, however, was never mined. Since the days of the first white settlers it has been continuously inhabited by Amish and Mennonites other than the Stucky family, and Clarence was unable to strip the coal out from under them. The current residents may be confined by a wrought iron fence and their view obscured by a copse, but they aren’t about to move. The official name for this little community is the Settlers’ Cemetery, and that’s where my parents are buried.
According to a document filed at city hall and on record in Harrisburg, the descendants of Hernia’s first settlers may be interred on Stucky Ridge in perpetuity. Five male Stucky ancestors signed this document, and there it is, in black and white for all current-day Stuckys to see. Now that the entire ridge has been deeded over to the city it is no longer a problem, but I can remember the day when Amish buggies and Mennonite cars encircled the cemetery to keep Clarence’s bulldozers from coming any closer.
At any rate, both Mama and Papa are descended from Hernia’s earliest settlers, in so many ways it would make your head spin to try and keep them all straight. Suffice it to say that Papa’s main connection was his great-great-great-great-great grandfather Christian Yoder, and Mama’s her great-great-great- great-great grandfather Joseph Hochstetler. Those are the names that appear first on the official document. But since no pioneer could have done it without his wife (certainly not produced descendants), I feel it is only right to mention that Christian’s wife was Barbara Hooley and Joseph’s wife was Anna Blank.
At the top of the ridge the gravel road splits, with the right fork turning off to the parking areas and picnic tables. As I continued on toward Settlers’ Cemetery, I could see among the p
arked cars the ones driven up by the Beeftrust. The hostess in me felt a sudden urge to stop and inquire politely about their lunch, but I repressed it. They were big girls, after all, quite capable of fending for themselves. I was the one who needed help.
It is a small cemetery, and despite their connections, my parents are having to share far closer quarters than they could possibly have shared in real life. Mama always chided me about walking across people’s graves, so I had to zigzag down the narrow, grassy aisles, and when I got there I was very careful not to put the stadium seat down on Mama’s turf. Papa, I knew, wouldn’t mind my legs stretched out above him.
“It’s like this,” I began. “You’ve really messed things up for me, you know. Of course you couldn’t help getting rear-ended by a milk tanker, but you didn’t have to die. I wouldn’t have died and left two helpless children to fend for themselves.
“All right, so I wasn’t exactly a child, but Susannah was. Not in years, maybe, but you know what I mean. How did you expect me to raise her by myself, when you two couldn’t even do the job right?”
I clamped my hand over my mouth. “I didn’t mean that, Mama. Please don’t start turning over in your grave like you always threatened.”
I waited a few minutes, and when there were no tremors I continued. “I’m supposed to get married Saturday. But Sarah’s murder—well, her discovery, at least—has ruined everything. Couldn’t you have stopped it? I mean, don’t you have any influence up there at all?”
My hand found my mouth again. It wasn’t the first time I’d come close to blasphemy. But that time back in my fifth grade Sunday school class when I referred to God as She, I was under the influence of a double dose of cold medicine. Still, I said a silent prayer before addressing Papa’s plot.
“You always said I was your special girl. You were supposed to give me away,” I wailed.
“And you,” I said to Mama’s matted mound, “were supposed to help me with the preparations. You know, the girl stuff. But where are you?” I wailed.
“Mum rig hah,” Mama said.
I jumped two feet in the air, which is quite a feat when one starts from a sitting position. It’s a wonder my heart didn’t burst out of my chest and go soaring over the edge of Stucky Ridge.
“Whad din minta scary ah,” Mama said calmly. Her poor diction I attributed to six feet of earth.
I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t move my legs off the top of Papa’s grave. Perhaps he had a hold on them.
“Ins onee mee, Magdalena.”
I heard my name clearly. Mama sounded closer as well.
“Yes, Mama, it’s me,” I said quickly. “Please don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry for what I said. It’s just that—”
Suddenly Mama was standing right beside me. But I hadn’t seen her actually come out of the grave, and unless she had access to a back door, something was clearly wrong. Besides, the apparition looked nothing like I remembered Mama.
Mama had a beaked nose and dark, flashing eyes. The ghost had a long, pointed nose and faded blue eyes. Frankly, the ghost was dressed in the same drab dresses Mama always wore—before she liberalized and discovered the joy of pants—but unlike Mama, the ghost had huge bosoms and tiny, childlike hands.
“Auntie Magdalena!” I cried. “I didn’t see you coming. You nearly scared me to death!”
Auntie Magdalena whimpered and mumbled a few phrases, and I discovered that by watching her lips closely I was able to follow along.
“I got bored with the picnic,” she mumbled. “All I ever hear is how Vonnie and Rudy bought this or went there, and which movies Lizzie and Manasses saw. And Leah—you’d think the world revolved around her cooking.”
“It is rather good,” I said carelessly.
Auntie Magdalena whimpered a few things it’s best not to repeat. “You’d think Elias and I didn’t even exist,” she added.
I thought that one over carefully. When you wear size eleven shoes, putting your foot in your mouth can be a mite uncomfortable.
“You don’t suppose it has to do with, uh—”
“Race?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not. When I first started dating Elias, my sisters couldn’t wait to put their hands on him. I mean that figuratively, of course.”
“Of course. Rebecca too, I suppose.”
Auntie Magdalena looked at me like I had just told her that not only was the moon made of cheese but it was a nice imported Gouda.
“Becca was not like the others at all.”
“A virtual saint, I suppose.” The sarcasm just slipped out.
“Give me a break,” Auntie Magdalena mumbled. “I know it’s wrong to speak ill of the dead—especially in a cemetery—but she was twice as bad as the others. Threw herself at anyone in pants. And in those days that meant men.”
I was going to have to take a crash course in face reading. “You mean she flirted?”
“ ‘Flirted’ is the word you’d use when talking to a preacher. Flirted, ha! Becca was, uh—”
“Horny?” I know, it is a horrible word, but Susannah uses it, and frankly it seems to suit her. If Becca had been anything at all like Susannah, then everything Uncle Jonas had told me was suspect.
“That’s what she was, all right. It was shameful. And it didn’t stop after she was married, either. Poor Jonas, we always said.”
“Who’s we?”
“Everyone.”
“I see. What about Catherine, Aaron Senior’s wife?”
“What about her?”
“What was she like?”
“Catherine was my best friend, and as decent a woman as you could hope to find.”
I chewed on that for a while. The truth has as many versions as there are tongues, but surely Auntie Magdalena had seen through her friend. Even Aaron Senior had recognized his wife’s shortcomings.
“What do you think about Uncle Jonas?” I asked at last.
Auntie Magdalena bent over so her face was just inches from mine. Clearly she didn’t want me to miss a word.
“I think Jonas killed his wife, that’s what I think. And believe me, he had plenty of reason.”
With some difficulty Auntie Magdalena righted herself and without another whimper, or mumbled word, wound her way through the cemetery and out the rusted wrought iron gate. I was alone again, with no one but Mama and Papa, and the shells of my ancestors. I began to cry.
Uncle Jonas was sitting by himself on the front porch of the inn when I drove up. There were no other cars in the drive, so I assumed that the Beeftrust had found another memory lane to follow and that Aaron had gone home to his father. As for Susannah, odds were she was still in bed, although there was a good chance she had at least turned over since I’d left.
For some reason Uncle Jonas in the flesh intimidated me. Perhaps it was the staring eyes that he was noted for. Perhaps it was because he was so tidy. I had the feeling he measured the length of his cuticles before and after he did his nails. There wasn’t a hair on his head out of place, and not a nub of a whisker to be seen on his cheeks. The only other man I’d ever known to be so exacting in his neatness was my ninth grade algebra teacher, Mr. Rouck.
Mr. Rouck may have been neat, but he wasn’t nice. By the end of the first semester I was envying my Amish neighbors who didn’t have to go to school beyond the eighth grade. By the end of the year I was envying my Baptist friends who believed that at least some violence was justified by the Bible.
“Welcome to the PennDutch Inn,” I called out gaily. Forced cheer is one of my strong points.
“Hello.” I recalled the scratchy voice I’d heard on the phone. It was totally at odds with his appearance, but it made perfect sense. Mr. Rouck had had a voice that scratched glass.
I settled myself in a rocker next to his and cradled my purse in my lap.
“You have a good flight?”
He stared at me with eyes that were flat and gray, like pebbles plucked from a stream and allowed to dry.
“C
ut out the small talk, please. I have decided to show the police Sarah’s diary, but on one condition.”
“Which is?”
“That Leah Troyer not be allowed to come to the funeral.”
I stifled a gasp with my purse, bruising my nose in the process. “Our Leah?”
“The very one. Leader of the Beeftrust.”
That was news to me. Leah had a loud voice, but she didn’t seem like the leading type. I would have pegged fashionable Lizzie or crabby old Veronica for that role. And, of course, Magdalena didn’t count.
“Well, I’m no expert on church policy,” I said carefully, “but I always thought funerals were open to the public.”
“There can be private burials,” he rasped. “For family members only.”
‘But Leah is family. Sarah was her niece.”
The flat eyes regarded me soberly, beneath eyebrows that had been precisely trimmed. “When one does what Leah did, then one is no longer family.”
I held my purse at the ready. “What did she do?”
“My little girl went to her aunt for help, and she refused.”
“You mean Sarah asked Leah for help? Something to do with her mother’s killer?”
He nodded. “It’s all there, in her diary.”
We rocked in silence for a while. He was undoubtedly grieving; I was sorting things out. I needed Uncle Jonas’s cooperation, but I couldn’t promise to keep Leah away from the funeral, no matter what was in that diary. On the other hand, it was his daughter’s funeral, and it really was up to him who should or should not attend. Besides, in this case the chicken definitely came before the egg. After we showed the diary to chicken Melvin, what was to stop me from going back on my word about Leah? Assuming, of course, that by that time I didn’t agree with Uncle Jonas.
“Okay, you show the diary to the police, and I’ll tell Leah she can’t come to the funeral.”
“No deal. You tell her first, and then we see about the police.”
“You tell her yourself. It’s your daughter’s funeral.”
He stared at me. If he had been Mr. Rouck, I could have expected my algebra grade to go down a letter.