Just Plain Pickled to Death

by Tamar Myers

  I scrabbled around, grabbing at the tools, but it was too late. Both of the Miller men were framed against the barn door. They were in silhouette, so I couldn’t see their expressions, but no doubt their faces were twisted in rage.

  “I—I didn’t see anything!” I stammered. “Nothing, I tell you. And it was Uncle Elias’s idea.”

  “Elias, you knew all along?” Pops asked rather calmly.

  “Hell, no,” Uncle Elias said, and he laughed. Laughed!

  I turned to give him a righteous glare, and that’s when I saw the bottles. Dozens of bottles.

  “Where’s the body?” I gasped.

  “Body?”

  My Aaron laughed and ran a hand through his thick black hair. “My Magdalena has quite an imagination, doesn’t she?”

  “Boy, I’ll say,” Uncle Elias agreed far too heartily.

  “Well, now,” Pops said, “now that you’ve found my stash, Elias, what do you plan to do?”

  “Damn you, Aaron,” Uncle Elias said, “I knew you were holding out on me all these years, but this is something else.”

  Pops looked him straight in the eye. “You aren’t going to tell, are you?”

  “You up to sharing?” Uncle Elias asked.

  Pops considered that for a moment and nodded.

  I jumped up and grabbed my Aaron’s hand. He gave no resistance as I pulled him to the door.

  “So, Aaron Miller, you want to tell me what this is all about?”

  He sighed. “Pops has a fondness for the fruit of the vine.”

  “And how does a Mennonite develop that?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose it had to do with Mom dying. One of his farming buddies must have brought him a little homemade something to help ease the pain. I guess he liked it.”

  “Must have been a Presbyterian,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. So, you were going to have your father move in with us and not tell me he has a drinking problem?”

  “He doesn’t have a drinking problem. And I would have told you, sooner or later. It’s just that Pops is very sensitive on the subject. You know how we Mennonites are. And anyway, with all our wedding plans, and then finding Sarah, I just forgot.”

  It was possible that he forgot. Just the week before I’d spent nearly an hour searching for my car keys when they were in my hand the entire time. And I did indeed understand how he might be reluctant to tell me such a thing, given that I am a fairly staunch Mennonite. By today’s standards at least.

  I mean, not only do we eschew drunkenness but we perceive alcohol itself as being somehow inherently evil. Mama always said that you could tell if someone drank just by looking at the veins in their wrists. According to her, imbibers and true believers had visibly different vascular systems. Of course, now I know it isn’t true, but for years I would glance discreetly up the cuffs of our non-Mennonite friends, trying to tell the teetotalers apart from the sinners.

  “I believe in complete honesty between us,” Aaron added. “You do believe that, don’t you?”

  I nodded vigorously. I felt so ashamed for having fantasized that my Pooky Bear was a mass murderer that I was willing to believe anything he said.

  “Of course I believe you, Aaron. Tell me anything, and I’ll believe it.”

  “Okay,” Aaron said. He took a deep breath. “Try this on for size. I just got back from Beechy Grove Mennonite church. You won’t believe what the grave digger found while digging Sarah’s grave.”

  “What?” I asked calmly.

  “Her mother.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “That isn’t funny, Aaron.”

  He wasn’t smiling. “And I’m not joking. Sarah’s gravesite is in the family plot, which, as you can imagine, has gotten rather full over the years. Anyway, the guys digging Sarah’s grave hit something only three feet down. I hate to say this, but those guys aren’t too bright. At first they thought it was cow bones—because they weren’t in a coffin, or even a box. Then one of the guys found the skull. Definitely human.”

  I squatted to blow the dust and hay away from the edge of Pops’s pit. Then I sat down.

  “What makes you think it was your Aunt Rebecca? Like you said, the plot is getting full. It may be someone else they uncovered. Maybe a headstone is missing.”

  Aaron sat down beside me, sharing the place I had cleared. “Well, I suppose we can’t be one hundred percent sure that it is Auntie Rebecca until they compare dental records or something, but I’m sure.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Pops is sure.”

  I turned and glanced up at my father-in-law-to-be. Why on earth would my Pooky Bear take the word of an old goat who had defied his religion and built a secret wine cellar in his barn? The fact that the old goat was his father didn’t count. My father told me that he had once seen a large disk—about half the size of a football field—hover over our north pasture, and I hadn’t believed him. Come to think of it, Papa and Aaron Senior had been best buddies and seemed to spend a lot of time in this very barn.

  “Why are you so sure, Pops?” I asked gently.

  Pops joined us, sitting on the edge of the little cellar. That left only Uncle Elias standing, not that you could tell it by our relative heights.

  “They found a brace buried with her. I saw it. It was hers.”

  “Your sister wore braces?”

  “Not on her teeth. On her leg. Becca had polio when she was a kid. The doctors said she’d never walk again, but she showed them.’’

  I shook my head in wonder. “I didn’t know her very well, but I never noticed.”

  “She got to where she barely limped,” Pops said. “And she always wore her skirts long.”

  I told Pops how sorry I was that his sister’s death had been confirmed. He appreciated my sentiments, and he seemed to be taking it all pretty well. After all, Becca had disappeared twenty years ago, so Pops had had a chance to adjust to the idea that she was probably dead. But seeing her bones and her brace had to have been awfully hard on him, so I waited as long as I could before voicing what was on my mind.

  At last I took a deep breath. “So, what does this do to the plans for Sarah’s funeral this afternoon?”

  “Ah, that,” my Aaron said. “I’m afraid that depends on Jonas.”

  “What?”

  “Jonas was there, of course. At the cemetery. We called him from the church. He wants to postpone Sarah’s funeral until after the coroner has made a positive ID and Melvin has released the remains. Jonas’s idea is to have a double funeral. Pops told him that we should just leave Auntie Rebecca where she is and have a combination memorial-funeral service this afternoon, but of course that isn’t an option.”

  “Why not?” I wailed.

  He put his arm around me. “Procedures have to be followed. The state has certain requirements for burials.”

  “But why disturb someone after twenty years?”

  “And they don’t need to do any tests on her either,” Pops said, his voice choking. “I know without a doubt that’s my kid sister.”

  Aaron put his other arm around his father. “Don’t worry, Pops. I’ll see to it that this gets settled as quickly and simply as possible. I have a friend in the DA’s office in Harrisburg who owes me a favor from when we were in ‘Nam. He might know someone who can help speed things along. Melvin sure the hell doesn’t.”

  “Melvin couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag if the directions were printed on the inside,” I said charitably.

  “It looks to me like Melvin isn’t the only problem here,” Uncle Elias said quietly. “I think someone ought to talk to Jonas.”

  “I will,” I volunteered.

  My Pooky Bear’s arm squeezed tighter around my shoulders. “Let someone else do it. You’ve got enough to do.”

  “Like what”

  “Like take a bath, for instance.”

  “Why, I never!” I flung Aaron’s arm off and stood u
p.

  “I was just kidding,” he said quickly. “I only meant that since the Hernia jail doesn’t have a bathtub—”

  I was out of there. I don’t think I’d ever been so insulted. I shower every day and use a deodorant- antiperspirant, and I do not smell. Okay, so my overnight stay in jail may have ripened me up a little bit, but not enough for anyone else to notice. I barely had. And how did Aaron know what the bathing facilities were like in the Hernia jail?

  Even though I hoofed it home, I was still fuming when I got to my front drive. I was certainly in no mood to have Auntie Vonnie ambush me from behind a sugar maple.

  “It’s a shame how you let this place get run down, Magdalena.”

  I kept walking.

  “Why, just look at your yard. It’s full of dandelions. My yard in Fox Chapel doesn’t have a single dandelion. My gardener would never permit it. Why don’t you do something about yours?”

  “This is a farm, dear,” I said patiently. “Weeds happen.”

  “And those wild onions—”

  I stopped. “I’m sure you’ve heard the latest news, Auntie Vonnie. Haven’t you?”

  She looked me right in the eye. “Of course I have. Jonas stopped by on his way back into town. What a shame.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. “That’s it? A shame? Two men find the remains of your sister this morning—after twenty years—and all you have to say is it’s a shame? It’s a shame like the dandelions are a shame?”

  “Well, of course I’m devastated. But like you said, it happened twenty years ago. That’s a long time to get used to the idea.”

  “Get used to what?” I nearly shouted. “No one knew for sure what happened until this morning. And we won’t know any of the details until after the investigation. If it was my sister, Susannah—”

  “Investigation. What kind of investigation?”

  “I don’t mean to be unkind, dear,” I said patiently, “but your sister was murdered. I mean, she didn’t dig her own grave, now did she?”

  “Well, you don’t have to be so cruel,” Auntie Vonnie snapped. She stomped off like a draft horse trying to dodge gnats. I hoped she was stamping on dandelions and wild onions, which were indeed becoming an eyesore.

  I went in to barricade myself in my bedroom and run the bath my beloved had badgered me into taking. But before that I stopped by the kitchen to see Freni.

  “How about we serve a wilted dandelion salad for lunch?” I suggested sweetly.

  Freni frowned. “I already made a tossed salad with that iceberg lettuce the English like so well.”

  “Well, it was just a thought. Anyway, the aunties have become so citified that they’ve probably forgotten how good a wilted dandelion salad can taste. Chances are they wouldn’t like it.”

  Freni brightened. “On the other hand, those new zippered storage bags you bought will keep the lettuce fresh for days. And it’s best to eat dandelion greens as early in the season as possible. I’ll see what I can do.”

  I went happily to my bath.

  True, showers are more hygienic than baths are, but the latter are more therapeutic. And since Susannah has enough bath oils and bubble-producing brews to last a harem their collective lifetimes, I borrowed a not-so-subtle fragrance called Midnight Pleasures. If Aaron thought I smelled bad before my bath, just let him get a whiff of me after it.

  To my delight, Midnight Pleasures produced enough bubbles to bury a small city, and I will admit that I had a great time playing in the tub. In fact, not since a babysitter from our church let me and a neighbor boy, Andrew, bathe together when we were five have I had so much fun surrounded by porcelain.

  Unfortunately, Mama came home while Andrew and I were having our bath and read our babysitter the riot act. Two children, of different sexes, bathing in the same water! According to Mama, the gates of hell had all but opened to receive the wicked woman.

  Rumor has it that the poor woman—who still attends my church—was so traumatized by Mama’s tongue-lashing that she has never touched, a tub since, only showers. To this day she can’t look me in the eye without blushing. As for Andrew, thank goodness he’s off living in San Francisco, so I am seldom reminded of that shameful incident.

  At any rate, I was busy sculpting a soap bubble castle when I distinctly heard someone say my name. Being the religious sort, and being alone in my bathtub, I just assumed it was God. Who else would speak to me under those circumstances?

  “Yes, Lord,” I said reverently. Of course I wasn’t frightened. You wouldn’t be either, if you had my background.

  “No need to call me that,” the Lord said. He had a distinctly feminine voice. A familiar voice, in fact.

  I scooped a foam turret aside and gazed with horror upon a face. It belonged to Diane Lefcourt, however, not the Lord. She was wearing a pastel floral dress and virtually no makeup. She looked almost normal.

  “What are you doing here?” I shouted. Then I remembered to cover strategic parts of my chest. The foam enhanced, rather than hid, my meager holdings, but I was too angry to be pleased with the discovery. “So? Who let you in?”

  Diane smiled wickedly. “I worked in a carnival, remember? I could pick my way into Fort Knox if I wanted to, only this time I didn’t need to pick any locks. That old lady with the bonnet did it for me.”

  “Freni?”

  “What that woman can do with a hairpin! She could be rich working the better suburbs of Johnstown.”

  “Freni!”

  “Shhhh! It’s not her fault. I told her I was here on business. That I was a florist here to check on the delivery for your wedding Saturday.”

  “You didn’t! You’re lucky Freni didn’t recognize you. She’s not very fond of you. And how did you know I’m getting married Saturday?”

  “The newspaper, how else? After you left yesterday, I remembered seeing your face somewhere. It’s a bit unusual, you know. Anyway, I dug through a stack of old papers and there you were. Your engagement announcement.”

  “Why are you really here?” I asked. “And speak quickly,” I added. What remained of my foam castle was rapidly deteriorating.

  “I came for the funeral. Sarah’s. I came early, to see you, because we need to talk.”

  “I don’t understand, dear,” I said. “Yesterday you told me that Becca was alive and in Harrisburg. Why would you come to her funeral?”

  Diane Lefcourt’s bottom lip began to quiver. “Of course I lied about Rebecca being in Harrisburg. I knew she couldn’t be alive—not after all these years. Not without getting in touch with me. I told you she was in Harrisburg because I hoped you would go there looking for her. You see, I didn’t trust you, and I wanted to throw you off the scent.”

  “What scent?” I had become particularly sensitive to that word.

  “I didn’t want you interfering in my business.”

  “I don’t conjure up spirits,” I said drily.

  She shook her head vigorously. “Not that. The business of revenge.”

  “I don’t do revenge either, dear. Please get to the point.”

  “I loved Becca Weaver. Like a sister. When I read in the paper that little Sarah had been found, I knew he would be here. To cover his tracks, if nothing else.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  She clucked impatiently. “Jonas. Who else?”

  “You think Jonas killed his wife? And then his own daughter?”

  “She wasn’t his,” she said softly.

  “What?”

  “Sarah. She wasn’t Jonas’s. He’s sterile.”

  I didn’t know whether to cover my ears or have her repeat it. “Huh?”

  She repeated it.

  “Who on earth told you such a thing?” I demanded.

  “Becca told me. I said we were like sisters. She told me everything. She told me Jonas shot blanks on account of a bicycle accident when he was a boy.”

  “Now I am confused,” I said.

  “It’s a figure of speech,” she explained. “What m
atters is that he was not little Sarah’s biological father.”

  “My Aaron’s auntie an adulteress?” I moaned.

  “Becca wasn’t the saint everyone thought she was. Or we wouldn’t have been friends.” She laughed.

  “Some things aren’t funny, dear. Well, then, who was Sarah’s father?”

  She shrugged. “Becca never told me.”

  “I thought she told you everything,” I said, perhaps meanly.

  “She was afraid of what Jonas would do to the man if he found out. But I have an idea who the guy is, of course.”

  “Who?”

  She had the nerve to give me a disapproving look. “Aren’t we nosy, Magdalena Yoder?”

  “I am not nosy!” I risked exposing myself by slapping the water with my hand for emphasis.

  “Nosy or not,” Diana said calmly, “I came here to talk about Jonas Weaver. It’ll be a mockery to Becca’s memory if he’s allowed at little Sarah’s funeral.”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard,” I said. I clamped a soapy hand over my mouth.

  “Heard what?”

  “Have a seat.” I pointed to the toilet. “And look the other way while I grab a towel.”

  She laughed but did what she was told.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Magdalena Yoder’s Wedding Feast, from Soup to Nuts

  Auntie Lizzie’s Mushroom and Pea Casserole

  1 pound fresh mushrooms

  2 tablespoons butter

  1 8-ounce box frozen green peas, thawed

  1 can cream of celery soup

  ¾ cup milk

  1/8 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

  2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese

  salt and pepper to taste

  ½ cup crushed potato chips

  Wash and slice mushrooms. Saute in butter until lightly tender. Stir in peas and continue to cook for two minutes. Blend remaining ingredients (except for potato chips) and combine with mushrooms and peas. Pour mixture into well-greased baking dish. Sprinkle with potato chip crumbs. Bake 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

  Serves 4-6.