Puddin' on the Blitz

by Tamar Myers

  Gabe laughed. ‘I think it’s time that your mother stopped using euphemisms.’

  Oh, I wish that my daughter’s suspicion had been true.

  EIGHTEEN

  My doctor husband claims that one sleeps better in toe-stubbing darkness. One of the wedding gifts we registered for at Lowes in Monroeville were blackout blinds. Therefore, even though morning had arrived in Hernia, and birds were singing, and our two cows lowing, as they waited to be milked, half of the Yoder-Rosen clan remained somnolent. The other half of the family was in the kitchen doing its thing: the tall skinny one was busy feeding the very short chubby one, but both of them were oblivious to the man watching them.

  ‘Miss Yoder?’

  I dropped the spoon containing cream of rice when I saw the look on Gordon Gaiters’ face. He was whiter than the cereal.

  ‘Mr Gaiters! What’s wrong? You look ill. Shall I call my husband?’

  ‘Yes, please. But it’s not for me; it’s for Miss Conway. I think she might be dead.’

  ‘What?’ Go ahead and blame me, if you will. Call me the most evil woman in the world, more wicked even than Jezebel, but the first thing that I thought of was that, if Gordon Gaiters was correct, finding another corpse in my inn was going to have an effect on my business. Even if Sarah Conway died of natural causes, it would still make a difference. Believe it or not, there are folks out there, ghost-hunters for instance, who seek out places where an unusually large number of people have died. There are even people who desire to sleep in beds where other folks have met untimely deaths! You see? The Devil is at work everywhere. And of course there comes a tipping point when any establishment comes to be seen as so cursed, that no person in their right mind would spend a night there.

  ‘Please, Miss Yoder,’ Gordon Gaiters said. He’d begun to tremble. ‘Call your husband. My wife needs him.’

  I rushed back into our bedroom. ‘Gabe! Wake up!’

  ‘Not now, hon, I have a headache.’

  ‘This is important; Mr Gaiters says his wife needs you.’

  ‘What?’ Gabe sat up, pulling the sheet around him.

  ‘He sounds confused. I think he means Miss Conway. Something must have happened to her. You need to go up and check.’

  ‘All right. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.’

  I dashed back into the kitchen to find Gordon Gaiters slumped in a chair, his head buried in his arms on the kitchen table. He was sobbing.

  Meanwhile Little Jacob had taken up his spoon, the one with the fat ceramic handle, and was merrily splashing away in his oatmeal. Although my chubby cherub’s pronunciation was a mite off, nonetheless, it made my shrivelled heart swell with pride.

  ‘Winkle, Winkle, widdle stah,’ he sang, ‘how I wandah how ya ah?’

  Of course, then was not the time to revel in the accomplishment of someone I loved, when it was quite obvious that Gordon Gaiters was distraught over Sarah Conway’s condition – whatever that was. I thought about what I would want a virtual stranger to do, if she found me sobbing on her kitchen table. I’d want her to leave me alone. Even after well-wishers patted me on the back after Mama died and said ‘there, there’, I responded with ‘where, where?’.

  However, there was no way for me to know if Gordon Gaiters was one of those people who swallowed platitudes like vitamins and claimed to thrive on human touch. Well, there was only one way to find out, so I borrowed from the British and stiffened my upper lip. But only metaphorically, mind you, as I didn’t have time to wax my lip, and leave a bit on – either the wax, or the bristles.

  ‘There, there,’ I said, after I touched his shoulder. Believe me, my contact with his shirt took less time than it takes me to test my clothes iron, to see if it’s reached the setting marked ‘cotton’.

  When Gordon Gaiters raised his hoary head, I observed that despite all the audible sobbing that I’d heard, there didn’t appear to be a trace of tears. His eyes weren’t red and puffy. There were no signs that rivulets had trickled down along his nose. As for his nose, I ask you: who sobs vociferously, and then doesn’t have to blow his, or her, nose?

  ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ I said, still taking a page from my British friends.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A cup of tea.’

  ‘No, thank you. But I would like a beer, if you have one.’

  ‘We don’t.’ Yes, I was shocked by his request, but then this was not the time to say so.

  ‘How about some wine then.’

  ‘Mr Gaiters, I’m a Christian. I never touch the stuff.’

  Did I detect a soft snort? ‘Your husband drank some last night. We all had at least a sip, except for you.’

  ‘That’s right. I refuse to even touch the bottle. It’s there in the cabinet above the broom closet. But it’s pushed way in the back, since I don’t allow my guests to climb stepladders, so you’re going to have to wait for my husband to come back to get it for you. May I offer you some coffee instead?’

  The force with which he managed to bring his fist down on the kitchen table was astonishing. The salt and pepper shakers danced, extra teaspoons that I keep in a glass on the table rattled, but worst of all, my precious son screamed in terror. That did it. That ended my brief ministry to the bereaved Gordon Gaiters. I undid the latch on Little Jacob’s highchair, scooped my sodden bundle of joy in my arms, and trod upstairs with him.

  Lest I be judged an unfit mother for hefting a toddler up my admittedly impossibly steep stairs, I must in my own defence point out that I have lived in some version of this house (this one being an exact replica of the original in which I was born) my entire life. I have climbed those stairs a thousand times, sometimes in the dead of night without any illumination, when the house was as dark as Melvin Stoltzfus’ soul. That man, by the way, besides being my biological brother, is Hernia’s most notorious serial killer, one who has tried unsuccessfully to kill me on several occasions. So you see, my feet knew the way up those creaky, crooked steps, and not once did I put my precious baby at risk.

  At any rate, I found the door to Miss Conway’s room wide open. About six feet inside lay the body of Miss Conway, which Gabe was now covering with a sheet, one which he had stripped off the bed. Obviously, the woman was dead.

  ‘Heart attack?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Why did you bring him up?’

  ‘Because Mr Gaiters wants some of your booze, and I won’t get it for him. Now he’s angry.’

  ‘He’s just upset. I don’t blame him. This is pretty ugly; I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Tell me! What is it?’

  ‘Take Little Jacob downstairs, and then come back.’

  ‘You take him, you’re his daddy! I’m not going anywhere.’

  Gabe stood. ‘Mags, I’m not sure you can handle this.’

  ‘Is that so? Well, did you ever open a barrel of sauerkraut and find a pickled woman inside?’

  ‘Uh – no.’

  ‘Or a man who’d been flattened into a pancake by one of those machines with the giant drum in front? They’re used to smooth out asphalt.’

  ‘No. You win. Here, give me my boy.’

  After Little Jacob was safely in his arms, and they were well clear of the room, I gingerly pulled back the portion of the sheet that covered Miss Conway’s face. I will admit that I felt a few butterflies in my stomach, but what I beheld wasn’t anything nearly as gruesome as an inch-thick man, or a pickled woman. To the best of my recollection, and I say this with all Christian charity, Miss Conway had not sported what one might describe as a ‘kind’ face. In death her features were contorted to such a degree that she resembled a caricature of a snarling albino cat. I state this as one who is very fond of felines, and before I had to give mine up due to Alison’s allergies, I spent a great deal of time stroking my silken pussy, Samantha.

  Dread is the spawn of fear and experience. Sadly, I’d seen far too many corpses in my life not to recognize that this one was the victim of foul play. Sometimes I think
swiftly on my big feet, at other times I take more time to sort through my options and consider the consequences. On this occasion, I did far too much of the latter. That was my first mistake.

  ‘Cool beans,’ a disembodied voice said.

  I jumped. ‘Alison! What are you doing here? How did your father let you up here?’

  ‘He’s changing Little Jacob’s diaper. That kid’s a stinker.’

  ‘Go away! You shouldn’t be seeing this.’

  ‘Mom, I can’t un-see what I been seeing for the last umpteen minutes. Ya know, she looks like she’s wearing a Halloween horror mask.’

  ‘Duly noted. But since, by your own admission, you’ve been up here for umpteen minutes, it’s time for you to go back downstairs.’

  ‘Aw, all right. Ya want me to send Dad back up here? I mean, if he’s done changing Little Stinky-Pants and all?’

  ‘No. And tell him not to make any phone calls either, and not to let Mr Gaiters make any calls either. Can I count on you to act as Temporary Assistant Mayor to do this?’

  Alison grinned. ‘Ya bet!’

  I waited until the sound of her racing down my wickedly steep stairs confirmed she was out of earshot before I placed my call. Toy picked up on the first ring, which probably meant that he was bored. Now that we’ve hired a second officer to handle the more mundane things like issuing speeding tickets to horse and buggy drivers, catching raccoons in someone’s attic, and neighbours squabbling over fence placements, Chief Toy gets first crack at the fun stuff.

  ‘Madam Mayor, at your service,’ Toy said cheerily.

  ‘Chief Graham, I might just make your day if you hurry over here. But no siren or lights, please. One of my guests passed during the night, and if I was a betting woman, I’d bet the PennDutch that it was the big M.’

  ‘Menopause?’

  ‘No, but if you don’t see the whites of your eyes in ten minutes, this menopausal Mennonite is going to fire you.’

  ‘Be there in five,’ Toy said and hung up.

  Although I went back downstairs, I opened the front door and stood in it, so that I could both keep a lookout for Toy, as well as an eye on the dining room door. Twice now Alison had displayed a morbid curiosity in grisly deaths, so it was conceivable that she would try to sneak back up to the murder scene behind my back in order to get a second look at the corpse. It occurred to me that my eldest child might grow up to be a pathologist, an embalmer, or worse yet, one of those imbecilic mystery writers whose books contain improbable plots and ridiculous characters.

  But Toy arrived in just three minutes, which meant that he’d risked drawing attention to himself for speeding, or else he hadn’t been at the police station. Now is not the time to nit-pick, Magdalena, I told myself. You used to break the speed limit yourself, until your baby was born; now you’ve convinced yourself that it’s a sin.

  ‘Hey, Magdalena,’ Toy said as he bounded up the front steps. ‘Lead the way.’

  ‘Shh,’ I said. ‘The others are in the kitchen. I want to keep it that way.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Sure thing.’

  ‘I’m warning you, Toy. She’s not a pretty sight. Alison said that her face looks like a Halloween horror mask.’

  ‘Alison saw her?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And Gabe?’

  ‘Yes. He was the first one to go up after Mr Gaiters came down asking for help.’

  ‘What was his demeanour?’

  ‘At first he seemed genuinely distraught. He sounded like he was crying buckets of tears, but the funny thing is, Toy, he didn’t shed a single one. Is it possible to have a good, old-fashioned, boo-hoo session, without turning on the waterworks? A “dry cry”, if you will?’

  ‘Hmm,’ Toy said. ‘I guess that all depends on who’s interpreting the sounds and – what the helmet!’

  ‘Good save, dear,’ I said, as I closed the door to the murder room behind us. ‘I told you it was gruesome. You see that her expression seems as if it was frozen. Her hands too. Some poisons do that.’

  ‘And you know this, how?’ Toy asked.

  ‘Studied up on a few of the more commonly available lethal substances for self-preservation.’

  ‘Magdalena, if you’re afraid for your life, or for your family, then you should shut this business down. It’s not like you need the money.’

  ‘That last bit is true,’ I said. ‘I have been very blessed. But I wasn’t afraid that I, or my family, was in danger of being poisoned – until now, thank you very much. Hithertofore, I was concerned that a guest’s untimely demise might get pinned on me. I thought that if I had a thorough knowledge of lethal poisons, I might be able to exonerate myself by finding the real culprit. In that same vein, I’ve also been studying ballistics.’

  ‘Magdalena,’ Toy said, shaking his head, ‘you’re amazing.’

  ‘I know. Now dear, there is something really important about this case that you should know.’

  ‘I’m sure that there is, Magdalena,’ Toy said. ‘But there is something even more important that I need to tell you.’

  ‘Why, I never!’ I said. ‘I am your boss, young man, and I am older. It could be that my information is more urgent than yours.’

  ‘Well, I doubt that,’ Toy said. ‘You’re going to want to hear what I have to say first. I promise.’

  ‘OK, hit me. Just not literally, of course.’

  Toy looked at his feet. ‘When you called, I was already in the cruiser, and that’s where I took your call.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Sheriff Stodgewiggle was in the car with me when you called. We were comparing notes on a hit-and-run involving a loose cow along Solomon’s Creek, since it marks the border of our jurisdictions. Anyway, when he heard the report of this case, he hopped out of my squad car, and more than likely he followed me back. I was just three minutes away. Or thereabouts.’

  ‘Three minutes, exactly,’ I said, as I ran to the window. Sure enough, there was the sheriff’s car. I gathered my skirts and leaped over Sarah Conway’s prone body in my haste to get to the bedroom door. When I opened the door, it was quite obvious that the potbellied lawman was already inside The PennDutch Inn and hard at work.

  It is no secret in these parts that I am no fan of Sheriff Stodgewiggle, and that the sheriff looks down his bulbous red nose – he is extraordinarily fond of rum – at me for being a female amateur sleuth. Although, it’s possible that what truly sticks in his craw is that I refused to contribute to his political campaign when he attempted unsuccessfully to run for state senator. Yes, I am quite aware that my description of him might seem a tad unkind, but I ask my critics this: is it my fault for stating the truth, or Sheriff Stodgewiggle’s fault for having ‘distillery breath’?

  I closed the bedroom door as quietly as was humanly possible. ‘Toy, do you believe me to be a truthful woman?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Toy winced. ‘I don’t mean that you lie – exactly. But you definitely exaggerate at times to the point that it may as well be a – well, an untruth.’

  ‘A lie. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

  ‘On the other hand, Magdalena, when it comes to self-honesty, you’re miles ahead of everyone else whom I know. Sometimes you don’t even know when to draw the line.’

  I looked away for a second so that I could wipe tears from my eyes. By gumdrops, no one was going to see Magdalena Portulacca Yoder cry, especially not a whippersnapper of a male police chief who was just barely half her age.

  ‘So, Toy,’ I said, ‘would you believe me if I said that I murdered someone?’

  That focused Toy’s attention. ‘No, I would not.’

  ‘What if there were two credible witnesses who claimed to have heard me say: “I’m going to kill you both”?’

  ‘I might believe that they heard you say that, but I still would not believe that you murdered anyone.’ He sighed. ‘Did you say that, Magdalena? Is that what this is about?’


  I sat heavily on the bed. ‘Yes. Last night at dinner. But I didn’t even say it to Sarah Conway – this woman. I screamed it at her boss, the editor of A Woman’s Place.’

  ‘That rag? No kidding? He’s here? My grandma down in Charlestown loves A Woman’s Place.’

  ‘Hey, isn’t your grandmother Episcopalian?’ I said. ‘I thought they were liberal. Didn’t they have a woman bishop once?’

  ‘There are two kinds of Episcopalians, Magdalena: High Church, and Low Church. Here in the States, the High Church ones, like Grandma, tend to disapprove of women clergy and gay marriage, and they love their incense and the little bell that rings during mass at consecration. That’s why the Low Church folks – that’s me – call the High Church folks the Smells and Bells Church.’

  While it might seem odd to some that I spent time conversing about Toy’s grandmother and her church, there was a method to my apparent madness. I was strengthening our bond before I confessed my biggest transgression. Think of it, if you will, in the same way that hostage negotiators try to establish a personal rapport with kidnappers.

  ‘Toy,’ I said, ‘what if I said that I thought that the editor, who is eighty, by the way, was trying to get me to have sex in the old elevator alcove, and let Alison watch, and that I hauled off and slapped the baby Moses out of him?’

  ‘Whoa,’ Toy said. ‘Give me a moment to let me unpack that question.’

  ‘You better hurry, dear, because I think I hear voices getting closer. As in people coming up the stairs.’

  Toy grinned. ‘Personally, I’d say that the old coot had it coming. But what does slapping the “baby Moses” out of someone mean?’

  ‘It’s just an expression Gabe says, instead of saying “slapping the b’Je” – I won’t say it because it’s sacrilegious.’

  ‘I got it.’

  The door opened, and Sheriff Stodgewiggle entered, preceded by two of his three chins. ‘Well, well,’ he said, in his usual pompous tone, ‘another delightful chapter of Death Dines at The PennDutch Inn?’

  ‘No, sir,’ I said, and without a trace of sarcasm.