Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

  When she spotted me sitting there, minding my own business, Susannah swirled to a sudden stop. “How dare you ruin my life, Mags?” she accused.

  I looked up calmly from my reservations list. “What did I do this time?”

  Susannah stomped one of her slender but rather long feet. This act was accompanied by the emission of a sharp, high-pitched bark. Of course, it wasn’t Susannah who barked, but her pitiful excuse for a pooch, Shnookums. I love dogs, but Susannah’s dog doesn’t deserve the name. For one thing, it is smaller than a teacup. Ninety percent of it is bulging, nervous eyes, and the other ten percent is voice box. And somewhere in those figures you have to allow room for the world’s most active sphincter muscle. Susannah carries this yipping, shivering, twelve-ounce creature everywhere she goes, and conceals it in those swirling, billowing clothes. Of course, that isn’t hard—Susannah could conceal a Great Dane in her outfits. Shnookums generally gets to ride in one of Susannah’s half-empty bra cups, however. That is something a Great Dane could never do. Susannah has often threatened to get a second little rat dog to ride in her other cup, to balance the load. Personally, I think an apple or an orange would make a lot more sense.

  Susannah stamped her foot a second time, and Shnookums yelped again. “It isn’t fair!” my sister cried. “The whole town found out about this movie deal before I did. And I’m your flesh and blood!”

  “Don’t remind me,” I said sweetly. “And just where were you when the whole town was finding out?”

  “I had to go to Pittsburgh, Mags. For a job interview.”

  That was certainly news to me. Susannah doesn’t have her own car, and we don’t subscribe to the Pittsburgh papers. “What job? And how did you get there?’’

  “It’s a modeling job. A real modeling job.”

  Mama would have been proud of me. I didn’t laugh. Never mind that Susannah has a body like a punctured air mattress, and is on the shady side of thirty—so shady that even mushrooms don’t grow there. “Well, did you get the job?” I asked charitably.

  Susannah rolled her eyes so far back into her head that if she had a brain she could have seen it. “You’re so provincial, Mags. These things take time. They have to study my portfolio. And then there are callbacks and things.”

  I nodded sympathetically. I knew she hadn’t gotten the job. “Who took you into Pittsburgh?” I asked dangerously.

  “Melvin Stoltzfus,” Susannah said. She said it as a challenge, and I accepted it as such.

  Melvin Stoltzfus has been Susannah’s boyfriend for almost a year now. Rumor has it that Melvin was kicked in the head as teenager while trying to milk a bull. Of course both Melvin and Susannah deny this, but the truth remains that Melvin is so stupid, he once mailed a gallon of ice cream, by parcel post, to his favorite aunt, who lives in Harrisburg.

  Mama and Papa would never have approved of Melvin Stoltzfus, but they’re dead now. They died needlessly in a mishmash of sneakers and pasteurized milk when the car they were driving was squashed between two trucks in the Allegheny Tunnel on the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

  At least my parents, in their wisdom, had seen to it that the farm was left in my name until such time as I deemed Susannah responsible. This, in effect, made me Susannah’s caretaker. It is a position that I hate almost as much as Susannah does. But my sister is a long way from being a responsible adult, and I will not capitulate and throw away my inheritance just to get her off my back. I do recognize, however, that there is very little I can do to speed up her maturation. And in all honesty, I must say that as much as I disapprove of Melvin, I have to admit that Susannah seems faithful to him, which in this day of AIDS is a step in the right direction.

  “Well, at least Melvin found his way back to Hernia,” I said. It wasn’t meant as a criticism. Melvin once took a wrong turn in Bedford and ended up in Albany, New York. I know that none of us is perfect, but you would expect more from the man who is Hernia’s chief of police.

  “Forget Melvin!” snapped Susannah.

  “Gladly.”

  “I mean, why didn’t you tell me a famous Hollywood director was going to be here holding auditions?”

  “You must have talked to Norah before she dragged little Sherri down here. Susannah dear, there was no big Hollywood director here today. The only man from Hollywood here today was an advance man, a location scout. The rest of the team won’t even arrive for another four weeks.”

  “You told Norah six!”

  You see what I mean about Norah Hall? Even after she’d been here, and found only an Amishman, she persisted in spreading rumors about some big-shot director. Now, rumors can often be good for business, but the kind of phone calls this rumor generated didn’t add as much as a penny to my pocket. Even as Susannah was standing there, the most annoying of the calls came in.

  “Hello, PennDutch,” I said somewhat irritably.

  “Magdalena, is that you?”

  It sounded a little like Bette Midler, but then again, I couldn’t be sure. “That depends. Who are you?”

  “This is Martha. You know, Martha Sims, Pastor Sims’s wife.”

  “Then this isn’t Magdalena,” I said, and hung up. Martha Sims has the intelligence of a goldfish, and the personality to match. Since Hernia is such a small town, I know virtually everyone in it, but I would know Martha under any circumstance, because it was her husband, Orlando Sims, who tied the knot between Susannah and her ex-husband. The Simses are Presbyterian, and I have nothing against that, except that it was Susannah marrying a Presbyterian, and then divorcing one, that started my sister on a long and twisted road away from the traditions of her forefathers. Of course, there may have been other factors involved.

  The phone rang again almost the second I hung it up. “This is the PennDutch,” I said as mechanically as I could. “I cannot take your call now because I’m on the—”

  “Magdalena, that is you. Don’t hang up now, Magdalena. It wasn’t Orlando’s fault that your sister’s marriage broke up. Listen, dear, about that producer you’ve got out there, may I speak to him?”

  “It’s the director you want to speak to, not the producer,” I said, “only this one is not a director, but a location scout, and besides which, he isn’t even here.”

  Now, that should have made sense to your average human being, but like I told you, Martha Sims can only look forward to being average. “When will the producer be back?” she asked.

  “A week from Monday, at two forty-five p.m.,” I said helpfully.

  “Thanks,” said Martha sincerely. “Please tell him that I called, and that I’ll be back in touch with him then.”

  “Will do.” I hung up the phone.

  Fifteen phone calls later I unplugged the thing and staggered off to bed. If I’d had any sense at all, I’d have used the phone one more time and called Bugsy to cancel our arrangement. But it was from Melvin Stoltzfus’s paper I had copied that one time I cheated in grammar school. What more can I say?

  Chapter Three

  Four weeks later to the day, Bugsy showed back up on my doorstep.

  “Yes? What is it?” I inquired.

  “It’s me, Yoder, Bugsy. You know, Steven Freeman.”

  I stared hard at the man. Actually, there were three men: one who could possibly have been Bugsy; one who was very tall despite a pronounced stoop; and a short one who was so hairy that he undoubtedly plugged the shower drain with one usage. The guy who vaguely resembled Bugsy did have a whitehead on his nose, but it was now on the other side. None of the men was wearing a gray, shiny suit.

  “Do you have any ID?”

  Steven smiled. He whipped out a driver’s license with a photo that looked more like him than real life. And in that picture he was wearing a gray, shiny suit.

  “Come in,” I said graciously.

  “Yoder, this is Arthur Lapata, the director. The Arthur Lapata.”

  “Is there more than one?” I asked innocently.

  Steven still smiled. “And this is the assistant dire
ctor, Donald Manley.”

  “That’s Don, darling,” said the short, hairy man. He reached out to press the flesh, but I refrained, fearing that my fingers would become hopelessly entangled in his knuckles.

  Steven smirked knowingly. “Well, today’s the big day. Our equipment trucks will be pulling in at any moment, and we’ll start to set up shop. What do you think, Arthur?”

  The Arthur Lapata had been glancing around the lobby, and he looked pretty satisfied to me. The lobby of the PennDutch, along with all its rooms, is decorated with genuine Amish furniture and tools. Grandma Yoder would have laughed at the concept of a ceramic goose with a bow around its neck, and she would have viewed as absolutely idolatrous the little Amish boy and girl figurines that are so popular in gift shops.

  “I don’t know, Art,” said Don, shaking his hoary head, “it looks a little too plain to me.”

  “We are called the ‘plain people,”’ I pointed out quickly.

  Don ignored me. “I think we should have our people kitsch it up a bit. Maybe hang some corn cobs and grape bunches from the ceiling. That kind of thing.”

  “It’s not supposed to be a sukkah,” sniffed Steven.

  Hairy Don ignored him as well. “That’s it, Art, we’ll kitsch up the joint a bit. Give it that kind of Lancaster look. Make it obvious that it’s Amish were dealing with here.”

  He pronounced it AKE-mish, which grates on my nerves something awful. “That’s A-mish,” I said crossly, “and the only kitsch around here is the kitchen.”

  Hairy Don laughed but said nothing. Neither did the Arthur, although I thought I saw him nod at Steven. Whatever their communication, Steven grabbed me roughly by the arm and pulled me rudely aside.

  “Look, Yoder, you’ve got to straighten up your act. These are the big boys you’re playing with. They know their jobs.”

  “But Amish don’t hang corn cobs and grape bunches from their ceilings,” I protested.

  Steven snickered. “They do if Arthur Lapata says so. We’ll put in pink plastic flamingoes, and they’ll be Amish ones, if that’s what Arthur wants.”

  “But you said that I have the power to veto any changes,” I reminded him.

  Steven smirked. “Those were structural changes we agreed to, not decorative changes. Did you read the contract you signed?”

  I confessed that I had not. I had looked at it but not actually read it. The hen prints in my chicken yard would be easier to read.

  “There you have it, then. I suggest you go and read your contract like a good girl.” Steven smiled.

  Boy, did that put a bee in my bonnet! Steven Freeman was half my age, and he had the nerve to call me “girl.” Why, I was a full-grown woman before he was even a gleam in his father’s eye. “Look, buddy-boy,” I said without being too rude, “I am not a girl. I am a woman. I am a woman old enough to be your mother. Is that clear?”

  Steven’s smile soured. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be a problem, Yoder. But if you persist in getting in the way, we’ll simply have to ban you from the set.”

  It was my turn to smirk. “That will be a little hard to do, since part of the deal was that Susannah and I keep our rooms.”

  “Then stay in your rooms. Just stay off the set.”

  I felt myself losing ground. Literally. “What about the screen test you promised me?”

  Steven shrugged. “What about it? It may well be that our casting needs have changed since last time we spoke.”

  I will not be backed into a corner in my own home, especially not by a pipsqueak like Steven Freeman. Instead of tugging on my lapels like Steve had done, I thrust out my certifiably scrawny bosom and drew myself up to my full five feet ten inches. “And you, Mr. Freeman, may find that your transportation needs have changed by tomorrow morning.”

  Steven scoffed. “Like you really scare me, Yoder. We have our own trucks and equipment.”

  It was my turn to smirk. “That road out there is Hertzler Lane. It is not a public road. It was paid for and is maintained by the families that live along it. Eleven families in all.”

  “So? How hard do you think it would be for me to convince just one of those families to cooperate?” Steven began rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

  I smiled. “Well, let’s see. Five of the families are Hertzlers. They’re related to me three times on Papa’s side of the family and one on Mama’s. Two of the families are Speichers. They’re related to me four times on Mama’s side, and twice on Papa’s. Then there’re the Yoders—”

  “There will be an open casting call for extras and minor supporting roles at ten a.m. in the lobby, the day after tomorrow. I hope you can make it.”

  “See you then,” I said brightly.

  Steven strode off without another word.

  I sinned then. It wasn’t lustful thoughts that filled my heart, but thoughts of murder.

  By nine a.m. of casting day there were more than three hundred people lined up in my driveway. A row of cars snaked out to the road and then split like a two-headed serpent down Hertzler Lane in both directions for as far as I could see. That there weren’t any cars actually parked on the lawn was only due to the fact that Susannah and I had chased them off with our pitchfork. Apparently no one in Hernia or Bedford wanted a role in the movie badly enough to get their car scratched for it.

  As for the Big Boys, as I had come to call them, they were probably still sacked out in their motel rooms in Bedford.

  “Undoubtedly they have harlots in their rooms doing unspeakable things,” I said crossly to Susannah.

  “Those are starlets, Mags, not harlots. And don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

  “Mama would turn over in her grave if she heard you talk like that,” I said reproachfully.

  “Mama was a sexual being herself,” said Susannah.

  I clamped my hands over my ears. Partly it was to shut out Susannah’s wicked insinuations, and partly it was to shut out Norah Hall’s complaining voice.

  Norah and little Sherri must have arrived while it was still dark, or perhaps they had even spent the night in my driveway. At any rate, Mose says he saw their car parked there when he came by to do the milking at a quarter to six.

  The second car to show up belonged to Pastor Sims and his wife, Martha. Thankfully, only Martha was in the car. I still owed the pastor a piece of my mind for having married Susannah to that creep of an ex-husband in the first place. Seeing as how it was a mixed marriage—her being a Mennonite and him a Presbyterian—the pastor should have insisted they get counseling. Or at least wait a month or two. Why is it that folks can get married at the drop of a ring, but buying a house takes weeks? Somebody should have done both a credit and a title check on Susannah’s ex. It wasn’t until they were in divorce court that Susannah learned her true love had a former wife and six kids. Not to mention that he owed over a hundred thousand dollars in back alimony and child support. That news upset Susannah so badly that she didn’t date again for at least a week.

  Even with my hands over my ears, I could hear some of the things Norah and Martha were saying.

  “Magdalena lied,” said Martha self-righteously. “She told me the producer wasn’t coming back for six weeks. Why, if I hadn’t seen the audition notice down at Sam Yoder’s Corner Market, I might have missed out on it entirely.”

  Norah threw an accusing look my way. “I didn’t know you had an interest in the performing arts, Martha dear. I mean, aren’t you just a trifle over the hill to be starting out?” She patted her daughter Sherri lovingly on the head, taking care not to mess up the gold foil horns.

  “I am not just getting started,” hissed Martha. “I had the lead role in my senior class play.”

  “Gracious,” said Norah. “How can one remember that far back?”

  “At least I lead my own life, Norah Hall. I don’t have to live vicariously through my children.”

  “That’s because you don’t have any children,” snapped Norah.

  I must admit, I had take
n my hands off my ears by that point. A good fight, if it doesn’t involve you directly, can definitely help the circulation. But unfortunately, just at that point a pair of black limos pulled up, and finding no place to park in the driveway, settled on the lawn. I saw these limos for about ten seconds before my view of them was obliterated by the crowd that had surged around them.

  “Call the police,” I directed Susannah. I wasn’t so much concerned for the occupants of the limo as for the damage to my grass caused by the stampede. A good lawn is like a priceless heirloom, and it must be handled with the greatest of care.

  Susannah obediently did what she was told, undoubtedly hoping to get Melvin Stoltzfus on the line. That left me alone at the front door with the Halls and Martha. Perhaps it was the look in the chubby Hall child’s eyes that made me lose my judgment, but I found myself inviting the three of them in. Despite their intense desire to be cast in the movie, they at least hadn’t swarmed after the limos like the rest of the crowd, but had sensibly maintained their places in line. Orderliness, if not intelligence, must not go unrewarded.

  “Come on in,” I invited them. “But don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you,” I said pointedly to little Sherri. Children, even the best-behaved of them, tend to massage things with their sticky fingers the way a cow placidly chews her cud.

  We had to wait only ten minutes before a beleaguered Bugsy burst into the lobby, followed closely by his superiors.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” shouted Don, the hairy one. “I’ve never seen such a bunch of losers in my life.”

  “Look, buster, I’ll thank you not to swear in my home. And as for those people out there, I think they all want a part in your movie,” I said.

  Don ignored my gentle admonition. “And who the hell are these pathetic people?” he shouted, gesturing wildly at Martha and the Halls.