Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

  “Cream, or lemon?” asked Martha. I could tell she was quite used to pouring tea for the ladies of her church. “Both.”

  Martha made a face. “Won’t that curdle?”

  I smiled patiently. “I won’t be having both at the same time, of course. First I thought I’d have a cup of tea with lemon, and then a cup with cream.” I rather liked my surroundings and planned to dawdle as much as possible. If when I did leave I was a Presbyterian, it was Martha who was going to have to answer to her Maker.

  “So, tell me about this new script, Magdalena. Is it very different from the old one?”

  “Very,” I said quite honestly. “There are no nude bathtub scenes.”

  Martha blushed. Without her makeup it was a dramatic sight. “I’m glad to hear that. That first script was pure trash.”

  “An abomination,” I agreed.

  “More than that. Even allowing for some prurient sexual interest, from a structural point of view it simply had no plot.”

  I sipped rather than commented. Matters of purient sexual interest were beyond my ken.

  “Of course I didn’t believe for a minute that it was a genuine Arthur Lapata script. Even the most provincial ignoramus could tell that.”

  “Of course.”

  “I suppose Mr. Lapata had some stupid contractual arrangement whereby he was forced to direct that piece of illiterate garbage, and that Mr. Manley’s death somehow has changed all that, and he is now free to write and direct what he wants?”

  I hope I didn’t stare too long, although I did read somewhere that staring is a good way to counteract wrinkles. “Yeah, something like that. You seem to know something about the business, Martha.”

  Martha smiled appreciatively and slopped another spoon of whipped cream over my slice of pound cake, which, incidentally, was store-bought. “I was a theater major in college. I had plans, you know.”

  “No. What kind of plans?”

  Martha pointed to a large gilt frame hanging on the wall behind me. “See that?”

  I turned and saw that the frame contained an enlarged black and white photograph of a young woman of about twenty. The woman was draped in feathers and standing between what looked like two cardboard, cut-out palm trees. The disparity between the regality of the gilt frame and the frivolity of the photo was perhaps Martha’s only lapse in taste. “It’s very interesting,” I said tactfully.

  Martha chuckled knowingly. “Oh, I know it’s a mismatch, but it’s my favorite photo and my favorite frame, so what the heck!”

  “It’s a beautiful frame.”

  “Thanks, but it’s the photo I want you to see. That’s my paternal grandmother, Cassandra Hicks. The Cassandra Hicks.”

  “My paternal grandmother was the Elizabeth Yoder.” Martha looked at me with what seemed like renewed interest. “Silent or talkies?”

  “Definitely the talkies.” Honest to goodness, Grandma Yoder could gab up a storm.

  Martha looked at me intently. “How very interesting, Magdalena. It must have been quite a shock to the family.”

  “Not really. It runs in the family.”

  “Exactly! That’s my point. It does run in the family. I always knew I was going to be an actress when I grew up, just like Grandma. People used to say I had the same eyes, the same sort of—well”—she spread her hands to indicate humility—“well, I guess you’d have to call it charisma.”

  “I know what you mean. Susannah has always said that I’m a carbon copy of Grandma Yoder. I used to hate it when she said that, but more and more I take it as a compliment.”

  “Imagine that! I never knew you wanted to be an actress, Magdalena.”

  Maybe I chuckled just a little. “But I don’t. Not really. I said I wanted to be like Grandma Yoder, not that I wanted to be an actress, Martha.”

  “But your grandma was an actress, wasn’t she?”

  Even Grandma would have laughed at that. Grandma Yoder never saw a movie in her life, much less acted in one. Unlike her, I plan to see at least one movie before I die. Come to think of it, I may as well start with the one I’m in.

  “Grandma raised chickens, Martha, when she wasn’t too busy raising children. She never was west of Somerset, or east of Breezewood. But Grandma had moxie, and that’s what I think Susannah means.”

  Martha didn’t offer to refill my teacup when she refilled her own. “Well, Grandma Hicks was an actress, and one of the most famous ones of her day. She was one of only a handful to make the transition from silent to talking pictures. They say—”

  “Is there more cream in the kitchen, Martha?”

  Martha put down her cup and regarded me coldly. “For some of us this isn’t a game, Magdalena.”

  “Well, if you’re out of cream, I suppose a spoonful of whipped cream would do just fine. Cream is cream, isn’t it? Unless this is that nondairy stuff.”

  “It’s real whipped cream, Magdalena.” So saying, she snatched it away before I could reach it, and stood up. “Now, tell me again why you’re here.”

  “Ah, because of the new script,” I remembered to say. “Art is writing a new script, and he is interested in community reaction.”

  “Ah, yes. What is it you want from me? Did you bring a copy of the new script with you?”

  “No, I don’t have a copy with me. But Art wanted me to assure you that this new script is very mainstream— that it reflects family values.” I went on to tell her the basics of the story line.

  “Sounds good,” she said, “but didn’t they already make a move about the Amish? Something with Harrison Ford in it?”

  I confessed that I didn’t go to movies.

  Martha sighed sympathetically. “All of this hullabaloo about the Amish just seems a little strange to me. I don’t suppose Hollywood considers us Presbyterians quaint enough.”

  “Well, I’ll definitely put in a good word with Art,” I lied. If I didn’t pacify her soon, the whipped cream was going to sour.

  “I keep forgetting why you’re here, Magdalena.” Either Martha was a better liar than I, or she had Alzheimer’s. She definitely sounded sincere.

  “I’m here because Art is especially interested in your opinions on the direction the new script is taking.”

  “And why is that?”

  I looked longingly at the whipped cream, which Martha was still holding. “Well, your opinions are especially valid because you’ve read the old script and know what Art was up against.”

  “Sick, vile trash.”

  “Exactly, and of course it was tragic that Don Manley was killed the way he was, but in a way it would have been almost as tragic had he lived. Think what a movie like that would have done to the community.” I meant the Amish-Mennonite community, even if I didn’t say it.

  “You are so right, Magdalena.”

  “So anyway, it’s important to Art that the new script be acceptable to the mainstream elements in this community. If there is anything overtly offensive in it, he is willing to reconsider its inclusion.”

  “So this is still very much a work in progress?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Which means, of course, that he will have to recast it, since there will be new roles?” The whipped cream bobbed seductively just out of my reach.

  “Yes, and no.”

  “Is that like taking both lemon and cream in your tea?”

  “What I mean is, the changes called for recasting, but it has already been done.”

  The whipped cream danced a hasty retreat. “What do you mean, it’s already been cast?”

  I swallowed hard. “Well, the new script has fewer roles than the old one, and Art was able to recast it with the actors the studio already had under contract.”

  “I see. But what about the extras? Are the Biddle sisters still being used?”

  “Well, yes, at least I think so. But they’ll be on screen for only a second or so, and that’s only in a few scenes.”

  The corners of Martha’s mouth began to twitch. “I see. And
how about you, Magdalena? Will you be working as an extra as well?”

  “I hardly think so.”

  “And why is that?” I thought I saw a triumphant gleam in Martha’s eyes. At least the whipped cream bobbed at last into reach.

  “Because I’ve been cast as the lead,” I said carelessly.

  Martha didn’t lay a hand on me, I’ll grant her that, but nonetheless I left shortly afterward. I waited until I got back to the privacy of my own car before I licked the whipped cream off my dress. It had not begun to go sour.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shooting a movie is incredibly boring. It seemed like we spent half our time sitting around and waiting while Art talked to the camera, light, and sound crews. Then, ninety-nine percent of our remaining time was spent sitting around and waiting while minor adjustments were made to the equipment. About one percent of the time was actually spent filming, and no matter what scene was being shot, it had to be filmed over and over again. If it hadn’t been for thoughts of Jim’s impending visit, which teased about at the edges of my mind, I might have died of boredom.

  It has happened, you know—people dying from boredom. I once overheard Mama telling Aunt Pearl that it was during “those times” that she planned all her menus for the week. Aunt Pearl agreed that “those times” were “deathly boring.” And so they must have been, because Aunt Pearl died during one of “those times.” That’s what I overheard Mama telling Aunt Lizzie at the funeral, although neither of them would explain what “those times’’ were, or even why they refused to talk about them.

  Anyway, I can’t say it was a light bulb that lit up in my mind, because it really was just a plain old dollar sign. But I did manage to come up with a way to alleviate the boredom for some of the others, as well as to create a tidy little income for yours truly. I’m talking about quilts, of course.

  Quilting is as synonymous with the Amish as cricket is with the English, but it was the English (in our broader sense of the term) that introduced the fancy designs to my ancestors. Historically, my people used quilts to keep warm, and they were functional, if not attractive. But we had creative and artistic people as well, who were generally forbidden to express themselves in such idolatrous media as painting and sculpting. Then some of our women got it into their heads to incorporate the more innovative and colorful English designs into their otherwise functional quilts. And when the bishops, bless their souls, did not strenuously object, a new and religiously acceptable art form was begun. Today, an expertly crafted, authentic Amish quilt will fetch hundreds of dollars on the tourist market. Even a badly done one is worth a couple of hundred. Trust me, I know.

  Since the inception of the PennDutch Inn, I have kept a quilting frame up in the dining room, with a quilt in progress constantly on display. Guests are welcome, even urged, to try their hand at adding a few stitches. Only rarely do Freni or I have to rip out these efforts. Usually the stitch work is passable, sometimes even very good. As soon as a quilt is completed, I replace it with another one “in progress.” I sell the finished quilts, of course, in gift shops up and down the East Coast. Some of my quilts even end up in Lancaster County shops, but I have promised not to divulge which ones.

  Anyway, nobody complained when I set up a second quilt frame in the barn. In the so-called “down times,” everyone from Rip Oilman to the makeup girls sat down to it and contributed their stitches. I was very pleasantly surprised to discover that a quilt that would normally take me six weeks to hand-stitch, this bunch could do in one long day. Caught off guard, I didn’t have another quilt in progress. So, unbeknownst to Freni, I sneaked over to her place and asked her daughter-in-law, Barbara, to keep me regularly supplied. Barbara was happy to comply; I think less for the money than because she knew Freni would bust a gut if she ever found out. Like any Amish wife, Barbara is one hard-working gal, but up until my quilt proposition, she had never earned any outside money. Freni has, of course, having worked for me for eleven years now. There is more competition between Freni and her daughter-in-law than there is between Honda and Ford, and frankly, I love adding fuel to that fire.

  But around the quilting frame there was never any competition, just gentle gossip in an atmosphere of total relaxation. I know, because I spent some time there getting the neophytes started.

  “You better straighten up those stitches, dear. They look like the tracks of a drunken chicken on a moonless night,” I said gently to Roger, one of the sound technicians.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you, hon”—I nodded kindly to Andrea, the prop manager—“by any chance, did you happen to be Dr. Frankenstein in a previous life? I have varicose veins that are straighter than that.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’ll try and do better.”

  “How’s this, Miss Yoder?” asked that arrogant Rip, shoving his impeccable needlework practically into my face. “Does this pass inspection?”

  I prayed for a charitable tongue, and the Lord heard me. “We think rather highly of ourselves, don’t we? Just remember, pride cometh before the fall.” Mama had used that line on me a number of times, so it had to be acceptable. Still, I wish she had said something different when I won first place in the countywide spelling bee.

  Rip only smiled and looked for his reflection on the head of a straight pin.

  Of course that made me angry. What did he have to be proud of that I didn’t? Perhaps it was because I was annoyed, but the next stitch I took bound a thin layer of my thumb to the quilt. Thanks to Susannah’s influence, I let out a very unmennonite expression.

  Nobody seemed to care much. Perhaps yelps of pain are commonplace in Hollywood. To test my theory, I yelped again.

  Only one person so much as looked my way. “I know how you feel,” said Heather, the pregnant makeup girl.

  “Stick your thumb too, dear?” I asked gratefully.

  “I meant the pain of losing Don.”

  I looked closely at Heather for the first time. It was suddenly obvious that she’d been crying.

  “How’s that, dear?”

  “Don Manley was the sweetest, kindest, gentlest man who ever lived!” She burst into sobs.

  I tugged on the quilt frame and managed to pull it just out of tear range. Even pseudo-authentic Amish quilts don’t generally come with mascara stains.

  “There, there, dear,” I said kindly. “There’s no need to pretend with us. You’re among friends.”

  Despite her size, Heather recoiled with the rapidity of a black snake. “I wasn’t pretending! I loved Don Manley. I’m carrying his baby.”

  “Are you sure?” Andrea asked.

  Heather glared at her through bleary eyes. “I don’t sleep around.”

  “A pity,” Rip said. “You could have done better.” Heather wiped her cheeks and looked at me. “Miss Yoder, I know a lot of people had it in for Don, but they misunderstood him. Don was really a very sensitive, caring man.”

  “Did you know that the Ayatollah writes self-help books,” Rip asked. “The one titled I’m Okay, You’re an Infidel was actually very good.”

  But now that Heather had publicly declared her love for the dead Don, nothing could ruffle her feathers. “Say what you want, but Don was always very nice to me. He always made me feel like a lady,” she said serenely.

  “You too?” Andrea didn’t seem to be joking. Heather’s brown-eyed gaze locked in on Andrea. “Don said you would say that. Well, something like that. He said you would be jealous when you found out about our love.”

  “Even sixth-graders don’t call it that anymore. Sorry to be the one to break the news to you, Heather, but Don loved only himself. That’s all he was capable of loving.”

  Heather stroked her belly blatantly. “The proof is in the pudding,” she said.

  Andrea’s eyes flashed. “Then expect to give birth to eight pounds of Jell-O.”

  “Ladies, ladies,” I interjected. “All this talk of food is making me hungry, and it’s at least another hour until supper. What say we chang
e the subject?”

  “Hear, hear,” said Roger.

  A few minutes later Heather excused herself to go to the bathroom. Almost immediately after that, Andrea left our cozy little group.

  “You don’t suppose they’ve simply taken their fight elsewhere?” I asked out of genuine concern. I had recently had all the bathrooms remodeled. Do you know how much good quality wallpaper costs these days?

  “Chill,” said Rip. “Those two might not like each other very much, but they aren’t about to waste any more energy on each other as long as the true object of their hatred is alive and well, and swaggering about.”

  “Who’s that?”

  Rip pointed with his chin to the other side of the barn, where Art and Steven appeared to be deeply engaged in conversation.

  “You mean Art? But he really is a pussycat when you get to know him.”

  Rip chuckled. “If only you knew. But I don’t mean Art, Miss Yoder. I mean Bugsy. Or Steven, or whoever.”

  “Well, Steven can be a bit much,” I conceded, “but one gets used to him after a while, and then he’s easier to take. Sort of like getting used to the taste of coffee, I guess.”

  “Unless that cup of coffee ran a pitchfork through the man you love,” said Rip evenly.

  “Why would he do that?” I asked.

  “You really are as naive you look, aren’t you, Miss Yoder?”

  “Why, thank you.” I patted my hair. One must accept compliments where one finds them.

  “Steven’s last name is not really Freeman, you know. It’s Figaretti. He changed it when he went out to the coast.”

  “Smart cookie. Figaretti sounds too much like a car.”

  “That’s Ferrari. And that’s not my point.”

  “What is, dear?”

  Rip leaned over close to whisper, and I held my breath. He was wearing enough aftershave to asphyxiate a horse. “Haven’t you heard that Don owed money to the mob?”

  “Yes,” I whispered back. “A nosy reporter mentioned something about that the other day.”

  “Well?”

  I turned my head long enough to gulp some fresh air. “Well, what?”