Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

  “Well, hasn’t it ever occurred to you that Steven Figaretti might be a hit man for the mob?”

  I would have reached out instinctively and given him a reassuring pat, but my instincts don’t work that way. “You really should try getting a good night’s sleep, dear. From what I hear, you film guys party all night long.”

  Rip withdrew the cloud of fragrant fumes. “You don’t believe it’s possible, do you. But I’m telling you, Miss Yoder, anything is possible in Hollywood.”

  I would have to speak to the night manager at the Holiday Inn. “This isn’t Hollywood, Rip. This is Hernia.”

  “Hernia, Hollywood, what difference does that make? Anyway, they’re both a pain in the butt, if you ask me.”

  “Touche.”

  “Touche—isn’t that Yiddish for butt?”

  I looked up and slipped my stitch when I saw that the voice belonged to Melvin Stoltzfus.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Forget Slick’s theories,” Melvin reminded me for the third time. He had practically dragged me out of the barn and was making me walk with him back to the house. For privacy, he said, but I think it was for a piece of Freni’s pie.

  “I don’t know, Melvin. They make sense to me. Steven Freeman had a lot to gain by Don’s death. Like his job, for instance.”

  I didn’t look at him, but I’m sure at least one of Melvin’s eyes began to roll slowly in its socket. “People don’t kill each other just because they want a better job, Yoder.”

  “Sometimes they kill for a lot less,” I said despite my better judgment. We were passing the six-seater then, and I was trying to figure out if the openings were big enough for me to stuff Melvin through. The pit, I already knew, was deep enough so that the body wouldn’t be detected by the casual user.

  “Is that a threat?” It doesn’t say much for my intelligence if Melvin can read my mind.

  I strained several of my facial muscles working up a smile. “Of course not, dear. What do you think of Rip’s theory that Steven Freeman is a hit man for the mob?”

  I believe Melvin laughed then; it is always so hard to tell for sure. “As usual, I’m one step ahead of you, Yoder. I’ve already been on the horn to Washington. There were no charges against Don Manley. That reporter must have been pulling your leg.”

  “In his dreams.”

  “Slick’s just doing a number on you too, Magdalena. For your information—”

  “For your information, his name is Oilman, not Slick. And since you think I’m guilty, and since you’re so fond of conspiracy theories, what makes you rule out the possibility that Steven Freeman is my co-conspirator?”

  Perhaps quite by coincidence, both of Melvin’s eyes focused on my face. “Because he’s not your type, Yoder.”

  “Well, who is my type, then, and what’s he have to do with Don Manley’s death?”

  Melvin’s eyes cooperated with each other for an unnerving length of time. They must have liked what they saw. “Rumor has it,” he drawled ever so slowly, “that you’ve been seeing this guy from Baltimore.”

  “Jim? But I haven’t even met Jim yet! Melvin, this is crazy!”

  “This Jim guy could be anybody, Magdalena. For all I know—”

  “Which isn’t anything at all, Melvin. Jim is none of your business, and I’ll see him if I want to. As a matter of fact, I plan to meet him tomorrow night. How do you like them apples, Melvin? Now, this conversation is over. Unless you want to arrest me, get off my property!”

  I think Melvin laughed again, but I’m not sure. We were outside, after all, and it was summertime. Those cicadas are liable to start singing any old time. “Look, Yoder, I may not have enough to pull you in on the murder charge just now, but if I wanted to, I could haul you in on two counts of breaking and entering and one count of assault and battery.”

  “Susannah had no right to lock her door, and I didn’t hit her. I merely raised my voice.”

  Melvin had whipped out a notepad and was scribbling furiously. Suddenly he stopped. “That’s not what I mean, Yoder. I’m talking about Norah Hall and Clarissa Biddle. They both claim you forcibly broke into their homes, and Norah Hall claims you pushed and shoved her when she asked you to leave. She even claims to have a witness.”

  “Tell her I’ll plead guilty to the charges if she’ll produce the witness.”

  Melvin wrote that down. “So what they said is true?”

  I accidentally stepped on his toe while we jockeyed for position to climb the back stairs. “Were they the only ones to complain, Melvin?”

  “Maybe. Well, so far, at least. What is it you’re up to, Yoder? I can smell a scheme a mile away.”

  “Those are Freni’s pies, Melvin.”

  But they weren’t. Not even close. Freni had persuaded one of the crew members to drive all the way into Somerset and check out a book on Thai cooking from the public library. What I had smelled were the results of her first efforts.

  “It’s Arthur’s favorite food,” said Freni fiercely. “If the others don’t like it, they can just lump it.”

  “I’m sure it will be just fine,” I heard myself say. I knew I was bushed when I lacked the energy to spar with Freni.

  “Do you know how much straw mushrooms cost a can?”

  I shrugged. “More than they used to?”

  “Well, if there’s no pie, I’m outta here. For now, at any rate,” said Melvin loudly, but he didn’t budge.

  “And lemongrass... whoever heard of such a thing?”

  “Beats me. Who?”

  "Perhaps you’ve got some leftover pie lying around that you wouldn’t mind parting with. After all, it wouldn’t go very well with Thai food, would it?” Melvin was so bold as to peek into the pie saver Freni had out on the counter. It was empty.

  "It doesn’t have to be spicy, you know, but Arthur prefers it that way.”

  "Some like it hot.”

  "Apple pie should always be served warm, with a big slab of American cheese on top.” Melvin had begun to shake the empty pie saver, perhaps in an attempt to ferret out any crumbs.

  “And I had to get unsweetened coconut milk. Can you imagine that?”

  “Only if I close both eyes and try real hard.”

  “Apple is my favorite, but cherry will do in a pinch.” Melvin licked a finger and ran it around the inside of the pie saver.

  Freni and I saw him at the same time, but it was she who reacted first. “Get out of my kitchen, and stay out!” Although only five foot two, Freni had grabbed the much taller and younger Melvin by his belt and collar and was propelling him toward the door.

  “Yoder, you’re still my suspecto numero uno,” Melvin shouted.

  “See ya later, Mel.”

  “Not in my kitchen,” puffed Freni.

  “I’ll be watching you, Yoder. I’ll be on your tail every minute.” Melvin’s voice trailed off as if he had fallen down a deep well, or maybe an outhouse bore, but actually it was only because Freni had thrown him down the steps.

  “God will punish Elvina Stoltzfus for this, mark my words. Imagine raising a son who licks out the pie saver, and not even in his own kitchen,” said Freni after she had caught her breath.

  “Must I?”

  “And such nerve to accuse you of murder! You are innocent, aren’t you, Magdalena?”

  “More so than I would care to admit.”

  Maybe it’s because she is so short, but innuendo always flies above Freni’s head. “Now, take that Arthur Lapata. There is a son any mother would be proud to call her own. Imagine a son like that.”

  “You already have a son, Freni. John. Remember?”

  “Ach, but with that wife, Barbara! What did I do to deserve a daughter-in-law like that?”

  “Barbara is a fine young woman, Freni. She loves John very much, and from what I hear, she is a very hard worker to boot. What is there to complain about?”

  “Magdalena, she’s six feet tall, and she—”

  “Has a mind of her own?”

 
“That she should keep to her herself, if you ask me.”

  “Like you do?”

  “Why, Magdalena Yoder, your mother would turn over in her grave if she heard the way you talk to me.”

  “Leave Mama out of this, Freni.” I may even have spoken crossly, but can you blame me? Mama’s been dead eleven years now, and Freni still tries to manipulate me with guilt by invoking her name. And what for? I was a good daughter, much better than Susannah ever was. I did everything Mama told me to do, and didn’t do any of the things she forbade me to do. Well, except for that one time, and that happened by accident. How was I to know that sitting on a washing machine during the spin cycle could lead to impure thoughts?

  But even after all this time, and with the full knowledge that I was a good and obedient daughter, I feel like I somehow let Mama down. Or will let her down if I just be myself. Of course Susannah doesn’t have this problem. She always let Mama down, and knew it, but Mama didn’t seem to notice. Susannah got away with everything but murder, and both Mama and Papa treated her like their darling little angel. I, on the other hand, couldn’t as much as frown without Mama warning me about the devil creeping into my soul and filling my head with rebellious thoughts—not that there was any room in my head for them and Mama’s injunctions.

  “Sit up, Magdalena. Don’t touch your privates, Magdalena. Stand straight, Magdalena. Don’t touch your privates, Magdalena. Say your prayers, Magdalena. Don’t touch your privates, Magdalena. Scrub behind your ears, Magdalena. Don’t touch your privates, Magdalena. Study harder, Magdalena. Don’t touch your privates, Magdalena.” And the list goes on and on.

  “A penny for your thoughts, Magdalena,” said Freni with surprising gentleness.

  “These will cost you at least a dollar.”

  “How about a taste of Thai soup instead?”

  “Sure, I’m game. What’s it called?”

  “It’s tom yam goonk.” The words rolled of Freni’s Amish tongue as if she’d been born to the language.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Some very strange things, if you ask me. Like fish sauce, which is really just the stuff left over when you decompose a fish in water for a year.”

  “Sounds wonderful. Does it come as a perfume as well?”

  “Now, this version that I made for tonight is what they eat in northern Thailand. It has coconut milk in it. Grab a spoon, Magdalena, and take a taste.”

  I tasted. I even tasted the fish sauce—straight. It had a slightly sweet taste despite the fact that it smelled like a potpourri of rotten eggs and roadkill. “Not bad, Freni, not bad at all,” I said honestly.

  Freni beamed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Doc Shafer’s Recipe For Green-Tomato Pie

  Makes 8 servings

  6 or 7 medium-size firm green tomatoes without blemishes

  (and without wrinkles if you want to peel them)

  2 tablespoons lemon juice

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¾ teaspoon cinnamon

  ¾ cup sugar

  2 tablespoons cornstarch

  Top and bottom pie crusts

  1 tablespoon margarine or butter

  Wash the tomatoes. Peel them if you want, but it’s a lot of trouble and not really necessary. Cut the tomatoes into bite-size pieces. Combine the tomato bits with the next three ingredients in a saucepan. Cook for about fifteen minutes.

  Mix the sugar and cornstarch together and slowly stir it into the tomato mixture. Cook for a few minutes, until the sugar and cornstarch become clear. Add margarine and allow to cool slightly Line a nine-inch pie pan with the bottom crust and pour in the tomato mixture. Put on top crust and seal the edges. Crimp narrow strips of aluminum foil around the edge to prevent it from getting too brown. Poke numerous holes with a fork across the top to allow steam to escape. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes at 425 degrees. Some people like to eat the pie warm, but Doc much prefers it cold.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We shot one scene early Saturday morning, and then Arthur declared a holiday for the rest of the weekend. Susannah went back to bed, of course, but I had far too much on my mind. I had a date that night, after all. My first date in... oh, well, it really doesn’t matter, does it?

  Anyway, Heather, the pregnant girl from the makeup crew, had ever so kindly volunteered to do my hair and makeup—for free.

  ‘‘What’s the catch?” I had asked.

  But according to Heather, there was no catch. “You see,” she said that Saturday as she washed my hair, “you’re kind of like the mother I never had.”

  “She must have been a child bride,” I said, and got shampoo bubbles in my mouth.

  Heather had wonderfully strong fingers. “Actually, she never was a bride. Mom never married, as far as I know, but I heard she slept around a lot. When I was just two years old, a New Zealand soccer team visited our town, and that’s the last I ever saw of her. So, you might say I didn’t even know my mother. But if I had, I would have wanted her to be just like you.”

  I garbled something unspecific.

  ‘‘Now, I know it might not seem like it to you, Miss Yoder, but I’m trying to follow more in your footsteps than my mother’s.”

  “Whan?”

  “Of course I’m not married or anything, I know that, but then, neither are you, are you, Miss Yoder?”

  “Whi—haunh.”

  “But anyway, Miss Yoder, you’re like the mother I never had, and so I’d like to ask you just one teensy, weensy favor.”

  “I don’t coach Lamaze” is what I tried to say, but I’m sure it sounded a lot different.

  “Of course I would understand if you said no.”

  Here it comes, I thought, and braced myself on the rim of the basin.

  “Would you mind awfully being godmother to my little Tina when she’s born?”

  I was really very touched, and sputtered something to that effect. Later on, while Heather was rolling my hair and I could talk properly, I pursued the subject. “You know, of course, Heather, that it is a godmother’s responsibility to see to it that her godchild is raised according to the faith.”

  “Is it? Hand me one of the blue rods, please, Miss Yoder. You have a particularly limp spot back here.”

  “Oh, yes, a godmother sees to it that her godchild goes to Sunday school regularly. And that’s just for starters.”

  “Now hand me a yellow rod, please.”

  “What faith do you belong to, Heather? You do go to church, don’t you?” Then again, given the track record of her family, it seemed doubtful.

  But Heather seemed delighted I had asked. “I belong to the Congregation of Inner Inclination, in North Hollywood. I’ve got some brochures on it, if you’d like to see them.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. We all worship the same God anyway, I always say.”

  Heather dropped the comb she was using. “We of the Congregation of Inner Inclination most certainly do not worship God, Miss Yoder!”

  “Then whom do you worship?”

  “Ourselves, of course. And the Archangel Lucifer.”

  I opened my mouth three or four times to respond, but in the end decided that it was simply no use. If I was going to be godmother to the devil’s own spawn, so be it. I already had the sister from hell. I decided to change the subject. “So why is it that you and Andrea think Steven might have somehow been involved in Don’s murder?” I asked.

  Heather dropped the comb again. “I never said I thought that, did I?”

  “But you do, don’t you? It’s easy to see that the two of you hate his guts.”

  “Steven Freeman is a sh—”

  “Shhh,” I admonished softly, “this is still a Mennonite home.”

  “Steven has always wanted Don’s job. He’s always been jealous as hell. I know that Don came on a little strong for most people—”

  “Like Limburger cheese on a hot day?”

  “Whatever. But deep inside he was a good, honest, and caring man.”

  “A clone
of Khadafi.”

  Heather jerked on a clump of hair hard enough to make my bottom leave the chair seat. “People are always jealous of the people in power. And Don was definitely totally in charge.”

  “I thought Art was.”

  “Ha! That’s because you’re not in the business. Otherwise you would know that Don Manley was the nephew of George P. Manley, the executive producer. It was Don who wrote the script.”

  I decided not to reveal what I knew. “If you can call that a script,” I said carelessly.

  I temporarily left the chair again. “Don was a damn good writer. Maybe a little ahead of his time, but damn good.”

  I took my scalp in my hands. “Okay, so given that everything you say is the gospel truth, I still don’t understand what motive Steven would have for killing Don. I’m sure that Susannah would like to be manager of the PennDutch, but I can’t see her killing me for the job.”

  “I’d watch my back, Miss Yoder.”

  “Come on, people just don’t go around killing other people because they want a job, or their feelings are hurt, or they’re jealous, or—”

  “Why do people kill, Miss Yoder? Why would you kill, Miss Yoder?”

  “I don’t know,” I said quite truthfully. “I can’t think of a single reason why I would kill anyone.”

  “There are those who think it might even have been you who killed Don.”

  ‘“Et tu, Brutus?’”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “It isn’t all that hard to get yourself worked up to the point where you would kill someone.” Heather sounded like she was talking from experience. “Our society has been desensitized to death. I mean, we see many examples of murder every day on TV.”

  “Not on Green Acres, you don’t.”

  “It isn’t hard at all for me to understand why Steven Freeman killed Don. Pardon me, Miss Yoder, but you really should open your eyes more to the world around you.” So saying, Heather tugged on a lock of my hair so hard that if my eyes had been any farther open, they might well have popped out.

  I got a temporary respite from Heather’s fearsome fingers when my bedroom phone rang. That’s my private line, and usually it brings bad news. But, since I had just seen Susannah draped across her bed, I didn’t expect it to be too bad this time. With Mama and Papa dead, and Susannah accounted for, how bad could the news be? “Who is it?”