Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime

by Tamar Myers

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Understand!” Martha shrieked. “You understand? How can you understand? I had a part at first, you know. It wasn’t much of a part, but it was a part. And it wasn’t that bad a part. I mean, I could have done it, and Orlando could have kept his job. But then that Don Manley, that slimy, evil snake from hell, ruined it all for me.”

  “He was an awful man,” I agreed tactfully.

  “He was the devil incarnate! You won’t believe what he asked me to do in that movie.”

  “I believe it,” I said quickly. If it was too much for a Presbyterian to take, I surely didn’t want to hear it.

  ‘‘He deserved to die, Magdalena. God wanted him to die. So it wasn’t my fault, you know.”

  “We all have to die sometime,” I offered.

  “But why does mankind sometimes interfere with what God ordains?” The arm holding the gun began to sag encouragingly.

  “Beats me.”

  The arm snapped back into position. “But it was you, Magdalena, who interfered.”

  “Me?”

  “It was you who snooped and probed, and then eventually found the instrument of divine justice.”

  “Me?” I think I said again, although that might have been just an echo. Stress was beginning to alter reality, even for me.

  “Don’t play dumb, Magdalena. You came out to my house with all your questions. You knew what had happened, but you tried to play games with me.”

  “I knew nothing,” I said honestly.

  “Of course it didn’t take a genius to figure it out, since Susannah and that Darla woman share my build. But dressing up like them that morning was pretty clever, if I may say so myself.”

  “You certainly may,” I said encouragingly.

  Martha smiled, revealing white, even teeth. She might have made a pretty actress at that. “I took advantage of the remnant sale at Fabric World in Bedford. And I didn’t even have to sew a stitch, not with the way those two dress. Like mummies coming unraveled.”

  “Absolutely disgraceful,” I agreed.

  “I had Mose fooled, I can tell you that.”

  “Mose maybe, but not Matilda,” I said foolishly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, dear. You were telling me about your clever masquerade.”

  “Yes, I was. Tell me, Magdalena, how did you figure out I was hiding in your henhouse that day?”

  It was definitely time for me to change the bulb in my brain. So it had been Martha’s grocery list I’d found! “Sam’s parsley is the pits,” I informed her. “If you want fresh parsley, we have oodles out by the back door.”

  Martha didn’t seem grateful for my offer. “You have something of the devil in you too, don’t you, Magdalena? That lunch I made for you should have made you very sick. Sick enough to give up acting, at any rate, and give me the break I deserve.”

  I swallowed reflexively. Fortunately my mouth was empty. “Your lunch was delicious, Martha.”

  “So you kept your acting job, Magdalena, but you weren’t content with that. Oh, no, you had to go looking for the pitchfork. What were you trying to do, Magdalena, destroy me altogether?”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t about to say anything further, on the grounds it would incriminate me.

  “I certainly threw Melvin off by hiding the second pitchfork in the woods, Magdalena. That should have thrown you off too.”

  Martha was definitely off. So far off that she must have left the deep end behind years ago. Perhaps it was a case of the bends that was affecting her brain. Wisely, I said nothing.

  My silence did nothing to placate her. “But now it is my turn to destroy you, Magdalena. Say goodbye, Magdalena. Then say hello to the devil and Don Manley. Or is it the same thing?” She laughed maniacally.

  I tried to act calm, like that time the year before when a man named Billy Dee held a knife to my throat. “You don’t want to kill me, Martha. You don’t want to kill me because you’ll never get away with it. Someone will hear the gun, and even if they don’t, Nurse Dudley knew you were coming in here. Getting shot with a gun in a hospital is not a natural way to die. They’ll put two and two together, Martha.”

  Martha had the nerve to smile. “You always did talk too much, Magdalena. But it’s time to stop talking now. Which side of the head do you prefer?”

  “What?”

  “Or would you rather it was between the eyes?”

  “You’re crazy!” I know that was a stupid thing to say, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “You can comb your hair first if you like, but make it snappy. Orlando expects his dinner on the table at six.” Martha was acting like the photographer at Kmart, only it wasn’t photos she was planning to shoot. It was all so bizarre that it was laughable. I mean, literally. I laughed. If one is going to die, one may as well die laughing.

  “So what’s so funny in here?” The door to my room had swung open and Heather was standing in the doorway in her gown and robe. I’d quite forgotten that she had had a baby.

  “Shut it!” hissed Martha. Presumably she meant the door.

  But Martha’s back was to Heather, and Heather could neither hear her nor see the tiny gun. She advanced nonchalantly toward us. “You guys hear the one about the priest, the rabbi, and the minister who get stuck together in an elevator for three days?”

  “Do tell,” I said.

  Martha, as crazy as she was, had no choice but to slip the pistol back into her purse. She even cooperated by turning halfway around, so she could keep an eye on Heather was well.

  “Well, the three of them get stuck, you see,” said Heather happily, “without any food or water, and—”

  As Heather told the joke, I slipped my hand over the side of the bed and pressed the call button. Given Nurse Dudley’s temperament, help would be forthcoming in an hour or two. Just to be on the safe side, I grabbed the pitcher of water beside my bed and swung it upside Martha’s head. It connected, and Martha, who hadn’t even had a chance to comb her hair first, fell backward into my supper tray, spilling lima beans all over the bed and floor. Regrettably, I never did hear the punch line to Heather’s joke.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “All’s well that ends well,” said Doc Shafer, glaring at Aaron Miller.

  “Some things are far from over,” said Aaron, winking at me.

  Doc drew himself up to his full height, which, at age eighty-three, was undoubtedly a good six inches shorter than it once was. “Some things are best left to the experts, son.”

  Aaron stretched, just enough to flatten his tummy and extend his chest an inch or two. “A wise man knows when it’s time to retire, my pop always says.”

  “Care for a celery stick stuffed with cream cheese?” I shoved the plate under both their noses, but I may as well have been invisible at that point. Strangely, the object of their desire was no longer central to their argument.

  “Retire?” bellowed Doc. “I could whip your butt any day!”

  “Care to step outside, old man?” Aaron was grinning, and I’m sure he didn’t mean it. Still, it was rude of him to egg Doc on that way.

  “Think I’m bluffing, do you?” Doc had begun to jump around like a barefoot kid on a hot pavement, and was swinging his arms in tight little circles.

  “Say, what’s going on here anyway?” demanded Susannah. She had just come on the scene and the yards of fabric she trailed had yet to settle into swirls.

  “I think these two are fighting over me,” I said in all humility.

  “Dream on, Sis,” laughed Susannah.

  “’Fraid she’s right,” panted Doc.

  Turning her back on old Doc, Susannah started batting her false eyelashes at Aaron Miller. “Now, what’s really going on?”

  Aaron didn’t even look at her.

  “Care to walk me over to the food table?” my sister persisted shamelessly.

  Aaron continued to ignore her, but apparently she had given him an idea. “Magdalena, can I bring you a pla
te?”

  “Not so fast, you snot-nosed sidewinder,” snarled Doc. “The lady is with me.”

  “Maybe she is, and maybe she isn’t. How about it, Magdalena, who is your date for the evening?” The twinkling blue eyes challenged me to choose him.

  I could feel myself blushing. This was supposed to be a cast and crew party for Reels and Runs Productions, not a stag fight. How Doc and Aaron managed to wrangle invitations was beyond me. But probably not beyond Freni. That woman is controlling enough to be a Democrat, but at the same time as devious as any Republican you could hope to meet. It was now September, but still very hot. Perhaps it was all the heat collecting under her bonnet, but that brain of hers had cooked up what looked to me like a matchmaking scheme. The trouble was, I just wasn’t in the mood to be matched.

  I hate to say it, but it was a relief when Steven sidled over and cheekily slipped an arm around my shoulders. “You’re quite a hero, Yoder.”

  “Bug off, Bugsy,” I said. It was nice, though, to know that my efforts in apprehending Don Manley’s killer were appreciated.

  “Art called from L.A. this morning. He’s started the editing, and he says it looks great already. He thinks it stands a chance of being nominated for an Academy Award.”

  “For best supporting actress?” I asked sincerely.

  Steven smiled, but deflected. “And Art says he’s finally come up with a title.”

  “Yes?”

  "The Sins of Freni Hostetler. What do you think of that?”

  “I think it’s a good thing Art’s in California, and that it’s against Freni’s principles to fly.”

  Steven stifled a yawn. “Oh, and Art said to tell you he’d like you to read for a part in his next film.”

  “Is Mel Gibson going to be in that one?” I’d seen a commercial for one following a Green Acres episode the night before. I am ashamed to say this, but Mel Gibson is capable of making me think impure thoughts.

  “Sorry, no. But Tom Cruise is,” soothed Steven.

  “Forget it, then.”

  “Why can’t I read for a part,” whined Susannah.

  Steven squeezed me goodbye before slipping his arm around Susannah’s shoulders and squiring her off to talk business.

  Left alone with the two battling titans, I glanced wildly about for an excuse to flee, and found one in the half-empty cut glass punch bowl across the room. “See you later, fellows, I’ve got work to do,” I said as I skedaddled. No telling if they heard me or not.

  In front of the punch table I ran into the Reverend Orlando Sims. I mean literally.

  “I’m very sorry, Miss Yoder,” he said.

  “No problemo,” I said magnanimously. “An ice pack, three aspirin, and a good night’s sleep, and this goose egg on my forehead will only look like a hen’s egg.”

  “Sorry about that too. But that’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean, Reverend Sims, and what are you doing here? This is supposed to be a party for the cast and crew of The Sins of Freni Hosteller. You were neither cast nor crew, Reverend Sims.”

  “Yes, I know. But I’m not here for the party. I came to tell you how sorry I am about the things Martha did, and tried to do.”

  Only fools and masochists hang on to grudges, Mama used to say. Since I was only one, but not both, I decided to give forgiveness a shot. “No sweat,” I said, mimicking Susannah’s slang. “You want to chill out here for a while?”

  Reverend Sims looked vastly relieved. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve got to get home and finish up my sermon for tomorrow morning. It’s all about forgiving. I’d like to use you as a shining example, if you don’t mind?”

  “Use away.” Mama, did you hear that? That should cancel out a couple of your spins, shouldn’t it?

  “Maybe you’d like to stop by our church tomorrow and hear the sermon yourself. Who knows, you might even like it so much that you’ll consider switching denominations.”

  The nerve of some people! Even if he was joking, it was in unforgivably bad taste. Especially with Susannah present as a reminder. The man deserved to be defrocked and deflocked. “That will be $26.95,” I said with admirable restraint.”

  Reverend Sims blinked his noncomprehension. “What for?”

  “For a new pitchfork, that’s what.”

  I cleaned up after the party by myself. One of Mama’s rules, which I will always buy into, is that one should never go to bed or take a trip when one’s house is messy. Although Mama’s primary concern was that unexpected company (i.e. burglars) should be spared having to view our untidiness, I think there really is an underpinning of wisdom to this dictum. Dirty dishes left overnight, or longer, are all that much harder to clean. And isn’t it so much nicer to come home from a journey and not face a mountain of work? Besides which, it is much easier to tell if you’ve been robbed when your house was in order to begin with.

  It was almost two A.M. when I staggered outside to catch a few breaths of night air before going to bed. In my right hand I carried half a peanut butter apple cake, and in my left hand a quart of milk. I am a firm believer in never going to bed hungry. To do so only insures that one will be ravenous the next morning and start the day off by overeating. Even wild animals know that, which is why they always nap after eating. And how many fat wild animals do you know?

  Just as I was bringing the first loaded forkful to my mouth, I heard a sound on the porch behind me. Honestly, I wasn’t frightened. I immediately thought of raccoons. Hernia and environs is a very safe place to live as long as you keep your mouth shut and mind your own business. So what did I have to worry about?

  “Scared you, didn’t I?”

  I whirled to face the speaker, taking care not to spill my milk or drop the cake from my fork. Even in the shadows I could see Aaron’s blue eyes twinkling. “What are you, a spy?”

  He laughed. “Nope. Spies sneak around. I’m not sneaking anywhere. As a matter of fact, I haven’t even left yet.”

  “The last guest left over an hour ago,” I reminded him. “And, as I recall, you left before that.”

  “Nope. I got as far as this porch and decided it was as far as I was going to go until I had a chance to speak to you.”

  “Then why didn’t you knock or ring the bell? I’ve been up the whole time—putting things away and washing dishes.”

  “And singing.”

  My face stung, just as surely as if I’d been slapped. Singing is an intensely personal activity for me. Even Cod has agreed not to listen. “Aaron Miller, you are the rudest man I’ve ever met,” I said, perhaps raising my voice just a little. I would have thrown the milk at him, but it was all I had, and it went so well with the cake.

  Aaron had the audacity to laugh again.

  “Just go home!” I ordered.

  "Don’t you even want to know what it is I wanted to talk to you about?”

  "Absolutely not. I’m not in the least bit curious.” Okay, so it was a white lie. But it was two in the morning, and my usual bedtime is ten.

  Aaron approached until he was scarcely an arm’s length away. “Well, I’ll tell you anyway, Magdalena. I wanted to ask you out on a date.”

  When your mouth hangs open at night, it is mosquitoes you catch, not flies. “A date?”

  “Yeah, a real date. Like in high school. Well, like dates were back when we were in high school, anyway.”

  I set the cake and milk carefully down on the porch railing. When your hands are empty, the shaking is less noticeable. “Well, it is an interesting idea, Aaron. But why didn’t you ask me out when we were in high school?”

  For just a second or two the blue eyes stopped twinkling. “Because I was a fool, I guess.”

  “You got that right.”

  The blue eyes started to dance again. “So, now that we at least agree on something, what do you say about accepting my invitation?”

  I pretended to think about it. After what I hoped seemed like an interminable length of time, I gave him my answer. Then I generously shar
ed my milk and cake. Again we both agreed on something. The peanut butter apple cake was the best we’d ever eaten.

  Oh, for the record, the answer was yes.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  My Own Version Of Peanut Butter Apple Cake

  Makes 8 servings

  ½ cup softened butter

  1 cup brown sugar

  ¾ cup chunky peanut butter

  1 egg

  1 cup chunk style applesauce

  1½ cups sifted flour

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon nutmeg

  ¼ teaspoon ground cloves

  CREAM TOGETHER the butter, sugar, and peanut butter. Beat in the egg. Stir in the applesauce. Sift the remaining dry ingredients together and slowly stir them into the batter. Mix well. Liberally grease and flour an eight-inch-square pan. Pour the batter into the pan and bake at 350 degrees until done (about 40 to 45 minutes). The cake is done when a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool before attempting to remove from the pan.

  Even better when eaten with someone you love.

  Discover Tamar Myers

  An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes Series (PennDutch)

  Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth

  Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Crime

  No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk

  Just Plain Pickled to Death

  Between a Wok and a Hard Place

  Eat, Drink, and Be Wary

  The Hand that Rocks the Ladle

  The Crepes of Wrath

  Gruel and Unusual Punishment

  Custard’s Last Stand