by Tamar Myers
Dorcas nodded vigorously, a wiener-sized finger holding the heavy glasses in place. "We found this justice of the peace who lives in this great big old house on top of a hill. It's higher up there, you know, and some of the rhododendrons were still in bloom. The justice of the peace's wife—her name was Bonita—cut a couple flowers and made a really nice bouquet for me. She even served us coffee and doughnuts. Not on paper plates and cups either, but real china—well, maybe it was only ironstone, but it had a really nice pattern. Wisteria, I think. Anyway, when we left, she threw birdseed at us."
"That's nice, dear, but why didn't you just marry here?"
Dorcas flinched. It was only a slight tensing of the muscles, but I could see it plain as day. When you're that big, the smallest movement is magnified.
"Well, Clarence thought it would be romantic if we went somewhere. We stayed in a really nice motel afterward with a view of I-70. It was right next to the new Cracker Barrel too."
"A honeymooner's dream." I wasn't being sarcastic. I spent my own honeymoon, if I may be permitted to call it that, at my inn, which was at that point crowded with oversized relatives of Aaron's who called themselves the Beeftrust. A view of an interstate, without family, would have been delightful. After all, Cracker Barrel has great shopping, comfortable rocking chairs, and aside from Freni's famous chicken and dumplings, the best food on the planet.
Dorcas peeked at me over horn-rims, and finding no smirk on my face, continued. "Even Mama had a good time. She especially likes the breakfast menu at Cracker Barrel."
I gasped. "You took her with you?"
"I couldn't exactly leave her here, could I? Besides, she had her own bed. And as you know, she can't hear anything." Dorcas glanced at a closed door along the short hall to her left, and giggled before continuing. "It isn't like we'd never done it before."
"TMI!" I cried.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Too much information. It's something else I picked up from Susannah."
She nodded, her face suddenly grim. "But still, Magdalena, it wasn't an issue—if you know what I mean. In fact, it hasn't been since—well, ever since I found out I was pregnant."
I didn't know which to do, clap my hands over my ears or start taking notes. Never one to waste space, I withdrew a little green spiral-bound notebook and ballpoint pen from the cup Little Freni used to call home.
"So tell me, dear, how did you meet your late husband?"
More giggles followed yet another glance at the closed door. "At a dance," she whispered needlessly.
"I knew it!"
Freckled furrows framed the bottle-thick lenses. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Dancing. Didn't you know it's the root of all evil?" I was only half kidding.
"I thought that was supposed to be money."
"I'm sure that's a mistranslation, dear. Why, just look at what happened when the daughter of Herodias danced for King Herod. John the Baptist lost his head! You'll find that story, by the way, in the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke."
A smug smile made Dorcas look twelve years old again. "That's true, Magdalena, but in Psalm one hundred forty-nine, verse three, it says, 'Let them praise his name with dancing.'"
I swallowed. I don't normally run across people who know as many scripture verses by heart as I do. Who would have suspected that a gal of mixed ancestry—Presbyterian and Catholic, no less— would know her Bible?
"Okay, dear, but what about Exodus, chapter thirty-two, verse nineteen? 'When Moses approached the camp and saw the calf and the dancing, his anger burned and he threw the tablets out of his hands, breaking them to pieces at the foot of the mountains.' Just think, Dorcas, if it hadn't been for all that sinful gyration, it would be the real Ten Commandments the Supreme Court outlawed in schools."
"Ecclesiastes, three, four," she shot back. " 'A time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.' The dancing you just quoted wasn't at the right time."
There is also a time to keep one's mug firmly shut. Especially if one has met her match.
The smug smile widened until it threatened to split the big gal's head in two. "It was only a square dance in Bedford, Magdalena. It wasn't at all sexy, if that's what you're thinking."
"I only—"
"Besides, I wanted to get pregnant."
"You did?"
"It was my intention from the very beginning. In fact, it was me who first asked Clarence for a dance. Then we went out for some fast food and—well, the burgers weren't the only thing fast that night."
"TMI!" I wailed again.
"Sorry, I keep forgetting. But isn't this how best girlfriends are supposed to talk?"
There is no point, ever, in telling someone that they are not your best friend. Lydia Bontrager dissuaded me of that notion when I was in third grade. For weeks she trotted after me like a little puppy, even giving me her favorite doll. I was flattered, of course, but not so flattered that I didn't turn on her when Catherine Hershberger— the most popular girl in school—asked me to be her best friend. I can still see Lydia's eyes well up with tears when I told her the news. Unfortunately for me, Catherine and her crowd soon found me "icky," leaving me virtually friendless for the rest of the term.
"Just tell me this," I said, shaking my head to clear it of residual guilt, "why did you want a baby so bad?"
Dorcas leaned forward in her chair, and I saw my reflection grow in the huge spectacles until, finally, I had to look away. A distorted view of my mug is not an especially pretty sight.
"Magdalena, why do you insist on being so difficult?"
“Me?"
"You of all people should know why I want a baby."
I set my little green notebook and pen on the bamboo tray with the tea things. "I do?"
"Because I'm lonely, of course. Just like you. But I have a lot of love to give, and—"
"I'm not lonely," I said evenly. "I have a boyfriend."
"Ah yes, that cute Jewish doctor. But Magdalena, is he really your boyfriend, or is this just wishful thinking?"
It was time to change the subject. "Why did you bother visiting Clarence Webber in jail? I mean, you'd already gotten what you wanted from the man, which was his seed, right? And clearly, that's already sprouted."
Dorcas's dissecting grin had shrunk to a small, tight smile. "Right."
"Oh," I said, as light penetrated my thick Yoder skull. "You got more than you bargained for. You fell in love with the man!"
She turned so that she appeared to be studying the painting of Lake Titicaca. "Is that so bad?"
I shook my head. Who was I to condemn another woman for her choice of heartthrobs? Unless, of course, the woman was Susannah and the man in question was that mantis, Melvin Stoltzfus. I hadn't exactly scored a home run with Aaron, had I?
"How often did you visit him?" I asked softly.
"As much as they let me, which was twice a day. Six times altogether."
"Did you ever take him food?"
"I'm a terrible cook. I can barely boil water. Besides, he was getting plenty to eat from your inn."
"And all of it perfectly safe and nutritious," I said quickly. I stood. Dorcas unfolded her lanky frame and stood as well. "Well, I really must be going."
"It was good seeing you again, Magdalena. Maybe we can drive into Bedford together some time and have lunch."
I shrugged.
"Or if it's more convenient, we could just meet there someplace."
I shrugged again.
"How about next Wednesday? I have to take Mama in to the audiologist at eleven. We should be done by noon. You don't mind if Mama joins us, do you? She won't be able to hear a word we say." Her voice had risen an octave. "Oh let's! It will be fun. We can have ourselves another girl talk. Maybe even pick out some baby clothes afterwards."
Since I would rather have a root canal without anesthesia than eat lunch with Dorcas and her mother, I had no choice but to resort t
o a white lie. The Good Lord, I'm sure, understands these things.
"I just remembered I left a pot on the stove," I said, and made a beeline for the front door.
Dorcas tried to block me, but she only coaches sports, she doesn't actually play them. The big gal was no match for me. I was halfway to my car before I realized I'd left my notebook and pen behind.
9
I would have turned around and marched right back to the house, had I anything important written in that little notebook. But it had been blank when I pulled it out for Dorcas, and the few silly comments I'd entered weren't worth the hassle. Instead, I'd bill Melvin sixty-nine cents plus tax for a new one. As for the pen, there were oodles of them waiting for me back at the inn, each with the name of my establishment stamped in gold.
A prudent Magdalena would have headed straight back to the PennDutch, not just to get a new pen, but to check up on things. My guests book by the week, and I had a full house. But most important, now that I was a mom, there was that mite with the motor mouth to monitor. Was she getting along with Freni? Had she, as instructed, washed her face and shed that gruesome jewelry?
Alas, I'm about as prudent as those chocoholics who spend their vacations in Hershey, instead of Hernia, Pennsylvania. I pointed that modest gray Buick toward my next victim's house, although given the area's undulating topography, it was anything but a straight line.
In fact, Emma Kauffman lives at the very top of Buffalo Mountain, one of the highest spots in the county. To get there you follow Route 96 as if going to Bedford, but turn right on Baughman Lane.
For the first mile and a half the road is paved, and the twists and turns are no problem, even for a leadfoot like me. Just past Henry Baughman's house it becomes little more than a dirt track that climbs at an alarming grade. Since we get our fair share of snow and ice hereabouts, I imagine that Ms. Kauffman—a woman I know only by reputation—finds herself stranded from time to time during the winter.
Having already confessed that I did not know the aforementioned woman personally, I will add that it wasn't for lack of trying. Twice before, I'd been up the mountain to see her—one can never have too many rich and famous friends—but had not found her at home. Perhaps she'd been out in the woods getting inspired or, more likely, she'd been hiding from the droves of reporters that descended on—or more correctly, ascended to—her home following an article that appeared in American Artist magazine last year.
The article, I'm told, referred to Emma Kauffman as "this century's most talented landscape painter," and dubbed her "the mother of simplicity." I didn't read the piece, of course; neither did I watch Emma's subsequent interviews on the Today Show and Good Morning America, and a host of other television talk shows. But from what I've been told, Ms. Kauffman handled herself very well—even mentioned Bedford County several times—and managed to cement her position as an artist of national renown.
What makes this story remarkable—because surely there are a number of simple landscape painters—is the fact that Emma Marie Kauffman was born and raised Amish. I don't know all the details—Freni can be remarkably tight-lipped when it comes to her people—but I do know that Emma left the sect approximately twenty years ago, when she was in her early twenties.
I also know that Emma had been officially banned by her church for not following the Ordnung, the Amish code of behavior. The bishop had forbidden her to paint—it was considered too worldly—and she had persisted in secret, hiding her canvases in the hayloft of the family bam. In the end somebody, perhaps a nosy neighbor, ratted her out.
The ban, based on 1 Corinthians, chapter five, verse eleven, meant she was completely excluded from the community until she repented. Even her parents and siblings were forbidden to talk to her. They couldn't even eat at the same table. This pressure was designed to make her cave in, to repent of her sin. But Emma Kauffman undoubtedly had some Yoder blood coursing through her veins, because she stubbornly refused to submit. Critics of Emma would say she had condemned herself to a life of solitude.
As I finally pulled into the clearing in front of the banned woman's log cabin, I felt a sudden wave of guilt. Who was I to interrupt this solitude? If I had forsaken family and friends, even if it was to develop a God-given talent, and had sought refuge atop a mountain, I can assure you I would not take kindly to trespassing strangers. Having left my pacifist traditions behind, I might well take to greeting interlopers with the barrel of a shotgun.
Still, I had only five suspects in the death of Clarence Webber, and the famous, albeit reclusive, Miss Kauffman was one of them. Not only that, but, in my considerable opinion, she was the most likely of the group to have committed murder. After all, a woman who would leave behind everyone she loved in order to pursue a career was capable of anything.
Emma Kauffman obviously possessed a gentler soul than I. She didn't even come out waving a broom, something I have done on several occasions. In fact, she didn't come out at all. Nevertheless, I knew she was there, because of the late-model Ford bearing the vanity plate EMMAK parked in the shade of a towering sycamore.
I turned off the engine and hustled my bustle to the front door. It is important in my job to appear confident, if not competent. Finding no doorbell, I gave the post frame a rap with diamond- hard knuckles. There was no answer. I continued to rap until those babies were sore, but still no answer.
In Hernia and environs, folks with clear consciences don't lock their doors. And trust me, those who do lock doors have something to hide. "Magdalena, open that door!" Mama used to scream with regularity. Now I'm glad she did, because Lodema Schrock, our pastor's wife, has knuckles even harder than mine. And lungs to match. Thanks to Mama, I'm almost immune to the shrieking Schrock. It's when Lodema tries to use a hairpin to jimmy the lock that I get really irritated.
So, you see then, I had no compunctions about trying Emma's door, just as long as I didn't use a hairpin. Fortunately, the knob turned easily.
"Hello," I called. "Miss Kauffman, are you in?"
Again, there was silence, but that didn't necessarily mean I was unwelcome. Perhaps the woman was gravely ill, and was at that very moment praying mightily for help. On the off chance that I was an instrument of the Lord, I stepped across the threshold. Then, because the Good Lord eschews darkness, I opened the blinds that covered the picture window, and switched on a floor lamp.
It was only then that I noticed her sitting on a small sofa that faced the window. I don't mind sharing the fact that this revelation briefly parted me from my size elevens. I may even have vocalized a bit.
"Shame on you!" I cried, just as soon as I was capable of forming words. "I could have had a heart attack."
"Who are you?"
"Who are you?" The woman on the couch was enormous. She must have weighed over three hundred pounds. She was wearing a lime green dress that gapped down the front and had more wrinkles than the city of Sarasota. Instead of shoes, she had on purple thongs. Her mousy brown hair—my exact shade—was completely disheveled, and she wore not a smidgen of makeup. In short, she did not look like a rich and famous artist, even one of Amish derivation.
"Ah," she said with a knowing sigh. "With that attitude, and that nose, you have got to be the infamous Magdalena Yoder."
I didn't know whether to feel insulted or exulted. My nose may be deserving of its own zip code, but it is not the largest in the county. I certainly don't have the most attitude; Freni takes the cake for that. Still, being called "infamous" by a perfect stranger was quite an honor. If indeed the woman was Emma Kauffman, I was flattered to the core.
"You answer first," I said. "After all, you were here first."
"That's because I live here."
"So you are Emma Kauffman!"
1 am.
As much as I despise hand-shaking—all those germs to worry about—I was eager to pump this woman's hand. I've had a lot of celebrities stay at my inn, but none, to my knowledge, have been even distant relatives. Not so
with Emma. I have more Kauffmans in my family tree than there are peaches in Georgia. Although physically we had about as much in common as Jack Spratt and his wife, the odds were that Emma and I had at least four sets of great- great-grandparents in common. Who knows? In some weird genetic twist of fate, Emma and I might actually be sisters. We were, I reckoned, approximately the same age.
Emma must have felt about germs the way I normally do, because she kept her hands buried in the folds of her ample lap. I tried fumbling for one, but she slapped my probing hand away.
"You know," she said, "technically, I could have you arrested for breaking and entering. Maybe even molestation."
" 'Breaking and entering' is such an ugly phrase. Besides, this is police business."
"Do you have a search warrant?" The woman had only the slightest Pennsylvania Dutch accent, much less than that of most Amish women her age. It wasn't until the W in "warrant" that I picked up on it.
"I just came to ask you a few questions, dear. I'm not here to steal one of your precious paintings. Speaking of which, where are they?"
"In my studio."
"May I see them?" I asked, momentarily forgetting my mission.
Emma sighed, and with a great deal of grunting managed to hoist herself out of the sofa. Then, panting with each step, she led me through the darkened house, pausing every now and then to rest or turn on a small table lamp. The artist used annoyingly low- wattage bulbs, but because she moved so slowly, I was still able to get a good gander at the furnishings.
The media had been right to call her the mother of simplicity. Sturdy furniture, bare floors, no wall adornments—if it hadn't been for her lime green dress (which was shockingly sleeveless, by the way) and purple thongs, I could easily have imagined that Emma was a stout Amish woman leading the way.
It was a much larger house than I'd expected, based on its log exterior. Emma led me down a long paneled hallway lined with tightly closed doors. A small frosted globe overhead barely illuminated that portion of the tour, and I briefly entertained fearful thoughts. What if Emma Kauffman wasn't an ex-Amish artist at all, but a eunuch, working for the Sultan of Brunei? What if her plan was to capture me and ship me off to the sultan's harem? It was quite possible, I assure you. I'd read someplace that tall, thin, horsy women with mousy brown hair were all the rage in neighboring Malaysia. Who knows, I might even be made a princess.