Gruel and Unusual Punishment

by Tamar Myers

  "Sit," Agnes directed.

  I picked the seat with the least amount of bird droppings, and gave it a thorough scrubbing with a twig before plunking my bony bottom down. Agnes sat without so much as a downward glance. She placed the mahogany tray beside her and poured the lemonade.

  I thanked her for my glass, but stopped just short of putting it to my lips. There were enough cat hairs floating on the surface to make a fur coat. A small coat, mind you, but still, a festive one of many colors.

  "Cookie?" she asked.

  I chose what appeared to be a furless cookie. One bite, however, had me pulling hair from between my teeth.

  "Is anything the matter?" she asked.

  "Nothing, dear. I just hadn't planned to floss again until bedtime."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Nice place you have here." Changing the subject with a compliment is a surefire dodge.

  She took a long draft of her lemonade. "Daddy built this arbor for Mama for their first wedding anniversary. Mama planted the grapes herself. Every summer this thing used to be covered with fruit, but not anymore. It's gotten too shady." She giggled. "It's cozy though, don't you think?"

  "Until Tarzan gets back. Then it will be crowded."

  She giggled again. "You're funny. What did you say your name was again?"

  "Magdalena Yoder. I own the PennDutch Inn in Hernia. Surely you've heard of me."

  "I'm afraid not. Where is this inn?"

  "Hernia," I snapped. "I just told you that."

  "Ah, yes. Hernia. I think my parents may have taken me there as a young girl. Isn't that where the chocolate factory is?"

  "That's Hershey! This is Hernia. We're named after a rupture."

  "Oh, dear. I don't think my parents took me there. Daddy particularly loved chocolate—Mama was partial to butterscotch cremes—but neither of them cared for ruptures."

  "Never mind your parents," I cried. "You took yourself to Hernia just last week."

  She looked genuinely surprised. "Why ever would I do that?"

  "To visit Clarence Webber."

  She blinked. "I don't believe I know anyone by that name."

  "Oh, but you do."

  "I do?"

  "You bet your bippy you do. Now stop playing games with me, Miss Schlabach, and tell me about your visit to Clarence Webber."

  "Clarence Webber," she said slowly, as if trying to put face to name. "I suppose it's possible I know someone by that name. It sounds very familiar. Did I see him in your Hershey?"

  "My Hernia!" I bellowed. "You visited him in the city jail."

  "Jail? You must forgive me, Miss—uh—"

  "Yoder."

  "I have these little lapses of memory, you see."

  "And I'm just a wee bit short of patience, dear." I clapped a bony hand to my mouth. "Oops, silly me. I forgot to mention that I'm here on police business."

  That helped her focus. "Did you say police?"

  "I did indeed, dear. I'm not a policewoman, mind you, but I am acting on behalf of Melvin Stoltzfus, Hernia's Chief of Police. You might say I'm his special assistant." The truth is, I had no official moniker, even though I'd been begging Melvin for a title for years. At the very least, I wanted a badge to pin over my meager bosom. So far all I'd gotten was an official mandate to stick my big nose into places it didn't belong.

  Agnes gulped some more of her drink. "What do the police want with me?"

  "You are aware, aren't you, that Clarence Webber is dead?"

  She looked like the deer I'd once seen, caught in the headlights of my car. It had taken some expensive body work to get that deer removed from the headlights. I fervently prayed Agnes Schlabach would be less trouble.

  "Uh—yes, I think there was something about that in the newspaper."

  "So you do know the man?"

  "Yes," she said softly, "but like I said, what does this have to do with me?"

  "Well, according to the register of visitors, you were a regular. And although the newspaper account doesn't mention it, we have reason to suspect foul play."

  "Oh, dear, it's coming back to me now. Clarence was in jail when I saw him last."

  "Did you take him cookies?" Maybe the coroner had been wrong. A hairball can be just as lethal as arsenic if you ask me.

  Agnes Schlabach took her sweet time answering my question.

  "I don't recall taking him any cookies,” she finally said. "But I did take him something."

  "A flute."

  Again the look of genuine surprise. "How did you know?"

  "Zelda Root, the police officer on duty, made a record of it."

  Agnes fumbled with a cookie. "Well, the flute I brought him wasn't a proper flute. Not like you'd find in a symphony. It was a wooden shepherd's flute. One that I bought in a museum gift shop years ago. In Chicago, I think. Yes, that's it. The Field Museum of Natural History. I had no use for it anymore. I thought it might help Clarence pass the time."

  Funny how her memory was improving by the second. It was time to strike while her iron was still hot. Well, at least warm to the touch.

  "There was a big write-up on you in the paper recently. It said you teach piano." I let my voice rise, turning it into a question.

  "Oh, my, that was some years ago. Reporters always seem to get at least one thing wrong."

  "Truer words were never spoken, dear." I knew exactly what she meant. According to one misguided member of the press— the legitimate press, I might add—I was a sharp-tongued harpy who gouged tourists in my quest for the almighty dollar. Oh, and I wailed a lot. The tabloids were almost as bad. One went so far as to claim that I was the love child of Hitler and a female Martian.

  My hostess took a bite of her cookie. "I once had as many as forty students. Then one by one they started canceling their lessons and—well, this year I had just the one."

  "Clarence Webber?" A sharp-tongued Magdalena would have suggested a correlation between the dropout rate of Agnes's students and the birthrate of her cats.

  "Yes. How did you know?"

  "Just a lucky guess, dear. How did you meet Clarence? Did you advertise?"

  "Oh, no, I would never do something like that!"

  "Don't most piano teachers advertise?"

  "Yes, but for piano students. Not for husbands. I met Clarence at a church potluck.

  "It's funny, you know. When I was a girl I believed in love at first sight, and then when it never happened to me—falling in love, I mean—I slowly became convinced that it was all a myth. Then I met Clarence, and suddenly I was young again."

  "Whoa! Back up a minute. Did you say Clarence was your husband?"

  She took another draft, draining the glass. "Yes, Clarence was my husband—if you can call it that. He was never very faithful."

  "You're telling me!"

  Watery eyes regarded me warily over the empty glass. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  Who was I to break the news that the man under discussion was a bigamist? Or would that be a trigamist? No, I'd be much better off letting the women involved make that connection for themselves. It's human nature to want to kill the bearer of bad news, and I had only a life or two yet to go.

  "Nothing really, dear. I was just being agreeable. Although I will say, I find it pretty strange that just a minute ago you barely remembered the man, and now you tell me he was your husband."

  She poured herself a refill. "I did confess, Miss Yoder, that I have these memory lapses. Senior moments, I think they call them."

  "Senator Strom Thurmond has senior moments, dear. Yours are more like centuries."

  Her response was merely to guzzle more lemonade.

  "You don't seem particularly sad that your husband is dead," I offered.

  She swallowed and shrugged. "You ever make a big mistake, Miss Yoder? Regarding men, I mean?"

  "Well—"

  "Because that's what Clarence was. Nothing but a big mistake. You'd think a woman my
age would know better. But oh no, Agnes

  Shlabach had to fall for the only man at the church potluck who actually brought a dish. Swedish meatballs, they were. Not very good, the truth be told, but that didn't matter. Clarence had this way about him. He was incredibly charming."

  "I know," I grunted. "I sold him my car for thousands of dollars under the Blue Book price. I even threw in a mini-vac and some perfectly good maps."

  She drained her second glass with a loud slurping sound and set it on the tray beside her. "Then you know just how persuasive he could be."

  "You're not the only one to have been snookered by a man, dear."

  "You too?"

  "Not Clarence—not on a personal level. But I was married to the slime on the ooze that clings to the sludge of the bottom of the pond. Turns out he was still married to someone else."

  Her rheumy eyes widened. "Oh, you're that Magdalena Yoder." She glanced around the arbor as if the tiny space might possibly be harboring an eavesdropper. "You're the famous bigamist," she hissed.

  "Look Miss Pot, don't you be calling this kettle black."

  "What on earth is that supposed to mean?"

  "That meant nothing, dear. I suffer from Tourette's syndrome."

  She nodded. "Well, that does explain a lot."

  1 bit my tongue lightly, trying my best to match teeth with existing holes. "Look, dear, can you think of any reason someone would want Clarence dead?"

  "No. I mean, just because a man is unfaithful—well, that's no reason to poison him."

  "Poison? Who said anything about poison, dear?"

  "You did. You even asked if I brought him cookies."

  I tried, but failed, to stop a triumphant smile. "I did ask about the cookies, but I never mentioned the P word."

  She struggled to her feet. "Miss Yoder, I'd like you to leave."

  "But I haven't had my lemonade yet." I blew the cat hair to one side of the glass and took a tiny sip. It tasted so bad, I took a second sip just to make sure I'd gotten the first one right. Perhaps I'd damaged my taste buds with all that tongue-biting I'd been forced to do lately. But if indeed that were the case, it might take three or four sips to get an accurate taste reading. Maybe even five.

  As I—one who likes to keep an open mind—did my little taste test, Agnes Shlabach's expression changed from one of defensiveness to pride. She bent and picked up the half-empty pitcher, ready to give me a refill.

  "It's my mother's secret recipe," she said. "Do you like it?"

  I took a sixth sip—something I was incapable of saying just then—and it hit me. I'd encountered a similar sharp undertaste when I'd unwittingly drank half a pitcher of mimosas while trying to solve a different murder. This stuff, however, was a good deal stronger. Aware that jumping to conclusions is one of my worst faults, I took a seventh sip to confirm my findings.

  "Your secret mother's recipe contains booth."

  "I beg your pardon!"

  I willed myself to concentrate. "I meant to say booze. Your mother's recipe contains alcohol."

  "It most certainly does not!"

  "I'm no expert, mind you, but I'd say gin." That was indeed just a guess. The only thing I know about the various types of alcohol— those champagne mimosas excluded—is that the consumption thereof is tantamount to purchasing a first-class ticket on the train to Hell. Read any Bible to see for yourself.

  Agnes Schlabach recoiled in shock. The sudden movement caused several clumps of yellow-gray hair to slip loose from their underpinnings and cascade down the sides of that narrow head.

  "Gin?" she gasped. "Why, that's for martinis. Mother's recipe calls for the finest vodka."

  "Aha!" I stood. I was able to do it in one try, although I must admit I had a newfound appreciation for day-old colts. "You planned to get me drunk, didn't you?"

  "I did no such thing. I was simply being gracious."

  I waggled a warning finger in her approximate direction. "You're not off the hook, missy. And don't even think about leaving town!" Then, taking great care to maintain as straight a line as possible, I placed one hoof—I mean, foot—in front of the other, squeezed past the blue spruce, and tottered to my car.

  Folks who sneak up on you deserve to be shot—not with bullets, of course, but with acorns. Good slingshots, by the way, are not that hard to make. I know those are strong words coming from a cradle pacifist, but there is nothing worse than being scared out of one's wits in broad daylight.

  I was bending to insert the key into my car door—alas, it doesn't have that automatic gizmo my Beamer had—when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled, keys ready to rake my attacker's face. (I would have led with my purse, which is a bit more benign, but I'd been holding it between my knees and it fell to the street.)

  "Well, well," a male voice said, "look who we have here."

  Fortunately for him, I recognized the man. However, that was just barely in his favor.

  "Aaron!"

  "I thought that was you, Mags. 'Course I wasn't sure at first. I thought what are the odds that I'd be driving down some little side street in Bedford, and the one and only, incomparable, beautiful Magdalena Yoder would just happen to be bending over to unlock her car."

  I would have given all four of my eyeteeth for a snappy rejoinder. "Uh—what are you doing on this street?"

  "My wife—I mean, Lucinda—needed some feminine products in a hurry, and this is the quickest way from the motel to the store. Now tell me what you're doing here."

  Lucinda? Lucinda was a floozy's name if I'd ever heard one. How could someone I once loved have married a Lucinda? While we were dating, if Aaron had as much as hinted that he liked the name Lucinda, I would have dropped him like a hot potato.

  Clearly Lucinda represented the wild side of Aaron Miller, no doubt acquired overseas in the jungles of Asia. I, on the other hand, was the sensible, down-to-earth woman he would have married, had there been no Vietnam war. So in the final analysis, the reason for my angst was LBJ. If Lyndon Baines Johnson had kept his promise to get us out of the war, I would today be Mrs. Aaron Miller, and he would be on his way to the store to buy my feminine products.

  Aaron snapped his fingers. "Hey, a penny for your thoughts."

  "I wasn't thinking anything."

  "Yes, you were. Your pretty blue eyes looked like marbles."

  "I was lost in thought," I wailed, "and it was unfamiliar territory. So give me a break."

  He grinned, displaying teeth so white they'd blind polar bears. "You look stressed."

  "I am."

  "Well, sorry about what just happened."

  "That's okay." It's impossible to look at the man and stay angry. "But someone your age should know better than to sneak up on people."

  "Sorry about that too, but I meant what just happened with Alison. I'm sure it was just a matter of her acting out because of the move. You know, new place, new faces, it's got to be a little upsetting."

  The hair on my arms was standing up at that moment. If the hair on my head hadn't been secured into a tight, modest bun, it might well have stood on end too.

  "What just happened with Alison?"

  The broad, handsome brow puckered. "Didn't Freni track you down?"

  "What happened?" I shrieked.

  Aaron took a step back. "Maybe you better get back to the inn, Magdalena."

  13

  Scientists claim to have exceeded the speed of light in laboratory tests. This raises the interesting question of whether or not the light reached its destination before leaving its starting point. I feel pretty sure that I traveled faster than the speed of light that day, but I know for sure I didn't arrive before I'd left. Had that been the case, I would have put a stop to things before they got so far out of hand.

  I didn't even need to speak to Freni to see what the problem was. Lying on a towel in the middle of my front yard was my new charge, Alison. She was sunbathing. This situation would have been problematic en
ough if the girl had been wearing a conservative one-piece bathing suit. Maybe something with a skirt. Definitely black. After all, most of the people who use Hertzler Road are of the Amish or Mennonite persuasion.

  But Alison was not wearing a sensible suit. The itsy-bitsy, teenie-weenie bikini she sported contained less fabric than one of my handkerchiefs. As for the color, it was the shade known hereabouts (perhaps in part due to my ex-BMW) as "harlot scarlet."

  "Alison," I said sharply. "This is simply not acceptable. Either put something else on, or go back inside."

  She was lying on her stomach, her face turned in my direction. She opened one eye lazily.

  "Hey, you ain't gonna get all bent out of shape too, are ya?"

  "Alison, you heard me. Now get inside."

  She closed the eye. "Make me."

  "No problem, dear." I took a step forward. My intent was to pick her up and throw her over my shoulder like a skinny bag of bikini-wearing potatoes.

  "You lay one hand one me and I'll press charges."

  "What?"

  "Touch me and I'll scream child abuse."

  That stopped me dead in my tracks. "Well, I guess I'll just have to call the police."

  "Go ahead. That crabby little cook of yours already did. And guess what the cop said? She said there ain't nothing illegal about what I'm doing, just as long as I keep my top on." She sighed. "So I put the damn thing back on, even though it's gonna give me a farmer's tan."

  "What?"

  "A farmer's tan. You know, when you can see the strap marks."

  "Farmers don't wear straps—" I slapped myself for getting sidetracked. "You had your top off?"

  She sat up, slowly opened her peepers, and then blinked like a bat when you shine a light in its face. (I don't do a lot of that, mind you; just enough to know.)

  "It wasn't even off all the way. I just had the strings untied. I don't see what the big deal is. God made us naked, didn't He?"

  "Yes, but then just about the very next thing He did was make us clothes. And I mean clothes, dear. Not bikinis."

  "How do you know He didn't make bikinis too? It doesn't say He didn't, does it?"

  "Never mind, I'm not going to argue with you. Just go on into the house."