by Tamar Myers
He made the same face I made once when served escargot. "Zee man vas a Philistine!"
"Oh no, dear, I don't think he's from the Middle East."
He shook his head. "I mean he vaz a barbarian. He drove a red BMW, yes? But I have dem over to dinner at my house, and I serve dem filet mignon. Zees man—zees Philistine—he ask for A-l steak sauce!"
"I prefer a good ketchup, myself."
Paul dropped the scissors so he could clap his cheeks. Unfortunately the scissors landed point down. There followed a string of invectives in a dozen different languages, none of which I recognized as French. Finally, perhaps after concluding he still had the potential to produce a parade of petit Pauls, he returned to the subject at hand.
"Thelda vas a lovesick voman, riest-ce pas? She vanted always to marry this Vermin Stoltzfus—"
"Actually, that's Melvin—never mind. I like your way better. Please continue."
"So, like I vas saying, Thelda marry zees Clarence Vebber to make Vermin jealous. But it not vork, yes? Eet only break Thelda's leettle heart. I say to her before she marry, zees man is no good. Vhy you peek him and not me?" He paused.
"And vhat did she say?" I begged.
"She say eet eez because he make her to feel like very much voman."
"Is that so?"
He nodded vigorously. "So I say to Thelda, 'Vhat am I? Chopped leeber?' Veil, she no can answer."
"Perhaps she didn't understand your question, dear. At any rate, it's a crying shame Zelda thought she had to marry Clarence. I would have thought just flaunting him in Melvin's face would have done the trick—well, except for the fact that Melvin is, and has always been, in love with my sister Susannah. Still, what good did actually marrying him do?"
Paul poked the air with the scissors. "Dis eez vhat I ask, no?"
"Yes?"
"Thelda, she not happy veeth zees question." He sighed. "But, I vill tell you my opinion. You vant to hear it?"
"Absolutely. Spill it, dear."
"Zees Vebber man vas pressuring her, yes? Das vaht I tink. But vhy, I ask myself."
"Vhy, indeed?"
Paul scowled. "Are you making fun of me?"
"Oh, no, dear. At least not intentionally. Please, go on."
He punished by making me wait. I ignored his childish behavior by making faces at myself in the mirror.
"Veil," he finally said, "I tink maybe zees man had money problems, yes?"
"No!"
"Yes, I tink so. I tink maybe he vas in trouble vees zee mub."
"Zee mub? I mean, the mub?"
"Yes. And I tink maybe zee mub vanted to make for him heavy shoes."
I chewed on that for a while. It was almost as tough as overcooked leeber. Eventually, however, even the dimmest of us can see the light if we try hard enough.
"Mob!" I cried, jumping from my faux leather seat. "Organized crime! Is that what you mean?"
"Yes, but of course. Vhat else do you tink?"
"I think we may need to find an interpreter. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's your belief that Clarence Webber married Zelda to get at her money?"
"Yes, now you are cooking with oil."
I sighed. "That's because your theory has run out of gas. Zelda Root is a lowly policewoman. She's so poor she has to borrow from the church mice."
Paul grinned. "Zat is vhat she vants you to tink. Thelda is a very reech voman."
"Don't be ridiculous, dear. I've known her since she was knee- high to a grasshopper. No, make that knee-high to a gnat. She's an orphan like me, but when her parents died they left bupkis. You see, Robert Root was a dreamer and a gambler. He was always investing in companies that went nowhere, like the Mars Mining Corporation or the Trans-Syria-Israel Railway. He even played around in the stock market. I remember, because everyone in Hernia laughed when he bought oodles of shares in this silly new company called Microsoft—oh, my stars! Why, that sneaky Zelda! She even made me pay when she took me out for my birthday."
"You see?" Paul crowed triumphantly. "Zat is vat zees Clarence Vebber vas after."
I plopped the blond tresses back over the remnants of my brown bun. Then I arranged my features in a passable smile.
"What about you, dear? How do I know you weren't after more than just a green card?"
"Oot!" Paul leaped to his feet, punching the air wildly with the scissors. "Get oot of my shop zees minute!"
If the man had been on top of Everest, the ozone would have been in serious trouble. As it was, my poor schnozz came dangerously close to undergoing yet another alteration. I did what the little man asked, and skedaddled.
It was only a hop, skip, and a jump from the House of Hair over to the home of Agnes Schlabach, the woman with thirty-two cats, but I knew better than to visit her in my new persona, even given her so-called senior moments. Let's face it, although my nose had been reshaped, it was hardly smaller. And wearing a wig and a bright blue dress did not disguise the fact that I'm five feet ten inches tall. As for my voice, there's only so much one can do with a cross between Julia Child and nails on a chalkboard. Perhaps if I adopted an accent, like Rue Paul. But which accent?
No, it was much easier, and no doubt much wiser, to beat around the bush. To approach the problem sideways. The bush I decided to circumvent belonged to Virginia Chalk, one of Agnes's next-door neighbors. I'd seen Virginia's name on the mailbox when I'd been to see Agnes the first time, and I was filled with both admiration and horror. I, for one, would not advertise my marital status at the curb- side if I lived in a city, even one the size of Bedford. The world is filled with kooks, some of them very dangerous, and some of them looking specifically for single women. Still, it was nice to see that Miss Chalk did not mind if the world knew she was unattached.
She didn't seem to mind unexpected visitors either. "Come in," she said without any sort of preamble. "You're a welcome interruption."
"I am?"
"Certainly. Writer's block," she said, tapping her head. "It's time I came down out of my creative clouds. When I get back, the scene will either fall into place, or it won't. If it doesn't, it wasn't meant to be."
I stared at my elegant surroundings. "You're a writer?"
Virginia Chalk had a cheery, infectious laugh. "I take it you've never heard of me. That's funny, because most visitors—at least in recent years—tend to be fans."
"Well, I saw your name on the mailbox a couple of days ago. Does that count?"
She laughed again. "Please, have a seat." She pointed to a shellback chair upholstered in pale yellow silk. Without waiting for me, she sat on a similar chair across the room.
I sat. "You know, dear, it's awfully brave of you to have your name out there on the box. Doesn't that make you just a wee bit nervous?"
"Not with Tinkerbell around."
"Who?"
"Just a minute." She got up, went to the back door, and whistled. A second later it sounded like the Hernia High football team was headed my way. I threw my arms over my head and cowered.
Virginia laughed yet again. "This is link. She won't bother you, unless she perceives you as a threat to me. She would have broken down the door if she needed to."
I stole a peek at the largest dog I'd ever seen. With the right traces, you could hitch it to an Amish buggy, and finding a saddle for it would be no problem.
"You sure she doesn't bite?" The beast was panting like a satiated husband, yet slobbering like a teething baby. Perhaps she saw the word "snack" written across my forehead.
"Not unless I give the order."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Not in the least. Tinkerbell is half Doberman, half Great Dane. She's very protective of me—does exactly what I tell her."
"Would you please tell her to go back outside?"
"Sure thing." Virginia herded the monster to the back door and returned to her seat. "Now, where were we?" she asked brightly. "Ah yes. About my name on the mailbox. I have to, you know? There are
two other 'V' Chalks living on this street; a Virgil and a Vance. Neither of them are related, by the way."
"So I guess we have to chalk that up to coincidence," I said wryly.
Virginia Chalk chortled. "So what can I do for you, Miss—uh, I don't believe I ever got your name."
I fished in my purse for a notepad and pen. "My name is Portulacca Miller. I'm a stringer for the Somerset Daily."
"Oh, really? I've never heard of your paper, and I used to live in Somerset."
In for a penny, in for a pound—of guilt, that is. "Well, that's because we're a brand-new paper. This is my first assignment, you know." I sniffed the air conspiratorially. "Anyway, I heard that next door there might be a human-interest story about cats."
"Cats?" She sighed. "I was hoping you weren't one of those petition ladies. Usually you come in pairs."
"I beg your pardon?"
She stood. "We really have nothing further to talk about, Ms. Miller. I've told your group that what Agnes does in the privacy of her own home—or even in the privacy of her yard for that matter—is her own business. I know that some of you think you have the animals' welfare in mind, but like I've told them all a million times"—she paused dramatically—"read my lips. Agnes does not mistreat her cats. They have food and fresh water at all times, and she cleans their litter boxes daily."
I remained seated. That way if lightning struck me, I wouldn't have so far to fall. And while it's true, I do have the gift of gab, it was going to take some fancy and creative tongue-work to salvage this conversation.
"I'm not talking about real cats,” I purred. "I'm talking about Cats, the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. I know it left Broadway a year or two ago, but I'm taking a survey. Do you think there should be a revival?"
Virginia appeared startled by my question. "You're serious?"
I smiled pleasantly. "Well, Mr. Webber has to base these decisions on something."
"In that case, the answer is no."
I pretended to jot down her answer. What I really did was write Virginia's age—not that I knew, mind you, but she looked to be about fifty-five. She was a very attractive woman with large hazel eyes and an abundance of shoulder-length auburn hair, accentuated by a single streak of gray.
"I see," I said. I flashed her another warm smile. "Any idea how your neighbor—uh, Agnes, isn't it—might feel about a revival of the musical?"
Virginia slipped back into the shell chair. "Agnes will be thrilled to know it's even being considered. She saw it over one hundred times."
"Get out!"
"Well, they weren't all on Broadway. She saw it in Philly at least six times. And Pittsburgh—well, I thought she was going to wear out the highway between here and there."
"Of course she took her husband with her, right? I mean, I can't imagine she'd drive all the way to Philly by herself."
The large hazel eyes regarded me with surprise. "You knew she was married?"
I nodded. "I like to do a background check on my subjects first."
"Is that so? I thought you said this was your first assignment."
"Well, it is, for this paper." I pretended to consult some doodles on my pad. "I believe she was married to a Clarence Webber. Am I right?"
"Yes, and it's a shame, if you ask me."
"His death must have been quite a shock for her."
She pushed a lock of hair away from her left eye. "I'm not talking about his death. I meant it was a shame she fell for his brand of malarkey."
"Do tell!"
"Hey," she said, suddenly warming to me, "care for some lunch? I was just about to make myself a bite anyway. How about salami sandwiches and beer? We can dish over that."
I was ravenous, not having eaten a proper breakfast. Gabe's not into bacon and eggs. In fact, he doesn't even keep cereal on hand. While I am fond of bagels and cream cheese (I pass on the lox), I'd grown tired of them lately. Breakfast this morning had been pumpernickel toast and strawberry preserves.
"A salami sandwich would hit the spot." I screwed up the courage to say the four words forbidden in the Rosen house. "White bread and mayo?"
"If you like."
"And you wouldn't happen to have a nice slice of ripe tomato to throw on that, would you?"
"As a matter of fact, I have. You want that beer in a glass?"
I sighed. "I'm afraid I don't drink."
"No problem," she said cheerfully. "Will diet cola do?"
"Sounds wonderful."
She excused herself to prepare our repast, and I set about snooping. This bit of nosiness had nothing to do with Clarence Webber's death, but everything to do with my personality. I just adore learning the details of how other people lead their lives.
For instance, without leaving the yellow shell chair—thanks to an extraordinarily pliable neck—I was able to learn the following about Virginia Chalk. She loved horses as well as dogs (which might explain the horse-size dog), her favorite colors were yellow and rose, she subscribed to Romantic Times, The Ladies' Home Journal, and The Anglican Digest, and in addition to beer and salami sandwiches, she was fond of Hershey's Nuggets. The little gold wrappers were everywhere.
When Virginia returned bearing two wicker trays with our food, it was as if she'd never left the room. In fact, she began talking while still in the kitchen, so I missed the first half of her statement. The second half sounded like "he was a crook."
"I beg your pardon, dear?" I said.
She handed me my tray. "I said, I knew from the moment I met him that he was a crook. I mean, why else would a young, good- looking man like that try and charm his way into—well, let's just say Agnes Schlabach is a bit eccentric."
"The thirty-two cats?"
She settled back in her own shell before answering. "There were thirty-two, but one got out, and was never found."
I gasped. "You don't think it was link, do you?"
"No, but Agnes does. We were friends before that. I mean, really good friends."
I took a bite of my sandwich. The mayo was exquisite.
"But you seem so different."
Virginia shrugged. "Like I said, I'm a writer. I work alone all day, but I like to come up for air every now and then, and Agnes was always there for me to talk to. I really miss her."
"How long has it been? I mean, since the—uh, missing cat incident?"
She took a swig of her beer. "That just happened last Tuesday."
I took a swig of my diet cola to celebrate that good news. "So that means you were still friends with Agnes when she married this crook."
Virginia slammed the beer bottle down on her lap tray, nearly upsetting it. "I tried to stop that marriage, but Agnes wouldn't listen. Even after I told her what I knew."
"And what was that?" I asked breathlessly.
27
"Clarence Webber came on to me first."
"Get out of town!"
The hazel eyes seemed to have crystallized. The woman was definitely serious.
"He appeared one day at the front door—just like you—only he pretended to be a fan. You might think it strange, Portulacca—may I call you Port?"
"By all means, dear. Please, continue."
"Like I said, you might think it strange that a writer—especially one of my renown—would tolerate fans just dropping in, but the truth is most of us have humongous egos. Why else would we expect people to pay us for our thoughts and words? At any rate, I invited him in for a brief chat—Tink was right in the room, by the way—and he immediately started putting the moves on me."
I jiggled pinkies in both ears to make sure they were in proper working order. I wasn't about to miss a word.
"What kind of moves, dear?"
"Well, not physical—not at first. But he was blatantly flirtatious. I had the most beautiful eyes, he said. My hair was like burnished copper—yeech. I wanted to retch. I tried to hustle him out the door, but he was relentless with the come-ons. Finally, just to shut him up, I
agreed to go on a date."
I shuddered. "And then what? Where did you go?"
"Oh, just out to eat, and then to a movie. Some silly date movie—nothing you'd expect a man to suggest, unless he wanted to worm his way into your heart."
"And?"
"Of course he hadn't! But apparently he thought he had. We went out for coffee afterward and he started asking personal questions. The most personal questions you can imagine." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Financial questions."
I clapped my hands to my cheeks, a la Paul Rue. Asking financial questions was unconscionable. Prude that I am, I would rather give my body away than my bank balance. I'm sure most Americans would agree.
"You didn't tell him anything, did you?"
"No, but that didn't stop the questions. How much did I get as an advance? How much could I expect in royalties? Then, when he couldn't get any answers out of me, he started asking questions about Agnes."
"What kind of questions?" I took a large bite of my sandwich. Both it and the conversation were getting juicy.
"Basically the same kind of questions. Financial ones. Said he'd heard rumors that Agnes was an heiress of some sort. Wanted to know if it was true."
"Which of course, it isn't," I said, taking care not to display the masticated mayo mix.
"Oh, but she is."
My mouth fell open. I swallowed hastily when I saw the look on Virginia's face.
"What kind of heiress?"
"Steel."
"The metal?"
Virginia nodded. "The Schlabachs were farmers locally. Not especially well off, but not hurting either. Agnes's mother, however, was from Pittsburgh. Her father was one of the original steel barons. As strange as it might seem, Agnes Schlabach is probably the richest woman in Bedford County."
And here I thought that distinction belonged to me. "Are you sure?" I wailed. "She doesn't look rich to me."
"Exactly. That's the way the old money likes it."
I chewed on that, and my sandwich, for a good long while. "I suppose," I finally said, "that Clarence Webber's sole interest in Agnes was her money."
"Bingo. I told Agnes that, but of course she wouldn't listen. This might surprise you, Port, but some women grow blinders when they think they're falling in love."