It may sound crass to you, but Susannah’s wedding proceeded as scheduled. The only one who mourned Johanne Burkholder was Samantha, and thanks to Diana Lefcourt’s generosity, she was safely ensconced at the Retreat of the Fractured Soul. If only Diana had remained there herself.
“Where’s the pastor?” I hissed to Lodema Schrock.
The folding chairs on Elvina’s front lawn were filling up fast. There was less than half an hour remaining in my sister’s single life, and unless somebody got their behind back from a fishing trip to the West Virginia mountains, my sister was going to be married by Yul Brynner in drag.
Lodema clutched her oversized pocketbook protectively to her chest. “I tried, Magdalena, I really did. I left messages at all the fishing camps along the New River and its tributaries. Apparently one of them got through, because the reverend returned my call late last night. Unfortunately, there’s been a lot of rain in those mountains, and a flash flood has left him stranded in a little place called Podunk.”
“Bunk,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
I glanced at the bright blue sky. “When it rains in West Virginia, it generally rains here. Have you ever considered the possibility that your husband’s fish stories are— well, fishy?”
“Why, I never!”
“Which may be why he goes fishing every now and then. It’s none of my business, dear, but you might consider the horizontal mambo now and then. I know it’s boring, and a bit messy, but what’s three minutes out of your life every month or so?” Imagine! Me, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, giving advice on sex!
Lodema gasped indignantly and strode away.
“No need to thank me, dear,” I called to her back. “And don’t worry, I won’t say a word about Lady Marion and her formula number twelve!”
A familiar cackle prompted me to turn.
“Are you being mean spirited again, Magdalena?”
“Old Irma! You’re just the person I wanted to see— well, you and the reverend.”
“Oh, what about?”
“The Butcher, dear.”
Old Irma’s face tightened so dramatically, it was like she had a facelift before my eyes.
“What about him?”
“You knew he was—is—here in Hernia, didn’t you?”
“I did not.”
“Of course you did. It was you who wrote Mr. Montgomery and ratted on Sam, right?”
“Ach, don’t be ridiculous! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I steered Old Irma aside. “A secret for a secret, dear.”
“I know all your secrets, Magdalena, and there isn’t one of them worth repeating.”
“Thanks, dear. But yours are worth repeating.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Not if you fess up to the truth. And if you don’t, I might spread the rumor that Melvin is your illegitimate son.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If I had a son, he’d have to be far older than that.”
I smiled. “Logic seldom interferes with a good rumor.” Old Irma’s faded eyes darted in every direction. Still a good spy, she was wisely cautious.
“Okay, so you know more than you should. Yes, I suspected Strubbly Sam. I always have. But I thought he was Johanne—the two boys looked a lot alike in the old days.”
“But you know Strubbly Sam very well. You know that he’s a changed man. Regardless of which brother he is, he’s not the same man he was in 1942.”
“Yes, I know. But I always felt guilty keeping my suspicions to myself. When I saw that TV interview with Mr. Montgomery, I looked at it as a chance to turn the problem over to someone else.”
“So you washed your hands of Strubbly Sam, just like Pontius Pilate, eh?”
She frowned, and almost a century of wrinkles returned to her face. “Don’t be so hard on me, Magdalena. I didn’t want to die with a guilty conscience.”
“I understand. So, don’t die with one now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the Butcher died last night in the old grist mill, and as for the Scorpion, he’s off in Paraguay someplace making macrame shopping bags for German tourists.”
“I understand.” Her eyes flitted to the left and back to me.
I can be slow on the uptake, so I will admit it took me several more flits before I turned.
“Gabriel!”
He looked incredibly handsome in a hand-tailored Italian suit. “I hope you don’t mind my being here.”
“Mind? Why should I mind?”
“Because I didn’t run down to the mill last night after we heard the crash. I figured there were enough people involved. And anyway, those guests of yours seemed to know exactly what they were doing.”
“Yeah, well, they were men with a mission. And you were a man busy playing games.”
“Am I meant to be offended by that last remark?”
“That’s your call, dear. So, who won the game of Rhythm?”
“I did.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I said, not unkindly.
“Excuse me?”
“If I hadn’t been so distracted I could have beaten the pants off you.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“What? Look, buster—”
“Children!”
I whirled. “Susannah!”
“Am I interrupting something, Mags? Maybe a little romantic tension between you and this gorgeous hunk of a doctor?”
“Susannah!”
“On that note, I think I’ll find myself a seat,” Gabriel said.
“So, Mags,” Susannah finally said—we’d both been watching Gabriel’s buttocks until he disappeared in the crowd—“what do you think of your baby sister?”
“Huh?”
“How do I look?”
What was there to think? My baby sister looked resplendent in her fifteen yards of royal blue silk, which she had draped behind her in the world’s longest train.
“You look gorgeous, dear.”
“And?”
I studied her, and finding nothing much to criticize, allowed my gaze to wonder.
“Susannah!”
Standing right beside her—and with remarkable patience, I might add—was that ratty little dog of hers, Shnookums. I hadn’t noticed the beast before, because he tended to blend in with the train. He too was swaddled in his own blue silk, and in fact, he had his own little train.
“He’s my bridesmaid,” Susannah said proudly.
“But he can’t be your bridesmaid,” I wailed. “He’s a dog! And an ugly, spiteful dog at that.”
Normally these are fighting words, but Susannah was smiling. Old Irma had begun to warble “O Promise Me,” and it was time for the show to begin.
“Ready to give me away?” my baby sister asked.
“And how!” I said.