I limped into the PennDutch at half past seven, thanks to the rock I had stepped on. My plan was to sneak through the back kitchen door, fix myself a sandwich to eat while soaking my foot, and then creep off to bed undetected. I know, I own the inn lock, stock, and barrel, and by rights can sail through the front door at any hour I please, but when the going gets tough, and the tough get going—I’m usually at the tail end of the pack—I find the back door more suitable. It was the door I used as a child. Mama reserved the front door for company, and since her personality, plus a little rock salt, could make a fine ice cream, the front door was hardly ever opened.
Given the hour, I expected the guests to be in their rooms, or perhaps in the parlor reading, or maybe even engaging in polite conversation. I certainly did not expect to find one in the kitchen, chowing down like there was no tomorrow.
“Good gracious,” I said, “that is an extraordinarily large hoagie.” The sandwich in question could have fed a small third world nation, or maybe even a family of five from Ohio.
Darlene Townsend smiled, a ring of raw white onion dangling from her teeth. She scooped it in with a flick of her tongue.
“I guess I’m still a growing girl.”
I frowned. The woman was already too tall for her own good.
“Be careful, dear. Remember what happened to the tower of Babel. The Lord doesn’t like it when folks poke their heads into Heaven uninvited.”
Darlene laughed. “You’re funny, Miss Yoder, you know that?”
“I’m a virtual laugh riot,” I said, and hobbled over to the phone. Gabe’s answering machine picked up on the sixth ring.
“It’s me,” I whispered, mindful of someone else in the room. “Something happened that you aren’t going to believe, and that’s why I didn’t show up on the ridge. Call me when you get in.”
The second I replaced the receiver in its cradle, the phone rang. I grabbed it.
“Gabe?”
“In your dreams.”
“Melvin! Melvin Stoltzfus!”
“That’s my name, Yoder, don’t wear it out. Look, there’s been another development.”
“You’re dropping out of the race?” I couldn’t disguise the hope in my voice. During my long walk home I’d come to the sobering conclusion that I, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, was not going to save the world. So what if Melvin was an egotistical incompetent? Getting to the bottom of Lizzie’s death was his problem, not mine.
“No,” he snarled, “I’m not dropping out of the race. I called to tell you that there’s been a second murder.” “Oh?” It may not have been my problem anymore, but it was definitely getting more interesting.
“She was hit by a car. There was a witness.”
“Who was hit by a car?” My volume must have risen because Darlene was looking at me.
“It happened this afternoon. About five-thirty. She was crossing North Elm when the car came barreling out of nowhere and mowed her down. Well, actually, the car only grazed her, but it sent her flying into that stop sign there at the corner of North Elm and Beechy. Her head busted wide open like a melon.”
“Whose head?” I shrieked. “What’s the victim’s name?”
“You should listen harder, Yoder. I already told you it was Thelma Hershberger.”
I gasped. My knees felt weak, and what with my sprained ankle and all, I desperately needed to sit. Unfortunately all the kitchen chairs were out of my reach. Not partial to pride, I slid to the floor. At least I wouldn’t collapse and bust my head open like a melon.
“Who witnessed it?” I was more in control now, and spoke softly.
“It was a phone tip. The caller wouldn’t say.”
“Man or woman?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Yoder. Thelma may not have been my type, but she was all woman.”
I let that pass. “What makes you think it was murder and not your standard hit-and-run?”
“The caller said Thelma tried to dodge, but the car veered in her direction.”
“I see. What about the car? Your anonymous caller get the make, color, and year?”
“Nada.”
“Nothing?”
“That’s what I said, Yoder.”
“Melvin,” I said tiredly, “I don’t have the energy to put up with your rudeness. My ankle hurts and—”
“Sorry, Yoder.”
I was too tired to jiggle a pinkie in my ear. I had to trust that it was working. If Melvin had indeed used his least favorite word, I’d be a fool not to jump on it. “Apology accepted.”
“So does this mean you’re going to investigate that, too, for me? Because I’m in the middle of a campaign here, Yoder. I can’t have two unsolved mysteries on my hands.”
“I didn’t know bugs had hands.”
Melvin must have been desperate for my help. Although he swallowed loudly several times before speaking, his voice was remarkably calm.
“Can I count on you, Yoder?”
“You can count on me,” I promised, and then hung up before he could ask me to do his taxes and dirty laundry. Besides, I owed it to Thelma to track down her killer. She’d come to me for help and I’d let her down.
Ignoring Darlene’s scrutinizing gaze, I hauled myself to my feet, labored over to the sink, removed a plastic basin I store beneath it, and began to prepare my foot bath. In my mind there is nothing quite as comforting as soaking your tootsies—wounded or not—in a tub of warm Epsom salts.
“Oh, Miss Yoder, you needn’t do that. I signed up for the A.L.P.O. plan, remember?”
“Of course I remember, dear. I’m not planning to wash up after you, I’m planning to soak my foot.”
She looked away from her sandwich for the first time. “What happened?”
“It’s just a little sprain. I took an unexpected stroll.”
“If it’s a sprain, then you need to apply ice.”
“Is that so?” I continued to fill the basin. A lesson I have learned late in life is it’s possible to acknowledge advice without actually taking it.
“You’ll be sorry if you apply heat first. Trust me, Miss Yoder, I work with sports injuries all the time.”
“I’m sure you do.” I carried the basin over to the table, sat down, and plunged both feet into the warm soothing bath. “Aaaaaah.”
“Well, it may feel good now, but the swelling won’t go away, and that’s what causes most of the pain.”
I smiled pleasantly and pointed to her sandwich. “You wouldn’t mind making me a smaller version of that, would you? Something about one third the size will do.”
“No, of course not.”
“Thanks. But wash your hands first, dear. Better yet, after you’re done washing, put a couple of those zipper bags over your hands.”
She gave me the oddest look, but followed my instructions and put together a fairly decent repast in no time at all. Meanwhile I soaked, and although it may not have helped the sprain any, it did wonders for my morale. Therefore, I barely minded when she began talking sports.
“Did you watch the Women’s International Basketball Championship this year, Miss Yoder?”
“It wasn’t held in Hernia, dear.”
“I meant on TV.”
“I don’t watch television.”
“Never?”
“Well,” I swallowed guiltily, “I used to watch reruns of Green Acres on my sister’s set, but they took that off the air about a year ago. Since then I haven’t found anything worth watching.”
“Good one!”
I struggled with a bite of salami. I buy the kind with casings, not only because it is more economical, but because it is made locally by one of our Amish, and exceptionally good. At any rate, Darlene had forgotten to remove the skin.
“Miss Yoder, do you know the names of the girls’ basketball coaches at any of Hernia’s high schools?”
I finally got the casing out. It was like flossing with a piece of pig gut.
“We have only one high school, dear, and it doesn’t have a girls’ coach. Miss Betty Quiring is the girls’ physical education teacher, if that’s any help.”
“Quiring?”
I spelled the name for her. “But mind your Ps and Qs around her. She likes to pull ears.”
“You mean she makes things up?”
“No, I meant that literally. The woman has a thumb and forefinger like a vise. When a girl misbehaves, or even just doesn’t pay attention, Miss Quiring will pull her ears.” I patted my left ear. “She only had to do that to me once.”
“She was your gym teacher?”
I patted my bun, which has yet to see a single gray hair. “Thank you, dear, but I’m not that young. Miss Quiring pulled my ear last Sunday in church.”
Darlene giggled. “Do you have her phone number?”
Her request reminded me painfully of Gabe. “Yes, I’ll give it to you in just a minute. But first, do you know if there were any calls for me, say in the last hour or so?” She shook her head. “The others ate earlier, and then went out to play horseshoes. Then I think they took a walk. Funny, but they have this instant friend thing going—even the weird one from California. At any rate, I’ve been inside the whole time and haven’t heard the phone ring.”
“Thanks, dear.” I wrote down Betty Quiring’s number, without referring to a directory.
“Oh, you know it by heart?”
“I’ve had occasion to call her in the past. But it wasn’t me who made all those prank phone calls between two and three in the morning. Well, not all of them, at any rate.” What can I say, my conscience got the better of me.
“Like I said before, Miss Yoder, you’re a real hoot.”
I stood. My soaking water had gone stone cold.
“Well, I’m turning in for the night,” I said.
“So early?”
“I like to read. Mysteries mostly. You might want to try Selma Eichler, Mignon Ballard, and Carolyn Hart. Anyway, breakfast is at eight sharp, but since you’re participating in A.L.P.O., I’ll expect you to report at seven-thirty to set the table.”
“No problem.”
I dried my feet on a dishtowel, spread it carefully across the dish drainer to dry, and toddled off to bed. I will admit now that it was a stupid thing to do. What sort of mother—and an innkeeper is just that—goes to bed when her children are still out and about? And what sort of lover—for that’s how I hoped to think of myself—would fall asleep before she’s had a chance to clear up a big misunderstanding?
Magdalena Yoder, that’s who.
I slept like a teenager, rather than a baby. True, I’m as barren as the Gobi Desert and will never see a baby of my own, but from what I hear, they wake up frequently, requiring attention at both ends. But I’ve been a teenager, and my sister Susannah was one for almost thirty years. I know from personal experience that teenagers can sleep like hibernating bears, and that’s just how I slept.