Chapter Seventeen

I looked at Freni, who was trying to suppress a smile.

“I mean, it’s really cold out there, and suddenly there’s this guy walking along stark naked—well, except for a hat. He had on one of those three-cornered hats, the kind they wear in Australia.”

Melvin smirked. “Yeah, right.”

“Dinky Williams,” Freni said, shaking her head. Zelda was nodding. “I’ve heard of him. He’s that back-to-nature freak, right?”

“An urban refugee,” I explained for everyone’s benefit. “Dinky—I think his real name is Bill—moved here from New York City last year. He’s a retired architect. Anyway, he bought a piece of the Mishler farm so he could build his dream house. All glass, I hear. Only thing is, Dinky and his wife are nudists and seem to be very fond of nature walks. In the summertime it’s hard not to see what the Good Lord intended to be covered.”

I turned to Alma. “I didn’t realize Dinky was a cold weather buff as well. Did he speak to you?”

Alma flushed and fiddled with her glasses. “Oh, yes. He asked me if I wanted to see his Tinkertoy collection.”

“Ach!” Freni clapped her hands to her cheeks.

“What did you say?” Melvin asked, with sudden interest.

“I said ‘no,’ of course. Then I walked away as quickly as I could, without being too rude. Only I got turned around somehow and—and—well, I got lost.”

“There’s no shame in that,” Freni said loyally.

“But I’m a Native American!” Alma wailed.

“Yah, but so am I, and I get lost all the time.”

“Ladies,” Melvin said sharply, his patience having waned along with Dinky’s Tinkertoys, “can we just get on with the story?”

Alma took a deep, brave breath. “Well, I tried to look for landmarks, but since y’all don’t have any mountains—”

“Just a minute,” I heard myself say, “we’re surrounded by mountains! These are the world-famous Alleghenies.”

“I meant mountains that you can see over the tops of the trees.” She looked at Melvin before continuing, and he had the audacity to look at me.

“Quit interrupting, Yoder. Continue, Miss Cornwater.”

“Anyway, I found a little stream and I was following it when I heard two men talking. At first I couldn’t see them, and I didn’t want to say anything—just in case they were—well, you know—nudists too. But boy, was that ever a big mistake, because then I heard one of them say, ‘It’s a big buck. A six-pointer.’ The next thing I knew they were shooting at me.”

Freni gasped.

Melvin snorted. “That’s impossible. Deer-hunting season isn’t for another two weeks.”

“That’s never stopped the Mishler brothers,” I said.

Freni nodded vigorously. “And they’re both blind as cats.”

“You mean bats, dear.” I turned to my nemesis. “Well, just don’t stand there. You’ve a job to do.”

“What the hell—”

“Maybe we should check it out,” Zelda said. “If what she said is true, that doesn’t leave a lot of time in which to commit a murder.”

“How much time does a murder take,” Melvin growled. “Besides, that still doesn’t explain this.” He waved the bag containing the comb.

“Maybe it does,” I said angrily. “You never even let her finish her story.”

“Finish!” Melvin barked.

Alma looked like a deer caught in headlights. “When they shot, I ran. I kept following the creek, and I slipped in it a couple of times. But they kept coming and shooting. ‘Make me a nice trophy,’ one of them yelled.

“So I left the creek as soon as I found a thicket. It had a lot of brambles in it, you see, and it tore at my hair. Anyway, after a while I didn’t hear them shouting or shooting anymore, and I was a little calmer by then myself, so I started to use my head. I remembered that Miss Yoder’s inn was set in a little valley between two hills”—she glanced at me—“I mean, mountains, and that the mountains run north and south. I also remembered that just outside of town there is a bigger creek—”

“Slave Creek,” I said helpfully.

“Yeah, that’s it. So, I figured the little creek had to run into the big creek, and since I hadn’t crossed the little creek—only sort of followed it—that meant Ms. Yoder’s place was to the north. By then the sun was up high enough so that I could see it through the trees. It was easy finding my way back then.”

“The comb!” Melvin flapped the bag. At that moment, he looked more like a vulture than a mantis.

“Well, it must have come undone in the brambles. I wasn’t paying attention to my hair then.”

“Of course not, dear.” I patted her shoulder.

Melvin gave me a look that could scald milk. “But Officer Root found this just outside the barn.”

Alma swallowed and looked at me. “I wasn’t trying to be a snoop, really. I saw that the barn door was open, but there was yellow tape across it—you know, like the kind the police use on TV to seal off a crime scene. I thought it was odd that the tape would be there. I only wanted a closer look. Anyway, my comb must have fallen off then.”

Melvin sneered. “Just like that?”

“Coincidences happen,” I said. “Live with it.” Perhaps I had gone too far. Real mantises are capable of flight, and Melvin looked as if he were about to fly across the room, grab my scrawny neck in his front teeth, and bite off my head. Thank God for Zelda Root. She may not be much to look at, and she has the personality of a washing machine, but she’s one levelheaded woman.

“Isn’t it time to implement departmental procedure number two?” she asked calmly.

“Number two?” It was clear Melvin didn’t have a clue as to what she meant.

Zelda turned to me. “Magdalena, do you have a more private room where we could interview the official suspects individually?”

“I’m sure that can be arranged, but just out of curiosity, who are your official suspects?”

“Every last one of you,” Melvin snarled.

“Ach!” Freni squawked. “I was at home nursing a sick husband and daughter-in-law. I only thought about murder—I didn’t do it.”

“Even me?” I couldn’t believe the chutzpah, asking me to hostess my own interrogation.

Zelda nodded. “As I understand it, the victim was the sponsor of a contest, in which most of you had a stake.”

Marge Benedict waved her arm like a schoolgirl who knew the solution to a math problem no one else could answer.

“Not me! I’m just a judge. I didn’t care who won or lost, so I certainly didn’t have a reason to kill George.”

“I guess that leaves me out,” Gordon Dolby said, the relief evident in his voice. “I’m not a contestant either.”

Susannah yawned. “Count me out too. I just live here. This contest thing is my sister’s responsibility.”

I glared at her. “Thanks!”

Carlie jumped up. “Hey, don’t forget me. I just came along for the ride.”

“So what am I, chopped liver?” I asked. “And anyway, like I said before, Mr. Mitchell could just as well have been killed by a total stranger.”

“Magdalena,” Zelda said through clenched teeth.

“All right. How about the dining room? If you take the quilt off its frame, it makes a nice torture rack, and none of the furniture is upholstered.” Well, it was my inn after all, and I would decide where they would set up the bright lights. I surely wasn’t going to allow my furniture to fade.

Zelda glanced at Melvin and gave her eyes a quarter turn. Take it easy, she said silently. I can handle the idiot, if you’ll just give me a chance.

“It needs to be more private,” she said aloud.

“Okay, you can have my bedroom. But I reserve the right to be grilled first.”

Take one verifiable idiot, and one heavily painted but otherwise almost normal person, throw in yours truly, and what do you get? A headache, to say the least. Still, it wasn’t as bad as it might have been, thanks to Zelda, and a surprise call from Reverend Schrock.

“Babs, is that you?” Hope springs eternal even in the boniest of breasts.

There followed what would have been a moment of silence, were Melvin not breathing so hard. The man had the nerve to be exasperated because I answered my own phone.

“It’s Reverend Schrock,” the caller finally said. “Did I call at a bad time?”

“Oh, you mean the heavy breathing? No, that’s just Melvin Stoltzfus, as usual.”

“But isn’t this your private line? The one that rings only in your bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Then I did call at a bad time.”

“Any time with Melvin is a bad time,” I muttered under my breath.

“Who is that?” Melvin demanded. “Are you talking about me?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t he mind that you’re on the phone?” the reverend asked.

“Yes.”

“Whoever it is, you better make it snappy,” Melvin said. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t hear you, Yoder!”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” I screamed.

Mercifully, both men were silent for a minute. “Well, well,” Reverend Schrock said at last, “I must say, this certainly is a first.”

“Oh, don’t let it bother you. It happens all the time.”

“Magdalena! Isn’t this a little soon—I mean, after what happened with Aaron and all.”

“As if I had any control over it,” I wailed.

The reverend mulled that over. “Confidentially, I know what you mean. There are times when my loins ache so bad I just have to give in to the urges of the flesh. Of course the good Lord in His mercy—”

“What? Loins? Flesh? Reverend Schrock, shame on you!”

“Shame on me'? You’re the one who does it all the time!”

“There’s been a murder,” I shrieked. “Melvin’s here to investigate a murder!”

I could hear him swallow, and it was a gulp big enough to suck up Jonah. “Melvin’s there investigating a murder?”

“Eureka! Say, how did you get my private number anyway?”

“It’s written on the wall of the men’s room at church.”

“Remind me to kill Susannah. Oops, sorry, Reverend.”

“No harm really meant, I’m sure. Uh—about what I said before, it was said in confidence, you know.”

“I can only hope you were talking about that razor-tongued wife of yours.”

“Why, yes, of course! And speaking of whom, that is why I called.”

“I know, I know, I’ve been booted out from teaching my Sunday school class.”

“Actually, you haven’t. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Come again?”

“Lodema told me about her visit yesterday. She had no right to say what she did.”

“You can say that again.”

“It’s not within her power to drop you from our Sunday school teacher roster. Would you like me to have her apologize?”

It was time for me to schedule a hearing test with a specialist over in Bedford. “I thought I heard you offer”—I chuckled pleasantly—“to make your wife apologize to me.”

“That’s exactly what I said. She’s out right now, but as soon as she comes back, I’ll have her give you a call. Better yet, I’ll make her come over in person. Would you like me to be along?”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said graciously. “Since she insulted me one on one, that’s how she should apologize.”

“Consider it done. Magdalena—this is rather awkward for me, but you do still plan to remain an active member of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, my beef has to do with your acid-mouthed spouse, not with God.”

“So, you’ll continue on as usual?”

“I only missed that one Sunday!”

“What I mean to ask—how should I phrase this delicately—will the offering plate be as happy to see you now as it has been in the past?”

So that was it! Let it be known that I tithe. That is to say, I give to the church one tenth of my considerable income. That makes me Beechy Grove Mennonite Church’s largest contributor. But I would never dream of withholding money from God, just because the pastor’s wife had a bee in her bonnet.

“Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s,” I said quoting the King James version of Matthew.

“Does that mean you’ll continue to give?”

“If you’ll talk some sense into one of your congregants.” We Mennonites do not use the term parishioner.

“Magdalena, I’m sorry about what Alberta Weaver said about you at choir practice. Believe me, I chewed her out good.”

“That’s not who I’m talking about!” I wailed. As if Alberta Weaver had room to talk. Her husband was serving a three-year prison sentence for growing a crop of cannabis along with his corn.

“Oh, you mean that little skit Alice Kauffman put on for the adult Sunday school class last week? The one she titled ‘God Loves Harlots Too’?”

“I’m talking about that idiot Melvin Stoltzfus,” I screamed.

“Put the idiot on the phone,” the good reverend said.

For all intents and purposes, my interrogation was over.

“So how did it go?” I asked Freni.

She had been the second to step into that torture chamber formerly known as my boudoir.

“Melvin, shmelvin,” she said. “Just wait until I tell his mama what he said about me. Elvina will put that boy over her knee and give him a good paddling.”

“We could save her the trouble and call the Orkin man,” I said, not uncharitably. After all, Elvina Stoltzfus was a widow woman in failing health. Bunions were just one of her many burdens. “But, just out of curiosity, what did he say about you?”

“Ach! He said I was as stubborn as a team of mules. Do you think I’m stubborn, Magdalena?”

I turned away, crossed all my fingers, my eyes, and even a few of my toes. “Of course not, dear.”

“If that boy had half the sense of a mule, he’d know that the killer couldn’t be one of the five contestants.”

I turned to face her. “Please elucidate.”

“Ach, I am not elucidating! That boy—”

“What I mean is, please explain your theory that the killer is not a contestant.”

“Why didn’t you say so? You always talk in riddles, Magdalena. You are worse than Samson.”

“Humor me,” I begged. “Make me a beneficiary of your wisdom.”

“No wisdom, Magdalena. Even a dumpling knows not to kill the hen that lays the golden eggs.”

I scratched my head. “I believe that’s goose, dear. But what you’re saying is that the contestants stand nothing to gain by killing Mr. Mitchell, and everything to lose. Therefore the murderer had to be someone from the outside. Right?”

“Yah, that’s what I’m saying.”

“It is rather obvious, isn’t it?”

“Like the nose on your face.”

“Freni!” I rubbed my proboscis. It is maybe a tad on the large size, but it’s the one God gave me, and I have no plans to change it. Besides, Babs said she would no longer speak to me if I did.

“So, you have the Yoder nose,” Freni said. “Me”— she patted her ample bust—“well, I look like a Miller.”

“Whatever you say, dear. But you know, a wealthy man like George Mitchell could have had lots of enemies. His killer, or killers, as the case may be, might have followed him to Hernia, waited until he or they got him alone, and then—pow!”

“Ach! Lock the doors, Magdalena.”

“Now who’s thinking like a dumpling? George Mitchell is dead. You can rest assured that his killer is long gone.”

“Back to New York?”

“Not all killers are from New York, dear. Remember, California has its share. Anyway, East Coast Delicacies is headquartered in Philadelphia.”

“Pennsylvania?”

“There is only one Philadelphia. I wonder if Mr. Anderson might be able to shed some light on the subject.”

“Ach, he might even be the killer! And such a nice man he was.”

I rolled my eyes, taking care not to roll them in the get-stuck position. “He’s in the hospital, for crying out loud. Suffering from food poisoning.”

“Yah, but maybe he’s just—how do the English say it...”

“Faking it?”

“Yah.”

“It’s not likely, dear, but I suppose anything is possible. I’d run out there and pay him a visit, if it weren’t for one small problem.”

“Magdalena! Did you get in trouble with that Danish doctor again?”

“Susannah did, but I was there.”

“And that crabby nurse with the hemorrhoids?”

I hung my head. “The hemorrhoids are just a rumor that I started. But yes, consider me banned from the Bedford County Hospital.”

Freni shook her head, but I knew her well enough to know she wasn’t really angry. “Where there is a will, there is a way. You find a way to speak to that Englishman, Magdalena.”

I thought of a way.