“You’re not the only college-educated woman in this town, Magdalena.” She turned slowly. “I know I’m being generous about your two years at the junior college, but hey—noblesse oblige, right?”
“How very kind of you, dear.”
“Magdalena, why are you here?” Her eyes, which were slightly crossed (no doubt due to how tight her face had been pulled), focused on my bundle of joy for the first time. “Well, why didn’t you say that you had the little one with you? Come inside before he catches his—well, before he catches cold.”
I must confess that I hadn’t been inside the Schwartzentruber house since the day after Simon’s funeral, when I came to pick up my empty casserole dish. Simon carved cuckoo clocks for a living. He sold the clocks through a small catalog, and by word of mouth out of his house. I’d heard that he was one of the best cuckoo-clock-makers in the country and that his prices reflected this. Having never been in the market for a timepiece from which sprang a wooden bird with the sole purpose of insulting me, I’d never bothered to ask just how much one had to pay for a genuine Schwartzentruber. Whatever the price, Simon must have done pretty well for himself, because his widow had never appeared to be in need, and the house was still ticking away like a hundred time bombs.
“Rather gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?” Frankie said.
“What?”
“So it’s true, then, that you’re hard of hearing? And all along I thought you were obtuse.”
“But I’m neither! Hardheaded maybe, but I mean that literally. My birth mother practically overdosed on milk and calcium supplements, and of course I was raised on a dairy farm. Why, you could drop me headfirst from a silo and the worst that could happen is that I’d bite my tongue. But in answer to your first question, yes, it is creepy in here—no offense, of course—and if those birds all start in at the same time, I might just jump out of my brogans.”
Frankie’s pale, thin lips formed a split-second bow. “Don’t worry: I disconnected all the birds the day I buried Simon. I never could stand them.”
“But all these clocks—you have to wind them—why do you still run them?”
“I can’t stand the silence either, but the ticking I can take.” She hobbled around to peer into the carrier slung over my arm. “Just like I thought; this little fellow seems to like it as well.”
Indeed, the new numero uno man in my life was fast asleep, and either was having pleasant clock-induced dreams or was passing a smidgen of gas. “Hmm,” I said, “I don’t suppose you’d sell me a couple.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that! These are my retirement, you know.”
“But you’re already retired—aren’t you?”
“Well, I don’t work at a job outside my home, if that’s what you mean, but I edit the monthly newsletter for the CCCCP, and that takes a lot of work.”
“It also sounds vaguely obscene. What does it mean?”
“Cuckoo Clock Collectors of Central Pennsylvania. But you know, Magdalena, you’re right. I’ve been hanging on to this collection and living off Social Security, and to what purpose? I think we should spend it now, while there’s still time.”
“Absolutely! What will we spend it on?”
“Don’t be silly, girl, that was the
royal we
. But speaking of which, I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt and see the pyramids. My papa was a builder—okay, so he only paved parking lots, but construction is in my blood. Do you think it’s too late for me to travel that far?”
“Well—”
“And then maybe a trip to Israel. It gets such bad press, you know, partly because it lets foreign reporters file negative stories about it while on Israeli soil. Can you imagine Saudi Arabia doing the same thing?”
“Why, no—”
“Magdalena, for such a verbose person, you suddenly seem to have clammed up.”
“I haven’t clammed,” I claimed calmly. “I am just being careful lest I employ alliteration, which, as you know, is the bane of effete snobs across the educated spectrum—not that I consider you to be one. A snob, I mean.”
“Hmm, I shall choose to take that as a compliment. Now, let’s cut to the chase:
why
are you here? You never did answer that question.”
“Forsooth, I say, speaking, of course, as one who can handle the truth. How about you? Do you prefer the unvarnished truth, or should I lacquer it up like a Stradivarius violin?”
“I’m eighty-two years old, Magdalena. It’s beginning to look as if I might die of old age before you get down to brass tacks.”
“What an odd expression,” I said before attempting a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you have plenty of time left. Who knows, maybe even a few years. As to why I’m here, no doubt you’ve already guessed that it has something to do with Minerva J. Jay’s untimely demise.”
Frankie’s eyes uncrossed for a split second, and then arranged themselves into diagonal slits. “So that’s it,” she hissed. “I’m on your short list of suspects.”
“At least you hiss with an
S
, dear. Don’t you just hate it when folks don’t?”
“You’re strange,” she said, still hissing. “No doubt it’s that Stoltzfus blood you got from your birth father. Look what it did to your brother.”
“That murdering maniacal mantis is not my brother—ding, dang, dong!
Now
look what you made me do. And in front of my sweet, innocent son.”
“Magdalena, if you weren’t such a brilliant woman and a boon to the area economy, I’d personally lead a drive to have you committed.”
“Which I am, dear. A more committed wife, mother, and erstwhile amateur sleuth has probably never before crossed your threshold. So tell me, did you like the deceased?”
“Is that a trick question?”
“Should it be?”
“Sit!” she barked. “And put that baby contraption on the floor. It’s got to be ding-dong heavy—to borrow your pseudo-swear words.”
“You forgot the
dang
; that makes all the difference.”
“Just shut up, Magdalena, and listen—I mean that with Christian love, by the way. Isn’t that what you always say?”
I set the carrier next to an overstuffed armchair that looked to be clean, and plopped my patooty on it. “What’s good for one goose is not necessarily good for another.”
“As I said: shut up. Now, what was I about to say? Oh yes, while Simon was alive, Minerva was the bane of my existence. She was a shameless flirt, you know, and of course my Simon was a physical specimen par excellence. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I’d known Simon my entire life and could never remember a time when he was not a scrawny, pigeon-chested little man with a neck like a swan that was topped by a bobbling head. There is a breed of duck called the Indian Runner that comes close to fitting this description, but I’ve never been sexually attracted to it—well, at least not on an ongoing basis.
“Your Simon was definitely something else,” I said.
She nodded with surprising vigor, her white prayer cap bobbing back and forth with dizzying speed. “So you see the problem, then. She even sent him love notes on scented paper, the kind you have to buy in Bedford at the stationery store.”
“What did they say?” There were moments when I adored my avocation, and this was one of them.
“What do you
think
they said? They were love notes, for pity’s sake. Honestly, Magdalena, if I were a judgmental woman, like some I know, I might be tempted to think you were a little slow on the uptake.”
“Do you still have them? And if so, may I read one?”
“Certainly not! What are you, a voyeur?”
I sprang to my size elevens. “I take umbrage at that remark! My interest was purely task related, speculating as I did that said documents might contain some clues as to who might want Minerva dead.” I spread my fingers to dramatize what I hoped was a tone of resignation. “But—if you refuse to cooperate, I will be forced to conclude one of two things: a. the letters do not exist, or b. they exist but contain something that might indict you.”
Although it took her considerably more effort, and she probably wears a size four, Frankie Schwartzentruber had also found her feet. “If I was going to kill Minerva, I would have done it long ago, when my dear Simon was alive. Of what use it would it be to me now?”
“Revenge?”
“
Revenge?
Why, I’m a Mennonite, for chocolate cookie’s sake! The R word is barely in my lexicon.”
I picked up the car carrier and edged toward the door. “That may be, dear, but you seem to be exhibiting a great deal of agitation at the moment.”
“Which means what? Magdalena, you have the ability to get under my skin like a saline drip. Now, before I truly regret my actions, get out of my house.”
“Gladly. But first let me say, that saline drip comparison was brilliant. Was that a simile or a metaphor? I can never remember which is which.”
“Out, out, out!”
If you ask me, it was pretty poor of a card-carrying, bonnet-wearing Mennonite to slam the door behind me.
There are those who say that I’m a slow learner, but I refuse to listen to them. I must continually shrug off negative comments and forge ahead like Lewis and Clarke. But as to whether or not the aforementioned explorers had any naysayers, I cannot say, and I have no Sacagawea to guide me, so perhaps it was a poor analogy.
But at any rate, unlike Sacagawea, I had the opportunity to leave my darling little papoose for the duration of my quest, and that’s exactly what I did. From Frankie’s house I drove straight back to the inn and, after tanking up both the rascal and myself on yet another round of nutrients, set out for one final turning of the screws that day.
In retrospect, it was a move best left for the morrow.
14
Elias Whitmore. Now there’s a Mennonite who is hands down more sexy than an Indian Runner duck. Then again, Elias is only half Mennonite; his father was a Methodist udder-balm salesman who charmed young Rachel Beiler off her feet—literally. Rachel was only sixteen, and Johnny Whitmore a decade older, but rather than press statutory rape charges, the girl’s parents unfortunately saw a golden opportunity. The couple was wed in West Virginia, and honeymooned in South Carolina, both states, where, I am told, just about anything goes, as long as one can come up with three Scripture verses to defend it—oops, perhaps I’m being unkind. For that I repent.
At any rate, financially speaking, the Beilers made a good call, and thus Beiler’s Udder Massage, or BUM, as it’s called in the trade, was born. But poor Rachel was never even given the benefit of counseling, and less than a month after giving birth to her son, she hanged herself in her parents’ barn. To be fair, the girl’s parents claim she was always unstable, and I didn’t know her well enough to hazard a guess one way or the other. I mean, who is to say what’s normal?
What’s important to know at this juncture is that Johnny Whitmore drank himself to an early death, and the Beilers were killed in an automobile accident a year ago Thanksgiving weekend, when they were broadsided by another vehicle. The couple in the other car was distracted by an argument they were having over who used the last teeth-whitening strip. In the twinkling of an eye, the handsome young grandson of self-made multimillionaires went from working in a car wash to running his own company.
Although strictly speaking Elias Whitmore is probably wealthier than I am, since his is not a self-made fortune, I do not count him as Hernia’s richest citizen. Besides, when it comes to philanthropic donations, BUM lives down to its name. True, Elias does donate one morning a year to whipping up batter and flipping hotcakes, but as head deaconess I happen to know how much Mr. Whitmore drops in the offering plate every Sunday, and it could be a
lot
more.
I like to think of Buffalo Mountain, which I can see from my front verandah, as the Beverly Hills of Hernia. Although really just a long wooded ridge, Buffalo Mountain does offer some splendid views of our countryside and therefore is real estate appropriately priced out of range of our average citizenry (which, sadly, is not saying much). Those folks who have been able to take advantage of these lots positioned closer to Heaven have been, for the most part, successful artsy types, and owners of small businesses in Bedford and surrounding communities. Then there is Elias Whitmore.
Zigler Bend Road, which winds its way to the top of Buffalo Mountain, is as crooked as a serpent’s tongue, and thus the delight of teenage boys for miles around. To reach the summit alive is akin to climbing Everest, but I made it in one piece just as the sun was setting over Miller’s Pond and my homestead to the west. After enjoying the view for a long minute, I made a sharp left and continued north along the ridge until I got to Stopper’s Gap Road. Since the latter isn’t so much a road as it is a pair of axle-breaking ruts, I parked the car in a clearing that already contained at least two dozen other cars. From there I hoofed it the rest of the way up.
To say that Elias lives in a log cabin would be a fact, but it’s also an understatement along the lines of: the Taj Mahal is an attractive tomb. Tree Tops, as Elias calls his wooden palace, is three stories high and contains just over five thousand square feet of heated space. One might jump to the conclusion that this quiet young Mennonite man, this member of my church, might find such a large house lonely, and one might be right, were it not for the fact that Tree Tops was the site of one continuous party.
Okay, so maybe I’ve exaggerated; maybe the parties end at ten every night, and the partygoers are all Scrabble-playing Christians who listen only to inspirational music, and Elias acts more like a chaperone than a playboy host. Nonetheless, the Devil himself has to be lurking in the shadows outside that oversize pile of sticks, just waiting for a chance to snatch some poor teen’s soul out of the loving hands of the Good Lord. Elias claims that he started having these parties when he discovered our young folk necking in the woods along Stopper’s Gap Road. But if you ask me, the problem has only gotten worse since the parties began, as word of “something happening on top of Buffalo Mountain” has spread far and wide.