Between a Wok and a Hard Place (17 page)

"Will we be here long?"

"As long as it takes."

I walked slowly up the lane to the house. The first half of summer had been abnormally cool, but it now seemed bent

on going out with a bang. The last two weeks had been stifling by Pennsylvania standards, but at least they had been dry.

Today the humidity level was so high I would have been surprised, but not shocked, to see fish swimming along in the air

at eye level. It was the type of day that could see a thunderstorm pop up at any minute.

As I plodded along, I took careful note of my surroundings. The Kauffman farm appeared deserted. Their buggy

horse was not in the front paddock, nor was the buggy parked on the lawn. The work horses were not in sight, either,

although it was possible that Eli Kauffman, Annie's husband, was working them elsewhere on the farm.

In the west pasture I could see at least thirty head of dairy cows, all of which would need milking that evening. If

indeed the family was absent, they would be back by dusk to begin the milking unless - I caught my breath - they had

made arrangements for friends or neighbors to come in and milk for them.

Perhaps the Kauffmans were so terrified by this assault on their son that they had fled the county, or the country

even. After all, there were thriving Amish settlements in Ontario, Canada, and even in such far-flung places as Belize and

Paraguay. Better the jungles of Belize or the pampas of Paraguay than the barrel of a gun in Hernia.

Then I noticed the chickens. A flock of Annie's prized free-ranging hens were taking a dirt bath in the shade of a pin

oak on the east side of the house. The rooster and several more hens were lounging about beneath an apple tree midway

between the house and the barn. From the direction of the distant chicken house I heard the faint, but satisfied, cackle of

a hen who had just laid an egg.

There was something wrong with this scene. Our area abounds with chicken and egg-eating varmints. Although most

of the critters - raccoons, foxes, opossums, owls - strike at night, some, like the hawk, hunt only during the day. Our most

common and dangerous predators, however, hunt day or night. This is not a native species I refer to, but the packs of

abandoned, semiwild dogs that roam our roads. Feral dogs kill not only lambs, but adult sheep. Chickens are just puppy-

play for them. Annie would sooner dance the Macarena naked in downtown Hernia than leave her chickens loose

unattended, even if only to visit a neighbor just down the road.

"At least someone is home," I crowed triumphantly over my shoulder.

Not that Terry had reason to give a hoot. He had no idea that I was an amateur - albeit semiofficial - detective, and

that I had any reason to suspect that the Kauffmans might be hiding. My sleuthing powers would just have to go

unappreciated.

Anyway, Terry was no doubt engrossed in the details of the new sect he was about to create. Of course it was vain of

me, possibly even idolatrous, but I found myself hoping that if his new denomination had saints, he would see fit to name

me as one, After all, I had given him numerous helpful suggestions, including a charming name for the group. I could

picture it clearly - Saint Magdalena, and if there was a chapel erected in my honor - St. Magdalena of the Cornfields.

When I was almost to the house I turned and waved beatifically in Terry's direction.

The car was empty.

15

HERNIA CORN FRITTER CUTLETS

INGREDIENTS

5 raw ears fresh sweet com

1 small onion, minced

½ medium green bell pepper, diced

2 large eggs, separated

3 tablespoons milk

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

½ teaspoon salt

¼ teaspoon black pepper

Bacon grease (although any cooking oil will do)

DIRECTIONS

Grate the com off the cobs into a medium bowl. . Add minced onion and diced green

pepper.

In a medium bowl, beat the egg whites until they begin to peak and set aside. In a small

bowl, beat the egg yolks and add to vegetables. Add milk, flour, salt and pepper and mix

thoroughly. Fold in egg whites. Drop by tablespoonfuls on to a hot, greased griddle, or

frying pan. Flatten with a spatula. Fry until nicely brown on bot sides, turning carefully.

Serve with a dollop of sour cream.

Makes four servings.

16

I raced back to the car, madder than a hen at an Easter egg hunt. Terry Slock was not lying down on the seat, napping,

like I'd hoped. The car was indeed empty. I spun around in all directions looking for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

My head resumed throbbing.

Then I heard it, splashing against the trunk of the sugar maple.

"Slock!" I hissed.

A moment later he came out from cover sheepishly. "I had to whiz.”

"Behind a tree! Get back into that car," I ordered, "or you'll be walking back to the inn. That bear will be mighty hungry

by then if he hasn't found anything else to eat."

Terry was obedient, but not humbled. He was certainly not trustworthy. If only I had a pair of handcuffs I could lock

him to the wheel. But oh, no - stingy, stubborn Melvin had not seen fit to give me any of the paraphernalia that went with

my job. Yet if memory served me right, the last time he and Susannah were dating, he gave her a brand-new pair. She

must have used them a lot, too, because when I saw the cuffs a few weeks ago, dangling from her purse, they were a bit

scuffed. Who knew my sister had a flair for law enforcement?

I trudged back up the lane to the house and knocked on the door. I knocked softly at first, in deference to my

headache, but when no one answered I pounded with my fist. As long as I was going to have a headache, Annie

Kauffman might as well also. Still no answer. I tried the screen door. It was hooked. Hot as it was, I hoofed it around to the

back of the house and tried that door. It was locked as well.

"Annie! I know you're in there!" Silence.

I peered into the relatively cool darkness of the house. Annie was no Freni. Sure, Annie had a wounded boy on her

hands, but that was no excuse for the mess I saw. Dirty dishes piled up on the kitchen counter was one thing, but there

were dust bunnies on the floor large enough to make a real mama rabbit proud.

Freni would have been appalled. When not cooking, that woman is never without a feather duster in her hands. Trust

me, her last movement will have nothing to do with her heart or her lungs. That feather duster will flick out one last time

before falling from her life- less fingers to the floor. From dust to dust while dusting is her personal creed.

"You can't not be home and have both screen doors hooked from the inside!" I yelled.

Annie not only couldn't, but wouldn't, argue against that logic, and the dusty silence prevailed. I turned and just as I

stepped off the porch I heard a woman's voice. The sound was coming from the open window of a second-floor bedroom.

I stepped back from the house and cupped my hands. " Aha! So you are home, Annie! And Samuel is, too, isn't he?"

No comment from the window. "Well, I know he is, and I know he's been hurt - shot in the shoulder. And if you don't

get him a doctor, the wound could get infected. Especially in this hot weather. It might even develop gangrene, you know.

And from there it's just a hop, skip, and a jump to amputation. Is that what you want for your son, Annie? A life with

just one arm?"

Of course Annie didn't want that, and it was probably mean of me to suggest that she did, but when the chips are

down and all else has failed, trot out the guilt. Mama would have been proud of me. We Amish and Mennonites are

masters of the art - making Baptists and Jews pale by comparison - and my mother was undisputed guilt champion of

Bedford County. It wasn't until her untimely death, squished between a milk tanker and truck full of state-of-the-art running

shoes, that I realized four of the Ten Commandments actually had a positive spin to them.

Either Annie was adopted, or the bearer of a muted guilt gene, because she didn't as much as peep in protest. That

of course, made me feel guilty. The poor woman was obviously so upset that she couldn't even I find her tongue.

"He could always get a hook to replace his arm," l shouted, "but the cows won't like it at milking time!"

Annie's lips were sealed tighter than a clam at low tide.

It was time to take a more drastic measure. I suppose I could have found some sharp implement in the barn and cut

through the screen in the back door, but even as Melvin's unofficial representative, that was going too far. Much better to

pretend to leave, double-back, and climb up the rose trellis that reached to just below the upstairs bedroom window. After

all Annie, unlike most Amish women, had a black thumb for gardening. The climbing rosebush for which the trellis was

intended had long since gone to that big compost heap in the sky, and all that remained was a thorny stump an inch in

diameter.

As I'm sure I've already made perfectly clear, I am not a heavy women. I may be tall, but it's an economy shell that

covers this generous frame. So, what happened next was not my fault, but the Kauffmans'. Halfway up the latticework

ladder, it pulled loose from the house and like a giant slingshot, catapulted me through the air.

It was my first truly airborne experience, and as such, a major disappointment. I would have much preferred the

cramped seats and mediocre food my guests claim the airlines foist on them. My flight lasted only a second or two, and I

did not have a smooth landing.

However, I suppose I should be grateful that I landed on a chicken. While it must have been horrible for the bird, it

cushioned my fall, and provided little Lizzie Kauffman with another drumstick for her supper. That is not to say that I

walked away unscathed. One of my own drumsticks was sprained, albeit lightly, and my back felt as if it had been used as

a practice ring for sumo wrestlers.

"You don't fool me," I moaned, shaking my fist feebly at the furtive fugitives. "I know you're up there" - I gasped with

pain - "and I'll be back. But for your sake, not mine! Don't think for a moment that whoever shot Samuel in the shoulder is

going to leave it like that. If you want to keep your family safe, Annie, you need the protection of the law."

I realize now that it was a stupid thing for me to say! Telling Annie to trust Melvin Stoltzfus with the lives of her loved

ones was like asking Susannah to chapel one a slumber party for Sunday school girls. I would have been better off telling

Annie to dispose of her worldly goods and flee in the general direction of Paraguay on the next available Valuejet flight out

of Pittsburgh. At least then she might have respected me.

If I hadn't known that Annie Kauffman was a God-fearing woman who lived her faith, I might have concluded that the

sound I next heard coming from the bedroom window was a snort of derision. Instead, I chalked it up to my imagination,

and then, barely able to straighten my back, hobbled bravely back to my car.

By the time I got there I was dripping with sweat. My back ached and my foot burned. Quite frankly, I was more than

a little bit annoyed with Annie Kauffman, and quite possibly annoyed with myself. I certainly was in no mood to be tolerant

of Terry Slock's idiosyncrasies.

"You slovenly slacker!" I nearly screamed when I saw him clipping his toenails, inside my car. The parings, I am

disgusted to say, were scattered everywhere.

"Huh?"

I pointed to his bare feet, which were not e the least little bit attractive. "That should be done hind closed doors. Don't

they have manners out in Hollywood?"

It was, of course, a rhetorical question. B.R., on Hollywood's biggest stars, was a guest of mine summer. In the short

week she was here, the poor innocent people of Hernia got to see more of her body than most married folks see of their