Between a Wok and a Hard Place (29 page)

my loan.

At last I cleared my throat. "I have some very bad news for you, Leona."

She looked startled. "There's a catch to this loan stuff?"

I shook my head. "That's on the level. This is about your friend, Flower."

"What about her?"

I sighed. When it came down to it, there was only one way to say it.

"Your friend is dead."

I was relieved to see shock, not grief on her face, since I am far better at directing than I am comforting. I poured her

a glass of lemonade and had her sit in the parlor's one easy chair.

"You stay right there, dear, while I make a few phone calls."

She nodded.

I was in for a few shocks of my own. Melvin was actually pleasant to me.

"Hey, I'm glad you called," he said. "I was just about to call you."

I pinched myself. "Ouch!"

"You're always so funny, Miller." He laughed.

"It's Yoder now, Melvin, haven't you heard?" No doubt he'd heard at least a dozen versions.

"Oh that - well, I guess I did hear, but it doesn't matter one bit to me. I hope you believe that."

"Apparently I'm so naïve I still believe in the Tooth Fairy."

"Confidentially, so do I. Say, Yoder, how would feel about going on the Jerry Springer Show?"

"What? And air my dirty bloomers on national TV? I'd rather be stranded with you on a desert island."

"I guess I'll just have to tell them no," he said, still remarkably cheery. "I told them I was your manager."

"You what?"

"They were going to let me sit on stage with you. It would have been my fifteen minutes of fame."

"Get a life, Melvin! I didn't call you to discuss your personal goals. I have some very important information for you."

"And I have some for you, Yoder. Who should go first?"

“This is my dime, Melvin. This is about the young Chinese woman who was found dead at the intersection of North

Main and Elm streets early Sunday morning."

“Still jumping to conclusions, are we, Yoder? We don't know that she was Chinese."

"Yes, we do. I have someone here who can identify her. The victim's name is - well, in English it means Flower."

His stunned silence was music to my ears.

"And that's not all, Melvin. This woman has identified the victim's car."

"She didn't have a car," he said triumphantly.

"Oh yes, she did. Jacob Zook pulled it out of Miller's Pond a little more than an hour ago."

The prolonged silence that followed was almost pathetic.

"And get this, Melvin, the key is still in the ignition."

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Yoder, for wanting to take a drive in a dead woman's car - hey, can I drive your

BMW?"

"The day you grow a beard!" I said carelessly. "And I don't want to drive Flower's car. I mentioned the key because it

might contain important fingerprints."

"Don't be silly, Yoder. We've got the victim's fingers. We don't need another set from the key."

"I'm talking about the murderer's prints!" I screamed. "He or she was the last one to touch the ignition key."

Either I could hear the laborious process of Melvin's brain at work, or the ceiling fan at the Hernia police station

needed oiling.

"Good work, Yoder," he said, knocking my freshly clad socks off. "You hold tight, and I'll be right there."

"You can't drive, Melvin, remember? Your right leg is in a mammoth cast."

"I'll get Zelda, then. Or Susannah. But you don't move a muscle, get it?"

“Got it."

I hung up and did a silly little jig. It wasn't a real dance, mind you, since that is forbidden by my faith. And I certainly

didn't mean to be disrespectful to the dead. But the pieces to Flower's murder were beginning to come together, and I had

a gut feeling that before the day was over that jigsaw puzzle would be complete.

When my jig was over I called Pittsburgh International Airport and rescheduled Pops's flight.

It's not over until the fat lady sings, Mama always said. She meant that literally. It was her way of getting in the last

word.

Dr. Wilmar Brack seemed determined to prevent Mama from singing. “Where do you keep the knives?" he asked

when I walked into the kitchen.

I couldn't believe my eyes. Freni was barely out the door and already there was a man rifling through her drawers.

And in broad daylight, too.

“What on earth are you doing?" I demanded. "Is nothing sacred anymore?"

“I'm trying to make myself a sandwich, that's what. I need something to spread the mustard with. Say, you wouldn't

happen to have any pickles, would you?"

“The kitchen is not open to guests," I said, raising my voice only slightly.

"I didn't have lunch," he said and clattered among the cutlery.

“That was your choice, dear. You chose not to go to the Augsburgers."

"Ah," he said, picking up a bread and butter knife and wielding it like a scalpel. "My guest agreement clearly states

that the PennDutch Inn will supply me with three meals a day and two light snacks if so desired. This" - he pointed to a

loaf of bread and an open packet of bologna - "is a light snack. I still expect lunch."

"But it's almost supper," I snapped, and then realized with horror that there was nobody there to make the meal. My

cooking skills are serviceable only if one has had their taste buds surgically removed. At least that's what Aaron said the

first (and only time) I tried to cook a romantic dinner for the two of us.

"What is for supper?" Dr. Brack asked.

Then I remembered Freni's frustrated efforts for lunch. "The world's best chicken salad. You're going to love it."

"Maybe. I'm pretty picky about food. I'm what you might call a connoisseur. In fact, you might say I taught Julia Child

everything she knows."

"You don't say?"

"Well, I did see some ripe tomatoes on the vines out back. And there are some cucumbers in the refrigerator. I could

whip up a nice tangy gazpacho - "

"Whip away, dear," I said. "In the meantime I'll duck down to the cellar and retrieve a jar of Freni's delicious

homemade pickles for you."

I will confess that I was feeling very proud of myself for having turned the tide of the conversation. The truth is, I

really owed it all to Mama. "Make a man feel useful and he'll move mountains for you," she once said. Fortunately for

Papa's back, she didn't mean that literally as well.

Freni's cache of home-canned goodies takes up most of the space not used by the furnace, but there a small room

behind the furnace which, in the old days, was the coal room. Papa gave it a thorough cleaning when we converted it to

gas, and it was his intention of installing fluorescent light fixtures and using it as a wintertime workshop. I would never air

dirty family linens in public, but if I were to do so, you might expect to see sheets of marital discord flapping on the line.

Just because a couple stays married for thirty-five years, doesn't make them a pair of love-birds in private.

Well, more than enough said. The point is that it was where Papa planned his private getaway that I had so

graciously permitted Angus Dixon to set up his darkroom. Papa had already installed a water line - even a commode

where he could read in peace. At any rate, while I was down there plucking pickles from the pantry, I thought I may as well

pop into the darkroom and see what a Pulitzer prize-winning photographer does on his vacation.

Of course I ignored the homemade sign that said DARKROOM - KEEP OUT. It is my establishment, after all.

In fact, few things make me more aggravated than seeing a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from one of my guest

room doors. If folks want privacy, they should stay home.

You may call me frugal if you like, but I see no point in putting a high-wattage lightbulb in a refurbished coal bin.

Therefore it took my eyes a minute or two to adjust, and I wish they hadn't. The Bible tells us to pluck out our eyes if they

cause us to sin. Fortunately it doesn't command us to pluck our peepers if someone else has sinned. Just judging from

what I saw that afternoon, Angus Dixon was racking up his frequent-traveler miles on that wide and winding road that

leads away from Heaven.

I slammed the door shut without turning off the light. Freni is right. It is true what the Bible said about sin loving

darkness. I had never seen such filth. Hanging from wires strung across Papa's planned workshop were photos of women

in various stages of undress. Some, and I shudder to say this, were as naked as the day they were born, and smiling

about it.

But that wasn't the half of it. Hanging up there right along with the photos of these happy harlots, were photos of

Amish children. Thank God the Amish children were fully clothed. I'm sure my ticker couldn't have taken it any other way.

Nonetheless it made me furious just to see them up there with the trash, and I bolted up the basement stairs two steps at

a time.

At the top of the stairs I ran smack into Melvin. Fortunately, I wasn't hurt, but the jar of pickles made a second trip to

the bottom of the stairs. Dr. Brack was out of luck.

27

It was a toss-up as to who was madder, Melvin or me. I might have apologized for knocking him over, had he not started

screaming at me from the get-go.

"Do you know how hard it is to drive a stick shift when you're wearing a cast?"

Having never broken anything made out of calcium, I couldn't say that I did. Besides, I had yet to drive a standard

shift vehicle for more than a thousand feet. That, incidentally, was when Papa got his first gray hair. I kid you not. He left

the house with a full head of wavy brown hair, anxious to teach me how to drive, and returned an hour later a broken man,

whom Mama barely recognized.

"You said you'd have Zelda or Susannah drive you!"

"Zelda's mother needed her and Susannah - well, you know."

"You're going to have to get tougher with Susannah, dear. When she lived with me, I made sure she was up before

lunch."

"I didn't come to talk about your sister, Yoder. I came about that damn key."

"You hush your mouth, Melvin, or I'll wash it out with soap. And that's no empty threat. There's enough smut in this

house already."

"Make me," Melvin muttered.

"I could make you from scratch-out of pie dough, because I wouldn't need a brain."

"Children, please," Dr. Brack said foolishly.

I glared at him, and I think one of Melvin's eyes made visual contact as well. At any rate, Dr. Brack grabbed the bread

and bologna and scooted to the far corner of the kitchen.

"The key, Yoder!"

I must have stared blankly.

"I stopped at the pond first, Yoder, and there was no key. That means you took it, which undoubtedly means you got

your greasy fingerprints smeared all over it. Now what the hell am I going to do?"

I lunged for the bottle of dish detergent by the sink. Oh, for a big chunk of lye soap like Grandma Yoder used to

make. Melvin would layoff swearing for the rest of his life.

Alas, I didn't even have the pleasure of making Melvin gargle with Joy. Before I could get my hands on him, the door

from the dining room swung open and in walked Terry Slock with little Caitlin on his shoulders. The child's head nearly hit

the door-sill, causing visions of a lawsuit to dance through my head.

"Put her down at once!"

Terry grinned and slid her to the floor. "Whew! You were getting heavy anyway," he said to her. "I think you're turning

into stone."

Caitlin giggled and came bounding to me. As usual she had that silly little doll with her.

"Ni how," she said, waving that doll practically in my face. "Ni how ma?"

"Speak proper English," I snapped. "You're too old for baby talk."

"It isn't baby talk," Dr. Brack said, his mouth full of sandwich.

“What?" I'd just as soon snap at him, as I would the child.

"What she said. It isn't baby talk. The little girl was speaking Mandarin Chinese. She asked how you were. Did I tell