Read Butter Safe Than Sorry Online
Authors: Tamar Myers
Tags: #Bank Robberies, #Mystery & Detective, #Mennonite, #Hotelkeepers, #Yoder; Magdalena (Fictitious character), #Fiction, #Mennonites, #Religion, #Pennsylvania Dutch Country (Pa.), #General, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Crime, #Christianity
Butter Safe Than Sorry (8 page)
"Absolutely not, dear. Any woman over five feet eleven should be shipped off to New Zealand, and the government should do a better job of stopping illegal immigration from the State of Iowa."
Freni's normally beady eyes shone brightly. "Ach, do you mean this, or do you just pull on my legs?"
"Sorry, dear, but I just pull on your legs--well, one of them, at any rate. But your point is what, dear? Are my Gabe and your Barbara the trees, or the forest, in your mangled metaphor?"
Freni threw her stubby arms up, hands open, in a gesture of extreme frustration. The wooden spoon sailed completely across the kitchen, where it smacked against the calendar that hung on the opposing wall beside the refrigerator. Believe me, I am
not
a superstitious woman, but there was now a meat broth stain on the Ides of March.
not
a superstitious woman, but there was now a meat broth stain on the Ides of March.
"
Gut im Himmel!
You want that I should call you a
dummkopf
? I am saying that we have much to be thankful for. Especially you. Your Dr. Rosen is tall--but not too tall--and he is not from Iowa. He is also handsome, as well as rich, and he loves you very, very much; this thing I know. Yah, he is not of the faith, and is a mama's boy, but no one is perfect and the final chapter for him is not yet written."
Gut im Himmel!
You want that I should call you a
dummkopf
? I am saying that we have much to be thankful for. Especially you. Your Dr. Rosen is tall--but not too tall--and he is not from Iowa. He is also handsome, as well as rich, and he loves you very, very much; this thing I know. Yah, he is not of the faith, and is a mama's boy, but no one is perfect and the final chapter for him is not yet written."
I felt strangely let down. "That's it? That's your big advice? Count my blessings?"
She nodded. "Yah, and I will count mine:
eins, zwei, drei, vier, fimf
."
eins, zwei, drei, vier, fimf
."
I knew without a doubt that her five enumerated blessings alluded to her beloved husband, Mose; her precious son, Jonathan; and her three adorable grandchildren. Alas, I am not one to let a bone go ungnawed.
"Sex,"
I said.
I said.
"Ach!"
"Well, doesn't that mean six in Pennsylvania Dutch? You better count Barbara too, because it is thanks to her that numbers
drei
,
vier
, and
fimf
came along. But, come to think of it, a little sex was probably involved as well."
drei
,
vier
, and
fimf
came along. But, come to think of it, a little sex was probably involved as well."
"Ach!" Freni clapped her hands tightly over her ears and fled to the pantry.
Feeling strangely better about the puppy situation, I headed out through the dining room and back to the office/foyer. I had a lot of work to do, if indeed the horde from Hoboken was going to experience an authentic Amish supper. The first thing on my agenda was getting these folks to work up an honest country-style appetite.
"Come on, people," I barked (gently, of course) to the stragglers who were still struggling to get their bulging valises up my impossibly steep stairs. "Tote that bag, and lift that tote, but if you gets a little drunk, then no fruit compote."
"That woman is certifiably nuts," I heard somebody grumble from the dark privacy of the stairwell.
"Indeed, I am," I said with satisfaction. Yes, sir, it had all the makings of a blessed week.
I didn't even have a clue that something had gone terribly wrong with my game plan until the sheriff's car pulled up my long gravel driveway. It happened just as I had begun to say grace. I feel compelled to explain here that the enormity of such an interruption cannot be overemphasized. My guests, as it turns out, were all papists, given to a brief prayer accompanied by a hand gesture known as the sign of the cross.
But since they had all signed up for the full Mennonite experience, I was determined to give them just that. A proper grace--that is, a Protestant grace--should be long enough to wilt a crisp tossed salad and turn mashed potatoes into concrete. If at least one person in attendance does not come close to fainting, it fails the test. For one must not only ask the Lord to bless the food, but to calm Aunt Wendy's eczema, cure Uncle Walter 's halitosis, and find some way to talk some sense into Cousin Leona, to stop her from marrying that gold digger from Chile with the red toupee and the extra pinkie on his left hand.
Finally, when the time comes to wrap it up and say amen, the attendees are so famished that they will eat
anything
--perhaps even one another, like the survivors of an Andean plane crash--and they are grateful putty in your hand. Oh, what delicious power! Like a skilled conductor with an orchestra, one can prolong that moment of intense anticipation until it bursts into a collective gasp, quite like that moment of marital bliss that one experiences when--
anything
--perhaps even one another, like the survivors of an Andean plane crash--and they are grateful putty in your hand. Oh, what delicious power! Like a skilled conductor with an orchestra, one can prolong that moment of intense anticipation until it bursts into a collective gasp, quite like that moment of marital bliss that one experiences when--
"Magdalena!"
"Shhh, I'm praying."
"Sorry, hon," my Beloved whispered, "but the sheriff said he's not falling for that ruse this time."
I opened one eye and looked down the long table that my ancestor Jacob the Strong had built in the nineteenth century. The papists along its length, like their distant cousins, the Episcopalians, were not keeping their eyes closed. Believe me, a Baptist, or a Methodist, would have to have his or her eyes pried open during a prayer, lest the Devil somehow distract him or her. If, however, they prayed that the English would adopt some gender-neutral pronouns--
"Mags, hon, this is serious."
I closed my wandering eye; I never should have opened it. I was still returning thanks for the Good Lord's bountiful goodness, by whose hand we all were fed, and had yet to even touch on familial maladies.
"--and bless the plump little hands that kneaded this bread," I intoned. "It is, by the way,
excellent
bread, even if Freni did get the loaves a wee too brown on the bottom this time around, so I fully expect that we, your grateful servants gathered here, will partake thereof. And with
gusto
. But as for the beef stew--Mmm, mmm, mmm, does that smell good! No need for divinely inspired gusto there, Lord."
excellent
bread, even if Freni did get the loaves a wee too brown on the bottom this time around, so I fully expect that we, your grateful servants gathered here, will partake thereof. And with
gusto
. But as for the beef stew--Mmm, mmm, mmm, does that smell good! No need for divinely inspired gusto there, Lord."
"Miss Yoder?"
"Yes, Lord?"
At least five out of six of my guests were rude enough to laugh at that point. One can be quite sure that both my eyes flew open in righteous annoyance.
"Over here, Miss Yoder," said the sheriff. He was standing in the doorway of my dining room, and in so doing re- created a scene from my worst nightmare. That nightmare, of course, had to do with the day Mama and Papa died, squished to death as they were between a milk tanker and a semi- trailer truck loaded to the gills with state-of-the-art running shoes. That evening as well a sheriff had stood in the dining room of the PennDutch Inn, twisting his cap in his hands.
"I can see you," I said as an aside to shush the lawman up. "Now, Lord, about the mashed potatoes: it really is a shame you didn't have potatoes in ancient Palestine. You would have loved these. They are smooth--"
"Mags, hon," Gabe hissed from eight feet away, "I don't see any potatoes on the table."
The sheriff cleared his throat. "Tell Miss Yoder," he said, "that if she doesn't join me in her parlor, I am going to arrest her for obstruction of justice."
That
was when the assemblage released their collective gasp.
was when the assemblage released their collective gasp.
"
Arrest
me? You can't barge into my home and arrest me during prayer. That's un- American! Even a Democrat wouldn't do that."
Arrest
me? You can't barge into my home and arrest me during prayer. That's un- American! Even a Democrat wouldn't do that."
"Do you have a warrant?" the Babester asked calmly.
The sheriff is not an unreasonable man. "Look," he said, "all I want you to do is to stop harassing your cousin Pernicious Yoder III, over at the bank, so that I can get some peace and quiet."
I, however, was still quite vexed that he had barged into my home. "He's
not
my cousin, and peace and quiet are redundant."
not
my cousin, and peace and quiet are redundant."
"What?"
Gabe put a steadying hand on my shoulder. "She means that Pernicious is not her
first
cousin, but as to you being redundant--Well, you know, Magdalena; she can split hairs with the broad side of an ax."
first
cousin, but as to you being redundant--Well, you know, Magdalena; she can split hairs with the broad side of an ax."
"Thanks, dear," I said. "Uh--I think."
"But, hon," Gabe said, "what's this about you pestering Pernicious? He's not still trying to get you to donate to the Giant Ball of String Society, is he?"
"Like I would!" That society, by the way, is about as nutty as a stroll down Hollywood Boulevard, or a jog through Clearwater, Florida--take your pick. The members are collecting bits of string from all over the world, which one unidentified woman in Charlotte, North Carolina, is supposedly tying together to form one very long string, which she keeps rolled in an ever-expanding ball. On June 17, 2019, the ball will be unrolled so that the string stretches around the world, thereby uniting all mankind in everlasting peace. Yeah, right; what a Crock- Pot full of
Huafa mischt
that is.
Huafa mischt
that is.
"No," I said quickly, "this has nothing to do with string. But speaking of which, be a dear, will you? And run back into the dining room and see how our guests are faring."
"Of course, dear. But what's that got to do with string?"
I smiled weakly. "You know, tie up loose ends--that sort of thing."
"I will not; I'm staying right here. Go on," Gabe said to the sheriff. "Fill me in."
It isn't pretty to see a man in a uniform flinch. "It's not just Pernicious who's complaining. Your wife has apparently made herself such a fixture around police headquarters that they even have a nickname reserved just for her."
I patted the white organza prayer cap atop my bun. This gesture is admittedly an affectation of mine that I engage in whenever I've been unduly flattered.
"They
do
?" I said in mock surprise. "What?"
do
?" I said in mock surprise. "What?"
"Rasputin."
I recoiled in horror. "Oh, what vile things I've read about that man!"
The sheriff offered me a crooked grin in consolation. "I'm sure the guys at headquarters mean it kindly: that you have an indomitable spirit."
"That you do," the Babester said proudly. "Trust me, Sheriff, it takes a hard man to dominate her."
"And my husband is anything but a softie," I said just as proudly.
"Enough with the mutual-adulation society," the sheriff growled. "You should know, Mr. Yoder, that your wife has been running a full-scale investigation of the bank robbery on her own for some time now."
"Two corrections are in order," I said, stabbing the air with a shapely index finger. "First of all, my husband is
Dr.
Gabriel
Rosen,
not Mr. Yoder--that was my father. And secondly, it was a
failed
bank robbery."
Dr.
Gabriel
Rosen,
not Mr. Yoder--that was my father. And secondly, it was a
failed
bank robbery."
The sheriff glared at me. "Which is neither here nor there as far as you're concerned. This matter is only of concern to the FBI and local law enforcement authorities."
"So then what am I, chopped liver?"
"Huh?"
"It's a Jewish expression," Gabe said. "What she means is--"
"My child and I were there. My son could have gotten killed.
My
son--not
your
son, not the
FBI's
son."
My
son--not
your
son, not the
FBI's
son."
"My son too," Gabe said plaintively.
The sheriff took time out long enough to blow his nose on a plain white handkerchief the size of a picnic cloth. Having relieved his not inconsiderable proboscis of its contents, he rubbed it brusquely from side to side.
"I'll take it then that you intend to interfere at every opportunity and that I should expect to continue to find you underfoot, as I have been for the last three weeks?"
"Three weeks?" gasped Gabe. "You told me you were taking a drawing class in Bedford."
I focused my gaze adoringly on the love of my life. "Darling," I said, "I was in Bedford
drawing
on my life experience. You know that I have a tendency to swallow the end of my sentences." I turned my watery blue eyes to the sheriff. "It's a habit I've developed from having to eat so much crow."
drawing
on my life experience. You know that I have a tendency to swallow the end of my sentences." I turned my watery blue eyes to the sheriff. "It's a habit I've developed from having to eat so much crow."
"I would have thought you'd have some mighty tasty recipes by now, Miss Yoder."
"Touche."
"Oy veys meer," Gabe moaned.
The sheriff jerked his attention back to Gabe. "What was that?"
"Nothing, Sheriff. Really. I'm just admiring the repartee you're have with my wife."
"The
what
?"
what
?"
"Our jolly banter, dear," I said, as I gently pushed the much larger man toward the parlor door and the outer vestibule beyond.
"Uh-huh. Well, I've known her since she was knee- high to a grasshopper," he said without a trace of shame.
After all, I'm ten years older than the sheriff and I used to babysit
him
. He was an ornery little thing too; once he put a banana up the exhaust pipe of my papa's car, and another time he took a bite out of more than a dozen freshly baked cookies that Mama had made for the church bake sale to raise money to buy layettes for newborns in the Congo.
him
. He was an ornery little thing too; once he put a banana up the exhaust pipe of my papa's car, and another time he took a bite out of more than a dozen freshly baked cookies that Mama had made for the church bake sale to raise money to buy layettes for newborns in the Congo.
I pushed harder. The sheriff stumbled backward, but he was never in any danger of actually falling on his well-upholstered hinnie. Hitherto unnoticed by me, all of my guests had gathered in the aforementioned vestibule--the better to hear our conversation.
8
"Well, if that doesn't beat all," Agnes said, as she mashed her fork tines down on the remaining crumbs of the carrot cake I'd brought. "The very fact that the sheriff came out to your place to warn you off the case is a clear sign that where there's smoke, there's fire."
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