"Which truck was your daddy driving?"
"An eighteen-wheeler rig with a double cab."
"What was it carrying?" I screamed.
"Sports shoes, ma'am."
Thank God I was still sitting on my stool behind the check-in counter. As it was, I swayed and lost my balance, and had it not
been for Bob's quick reaction, might have gashed my forehead on the counter.
"Ma' am, you all right?"
"No, I'm not! Your daddy killed my papa! My mama too!"
"Ma'am?"
I jerked away from his steadying hand. "My parents were in that car that got folded like an accordion. Your daddy rammed
into them from behind, and squished them right up against a milk tanker. What was he, drunk?" Perfectly round patches of color
formed on Bob's cheeks. "My daddy was a God-fearing, born-again Baptist, ma' am. He never drank a day in his life."
"Oh really? Then what was he trying to do? Purposely run over a poor Mennonite couple?"
The patches faded slowly while Marjorie and I watched in silence. Finally Bob spoke.
"Ma'am, they didn't tell you the whole story, did they?"
"Of course they did. Why wouldn't they?"
"Ma'am, your daddy - I mean, the car your parents were in - it passed my daddy's truck."
"So?"
"He - I mean, it - passed in the tunnel. Seconds later another car zoomed around from behind my daddy's truck and got in
front of the milk truck. The driver of the milk truck - he was the only one to survive the accident - said it looked like the two cars
were playing tag. Anyway, he had no choice but to slam on the brakes."
My head pounded. "That's preposterous!"
"Ma'am, it's all in the sheriff's report."
"And you've read this?"
"I have a copy in my desk in Tulsa. I'd be happy to send a copy to you."
"Why didn't anyone show me that report?"
"Maybe they were trying to protect you, ma'am."
For approximately six seconds I entertained the possibility that Papa would have done something that foolish. Sure, he was
ahead of his time in that he occasionally exhibited signs of road rage, but who hasn't? Just last week I honked at a car that cut me
off on my way into Bedford. No, Papa was a sensible, loving family man. He would never have risked his or Mama's life to play a
stupid game of one-upmanship.
I straightened. "There's no need to. I know it isn't true. Besides, what happened to the car in front? The one Papa was
supposedly playing tag with?"
Bob had the audacity to look me straight in the eye. He didn't even have the decency to blink.
"According to the sheriff's report, the car - which was a blue Nash Rambler - sped up and just drove away. The driver of the
milk truck didn't have a chance to get the license number."
A likely story." Either Bob was a pathological liar, or sheriff had been trying to frame Papa. Whichever the case, I had neither
the time nor energy to deal with it at moment.
'I'm really sorry to have taken you by surprise, ma'am. I had no idea you lost your parents in that accident, or I wouldn't have
brought it up."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say."
I struggled to my feet. Someday I would make it point to ask Freni what really happened in the tunnel. Or Sam. Or Irma
Yoder, if we could find her. One of these three would undoubtedly have heard something - assuming there was anything to hear.
What a pity Lodema Schrock hadn't been around back then. Well, in the meantime I needed to pull myself together, find two
missing people, and watch my baby sister marry the meanest mantis in all God's green creation. Sure, I was at the end of my
rope, but lucky for me, I have long arms.
Then, just when things couldn't possibly be any worse, the doorbell rang.
17
We're not buying this morning, dear," I said and tried to slam the door.
Diana Lefcourt was as slippery as an oiled slug - either that or she used her magical powers. The next thing I knew she was
standing in the middle of the lobby, which by then was filling up rapidly.
"What are you doing here now?" I wailed. "The wedding's not until tomorrow."
"I sensed you needed help." She said it with a straight face, despite the fact that she was dressed like an Egyptian pharaoh.
Fortunately for propriety's sake, she was dressed like a female pharaoh.
"Where's Tutankhamen, dear? All I see is Nefertiti."
"My name is Ankhesenamen. I am the wife of Tutankhamen, Queen of all Egypt, the Sudan and Nubia."
I curtsied. "Welcome, Your Highness."
"Go ahead and laugh, Magdalena, but I can see you are in trouble. Your aura is sick."
"My what is what?"
"It's all gray and deflated. It's hanging from you like a shroud."
I rubbed my arms. I felt nothing unusual - well, actuIally I did, but it wasn't hanging from me, it was emanating from a four-
thousand-year-old queen. In Susannah's words, I felt bad vibes.
"Don't make a fool of yourself, dear," I said kindly. "Everyone's staring. Now if you'll just hop back into your chariot, we can
get on with our day."
The woman formerly known as Diana, a.k.a. Mother Anjelica Houston, and whose new name I couldn't pronounce on the
pain of death, nodded. "Yes, of course - the search."
"I don't know what you're talking about, dear." I wanted nothing more than to shove the interloper back onto the porch.
"Yes, you do, Magdalena. There are two missing presences."
"Don't be ridiculous," I hissed. "A missing presence is a contradiction in terms. Besides, who told you?"
"It's allover the county - Magdalena has lost two guests again."
"Old Irma is not a guest!"
"Just be grateful Susannah called me."
"Susannah!"
"Of course, even on my own, I would have eventually known there was trouble. I can feel the magnetic misalignment of these
two missing presences. Like you, they have sick auras."
"Can the New Age mumbo-jumbo, toots." I glanced helplessly around. "Sorry folks. This woman is an escapee from the
County Home for the Rationally Impaired."
"No need to apologize," Dixie said in her charming accent. "This is all very interesting."
"Yah," her husband said in his charming accent, "this sure is nothing like Minnesota."
"Ooh, I just love her outfit," Doris cooed. "Do you think we could get his-and-hers outfits like that?"
Jimmy Hill nipped nauseatingly at his wife's left ear. "Not back home in Arkansas. Maybe it's a Mennonite thing."
"We're not all like this," I wailed. "And she doesn't have a drop of Mennonite or Amish blood in her. Not a single drop!"
Diana held up a wrinkled brown hand in which she held a wooden staff with a serpent's head. In her younger days she had
been a devoted sun worshipper. Now she was married to the sun's earthly representative.
"Actually, I do. My grandmother was a Kauffman." Young Marjorie was staring at the faux pharaoh as if she was Santa Claus,
the Tooth Fairy, and the Good Lord all in one. It was downright sacrilegious.
"Totally awesome," she finally managed to mumble. Even Sam seemed mesmerized by the vamp in veils.
It was time to step in and share a little perspective.
"The woman's a nut," I said not unkindly. "Normal people do not claim to be dead Egyptians. Okay, I know my sister dresses
sort of like that, but she doesn't wear a black wig with a gold cobra on top. And yes, she wears a lot of makeup, but with all that
kohl around your eyes, you look like a raccoon that's been in a fist fight. Now listen up, people, we have a search to conduct. You"
- I pointed at the amorous Arkansans - "will search as a team. Same thing for you," I said to the charming couple from Minnesota.
"Sam here has a couple of Amish buddies to help him - "
"Ach, Magdalena, it's spring planting - they are younger men and so busy. I will search alone."
"Fine, dear, you know the area." I turned to the others.
"Since she's not here, I'm assuming Mrs. Hart is not up to the task this morning, so, that leaves just you and you." I nodded
first at young Marjorie, and then at Bob. "And don't even contemplate making her into a teammate."
Bob blushed, as well he should. Young Marjorie merely giggled.
"Now you be careful, dear."
"Don't worry, Miss Yoder. I'm a big girl, I can take care of myself."
I smiled kindly. "I wasn't talking to you, dear." I turned to Bob. "Be careful. The girl's like a bull in china shop."
Marjorie took step forward and tripped on an untied shoelace, but to be honest, made a remarkable recovery. "Hey, I resent
that. And what about you? Who's going to be your partner?"
"I will," Diana Lefcourt said in a voice that could part the Red Sea.
I smiled patiently. "In your dreams, dear."
Diana, a.k.a. Ankhesenamen, smiled back. Now, I know what I'm about to describe doesn't make a lick of sense. And I must
warn you that the mumbo-jumbo, hocus-pocus aspect of it is not in keeping with the great Judeo-Christian tradition. In fact, it feels
like a sin to even remember what happened. But forewarned is forearmed, right? So consider yourself indebted to me if you are
able to resist the Diana Lefcourts of this world, and their bags of tricks from the netherworld. Alas, I had no such alarm sounded
for me, and found myself carried along like flotsam on the sea of sin.
One moment I was Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, Mennonite mistress of my domain, and the next I was nothing more than a
pathetic puppy yapping at the flapping sandals of a phantom Pharaoh. Even Mama with her bag of seismographic tricks was
unable to stop me.
Of course, no one could stop Diana. She assigned the search areas with the authority of General MacArthur.
"You and I will check out the old Miller homestead across the road," she said after the others had departed. "It's been
unoccupied for months. It would be the perfect place for someone to hide."
"Nobody is hiding, dear. Two people are missing ."
"Yes, but consider the possibility that one of the missing presences might have abducted the other, and has stashed her or
him, as the case may be, in the Miller house."
"Old Irma has a formidable tongue, but she couldn't abduct her own shadow. She's over a century old, for Pete's sake. But
even if you're right, I can't go there."
"Why not?"
"Well, because - well, you know. That's where my Aaron used to live."
"Get over it, Magdalena."
"Yes, ma'am."
We lit out in a light rain. Okay, so maybe it was only a mist, but I hate getting my shoes grass-stained, and even though I
wear my hair in a bun, a wet bun doesn't look good even on me. Nonetheless, since galoshes and bumbershoots were not in
vogue in the eighteenth dynasty, I had to do without - never mind that Her Highness arrived at the inn in a 1968 Volkswagen
beetle. A bright orange bug, no less.
I trotted obediently at her heels as she crossed Hertlzer road, and ignoring the long driveway that leads to the Miller
farmhouse, strode across the greening pasture. At least there were no cows - wet cow pies can be treacherous - now that the
Miller farm is defunct, but there were plenty of memories for me to rehash. Miller's pond, set smack in the middle of the pasture, is
the scene of my most poignant memory.
My Pooky Bear and I met when we were children, but I fell in love with him on the banks of Miller's pond. Aaron Miller is
storybook handsome, and as glib as an itinerant preacher. I gave my heart to the man, and later, after we were supposedly
married, I gave him the rest of me. It all started one warm sunny day when Aaron literally dropped at my feet. You see, I had been
daydreaming in the shade of a tree at the water's edge, quite unaware that hidden up in the foliage was God's gift to women. Don't
ask me what a grown man is doing up in a tree, but when Aaron miraculously appeared, I took it as a sign from above. Although I
have since learned that not everything that falls from trees is good, or necessarily from God, the sight of this particular tree still
plucks the strings of my pathetic heart.