The Death of Pie (4 page)

‘She can't hurt you, dear. She doesn't exist – not really.'

‘Who am I to disagree with my elders?' he said disagreeably. ‘But we're both looking at a ghost right now.'

‘Then again, we are and we aren't.'

‘Forgive me, Miss Yoder, but what you
are
is not making any sense.'

‘This Apparition American – ghost as you called her – resembles my Granny Yoder, and would lead us to believe that this phenomena really does exist. Yet the majority of both Amish and Mennonites would reject such a belief, and if they were in this room with us, at this very moment, they would be unable to see my granny. So I ask you, what is the truth?'

Far be it for me to speak ill of the dead, but Granny Yoder was not the brightest candle in her candelabra while she was alive and, now that she was dead, her attention span was even much shorter. No doubt it was the word ‘phenomena' that sent her flying from the room in a flurry of dust motes.

‘You know, Miss Yoder,' Toy said, resuming his seat, ‘I must have been hallucinating, or daydreaming or something, because I don't see anything weird anymore. Do you mind if we get back to business?'

‘Indeed I do not!'

‘Good, so moving right along, here is a list of suspects that I have drawn up based on my reading of
Butter Safe Than Sorry
. I thought it was an excellent novel, by the way. The mystery element kept me turning the pages so fast that they were smouldering. I thought, “Dang,” ' I groaned inwardly at Toy's use of the offensive word, ‘ “this would be a great book to take on a wilderness backpacking trip.” You know, just in case no one remembered to bring matches! Hey, don't you think that what I just said would make a great book review?'

‘I most certainly do not.'

‘Now, this list I'm giving you concentrates on the folks living in Hernia and its environs, as these are the people who have suffered the most from all the negative publicity this book has received. I have omitted anyone from Bedford because they're not quite the itty-bitty ink spot on the map that we are. Besides, from what I hear, motels along the Pennsylvania Turnpike in either direction, as far away as Carlisle and Youngwood, have been jam-packed for the two months since the book has been out. How about you, Miss Yoder? I bet the PennDutch Inn has been booked solid, hasn't it?'

‘Stuff and nonsense,' I said nonsensically. It was a phrase I'd read in an old English novel somewhere; I hadn't the slightest idea what it meant. Toy, apparently, didn't give a plump Turkish fig
what
it meant either.

‘Good, like they say, a high tide floats all boats – well, something close to that. Unfortunately, your cousin-in-law, Dorothy Yoder, is on my list of suspects, as is your delightful mother-in-law, Mother Malaise of the Convent of the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy.'

‘She's as delightful as a tick in one's underwear,' I said, without a shred of undeserved malice.

‘Miss Yoder, do I detect a little bitterness there? I thought you Amish were supposed to be a kind, gentle people.'

I was careful to bite my tongue first before answering. I bit it hard. I have bitten it so many times over the years that there are permanent indentations into which various teeth now fit into rather neatly, and thus the pain is really minimal. As I bit, I counted to ten in English, Pennsylvania Dutch, Spanish, and French. One may rest assured, however, that my watery blue eyes remained focused on his face to let him know that he had stepped over the line. Finally, I cleared my throat, and hoped that whatever wattles I might have accrued over my forty-nine years were vibrating with authority.

‘Young man, as I have explained to you at least a dozen times: I am
not
Amish, although my grandparents were. I am a Mennonite. I happen to be amongst the more liberal sort of my Old Order brethren. We Mennonites do not ride around in horse-drawn buggies. Having suitably rebuked you, allow me to remind you that I am indeed a kind and gentle person. Unless you have walked a mile in my size forty-four brogans with Sister Malaise as your mother-in-law, you are in no position to judge me.'

‘Yes ma'am,' Toy said, for apparently I had managed to stare him into a state of semi-submission. He tried slumping in his straight-back chair as if he were a teenager with a strand of spaghetti for a spine. Much to my secret amusement, the chair refused to cooperate and Hernia's new Chief of Police slid off it and onto the floor.

I glanced over at Granny, who had reappeared. For the first time ever, her perpetually downturned mouth was a straight line! Arguably, one corner might even have qualified as ‘slightly askew.'

‘Moving right along,' I said, looking at the list Toy had given me, ‘you have my best friend down as your number three suspect. Why is Agnes on your list?'

‘Duh,' Toy said, having regressed even further in my book for using that loathsome word, ‘Ramat made her out to be a total loser. It's no wonder she can't marry. I sure wouldn't date her.'

‘Well, of course you wouldn't; you're—'

‘Gay? Actually I'm not.'

‘But you just said you were!'

‘No, I didn't; I simply didn't deny it. My generation doesn't make a big thing of being gay like yours does. Now, what do you think of the last suspect on this list?'

‘Doc Shafor? You have got to be kidding! He's an octogenarian, for crying out loud!'

‘Octogenarian, huh? Never heard of it, Miss Yoder. But sadly, I'm beginning to think that a person's religion doesn't have much to do with whether or not he could commit murder.'

‘It's
not
a religion you – you – Chief of Police!' All right, so I hissed like a goose sitting on her nest. At least I hissed with a soft ‘c.' One should always be careful not to be tricked into hissing whilst reading sentences that lack hissing sounds.

Toy, who resembled a much younger version of Justin Bieber, shrugged. ‘Whatever. Let's see, in my notes I've also got down that Doc Shafor is sort of an old guy. Is that true?'

‘Yes, dear. As I said, he's an
octogenarian
. He and Columbus – the one who discovered America – were childhood playmates.' That was not a lie; it was an absurdity. Surely, even someone of Toy's mental capacity would never believe that Doc Shafor had been around in the 1400s.

‘No way,' Toy said. He sounded truly impressed.

‘Would I lie?' I said, still without fibbing. Meanwhile, Granny Yoder rolled her eyes.

‘I've also got down that he's a skirt-chaser,' Toy said.

‘A
what
?' I said.

‘He likes the ladies,' Toy said.

‘Oh, that,' I said. ‘Yes, that's quite true. I remember hearing the names Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria.' Never mind that those were the names of Christopher Columbus's three ships, the ones he sailed on his maiden voyage to America. The fact remains that I did hear those names – back in grammar school.

Chief Toy's smooth, boyish hand skipped across his pad a few more times. ‘One last question,' he said as he lifted his pencil, ‘and I'll make myself scarce. Word has it that the doctor was one heck of a good cook, and that pie-making was one of his specialties. Can you confirm this?'

I thought about my dear friend, who was also my many times distant cousin. He was a lovable, lecherous old goat if ever there was one, who'd spent a lifetime treating goats. Doc was a veterinarian, not a medical doctor, but like some veterinarians are fond of saying, ‘Veterinarians have to know everything an MD does, and more, because animals have all the corresponding parts that humans possess, but without the ability to describe what ails them.'

So Doc was certainly smart as a whip. He was also a widower, who missed his wife terribly, and I think that he transferred some of that grief to his female friends, where it was expressed as physical passion. Either that or Doc was just plain horny. But he was good company and always stuck loyally by his friends, just as close as lamprey eels stick to sharks.

I squared my scrawny shoulders and tossed my asymmetrical head. That last move nearly threw me off balance enough to dislodge me from my own less-than-comfortable perch. Trust me: even after much practice, a posture of defiance does not come easily to those of us who are aesthetically challenged.

Doc might have been an old goat, and I was becoming an old fool, but I knew exactly what Toy was after: my so-called ‘expertise.' Ever since Hernia had a Chief of Police – or just a police officer – that person has approached me when the going got tough and asked me to get going for him or her. The reason is simple: I have both the mouth and the moolah. Moolah, by the way, is American slang for money, a term that entered into the lingo via the mouths of cinematic gangsters circa 1939. Why it is that a good Christian woman like me should know this word is really no one's business but my own, if you were to ask me. At any rate, I just knew that Toy was going to come up with an excuse that would saddle me with the job of grilling the village folk, making enemies out of my friends, and possibly even angering my husband. But what I absolutely refused to do was to rat on my friends. Magdalena may be many things, some even ending with an ‘itch' – but she is
not
a snitch!

‘Burn me at the stake,' I bellowed. ‘Stretch me on the rack,' I rasped. ‘Pull out my fingernails and call me Portulacca, but I will never turn on my friends. Never in a million years. Not for all the money in China!'

Chief Toy rose calmly. His soft features registered no emotion whatsoever, so I had no idea how he was reacting to my outburst. For all I knew, I'd gone completely bonkers and had never uttered a single word of it aloud.

‘You may drive the cruiser car,' the chief said.

I jiggled my pinkies in my ears to make sure they were both working. ‘
Excuse
me?'

‘Really, Miss Yoder, I'd rather not be seen in that old clunker. I bought a lightly used Mercedes sedan for my own use, and I'm having it painted and outfitted with the appropriate lights, sirens, GPS, communication systems and what have you.'

Even I can be speechless. If this condition persists, onlookers can sometimes become concerned. Such was the case that fine afternoon.

‘Miss Yoder,' Toy said, after some time had elapsed, ‘you are a handsome woman, but this is not one of your best looks.'

‘How rude!' I cried.

‘I've already installed the safest infant seat on the market,' my trim and tiny tempter said.

‘Get behind me, Satan!'

‘Since you don't have any official police training, you can't wear a uniform, but I don't see anything wrong with you wearing something that approximates a uniform.'

‘Approximates?'

‘I was thinking a longish navy skirt, a button-up navy shirt and one of our official navy police caps, but with the insignia removed. However, I've heard rumours that you may have the third largest head in America. Therefore it is possible that none of our caps will fit you.'

‘That's OK, I'll cram my foolish noggin into that cap, you'll see! I'll get my head shrunk; I'll do whatever it takes, I promise!' Truthfully, I am a sucker for a uniform, but I still wasn't going to snitch on my friends, no matter
what
I turned up wearing!

There you have it; this then is the perfect example of the ability of power to go straight to one's – er – head. Suddenly, I wanted a uniform more than anything. Who knows, to obtain my goal of being a pseudo-law enforcement officer, I might have gone so far as to hike my hemline up to my knees and perform a sinful Irish jig, possibly even a Scottish reel or, heaven forbid, I might have gone so far as to gyre and gimble in the wabe.

Toy could see that I was tempted. ‘How does that sound?'

‘Like a dream,' I purred, and then ground the heel of one of my sensible black brogans into the toe of the other. Of course the act of trying to stifle my sinful nature only served to spark another question. ‘What about shoes, dear? Do official shoes come with that getup?'

‘Uh – yeah. Actually – no.'

‘You're talking like a sausage, dear.'

The poor boy looked away. ‘What I'm trying to say is that the very practical
things
that you have on now will do just fine.'

‘That's OK; you may call them clodhoppers if you wish,' I said. ‘And feel free to make gagging sounds if it helps.'

‘Well, OK, thanks,' he said.

‘Do you want me to wear white socks or navy?' I said.

‘It doesn't matter, Miss Yoder. Wear whatever you like.'

‘Well, it matters to
me
, dear. If I'm going to yield to temptation, then I'm going to sin
all
the way.'

‘Then definitely wear white socks,' he said. ‘White is a racier color than navy. By the way, did I tell you that even though you won't be authorized to pull anyone over to the side of the road with the cruiser car, as a private citizen, you are always permitted to make a Citizen's Arrest?'

‘With handcuffs?' I said. Hope springs eternal, even in the flattest of breasts.

‘Yes, ma'am,' Toy said, ‘providing the accused cooperates and allows you to put the cuffs on him. Even if they don't cooperate, those handcuffs over there will look really cool hanging from the navy-blue belt of your navy-blue skirt.'

I could feel myself beaming like a lighthouse on the Isle of Wight. Over the past dozen years as Hernia's mayor, I have had the distinct displeasure of finding myself embroiled in every manor of mayhem, from mud-raking to murder. Throughout the years the Good Lord has blessed me financially to the point that I am by far Hernia's wealthiest citizen. Because we have fewer than 3,000 souls living within the greater community, we cannot afford to staff a full-time police department without help from the ‘private sector.' When saying those last two words perhaps one should pause and think of me fondly – or at least pause. Sad to say, people are seldom grateful for what is truly free. Case in point: not once had I ever been offered the chance to drive the police car, which I'd paid for entirely with my own money.