The Hand that Rocks the Ladle (17 page)

We stepped inside, and I closed the door behind me. I made it look as casual as if I lived there. This was not an easy feat, considering I was shaking like a belly dancer on an ice floe.

“Dr. Pierce?” I called. “Are you home? Dr. Pierce?”

Except for the ticking of a mantel clock in the next room, the house was eerily silent.

“Maybe he’s fallen and can’t get up,” Susannah said. “It wouldn’t be right if we just ignored him.”

I ignored her. “Dr. Pierce?” I called again. “Dr. Pierce?”

“Oh, Mags, you’re such a wuss. We’re already inside. What’s it going to hurt if—damn!”

“Susannah! You know how I—oh, darn!”

Trust me, that’s as bad as I swear. We both had a pretty good reason if you ask me. The miserable mongrel had managed to wiggle out of her bra and had leaped to the floor. Susannah tried to pounce on the pooch, but she misstepped and got hopelessly tangled in her own swirls. Fortunately she landed on the thick wool rug.

I tried to leap nimbly over her, but alas, I left my nimble days behind somewhere around my fortieth birthday. Fortunately I landed on the thick wool rug and Susannah.

Neither of us was seriously hurt, but by the time we got on our feet and had our bearings, the hound of Hades was halfway up the stairs. We chased after the beast.

“This time you’re dog meat!” I shouted.

It was a wide stairs and we were able to climb side by side. I may have a decade on Susannah, but she has her clothes. Frankly, however, neither of us is fit. We huffed and puffed our way across a marble landing and were halfway up the second set when we simultaneously noticed the blood. It was dark, more black than red, and stood out sharply on the pale gray marble.

I looked up. At the head of the stairs was an arm, bent backward, and the top of someone’s head. The hair was naturally red.

“Turn around,” I ordered Susannah.

It was too late, she’d seen it too. And besides, it was impossible for either of us to do anything but keep on climbing.

“Don’t look,” I said.

We both stared. There, at the top of the stairs, lay the prone body of a man. He was lying on his stomach, his legs splayed. One arm was folded under him, the other, as I’ve said, extended over the edge of the stairs. Shnookums, that horrid creature, was sniffing the corpse as if it were a giant bowl of kibble.

And yes it was a corpse. I knew that without getting any closer. I’ve been around death enough to know that it has its own peculiar smell.

“Get the rat,” I said quietly, “I’m calling 911.”

Florence Root’s World-Famous Peanut Brittle

♦

1 cup raw peanuts

1 cup sugar

½ cup white Karo syrup

¼ cup water

1 teaspoon baking soda

Mix sugar, syrup, and water in a saucepan. Cook on medium heat until mixture spins a “thread,” stirring frequently. Add peanuts and cook until just barely brown (approximately seven minutes). Remove from heat. Add baking soda all at once and stir quickly. At this point the mixture will foam. Spread on a buttered cookie sheet and allow to cool. Break into pieces.

This is the lightest, tastiest peanut brittle in the entire world, and Wanda Hemphopple should be ashamed of herself for taking credit.

The Bedford police could not have been kinder. Instead of hauling us off to the station and interrogating us under a naked light bulb, they interviewed us in the dining room of the pseudo-Tudor, under a chandelier. Inspector Spratt, a mild-mannered man, perhaps in his mid-fifties, was in charge.

We were interviewed one at a time, first Susannah, and then myself. As a professional courtesy, they invited Susannah’s husband, the incompetent Melvin Stoltzfus, to sit in on both interviews. I begged Inspector Spratt to pull out my fingernails instead. He merely laughed. I offered him my firstborn, should I ever have one. He declined. I seriously considered offering him the opportunity to see that there would be a firstborn, but alas, my morals are stronger than my instinct for self-preservation. Melvin stayed.

We took seats around one end of a massive mahogany table, me on one side, Melvin and Inspector Spratt on the other. Although I was so nervous my knees were playing a calypso tune, I couldn’t help but admire the table. It was easily twice the size of the one I had back home. If my ancestor Jacob “The Strong” Yoder had seen such a table in his lifetime, he would have been so filled with envy and the desire to possess worldly things that he would have undoubtedly quit the Mennonite faith. It was a profound and sobering thought. Who knows what he might have become—a Baptist, or even a Presbyterian. Had there been but a larger table in eighteenth-century Hernia, I might well be sitting here in shorts, with painted nails and a mannish bob.

Inspector Spratt’s gentle voice intruded on my reverie. “What were you doing inside the house of the victim?”

“Snooping,” Stoltzfus snorted.

I gave him the evil eye. “Inspector Spratt asked me, dear.” I turned to the detective. “I wanted to ask Dr. Pierce a question.”

“What was the question?”

“Well, it’s kind of complicated.” I paused, to organize my thoughts.

Melvin jumped right in. “Everything you do is complicated, Yoder.”

“You see,” I wailed, “this man has it in for me!” Inspector Spratt gave Melvin a meaningful look, but of course it was totally wasted. Insects aren’t sensitive to human emotions, and besides, one of Melvin’s mantis eyes was focused on the ceiling, the other at my face.

“Miss Yoder, take all the time you need to collect your thoughts. No one is trying to hurry you.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay, here goes. Freni Hostetler, who is my cook, but also a cousin of sorts, has a daughter-in-law, Barbara, whom she despises. Only she doesn’t despise her anymore because something came unstuck in Barbara’s plumbing and she blossomed forth, as fertile as the Nile Valley.”

“Give me a break,” Melvin moaned.

“Please,” the inspector said softly. “Continue, please, Miss Yoder.”

“Well, not only did Barbara get pregnant, but she was all set to have triplets. In the meantime, however, Freni’s husband Mose also got pregnant.”

“Ha!”

Inspector Spratt and I both glared at Melvin. This time one of the wayward eyes must have made contact with the detective, because Melvin squirmed. Inspector Spratt nodded in my direction.

“He wasn’t really pregnant, of course. He just had appendicitis. Anyway, the same time Barbara went into labor, Mose had an acute attack, and we had to rush them both to the hospital. To make a long story short, Mose ended up going to Bedford Memorial, but Barbara gave birth at Hernia Hospital, which hardly even counts as a hospital if you ask me.”

“Which no one did,” Melvin said.

“Enough,” Spratt said curtly.

I gave Melvin a triumphant look, but I’m not sure if he caught it. “Well, now, where was I? Ah, yes. Dr. Bauer and Nurse Hemingway delivered the babies, but instead of triplets, there were only twins. Barbara and Jonathan—that’s her husband—seemed to take it okay, but not Freni. She’s sure that there really were three babies and that something happened to one.”

“Like what?”

I shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like the doctor or nurse could have just spirited one away. After all, Barbara and Jonathan were there the entire time. At any rate, Freni made me promise to investigate the situation, and even though it seemed a little silly to me at first, I went along. I spoke to both the doctor and the nurse, and they both stuck by the twins’ story. Then I started asking around—to other patients of Dr. Pierce—to see how competent he was. Maybe he made a mistake and counted wrong. Well, they thought he was a good doctor—at least they said they did. Of course, I would have spoken to Dr. Pierce directly, but it seems his office is closed. I did speak to his nurse, however, and she said he told her he’d suddenly decided to take a vacation.”

“A permanent vacation,” Melvin muttered, “thanks to you.”

Inspector Spratt pushed back from the table and stood. I hadn’t imagined he could look so stern.

“Chief Stoltzfus, please refrain from interrupting, or I will have to ask you to leave.”

Melvin’s mandibles mashed in agitation, but he said nothing. Spratt sat.

“Miss Yoder, when you arrived here, at the Pierce residence, was the front door unlocked?”

I nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir, it was. And I rang the doorbell lots of times. You can ask Susannah. Frankly, I don’t know what made me actually try turning the knob, but aren’t you glad now that I did?” Spratt smiled. “Please, tell us exactly what you did when you found the door open.”

I checked his ring finger. It was as bare as my left big toe. Not even a tan line. I doubted if he were a Mennonite—not with a funny name like Spratt—but we are always ready to welcome new believers.

“Well, we came in. I called Dr. Pierce’s name, but of course he didn’t answer. Then Susannah’s dog got loose and—”

“Wait, please. Back up. What’s this about a dog?” Melvin turned the color of Freni’s pickled beets. Who knew bugs could blush?

“My sister has a hideous little hound that goes everywhere with her. You wouldn’t believe the places that mutt’s been. Why, just today that itty-bitty beast burrowed in the biscuits, to say nothing of Wanda Hemphopple’s beehive hairdo. But most of the time, you wouldn’t know Shnookums was there. You see, my sister carries him around in her purse—well, actually, most of the time it’s in her brassiere.” It was my turn to blush, for having said the B word to a man.

Melvin groaned. From the sound of it, he was about to expire. I found this strangely exhilarating. The many times I have found myself fantasizing about Melvin’s demise—it is a sin, I know that—I never once considered death by mortification. That opened a whole new realm of possibilities.

Inspector Spratt laughed. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Miss Yoder, but you’re a hoot.”

“And a holler,” I said, and then, remembering that fervid month following my faux nuptials, blushed again.

“Yeah, I just bet you are. Okay, now where were we?”

“I was about to describe how that loathsome rat leaped from my sister’s bosom, and before we could stop him, he’d run upstairs. Of course we had to chase after him, and when we did we discovered Dr. Pierce’s body. Believe me, we never would have set foot outside the foyer if it hadn’t been for Melvin’s dog.”

“My dog?” It was amazing how fast Melvin could rally. It had taken but a microsecond for the mantis to go from mortified to mad.

“Well, he’s your wife’s dog, and what’s hers is yours, right?”

Melvin knew exactly what I meant. Any inheritance that couple hoped to come into was going to have to come from me, not Melvin’s mother, who was a poor Mennonite farmer’s widow.

“Right,” he said sourly.

I turned to the inspector. “So when we found Melvin’s dog sniffing at the corpse like it was a bowl of kibble, I called 911. That’s why you’ll find my fingerprints on the phone.”

He nodded. “Well, that seems to do it for now. I assume I’ll have no trouble reaching you at your inn?”

“I’m there night and day—well, normally. And here’s my private number.” I handed him a card. I’d show that Gabriel Rosen a thing or two. He might have a lover and baby stashed upstairs at his newly acquired farmhouse, but this gal has a few tricks stashed up her modest, elbow-length sleeves.

In a rare occurrence, both Melvin’s eyes managed to focus on the same spot. In this case, Inspector Spratt’s forehead. “You’re letting her go? Just like that?” Inspector Spratt smiled patiently. “She’s answered all my questions.”

“But she-she-she—” Melvin sputtered like a campfire in a drizzle.

I sailed regally out of the room. Proper exits are so important, don’t you think? At any rate, I found Susannah in the foyer shamelessly flirting with a uniformed officer.

“You leaving with me? Or you leaving with
him
?” Susannah winked at the young man in blue. “But I hardly know him.”

“I meant your husband, dear. The man who once mailed his favorite aunt a carton of ice cream.”

“But at least it was Rocky Road, her favorite flavor.”

“Susannah!”

“All right. I’m coming with you. That is, if you’ll drop me off at the Material Girl.”

“The fabric store?”

“My sweetykins hates even going near that place, but Sergeant Walters here says they have some job openings.”

Sergeant Walters cleared his throat. “My sister owns it.”

I frowned. “That’s a bit out of the way, and I’ve got a million things to do.”

“Please, sis? You don’t have to wait around. I’ll hitch home from there.”

“Okay, but just to drop you off.”

I gave Susannah the lift she desired, and as promised, didn’t stay. Naughty Eddy’s Haircuts and More is located right next door to the Material Girl. Not only does Naughty Eddy live up to his name, but he seems to take a perverse pleasure in trying to get naughty with me. As for the safety issue, my baby sister has hitched to Alaska and back. Yes, I know, hitching can be very dangerous, but so can Susannah. She is, after all, armed with that dog.

I made a quick stop at Pat’s I.G.A. in Bedford, and then drove straight home. I have a job after all. Being proprietress of the PennDutch Inn is a full-time occupation. It involves much more than just riding herd on a bunch of privileged folk who have more money than they can ever spend. Who do you think cleans the rooms of those folks who can’t be talked into the A.L.P.O. plan? Seventy-five-year-old Freni? Sure, she helps, but I’m the one who hauls the equipment around, and does the grunt work. Besides, Freni is needed most in the kitchen.

It was almost noon when I parked my sinfully red BMW in the shade of a large maple and hightailed it in through the back door. I may not be the world’s greatest cook, but that story about me burning water is just a rumor. And anyway, how hard can it be to cook those new frozen entrees Pat’s been stocking lately? Anything to stop the Moregold twins from taking over my kitchen. Bubble and squeak indeed! That’s all I did for the next two hours.