"I'm sure you know as well that hiding a known fugitive is a crime in itself. Heavens, the Hernia hoosegow could be
filled to overflowing before this case is through."
"Ach, but I . . ." He voice faced away, and the tears welled up again.
"You what?"
She shook her head vigorously. "Nothing."
"If you know something, you should tell me now. I came here to help, Annie."
"Enos Mast."
"Who?"
"Isaac Mast's son."
That's all she would say. Further prompting caused her to snatch the chickens - one still half-plucked - and head for
the house.
"What about lunch?" I called after her. "I'm available."
The screen door slammed behind her.
Not only was it lunchtime, but I was missing a cook. My guests pay big bucks, and expect high returns. Fortunately, it
is atmosphere they expect, not service. Until Freni saw the error of her ways and came crawling to me on her knees, I
would have to implement an emergency measure. It was time to resurrect ALPO.
I smiled benevolently at the group assembled around Great-granny Yoder's solid oak table. Thank the Good Lord the
urchins had settled for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and were already outside screaming and hollering loud enough
to wake the dead in China. And since I was in a grateful mood I gave thanks for the fact that Susannah cleaned exactly
one room before falling fast asleep on a pile of dirty laundry.
"It means Amish Lifestyle Plan Option," I said, ignoring the hungry looks on my guests' faces. "It's the quickest way
there is to get to know the Amish."
"I still don't get it." Wilmar Brack was a pain in the back.
"Oh, I do, and I think it's marvelous." Shirley Pearson, who was used to speaking at board meetings, stood up. "You
see, Mrs. Miller has generously offered to let us experience the authentic Amish lifestyle. We get to cook our own meals,
clean our own rooms, and do our own laundry, and it will cost us only fifty dollars more a day."
"Cool. I can dig it." Terry Slock, former child star, seemed genuinely pleased.
It never failed to surprise how much abuse people will put up with if they can view it as a cultural experience. Well,
most folks.
Wilmar Brack stood up as well. "I think it's the dumbest thing I ever heard."
Shirley bestowed an icy smile on Dr. Brack. "I still have the floor, I believe."
"Floor shmore. This isn't some damn boardroom."
"There'll be no swearing in my establishment," I said sternly.
Dr. Brack backed down. Dorothy Dixon raised her arm, as if she were a schoolgirl. "Will we get a chance to meet the
Ayemish? Besides, Mrs. Hoaxstetler, the cook, I mean. You see, I’ve been thinking that the Ayemish would make a
wonderful setting for a series of children's mysteries. What do you think of Hattie Hoaxstetler and the Hernia Hex as my
first title? Hattie would be Ayemish, of course."
The woman was creative, I'd give her that. I have always been a voracious reader, and as long as I can remember,
authors have been my heroes. That was true right up until the day I met my first live author, a bizarre, paranoid woman
who traveled with a continent of six bodyguards and a pet cheetah. Since then I have come to understand that authors are
just folks like the rest of us, with the same quirks and foibles, although in some cases the foibles are more pronounced.
Okay, let's face it, most writers I know are more neurotic than a kitten raised by pit bulls, but I try not to judge.
In all honesty, Dorothy was far more normal than most writers I'd had as guests at the PennDutch. She was an
attractive woman in her mid-thirties who didn't appear to be any stranger than yours truly. I could say something equally
complimentary about her husband, Angus Dixon. If they hadn't shown up with their urchins in tow, I might well have liked
them. I tried to smile pleasantly.
"That's Ahmish, dear, and yes, perhaps something could be arranged. Perlaps a visit to Annie Kauffman's farm."
That would serve her right for not inviting me to lunch.
"Wonderful!" Shirley exclaimed.
“Will there be photo opportunities?" Angus asked. He seemed rather shy for a Pulitzer prize-winning photographer.
"I'm sure." It isn't a lie if you don't go into specifics.
"Costumes!" Terry Slock sat up, suddenly excited.
"Man, that could be real cool. We could all wear Amish costumes to help us get in the mood."
"For what?" Maybe Susannah is right when she says I never have a clue.
Terry gave me a sympathetic look. "It's like method acting."
Shirley graced him with an executive smile. "Wonderful. Where could we buy some of those charming outfits, Mrs.
Miller?"
"The Amish around here make their own clothes," said. "Although you can find the fabrics they like a Miller's Feed
Store."
She looked expectantly at me.
"It's a very distant relation. You won't get a discount.”
Shirley nodded. "Anyone here know how to sew?"
It was time to put a stop to the nonsense. "They'll think you're mocking them, if you copy their dress. Like I said, the
best way to learn about them is to live like them. Right here. The ALPO plan."
Dorothy had her hand up again. "That's redundant," she said politely when called on. "Calling it ALPO plan. But, what
I want to know is, can we still visit that farm?"
I smiled away my irritation. "Of course, dear. And you," I said to her husband, "could photograph week's activities."
"That could be a photo essay," Angus said pensively. "Life magazine might go for it."
"Count me out," Dr. Brack bellowed. "I'm not washing dishes and cleaning rooms on my vacation, just to get my
picture in some damn magazine."
He stomped out of the dining room just as Freni stomped in. The two nearly stomped into each other. If I was a
betting woman, which of course I am not, I would lay odds on Freni, and not just because her center of gravity is lower.
"Magdalena Portulacca Yoder Miller. I want to see you. Alone!"
I excused myself from the group and obediently followed Freni back into the kitchen. It would not do to have my
guests see two pacifists lock horns. The lucrative ALPO plan would fizzle then for sure.
"Freni, what are you doing back?" I whispered, hoping that she would take the hint.
"Me?" she practically shouted. "What are all those people doing in there? I haven't called them to lunch yet."
"Freni, dear, you don't even work here anymore. Remember?"
"Ach, throw me out just because I'm old. Well, I may be eighty years old, Magdalena, but I'm not useless."
"Stop padding your age, Freni. It's not going to get you my sympathy. Besides, you quit. I did not throw l you out."
"Magdalena, please, we shouldn't argue about the meaning of words. Life is too short, and you and I are close blood
relatives. Not just distant cousins, like some."
"Ah, I think I see. It's your daughter-in-law, Barbara, isn't it? The two of you not getting along again? Freni, you really
should consider getting some professional counseling. It isn't easy having one's in-laws living in - believe me, I know -
but you're going to have to accept the woman. She's been married to your son John for twenty years."
She stared at me through two little round lenses supported by plain wire frames. "You may be hard to work for,
Magdalena, but you're going to need my help with this bunch. So, as a favor to your mama - may she rest in peace - I
unquit."
It was time to stand my ground, or forever give way to the Amish wolverine. "You can't decide that on your own. This
is my kitchen, and we can get along perfectly well without you."
Freni sucked in her breath sharply.
" Ach! So that's it. You're trying to sell the English ALPO, aren't you?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
"Magdalena, you should be ashamed of yourself for taking money from them like that."
"I tithe," I said stubbornly. "And anyway, they can afford it. Whatever they spend here means less money for sex,
drugs, and alcohol somewhere else."
Freni nodded slowly. Although neither of us had much firsthand experience with the evils of the world, we knew they
cost money.
"How much is ALPO costing this time?"
"Fifty extra a day."
"How about a modified ALPO? Tell them that they still get to clean their own rooms, but I'll not only cook for them, I'm
willing to teach them how to bake pies from scratch for an extra twenty-five."
"It's a deal," I said, and then realized too late that the Amish wolverine had just weaseled her way back into my
kitchen.
Everyone was pleased with the modified ALPO except for Dr. Brack.
"I'm still not interested in your damn plan," he snarled. "And who the hell wants to make pies on their vacation?"
"Watch your language, buster," I snapped. To her credit, Mama always said I thought fast where money was
involved. "But that's a real shame, because for that extra twenty-five dollars a day I was going to let you shovel out the
barn."
"Who do you think you're kidding?"
I feigned confusion, something I am skilled at. What I mean is, you could shovel it wearing one of our famous braces.
You would wear it without your shirt, of course. When that picture gets published - well, you know what they say about a
picture being worth a thousand words."
Dr. Brack chewed on that for about ten seconds. His mama had raised no dummy, either.
"Shirtless, eh? And there would be pictures of me in my brace plastered across the pages of a national magazine?"
"That's the point."
"Hmm. This guy Dixon really any good?"
"He wasn't just nominated for his prize, dear. He won."
Although Dr. Brack glared at me, I could tell he was hooked. "Okay, but you have to wear a brace, too."
"I beg your pardon!" I had never gone shirtless in my life, and I wasn't about to make a debut as a topless tootsie for
a quack with a back fetish.
He smiled, and for the first time I noticed that he lad three gold crowns. Until then, I didn't even know he had teeth.
"I don't mean you need to go shirtless, as well. I just want you to try wearing one. You'll love it, you'll see. By the end
of the week you'll swear by them. Who knows," he shrugged dramatically, "you might even allow me to stock some
literature about my invention in the information rack in the front office."
I shrugged, albeit less dramatically. "Who knows." But I knew. I might consent to wear one of his braces, if it meant
his participation in ALPO, not to mention shut him up, but I was never going to mix his sorry little pamphlets in with those
of area attractions. Melissa Frances, curator of the Pennsylvania Living Museum of Newts and Salamanders would never
forgive me if she found out. Neither would Horace Schnicklegruber, organizer of the Bedford County World's Smallest
Pumpkin Festival.
Susannah, much to my surprise, took the termination of her new job in stride. Actually, she took it lying down, on the
job. I mean that literally. She was still sacked out atop a pile of dirty shirts when I found her. I'm sure no one else even
noticed her, thanks to the fifteen feet of flowing fabric she was wearing that day. They just happened to match some of my
sheets.
My sister yawned. "Easy come, easy go," she said. "But fired from two jobs in the same day, that has to be some
kind of a record."
I patted her shoulder. "You weren't fired, dear. I just don't need you to strip beds and wash sheets." She yawned
again. "I wasn't going to wash the sheets. I was just going to switch them around. You know, take the blues from that
room, and put them on the bed in there, and takes those pink ones and put them where the blue ones were. It's energy
efficient, don't you think?"
I complimented her on her ingenuity. "Perhaps some of the guests might prefer clean linens," I said gently. "You
could show them how to use the washing machine."
"Okay."