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 (23 page)

BOOK: Butter Safe Than Sorry

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There is only one road to take from Mary Berkey's farm into Bedford. Since I didn't want to risk being spotted in my Amish garb, I had to come up with an illusion of some sort--rather like David Copperfield, I should think. Susannah dragged me into Pittsburgh to see him when he was on tour, and I'll admit that, even though I was reluctant to go--magic is not a healthy Mennonite preoccupation--he managed to knock my socks off. That alone was quite a feat. But how he managed to get my woolies off and to the top of a flagpole in the arena without me knowing--that
almost
made a believer out of me.

At any rate, everyone who knows me knows that I have a penchant for speeding. But no one would think that an Amish woman driving a slow car was me. And just for the record, there are Amish who
do
drive cars--but they're black cars and mine is silver. Still, it isn't the sinfully red BMW I had a few years ago, and for which the Good Lord made sure I paid my dues.

However, when I got into the city itself, I parked my car in front of a Laundromat and called a Yellow Cab. The driver's name was Amir Hashish, and he'd been in the country exactly three weeks.

"This is my third anniversary," he said in a Scottish lilt, which also happens to characterize--to my untrained year--the English of the Indian immigrants I've encountered. Other than his accent, his vocabulary and grammar were as good as mine, perhaps better. It was obvious that Mr. Hashish was an educated man, and probably had not been a cabbie in his country of origin.

"What is it you used to do in India?" I asked.

Amir sighed deeply. "Madam, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."

I squirmed. "Please don't say that. You
are
kidding, aren't you?"

"Do you mean joking, madam?"

"Yes."

"Very well, I was joking. I was an aeronautical physicist working on the Indian space program, but"--he laughed sardonically--"suddenly they no longer had space on their team for someone like me."

"I see. Well, welcome to America." I gave him the address to which I wanted to be delivered, but he didn't know it from a hole in a wall in Calcutta. That meant I had to direct the poor fellow while I lectured him on the good and ill in American society, and warned him that there were some folks about--who shall remain nameless--who are capable of bargaining just as ruthlessly as Yours Truly.

By the time I got to my destination, poor Hashish looked a bit like a beaver that had been submerged behind its dam and was forced to come up for air. Frankly, whilst I wouldn't want to listen to my own spiel after just three weeks in the country, I must say that I do dispense a lot of important information and a few tidbits of wisdom as well.

"Don't say you plan to knock someone up, when your intent is to rap on their door. And in lieu of loo, you might want to try restroom or even bathroom--that is, if you want to be understood--although frankly I've never rested or bathed in a public loo before."

"That is excellent advice, Miss Yoder. Thank you."

"My, what a pleasant fellow you are."

Since we were stopped, he turned and faced me full-on. "Is that not a bit condescending?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"That the foreign cabbie is courteous: this should somehow be extraordinary? I mean, really, you of all people should be beyond such judgment."

Why is it that when my heart begins to race, my blood temperature drops? Aren't cold liquids supposed to congeal and move slower?

"What do you mean by 'me of all people'?" I demanded. In all honesty my voice was so shrill that a lonesome magpie outside in a spruce tree began a mating call in earnest.

"Well," he said, waving a hand much too close to my face, "this getup of yours--it might be authentic, but you're not one of those Aye-mish ladies."

"It's pronounced
Ah
-mish, dear. And how would you know? You've only been in the country three weeks."

"Because I am able to see auras, and you do not have the same color of aura as the Ayemish women I have had the pleasure to meet."

"It's Ah-mish," I said through gritted teeth. "I wouldn't say 'Mum-bay,' even though it's spelled like 'bait' without the 'T.' "

"Touche, madam." He turned to face the front of his cab again. "Whatever your reasons for the illusion, it really is none of my business."

"Life is an illusion, isn't it?" I said, as I dug around in my oversize handbag to locate my wallet. "Take the most beautiful woman in the world, drape her in the finest silks, have her do nothing but lounge on a daybed as she eats chocolate-covered bonbons and watches reruns of
Project Runway
--I hear that it's very good--but then turn off her electricity for a week and see what happens. After two days without a hot shower, she'll start to get irritable. After five days, the shimmering silks will be as ripe as last week's fish, and at the end of the seven days, the raving beauty will be ready to trade her firstborn for the chance just to wash her face."

"Miss Yoder, in my country hot showers are a luxury, and there are many for whom even cold water is scarce--at all times."

"Well, I don't believe in auras," I said, "and neither should you."

There was nothing to be gained, and perhaps a lot to be lost, by betraying the immense amount of irritation I felt. Instead of saying another cross word, I wrested money out of my exceedingly reluctant wallet, and gave Mr. Amir Hashish a very handsome tip.

He nodded up and down and sideways as he thanked me profusely. "You are very generous, madam," he added, "so I feel that it is my duty to warn you that I sense imminent danger in your path."

"Poppycock."

"Pardon?"

"Balderdash. Isn't that what they say in England? I thought perhaps that they say that in India as well. At any rate, I don't believe in fortune-telling."

"Very well, madam," and then he practically threw me out of the cab. Perhaps he expected a tree to fall on me, or a meteor to zero in on my newly acquired, very expensive bonnet as its landing place.

I'd asked Mr. Hashish to drop me off at a location that was a full two blocks away from Pernicious Yoder III's house. I'd already called the house and gotten the answering machine, so I assumed that the man was either at work, or at the police station being grilled like a weenie about his professional relationship to Amy. Margaret--aka Mrs. Pernicious Yoder III--was already busy at her volunteer job, which was tutoring reading in the public elementary schools--Well, at least she didn't answer their home phone.

One might think that the sight of an Amish woman on foot in an upper-middle-class neighborhood such as this might cause an eyebrow to rise, and one might be right. Such an action, however, required the presence of at least one eyebrow--something that seemed to be missing from the contemporary scene. Gone were the days of coffee klatches and the Fuller Brush man; here to stay were the days of two working parents and deserted streets at least between the hours of nine and three. In any event, I was pretty sure that I wasn't seen during my brief highland stroll, and my "forced entry"--thanks to the myriad bobby pins that hold my bun in place (not to mention more than a dollop of experience)--went even smoother than I'd expected.

I'm only a partial fool. Upon closing the door soundlessly behind me, I called out softly into the shuttered gloam.

"Anyone home?"

Silence.

"Yoo-hoo, anybody here?"

Dead silence.

"Yoder to Yoder: calling once, calling twice, calling thrice, then shall I wander, as quiet as mice."

A deafening silence prevailed.

"Let's not all speak at once, dears. And just so you know, this wasn't really
breaking
and entering, as I didn't break anything. My hairpin merely found its way into the keyhole, and when I twisted and turned it--Well, can I help it that I have a gift? But enough about me; I'm here to see if I can discover something-- anything--that will shed some light on the horrible bank robbery, of which I was a victim--and have yet to sue anyone about--and also on the death of Amy, who was also traumatized that day."

I'd slipped in through the kitchen door (for some reason they're always the easiest locks to pick) and was working my way through the formal dining room. It was obvious that Pernicious and Margaret took their meals elsewhere; on the dining room table were four color-coordinated, dust-covered place settings. That fact, and the elaborate centerpiece, indicated to me that Margaret took her decorating cues directly from the showroom.

The formal living room was also very much decorated, with no sign of life: not a magazine or gag- me-green afghan to be found. Just to be thorough, I located the spot where Pernicious and Amy had stood the night before when I'd hid in the bushes. In the daylight I could see quite clearly into the overgrown Japanese yews; I also had a better appreciation for what it might be like to be spied upon. Shame on me for lurking about in anyone's bushes.

Frankly, it was hard to imagine that a cold- blooded killer could live in such harmonious surroundings. No, that wasn't quite right. What I meant was that such a pleasant environment--Uh-oh, was that someone coming? I thought that I heard a snurffle. A snurffle, by the way, is a distinctly male sound, as opposed to snuffles and sniffles, which can be attributed to either sex. Oh shoot, there really was someone coming!

I glanced madly around the elegant room. Where could a tall, curvaceous, but still lithe, woman in traditional Amish clothing possibly hide? Not behind the drapes, which although quite beautiful, hugged the walls like newlyweds. And certainly not under the pair of facing sofas, not unless I could magically compress myself into the stick figure I always thought that I was whilst growing up. The only possible option was inside the large oak armoire in the corner opposite the kitchen door. But Heavens to Murgatroyd, who knew if the cabinet door was even unlocked?

The snurffles were followed by a snort and a loud footstep. At that point I flew across the room--literally--I'm sure of it. Fear got me airborne and the voluminous cape kept me aloft, and I will not be dissuaded of this notion. Anyway, much to my relief the armoire was unlocked, so clutching my cape to me, I leapt into it and pulled the door shut. Unfortunately, not all of the fabric made it inside with me. I tried yanking it in beneath the door, but to no avail. Besides, it was too late.

"Now where did she go?" a familiar voice said.

"Beats me."

"I swear I saw her headed for this room."

"Yeah, but she's a cagey old woman." The second voice was familiar as well, in addition to being cheeky.

"She's downright stupid--that's what she is," the first familiar voice said.

"Yeah," said the second voice. "But what do you expect? She's supposedly some kind of cousin of his. Them Yoders is all alike if you ask me. Couldn't none of them find their way south from the North Pole without a compass."

That did it! That hiked my hackles so high that they dug into my armpits, forcing me to fling open the armoire doors to defend my honor. It's one thing to pick on me personally, but to disparage the entire clan? I won't stay stuffed in a portable closet on that account.

"You take that back!" I shrilled.

The men stepped back, but they didn't seem at all surprised to see a woman in a black cape fly out at them from an oaken armoire. In fact, they doubled over laughing.

I stared angrily at them for a full minute before realizing that they were the security guards from First Farmer 's Bank. Almost immediately then I wised up and tried a sweeter approach.

"Talk to your ma lately, Johnny?" Okay, so it was mean of me to call him by his nickname in front of his bud. But for the record, I did it in self-defense, and I have since confessed this sin. The only reason that I bother to mention it now is that I have since come to believe that full disclosure is good for the soul.

At my snide comment the man called Johnny immediately clammed up. He balled his fists and a vein popped out on his temple.

Alas, John's buddy was no more sensitive than was I. "She got your goat, eh,
Johnny Boy
?"

"Shut up, the two of yinz."

Instead of shutting up, his companion turned and offered me a hand the size of Connecticut. Normally I eschew handshakes on the grounds that they are unhygienic, but there times when one is simply caught unawares.

"This is a good way to catch a cold," I said, as I pressed the flesh. "Besides it's an archaic custom dating from the days when men commonly carried weapons, such as swords. Extending an open hand was a sign of neutrality."

"Yeah, and my name is Bill--not Billy
Boy
." He laughed briefly. "We seen you get out of that cab and break in. Decided to follow ya."

"I didn't break in! I merely entered uninvited."

"Hey, don't get your panties in a bunch there, Miss Yoder, 'cause I ain't judging. We was gonna break in anyway."

"Shut up, Bill," John said even more forcefully.

BOOK: Butter Safe Than Sorry

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