"Go ahead," Bob said, and took a step back. "It was an interview I did in conjunction with the fiftieth anniversary of D-Day. It
was a local interview, but it ended up being carried by several networks on the evening news. Anyway, I mentioned the Butcher of
Tunis, and someone wrote to me, in care of my local station, and said that the Butcher was still alive. She - the writer - claimed to
have known him. Claimed to have seen him around town sometimes. The woman didn't give her name or address, but the
postmark was Bedford."
"Old Irma!"
Both Melvin's orbs swiveled my way. "Irma Yoder?"
"She was the Fuehrer's floozy," I said, "in a manner of speaking. Himmler's harlot, Goering's gal. It's a long story, Melvin, and
there will be plenty of time for it after your honeymoon to Aruba. Courtesy of moi, of course."
Melvin mellowed.
Scott ran a well-manicured hand through his silver mane. "So we arranged to have our fiftieth reunion here. We thought we'd
poke around and see if, through a little detective work of our own, we could find the Butcher, or at least the woman who wrote the
letter."
"But why Hernia? Why the PennDutch?"
"That's my fault," Bob said with a grin. "I was in charge of the reservations. I checked on motels in Bedford, but my wife
Sandy wanted to stay at an authentic Mennonite bed and breakfast."
"Good choice, dear. The motels in Bedford clean your rooms for you. Think of all the fun you would have missed."
Everyone laughed, except for Melvin. "I'll be holding you to the long version of your story as soon as Susannah and I get
back from Aruba."
I smiled patiently. "Of course, dear."
With any luck, the honeymooners would be hijacked by Middle Eastern terrorists. Everyone but Melvin would be released. Of
course no harm would come to Hernia's former chief of police, but he would spend the rest of his days filling hookahs and
watering camels in some remote desert outpost.
27
It may sound crass to you, but Susannah's wedding proceeded as scheduled. The only one who mourned Johanne Burkholder
was Samantha, and thanks to Diana Lefcourt's generosity, she was safely ensconced at the Retreat of the Fractured Soul. If only
Diana had remained there herself.
"Where's the pastor?" I hissed to Lodema Schrock. The folding chairs on Elvina's front lawn were filling up fast. There was
less than half an hour remaining in my sister's single life, and unless somebody got their behind back from a fishing trip to the
West Virginia mountains, my sister was going to be married by Yul Brynner in drag.
Lodema clutched her oversized pocketbook protectively to her chest. "I tried, Magdalena, I really did. I left messages at all
the fishing camps along the New River and its tributaries. Apparently one of them got through, because the reverend returned my
call late last night. Unfortunately, there's been a lot of rain in those mountains, and a flash flood has left him stranded in a little
place called Podunk."
"Bunk," I said.
"I beg your pardon?"
I glanced at the bright blue sky. "When it rains in West Virginia, it generally rains here. Have you ever considered the
possibility that your husband's fish stories are - well, fishy?"
"Why, I never!"
"Which may be why he goes fishing every now and then. It's none of my business, dear, but you might consider the
horizontal mambo now and then. I know it's boring, and a bit messy, but what's three minutes out of your life every month or so?"
Imagine! Me, Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, giving advice on sex!
Lodema gasped indignantly and strode away.
"No need to thank me, dear," I called to her back. "And don't worry, I won't say a word about Lady Marion and her formula
number twelve!"
A familiar cackle prompted me to turn.
"Are you being mean spirited again, Magdalena?"
"Old Irma! You're just the person I wanted to see - well, you and the reverend."
"Oh, what about?"
"The Butcher, dear."
Old Irma's face tightened so dramatically, it was like she had a facelift before my eyes.
"What about him?"
"You knew he was - is - here in Hernia, didn't you?"
"I did not."
"Of course you did. It was you who wrote Mr. Montgomery and ratted on Sam, right?"
"Ach, don't be ridiculous! I don't know what you're talking about."
I steered Old Irma aside. "A secret for a secret, dear."
"I know all your secrets, Magdalena, and there isn't one of them worth repeating."
"Thanks, dear. But yours are worth repeating."
"You wouldn't!”
"Not if you fess up to the truth. And if you don't, I might spread the rumor that Melvin is your illegitimate son."
"Don't be ridiculous. If I had a son, he'd have to be far older than that."
I smiled. "Logic seldom interferes with a good rumor." Old Irma's faded eyes darted in every direction. Still a good spy, she
was wisely cautious.
"Okay, so you know more than you should. Yes, I suspected Strubbly Sam. I always have. But I thought he was Johanne -
the two boys looked a lot alike in the old days."
"But you know Strubbly Sam very well. You know that he's a changed man. Regardless of which brother he is, he's not the
same man he was in 1942."
"Yes, I know. But I always felt guilty keeping my suspicions to myself. When I saw that TV interview with Mr. Montgomery, I
looked at it as a chance to turn the problem over to someone else."
"So you washed your hands of Strubbly Sam, just like Pontius Pilate, eh?"
She frowned, and almost a century of wrinkles returned to her face. "Don't be so hard on me, Magdalena. I didn't want to die
with a guilty conscience."
"I understand. So, don't die with one now."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that the Butcher died last night in the old grist mill, and as for the Scorpion, he's off in Paraguay someplace making
macramé shopping bags for German tourists."
"I understand." Her eyes flitted to the left and back to me.
I can be slow on the uptake, so I will admit it took me several more flits before I turned.
"Gabriel!"
He looked incredibly handsome in a hand-tailored Italian suit. "I hope you don't mind my being here."
"Mind? Why should I mind?"
"Because I didn't run down to the mill last night after the heard the crash. I figured there were enough people involved. And
anyway, those guests of yours seemed to mow exactly what they were doing."
"Yeah, well, they were men with a mission. And you were a man busy playing games."
"Am I meant to be offended by that last remark?"
"That's your call, dear. So, who won the game of rhythm?"
"I did."
"Beginner's luck," I said, not unkindly.
"Excuse me?"
"If I hadn't been so distracted I could have beaten the pants off you."
"That's a laugh."
"What? Look, buster - "
"Children!"
I whirled. "Susannah!"
"Am I interrupting something, Mags? Maybe a little romantic tension between you and this gorgeous hunk of a doctor?"
"Susannah!"
"On that note, I think I'll find myself a seat," Gabriel said.
"So, Mags," Susannah finally said - we'd both been watching Gabriel's buttocks until he disappeared in the crowd - "what do
you think of your baby sister?"
"Huh?"
"How do I look?"
What was there to think? My baby sister looked resplendent in her fifteen yards of royal blue silk, which she had draped
behind her in the world's longest train.
"You look gorgeous, dear."
"And?"
I studied her, and finding nothing much to criticize, allowed my gaze to wonder.
"Susannah!"
Standing right beside her - and with remarkable patience, I might add - was that ratty little dog of hers, Shnookums. I hadn't
noticed the beast before, because he tended to blend in with the train. He too was swaddled in his own blue silk, and in fact, he
had his own little train.
"He's my bridesmaid," Susannah said proudly.
"But he can't be your bridesmaid," I wailed. "He's a dog! And an ugly, spiteful dog at that."
Normally these are fighting words, but Susannah was smiling. Old Irma had begun to warble "O Promise Me," and it was time
for the show to begin.
"Ready to give me away?" my baby sister asked.
"And how!" I said.
28
Ragin’ Cajun SPAM® Party Salad
(as served at Susannah's wedding supper)
Salad:
8 ounces wagon wheel shape pasta
1 (6-ounce) jar marinated artichoke hearts
1 (12-ounce) can SPAM® Luncheon Meat, cubed
1 cup diced bell pepper
½ cup chopped red onion
½ cup sliced ripe olives
3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh basil leaves
Dressing:
1/3 cup olive oil
¼ cup creole seasoning mix
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon mayonnaise or salad dressing
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
½ teaspoon dried oregano
½ teaspoon dry mustard
½ teaspoon sugar
½ teaspoon dried thyme leaves
1 clove garlic, chopped
Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain artichokes, reserving marinade; cut into
quarters. In large bowl, combine all salad ingredients. In blender, combine reserved artichoke
marinade with dressing ingredients. Process until smooth. Add dressing to salad, tossing well.
Cover and chill several hours or overnight. Serves 8 to 10
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION PER SERVING: Calories 325; Protein 11g; Carbohydrate 26g; Fat
20g; Cholesterol 35mg; Sodium 669mg.