Everyone nodded, except, of course, for Ms. Holt. She was the only one dressed. The others, myself included, were wearing a pathetic collection of night clothes and bathrobes. Two of our number, Susannah and Carlie, had wrapped themselves in quilts, and frankly, I doubt that if either of them had a stitch on under them.
Melvin's smile became a smirk and his left eye abandoned Ms. Holt's comely face and settled on mine.
"Fashion is not an important consideration at a murder scene."
Everyone gasped except for Freni and me. It was such a predictable ploy, I wanted to gag.
"Murder?" my guests said in unison.
Melvin was in seventh heaven. "The victim was a white male, age fifty-seven. George Mitchell was his name."
More gasps.
"So, you see why I gathered you all together, don't you? As soon as Miss Cornwater returns, we're going to have ourselves a nice little roundtable discussion. Because one of you" - he paused for dramatic effect - "is the killer."
"That's preposterous!" without any makeup, and wearing a hooded white terry robe, Marge Benedict looked like death warmed over. I've seen corpses, George Mitchell's included, that showed more vitality.
Melvin turned to his challenger. "Oh, is it?"
Marge all but disappeared inside her terry shell. "I only meant that it isn't logical. It's not like the inn is part of a gated community. Anyone could have sneaked onto this property and killed George. The killer could be hiding in the barn right now."
Melvin's spindly frame straightened. "Barn? Now, why would you say barn, Miss" - he consulted his notes - "Benedict?"
"Well - I - or the woods," she said.
"Aha! But you said `barn' first."
"Give her a break," Gladys said, her voice barely audible above the crackling of the flames. She was wearing thin polyester pajamas, no robe, and was shivering.
Melvin wheeled. "Who said that?"
I took a step forward. "Does it matter? You'll have your chance to grill them all like weenies, but first you're going to give them a chance to get dressed."
"Yoder!"
I cannot be cowed by a coward. "this is my inn, and I'll not have anyone catching their death of cold." Of course that was nonsense, since colds are not transmitted by temperature, but Melvin has a hypochondriac streak in him a furlong wide.
"What the hell are you talking about, Yoder? It's hotter than blazes in here."
I pretended to sneeze. Quite frankly I am a very good actress, and if Hollywood were not the den of iniquity - believe me, I know - I would have accepted Babs's offer for a bit part in her next movie.
"They say that new strain of flu from Japan is spreading a mile a minute." I sneezed again.
"All right. Get dressed - the bunch of you. But I'll be keeping both the front and back doors covered. Anyone who tries to escape will be - "
I snatched the bullhorn from his scaly hand. The darn thing wasn't even turned on. A flip of a switch rectified that. I may be a simple Mennonite woman, striving to shun the ways of the world, but thanks to six weeks spent with a film crew, I knew my way around amplifiers.
"Just get dressed," I boomed. "See you in five."
Fortunately Melvin was too embarrassed by his technical ineptitude to chew me out.
I prefer a long hot shower in the mornings, but there was no time for that. I had to settle for what Mama used to call a spit bath - a couple of licks with a wet washcloth and a fresh swipe of deodorant. At least I didn't use real spit, like Mama sometimes did, and of course I put on clean underwear. Other than that, it was yesterday's outfit.
Much to my surprise, I was the last one back in the parlor. Except for Melvin, that is. If I played by my own rules, not only would I have to miss out on the questioning, but I might have to skip breakfast.
"Where's Hernia's finest?" I asked brightly. My cheery tone and informal reference were intended to set my guests at ease. The last time I saw so many nervous faces in one spot was when I caught a raccoon in the henhouse.
"He's outside," Ms. Holt said. The woman had actually changed her clothes, if you can imagine that. Now she was wearing a red silk dress - also Episcopal length - with a belt that had an enormous buckle, the kind schoolbook illustrations show the Pilgrims wearing. Unlike the Pilgrims, Ms. Holt's buckle was gold, and quite possibly the real thing. Between you and me, however, the red dress clashed with its wearer's auburn hair.
"Guarding the doors, no doubt," I said.
Art shook his head. "No, some woman drove up, and now they're off some place together. I think they went back to the barn."
"Was she a short little thing with broad shoulders, huge bosoms, and no hips?"
"Yeah," Art said.
"a man's haircut, no chin, rabbit teeth, and a nose like Karl Malden's?" Trust me, I was being kind.
"Yes, that's her exactly," Ms. Holt said.
"Does her makeup look like it was applied with a trowel?"
"Yes," they chorused.
"The mystery woman is Zelda Root," I said. "She's a policewoman. Hernia's second in command. She and Melvin used to be a thing." I eyed Susannah.
"Used to," my sister said. "Chief Stoltzfus is all mine now."
The front door opened and a few seconds later Melvin and Zelda walked in.
"Speak of the devil," I said. Then I nodded to his companion. "Good morning, Zelda."
"Good morning, Magdalena. Mel - Chief Stoltzfus tells me there's been another incident here."
"You can go ahead and say it, dear. There's been another murder."
"Another?" Marge Benedict looked only slightly more alive in the winter white pantsuit in which she'd arrived. What a pity those enormous brown eyes and luxuriant brown-black hair were wasted on a mere twig of a woman. If God had given me assets like those, I would have eaten myself into a find full figure - either that or bought one.
"Those were a long time ago," I said quickly.
"Maybe in dog years," Melvin said.
Zelda, bless her mannish, but painted little head, has always been a peacemaker. "Well, back to the current incident, are we all present and accounted for now?"
"Alma's still not back," Freni said, and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Oh, yes, I am."
We all turned to face Alma, who was standing in the opposite doorway, the one that opens on the back hall. Her blue jeans were muddy at the knees, and she was still wearing her multicolored parka, which had mud streaks along the front. The thick glasses had slid even farther down than usual, and the mound of thick, graying hair had come down on one side and was covering one lens. The other side of her do was barely held aloft by a tortoiseshell comb. I don't mean to be insensitive, given that she's a minority and all, but she looked like a loser. Even I could see that.
"What's up?" she said, between deep gasps. "Did somebody die?"
"You tell us," Melvin snarled.
"Yes, I'm afraid there's been a murder," I said. "Mr. Mitchell is dead."
"Oh, my!" Alma steadied herself against the doorjamb. Unfortunately all the chairs were taken.
"You can cut the act," Melvin said. "We have our proof."
I strode over to Alma, forcibly ejected the saucy Carlie from her chair, and seated the older woman. Kids nowadays have no manners.
"What proof," I demanded.
"This," Melvin said. From the pocket of his trench coat, he extracted a small plastic bag containing a tortoiseshell comb.
"That's a very nice comb, dear," I said, "but first you have to grow your hair a little longer."
"Very funny, Yoder. It's not mine. It's hers." He nodded at Alma.
"Is it?" I whispered.
Alma patted her head. Apparently she wasn't even aware of the missing comb.
"Well, I guess it is - "
"This doesn't prove anything," Freni said, stepping forward in defense of a fellow Native American. "Lots of English wear combs. She" - Freni pointed at Ms. Holt - "has then in her hair."
"Well!" Ms. Holt patted her mother-of-pearl combs. They were both accounted for. "I would never wear that disgusting thing. It's plastic!"
"Let me see the comb." Alma sounded exhausted.
"You don't have to say anything without a lawyer present," I whispered.
"I heard that, Yoder."
Alma looked at me. "It doesn't matter. I have nothing to hide."
Zelda, bless her heart, took the bag containing the comb from Melvin, loped across the room, and showed it to Alma.
"It's mine," Alma said without expression.
Melvin's orbs lit up like twin spotlights. "Aha! I thought so."
"But I didn't kill anyone."
"Oh, no? Officer Root found that thing just outside the barn."
"Ach!" Freni clapped a hand over her mouth.
I patted Alma's shoulder. "Tell us what happened, dear."
Alma shoved her glasses back into place an wedged a hank of the lose hair behind her ear. She crossed, then uncrossed, her chubby legs.
"I'm in the habit of getting up early, you see. Back home I'm a waitress at Cherokee Bob's Wigwam of Pancakes. Breakfast shift. Anyway, I woke up at five o'clock like I usually do, and then I couldn't go back to sleep. Instead of just lying there, I decided to take a walk."
"You headed straight for the barn, didn't you?" Melvin's mandibles were chomping at the bit. He couldn't wait to arrest poor Alma Cornwater.
"No, sir. It was cold down here, so I decided to surprise Mrs. Hostetler and light a fire."
I cleared my throat loudly and nodded at the sign. To my credit, I didn't verbally chide her in front of the others.
Instead of looking at me, Alma turned to Kimberly McManus Hold. "Then I went into the kitchen, and I ran into her."
Ms. Holt fidgeted with the monstrous gold buckle. She did not look up.
"I get up early too," she said. "We start taping Cooking With Kimberly at nine, but I have to bet here by seven-thirty for hair and makeup. And I don't live right in Boston. Anyway, I was in the kitchen, about to fix myself a cup of coffee, when Ms. Cornwater walked in. We had a brief conversation in which she told me she was going for a walk in the woods."
"And then?" Melvin asked with uncharacteristic gentleness. Susannah and Zelda exchanged worried glances.
"And then I made the coffee and took it up to my room. I brought a lot of work with me. Being the star of a cooking show is much more than slinging hash."
"Ooh," Arthur said. "Low blow."
Melvin focused on Alma again. "So that's it?"
I cleared my throat, and rolled my eyes at Zelda. She's both the brains and brawn of Hernia's fearless duo.
"Please finish your story, Miss Cornwater," she directed.
Alma readjusted hair and glasses. Perhaps she didn't have the money for contact lenses, but the odds were she had a pair of scissors.
"Just like Ms. Holt said, I told her I was going for a walk in the woods. And I did. I don't know what I was thinking, but I kind of expected it to be like the wood back home. I live right next door to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, see? It's thousands of acres of forest that - "
"Spare us the travelogue," Melvin snapped.
Poor Alma looked like she'd just been slapped. "Well, there was less than a mile of woods before I hit a fence - y'all sure have a lot of fences around here - anyway, I climbed over that and hadn't gone much farther when I saw the naked man."
-17-
I looked at Freni, who was trying to suppress a smile. `I mean, it's really cold out there, and suddenly there's this guy walking along stark naked - well, except for a hat. He ad on one of those thre-ecornered hats, the kind they wear in Australia."
Melvin smirked. "Yeah, right."
"Dinky Williams," Freni said, shaking her head.
Zelda was nodding. "I've heard of him. He's that back-to-nature freak, right?"
"An urban refugee," I explained for everyone's benefit. "Dinky - I think his real name is Bill - moved here from New York City last year. He's a retired architect. Anyway, he bought a piece of the Mishler farm so he could build his dream house. All glass, I hear. Only thing is, Dinky and his wife are nudists and seem to be very fond of nature walks. In the summertime it's hard not to see what the Good Lord intended to be covered."
I turned to Alma. "I didn't realize Dinky was a cold weather buff as well. Did he speak to you?"
