"Where is he?" she demanded.
"Where is who?" I gave her a quick, careful hug. My sister is even scrawnier than I. She compensates for her lack of discernible bosoms by carrying her dog. Shnookums, around in her bra. I kid you not. It gets worse -this pint-size pooch is eighty percent mouth, and twenty percent sphincter muscle. Hugging Susannah can have disastrous results.
She pushed my loving arms away. "Come on, Mags, I see his car out there!"
Needless to say, I felt hurt by her greeting. After all, I hadn't seen my sister for almost three months. Susannah is given to frequent, but brief love affairs that have been taking her increasingly far afield. This is to be expected. I suppose, since she was a penchant for dating truckers. Never mind that she is supposedly engaged to our local police chief.
Of course Susannah wasn't always like this. Like me, she was raised to be a good Christian, a nice conservative Mennonite girl. But shortly after our parents' death, Susannah did the unthinkable and married out of the faith. A Presbyterian, no less! In no time at all, she was wearing shorts and painting her fingernails. Then she started listening to rock and roll. After that it was booze, cigarettes, and finally a divorce. By the time the ink dried on that document, her apple had not only rolled from the tree, it was out of the orchard entirely.
"Whose car are you talking about, dear?" I asked pleasantly.
Susannah rolled her eyes. "Don't play dumb, Mags. Roach Clip, who else?"
"Roach Clip?" I asked, stalling. Perhaps I had forgotten to tell her that Mr. Clip's stay - well, at least Susannah thought Roach was a he - had been rescheduled for some time after the millennium.
"That's his car, Mags! Everyone knows Roach Clip drives a beat-up old green Buick. It's part of what makes him so funky."
"I'm sorry, dear, but I had to cancel the Clip."
"You what!" she shrieked.
"Freni's in a cooking contest. I had to clear the inn for the other contestants."
I have never seen my sister so mad. She ranted and raved, while the mangy mutt in her bra bayed. Poor Alma didn't stand a chance of sleeping.
Who knows how long the tantrum would have lasted, had not Mr. Anderson appeared at the door. He was not, as Freni described him, a young man - he was probably a few older than I - but he was an uncommonly comely fellow. Imagine, if you will, Tom Cruise with gray sideburns and mustache.
"Who is that hunk?" Susannah didn't even bother to whisper.
I pressed my finger to my lips. "He's the contest organizer, and one of the judges," I whispered.
"You've been holding out on me, Mags."
"Susannah, you're an engaged woman now, remember?"
My sister rolled her eyes again. One of these days they're going to stick in that position, and she's going to have to learn to part her hair in back.
"Melvin pisses me off," she said. "I'm thinking of calling off the whole damn thing."
First, allow me to assure you that I do not countenance vulgarity in my home. I would have sharply rebuked Susannah, had not my heart been skipping with joy. Melvin Stoltzfus, the aforementioned police chief, is my nemesis. The good Lord put him on this earth for the sole purpose of reminding me of Adam and Eve's sin. Woman's punishment is the pain of child-bearing, but since I will forever remain as barren as the Mojave Desert, God gave me Melvin.
The man is as bright as a two-watt bulb. He once sent a gallon of ice cream to his favorite aunt in Scranton - by U.P.S. His mother would have you believe that he wasn't always this stupid, that it really began when he tried, unsuccessfully, to milk that bull. She claims it was the kick in the head that did it.
But I am a tolerant person, and can overlook gross ineptitude, if it isn't accompanied by arrogance. Unfortunately, Police Chief Melvin Stoltzfus is a graduate of the Paris School of Humility. He delights in throwing his meager weight around, and once even had the audacity to accuse me of murder. I would do just about anything - even play matchmaker - to knock Melvin out of the picture.
I thought fast. "I understand Mr. Anderson is single."
That may have been a mistake. If given a choice, she prefers the challenge of married men.
"oh."
"And he does look like Tom Cruise."
"Give me a break."
"Well, he is a vice president of a major corporation."
"So?"
"He's probably well-to-do."
Her eyes lit up like a pair of flares, and she flounced off to flirt with her next victim. Melvin, with his policeman's salary, was out of luck.
Moments later a distinguished-looking gentleman, carrying a matched set of luggage, strode into the office. Close on his heels was a tidy woman dressed in a tweed skirt suit and black pumps. Her mousy brown hair was cut in a neat bob, and she wore a moderate - might I say tasteful p amount of makeup.
"Gordon Dolby," he said, and handed me the prerequisite invitation. "I'm here for the East Coast Delicacies cooking contest."
I took the paper and checked it against my list. His name was there all right. G. Dolby, but there was nothing on the invitation, or my list, about his wife. It was precisely at that point that my "vexometer," as Susannah refers to my temper, began to rise.
"I'm Magdalena Yoder, your proprietress."
"Ah, a learned woman," he said and glanced at his wife.
I smiled pleasantly and asked them to each sign the guest register. Much to my irritation he signed both their names.
"I'm giving you room number one," I said curtly.
"And my daughter?" he asked.
I peered around the pair. There didn't seem to be a child with them. Mr. Anderson was going to get an earful for withholding such crucial information. It's not that I'm anti-children, you see, but it's just that I've never been terribly fond of the little brats.
The woman I'd pegged as Mrs. Dolby stepped forward. "I'm the daughter, you see. My name is Gladys Dolby." She seemed more resigned than embarrassed.
That revelation vexed me even more. My inn has eight guest rooms, one of which Susannah uses during her intermittent stays. There were to be four contestants, besides Freni, and three judges. If father and daughter desired separate accommodations, Susannah was going to have to bunk with me. I would sooner have the inn crawling with urchins.
I pretended to scan the ledger. "Hmm. I don't suppose -I mean, would one room be all right?"
"Certainly not!" he barked.
Gladys looked away.
"I'm putting you in number eight, dear," I said. As long as I was going to be inconvenienced, I may as well do someone else a favor.
After that, the inn began to fill up rapidly Unfortunately, my mood did not improve. I have an aversion to snobs, present company excluded, and can smell them a mile away. Especially when they are wearing expensive French perfume.
"Ms. Kimberly McManus Holt," the woman said. "Boston, Massachusetts."
"Magdalena Yoder, Hernia, Pennsylvania. How may I help you?"
"I'm afraid you don't understand," she said, peering up at me along a perfectly sculpted nose. "I am the Kimberly McManus Holt."
"I am the Magdalena Yoder," I said, peering down the length of my considerable proboscis. Actually there are five Magdalena Yoders, that I know of, in Bedford County, but I am perhaps the most notorious.
Ms. Holt clucked in annoyance. "I'm the star of Cooking with Kimberly."
She dropped the familiar admission slip on the counter, as if it were something disgusting. "I've been invited to participate in the East Coast Delicacies cooking contest.
I gave her the quick once-over. If that woman was a serious cook, then I was Leona Helmsley's twin sister. Ms. Holt looked to be in her late thirties, a very put-together woman in a pearl gray suit, matching shoes, purse, gloves, and a faux fur coat. She even wore a coordinated hat, although it was one shade darker. The hat, incidentally, matched her eye color exactly. Not one auburn hair appeared to out of place, and the handful of freckles on her pale face were sprinkled artfully across the perfect little nose. It was a toss-up as to which could make me gag faster, a four-inch stack of tongue depressors or Ms. Holt.
"Welcome to the PennDutch Inn," I said. "Magdalena Yoder, proprietress, at your service." Forced cheer is a skill that can be learned, and I was an "A" student.
"So, this is the place," she said, wrinkling the perfect nose, which in turn made the reckless dance.
"and isn't it charming, dear?"
"You do have me down for a nonsmoking room, don't you?"
"That's the only kind I have." From time to time, Susannah risks my ire and lights up, but few guests have had the nerve. I handed her a key. "Room number three, top of the stairs on the left."
"I can't be fooled, you know." Fat chance. With all that perfume she was wearing, I could have kept a pair of breeding skunks in the room and her nose would have been none the wiser.
She glanced around. "Well, I guess I'll go on up and check it out. As soon as the bellhop returns, I have a million things that need bringing in."
I scooted playfully around the counter. "At your service, madame."
"I beg your pardon?"
"That's me, the bellhop. I get to wear many hats."
"Oh, really?"
"Of course none of them are as nice as your hat. That's the most realistic fur I've ever seen."
"The hat is genuine fox," she said crisply.
"So the coat must be five of six foxes then. Maybe even a whole den."
Ms. Holt was not amused.
The gentleman from South Carolina was more my style. His smile preceded him into the lobby, and his clothes were off the rack. Wal-Mart, possibly, or maybe even JC Penney.
"Welcome to the PennDutch Inn," I said warmly. "My name is Magdalena Yoder, and I'm the proprietress."
He extended a large black hand. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am. My name is Arthur Strump. But you can call me Art." He had a heavy southern accent, which I found rather pleasing, although it made his name sound like "ought." I took him to be in his late twenties.
"Are you here for the cooking contest, Mr. Strump?"
"Yes, ma'am." He reached into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt, and finding it empty, patted it a few times. When nothing magically appeared, he turned, and that's when I first saw the little girl.
"You told me to stick it in my purse," she said, and handed him the paper.
I stared at her. She didn't look anything like her father. She was as white as cottage cheese, and he as dark as a pan of brownies. From a genetic standpoint, it seemed more likely that it would be the other way around. But since I know very little about these things - my ancestral pools are about as varied as freshwater lakes in the Mojave - I prudently kept my mouth shut.
Now, I am not one to judge, but black tights and a baggy black sweater do not an outfit make. Where was the bottom to the ensemble? No skirt, no slacks, the poor child didn't even have a coat to keep her warm, although she did have boots - the kind my daddy used to wear when he mucked the barn. And rings! That child wore them everywhere. I'm no babe in the woods, catering to celebrities like I do, and I've seen some bizarre cases of body piercing, but she had more punctures than an inner tube in a cactus patch. It was a wonder the girl didn't just ooze away through all those unnatural apertures.
Arthur put the invitation on the counter. "This is Carlie," he said.
I smiled. "Hi, Carlie," I said sweetly. Between you and me, however, I was seething. Mr. Anderson was going to get an earful, or was the culprit Freni? I had specifically instructed my kinswoman to make crystal clear to the E.C.D. folks that children were not welcome at my establishment. That was a nonnegotiable condition for holding the contest at the PennDutch.
Carlie, who was chewing on a wad of gum about the size of the planet Pluto said nothing.
"She's kind of shy," Art said, and fondly rumpled Carlie's bleached spikes.
"How old is your little girl?" I asked pleasantly.
"I'm eighteen, and I ain't his little girl."
I swallowed. I have a sixth sense for trouble, thanks to Susannah.
"Well then whose little girl are you?"
"That ain't none of your business." She grabbed Art's left arm. "This here is my boyfriend."
I grabbed the counter for support. Nine generations of Yoders turning over in their graves produce a palpable seismic activity.
"Oh, no, you don't, not in this house," I said through clenched teeth.
The ball of gum found a parking place in her cheek. "What's the matter, you prejudiced or something?"
