Just Plain Pickled to Death (17 page)

“Just what, pray tell, is that?” Auntie Lizzie asked. The Tabasco sauce hadn’t seemed to faze either her or Uncle Manasses.

I smiled. “Oh, playing Amish can be loads of fun, dear. You and Auntie Leah will take down the drapes in the den and—”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Auntie Leah bellowed.

“But you will,” I said calmly. “You’ll all do the chores I assign you, or you can find accommodations elsewhere. Of course, you’d owe me for the nights you’ve already spent here.”

Uncle Rudy slapped his wallet on the table. “I’ll pay you for the damned nights. How much is it?”

I chuckled pleasantly. “This is a very expensive establishment, you know. Celebrities come here from all over the world to savor the ambience, and ambience doesn’t come cheap.”

Uncle Rudy waved a fistful of hundred-dollar bills. “Quit beating around the bush, Yoder, and tell me what the damages are.”

I politely refrained from laughing. “And unfortunately, June is my high season. Still, you are Aaron’s family, so I’ve decided to give you a ten percent discount. No, make that a twenty percent discount, on account of you’ll all be my family too come Saturday.”

Uncle Rudy smirked and tucked all but one of the hundreds back in his wallet.

I pulled one of my inn’s brochures out of my dress pocket and did some quick mental arithmetic. “Okay, that will be sixteen twenty per couple. I’ve rounded it off so it includes tax.”

Everyone laughed—at my expense, I might add. Uncle Rudy flung me the hundred-dollar bill.

“I’m afraid you misunderstood me,” I said gently.

Uncle Rudy’s mocking eyes were mere slits. “So, I’m feeling generous today. I’ll pay for them too.”

I prayed for patience. “Is this a joke? I said sixteen twenty, and this is a hundred-dollar bill.”

“Keep the change.”

I leaned over the table and spread the brochure out between them. “That was sixteen hundred and twenty dollars, dears.”

“Why, that’s highway robbery,” Auntie Magdalena said, clear as a bell.

I smiled benevolently, like a good mother. “My New York and L.A. customers don’t seem to think so. Ivana tells me it’s cheap. And the Spielbergs— generous tippers to a fault.”

“Well, I’m not tipping you a damn thing,” Uncle Rudy shouted. “Hell, if I’m going to pay at all.”

“Such language from a Mennonite!” I chided him gently. “Well, then, I guess you’ve decided to play Amish for the day.”

Without further ado I assigned them all chores that I’d been putting off for some time. Of course they complained bitterly, but I ignored them, just like Mama used to ignore me. As they trotted reluctantly off after breakfast, I nabbed Uncle Elias.

“I don’t suppose you’re wondering why I assigned you to help Mose clean out the cow stalls.”

He glared at me. “No.”

“I’ll tell you anyway,” I said charitably. “It has to do with your shoes.”

“My shoes?” He glanced down at a pair of those elaborate, state-of-the-art running shoes, the kind that do everything but move your feet for you.

“Yeah, your shoes. You already stepped in a cow pie this morning, dear, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Can the innocent act,” I said. “Attached to this face is a genuine Yoder nose. I can smell a mouse pass gas at the other end of the house. Cow pie on your shoes is a breeze. Not literally, of course.”

Uncle Elias braced himself against a chair and displayed the sole of his right shoe. “I cleaned it off as best I could. Even rubbed aftershave into the tread.”

“I know, and your brand is passe,” I said kindly. “You should ask Aaron what he uses. At any rate, what I really want to know is, what were you doing over on Aaron’s farm so early this morning? Sleepwalking?”

Uncle Elias crossed his arms. “Who says I was walking on his farm? You have cows, don’t you?”

“Don’t even try to fool this nose, dear,” I said patiently. “The Millers just field-graze their cows this time of the year, but I give mine alfalfa pellets on the side. Different diets, different odors.”

He stared at me. “You’re kidding, right?”‘

“Dead serious.”

Actually, I was full of baloney—about the different odors, I mean. I knew, however, that Uncle Elias had not been tramping through my small pasture. I have only two cows, but they are surprisingly antisocial. When anyone other than Mose or myself gets within fifty feet of them, they bellow louder than Auntie Leah. I preferred that Uncle Elias believe in the powers of my schnoz, though, over a more simple, logical explanation. Something didn’t smell quite right about that man, and it wasn’t just his shoe.

“So, I woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep. So I took a little walk on my brother-in-law’s farm. So what?”

“You dig up the floor of the root cellar?” I asked calmly.

His mouth opened so wide I could see the stains on his back molars. I would get Freni to recommend a good denture paste.

“Well, Uncle Elias, did you find anything interesting?”

“Not a thing!” he said at last. “The dirt in there is packed hard as a brick.”

“Hmm. You try the barn?”

He looked sheepish. “Didn’t have time. You farm folks get up mighty early. Young Aaron almost caught me as it was. And it didn’t help that I stepped on a cat.”

“Instead of going early, go late,” I suggested sensibly. “We farm folks start nodding off as early as nine. After midnight it’s only the devil by himself.”

“Gotcha,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll be sure and tell you what I find.”

“You better,” I said, with mock sternness. “And walk up the driveway next time. That pasture can be treacherous in the dark.”

We both laughed.

It was a simple matter to call directory assistance for Johnstown. They did indeed have a Lefcourt listed, but only one, and the first name was Samuel. I called anyway. Nowadays nothing surprises me.

“Mr. Samuel Lefcourt?”

“Yes.” He sounded as if I had awakened him.

“You didn’t perchance used to be Diane Lefcourt?”

“What?”

“It’s all right if you were. I mean, I’m used to the Hollywood crowd and—”

“My mother was Diane Lefcourt.”

My heart sank. “She was? You mean she’s already passed on?”

“Who the hell are you?” Samuel said, now obviously wide awake.

“An old acquaintance,” I said quickly. It wasn’t really a lie. After all, I lived right across the road from the Miller farm. It’s quite possible I had met Diane that fateful summer when she stopped by my neighbors’ to visit Rebecca.

“You a goddamn bill collector?” Samuel asked. I heard giggling in the background.

“To the contrary, dear. There may even be a little money coming to Diane. If she’s still alive.”

“You can send it me,” Samuel said. The giggling got louder.

“No, this is something she has to sign. She is still alive, then, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Samuel said grudgingly. “She’s still alive. I don’t know her number, but you’ll find her in the Bedford phone book. Look under convents. Something about a broken heart. Oh, and her name isn’t Diane anymore.”

“It’s not?”

“It’s Sister Angelica. Can you dig it?”

I had just put the phone back in its cradle when Susannah came bursting into my room. I have been training her not to do that for thirty-four years, but to no avail. If my sister were a dog, she would make her pet Shnookums seem brilliant by comparison.

“Susannah! Knock first!”

“Oh, Mags, I don’t have time for that. I got it!”

“You’ve seen the light? You want to be a Mennonite again?”

“Very funny! I’ve got a job, that’s what!”

“You mean my yelling at you this morning did some good?”

“What are you talking about, Mags? I left the house this morning before you even got up.”

“What?”

“Well, I wanted to be the first one to apply. Just in case there were oodles of applicants,, you know. And there were. But at ten-fifty an hour, can you blame them?”

“Burger Bucket pays that high?”

My baby sister gathered her swirls and pirouetted proudly around the room. “I won’t be working for Burger Bucket, sister dearest. I am now the official paint namer for Crazy Paints, Inc.”

“What?”

“There were sixty-five applicants, you know. But none of the others were as fast on their feet thinking up names. Go ahead, pick a letter. Any letter.”

“A letter?”

“Of the alphabet, silly. Like S, for instance.”

“Okay, S.”.

“That’s easy. Slime, sewage, slobber.”

“Those are colors’ names?”

“They are now. Crazy Paints Incorporated is the company with the vision necessary to take us into the twenty-first century.”

“When everyone will be color-blind, I hope. So that’s what you were doing last night at the table? Making up names for colors?”

Susannah beamed. “And I’m good, aren’t I? Go ahead and name another letter, sis.”

“Q,” I said, perhaps meanly.

“Quagmire, quartan, quahog,” she said smoothly.

She was indeed good, and I told her so.

Chapter Nineteen

After a delicious lunch, which no one but Susannah and I had the strength to eat, I drove into Bedford. To get there I followed State Route 96 North, keeping Buffalo Mountain on my right the entire way. It is a pretty drive, but one I hate to make. Bedford is only about ten miles from the edge of Hernia—about twelve miles from the PennDutch—but as far as I’m concerned, Bedford is light-years away.

Mama used to call it Sodom and Gomorrah, and she wasn’t all wrong. Bedford has bowling alleys, bars, liquor stores, movie theaters, used-car lots, and all-night supermarkets. Susannah claims it is the last outpost of civilization, and she spends a lot of time there. I try not to go in at all, and when I do I always wear a scarf and dark glasses. I wouldn’t want the devil to recognize me, after all, and follow me back to Hernia.

Today, in addition to the scarf and dark glasses I was wearing my most conservative church dress, the one I wear when, upon occasion, I attend church with Freni. This is a dark gray dress, with long sleeves, a high neckline, and a skirt that comes down well below my knees. In her more charitable moods, Susannah calls it an “ankle chaser.” Invariably I wear plain black stockings with the dress.

Since the Bedford/Hernia Yellow Pages did not list a convent, I headed straight for Saint Thomas Catholic Church on East Penn Street. They, of all people, I figured, would know where the convent was. They didn’t. The woman who worked in the church office was very nice but obviously a bit confused.

“Thank God the diocese has finally sent someone to help out!” she all but shouted.

I looked around. She had to be talking to me.

“I’m Magdalena Yoder,” I said quickly. “Could you tell me where the convent is?”

“Sister, the convent has been closed for years now. Surely they told you that? Well, no matter. I’m sure Father can find you a nice family to room with.”

The phone rang and she excused herself to answer it. I hate it when guests eavesdrop on my calls, so I tried to be as discreet as possible by wandering over to a window and gazing intently outside. Still, I couldn’t help but overhear a large part of what she said.

“Oh, the new sister will do nicely, I think. She’s a big one. The kids will listen to her, I’m sure. Her name? Sister Mary Magdalena. Yeah, she’s obviously of the old school. Real conservative habit. Where is she transferring from? I don’t know. Let me ask.”

“Excuse me,” I said, before she had a chance, “I am not a nun.”

“A postulant?” she asked.

“Yes, but we pronounce it ‘Protestant,’“ I said kindly.

Her face fell. “It’s not kind to toy with us like that.”

“I’m a Mennonite, dear. And the name is Magdalena, without the ‘Mary’ in front. I’m here because I thought you might know about the convent. The name has something to do with a broken heart.”

“Oh, that.” Her look of disappointment was replaced by one of sympathy. “You have a relative there?”

“No, a friend.” Trust me, lies are harder to tell in a church office than at home, even if the church isn’t one of your own denomination.

“Well, I certainly feel for you,” the woman said sincerely. “What you’re looking for is not a real convent, you know.”

“It isn’t?”

She shook her head vigorously. “They’re some kind of New Age sect that call themselves a convent—sort of a commune for women only. But they are definitely not part of the Church.”

“I see. Do you know where I can find this place? To talk to my friend, I mean. I am certainly not a candidate.”

“They’re somewhere up on High Street. You can’t miss them, they have a wrought iron broken heart for a front gate.”

“Thanks. Is there a name I should look for as well?”

“That’s it. They call themselves the Convent of the Broken Heart. It’s plain heresy, that’s what it is. But”—she threw up her hands—”what can you do? This freedom of religion thing can be carried too far, if you ask me.”

“Hear, hear,” I said sincerely and thanked her for her help.

As I opened the door to leave, she called after me.

“If you ever do convert—to the Church, I mean— you’d make a damn good nun. You look the part, you know.”