Play It Again, Spam (17 page)

There are times when it pays to have a sister like Susannah. Some of my best strategies come from my ethically-challenged

sibling. I'm not saying it is any less wrong of me to copy her, but sometimes a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. Besides, a few

of Susannah's tricks - like divert and conquer - are not wrong, they're just highly effective ways to manipulate adults that every

teenager knows, and most adults have forgotten.

"Did you say bimbos, dear?" I asked pleasantly. "Is there more than one tart on the Hart plate?"

"Sandy!" Bob barked.

She smirked and turned to me. "Well, it's true. Bob likes them young, and Megan is getting a little long in the tooth now. Lord

knows, she must be nearing your age."

"Which is a good twenty years younger than your age, dear," I said, remaining calm. I'll take an insult over a lawsuit any day.

"Even so, Bob likes them young. Heather, now she can't be a day over twenty-one, and Angie, well, I have things in the back

of my fridge that are older than her."

"I'm sure you do," I said kindly. Frankly, I was flattered that Bob had deemed me young enough to be his playmate - I mean,

teammate.

Bob, however, was clearly taken aback. "You know about Heather and Angie? Why haven't you said anything?"

Sandy shrugged. "Emil helps take my mind off things," she said to me in a low, conspiratorial voice. Apparently it wasn't low

enough.

"Who the hell is Emil?"

"I don't allow swearing on these premises'" This time tines touched tissue.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, but Bob Hart knew even more swear words than his wife. I poked him into submission

and turned to Sandy.

"Do tell, dear." Now, lest you judge me, I must hasten to say that yes, Jimmy Carter was right, it is a sin to lust in one's heart.

But I can find nothing in my Bible that says it's a sin to listen to the lust of others.

Sandy sat back in chair and smiled. "If Bobby can have his bimbos, then I can have my boy toy. Right, Miss Yoder?"

"What's good for the gander is good for the goose, dear." I wasn't condoning her behavior, mind you, since geese of both

sexes seldom die of natural causes on my farm.

"Yeah, you hear that, Bobby? Miss Yoder here sees things my way."

"Not hardly dear. For one thing - "

Bob Hart held his elbows clamped against his sides, but his gaze was on me. "You see what you've done?"

"Me?"

"I told you she was ill, Miss Yoder."

Sandy stood, and in the process managed to knock over Samantha's water glass. Although perturbed, the petite pianist was

apparently far too polite to protest - although perhaps she was simply afraid.

"And that's another thing," Sandy screamed. "You're always telling people that I'm ill. Well, there is nothing wrong with me! I

am not a manic-depressive. You're the one with the problem, not me."

"Shut up, Sandy."

"Don't you tell me to shut up! I want everyone here to know that - "

"They are invited to a party tonight!" Trust me, I can scream louder than Sandy. When you're five foot ten, your lungs are like

boats.

"A party tonight?" someone echoed. I think it was Dixie Montgomery, because I heard traces of that delightful Minnesota

accent.

"That's right, a party. My sister Susannah is getting married tomorrow, and tonight's the celebratory bash."

It would serve Susannah right to have a bunch of senior citizens crash her party. Besides, my guests, who had for the most

part been transfixed by the domestic discord, needed a new and even bigger diversion.

"Ooh, Cuddle Buns," Doris cooed obscenely to her tubby teddy, "a Mennonite party! Doesn't that seem like fun?"

Sandy sat. "Will there be buggy rides?" I looked meaningfully at Sam, who had been lurking quietly in a comer. While it's not

true that a glance from me can turn small animals into stone-Mama's could, you know-some of my stronger stares have produced

remarkable results.

"Yah, buggy rides," Sam said, shaking his head. "I forget what they call it," Doris said, disengaging herself from her hubby for

the purpose of illustration, "but will they throw us up in the air and catch us on a quilt?"

"That's the Eskimos, dear, and I believe they use walrus hides." I kindly refrained from pointing out that anyone throwing a

seventy-year-old, overweight woman into the air had best catch her on an ambulance stretcher.

"Horseshoes," Scott said, his accent just as charming as his wife's. "I hope they play horseshoes. I haven't had a chance to

play in years."

"Scott was the state champion back in 1956," Dixie added proudly.

"My Frank was the Missouri state champion in 1956 and 1958," Marjorie said in a less charming accent, although she did

have a strong, clear voice.

Dixie nodded. "That's right. I remember. Scott and Frank played against each other in the nationals."

Marjorie turned to her husband. "You did? You never mentioned that. Who won?"

"Oh, that's right," Sandy sniffed, "that would have been before your time."

"Way before," Doris said and giggled.

"I won," Frank said. I do believe those were the first words I'd heard him utter since checking in the day before.

"You did? Honey, that's wonderful. How come you never told me that?"

"Because he cheated," Dixie said. You might think it impossible to sound vehement in that lovely lilt, but believe me, it isn't.

I was running out of diversions. "Well, now, are we all ready to begin the search?"

"What search?" Marjorie asked.

"Honestly," Sandy said, "doesn't your husband tell you anything?"

I tapped on my water glass with my knife. The fact that I got melted butter and maple syrup on the glass did little to improve

my mood.

"Breakfast is over, dears. Now go to your rooms, brush your teeth - do whatever you need to do - and meet me in the parlor

in half an hour. Just make sure your beds are made and your rooms are swept first."

"That's ridiculous," Sandy snapped. "She's treating us like we're children, instead of paying guests. Bobby, do something."

"She's magnificent," her husband mumbled.

"What did you say?"

The hedgerows rose to new heights in mock surprise. "I didn't say anything, hon."

"Yes, you did."

I tapped on my glass again. "The last one to leave this room gets to wash the dishes. And I mean it."

The room cleared in record time. Even Sam made himself as scarce as pearls around an Amish neck.

When I was quite alone, I loaded up my plate with another stack of pancakes and a couple slices of delicious fried SPAM®

luncheon meat. After all, it is a sin to skimp on breakfast since that is the first meal Adam and Eve ate in the Garden of Eden.

Okay, so maybe I don't have any proof of that, but neither is there any proof to the contrary. At any rate, what I should have done

was gone back to bed and pulled the covers up over my head.

14

I ate fourteen pancakes. This is not something I do on a regular basis, but Sam's were the lightest, fluffiest pancakes I'd ever set

teeth in. Plus, the man had the audacity to serve freshly churned butter and genuine maple syrup that had been heated and was

still warm at the time of the grand exodus. I was feeling satiated, to put it politely, when the doorbell rang.

"Sam!" I yelled. How quickly one acclimates to luxury.

Alas, Sam was not forthcoming. After an irksome number of rings I waddled to the door and jerked it open.

"Yes?"

"Yoder!"

I stared at the repulsive face of my nemesis. That fact that he was just hours' away from becoming my sister's husband did

nothing to mitigate my feelings of revulsion.AII right, so the Bible tells us not to hate, but it says little about loathing.

You'd loathe Melvin too, if you knew him like I do. The man is a snide, arrogant, know-it-all who, like many of this ilk, actually

knows very little at all. The only thing Melvin Stoltzfus excels at is getting under people's skin.

Even if the Gypsy story isn't true, I know for a fact that Elvina Stoltzfus took her son to Pittsburgh and tried to lose him on the

subway. Unfortunately the city only has one line and for half the distance the train is above ground. Well, so much for last year's

plan. Maybe Susannah will come up with something better this year.

"Hey, Yoder, you know that when you gawk like that, with your mouth wide open and everything, you look just like a turkey on

a hot day? You even have those wattles under your neck."

The reasonable part of me wanted to slam the door in Melvin's face and pretend the wind did it. "This better be official

business, dear."

"Oh, it's official, all right. I'm here to arrest you for the murder of Irma Yoder."

I belched in astonishment. The mantis never ceases to amaze me.

"Does your keeper know you've figured out the trick to unlocking your cage door, dear?"

"Yoder, you have the right to remain silent. You have the right - "

"To call the wedding off!" I wailed. He didn't exactly push his way inside, because I backed up voluntarily. The man has the

hygiene habits of a hyena.

"Yoder, don't make this any harder than it has to be."

Not having an electric cattle prod handy, there was nothing I could do but scoot around and close the door. It was still chilly

out and there was no need to heat up all of Bedford County.

"You've got thirty seconds to try and make some sense," I said, exhibiting the patience of a saint. "And that's only out of

consideration for my baby sister."

Melvin's eyes function independently, like the shopping cart wheels at Sam's Corner Market. His left eye, which is

considerably larger than his right, appeared to focus on my face.

"Well, you were right, Yoder - of course you would be, you're the one who made the call."

"Right about what?"

"As if you didn't know."

"Spill it, knucklehead!" I screamed. "What was I right about?"

I know this may strike you as sacrilegious, but if Melvin had been alive in Jesus' day - okay, maybe that's going too far. But

surely Ghandi would have grabbed a gun and added a few more holes to Melvin's cranial collection.

No doubt you are wondering how Melvin ever managed to get the job of police chief in the first place. Well, the answer is

simple: No one else wanted the job. Besides, having a public official we can all legitimately hate has been the greatest unifying

force our little town could possibly have. And barring a war on American soil, or some horrible natural disaster, we really don't

need someone more competent. So we tend to think of our police chief as a malevolent but manageable plague. Outside of this,

there are actually a few good things that Melvin does for the community, but I don't have time to think of them now.

Melvin took so long to answer my question that even Mother Teresa, God rest her soul, would have tried to strangle his

scrawny, insectile neck. The Good Lord knows I had my hands poised and ready.

"Somebody finally got to Old Irma. But why am I wasting my breath?"

I gasped. "You found her body?"

"Of course not, Yoder. You're too clever. No corpus, no habeus."

I sighed. "Yes, dear, I remember. You flunked Latin in high school. So you didn't find a body. What makes you think

somebody did her in?"

The left eye drifted, its gaze replaced by its smaller companion. "The blood. Yoder, how careless can you get?"

"Pretty careless, dear. I accidentally let you in, didn't I? Now what's this about blood? Strubbly Sam didn't say anything about

that."

"You left blood on the kitchen faucet handles, Yoder. I got me a sample and I'm sending it in to Harrisburg. I should have the

results back in three days. Now, if you'll just cooperate and give me a sample of your blood - "

I took a menacing, un-Mennonite step forward. "You want blood?"

Melvin took a Stoltzfus step backward. "Why did you do it, Yoder?"

"Don't be ridiculous - "

"Don't even try to deny it, Yoder. Both Mishler brothers say they saw your car parked in Irma's driveway Sunday morning.