As The World Churns Part 4

"You're right." I pounded a shapely fist into a shapely palm. "By jingle, you're right."

"Then what are you doing sitting here? I doubt Doc Shafor's a.s.sailant is lurking these halls-although he might be. Tell you what, I'll speak to the Bedford chief, since the hospital is his jurisdiction, and get a guard posted at the ICU door. And not to worry, I'll get hospital security to send someone up to keep watch in the meantime. As for you, your family is waiting for you in the cafeteria. So go down there, get yourself a much-needed cup of hot chocolate, and then go home and get some rest. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, you can start grilling your suspects like wienies. Isn't that how you put it?"

"Charming, is it not?"

"It is. Now go on." I got up, fluffed my wrinkled skirt, and had just retrieved my pocketbook from a Formica end table piled high with tattered golf and fis.h.i.+ng magazines when the thought struck me: why was Chris Ackerman trying to get rid of me so quickly? I turned to see his back disappearing down the hall.

"Yoo-hoo." He obviously hadn't heard me. "Yoo-hoo!" He continued to get smaller. "You forgot the chocolate brownies!" Chris is twenty-three, but still has the appet.i.te of a teenager.

Even so, there isn't a spare ounce of fat on him-just deeply tanned, rippling muscle. Anyway, since he lives by himself, and receives a pitiful salary, he has never been known to turn down food. In the past, he has stated he'd walk twenty miles for one of Freni's brownies.

He appeared to fly up the hall. "Are they Freni's?"

"Indeed, they are. Except they're not here; they're back at the inn."

"Hey, that's a dirty trick."

"You haven't seen anything yet, dear. Now tell me what gives."

"Gives?"

"And don't pretend to be ignorant. I didn't fall off the cabbage truck; I have bra.s.sieres older than you, for Pete's sake. I know when I'm being had. You couldn't wait to get rid of me and go somewhere."

"Okay, okay, I'll confess. Miss Yoder-"

"Isn't it about time you called me Magdalena?"

"Yeah, but you're my mom's age. Somehow it doesn't seem right to call an older woman by her first name."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. Now cut to the chase."

7.

Chris studied his imitation fine leather Italian shoes. "Back there in your barn-well, there was a message scrawled on the stall where Doc was attacked."

"Message? Scrawled? You don't mean in blood, do you?"

He nodded. "How'd you know?"

"Unfortunately, from years of experience. What did it say?"

"Mind yer own beezwax. Two of the words were misspelled."

My legs felt weak, so I groped for a chair. Like I said, I was no stranger to crime, but this was especially appalling. What on earth has happened to our educational system in this country? I learned spelling to the tune of a hickory stick, and though I'm most probably emotionally scarred for life, I'm quite capable of spelling three out of four words correctly. It's only math that still gives me trouble.

"What do you think it means, Chris?"

He shook his fine young head. "The obvious conclusion to draw would be that it has to do with the contest; Doc saw or heard something he wasn't supposed to. It could, however, be something totally unrelated. Did Doc have any enemies that you know of?"

"Of course. He was an irascible old man, sometimes downright cantankerous. He always used to say that if a man doesn't have any enemies by the time he reaches eighty, then he hasn't been living his life right. But I'm not sure how much of that was just bl.u.s.ter."

I yawned. "Sorry. It's been a busy day. Check-in days are always hectic, and now this." I yawned again.

"Just one more question, Magdalena. You were having dinner when Doc crawled to the door. Were all your guests with you at the time?"

"Yes, every single one."

"And Freni?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Freni feels bad when she kills flies. Besides-"

"She might have heard something that the rest of you didn't."

"Maybe, but not likely. She was in the kitchen talking to her buns. She tends to tune everything else out when she does that."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Cinnamon buns for tomorrow morning. Freni believes in talking to the dough; she tells it how much to rise, and when. It's quite a little speech she gives them."

"They must listen, because her buns are the best."

"So what happens now? What if some of my guests decide to check out on account of what happened?"

"Don't let them. Not until I've had a chance to interview them."

"How do I stop them?"

"Stall them; you're great at obfuscation, aren't you?"

"One of the best," I said modestly. "Chris, you were hoping to get to the barn before I got home, so that you could clean up Doc's blood. And erase the message, right?"

"Right."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

For a split second, I considered hugging his handsome self to my somewhat comely self, but genetics took over. We Yoders are incapable of spontaneous expressions of emotion, especially if they involve physical contact. If we must, we can schedule hugs, but they must last less than thirty seconds and be accompanied by constant backslapping. Show me a Yoder who can hug without backslapping, and I'll show you a Yoder with rigor mortis. Okay, so there may be a few exceptions.

"Well, I better get a move on down to the cafeteria before my loved ones ingest anything more than coffee. One person at death's door is quite enough for one night."

He laughed, before giving me a Presbyterian hug. I must say, it didn't feel all that bad.

My groom drove me back to the inn, and not a second too soon- my guests were in the process of mutinying. My lovely front lawn had been turned into a traffic jam of trucks and cattle carriers. Horns blared, men brawled, women brayed, but the cows, ignorant as they were of alliteration, merely lowed.

Gabe stared in disbelief. "Holy guacamole!"

There was no time to waste. I threw myself from the still-moving car, hiked my skirts to about knee level, and then leapt onto the hood of the Dorfman brothers' pickup. Their truck, by the way, was not moving, and I may have glossed over a few clumsy moves on my part, but you get the point.

Cupping my hands to my mouth, I gave the infamous "Yoder yell." The Yoder yell, for those unfamiliar with its history, is said to have originated with Eve Yoder when she gave birth to Cain Yoder, after having been banished, along with Adam Yoder, from the Garden of Eden. I'm not saying I believe that; my point is that we've long been known for our lung power.

When the mutineers and their livestock heard me, they froze. Then, one by one, they gasped as they realized where the unearthly sound was coming from. Indeed, I must have appeared as an evil apparition, perched as I was three feet off the ground. Even the cows regarded me, their eyes wide with terror.

Harmon Dorfman was the first to react. "Miss Yoder, what in tarnation are you doing atop my truck?"

Using my chin, I gestured to my feet. "No harm done, Harmon. These sensible black brogans have soles as soft as sponge cake."

"That may be, Miss Yoder, but I paid a pretty penny for her. Please get down."

"In a minute, dear."

My darling husband held out his arms, as if he intended for me to jump into them. "Hon, you heard the man. Get down."

It was, in retrospect, a reasonable request. However, in addition to being genetically gifted in the lung department, and sadly deficient in the hug department, we Yoders sometimes carry the gene for contrariness. Tell us to go right, and we'll go left. Of course those of us with that gene have long since separated from the Amish, who adhere to a code of obedience, and most of us are no longer even Mennonite. But there are exceptions to every rule, I suppose, because I am still of the faith, even though I am every bit as obstinate as a second-generation president.

"Listen up, folks," I continued to holler, "none of you are leaving, because all of you were here when poor old Doc Shafor was a.s.saulted."

"So were you," Candy Brown chirped.

I glared at the woman who dared jiggle her keester at the South Pole. Since it was dark, and she couldn't see my expression clearly, it didn't really count as mean-spirited.

"You're quite right, my dear. So I'll stay here as well."

"Suit yourself," Jane Pearlmutter muttered. "But you have no legal right to prevent us from leaving."

The Bible commands us not to bear false witness against our neighbors: in other words, we are not supposed to accuse them of something of which they are not guilty. Nowhere in the big ten does it say "thou shalt not lie." The way I see it, the Good Lord gives us a great deal more lat.i.tude than we are commonly taught to believe. To not take advantage of this generous state of affairs is to be downright ungrateful. Nevertheless, just to be on the safe side, I chose my words carefully.

"As I'm sure you all know by now, Doc Shafor-the man who was mugged in the barn-was one of the judges," I said. "He's a veterinarian with a great deal of experience examining udders."

"Your point, please," said Vance Brown. As a modern dairyman, the odds were that Vance had seen a lot more udders in one day than Doc had in his lifetime. After all, Doc's specialty was horses.

"What if I were to say that he confided in me that one cow in particular stood out head and shoulders above the rest?" That was a hypothetical question, and not even a lie, much less a broken commandment.

d.i.c.k Pearlmutter, who'd been standing with one foot on the running board of his truck, stepped off and approached me. "Are you saying that the compet.i.tion is still a go?"

Frankly, I'd been so busy worrying about my elderly friend, that I hadn't even thought about the compet.i.tion-okay, so I hadn't thought about it a lot. Contrary to some reports, I am only human. But during my fleeting thoughts, it had occurred to me that the best way to honor Doc, and thwart his a.s.sailant, was to continue as best as we could, as if the a.s.sault had never taken place. Of course I needed to find a judge ASAP, but even in a very small farming community like ours, that would hardly be a problem.

"Surely you jest, Mr. Pearlmutter," I said, and forced an agreeable smile.

"But isn't it too late to find a replacement judge?"

"Nonsense, dear. In Hernia, connoisseurs of bovine beauty are a dime a dozen."

Harry Harmon turned to his brother. "I still think we should head back home, before something like what happened to that old man happens to one of us."

"You won't be getting refunds-not for your rooms or your stable fees."

"Then we'll sue," Jane said.

Gertie Fuselburger shook her dyed head vigorously. "I'm afraid that would be useless, Mrs. Pearlmutter," she said. "I read Miss Yoder's contract, and it's ironclad. You did read it, dear, didn't you?"

"No contract is ironclad, you old biddy. We'll hire the best lawyer on the East Coast."

I am proud to say that my husband stepped up to the plate. "Hey, watch the name-calling."

"And you don't get to speak to my wife that way," d.i.c.k said. I must say that for a former stockbroker, he looked remarkably, and worrisomely, fit. That is the problem with the trend these days of providing exercise equipment at the office. A white-col-lar worker is supposed to be a ninety-seven-pound weakling incapable of slinging a calf over his shoulder.

"Oh yeah?" the Babester said. "How about the way you've all been treating my wife? Her oldest and dearest friend is lying in the ICU, and what does she find when she finally gets back home from the hospital? Renegers, that's what."

Harry turned to his brother. "Did he just use a racial epithet?"

Sensing that bedlam was about to ensue, I flapped my arms and crowed like a rooster. That got their attention. I'm pretty good at crowing, if I do say so myself. So good in fact that a real rooster, my beloved Chanticleer II, responded in kind, even though it was still the dead of night.

Gertie Fuselburger, bless her fossilized heart, clapped her hands with glee. "Oh, Miss Yoder, everything you do is positively delightful."

"I think Miss Yoder might be crazy," Candy Brown said.

When no one, not even Gabe, jumped in to contradict her, I knew it was time to resort to drastic measures. "I'm going to up the prize money by fifty thousand dollars," I said.

Gabe tried to grab one of my slim, shapely ankles. His intention, I believe, was to pull me off the Harmons' truck, and haul me indoors before my lips could get me into any more trouble. Fortunately, having played oodles of hopscotch as a girl, I was able to elude his grasp.

"Are you sure, hon?" he whispered. "Where's this money coming from?"

"I'm sure," I hollered. "Okay, folks, how about you all turn around, unload your trailers, and go back into the inn for a good night's sleep?"

This time, not a soul objected.

8.

My sleep was punctuated by nightmares. In between dreams, I must have tossed and turned like a princess on a pea, because when I finally woke up, even though I was still under the covers, my head was at the foot of the bed. Thank heavens I am not claustrophobic.

But what surprised me even more than my new location, was the fact that, sometime during the night, my dear husband had chosen to join me. This discovery made me almost as happy as the moment, under the chutzpah, when he pledged himself to me until death do us part. Or was that a chuppah? It certainly wasn't a Chanukah; that I know is the Jewish festival that generally takes place in late December.

At any rate, I should be ashamed to confess that discovering the Babester in my bed gave me an enormous amount of schadenfreude. Ida was going to be fit to be tied, and with any luck she would become tongue-tied as well. Of course this wasn't a Christian att.i.tude to take; it was actually rather sinful of me. But I fully intended to confess this sin as soon as I'd indulged in a few minutes of this guilty pleasure. Failure to enjoy life's little blessings is also a sin, if you ask me.

Nevertheless, as a good Mennonite, I do not believe in fancy forms of s.e.xual foreplay, seeing as how they might lead to dancing. "Brace yourself, Magdalena" is good enough for me. Still, I thought Gabe deserved a reward for ditching his ma in favor of moi. Although it is no one's business but my own, I will admit that during the height of my grat.i.tude-inspired pa.s.sion, I went so far as to engage in a wanton act so private I don't even think it has a name. Alas, it was far less satisfying than I had imagined.