Between a Wok and a Hard Place Page 6

  “It could be part of an Amish plot,” Melvin said.

  “What?”

  “I saw it on TV. Only then it was the Mafia—”

  “Bye, Melvin,” I said, and headed for the door.

  “Wait, Yoder! I didn’t tell you yet why I paged you.”

  “Speak. And it better be good.”

  “It seems that our victim was Japanese.”

  “Or Chinese. Or Korean. Maybe even Thai or Vietnamese. Melvin, you can’t just look at someone and tell.”

  That was especially true of Melvin, whose only encounter with anyone of Asian descent was at the Dairy Wok in Bedford. Three years ago when the Dairy Bar Softserve went under, the Kim sisters bought it and briefly made it a go. The industrious sisters, well into their sixties, began serving a Chinese menu along with the ice cream. Although the Kim sisters were Korean, they were a quick study and their version of Chinese food was surprisingly well received. Gradually they began to introduce Korean items to the menu, and the small restaurant continued to thrive. The Kim sisters were so encouraged by their success, they sold the business, moved to Harrisburg, and opened Seoul Food. Unfortunately, I heard that it failed almost immediately.

  Poor Mr. Yamaguchi, who bought the Dairy Wok from the Kim sisters, wasn’t even that lucky. Perhaps if he had followed the sisters’ example and started out with a more familiar Chinese menu, things might have been different. Or perhaps he should have dropped the dairy items when he added the Japanese delicacies. It was definitely a mistake to combine them. Serving sushi shakes the first day he was open was not a clever move. Ditto for eel-sicles.

  Melvin smiled smugly. “The woman was Japanese.”

  “And you’re a praying mantis, dear,” I couldn’t help but say.

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones, Magdalena, but they won’t change a word on this fax I got from Harrisburg. It says that while they haven’t found a match for our victim’s prints, a Japanese tourist, last seen in Erie, has gone missing. Her name is Yoshi Kobayashi and she’s twenty-three years old.”

  I willed my chin back into its proper position. “Let me see that.”

  It was all there in black and white.

  “Well?”

  Triumphal smirks do not become most folks, but this one actually improved Melvin’s visage, and I told him so. I said it kindly, as a sort of penance for having maligned him with the mantis moniker a few minutes earlier.

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?” he asked.

  I was stumped. Okay, I had jumped to an erroneous conclusion, but I hadn’t hurt his feelings. Trust me on that one. The man has no feelings. To concede that he does would be to assume culpability for years of well-deserved observations.

  “What else should I say?” I asked crossly.

  Melvin sighed deeply. Somehow he managed to squeeze a tear from each of his giant orbs.

  “You have a sharp tongue, Magdalena, you know that?”

  “Me? Look who’s calling the kettle black.”

  “You should try walking a mile in my shoes, Magdalena. See how you feel then.”

  “I’d have blisters, of course, since your feet are far smaller than mine. I’d probably have athlete’s feet as well.”

  “You see what I mean?”

  “And you don’t think you ever hurt my feelings?” I asked.

  His eyes converged on my forehead. “Maybe you’re right. We’re a real pair, aren’t we, Magdalena? Have you ever imagined what it would be like if the two of us had ended up together?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know, married.”

  “In your dreams, buster.”

  I slammed the door as hard as I could, and I’m sure I would have succeeded in breaking the glass if my foot hadn’t been in the way.

  Chapter Eight

  Parking is at a premium at the intersection of North Main and Elm, so I limped the two blocks over to the scene of the crime. The First Mennonite Church, the First Baptist Church, and the First Presbyterian Church claim three of the four corners. Yoder’s Corner Market occupies the fourth. Even on a slow day this busy intersection, which is the hub of Hernia, sees at least twenty cars an hour, and a handful of buggies. Even tourists from New York City have told me they are bewildered by all the traffic.

  Because there are no residences on the corners, it hadn’t surprised me to hear that Melvin had failed to uncover any eyewitnesses. The nearest domicile is the Presbyterian parsonage on Elm Street, but Reverend Sims has taken to shutting out the world ever since his wife Martha burned down my six-seater outhouse— with me in it!

  I was after something specific, and I found it almost immediately. In the grassy median in front of the First Mennonite Church, only a yard or so from the intersection, I found a rut that could well have been made by a buggy wheel. The grass was thick, so it was not a well-defined rut, but I have an eagle eye for such things, thanks to Susannah. Occasionally I let her borrow my car, and despite my anti-smoking rule, she does so nonetheless. I have learned that accusations based on odor alone carry no weight in her rolling eyes. Consequently I have become skilled at detecting microscopic pieces of ash that would make a Mars-studying scientist proud.

  Not only did I find the rut, but a scratch on the curb edge nearest the intersection, and then later where the wheel veered back into the street, a whole series of scrapes and scratches. They were faint, all of them, but the latter continued on down the block to the corner of Main and Poplar, where they faded into the dings and nicks of one of the worst maintained roads in the state of Pennsylvania.

  Buggy wheels have a metal rim with a wooden outer surface. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. Young Enos Mast (with a Kauffman boy as a companion) had been racing his buggy down Main Street in the wee hours of the morning. Suddenly he saw a body (or perhaps it was the horse that saw it first) and swerved, but not quite in time. One side of the wheels rolled over the body, up on the curb, over a brief stretch of median, and back in the street. It was on making contact with the curb that that wheel bent. The scratches and scrapes that blended into Poplar Street were the result of an asymmetrical wheel being forced along at high speed.

  I was so satisfied with my conclusion that I didn’t notice I had company until one of them spoke.

  “This town has truly awesome vibes.”

  I had a few vibes of my own, and after crawling back into my skin turned my tongue on Terry Slock. “Don’t ever sneak up on me, dear.”

  He grinned, a boyish forty. “Man, I don’t blame you for spacing out. This place is really something.”

  “Fabulous!” Shirley Pearson was positively beaming. I might have looked that joyful on my wedding day if someone hadn’t left the cake out in the rain.

  The Dixons were there as well. Only Dr. Brack was missing.

  “What is this, a group tour?” I didn’t see a guide, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if Freni or Susannah had popped out from behind a poplar tree.

  “It’s an exceptionally clear day,” Angus said. “The light was perfect for photography. They volunteered to come along.”

  “We couldn’t just sit around and wait for you,” Dorothy said accusingly. “I, for one, needed to gather material for my first Hattie Hoaxstetler book.”

  I glanced around. Some of the two-story Victorian houses had gingerbread porches, and here and there I could see a planter of past-prime petunias. Other than that, there was nothing I could see to inspire pen or camera lens. Hernia is a nice place to live, but you wouldn’t want to visit there.

  But since all four of them had stars in their eyes, there was no sense in disillusioning them. “Gather away,” I said pleasantly.

  Shirley Pearson cleared her throat as if to address a board meeting. “Perhaps you would like to fill us in on some local history and color.”

  “Yes!” the other three chorused.

  I sighed. My dogs—especially that one I slammed in Melvin’s door—were barking. All I wanted to do was to get back to t
he PennDutch Inn, and take a long relaxing bath before supper.

  “I’d be happy to list you on the acknowledgment page of my book,” Dorothy coaxed.

  “All right. Hernia was founded in 1762 by my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfathers Christian Yoder and Joseph Hochstetler. Of course their wives helped with the founding.”

  “Of course,” Terry said, his eyes shining. He reached out slowly and reverently touched my right arm with his fingertips. I casually shrugged it off. I may be piling up the years, but I am not a historical relic.

  “Right there”—I pointed to a gray shingle house, an anomaly among the Victorian clapboards—”is where Christian built his log cabin, and down there”—I pointed to the First Mennonite Church—”is where Joseph built his.”

  It wasn’t strictly true, but close enough for the good Lord not to mind. We were standing in the general area of the first cabins, which had long since disappeared, and it is the spirit, not the letter of the law, that counts, isn’t it?

  A station wagon packed with kids drove by and everyone craned their necks to get a look at the occupants, who as it turned out, weren’t even Mennonites.

  “Baptists,” I said.

  Next came a van. The driver was the only occupant.

  “Presbyterian.”

  There was another load of Baptists, a load of Methodists, and three Presbyterian vehicles before a Mennonite motored by. It was Edwina Stucky in her brand new Lincoln Town Car.

  “Mennonite.”

  “Are you sure?” Shirley sounded like she’d been handed a bad stock report. “She was wearing a halter top.”

  “Edwina Stucky is the organist at the First Mennonite Church. Of course she’s General Conference Mennonite, which means she’s pretty liberal. I belong to the Beechy Grove Mennonites.”

  “Mennnnnn-onite,” Terry hummed. “Ahmmmmish. They sound like mantras. You Mennonites are pacifists, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” I flushed. If Jimmy Carter was guilty of committing adultery in his heart, then I was guilty of biting, kicking, maiming—possibly even murder. “Pacifism is one of our basic tenets.”

  “And Amish are pacifists, too, right?”

  I thought of Freni, whose heart’s desire for the past twenty years has been to wring the neck of her daughter-in-law Barbara. But, of course, Freni never acts on that impulse, and deep within her ample bosom there beats a heart of gold—well, at least cast iron.

  “Amish are definitely pacifists.”

  “So Amish and Mennonites are very much like Buddhists, right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Trust me. I spent six weeks in Thailand, and the similarities are striking.”

  “Well, uh—are you a Buddhist, Mr. Slock?”

  It was time to lay our religious cards on the table, just to know what we were dealing with. Every now and then, I find myself engaged in a religious discussion with one or more of my guests. Just last week there was a couple who insisted that the Amish were a sect of Hassidim who shaved their mustaches. After arguing senselessly for half an hour, it was revealed that the female half of the couple was a Reform rabbi.

  “Oh, no, I’m not a Buddhist,” Terry exclaimed quickly. “I’ve left that scene behind. I’m into OUT now.”

  “You mean you’re gay and proud?” Angus asked.

  “I’ve always hated riddles,” I wailed.

  “OUT,” Terry said, and spelled it for us. “The Oneness of Universal Thought.”

  I had no trouble dishing up a blank look.

  “You know, my oneness and your oneness join together to form the thought patterns of the universe. Likewise, my me-ness and your you-ness combine and become the our-ness of mankind. In other words, I am you, and you are me, and we are both that starling up there on the telephone line. Deep, isn’t it?”

  “And getting deeper,” Dorothy said, and wandered back down the street toward its junction with Main.

  “Do people ever convert?” Shirley asked.

  “All the time. Believe me, it’s the fastest-growing religion in Hollywood.”

  I nodded. I’d met a fair number of that crowd, so I could believe that.

  Shirley gasped. “Oh my, I didn’t mean your OUT thing. I was referring to Amish and Mennonites. What do they think of outsiders?”

  As I opened my mouth to tell her, an Amish buggy turned the corner at Main and headed in our direction.

  “Please, out of the way!” Shy Angus was waving his arms at us, shooing us like Mama used to chase cows from the cornfield.

  “Well, I never!” I huffed, but obligingly stepped aside so he could get a clear shot with his camera at the approaching vehicle.

  “Perfect!” Angus gushed.

  “Splendid!” Shirley hissed.

  “Ahmm,” Terry moaned, his eyes closed in religious ecstasy.

  “Follow that buggy!” I shouted.

  It was Enos Mast behind the reins.

  My guests had parked even further away than I, and by the time I limped back to my car and located my keys in the quicksand of my purse, the buggy was a part of history. Hot, tired, and desperately wanting that bath, I pointed my horseless carriage in the direction of home.

  The PennDutch is only five miles from the center of town, but there are times when it feels a world away. I can’t adequately describe what a relief it was to get away from the hubbub of Hernia. The Victorian houses became ranch houses and ranch houses farmhouses, and finally there was the PennDutch with its two giant maples on either side of the driveway. I couldn’t imagine how Susannah had once forsaken the tranquility of our birthplace for the bright lights of hectic Hernia.

  I was seconds away from pulling into my peaceful driveway with a song of thanksgiving on my lips, when I heard the siren. I pulled in anyway and stopped. A moment later Zelda was rapping at my window.

  Taking a cue from one of Susannah’s many stories, I rolled the window down slowly and smiled. I did not, however, bat my eyelashes or purse my lips like a howling monkey.

  “Good afternoon, Officer.”

  “Clocked you going thirty-five in a twenty-five- mile per hour speed zone,” Zelda said, and whipped out a pad.

  That did it. That hiked my hackles for sure. Not only do I believe that speeding is wrong, I believe it is a sin. The good Lord made it clear that we are to obey the laws of man as long as they do not interfere with his divine law, and nowhere does the Bible require us to speed. Okay, so it does say to “make haste” a couple of times, but I assure you those references have nothing to do with speed limits.

  Because I believe this strongly, I refuse to drive a mile over the speed limit, even when there are trucks barreling down on top of me. Aaron thinks this is foolish and has warned me that I could get killed. So be it. I will not stoop to break the law just because someone else does.

  My point is, I was so mad at Zelda for her false accusation that I rolled up my window. She rapped again, this time using the notepad to cushion her knuckles.

  “Roll that down, Magdalena.”

  “I wasn’t speeding!”

  “Okay, you’re weren’t. That was just an excuse. But I need to talk to you.”

  I rolled it down an inch. “Make it snappy, Zelda.”

  “Magdalena, I need your help.”

  The window came down. I may not be much of a fashion statement (Susannah claims I will never be until I stop wearing opaque hose), but even I could benefit someone like Zelda. Since she’s almost always in uniform, her problem isn’t a matter of dress, so much as it is grooming and hygiene. Zelda cuts her short dark hair herself with a pinking shears and then plasters it against her head with an inch of grease. She has tweezed away her natural eyebrows and replaced them with penciled arches. If she used a gold pencil instead of brown, she would be an advertisement for hamburgers. Now, it is no shame to be born with lips no fuller than a chicken’s, but Zelda uses a fuchsia liner to extend her hen’s mouth from just above her chin to the base of her nose. When she talks only part of her “m
outh” moves, so who is she trying to kid?”

  “Scrub it all off and start again,” I said gently. “Work with what the Good Lord gave you. If you grew your hair long you could wear it in a nice attractive bun. And let those eyebrows grow, they were meant to keep bugs out of our eyes. Unfortunately there’s not much you can do about those lips, dear—”

  “Magdalena! I’m talking about Melvin.”

  I sighed. A few makeover tips were not going to be enough for him.

  “I’m afraid he’s a lost cause,” I said gently.

  She nodded. “That’s what I think. I thought he loved me as much as I love him, but I was wrong. It’s not me he loves at all, but Susannah.”

  “What?”

  She raked her fingers through the jelled do, and they emerged glistening. “Oh, yeah. He admitted it last night. He’s been in love with her ever since high school. The day they started going together last year was the happiest day of his life. Then when they broke up, it nearly killed him.”

  “You don’t say.” I was grateful to be sitting in an old car that didn’t have bucket seats. If I fainted and fell sideways I wouldn’t hit a console.

  “He asked me out on the rewind.”

  “You mean ‘rebound,’ dear.”

  “No, rewind. I went over to his house one day after work to help him with his VCR. It wouldn’t rewind. I fixed it for him, and while it was rewinding he asked me out. That was the happiest day of my life.”

  “How romantic.” I noticed that her large, hazel eyes were brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry for you, dear. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Get my studmuffins what he wants.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Get him your sister. Reunite him with Susannah.”

  I tried to faint—sideways, of course—but had forgotten to unbuckle my shoulder harness. A bruised bosom was all I had to show for my efforts.