Gruel and Unusual Punishment Read online

  "Like I said, make me"

  "Okay, toots, if that's the way you want it."

  I'm not as stupid as I look. I wouldn't lay a hand in anger on a thirteen-year-old child. I had no compunctions, however, about picking up the garden hose and giving the girl a good hard squirt. I’d aim for the mouth first, of course. Heaven knows it needed a good washing out.

  I picked up the hose and turned on the faucet, but before I could squeeze the nozzle, a car barreled up the driveway and came to a screeching halt just inches from mine. I stared in dread as out jumped Lodema Schrock, my pastor's wife.

  To say that I've never gotten along with the woman is like saying some politicians have been known to stretch the truth. She, I might add, has little or no grounds for her dislike of me. The reverse is definitely not the case. Au contraire. The woman is all ten plagues rolled into one.

  "Shame on you, Magdalena," she cried, waving her arms like a symphony director. "I heard what was going on here, but I couldn't believe it. I had to see it with my own eyes." She gasped, whether from lack of oxygen or shock, I don't know. "A den of iniquity, that's what you're running here, Magdalena."

  "I didn't give this child permission to dress like this," I cried.

  Lodema Schrock continued to conduct her imaginary orchestra. "Just because you're a wanton woman, Magdalena, is no reason for you to corrupt this child."

  Alison, who'd been sitting there with a smirk on her face, jumped to her feet. "Hey lady, watch your mouth! I ain't no child."

  Lodema turned to me. "You see?" The fact that I could still hear her was a wonder. Lodema's voice is capable of rising to inaudible registers when she gets truly excited, causing dogs all over the county to howl in agony.

  "Do I see what?"

  "Not even a day in your custody, and this pathetic child has turned into a heathen. Sodom and Gomorrah, Magdalena, that's what you should rename this place."

  Alison was livid. "Hey lady, I told you I ain't no child, and I ain't no heathen. Like, what are you? Some kind of fossil from the Middle Ages?"

  "Why, I never!" Lodema gasped. "You should be spanked."

  "Spanked?" Alison laughed derisively. "Like, who's gonna do it? You and that fat ass of yours?"

  Of course I could not tolerate such language. Neither could I stomach Lodema Schrock, and I mean that literally. I felt like throwing up, and since it was my grass, that simply was not an option. So you see, I had no choice.

  I turned the hose first on Lodema. She squawked like a hen that had just laid an egg, while she ran in circles like a chicken that had just had its head cut off. I have a pretty good aim, if I say so myself, and she had a hard time dodging the blast.

  "You'll pay for this, Magdalena! I'll tell all the ladies in the Sewing Circle! The Prayer Chain too! You'll be persona non grata!"

  "Tell away," I cried gleefully. "Call the newspapers. Call the networks. Maybe People magazine will put me on their cover." Having already crossed the line, I might as well get full credit for my sin.

  My efforts were certainly being appreciated by young Alison. "You go, girl!" she shouted.

  The fact that I couldn't stand Lodema Schrock was no reason for Alison to show disrespect. And there was that matter of her foul mouth. I swiveled and turned the hose on her.

  "Hey!"

  "Now, you can tell on me too, dear."

  "That ain't funny!" But unlike the spastic Lodema, Alison snatched up her towel and boogied through the front door of my inn. The girl might prove to be trainable after all.

  Poor Lodema, however, must have been a hopeless child. She didn't have the sense to get in her car and drive away. And since after a while it isn't fun to hit a sitting duck—or running chicken— I shut off the hose. Although well water is essentially free, it does take electricity to pump it.

  "You're welcome to come in and dry off," I said charitably. "I have an extra bathrobe that is way too big for me, but it might fit you."

  Lodema had finally stopped running, and she glowered at me through dripping, colorless lashes. "You haven't heard the last of this, Magdalena. If we were Catholic, I'd get the Pope to excommunicate you. You can be sure, though, that I'll get the Reverend to do something."

  "Oh?" I wasn't the least bit scared, merely curious. Her husband, coincidentally, is a saint.

  "Well, I might not know what it is yet, but it will be something drastic."

  "That sounds exciting, dear. And when you talk to him, please remind him that I'm Beechy Grove Mennonite Church's largest contributor." I put a finger to my chin. "Hmm, let's see. Is the sanctuary scheduled to get a new roof this summer, or did the building committee decide we could wait another year? Whatever. But I seem to remember hearing it's going to cost ten thousand dollars that's not in the budget."

  "You can't buy your way out of this!" Lodema shrieked.

  I smiled sweetly and followed Alison into the house. While it may be true that money can't buy happiness, it can for sure buy a whole lot of convenience. And privilege. I had no doubt that my pastor's wife was going to report me to the Sewing Circle, and the Prayer Chain too—maybe even get the latter to pray for me—but I was far from through at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church.

  Thank heavens Alison is not the type to hold a grudge. In fact, she seemed quite taken with me. She chatted on a mile a minute about how I was so much more fun than her mom and dad.

  "You're, like, totally awesome," she said to me right in front of Freni.

  "Ach, du leiber!" Although a pious woman, my cook has a jealous streak a mile wide.

  "No, really, I mean it. Like, my mom would have gotten totally pissed at that old lady, but she wouldn't have had the nerve to squirt her." Alison turned to me. "You do that often?"

  "Not as often as I'd like."

  "Man, I'm gonna like living here. So when do I get to see my room?"

  "When will you remove those studs from your tongue?"

  Alison stuck said tongue out defiantly. "Hey, you can forget that. These babies stay."

  "Not if you want to."

  "You're shooting me, ain't ya?" Actually she said a far cruder word, one I would never repeat.

  "Like, I'm totally serious, dear." I had no intention of backing out of my agreement to take in Alison, but the art of bluffing is a skill I've been honing for years. After all, so much in life is dependent on the attitude we bring to it.

  "That reeks!"

  "Take it or leave it, dear."

  "What if I get rid of one stud? Will that make you happy?"

  "It's all or nothing. Since it's going to be nothing, it's a good thing you haven't unpacked yet, isn't it?"

  "Hey, you ain't getting rid of me that quick!"

  Then much to my eternal disgust, Alison twisted her tongue like a good Amish pretzel, and removed from it what seemed like pounds of shiny metal. She held out her hand.

  "There! That better?"

  "Gott in Himmel!" Freni, about to faint, was staggering for the nearest chair.

  "That's wonderful, dear. Now throw them in the garbage."

  Much to my surprise, Alison obeyed. "Sheesh, I can't believe I just did that," she said, wonder in her voice. "My mom could have never made me throw them away. You really are cool."

  "Absolutely, dear, and don't you forget it."

  Then, to reinforce this image of myself as a super-cool mom-in- absentia, I let her pick which one of my six guest rooms she wanted as her own. Unfortunately, there were guests registered to that room, so I told Alison she could have my room until those guests left. Just for the record, Alison picked the most expensive room I have. This display of good taste made me like the girl even more.

  So, you see, I was feeling rather benevolent as I prepared to leave the PennDutch to interview my fifth and final suspect. Generosity of spirit does not always translate into open purse strings, however. I was just opening the front door to leave when Mayor Rachel Blank's shiny new car rolled slowly up my drive.


  I was of half a mind to slam the door shut and bolt it. This inclination had nothing to do with the woman's sexual orientation, mind you, but my suspicion that she was there to ask for money. Certainly she was there to solicit my vote. The truth is, I was tempted to give her both, and therein lay my problem.

  How could I, in good conscience, not vote for the best candidate for congressperson? But a vote for Mayor Blank was a vote against getting Melvin out of his position as Chief of Police. That was a sobering thought. The man was dreadful at his job, after all, and everyone knew that Zelda Root would make a far better Chief. There were, however, the ramifications to consider.

  Melvin was Melvin, and I had no illusions that he would magically become competent if elected to state office. The only thing sure to change would be that his sphere of influence would be wider, leaving me to ask myself the following question: Which was more important, the good of Hernia or the good of the congressional district? And what if, Heaven forfend, Melvin not only won the election, but bamboozled the public and continued to climb the political ladder? There have been bamboozling idiots in the White House before, but none so dense as to ship ice cream by UPS.

  Complicating the situation was the fact that Melvin was my brother-in-law. Susannah wanted desperately to be somebody, and being a congressman's wife was certainly a start. Frankly, I wouldn't mind being a congressman's sister-in-law, just as long as Melvin wasn't involved.

  So you see, I would much rather have ignored the entire election. Alas, that is virtually impossible to do in this country, given the fact that our electoral processes generally outlast most marriages. I had no choice, therefore, but to fling open the door and paste a wide, fake smile across my mug.

  As usual, Rachel Blank was impeccably dressed, in a cream linen suit, buttery tan pumps, and a gleaming single strand of pearls that matched the solitaire drops at her ears. Every dark hair on her head was in place and she was wearing a moderate, and not too unattractive, amount of makeup. I could certainly imagine Rachel as our next congressperson.

  "Mayor Blank, what a nice surprise!"

  "Hello, Magdalena. I hope I'm not disturbing your lunch."

  "Lunch, munch, who has time for that? Unless, of course, you'd like some lunch. I'm sure Freni wouldn't mind throwing another potato in the pot." I laughed agreeably.

  "No, thank you, I've just eaten. Do you mind if I come in for a minute?"

  "I don't mind at all. But it will literally have to be a minute, because I was just about to head out the door on police business."

  She seemed surprised. "Melvin stick you with one of his difficult cases again?"

  Like I said, Melvin Stoltzfus may be a loser, but he's my loser now—I mean he's my relative now. Besides, Rachel was Melvin's boss. If Melvin lost both his job and the election, I might be forced to take him and Susannah in to live with me. I'd sooner have Mama back from the dead.

  "It's no big deal," I hastened to assure her.

  "It's the Clarence Webber case, isn't it?"

  I motioned to one of the many rocking chairs I keep on the front porch for my guests' enjoyment. She nodded her agreement and we sat. There was no point in wasting a beautiful day inside.

  "How did you know?"

  "This is Hernia, Magdalena. What other difficult cases does he have?"

  "Well, Anna Leichty has complained that someone's been throwing eggs at her outhouse."

  "With or without her in it?"

  We both laughed.

  The mayor stopped suddenly. "It's okay, Magdalena. Melvin told me about the latest development."

  "You mean all those little scars? Wasn't that sick?"

  She shuddered. "People never cease to amaze me. To disgust me either. So, what is it Melvin has you doing?"

  "Oh, he just has me checking on a few suspects. Like I said, it's really no big deal."

  "Who does he suspect?" She pressed manicured but unpolished nails briefly against her lips. "Shame on me for asking. Sometimes I forget that, just because I head up the city council that hired Chief Stoltzfus, I'm not entitled to know everything."

  I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. It may, or may not, be the mayor's business to know everything that goes on in a town. Speaking from experience, however, the fewer people involved in a murder case, the better.

  "So, what brings you out here? My vote or my checkbook?"

  She looked startled, and then laughed louder than before. I must explain, however, that in keeping with her polished appearance, Rachel had a cultivated laugh. Even at high decibels.

  "You're too much," she finally said. "Zelda warned me about you."

  "She warned me about you too."

  A neatly plucked brow rose in a questioning manner.

  "It's not that I don't find you attractive," I hastened to explain. "Which is not to say that I do, either. I mean, if I was, I would. But I'm not, so I don't. But it's nothing personal, I assure you."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow you, Magdalena."

  "I'm not gay!" I wailed.

  The second brow shot skyward. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

  "Zelda said that you were—well—what you do behind closed doors is really no one else's business."

  If laughter is indeed the best medicine, Rachel Blank was going to leave my front porch in tip-top condition. Finally she remembered I was there.

  "Sorry," she said, pressing fingers to mouth again in that coy, if somewhat affected, manner. "It's just that Zelda has such an active imagination."

  "That she does." Zelda once told me that her parents were missionaries to the Belgian Congo and that she knew the famous mystery writer Ramat Sreym, whose parents were also missionaries. This is, of course, utter nonsense. I've known Zelda since she was knee-high to a grasshopper—make that a mantis—and to my knowledge she's never even been out of this state.

  "Anyway," Rachel said, her demeanor restored, "you asked what I wanted from you. Well, here's the thing."

  14

  I hopped to my feet. "My checkbook's in the house. I'll be back in a jiffy." I started for the door, then stopped and turned. "But I have to warn you, dear. Since I'm undecided, and Melvin is my brother- in-law, I think I'll donate to both campaigns. Equal amounts, of course."

  "Please, Magdalena, sit down. It isn't money I'm asking for— although I never turn down a donation. I'm here to inquire about renting your inn."

  I plopped back onto my rocker. Take it from me. If your bottom is as bony as mine, plan your plopping carefully.

  "Ouch," I said. "What do you mean you want to rent the inn? All six guest rooms? Because now that I'm a mother, I'm down to five."

  If I ever get around to plucking my eyebrows—which has got to be some sort of a sin—I want perfectly arched ones like Rachel's. Just by lifting one, she can ask a question. Yes, I know, I can lift my brows too, but when they're this shaggy, the questions are unintelligible.

  "I became a mother this morning," I explained. "No, I didn't have a baby, if that's what you're wondering. It's more like foster care. And she's definitely not a baby. But back to the matter at hand. Why do you want to rent my inn, when you have a perfectly good house right here in town?"

  Rachel smiled. "Yes, it is a perfectly good house, but as you know, it's rather small. No, I want to rent the inn for a special occasion. For my election-night victory party."

  "My, we're feeling confident, aren't we?"

  Although there was a twinkle in her eyes, she glanced around melodramatically and leaned forward. "I've taken a poll. According to my figures, I'm in the lead by seventeen percent."

  "Never count your chickens, dear. And you know, of course, this is a very popular inn. I'll check my calendar, but I'm sure I'm booked solid through the end of the year."

  Rachel gasped softly. "All the way to New Year's?"

  "A year from New Year's. Like I said, this is a successful establishment. Sometimes, however, there are cancellations. And sometimes—and I'm not making any
promises—it's possible to shuffle things around a bit. I could at least put you on the waiting list."

  "Oh, my. I've already invited the governor and his wife." She sounded curiously relieved.

  "You've invited the governor?"

  "Yes. Lorie and I were college roommates. In fact, we were double-dating the night she met Dinky."

  "You call the governor Dinky?"

  Rachel blushed. "That's a private joke. You mustn't mention it to anyone."

  "Wow! The governor!"

  I am ashamed to admit this, but I may have sounded fairly excited. You see, although I have hosted a number of celebrities at my establishment—from both the hills of Hollywood and the hills of greater Washington, D.C.—I have never hosted a Pennsylvania governor. I've never even met one. And since it is my dream to not only meet a governor of my fair state, but be awarded a medal for all the contributions I've made to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, how I could not say yes to Rachel Blank?

  "Look, Magdalena, if it's too much trouble—"

  "Trouble, shmubble, I'll take care of everything."

  "Great! And you do have a liquor license, don't you?"

  My heart sank even as my hair stood on end. The very thought of serving spirits in my ancestral home was enough to cause five generations of spirits (mostly Yoders) to turn over in their graves.

  "I'm sorry," I said, "but I don't have a license."

  "Well." The perfectly plucked brows sagged a little as she gave that bit of information her serious consideration. "I'm afraid then I'm going to have to move my victory celebration to Bedford. You understand, don't you?"

  I nodded mutely. I'd have to find another way to bring myself to Dinky's attention and win statewide recognition. I don't know what honors are within the governor's power to bestow. But this is the Keystone State, and I am a quasi-cop. Perhaps the Order of the Keystone Cops would be appropriate.

  "Of course a contribution would still be nice," Rachel said smoothly. She is, after all, the consummate politician.

  I wrote her a check, but it had two fewer zeroes than the one I had originally intended to write.