Between a Wok and a Hard Place (4 page)

"Bend away." Dr. Wilmar Brack lit up like a two candle jack-o'-lantern-lantern. "You know who I am, of course."

"You won the Nobel prize. You've told me that five I times."

He squirmed. The chair was as hard as I had hoped. "I said I was nominated for the Nobel prize. I didn't actually win.

Still, it's quite an honor, don't you think? After all, the Nobel prize is worth far more than some damned Pulitzer."

I winced at his language. One more time, and I'd have to chide him.

"I'm sure it is. Who nominated you?"

He squirmed again. "The nominations are confidential, but I can tell you, it was one of the most thrilling moments of

my life. Almost as thrilling as that time in Africa when I assisted Dr. Schweitzer in surgery. He was my mentor, of course,

although some say that Al should have shared the prize with me that year."

"You don't say."

Even if Dr. Brack shared Cher's plastic surgeon, it was doubtful he was more than sixty. Since Dr. Schweitzer won

the Nobel prize in 1952, that would have made Dr. Brack fourteen at the time.

"But enough about me," he said with a cap-revealing smile, "I want to talk about you."

"Me?"

"You have the worst posture I have ever seen in an adult woman not afflicted with scoliosis."

It was a good thing the windows all had screens, or I might have caught a mouthful of flies.

"You were aware of that, weren't you?" he asked, just as casually as could be.

I found my jaw muscles. "Well, I never! That was the rudest thing anyone has ever said to me."

"Oh, but I meant it in the nicest way. With your back and my brace, we could make millions."

I stood up, as straight as a flagpole. "I don't think so."

“But I found a factory in Honduras that will make the brace for pennies per piece."

I walked away.

"You'd make the perfect poster girl," he called after me. "We could show a before shot without the brace. . ."

4

I was not in a good mood when I answered the phone. “PennDutch Inn!"

"Magdalena, this is Melvin - "

"My nemesis?"

"You pantsed me in seventh grade. You started it."

It was true. I had tugged on Melvin's overalls, but only because they were unsnapped. He was asking for it. Had

Melvin been the decent guy he claims to be, he would have done me a favor and not worn underwear that day, in which

case, I would still be a single woman.

"What is it, dear?" I asked patiently. "Is your cast itching you again." With uncharacteristic maturity, he ignored my

jibe. "The preliminary coroner's report is in. Of course it's a little complicated - the language and all - and I wouldn't

expect you to understand everything - "

"Read it to me, Melvin."

It wasn't complicated at all. Anyone with as much English as a New York cab driver could understand the report. It

was distressing, however. The body, as yet unidentified, showed a bruise that corresponded to a horse's hoofprint, and

another linear bruise an inch and a quarter wide. The latter was possibly two bruises, one superimposed and slightly

overlapping the other.

"Sounds like our mystery lady was run over by an Amish buggy,” I said midway through the report.

Melvin snickered. “The first rule in police work is not to jump to conclusions, Magdalena. There are other

possibilities.”

“It wasn't Santa and his reindeer,” I snapped.

“There was one linear bruise, Magdalena, not two.

Hernia area buggies have two sets of wheels.”

“Yes, but the wheels are at least four feet apart. Clearly, the buggy ran over her with just one set of wheels.”

“Will you let me finish, Yoder? There is a lot more.”

I let him finish. There was indeed a lot more. Before being run over by the buggy, our mystery woman had been

strangled.

“By what?” I asked.

“It doesn't say. This is just a preliminary report, remember?”

“Well, I can tell you right now, it may have been an Amish buggy that ran over her, but it wasn't an Amish person who

strangled her."

The static I heard next was Melvin bristling, I'm sure. “What makes you an expert so suddenly?”

It was time to backpedal a little. As much as I disliked dealing with Melvin, helping him with the case would be

preferable to having my ear bent by Wilmar “Bragging" Brack.

“Of course I know nothing about police work, dear, but I do know something about the Amish. It just doesn't fit.”

“Yeah? Well, there have been documented cases of Amish committing homicides, you know."

"Yes, but aren't most, if not all, of those victims Amish as well?"

Melvin has the world's only telephonic sneer. . "There is always a first time for everything."

"Melvin, dear, do you want my help, or not?" The silence that followed was long enough to ripen a melon. A more

pious person would have knitted during the dead time. "Idle hands are the Devil's playground," Mama always said. Just

what she meant by that, I wasn't sure. But given how far off she was in her veiled allusions to my wedding night I don't

ever want to know. From now on I would have my knitting bag handy whenever I called Melvin.

"Of course," he said at last. "But keep them close to the chest Magdalena."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Your cards. The few facts we do know. When you talk to the Amish give away as little information as possible. Make

them give you the information. That's how you trap them."

I tried to visualize Melvin the monstrous mantis preying on a swarm of black buggies. The buggies kept getting away.

"Whatever you say, dear," I said sweetly.

It was indeed fortunate that I had been conscripted to help poor Melvin on the case, since Melvin was not privy to the

Amish grapevine. That's putting it mildly.

The man has, through every fault of his own, managed to put the entire vineyard out of his grasp. Although the Amish

strive to love their neighbors - even the English - and are famous for turning the other cheek, they are only human. And

alas, Melvin has, over the years, taxed their patience beyond human endurance.

The Amish would never tell you this, so it is up to me, I suppose. The first day on the job Melvin started writing

warning tickets to those Amish whose vehicles had emission problems. In other words, the horses left deposits ("road

apples" we used to call them as kids) on the streets of Hernia. Melvin wanted the horses to wear giant diapers when they

were in town. The Amish obediently complied with this demand and swaddled their horses' hinies with squares of black

cloth. But this was not enough for Melvin, who insisted that the diapers had to be fluorescent orange. Melvin claimed this

was necessary in order for him to tell at a glance which horses were clad, and which weren't.

But fluorescent orange was far too worldly for the Amish, and the day after this ridiculous dictum the diapers

disappeared altogether. Melvin then began writing tickets - thirty-seven in all - and the Amish meekly paid them. It wasn't

until a visiting Amish bishop-who owned a prolific horse-was ticketed three times in one day, that the Amish put their

collective feet down. If their horses weren't welcome au natural, then neither were they. Since the few businesses in

Hernia depend heavily on Amish patronage, and contribute substantially to Melvin's salary, reason won out.

Of course the Amish forgave Melvin, but they didn't forget. I have heard Amish children refer to Melvin as mischt

kaupf-which even a polite person would be forced to translate as "manure head." Since the Amish rarely make

disparaging remarks, there can be no doubt about his lack of popularity. So you see, Melvin needed me.

I ignored several of Melvin's suggestions and decided to begin my investigation by interviewing Annie Kauffman.

Annie is a short, but ample, woman, about my age, with a beak that would put a hawk to shame. She is an excellent cook

with a reputation for the best shoo-fly pie in Bedford County. She also has an exceptionally sharp tongue for someone of

her religious persuasion.

Normally - being the shy and retiring sort that I am - I tend to give folks like her wide berth. But, Annie, I have

observed, receives even more than she gives, and as a consequence is privy to more information than a plethora of

peeping priests. Not a thing goes on in Hernia that Annie doesn't know about, and of course she has an opinion on

everything. It was time to pay her a visit.

I drove out to Annie's place in my brand-new fire-engine red BMW3181. Actually, it was a wedding present Aaron

and I gave ourselves, but if the truth be told, I paid for it. And, while I'm being so frank, the car was Aaron's idea, not mine.

My Pooky Bear had originally promised me a honeymoon trip to Japan, a country that has always fascinated me, but

the day after our wedding he inexplicably changed his mind and suggested that we buy the BMW instead. His timing was

impeccable. I was still in such a state of shock that I signed on the dotted line in a virtual trance.

Believe me, I never would have picked red on my own. No doubt Mama is still turning over in her grave over that

decision. Sinfully Red, Susannah calls this shade, and she ought to know. At any rate, I'm the first practicing Mennonite in

Bedford County to own a red BMW and you can see the tongues wag when I drive through Hernia.

Between you and me, I sort of enjoy the attention. Of course I know that this is a form of pride, and therefore a sin,

and I truly am sorry about that. But since Aaron insisted that I sell my gray 1978 Chevy sedan, I have no choice but to

drive the new car. I'm sure that God makes allowances for circumstances such as mine, although I suppose I could just

solve the problem by becoming a worldly Presbyterian. But five hundred years of religious history is a lot to give up, so

until the Good Lord smites my engine, I'm going to consider this new car one of my life's many blessing.

At any rate, I found Annie Kauffman squatting on her haunches in back of her farmhouse, plucking chickens. She

was observed by a flock of free-ranging chickens, none of which seemed particularly upset by the murder of their

companions, and two small children, one of whom was presumably the last of Annie's brood of eight. Annie stood up

when she saw me, wiping her hands on her apron.

"If it isn't Magdalena Yoder."

"Miller," I said. "I got married last month."

"Yah, that's right. I heard. You finally found yourself a man."

"Aaron was worth waiting for, I assure you."

"Let's hope you didn't wait too long. Even for a young woman it wouldn't be easy having children with hips like yours."

"What's wrong with my hips?"

"Ach, you're nothing but skin and bone, Magdalena. And all of it up and down. Even Jonas, our scarecrow, has better

birthing hips than you."

The children twittered.

I glared at the barefoot urchins. One had the decency to hide behind Annie's skirts, but the other insolently stared

back.

"Who says I even want children?"

"That's in the Bible, Magdalena. Be fruitful and multiply, it says."

The staring child was now sticking her horrid little tongue out at me.

"Perhaps some of us are meant to be fruitful without multiplying," I said.

"Why, Magdalena, your mother would turn over in her grave if she heard you say something sacrilegious like that."

"You leave Mama out of this. You barely even knew her!"

The beak recoiled, temporarily rebuffed at my passionate outcry.

"You may be prolific," I added, "but your children are rude. Especially this one."

"Ach, that's little Mary, my neighbor's child. She's ; English, but she likes to dress our way. She comes over almost

every day to play with my little Lizzie."

A missile came hurling at me from behind Annie's skirt. I yelped and clutched my knee.

"Ach, you were always a strange one, Magdalena. So English in your ways."

"Me?" I shrieked. "Your precious little Lizzie just threw a stone at me."

Annie stared at me in horror. Despite her razor tongue, she was a pacifist through and through. Yet, with one fling of