Just Plain Pickled to Death (18 page)

I walked quickly to my car. It was Wedding Day minus four, and I wasn’t about to commit to a life of continued chastity, no matter how much she flattered me. Still, it was nice to know that if something ever happened to Aaron, and if I ever found myself outside the fold of my own religious heritage, there was a segment within mainline Christianity that shared not only some of my values but apparently my wardrobe as well.

I found the Convent of the Broken Heart with no trouble. It occupied an aging gray two-story frame house that was set off from the street by a narrow strip of weed-choked lawn. The broken heart on the gate was indeed obvious, once I could tear my gaze from the six-foot-high wrought iron letters that spelled the convent’s name on the brown tar shingle roof. I had a much harder time trying to find the doorbell, and five minutes after I did, I concluded that it didn’t work.

I knocked and got immediate results.

“Yes?” The woman who answered the door was wearing a big smile. If it hadn’t been for a dirty bed sheet wrapped around her, that’s all she would have been wearing—well, except for her makeup. I’ve seen raccoons with less eye definition.

“Is there a Sister Angelica here?” I asked politely.

She had a clear, high-pitched laugh, like the wind chimes Susannah made me hang on the back porch. “Oh, you must mean Anjelica. Sister Anjelica Huston.”

“I’m sure I must. Is that perchance you?”

She tinkled a negative response. “Oh, no. I’m Sister Mary Martin. Sister Anjelica Huston is upstairs channeling.”

I smiled patiently. “Well, if she wants to save a lot of time, she should head straight for Channel Six. That’s where the
Green Acres
reruns are on Susannah’s set.”

She tinkled as if a windstorm were blowing through her porch. “Oh, not that kind of channeling, silly. Sister Anjelica Huston is the channel for Pharaoh Tutankhamen.”

I had no idea what she meant, nor did I want to find out. “Can I please speak to her for a moment?”

“As herself, or as the pharaoh?”

“As herself, I suppose. Whichever one was friends with a woman named Rebecca Weaver about twenty years ago.”

It was immediately obvious that one of the tinkles in Sister Mary Martin’s chimes had hit a sour note. “We may be a nonprofit organization, but we do need to live, you know. Isn’t there anything you wish to ask the Pharaoh? It’s only twenty dollars for a three-minute session.”

I fished around in my purse to see how much I was packing. “All right,” I said at last, “but I’m not wearing a sheet, and I’m definitely not wearing any of that black eye makeup.”

“It’s kohl,” she said, “and you don’t have to wear any. But take off your shoes, please.”

I reluctantly obeyed. I needed a new pair of black stockings desperately. If Mama saw the condition of the ones I was wearing she’d have a heart attack. Except that Mama is no longer with us, of course.

Still, I wouldn’t put it past her to manage one somehow. Mama had a positive thing about keeping undergarments in good repair.

She might have had a valid point. Hannah Yutzy was hit by the mail truck while crossing Main Street in downtown Hernia. She was only grazed, and would have been all right if the paramedics hadn’t insisted on giving her a thorough once-over. I’m not sure of the details, but somewhere along the line Hannah became convinced that the paramedics had discovered that her underwear was not only in need of mending but could’ve used a thorough bleaching as well. This realization induced hysterical paralysis, which resulted in an extended hospital stay, months of physical and psychological therapy, and an entire new wardrobe of underwear. Enough said.

Fortunately Sister Mary Martin didn’t seem to notice the hole in my hose, and when I caught a glimpse of the others, I knew there was no need to worry. Hannah Yutzy could have pranced around in her dirty undies all day, and no one would have paid any attention.

The so-called nuns were seated cross-legged on the floor in a semicircle in front of one of their sisters, who was seated cross-legged on a cheap plywood-veneer coffee table. The women all turned and stared as I entered the room, and I could feel them sizing me up for a sheet-fitting.

“This”—my guide pointed to the woman on the table—”is Sister Anjelica Huston. And here”—she pointed to the rest—”we have Sister Martha Graham, Sister Debra Winger, Sister Judith Garland, Sister Margaret Mitchell, Sister Elizabeth Taylor, and Sister Cher Bono.”

She didn’t attempt to introduce me, but I nodded politely. “Are those your real names, dears?”

Sister Mary Martin tinkled with delight. “We of the Broken Heart leave our worldly names at the gate. In here we are free to take on whatever names we choose, provided they are grounded in the Scriptures, of course.”

“Of course. In which biblical passage does the name Cher occur?” I asked pleasantly.

“Proverbs nineteen, verse eight,” she said without a second’s hesitation. “He who cherishes understanding prospers.”

“I’m sure you do,” I said kindly. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to speak to the head sister, and I haven’t got all day.”

Sister Mary Martin tinkled merrily. “Oh, she isn’t the head sister, she’s just our channeler. We have no one in authority here. It is one of our virtues.” She turned to the woman on the coffee table. “Our visitor has requested to speak to Pharaoh Tutankhamen. Can it be arranged?”

“I will try,” Sister Anjelica Huston said and got busy concentrating on the requisite trance.

I studied her. I assumed she was around Rebecca Weaver’s age—what she would have been today— which put her near seventy. For a woman threescore and ten, she looked very well preserved. Her sheet covered a body that obviously exercised and stayed away from excessive fats. There were a few wrinkles around her eyes, but no more than I might have after a sleepless night or two. Her brown hair could well have come from a bottle, but if so, it wasn’t obvious. Suddenly I began to have my doubts that Sister Anjelica Huston, aka Tutankhamen, was the same Diane Lefcourt who had been best buddies with my Pooky Bear’s aunt.

“Ahmmmmmmmmmmm!”

The woman on the coffee table was suddenly sitting ramrod straight. The women who had been sitting on the floor were now prostrate. Even Sister Mary Martin was flat on her face. For the record, I remained standing.

“His Holy Deity, Ruler of all Egypt and Upper Goshen, Lord of the Sudan and all the lands that lie beyond, Master of the Nile, Pharaoh Tutankhamen wishes to temporarily inhabit the mortal flesh of Sister Anjelica Huston!”

The speaker was the woman on the coffee table, and although she had a very deep voice, she still didn’t sound like a man.

“Ahmmmmmmmmmmmm!” everyone hummed.

“Inhabit me, Oh Great One,” Sister Anjelica Huston implored, at a much higher register.

“Ahmmmmmmmmmmmm!”

There was a brief period of transition, during which Sister Anjelica Huston shook and shimmied like a car with a missing spark plug, and then suddenly she was no longer there. I know that sounds crazy, but please let me explain.

Her body was, of course, still there, though even that had changed. Her skin and hair looked somehow darker, her features more pronounced, and she had every bit as many wrinkles as a California raisin. But the biggest change was in her voice. Now it did sound like a man. A man with a bass voice and a bad head cold.

“Speak, peasant!” that voice ordered.

The nuns all remained prone, barely breathing, so I assumed the command was directed at me.

“Get behind me, Satan,” I said quickly. My faith frowns on seances and Ouija boards, and even if it didn’t, there was definitely something spiritually unhealthy about the scene.

“What? You dare to offend Lord Tutankhamen?”

“If the shoes fits, dear,” I said.

“Leave!”

“Okay, I’m out of here. But I’m not paying twenty dollars for this trash.”

“Not you!” Tut roared. “Them!”

The courtiers—I’m sure none of them were vestal virgins—hopped to their feet and scampered from the room, leaving me alone with the devil himself. I backed against the wall, prepared to defend myself. Thanks to Mama and Papa, and a strict Sunday school teacher, I knew quite a few passages of the Bible by heart—and in the King James version, the one with which the Old Boy is most familiar.

“Please, relax,” a woman said.

I glanced wildly around. There was no one in the room but me and a long-dead Egyptian.

“It’s me.”

I stared at the figure on the coffee table. The pharaoh was gone, and so was Sister Anjelica Huston. In their place was a fairly typical woman of seventy, baggy upper arms and all. This woman uncrossed her legs stiffly and stretched them out in front of her, wiggling her toes.

“I’m baptized,” I said, not about to let my guard down. “And I’ve brought a guardian angel or two with me, you can be sure.”

My adversary chuckled. “Well, have you now? You are—?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Diane Lefcourt.”

“Diane Lefcourt from Hernia? Rebecca Weaver’s best friend?”

She sighed. “Yes, Becca’s best friend. The one who let her down. Did you know her?”

“In a way. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.”

She stared at me. “This has something to do with the body that was found in the pickle barrel, doesn’t it? I read about it in the papers.”

“That was sauerkraut. And what did you mean you let her down?”

She scooted over on the table and patted the space beside her. “Have a seat. This may take a while.”

I don’t mind telling you I was still somewhat shaken up by what I had witnessed and not about to share a chair with a babbling Beelzebub.

“Suit yourself, honey, but I’m quite harmless, I assure you. Now, what’s your name?”

“Susannah Entwhistle.” This woman, whoever she was, didn’t even blink.

“Well, Susannah, Sister Mary Martin said you wanted to chat with old King Tut. I take it that’s not really who you wanted to speak with?”

“No. I wanted to speak with Diane Lefcourt. Is that your real name?”

“Yeah, in a manner of speaking. I mean, I did legally change it to Sister Anjelica Huston. But I was born Diane Lefcourt.”

“Well, I was born Magdalena Yoder,” I confessed.

“You running from the law, honey?”

“What?”

“Never mind, I shouldn’t have asked. So, what can I do for you?”

“For starters, you’re not really—I mean, you don’t really—”

“Go into a trance and become an antique mummy?”

“For starters.”

She laughed heartily, the laugh of a seventy-year- old. “Hell, no, pardon my Egyptian. Everything you saw was an illusion.”

“You mean magic? But I’ve been here ten minutes and you’ve been three different people. And you haven’t even left that table!”

“Honey, I’m good at what I do. I worked in a carnival years ago. Dated the guy who ran the magic show. He talked in his sleep.”

“What about the others. They know?”

She roared, then stopped suddenly, holding her finger to her lips, and nodded at the door. “Hell, no. This is the best racket there is. A permanent roof over my head and a bunch of eager disciples, all more than willing to share their earthly goods with me. Well, not me of course, but His Holy Deity Tutankhamen!”

“I could blab,” I said carelessly.

She shook with mirth. “So blab. The Master of the Nile has already warned them about false prophets. Now, what is it you want? Tell me, before the Ruler of Upper Goshen turns you into a frog.”

I decided to let the brokenhearted temple maidens with the fanciful names fend for themselves. At least temporarily.

“Sarah Weaver’s funeral is tomorrow afternoon. At Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. You’re welcome to attend, if you still own a dress. Her entire family will be there, even her dad, who I managed to locate in Florida.”

“Jonas?”

“Yes. Anyway, it’s become very obvious to me that whoever killed Sarah killed Rebecca too, and—”

“Nobody killed Rebecca,” she said.

“What?” I stared at her. She was still in her Diane persona and looked quite serious.

“I said, nobody killed my friend Becca.”

“That’s nonsense, dear,” I said gently. “No one has seen her for twenty years, and her own daughter—”

“No one killed her,” Diane growled in a voice not unlike Tutankhamen’s. “I know, because I’ve seen her. In fact, I saw her just last week.”

I sat down on the coffee table. If she was indeed the devil, or if the table buckled and crashed to the floor, so be it. My legs weren’t designed for megashocks.

“What do you mean you saw her last week?” I finally gasped.

She had the nerve to pat me in a motherly way. “Get a grip on it, honey. I saw her over in Harrisburg. I go to see her every month. She’s in a mental hospital.”

I let that soak in. Then I thought about asking her if the Harrisburg hospital had any vacancies, but I was afraid I might be misunderstood. It was me I wanted to admit, not her.

“What’s the name of the hospital?”

She shook her head. “That’s privileged information. I’ve already told you far too much. I just wanted you to know that Becca isn’t dead.”

“But, but—does Jonas know this?”

“Hell, no! And you’re not going to tell him, are you? Because if you do, I’ll deny it. And don’t try calling the hospitals either, because they won’t find her. And anyway, maybe she isn’t in Harrisburg. Maybe I made that part up.”

It sounded almost like a challenge, and I didn’t know what to think. Then I remembered Sarah’s diary.

“Well, according to Sarah’s diary, her mother is dead. She saw it happen, you know. It’s all down on paper.”

Diane Lefcourt stared at me, becoming more and more like Tutankhamen with every passing second. “Sarah saw something. But it wasn’t her mother being killed. So, whose word are you going to take for it, mine or little Sarah’s?”

“Little Sarah’s,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure.

I started to leave, but she grabbed my arm with a hand that was amazingly strong. “How did you find me anyway?”

I pried her fingers loose. They may as well have belonged to a resuscitated mummy. They were as cold as ice.

“I called information and took a chance on the only Lefcourt in Johnstown. It was your son. Does he know what you do for a living?”