Just Plain Pickled to Death (23 page)

She shook her head vigorously. “Not that. The business of revenge.”

“I don’t do revenge either, dear. Please get to the point.”

“I loved Becca Weaver. Like a sister. When I read in the paper that little Sarah had been found, I knew he would be here. To cover his tracks, if nothing else.”

“Who are you talking about?”

She clucked impatiently. “Jonas. Who else?”

“You think Jonas killed his wife? And then his own daughter?”

“She wasn’t his,” she said softly.

“What?”

“Sarah. She wasn’t Jonas’s. He’s sterile.”

I didn’t know whether to cover my ears or have her repeat it. “Huh?”

She repeated it.

“Who on earth told you such a thing?” I demanded.

“Becca told me. I said we were like sisters. She told me everything. She told me Jonas shot blanks on account of a bicycle accident when he was a boy.”

“Now I am confused,” I said.

“It’s a figure of speech,” she explained. “What matters is that he was not little Sarah’s biological father.”

“My Aaron’s auntie an adulteress?” I moaned.

“Becca wasn’t the saint everyone thought she was. Or we wouldn’t have been friends.” She laughed.

“Some things aren’t funny, dear. Well, then, who was Sarah’s father?”

She shrugged. “Becca never told me.”

“I thought she told you everything,” I said, perhaps meanly.

“She was afraid of what Jonas would do to the man if he found out. But I have an idea who the guy is, of course.”

“Who?”

She had the nerve to give me a disapproving look. “Aren’t we nosy, Magdalena Yoder?”

“I am not nosy!” I risked exposing myself by slapping the water with my hand for emphasis.

“Nosy or not,” Diana said calmly, “I came here to talk about Jonas Weaver. It’ll be a mockery to Becca’s memory if he’s allowed at little Sarah’s funeral.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard,” I said. I clamped a soapy hand over my mouth.

“Heard what?”

“Have a seat.” I pointed to the toilet. “And look the other way while I grab a towel.”

She laughed but did what she was told.

Chapter Twenty-five

Magdalena Yoder’s Wedding Feast, from Soup to Nuts

Auntie Lizzie’s Mushroom and Pea Casserole

1 pound fresh mushrooms

2 tablespoons butter

1 8-ounce box frozen green peas, thawed

1 can cream of celery soup

¾ cup milk

1/8 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese

salt and pepper to taste

½ cup crushed potato chips

Wash and slice mushrooms. Saute in butter until lightly tender. Stir in peas and continue to cook for two minutes. Blend remaining ingredients (except for potato chips) and combine with mushrooms and peas. Pour mixture into well-greased baking dish. Sprinkle with potato chip crumbs. Bake 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

Serves 4-6.

Chapter Twenty-six

Diane was plainly shaken by the news. It was a good thing she was sitting on the toilet. Unfortunately, she had misunderstood my invitation and was using the damn thing, an intimacy I am not accustomed to, I assure you. I kept my back turned until she flushed.

“That’s all I know,” I said. “Aaron’s going to try and talk some sense into Jonas, but you know him.”

“Yes, and the man’s a monster.” She began to cry. “Someone ought to do to him what he did to my Becca and her little Sarah.”

“Well, if we can prove his guilt, the state will do it, and even if we can’t, he’ll get his just reward someday.”

“Don’t give me that crap,” she sobbed. “I don’t believe in religious mumbo jumbo.”

I suppose we are all entitled to our own beliefs— or the lack thereof—but for someone who tried to pass herself off as both a nun and King Tut, she was in need of a little spiritual guidance.

“Read your Bible, dear. There is going to be a day of reckoning, and whoever killed these two is going to have to answer to God.”

She grabbed a hand towel, without washing her hands, and dabbed at her face. Apparently she hadn’t heard a word I’d said.

“Jonas Weaver is not going to get away with this,” she said through gritted teeth. “That man is going to pay.”

“Wash your hands,” I said gently. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, and on both counts you seem to be way out in the north pasture.”

She did what she was told, which was fortunate, because, without being invited, she stayed for lunch.

Lunch began as a disaster and I would rather not go into all the details. Suffice it to say, Freni might not have recognized the infamous Diane Lefcourt after all these years, but the other women sure did. They carried on like hens when a fox has invaded the coop. Aaron and Pops had not shown up, so presumably they were still trying to talk sense into Jonas. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Freni’s wilted dandelion salad slipped by them not only undetected but much appreciated, I would have fled back to my tub.

Auntie Vonnie seemed especially fond of the greens. “Endive this good can come from only one place. The Giant Eagle in Fox Chapel, right?”

I nodded, which isn’t the same as lying, because in some cultures it means no.

“Ach, no,” said Freni, who had come in to refill the bowl. “Those are dandelions from the yard. Frankly, it’s a little late in the year, and some of the leaves are a little tough if you ask me.”

I flashed daggers at her, but the woman has all the sensitivity of sandstone.

“They would look better, too, but something seems to have stepped on them. Maybe one of the cows got loose last night. I’ll have to ask Mose.”

While I prayed that the good Lord would get me safely out of that one, I stabbed at the ice in my water glass. Freni insists on filling glasses with the ice already in them, which is the surest way of making those damn cubes stick together.

Apparently the Lord heard my silent prayers for deliverance because the two Aarons appeared suddenly in the door. All eyes turned to them.

The younger Aaron shook his handsome head. “That man is as stubborn as—as—”

“As sin,” I said. I passed the serving bowls down to their places while they took their seats.

Instead of picking up his fork, my Pooky Bear slammed his fist down on the table. “He just won’t listen to reason! Legally he might be Auntie Rebecca’s next of kin, but he isn’t the only kin she had. There’s all of you.”

“And you,” I pointed out.

“That’s right,” Pops said. “We’re her family too. More so than Jonas, if you ask me. Becca was my baby sister, my flesh and blood.”

“But Sarah was his flesh and blood,” Auntie Lizzie said, her loyalties perfectly obvious.

I bit my tongue and cast Diane a warning look. The water was choppy enough. We certainly didn’t need any boat rocking.

She spoke up nonetheless. “Well, you could have your own service. Not a funeral maybe, but a memorial service. For the two of them. I mean, you do have the church reserved for three this afternoon.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone else turned and stared at her.

Frankly, I thought it was a brilliant idea. Face it, what did it really matter if the Weaver women’s remains were not actually there at the service? They wouldn’t care. They weren’t inhabiting those bones any longer. A memorial service was intended for the living, and with the exception of one stubborn old man, all the living relatives were gathered around my dining room table. Susannah, of course, was at work, but she had scheduled to take off at two and was planning to show up at the church.

“It’s a great idea,” I said.

“It has some merit,” Auntie Vonnie said, much to my surprise.

Uncle Rudy just rudely got up from the table, without being excused, and wandered off.

Uncle Elias gave the thumbs-up sign, while Auntie Magdalena whimpered her consent.

Auntie Leah boomed her approval and Uncle Sol, not to be outdone, bellowed his. I was almost surprised to hear he had a voice.

Only Auntie Lizzie and Uncle Manasses remained holdouts.

“Jonas was a part of this family long before you were even born,” she said, looking at me as if the whole situation were somehow my fault. “And you’re not even part of the family yet.”

“Well, I’ve been a part of this family longer than any of you,” Aunt Vonnie snapped, “and I say we go ahead and have the service. Put it all behind us, except for the actual interment, of course. It’s time we get on with things.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Freni must have mixed some jimsonweed in with the dandelion leaves. Either Auntie Vonnie was suffering from delirium or I was.

“I guess that settles it, then,” said my Aaron. Although he was the youngest blood relative there, he seemed the one most capable of making decisions. I was immensely proud of him.

“Three o’clock it is,” Pops said. You could hear the sadness in his voice. “You know, it’s really too bad that Jonas has to act this way. And after what I did for him today too.”

“What did you do for him, Pops?” I asked gently. “Take him some liquid refreshment?”

It just slipped out, honest. I would never rat on my soon-to-be-father-in-law. Not with my Pooky Bear present. I didn’t deserve the looks that both Aarons cast my way. Uncle Elias too, come to think of it.

“Well, what did you do?” Diane Lefcourt was like a dog, worrying at all the bones I left in my wake.

Pops rubbed at the condensation on his water glass with a pumice-like thumb. “When Aaron and I went to see him, I dropped off some old letters I’d been keeping.”

“What kind of letters?” I beat King Tut to the punch.

“Letters from Becca, to my Catherine. I thought it might soften him up a bit.”

“Pops keeps everything,” Aaron said quickly. “You should see his attic.”

He was right, and it wasn’t just the attic. The Miller house gave a new definition to the word clutter. Pops saved everything. Even soap slivers. True, his compulsion did save on housework—it was impossible to clean in there—but it made for a bizarre lifestyle. It was no wonder that the man sent over a barrel of sauerkraut twenty years old. Whatever Pops planned to do with all his stuff...

I recoiled in horror. “Two small suitcases and a garment bag,” I said firmly. “And when the soap gets thin enough to see through, out it goes.”

Before Pops could agree, Diane the dog picked up another one of my bones. “What was in those letters, Aaron?”

He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I even ever read them. I saw them the other day along with some of my Catherine’s things.” He looked around at the group, a spark igniting in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have given them to that fool, except that I thought it might help.”

My Pooky Bear reached over and lovingly patted his father’s arm. “Don’t worry, Pops. I’m sure you did the right thing. You did what Mama would have wanted.”

There was a chorus of concurring voices, but other than that we finished our meal in silence. We were all undoubtedly deep into our own little worlds. I know I was.

I told Freni to stack the dishes and take the rest of the day off. She reminded me that she had been planning to do just that anyway. After all, she had known Auntie Rebecca all her life, living just down the road as she did, and she had been the one to discover Sarah in the barrel of kraut. She had fully intended to be at the funeral and still intended to be present at the memorial service. Mose would be there as well.

Taking care not to be seen by anyone, I dashed off to my room to change my dress. Black is the only appropriate color for a funeral—or memorial service—if you ask me. All right, dark gray will do, but only if it’s so dark you can’t find a pencil lead in your lap. Last summer, at Millie Neubrander’s funeral, some woman from Philadelphia (an Episcopalian!) showed up wearing a bright-red sleeveless dress. It was an open-casket funeral, and there were those sitting in the front row who claim that Millie sat up in her coffin, a look of abject horror on her face. Of course I don’t believe that, but even from where I was sitting I could see the coffin shudder. I know I did.

Anyway, I hurriedly dressed and then carefully sneaked out of my room and out of the inn. I had a very important errand to perform. Before we laid Sarah and her mother to rest in our hearts, there was something equally as important that needed to be laid to rest.

Some way or another, I was going to make that horrid little Jonas Weaver confess to what he had done. That he was guilty I had no doubt. It was plain as day what had happened. When that slimy snake— who had only been shooting blanks, as Diane said— found out many years after the fact that his wife had cheated on him, he killed her. Then, when he learned that Sarah—who was not his biological daughter— had witnessed the heinous crime, he killed her too.

While it was not in my province to mete out justice to Jonas, I was fully within my rights to see that he owned up to his crimes. He had single-handedly ruined my wedding week and caused me immeasurable grief.

Of course the paring knife I’d smuggled out of the kitchen was intended only for my protection. The pocket-size tape recorder, however, I planned to use. By hook or by crook, I would trap that spawn of Satan into making a confession. By Saturday morning Jonas Weaver was going to be behind bars.