Play It Again, Spam (11 page)

"Well, that's what he did," I said firmly. "Where would he go?"

I shrugged. "The woods? The pond across the road? There's lots of nifty places to explore here."

"John isn't in to exploring."

"I see. What is he in to?"

"History."

"Well, like I said before, there is that old grist mill on the Berkey farm, and Settlers' Cemetery is a very interesting place."

She shook her head, and not a hair stirred. "John is a student of the classics."

"I thought you said he was a professor."

Dainty lips parted. "He was. But the pursuit of knowledge is a lifelong passion for him."

"Perhaps you should have taken your vacation in Greece," I said, secure in the knowledge that my no-refund, "a head laid is

a dollar paid" rule is pinned to each of my guests' pillows.

"We were there just last month doing researching for a book John's writing on the military campaigns of Antigonus

Monophthalmus."

"Gesundheit, dear."

She frowned. "John was looking for someplace quiet and relaxing to write up his notes. He wasn't counting on being

carjacked."

Every hair on my bun bristled. "Carjacked? I told you my sister borrowed your car. In fact, your husband insisted she take it."

She stepped back deeper into the shadows. "Well, that is most unlike John, I assure you."

"Could we possibly be in denial, dear?"

"I beg your pardon !"

"Obviously you and your husband had more than just a tiff."

She said nothing.

"Look, dear, I want to help you."

Silence seemed to be her strength. I flipped the switch on the wall beside me, and she looked like a fawn caught in my

Beamer's headlights.

"Oh," she gasped.

"You do want my help, don't you?"

She nodded. "Miss Yoder - uh - this is so personal."

I tugged on a lobe. "These ears have heard just about everything."

"Yes, but - "

"Look dear, I have a sister who's slept with more men than Richard Simmons. And did I mention the fact that half of

Hollywood has spilled their guts to these babies?

So you see, there's nothing on this good earth that would surprise me. Now them" - I nodded in the direction of the parlor

door, behind which the veterans congregated - "they might have their water glasses pressed up against the door as we speak.

Far be it from me to speak ill of paying guests, but that bunch in there is one of the weirdest I've had stay here yet."

Samantha took a tentative step forward. "Really?"

"Oh, yes. The men, near as I can tell, have been huddIed in there all day, and the women seem to have been banished

somewhere else."

"Where?"

"Who knows? Bedford? Somerset? They took their rental cars and fanned out across the country. Well, I'm assuming they

did. Not that they consulted me before they left, although it would have been a good idea. I have some lovely and informative

brochures I could have given them. Full-color, you know."

"Miss Yoder, I have a confession to make."

"Confess away!" I said, perhaps too gaily.

"I lied before."

"I knew it! I knew those pitiful paws of yours couldn't even span an octave. You're not really a concert pianist, are you?"

"Oh, but I am! I lied to you about my husband."

I beckoned her closer. "Do tell!"

"Miss Yoder, I think my husband is a spy."

9

“Do tell, dear!"

I steered her into the dining room, which is on the opposite side of the lobby from the parlor. The vexing veterans were going

to have their work cut out for them if they expected to eavesdrop on us now.

"Have a seat, dear." I pointed to a ladderback chair adjacent to a quilt stretched cross a six-foot frame. It is my custom to

keep a "quilt in progress" at all times for my guests to try their hands at. If their stitches are reasonably small and neat, I allow the

work to remain. If the stitches are sloppy, or too large, I sneak out to the dining room in the middle of the night and redo them. Not

only do these quilts function as a form of therapy for my clientele - many of whom are deeply disturbed - but they are a tidy

source of income for me. I ship the finished quilts to Lancaster County, where they are snatched up like hotcakes by the swarms

of tourists who converge on that Amish community looking to exchange cash for culture.

I threaded a needle for her. "Now, dear, tell me everything."

"You swear you won't breathe a word of this to a soul?"

"Amish and Mennonites don't take oaths. But if it will make you feel any better, I promise to stick this needle in my eye and

hope to die if these lips blab a single syllable."

That seemed to satisfy her. "I don't think my John is the kind of spy like in the James Bond movies. I mean, he doesn't have

any fancy gadgets that I know of, and as for the women - well, I already told you I thought there was no chance of that."

I waved a hand impatiently. "I don't watch movies, dear. Tell me what kind of spy your John is like."

"I think maybe he's C.I.A."

"Really?" I learned forward. I hadn't heard such a juicy piece of gossip since my first inn blew down.

She paused dramatically, but at least they weren't wasted seconds because she made a couple of stitches as well.

"Well, something like that. He won't discuss it, of course. It's probably only for my safety, you see. But he makes secret

phone calls and sometimes, like when we're traveling, he disappears for a few days."

"Give me details," I begged. Her fingers flew with the needle. "Well, there was that time I gave a concert in Vienna. No sooner

had we checked into the Hoffman House - it's a small but exquisite establishment - when he just up and disappeared. If he hadn't

done the same thing in Belgium the year before I would have been really worried."

"Ah, so you're used to this strange behavior of his. Why then all the concern now?"

She looked up from the quilt. "Because Vienna and Brussels, that I can understand. Those are places one would expect

spies to operate - or whatever you call what they do. But Hernia, Pennsylvania?"

"I see, so we Herniatites are unworthy of being spied upon."

"Well - "

I tapped the quilt, and it vibrated, stretched taut as it was. "Those last few stitches of yours look like the tracks of a drunken

chicken, dear - and you a concert pianist! For shame."

She flushed and reached for the stitch-ripper. "I didn't mean to offend you, Miss Yoder. It's just that I think my husband is an

international spy, and Hernia is practically in Pittsburgh's backyard."

"We're two hours away, and besides, you have no idea how many of the world's most powerful people have stayed in

Hernia."

"You're joking, right?"

"Wrong. And everyone of them stayed right here."

That was true in at least one sense, wasn't it?

She glanced up at me, and I could tell there was new respect in her eyes. "People like Tony Blair?"

"Bony Tony, I call him." That's quite true, although, I'd never met the man.

"Of course, there aren't any famous people here now - besides myself, I mean?"

It still amazes me how someone so small could be so full of herself. "You, my dear," I said, making a cross-stitch, "are in a

class by yourself."

Samantha beamed. "Maybe I'm being too concerned about John. He is, as you've pointed out, a grownup, and quite capable

of taking care of himself. It's just that after so many years - well, he's a fixture of my life. Even though ours is a less than perfect

marriage, I'm rather used to him."

I ripped out the cross-stitch. There was no use tempting fate, after all. Besides, she really was right. Even if John Burk was a

spy - about as likely as Susannah being a closet nun - there really was no reason for him to be snooping around Hernia. Not

anymore.

“If he doesn't show up for dinner, I'll see what I can do about organizing a search party. Folks around here are very helpful -

well, except for our chief of police. But speaking of dinner, I encourage folks to dress up, and since I like to set a good example, I'd

best be going." I anchored my needle and stood up. "Tonight's going to be very special. We'll be serving SPAM® luncheon meat."

Samantha's eyes lit up like a jack-o'-lantern with twin candles. "Oh, I adore SPAM® I have this wonderful recipe for SPAM®

Western Bean Soup. Do you think your cook would like it?"

"Oh, I'm sure she would, dear. Just be careful how you go about it. Freni can be a mite on the sensitive side."

Samantha smiled. "Just you leave it to me. I have lots of experience dealing with sensitive people."

"But there is only one Freni," I muttered under my breath. "That woman is touchy with a capital T."

Truthfully, I said it so softly that a bat with a hearing aid wouldn't have heard a thing if it was hanging from my nose. Tell me,

then, why it is that Freni, who is supposedly hard of hearing, came flying through the kitchen door.

"I heard that!"

"My, my, we have selective hearing, don't we, dear?"

"Magdalena, do you want I should quit?"

"Been there, done that," I said, borrowing a phrase from my sister. I know, it was absolutely foolish, but I wanted to appear

"cool" in Samantha's glowing eyes.

"Yah? So then I quit! You are impossible to work for."

"But it's less than an hour until dinner!" I wailed. I realize it now, although I didn't then; wailing is seldom cool.

Freni stomped one of her sturdy little brogans. "Dinner sinner," she said, also borrowing from Susannah, "I'm outta here."

"And good riddance."

"Excuse me," Samantha said, gliding sideways toward my impossibly steep stairs. "I think I may have left the water running in

my room."

"Yes, dear, go check on it," I whispered.

Freni, who had been staring at Samantha open-mouthed, whirled. "What did you say to me, Magdalena?"

"I said, 'good riddance.' And you mean Big Magdalena, don't you?"

"Ach!"

"So that's what everyone calls me, is it?"

Freni flapped her arms uselessly, like a bird with broken wings. "It's just a nickname. It means nothing."

"I see. That would explain why you're called Merry Freni."

"Ach!"

"Tell me, Merry Freni, how long have the Amish been calling me Big Magdalena?"

Freni hid her face in her apron and muttered something incomprehensible.

"Excuse me? I didn't hear that."

"Since you were three."

I gasped. "Well!"

"Of course I saw it the day you were born. I assisted the midwife, you know. I told your mama not to name you Magdalena -

that there were too many already by that name, and all the good nicknames were already taken. I told her to name you Freni

Yoder - there were only three of those in Bedford County, and one in Somerset, and the one in Somerset was already named Big

Freni."

"Is that so? Well then, what nickname might I have gotten instead?"

Freni shrugged. "Slow Freni, maybe. You never were very quick at learning things."

"You didn't just quit," I wailed, "you're also fired!"

One of these days I'm going to hire a butler to answer the door for me. Of course my butler would have to dress like an

Amish man, to fit in with my Pennsylvania Dutch theme. Unfortunately, a real Amish man would not pretend to be something he

was not. Perhaps there was a nice young man at Bedford Community College who desired a job in show business, and was

willing to buttal, not just rebuttal. Ask and you shall receive, the Bible says. Believe me, I do my share of asking, and I've done a

lot of receiving, but there does not seem to be a fifty-fifty ratio. At least not in my life. In fact, my last three prayers had gone

unanswered. Still, I decided to be a faithful Christian and give it one more try.

"Oh Lord, please send me one young good-looking and obedient young man from the drama department at B.C.C. It would

be helpful, Lord, if he already has a beard. Those fake beards they sell for Halloween at Wal-mart don't look very convincing to