Play It Again, Spam (13 page)

you?"

"Ach, maybe we should go to the third thing on your list. Did you say someone was missing?"

I nodded miserably. "One of my guests. A man named John Burk. What do you propose to do, Strubbly Sam, organize a

posse?"

The sheep drew a blank again.

"A search party, dear. Because if - "

"Yah, that I can do."

"You're kidding, aren't you? I mean, it's planting season-how are you going to get anyone to join a search party for a missing

Englisher?"

The straw hat was a blur. "There's Strong Jonathan, Small Ben, Two-Horse Miller, Lefthanded Ed, and Strubbly Pete. They're

all retired like me. They'd be happy to help."

"Are you sure, Sam?"

"We can find this guest, Magdalena."

"You forgot the 'Big.' "

"You forgot the 'Strubbly.' "

We grinned like a pair of Cheshire cats, and in that moment an unlikely friendship was born.

I expect my guests to gather in the parlor between six and half-past every evening. At the very minimum, gentlemen must

wear shirts, pants, and shoes. I will not tolerate shorts at the dinner table. Ladies may wear slacks - although dresses are

preferred - and they too must wear shoes. Neither sex may wear sleeveless apparel. After all, there are parts of the body the

Good Lord intended for us to keep private, and any place where odor is a problem is on that list. I do encourage my guests to go

beyond the minimum code, and am sometimes rewarded by smartly dressed diners who appear to have stepped right off the

society page of The Philadelphia Inquirer.

At any rate, I collect my guests promptly at six-thirty and lead them to the dining room where I personally assign their seats.

Anyone rude enough to be late risks being seated next to me, within poking range of my fork. By the second day tardiness is no

longer a problem. Occasionally - and this happens, or I should say used to happen, with the Hollywood crowd more than any

other group - someone will fail to appear altogether. If I have not been notified in advance, and food has been prepared, the

culprit is treated to a thorough tongue-lashing. Perhaps this might not seem like the Christian thing to do, but neither is wasting

food - not when there are all those starving children in India.

This particular evening, since the men were already gathered in the parlor, and the women not the sort who gussied up a lot,

I didn't anticipate any problems. Neither did I anticipate what happened. At twenty-nine minutes after six, just as I was about to rap

on the parlor door, it opened and Tulsa Bob stepped out, looking like the cat who'd swallowed the canary.

"Ah, Miss Yoder, you're just the woman I want to see."

"Well, here I am, as big as life and twice as ugly." It was a phrase I'd picked up from Susannah and which I intended to be

humorous. A sporting person would have laughed, and contradicted my obvious joke.

Bob, however, merely nodded. "Yeah, I'm glad we got this chance to talk before dinner."

I glanced at my plain, but very accurate watch. "You have thirty-nine seconds, dear."

"Ma'am?"

"Make it fast," I said crossly, "or I'll have to shorten the table grace. You don't want me to cheat God, do you?"

"No ma' am. It's this - we won't be needing the parlor anymore. As a conference room, I mean."

That announcement did little to improve my mood. "A deal's a deal, dear. We agreed on fifty dollars a day."

His eyebrows merged, like two storm clouds coming together. "Ma'am, it's not like you'd really be losing money on it. Would

you? Our deal didn't stop you from renting it to anyone else, did it?"

Okay, so he had a point. But never let someone off the hook unless you have something to reel in. Otherwise you risk

snagging yourself.

"How about a new deal?"

"What kind of deal, ma'am?"

"Well, it would appear that one of my guests is missing - "

"Missing, ma'am?"

"Well - and this is strictly confidential - I think it's more likely he ran away."

"Is this a child we're talking about?"

"Hardly. He's at least your age, dear. But" - I lowered my voice - "his wife's a little strange, She has this crazy idea he's a

spy. Says he's gone missing allover the world. She's a concert pianist, you see, and travels a lot, but just between you and me,

these musician types tend to be high-strung. My guess is the poor guy just needs a break now and then. Anyhow, I promised her

I'd organize a search party tomorrow and we'd comb the woods around here."

"Isn't that something the authorities are supposed to do?"

"Not this early in the game, and not without compelling evidence of foul play. And frankly, I'd be hesitant to jump in to

somebody else's business except that - well, enough said."

The storm clouds lifted and parted. "Ma' am?"

"It's just that I have a reputation to uphold." There was no need for him to know that a few previous guests had gone missing,

only to be found on the premises as corpses. I don't mean to sound heartless here, but if John Burk was found dead, it had better

not be on my property. The kind of folks who might be attracted to stay in an inn where multiple deaths had occurred were not the

folks I wanted as guests.

"I see, Well, ma'am, me and the guys sort of had plans."

"Are those plans worth two hundred dollars? Because that's what you'd owe me through Friday."

Bob grinned. "Ma'am, I was in sales in civilian life. I sure could have used a woman like you on the team."

"What did you sell, dear?"

"Previously owned cars."

I wrinkled my nose, which given its length, takes a few seconds. "Well then, do we have a deal? I'll let you out of the

agreement if you help me look for John Doe - I mean, John Burk."

"Deal," he said and thrust out a hand for me to shake. While I'd just as soon pick up someone's pair of dirty undies than

shake their hand - both things have been in the same place, after all - I grabbed the proffered paw. I've been told I have an

uncommonly strong grip, thanks to my penchant for pinching pennies. Contrary to rumor, I cannot squeeze blood out of a turnip. I

can, however, I force a few tears.

The hedgerows came together again, this time in a I wince. "Yes, ma'am, you and I would have made great teammates."

I patted my bun with my free hand. Flattery can get me to do many things, but selling used cars is not one of them. "Say

uncle, dear, and hurry up before I have to cut the grace out altogether."

We all agreed that an organized search should wait until the morning. Samantha seemed calmer now that she had shared

her suspicions with me about John being a C.I.A. agent. And Zelda, bless her little overly made-up face, had promised to keep a

painted eye open for any suspicious Englishers skulking about Hernia. As for Sam, not only was he a dynamite cook, he was a

whole lot more pleasant than Freni.

Dinner was served around a massive table that was built by my great-great-great Grandfather Jacob "The Strong" Yoder.

The table was constructed of solid oak and can seat twenty people - twenty-six in a pinch. It and Grandma Yoder's bed were the

only pieces of furniture to survive intact during the tornado. Frankly - and this is - just between you and me - I wish Granny's bed

had sailed away to Oz. Sure, I was born in that bed, but Granny died in it. And while I'm not about to confess that I believe in

ghosts, I have seen Granny in that bed on several occasions since she left her earthly body. Unfortunately it is the same bed I feel

compelled to use - after all, Granny wouldn't be happy with a stranger sleeping on top of her.

At any rate, Sam made an excellent butler and he hovered over us like a mother hen, pecking at each little worm and flinging

it to the neediest chick. Of course that's a bad analogy, because Sam was an excellent cook. Even better than Freni, if the truth be

told.

The guests seemed delighted by a butler liveried in livery clothes, and were altogether in high spirits - except for Sandy Hart,

who was at her other pole, and as quiet as a can of worms. Her husband, Bob, however, more than made up for her silence.

"Excellent meal, Miss Yoder."

I nodded graciously at the bobbing butler. "Thank Sam. You didn't know that Amish men could cook, did you?"

"No, ma'am."

"My sugar plum can cook," Doris Hill cooed. "He learned it in the army."

I arched one brow, to signify that I was displeased at her interruption. "Did he now?"

"Oh, yes! He learned to cook in that horrible prisoner-of-war camp he was in - she ran chubby fingers through her husband's

hair - "what was the name of that, dear?"

"We called it the Black Hole," Bob said before Jimmy Hill could as much as part his lips.

"Prisoner-of-war camp? Black Hole? Are we sure this is proper dinner conversation?" I asked gently. Actually, I was dying to

hear more, but in a one-on-one situation. It is my dinner table, after all, and I should be the mistress of conversation.

"Oh, it's just history," Bob said without missing a beat. "You see, it was during the war - WW II, that is - and we were in an

armored tank regiment in the Tunisian desert."

"Is that so? You know, the king of Morocco stayed here once. He brought seven of his wives with him - or were they harem

girls? Anyway, I said I wasn't going to allow any hanky-panky with girls wearing hankies. Made him put them up at a motel in

Bedford."

"Well, this was Tunisia," Jimmy said needlessly. "It's two countries over."

"And the capital is Tunis," Doris hissed. I think she meant to purr.

I rolled my eyes politely. That is to say, I kept at least a smidge of iris showing at all times.

"I'm quite good at geography, dear. I haven't traveled much personally, but my guests have. Did you know that the shape of

Tunisia has often been compared to the hull of a ship?"

"Isn't that interesting," Bob said, his voice straining, as if to change gears. "I guess I was too concerned with the shape I was

in to be noticing the shape of the country. You see, we were fighting Rommel in the desert - the temperature was like a hundred

and forty in the daytime. At night it was freezing."

"The highest temperature ever recorded was one hundred thirty-six point four in the shade, and that was in Aziz, Libya," I

said instructively.

Bob barreled on. "Our unit was destroyed by a division of Panzers. There were only seven survivors. We four" - he waved a

hand at the other men present, excluding Sam - "were there. We all escaped into the dunes, and they didn't bother to follow.

"I got off easy - just some shrapnel in my left leg. But others - like Frank over there - were hit pretty bad. Frank, show Miss

Yoder here your scars."

"I don't think so, dear."

"Anyway, we went three days with just one canteen of water between us - nothing to eat, of course - and then we were

found by a tribe of Bedouin. They're nomads - "

"I know all about the Bedouin, dear."

"I'm sure you do, Miss Yoder. Anyway, these were the nicest folks. They didn't have as much as a Bandaid, but at least we

were safe until he showed up. Well, that's what we thought."

"Until who showed up? Rommel ?"

"I wish. No, ma'am, I'm talking about the Butcher of Tunis, and his sidekick, the Scorpion."

"Hernia's too small to have its own butcher, but there's a good one over in Bedford."

"Not that kind of butcher, ma'am. This one butchered humans."

"How fascinating, dear." I turned to Samantha, who had remained silent through the meal. "Who is your favorite composer?"

Bob's bushy black eyebrows merged in a hedgerow frown. "Beg pardon, ma' am, but the story is just beginning. And it ain't a

pretty story like that Casablanca movie. The Germans were in control in Tunisia, not the wishy-washy Vichy government of

France. And there wasn't anything like Rick's bar in Tunis - well, not the part that I saw, at any rate.

"You see, the Butcher of Tunis was in charge of a prisoner-of-war camp just outside the city. We called it the Black Hole,

because that's just what it was. Nothing but a pit under a building, where there were twenty-five of us, crammed together like