“But you’re already retired-aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t work at a job outside my home, if that’s what you mean, but I edit the monthly newsletter for the CCCCP, and that takes a lot of work.”

“It also sounds vaguely obscene. What does it mean?”

“Cuckoo Clock Collectors of Central Pennsylvania. But you know, Magdalena, you’re right. I’ve been hanging on to this collection and living off Social Security, and to what purpose? I think we should spend it now, while there’s still time.”

“Absolutely! What will we spend it on?”

“Don’t be silly, girl, that was the royal we. But speaking of which, I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt and see the pyramids. My papa was a builder-okay, so he only paved parking lots, but construction is in my blood. Do you think it’s too late for me to travel that far?”

“Well-”

“And then maybe a trip to Israel. It gets such bad press, you know, partly because it lets foreign reporters file negative stories about it while on Israeli soil. Can you imagine Saudi Arabia doing the same thing?”

“Why, no-”

“ Magdalena, for such a verbose person, you suddenly seem to have clammed up.”

“I haven’t clammed,” I claimed calmly. “I am just being careful lest I employ alliteration, which, as you know, is the bane of effete snobs across the educated spectrum-not that I consider you to be one. A snob, I mean.”

“Hmm, I shall choose to take that as a compliment. Now, let’s cut to the chase: why are you here? You never did answer that question.”

“Forsooth, I say, speaking, of course, as one who can handle the truth. How about you? Do you prefer the unvarnished truth, or should I lacquer it up like a Stradivarius violin?”

“I’m eighty-two years old, Magdalena. It’s beginning to look as if I might die of old age before you get down to brass tacks.”

“What an odd expression,” I said before attempting a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you have plenty of time left. Who knows, maybe even a few years. As to why I’m here, no doubt you’ve already guessed that it has something to do with Minerva J. Jay’s untimely demise.”

Frankie’s eyes uncrossed for a split second, and then arranged themselves into diagonal slits. “So that’s it,” she hissed. “I’m on your short list of suspects.”

“At least you hiss with an S, dear. Don’t you just hate it when folks don’t?”

“You’re strange,” she said, still hissing. “No doubt it’s that Stoltzfus blood you got from your birth father. Look what it did to your brother.”

“That murdering maniacal mantis is not my brother-ding, dang, dong! Now look what you made me do. And in front of my sweet, innocent son.”

“ Magdalena, if you weren’t such a brilliant woman and a boon to the area economy, I’d personally lead a drive to have you committed.”

“Which I am, dear. A more committed wife, mother, and erstwhile amateur sleuth has probably never before crossed your threshold. So tell me, did you like the deceased?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“Should it be?”

“Sit!” she barked. “And put that baby contraption on the floor. It’s got to be ding-dong heavy-to borrow your pseudo-swear words.”

“You forgot the dang; that makes all the difference.”

“Just shut up, Magdalena, and listen-I mean that with Christian love, by the way. Isn’t that what you always say?”

I set the carrier next to an overstuffed armchair that looked to be clean, and plopped my patooty on it. “What’s good for one goose is not necessarily good for another.”

“As I said: shut up. Now, what was I about to say? Oh yes, while Simon was alive, Minerva was the bane of my existence. She was a shameless flirt, you know, and of course my Simon was a physical specimen par excellence. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I’d known Simon my entire life and could never remember a time when he was not a scrawny, pigeon-chested little man with a neck like a swan that was topped by a bobbling head. There is a breed of duck called the Indian Runner that comes close to fitting this description, but I’ve never been sexually attracted to it-well, at least not on an ongoing basis.

“Your Simon was definitely something else,” I said.

She nodded with surprising vigor, her white prayer cap bobbing back and forth with dizzying speed. “So you see the problem, then. She even sent him love notes on scented paper, the kind you have to buy in Bedford at the stationery store.”

“What did they say?” There were moments when I adored my avocation, and this was one of them.

“What do you think they said? They were love notes, for pity’s sake. Honestly, Magdalena, if I were a judgmental woman, like some I know, I might be tempted to think you were a little slow on the uptake.”

“Do you still have them? And if so, may I read one?”

“Certainly not! What are you, a voyeur?”

I sprang to my size elevens. “I take umbrage at that remark! My interest was purely task related, speculating as I did that said documents might contain some clues as to who might want Minerva dead.” I spread my fingers to dramatize what I hoped was a tone of resignation. “But-if you refuse to cooperate, I will be forced to conclude one of two things: a. the letters do not exist, or b. they exist but contain something that might indict you.”

Although it took her considerably more effort, and she probably wears a size four, Frankie Schwartzentruber had also found her feet. “If I was going to kill Minerva, I would have done it long ago, when my dear Simon was alive. Of what use it would it be to me now?”

“Revenge?”

“Revenge? Why, I’m a Mennonite, for chocolate cookie’s sake! The R word is barely in my lexicon.”

I picked up the car carrier and edged toward the door. “That may be, dear, but you seem to be exhibiting a great deal of agitation at the moment.”

“Which means what? Magdalena, you have the ability to get under my skin like a saline drip. Now, before I truly regret my actions, get out of my house.”

“Gladly. But first let me say, that saline drip comparison was brilliant. Was that a simile or a metaphor? I can never remember which is which.”

“Out, out, out!”

If you ask me, it was pretty poor of a card-carrying, bonnet-wearing Mennonite to slam the door behind me.

There are those who say that I’m a slow learner, but I refuse to listen to them. I must continually shrug off negative comments and forge ahead like Lewis and Clarke. But as to whether or not the aforementioned explorers had any naysayers, I cannot say, and I have no Sacagawea to guide me, so perhaps it was a poor analogy.

But at any rate, unlike Sacagawea, I had the opportunity to leave my darling little papoose for the duration of my quest, and that’s exactly what I did. From Frankie’s house I drove straight back to the inn and, after tanking up both the rascal and myself on yet another round of nutrients, set out for one final turning of the screws that day.

In retrospect, it was a move best left for the morrow.