“I suppose it’s mine?”

“Elias saw it happen, but he didn’t do a thing! He could have helped Jimmy find the pills.”

“And because Minerva was such a glutton,” I said, “she ate a whole griddle’s worth of hotcakes in one sitting, thus sparing everyone else.”

Agnes finally found the nerve to speak. “How much was Elias asking for?”

Frankie snorted. “A million dollars! Ha. Where was someone like Jimmy going to find that kind of money?”

“But Elias was rich,” I said.

Frankie snorted again. “Are you rich, Magdalena?”

“Why, yes, I am-not that it’s your business, dear.”

“Well, goody for you. But apparently not everyone who appears to be rich actually is. Sure, Elias owned a fancy mountain-top house, but BUM was about to go out of business.”

“The Chinese?”

“The Indians-from India. An enterprising young man in New Delhi has started a company called Sacred Cow Udder Massage. It’s supposed to be a superior product, plus it’s much cheaper. American farmers are switching in droves from BUM to SCUM. Believe me, Elias was desperately in need of cash.”

“And so,” Agnes said, “a bad decision that turns out fatal is covered up by murder. Of course, sin can’t stay covered up. Doesn’t the Bible say that, Magdalena?”

“Be sure your sin will find you out,” I said. “Numbers 32:23b.”

“Shut up, but both of yinz,” Frankie said.

I alerted Sheriff Hughes the second I was within calling range, and we were met by a fleet of squad cars and a flotilla of ambulances before we even got to Hernia. Just how fast the sheriff and his crew drive, I don’t even want to know, for fear that I may have to perform a citizen’s arrest on one of them sometime soon.

Flannery Hughes is one of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet, and just because his mama smoked a lot of marijuana while she was pregnant is no reason to suppose that he’s not intelligent; he gets his lack of brains from his papa’s side of the family, and I mean that charitably. His father sold the family farm and sunk the proceeds into a mail-order business selling pocket-size bags of sand at a dollar each. These were marketed as food for pet rocks, back during that craze. Papa Hughes actually managed to sell twenty-nine of these little bags-all to people from Marin County, California. When it became sadly apparent that his business was a bust, he spent the rest of his life writing unsigned reviews for Publishers Weekly.

At any rate, the sheriff insisted on riding in the ambulance with me to Bedford Memorial Hospital, which meant that the Babester had to follow by car. There was no time to find a sitter, so Baby Babester rode with him.

“Sheriff,” I said, “I had an epiphany this morning, before I got the call from Agnes Mishler telling me that Wanda Hemphopple was over at her house.”

“Miss Yoder is delusional,” Sheriff Hughes said to the ambulance attendant over the back of his hand. “Epiphany was in January.”

“So it was, dear. At any rate, I have reason to believe that Melvin Stoltzfus, Hernia’s most notorious criminal-given that he was once our chief of police-is now posing as a nun, traveling cross-country with a newfound sect called the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy.”

The ambulance attendant chuckled politely, but the sheriff laughed outright. “Miss Yoder, now, that really takes the cake! Even those silly mystery novels my papa used to review wouldn’t have plots as far-fetched as that.”

“Life is stranger than fiction, dear. But when you think about it, that’s a perfect way for him to leave the area without being detected.”

“Except by you?”

“I put two and two together. I learned to add in elementary school.”

Now the ambulance attendant snickered. This time Sheriff Hughes was not amused.

“And how was it that you deduced that it was Mrs. Schwartz-uh-the woman in custody-who ran over the young, exceptionally good-looking Elias Whitmore?”

“I was working on the assumption that the second killer was also a member of our brotherhood. Then I remembered that Frankie Schwartzentruber’s father had been in the driveway construction business. It was a long shot, granted, but my papa was a dairyman, and I do know how to milk a cow. Anyway, that was my first clue. Then my daughter-well, she is only my pseudo-daughter at the moment, but that will all change shortly-said something provocative about folks protecting the ones they love, and that’s when I remembered I’d seen a photograph of Frankie with James Neufenbakker, and the two of them were looking like a pair of New Caledonian lovebirds. I don’t know if you’ve met James, but the man is held together by Band-Aids and a bad temper, my real point being that I was sure he took a variety of medications.” I paused to inhale some much-needed oxygen.

“Miss Yoder,” the sheriff said, “don’t take this the wrong way, but my papa would have said that you couldn’t plot your way out of a paper bag if you had three pencils, a sharpener, and an eraser the size of your fist.”

I emitted such long sigh that for a few seconds the poor EMT thought I had gone to meet my Maker. “My dear man, I suppose, then, when you hear that I was able to rescue Mrs. Schwartzentruber from the sinkhole by convincing Wanda Hemphopple to let down her long hair, you will find that part of my tale absolutely implausible. In that case, you will be nonplussed-now there is a word that is often used incorrectly-when the others corroborate my story. But just so we’re clear now, I had to promise Mrs. Hemphopple that a statue would be erected in her honor, and I do not intend to cover the costs by my lonesome. Capice? Murder is a capital offense, so I think the capitol should help out here.”

The ambulance attendant chortled behind both hands.

“What’s so funny?” the sheriff demanded.

“Forgive me, sir, but this woman’s a hoot. And honestly, I don’t think she is delusional-but hey, she is a talker.”

“She is that,” I agreed. But since we had just pulled into the emergency room unloading area, I shut my trap tighter than a clam at low tide.

I left the hospital two hours later, in as good a shape as a teddy bear from the 1930s. That is to say, I’d left a good deal of my fur behind along the lip of the sinkhole, as Agnes and I maneuvered Wanda around in a circle like a human rope. Of course, Agnes was no better off. And as for poor Wanda-well, the intern who treated my abrasions said she was in for some severe headaches, and might temporarily even lose a bit of her bun. If we didn’t erect a suitable statue to honor her heroic sacrifice, I would have to give serious consideration to relocating somewhere far away. (I’ve heard that Boise, Idaho, has a small Mennonite community, and not a single authentic Pennsylvania Dutch bed-and-breakfast.)

At any rate, we had just returned to the inn-and yes, the Babester was with me-when the phone rang. Caller ID gave the number as the FBI office in Cleveland, but one can always hope that it’s Drew Carey, can’t one? Although I’ve never seen his show, I’ve heard he’s a barrel of fun.

“PennDutch,” I said with practiced mock cheer. “May we help you experience the pseudo-ethnic weekend of your dreams?”

“In your dreams, sis.”

“Susannah!”

“Listen, Mags, I don’t have time to waste on your silly games. This is my one call.”

“Then this is my two call,” I said agreeably.

“You see what I mean?”

“But I don’t. Please enlighten me.”

“Thanks to you, I’ve been arrested for aiding and abetting an escaped murderer.”

I swallowed hard. “They arrested you? They were supposed to arrest Melvin, for crying out loud.”

“What the heck is going on?” the Babester demanded. The poor man was obviously distressed by my distress.

“They did arrest my Mel-kins,” Susannah hissed, “but I’m the one who tried to help him get away. You had to have known this would happen.”