“Huh?”

“I’ll keep my mouth shut and let you talk.”

“Yeah, okay. Well, all I’m saying is that Mr. Yoder knows something about the bank robbers that he’s not saying, which is funny, on account of he didn’t see them except for on the surveillance tape. And someone is threatening him if he goes to the police, and now I’m starting to feel the same kind of pressure. So you know what? I accept your offer, Miss Yoder-only you gotta give me medical insurance too.”

“If you stop saying ‘gotta.’ I run a high-end business.”

“Whatever. And I want a uniform.”

Now that was a pleasant surprise. Who would have thought? I hadn’t bothered to suggest it, being positive that she’d reject the whole idea as being too controlling.

“What a great idea, dear. Of course, we wouldn’t want you to dress like a traditional Amish woman, but in something simple and modern-like a waitress uniform.”

“Why not as an Amish woman?”

I smiled wickedly. “Well, our local Amish are amongst the most conservative in the world. Their clothes are all handmade and take hours upon hours to complete. Why, the bonnets are masterpieces, with hundreds of little pleats that require thousands of stitches. Of course, you’d be a huge hit with the guests in that getup, but I could never ask you to dress in something so quaint.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Mmm-I don’t know. I’d have to locate an Amish seamstress who would be willing to sew an outfit for the English-that’s what they call us-and it won’t be easy. And of course, you’ll need two so that you can launder one and still wear the other. That could cost a pretty penny because some of these Amish have really wised up to the ways of the world when it comes to commerce.”

“Please let me do it, Miss Yoder. You can take the uniforms out of my salary. Please.”

“Oh, all right. Why not? But you have to wear the clunky shoes too, and no complaining when the weather gets hot. A good Amish woman is all about yielding to authority. And that rule applies to fake Amish women as well.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal!” Amy cried happily, and would have thrown herself into my arms, had I not even more quickly placed my arms across my bounteous bosom. Five hundred years of inbreeding has rendered me incapable of both giving and receiving hugs without putting a great deal of thought and effort into them. Above all, hugs must be accompanied by a good deal of backslapping, lest they degenerate into dancing.

“Yes, a deal,” I said. I also had an idea. At that point it was just the kernel of a theory, a seed barely sprouted in the rich furrows of my brain. As there were numerous things germinating, and thriving, in there, including a number of weeds, I wasn’t about to get too excited about this one, but still-a cotyledon was better than nothing. “I’ll get started on finding a seamstress first thing tomorrow morning,” I said.

Freni Hostetler, my dear friend and much convoluted (our family tree, not her) kinswoman, is not a morning person. Neither is she particularly an afternoon, evening, or night person. One can usually tell by the way she bangs my pots and pans around if she has had a good night, or perhaps rolled off the side of her bed.

That morning the din in the kitchen sounded like a pitched battle between the ancient Greeks and the Romans, both sides wearing full body armor. If we had been alone, I might have been tempted to ignore the clanking and clanging out of much-deserved spite-for a few minutes at least. After all, my husband, who hails from Manhattan, can sleep through anything, and I mean that literally. Last summer he slept through a thunderstorm so bodacious it woke the dead in three surrounding counties and rattled fillings loose in the teeth of dozens of Herniaites-as we refer to ourselves.

But guests who are paying through the nose expect the luxury of sleeping in a little bit, just as long as those same guests haven’t signed up for milking duties. A full udder, just like a full bladder, can be a painful thing, and emptying it cannot be put off. Knowing, as I did, that not everyone had volunteered to rise with the cows, I scurried into the kitchen to try to calm the storm.

“Freni,” I managed to hiss without a single “S,” in the tradition of many established novelists. Of course, she didn’t hear me, so I shouted through cupped hands, “Freni!”

Two pot lids froze in midair and the stout woman turned slowly. “So, finally, the beauty sleep is over?”

“Yes. At six thirty, I’m as beautiful as I’ll ever need to be. How about you?”

“Ach, we Amish don’t care about such things; you know that.”

“That’s true. But you obviously care a great deal about something else at the moment. What is it?”

Freni stared at me through lenses as thick as the bottoms of the old nickel Coke bottles. “That woman, she drives me up the walls, yah?”

“Several walls simultaneously?”

I could feel her stare intensify. “Always the riddles, Magdalena.”

“That woman,” I said, “is your dear, sweet daughter- in-law, Barbara. And the only reason you don’t like her is that she’s from Iowa -and she’s married to your son, Jonathan.”

“And she is too tall, yah?”

“Too tall for what? In September you had her picking apples from the top of your tree, and she didn’t even have to use a ladder.”

“Yah, and she cleans good the dust from the top of my cupboard.”

“You see, she’s indispensable. Not to mention that she gave birth to your three grandbabies, whom you absolutely adore, and two of whom take after their mother.”

“Yah, maybe they will be too tall as well.”

“Freni, count your blessings. You know how much Barbara misses her family in Iowa, and your precious Jonathan would do anything to please her. I think you’re fortunate that she hasn’t picked up stakes and heeded the words of Horace Greeley.”

Despite the smudges of grease and flour on her lenses, I could tell that Freni was blinking. “What words?”

“Just silly unimportant words.” It was time to change the subject. “Freni, do you know any Amish women who could sew a complete traditional outfit for me?”

She blinked again, but then like a faulty headlamp that had finally started to function, her face was transformed into a circle of beaming light. “You are the daughter I never had, yah? But still, you want to be Amish! For once I do not know what to say.”

“Oh Freni, alas, ’tis true. I am not the lass of thy loins-would that I were-but thou must not misconstrue my motives for acquiring the aforementioned garment.”

“And now more riddles.”

“No riddles. I just want to know the name of a good seamstress. You see, I’ve hired a girl for the front desk, and I want to get her a nice authentic Amish outfit.”

Poof! The glowing orb of light was extinguished, and it was all my fault-except that it wasn’t; Freni should know that I will never become an Amish woman. Amish women don’t shave their legs, or under their arms, or their mustaches-not that I need to do that quite yet. And they certainly don’t drive cars, and they have to be subservient to their husbands, which, of course, any good Christian wife should be, just not to that degree, and they don’t get to have air-conditioning, which surely ranks among one of God’s greatest gifts-

“ Magdalena! Are you out there?”

“What?”

“You are out in the spaces of your mind, yah?”

“I’m fine. Just prone to daydreaming-as is my wont.”

Freni nodded, which is quite a feat, given that she has no neck. “You have always many such dreams. Now tell me about this girl. Is she a good Christian?”

I was taken aback. That was one thing I had failed to ask. Ding dang, where were my standards these days? On the other hand, ever since I’d said “I do” to an upstanding Jewish man, I felt uneasy about inquiring about other folks’ religious affiliations before agreeing to do business with them. Such inquiries-very discreet, of course-were still common amongst my acquaintances. There was even a Christian business phone book of sorts that I had seen in circulation, although I personally refused to consult it.