“Heist?”

“Don’t be such a dummkopf, Mags; you know what I mean.” Except that I didn’t. I was, however, happy that Susannah had reverted to our ancestral tongue to dress me down.

“A heist is a robbery,” I said, reasonably, stubbornly, and, of course, quietly. “Has Melvin ever robbed anyone before?”

She was quiet for a moment, her ragged breathing aside. “Yes,” she finally mumbled. “That bank job in Bedford -the one you had to go and interrupt.”

It was then that every hair on my head stood up, forcing my prayer cap to reach new heights. “Those faux-Amish men, like the one who shot Amy and could have killed my Little Jacob, one of them was Melvin Stoltzfus?”

“Shhh, Mags!”

“Don’t you shush me, Susannah. Unless you want me to rat you out like the Orkin man, you better tell me everything-and I mean every last detail.”

“I can’t.”

18

“What do you mean by ‘I can’t’?”

“Mags, you know if I tell you anything, then you’ll try to do something to stop it, and you’ll get hurt this time. I just know it. I feel it-kind of like a premonition. That’s why I had to see you.”

I took my time processing this new batch of information. “You’re in contact with that cold-blooded killer, and you know when he’s going to strike again?”

“He’s not a cold-blooded killer, Mags! He only kills when he’s very stressed-when he has to. Otherwise, you know that my Sweetykins wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“I think the expression is ‘fly,’ dear, but in this dirt bag’s case, flea is just as appropriate.”

Shame on me. I’d never used such harsh language; I’d never called anyone such a vulgar name. But Melvin had actually tried to throw me over a cliff once, and if it hadn’t been for the grace of God and my sturdy Christian underwear-which got caught up on a tree branch-my head would have broken open on the rocks at the bottom of said cliff like a jack-o’-lantern hurled in front of a speeding automobile. And for the record, I only did that once, and I was only ten years old, and after the licking Papa gave me behind the barn, it is a wonder I still have a bottom with which to fill out my Hanes Her Way cotton briefs, which are, of course, plain Protestant white.

My words seemed to have struck a nerve in Susannah. In the blink of a bloodshot eye, her demeanor went from being limp and weepy to resembling that of an alley cat caught in a net. Out came the fangs and claws, which, frankly, I much preferred.

“How dare you call my Woosty-Bootsy names? He’s a lot more of a man than that mama’s boy you’re married to. At least my husband can cut his own meat!”

I must admit that it is rather pitiful that a heart surgeon has to pass his steak to his mother first so that she can saw it into manageable bites, but doesn’t each family have its own idiosyncrasies? I’m sure that the Obamas do things behind the White House doors that they would rather not be made public. In fact-and I say this as a woman who voted for Barack-what was his wife thinking when she selected her inaugural gown? From the picture I saw in the paper, it looked like it had wadded balls of toilet paper glued hither, thither, and yon. Frankly, a little less hither and a lot more yon might have been in order for that schmatta.

“Susannah! Do you hear yourself? You’re defending a murderer. You are, in fact, a convicted accessory to murder. Oh where, oh where, did I go wrong?” Not knowing quite how to wring my hands, I rubbed them together vigorously.

“Stop being so dramatic, Mags. If you loved someone as much as I love my dingleberry pie, you wouldn’t be asking yourself that question.”

Not being a great fan of dingleberries, I let the argument drop. “Let me get this straight, sis. All you wanted was for me to listen to your premonition as regards what’s his name in an upcoming heist?”

“His name is Melvin Lucretius Stoltzfus III.”

“Lucretius? The poor dear never stood a chance-but still, that’s no excuse for cold-blooded murder.”

“Guard, guard!” Susannah shouted. “I’m through in here!”

“Oh no, you’re not,” I hissed. I was so angry I was able to do it without an “S”-a feat usually reserved for sloppy novelists. “You’re not through until you promise me that your little nephew is safe.”

Susannah waved the guard back, but her eyes were as flat and lifeless as the buttons on my old wool coat. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Because if what you’ve intimated is true, then the Son of Satan was in the bank that day and saw my Little Jacob. If he thinks that Little Jacob can identify him then-”

“Can he?”

“Of course not! If he could, don’t you think he would have told me? And if he’d told me, do you think that I’d be this shocked to learn that he was still around?”

“You’ve always been a good actress, Mags-which is the same as being a good liar.”

“Well, I’m telling the truth this time. Listen to me, I’m not even wailing. I’m just being quiet and earnest. This is a mother talking, not your sister.”

“You sound cagey to me, sis.”

“Save the life of my child,” cried the desperate mother. “Honestly, Susannah, Little Jacob didn’t see anything.”

“Guard,” she called again.

“So help me, Susannah, if Melvin touches one hair on my baby’s head, that little rat of yours is going to-”

That was when Susannah threw back her head and screamed like a banshee with its tail in a vise. I’d been referring to her lap rodent (was it really a dog?) named Shnookums, who was quite safe with my daughter, Alison, who was away at college. Besides, I’m the sort who scoots earthworms off the sidewalk and ferries lost ladybugs outdoors. I only step on fleas by accident. So you see, there was no need for her to carry on like that, and she dingdang well knew it.

Unfortunately the lady linebacker guard jumped to a wrong conclusion, and woman-handled me in the worst possible way. It wasn’t the least bit fun and offered me absolutely no fodder for romantic daydreams-not that I was in the market for any. It’s just that as I get older, I try harder to keep an open mind.

By the time I got to the car, I was shaking like the paint mixer at Home Depot. ’Tis a cliché, I know, but one that originated with me, so I feel free to employ it. Very little of my intense emotion came from the rude way in which I’d been treated; to be honest, I was just plain scared. I feared for the life of my son, who was my flesh and blood, my pride and joy, the crowning achievement of my life.

Take the inn, Melvin. Strip everything from me, but leave my son be. He is my life. Yes, I know, Gabe was my life as well, but my husband had already lived a good many years, and had a vast range of experiences under his belt. Little Jacob, on the other hand, was just starting out. He was just beginning to be curious about everything. It was “why” this, and “why” that, and he was innocent-he didn’t know what death was; how could he possibly comprehend his own?

Ordinarily, logic would dictate that I contact the sheriff with the information that Susannah had given me, and I intended to, but not until my little darling was safely out of harm’s way. But first I needed a plan-a way to get Little Jacob out of Hernia without being followed.

I couldn’t very well hide him in the trunk of my car. Who would that fool? If indeed Melvin was back in Hernia, he probably had a telescope trained on my inn. He had, after all, made his supposed escape from our town on the bus with the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy, who were now living in a convent just across the road from me. Perhaps he was back with them, disguised again as a nun-or maybe one of the self- styled nuns was in cahoots with him. After all, they were all a bunch of whackos-and I say that with Christian love.

The Babester would face the same problems that I would, so there was no use going that route. Besides, he’d want to confide in Ida, who was Sister Superior to the Super Deluded-again, I say this with Christian charity. It did occur to me to enlist Freni and Mose; perhaps Little Jacob could be smuggled out hidden in the bottom of their buggy. However, despite the fact that both septuagenarians have hearts of spun gold, their lips could sink all the ships in the Gulf of Aden, thus causing a global oil shortage of epic proportions.