Unconsciously my hands balled into fists.

“Agnes?” I bleated guiltily. Now that’s a fine “how do you do” for a woman with five hundred years of pacifist blood flowing through her veins. Clearly I was in need of a vacation somewhere: just me and my hunkylicious Babester and my precious little Babykins-preferably someplace far away from Hernia. The Marquesa Islands in the South Pacific came to mind.

“No, not that busybody; it’s the police chief.”

Chief Jerry Memmer is a pleasant, mild-mannered man who hails originally from somewhere near Indianapolis. So far his sensible Hoosier ways seem to be just what Hernia needs.

During the year and a half that he’s been running the show, our crime rate has fallen substantially. There have been no murders committed, no horses stolen, and no overpasses painted. The only case of a “malicious mischief” reported involved slit diaper bags on the horses tied up outside Yoder’s Corner Market one morning. Either someone had it in for Sam, or the Amish who were shopping inside, but apart from a few spilled “road apples” there was no real harm done.

It helps that the Memmers are good Christian folk of the conservative bent, who put noodles on their mashed potatoes. They have blended into the fabric of Hernia almost seamlessly, and that has been a blessing for me, because at this stage in my life, I would like nothing more than to leave civic responsibility behind. Jerry Memmer is an avid model-train enthusiast, and his wife, Marilyn, can quilt along with the best of our local quilt masters, which is saying quite a lot. In short, I couldn’t ask for more qualified and congenial replacements.

Jerry is even pleasant to look at, albeit a bit shy. Perhaps my appearance in a bathrobe was too much for the devout man, because he squirmed in his parlor chair, like a grub on a weenie roasting stick-not that I’ve roasted many grubs, mind you.

“Yes, Jerry, what is it?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Rosen-uh, Miss Yoder-uh-”

“How about Magdalena, like I’ve asked you to call me a million times?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to show up at three in the morning. Honest-”

“Ding dang dong! Is that what time it is?”

“ Magdalena! You have the mouth of a truck driver!”

I slapped the offending lips. “So I do; and I assure you that they are ever so contrite. Now, tell me, what is the problem? Has your wife overdosed on chocolate again?”

“No, it’s about a woman named Amy Neubrander-up in Bedford.”

Although nowhere near a standing body of water, much less one with a current or influenced by tides, I felt the undertow. “What about Amy?”

“She’s dead, Magdalena. The sheriff asked me to tell you, on account of I know you better than he does.”

I felt my way to a straight-backed chair-all the chairs in my parlor are purposely uncomfortable-and sat. “How did she die? When?”

“Apparently just hours ago. A neighbor in her building heard a shot, but by the time he got the super to open up-Well, there was nothing to be done by anyone. She was shot at close range in the back of the head.”

“Dong dong dong,” I said slowly, letting the cussword roll off my tongue like a seasoned pro. “What a cowardly schmuck!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Melvin-Melvin Stoltzfus. It was an execution-style murder, performed either by him or one of his band of not-so-merry robbers.”

Chief Memmer’s eyes bulged and he swallowed hard. “The Melvin Stoltzfus? Your brother? Elvina’s son?”

“We supposedly share some genes, but the jury’s still out, as far as I’m concerned.”

“Have you been tested?”

“This is hardly the time for idle chitchat, Chief.” The truth of the matter was that I feared the outcome of such a test. I would rather go through life living with the possibility that what Elvina said was true-Melvin was my brother-than with the certainty that it was so. The latter would cause me to seek a complete blood transfusion, comprehensive flesh replacement, and universal bone substitution. The last I’ve heard is that one or more of those procedures is still impossible.

“I’m sorry, Magdalena. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, actually there is.”

“Anything.”

“Keep your guard up. Melvin hates authority of all kind. It wouldn’t surprise me if he stages an attack on you-either at home or at the station.”

“But my wife! Marilyn has nothing to do with my job; she’s a retired nurse who gave back so much to the community in Indiana.”

“Then you might see that she returns there until Melvin is caught. Believe me, I know firsthand how this monster’s mind works, and it ain’t pretty-pardon my use of the vernacular.”

“I see,” he said, but I’m not sure he did. In any case, he sent his pretty wife packing the next morning.

22

I knew that the sheriff wouldn’t let me get anywhere near Amy’s apartment at that hour, so I returned to bed. It was with a bit of a jolt that I awoke the next morning and recalled that Amy had been senselessly murdered-but then aren’t all murders senseless? I hadn’t known the girl well enough to form a personal attachment, but the fact that she was so young, and died at the hands of someone I did know well, haunted me.

My long-suffering husband took it upon himself to cook breakfast for the gang from New Jersey, because he makes an almost-edible Southwestern-style omelet. Meanwhile I set out some boxes of cornflakes and two platters of toast that were sure to please: one pale and the other bordering on burned. Then I rang my five-pound dinner bell.

Tiny Timms was the first to appear. “Good morning, Miss Yoder,” she said, just as perky as Katie Couric after a good night’s sleep.

“And good morning to-Oh no, you don’t, missy! Not again!”

“What? What’s wrong with this one?”

The tiny woman with the enormous assets was dressed in what has been described to me as a baby- doll negligee. Over that, she wore what was supposed to be a duster, but both were constructed from fabric so sheer that I could tell she wasn’t a natural blonde.

“It’s heathen-that’s what. Even National Geographic wouldn’t photograph you in that. Now go upstairs and change before a good Christian man like my husband sees you and is led astray.”

“Your husband is Jewish, Miss Yoder.”

“That’s all the more reason, dear. Now am-scray.”

She reluctantly did as she was told, and I prematurely breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the morning would go smoothly after all. But then, of course, along came George and Barbie Nyle.

“Not you too,” I wailed. “Now you see what you’ve done? I’ve officially given up wailing-given that it’s both annoying and unnatural-but this! What is this? Some kind of pajama game? We put on clothes for breakfast here at the inn, and, George, the sight of all that chest hair is-Well, it brings to mind all the brambles I need to have cleared away in the north pasture before I can let the cow in there to graze come spring.”

Chastened, the Nyles scurried back up my impossibly steep stairs, but they must have squeezed past Olivia Zambezi, who was on the way down. At least she was in proper attire: a blue knee-length frock, long sleeves, mock turtleneck. Her prematurely aged face was freshly spackled, but her thick gray locks were askew. Who knew the woman wore a wig!

“Good morning,” I said, perhaps a bit too cheerily. One has a way of overcompensating when one is uncomfortable, doesn’t one? Or was it just me?

“Is it just you, or does everyone in Hernia shout in the morning, Miss Yoder?”

“Oh, it’s our local custom, all right. In Pennsylvania Dutch we call it shout-an’-Freud.” Okay, so it was a small lie; but I had to say something, or else I was in danger of blurting out something that might embarrass her.