I’d slipped in through the kitchen door (for some reason they’re always the easiest locks to pick) and was working my way through the formal dining room. It was obvious that Pernicious and Margaret took their meals elsewhere; on the dining room table were four color-coordinated, dust-covered place settings. That fact, and the elaborate centerpiece, indicated to me that Margaret took her decorating cues directly from the showroom.

The formal living room was also very much decorated, with no sign of life: not a magazine or gag- me-green afghan to be found. Just to be thorough, I located the spot where Pernicious and Amy had stood the night before when I’d hid in the bushes. In the daylight I could see quite clearly into the overgrown Japanese yews; I also had a better appreciation for what it might be like to be spied upon. Shame on me for lurking about in anyone’s bushes.

Frankly, it was hard to imagine that a cold- blooded killer could live in such harmonious surroundings. No, that wasn’t quite right. What I meant was that such a pleasant environment-Uh-oh, was that someone coming? I thought that I heard a snurffle. A snurffle, by the way, is a distinctly male sound, as opposed to snuffles and sniffles, which can be attributed to either sex. Oh shoot, there really was someone coming!

I glanced madly around the elegant room. Where could a tall, curvaceous, but still lithe, woman in traditional Amish clothing possibly hide? Not behind the drapes, which although quite beautiful, hugged the walls like newlyweds. And certainly not under the pair of facing sofas, not unless I could magically compress myself into the stick figure I always thought that I was whilst growing up. The only possible option was inside the large oak armoire in the corner opposite the kitchen door. But Heavens to Murgatroyd, who knew if the cabinet door was even unlocked?

The snurffles were followed by a snort and a loud footstep. At that point I flew across the room-literally-I’m sure of it. Fear got me airborne and the voluminous cape kept me aloft, and I will not be dissuaded of this notion. Anyway, much to my relief the armoire was unlocked, so clutching my cape to me, I leapt into it and pulled the door shut. Unfortunately, not all of the fabric made it inside with me. I tried yanking it in beneath the door, but to no avail. Besides, it was too late.

24

“Now where did she go?” a familiar voice said.

“Beats me.”

“I swear I saw her headed for this room.”

“Yeah, but she’s a cagey old woman.” The second voice was familiar as well, in addition to being cheeky.

“She’s downright stupid-that’s what she is,” the first familiar voice said.

“Yeah,” said the second voice. “But what do you expect? She’s supposedly some kind of cousin of his. Them Yoders is all alike if you ask me. Couldn’t none of them find their way south from the North Pole without a compass.”

That did it! That hiked my hackles so high that they dug into my armpits, forcing me to fling open the armoire doors to defend my honor. It’s one thing to pick on me personally, but to disparage the entire clan? I won’t stay stuffed in a portable closet on that account.

“You take that back!” I shrilled.

The men stepped back, but they didn’t seem at all surprised to see a woman in a black cape fly out at them from an oaken armoire. In fact, they doubled over laughing.

I stared angrily at them for a full minute before realizing that they were the security guards from First Farmer ’s Bank. Almost immediately then I wised up and tried a sweeter approach.

“Talk to your ma lately, Johnny?” Okay, so it was mean of me to call him by his nickname in front of his bud. But for the record, I did it in self-defense, and I have since confessed this sin. The only reason that I bother to mention it now is that I have since come to believe that full disclosure is good for the soul.

At my snide comment the man called Johnny immediately clammed up. He balled his fists and a vein popped out on his temple.

Alas, John’s buddy was no more sensitive than was I. “She got your goat, eh, Johnny Boy?”

“Shut up, the two of yinz.”

Instead of shutting up, his companion turned and offered me a hand the size of Connecticut. Normally I eschew handshakes on the grounds that they are unhygienic, but there times when one is simply caught unawares.

“This is a good way to catch a cold,” I said, as I pressed the flesh. “Besides it’s an archaic custom dating from the days when men commonly carried weapons, such as swords. Extending an open hand was a sign of neutrality.”

“Yeah, and my name is Bill-not Billy Boy.” He laughed briefly. “We seen you get out of that cab and break in. Decided to follow ya.”

“I didn’t break in! I merely entered uninvited.”

“Hey, don’t get your panties in a bunch there, Miss Yoder, ’cause I ain’t judging. We was gonna break in anyway.”

“Shut up, Bill,” John said even more forcefully.

Bill turned to his friend. “What’s wrong with being up front with her? Ain’t she that famous detective from Hernia? If we were ta throw in with her, we just might figure something out? There’s answers in numbers; ain’t that what they say?”

“If you ask the right questions, dear. And speaking of which: why were you two going to break in?”

John nudged Bill aside. “Same reason as you, I imagine: we don’t think that Mr. Yoder killed Amy. We think it was a setup. If they get away with this, and he gets sent to the pen, then there go our jobs.”

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Ain’t no one gonna take a chance on me the way Mr. Yoder did-me not having a high school diploma and all.”

“I told you to get your GED,” John said, “but all you wanted to do was party.”

“Quit yer complaining,” Bill said.

“No, you quit,” John said.

“Shut up,” Bill said.

I clapped my hands. “Children! Focus, please. Who is this ’they’ that you referenced?”

Bill stepped forward and gave his buddy a not so playful tap on the biceps. “Hey, what’s with this refer-whatever? You been holding out on me?”

John shook his head as he rolled his eyes so far back they resembled two freshly peeled hard- boiled eggs. “You see what I gotta put up with? What she’s talking about, Bill, is the people I was talking about who really did kill Amy.”

“Yeah?” said Bill. “So you do know who they are! Like I said, you were holding out on me.”

John growled. “No, you dumb piece of-”

“Stop it!” I commanded. “Put a zipper on it, the both of you.” Believe me, it was the first and last time a Mennonite has ever uttered such strong words. “Bill, your friend John and I think that someone other than Mr. Yoder killed Amy, but we don’t know who. That’s why I’m here-to find out. So, for now, I’m going to ask the questions and you two are going to supply the answers. Capisce?”

“No, thanks,” Bill said. “Mama made that stuff once and I threw up.”

“Hunh?”

“He thought you meant ‘quiche,’ ” John said.

I quickly did some mental gymnastics, converting run-of-the-mill questions into pointed queries that Bill might understand. “What did the men look like who tried to rob the bank last month?”

“Two of them was old.”

“What?” I would have fully expected the word “Amish” to be part of any one-sentence description.

“To Bill anyone over thirty is old,” said John.

“What else?” I coaxed.

“One of them was-uh-I guess they say ‘overweight’ these days,” said John.

“But I call them ‘fat,’ ” said Bill. “He was so fat that he was sweating in them fake Amish clothes of his.”

Finally, there it was; the A word. “What do you mean by ‘fake’?”

“Well, maybe them clothes was real, but he weren’t no real Amish man; I could see that he was wearing a Spider-Man T-shirt under that white shirt of his. And red socks. Ain’t no Amish man that wears red socks.”