“So marked,” I said.
Sam and I are definitely not kissing cousins. He wouldn’t even help me carry the groceries to my car, and he refuses to let the shopping carts leave his store. When we were kids, he was the one at family reunion s who put frogs down my back, or pushed me in the mud when I was wearing my Sunday best.
Mama and Papa may have entertained hopes that Sam and I would someday marry, but I certainly never did. Still, it came as a shock to all of us when Sam married Dorothy Gillman, a Methodist from New York State. Of course it was just as well that he did. Anybody with poor-enough judgment to marry a woman who used mascara, wore slacks, and painted her toenails a bright red was definitely not worth pining over. At least that’s what Mama told me.
I put Sam’s rudeness and bad judgment out of my mind and drove reluctantly over to the police station to see Chief Myers’s assistant. When accosted, my people have traditionally turned the other cheek. This can make for a lot of sore cheeks, and doesn’t necessarily put an end to the violence. I suppose there is merit in that, but it is no longer one of my ways.
Still, I had never before had occasion to visit the police station, and had no idea what to expect. I certainly didn’t expect to see Melvin Stoltzfus, the Melvin Stoltzfus, sitting behind Chief Myers’s desk. Jeff was going to pay for not telling me the name of his assistant. I squelched a brief fantasy about Tammy wearing slippery shoes when she peered over the edge of the falls.
“Melvin?”
“Yes, ma’am. Acting Chief Melvin Stoltzfus.”
“It’s Magdalena. Magdalena Yoder.”
Melvin rotated his head slowly to look up at me with the largest eyes I have ever seen on a man. Something about the way in which he deliberately did it reminded me of a praying mantis. Perhaps it had something to do with his being kicked in the head by that bull. I hadn’t remembered Melvin Stoltzfus looking quite like that before.
“Magdalena! I remember you. Aren’t you Susannah’s older sister?”
“I plead the Fifth Amendment.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Melvin, any word yet on what exactly did happen to Miss Brown?”
“Who?”
“Miss Brown,” I repeated patiently. “You know, the woman who, uh, unfortunately passed away out at my place last night.”
Melvin stared at me for an interminable length of time. I had the distinct feeling he was sizing me up, undoubtedly trying to decide if I was a juicy-enough morsel for him to pounce on and devour.
“Well, Melvin, did the coroner’s report come in yet or not? Chief Myers said you would know.”
One of Melvin’s eyes seemed to rotate ever so slightly, and independently, in its socket. “In the first place, the coroner’s report would be confidential at this point, if foul play was suspected. But in the second place, for your information, since we’re just coming out of Thanksgiving weekend, you can expect things to be a little behind schedule.”
“How much behind schedule are we talking?” If Miss Brown was a childless orphan, a delay would actually be welcome. But if she had doting parents or a dozen grieving children any or all of whom might at that very moment be seeing a lawyer, I’d best hustle my bustle off to see Alvin.
“Can’t say how much behind schedule,” said Melvin. His tongue darted out and flicked lightly over his almost nonexistent lips for a few seconds. “Some things are confidential.”
“I agree,” I said recklessly.
Melvin’s roaming eye stopped in mid-rotation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Foolishly, I couldn’t resist one-upping Melvin Stoltzfus. I told him about Miss Brown’s bogus phone numbers.
“Of course, that doesn’t mean anything,” Melvin scoffed. “I often get wrong numbers.”
“Go figure,” I said sweetly. “Look, Melvin, one of the numbers being wrong I can understand. But both of them?”
“You sure that this Jumbo Jim’s chicken place was the same number that was on her registration form?”
“As sure as you’re a Stoltzfus.”
“And how much did you say a bucket of extra crispy cost?”
“I didn’t, Melvin.”
“Was this Miss Brown all you wanted to talk to me about?”
“No. I also want to report an attempted murder out at my place.”
“Apparently you haven’t been listening, Magdalena. The coroner’s report still is not in. It may be negligence on your part that we’re looking at, not murder. You should be talking to Alvin, not me.”
Alvin, Melvin, shmelvin. I’ve raised chickens with higher I.Q.s. “I’m not talking about Miss Brown anymore,” I said, with perhaps a slight note of exasperation in my voice. “What I mean is, today somebody tried to kill me.”