Killer Confections8 Delectable Mysteries(559)

Perhaps I did feel just a wee bit sorry for Melvin. After all, he was a local boy, and probably really was some kind of kin if I looked hard enough. “Pardon me,” I interjected, “but there’s a phone call for you, Melvin. In the kitchen.”

Melvin looked desperately grateful, although I fully expected him to chew me out later for having addressed him by his first name. At any rate, he followed me like a puppy dog into the kitchen. It was clear he wasn’t actually expecting there to be a call waiting for him, and I thought briefly, and then discarded the notion, about revising my opinion of his intelligence.

“Melvin, dear,” I began, “there’s something important I should tell you.” “Dear,” in case it’s escaped your notice, is a form of address reserved exclusively for use by middle-aged women when they want to be condescending. Although usually this form of condescension is employed by sales clerks, we hoi polloi have rightful access to it as well. Of course, as we all know, at about age fifty-five we need to substitute the word “honey” for “dear” when we stoop to condescend. The principle remains the same, however.

As a truly acculturated man under forty, Melvin responded much better to condescension than he ever had to confrontation. “Yes, Miss Yoder?”

I told Melvin about Lydia’s conversation with me in the henhouse. By the time I was through, Melvin Stoltzfus looked like he was about ready to cry. He was clearly out of his league. “What do you think I should do, Miss Yoder?”

“Pray more,” said Freni. I’m sure she meant it.

“Have you considered calling in the big boys?” I hadn’t meant to be insulting. “What I mean is, can’t you just turn this over to the county? You know, call the Sheriff in on it.”

Melvin shook his head, probably to hide the fact that he was blinking. Given the size of Melvin’s eyes, he wasn’t fooling anyone. “Jeff, I mean the Chief, put me in charge while he’s away. I’m supposed to handle everything that comes up within this jurisdiction. He’s counting on me, Miss Yoder. I’m supposed to follow normal procedure.”

“Well, then, what is normal procedure in this case?”

It wouldn’t have surprised me if Melvin had consulted a handbook, but he didn’t. “I am authorized to detain everyone who was on or had access to these premises, for the next twenty-four hours, or until the coroner’s report is returned. At which time I must—”

“Freni!” My kinswoman and sometime cook was trying to sneak out the back door. What with supper just hours away, I couldn’t afford to let that happen.

“I’m just going out to get some eggs,” said Freni haltingly. Most Amish women are terrible liars.

I smiled. “No need to, dear. I just collected them all a half hour ago.”

Freni’s face turned a nice, deep red, which actually went quite well with her blue gingham dress. “W-w-well,” she stammered, “t-this recipe requires a lot of eggs. I’m going to need some more. Maybe some have been laid since then.”

Maliciously I opened the fridge door. “Do you need more than four dozen?”

“I was only here for ten minutes last night,” said Freni. “All I did was bring a casserole. And this is the thanks I get? Being accused of murder?”

“No one’s accused you of anything,” Melvin tried to explain, but Freni would have none of it.

“Your grandmother and I are cousins,” she said. I’m sure she meant the term loosely. “But we’re more like sisters. And your grandfather and I are cousins on the Bontrager side. I’ve known you all your life, Melvin, long before that bull kicked you in the head, and you have the nerve to accuse me of murder?”

“Freni!” This time it was Mose. I hadn’t seen him come in, so compelling was Freni’s performance.

I let Mose try and calm Freni down while I attempted to do the same with Melvin. That comment about having been kicked in the head clearly seemed to have upset him. Perhaps there was truth to the rumor. Undoubtedly Melvin had heard it before.

“Don’t pay any attention to what she said, Melvin. Freni Hostetler is as high-strung as a telephone pole on Mars. She speaks first and thinks later. But deep inside she’s a pussycat.”

“Cats have claws, Miss Yoder. Anyway, what do you think I should do now?”

“Detain all the guests,” I advised, “but let Freni go home for the night when she’s done here. It’s not like we don’t know where to find her. What’s she going to do, make a mad dash for the Maryland border in her buggy?”