Between a Wok and a Hard Place

BETWEEN A WOK AND A HARD PLACE

TAMAR MYERS

1

I was a virgin until I married at age forty-six. Use it, or lose it, my sister Susannah always said. Maybe she was right.

Of course this is none of your business. I am a God-fearing woman and I certainly do not intend to discuss my sex

life with you. It is imperative, however, that you understand I was still in a state of shock when the events I am about to

relate happened. After all, I had been married only a month, and what Mama had only hinted at paled in comparison with

the real thing. I was born and raised on a farm and had seen animals
- cows and horses - but never a naked man. How

was I to know they looked like that? Thanksgiving is forever ruined for me. I can't even look at a turkey neck now without

feeling embarrassed.

So, perhaps you can understand why I was distracted enough not to notice the young woman lying in the intersection

of North Main and Elm streets until I was almost upon her. I swerved sharply, and it was the curb I hit, not her. I'm almost

positive. And surely she was already dead by then, because she was lying flat on her back with her arms folded across

her chest, a white cotton handkerchief spread across her face.

Even Melvin Stoltzfus, our chief of police, seemed to believe me, and that's saying a lot. Rumor has it that Melvin

was kicked in the head by a bull he was trying to milk. Of course he was just a teenager then, but the adult Melvin is not a

whole lot brighter. Scarcely over a month ago he tried out a new chain saw - intended for me as wedding present - and

met with an unfortunate accident. Melvin was surprised when the limb he was sitting on not only parted from the tree, but

took him with it.

"Tell me the story again, Yoder," he said, limping around the body to view if from another angle. "What were you

doing driving through Hernia at four o'clock in the morning?"

I sighed patiently. "My name is Magdalena Miller, now. Mrs. Aaron Miller. You were at the wedding - actually you

weren't. Come to think about it, Aaron and I never did get our present!"

"Yoder!"

"Oh, all right. It's like I just said. Aaron had a ten-thirty flight to catch out of Pittsburgh last night. I took him to the

airport in my new car, but as you well know, Melvin, it's at least two hours from Pittsburgh to Hernia, and along about

midnight I got sleepy and pulled over into a rest area to grab a few winks. But I must have been really tired because - "

Melvin had the audacity to tap on his cast with his cane. "The highlights, Yoder. I want only the highlights."

If humoring him meant I could at least go to bed, so be it. "Well, I was driving through town, minding my own

business, and suddenly there she was. But I did not run over her."

"Mmm. Have you ever seen her before?"

I looked at the body again. The victim had been a beautiful Asian woman, probably in her midtwenties. Her thick,

black hair was cut short, but it suited her. Her complexion was flawless, but in the early-morning light, at least, it had a

bluish cast. She was dressed on the shabby side; jeans, a Coca-Cola T-shirt with a few brown stains sprinkled across the

front. She was wearing no socks, and her brown loafers were scuffed gray along the toes. The only distinguishing mark

that I could see was a small blue rose tattooed on the inside of her left wrist.

"I've never seen her," I said.

"You sure?"

"Positive," I said, my patience wearing thin.

Hernia, Pennsylvania, (population 1,532) has a remarkably homogeneous population of Swiss and German ancestry.

The majority of us are Amish and Mennonite, although we do have a Methodist, and even a Presbyterian church. Our only

minorities are the members of the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of

Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah

congregation out by the turnpike. None of them are Asian-Americans.

"Then she's from out of town," Melvin said.

"Brilliant deduction," I muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." I feigned a warm smile.

"What was that grimace for, Yoder? You didn't tell me you were hurt in the accident. How bad is it?"

"Don't get your hopes up, Melvin. I'm not hurt, and I wasn't in an accident. Can I go now?"

"Well - uh - I - uh - "

A stammering Melvin is a dangerous Melvin. If I'd been any brighter than him, I would have made a dash for it. The

Maryland state line is less than fifty miles away.

"Spit it out, dear," I said kindly.

"Yoder - you - uh - well, have a good head on your shoulders. And folks around here seem to like you. Some even

respect you. In fact, I - “

"Thank you, Melvin, but you're too late. Aaron and I are still happily married."

It was true, I'm sure. Besides, even if it weren't and Aaron and I went our separate ways, I would never marry again.

First of all, it would be a sin, and second, I would never want to see another naked man. A body can only take so much

shock. Perhaps that's why the good Lord instituted marriage as a lifelong commitment.

Melvin probably glared at me. It is hard to tell these things because Melvin has enormous green eyes that operate

independently of each other. He also has an unusually skinny neck, a long torso, and knobby joints. I am not the only one

in Hernia who thinks he resembles a very large praying mantis. But at least he's a male praying mantis, so I wasn't in

danger of being eaten.

"I wasn't proposing to you, Yoder. I was about to ask you a favor."

“Moi?" Corning .from Melvin, that was a greater shock than a marriage proposal.

His left eye swiveled to fix on my forehead. "You're making this hard for me, Yoder."

"Okay, okay. Ask me your favor so I can go home."

"I want you to be my assistant."

I jiggled my ears with my pinkies. Surely I had not heard right. Melvin is my nemesis, a fact which I have made very

clear to him over the years.

"Melvin, dear, you already have an assistant. Zelda Root. Besides, I have a full-time job. I own and operate the

PennDutch Inn, remember?"

"It would only be temporary, Magdalena. Just for this case. Just until this cast comes off."

I don't think Melvin has called me by my first name since we were kids. The man was obviously desperate.

"And Zelda?"

"Zelda does a great job on the small stuff, so don't get me wrong. Last week she tracked down Rita Stutzman's

missing scarecrow. It turns out a raccoon had hauled it off into the woods because Rita had used a real cob of corn for the

nose." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "But Zelda is not so hot on the big, important cases."

It's a good thing I was wearing bloomers under my pantyhose. An admission like that was guaranteed to knock my

socks off, as Susannah so quaintly puts it. Not only are Melvin and Zelda engaged to be married, they exhibit a fierce sort

of loyalty not often seen outside of the animal kingdom.

"I'm flattered that you asked, Melvin, but I have no police training. Not that I'm incapable of passing the course, mind

you - what color would my uniform be? Navy? Frankly, I look much better in royal blue. Baby blue is all right too."

His right eye focused on my chin. "There wouldn't be a uniform, Magdalena. Not unless you made it yourself. This

would all be unofficial."

"And my salary?"

The truth is, I didn't need any. At the risk of sounding immodest, I seem to have a flair for business. After my parents

died - a tragic death, squished between a milk tanker and a semitrailer loaded with state-of-the-art running shoes - I

turned the family farm into a highly profitable bed and breakfast. Thanks to a couple of good reviews and my inflated

prices, the PennDutch Inn has become the destination for the rich and famous who yearn for solitude. In fact, I now have

a two-year waiting list.

A lot of my guests are in show biz, although I prefer not to deal with the Hollywood crowd. But as long as they

possess healthy bank accounts, I feel it is wrong to discriminate. Indeed, the reverse is true. It is my Christian duty to

administer to their spiritual needs. We are to be a light unto the world, and believe you me, there are a lot of dark places in

the minds of some of those folks who hail from the "Hills."

Of course, a number of my guests have nothing whatsoever to do with Celluloid City. Some are attorneys, some

politicians, some both. Their minds could use a little light, too, and believe it or not, a number of them have mended their

ways after spending a week at the Inn. After spending only three days with me, one infamous divorce lawyer not only

gave up a million-dollar practice, but became a missionary to a remote region of Zaire.

And then there are the plain old business types. They may be less flashy than the aforementioned folks, but - and I

say this in all modesty - they admire my business acumen. Some very important tycoons come just to study at my feet.

Take that little Texan with the big ears, for instance, who thinks I'd make a good Vice President.

Few of the above are anywhere near as wealthy as the televangelists, however. Mama would turn over in her grave if

she knew I was charging men of the cloth for the privilege of sleeping in her bed. But she'd be spinning like a gyroscope if

she knew just how tight-fisted some of those guys - and gals - are. And no matter what they say, religious tracts and

complimentary testaments do not count as tips!

"There'd be no salary, Magdalena."

"Well, in that case. . ." I shook my head.

"You'd get to carry a beeper."

"Whatever for?"

"To let you know that I have something important to tell you. Then you come or call in as soon as you can."

"Ah, I see. I get to come running like a dog that has been whistled for. I think not, Melvin."

"Please."

It was the first time I'd heard the word "please" make it past his lips, and it was a surreal experience. I wouldn't have

been any more surprised if the street lamp near me had spoken.

"What did you say?"

"Don't make me beg, Magdalena," he pled. "What say I call you as soon as I get the coroner's preliminary report?"

"Melvin I - "

"Have it your way, Yoder. I'll call in a special investigator. It'll cost the taxpayers something, of course. Chances are

he'll be English - an outsider. He won't know our ways."

I sighed deeply. He had me between a rock and hard place, Aaron was out of town, and even though the Inn was full,

my cook, Freni, was more than competent. Helping Melvin with a case might actually be fun. On the other hand, it was

sure to be aggravating. Although possibly not quite as aggravating as higher taxes and a meddlesome outsider.

"All right," I said, and then immediately regretted it.

2

"Ach du leiber/" Freni shrieked. "You did what?"

Seventy-five-year-old Freni Hostetler is Amish. Her pacifist traditions origated in Switzerland four hundred years ago.

She lives a life of simplicity and modesty, not much different from that of her forebears who settled Pennsylvania in 1738.

Her home is without electricity, and she and her husband drive a black, horse-drawn buggy instead of a car. Freni wears

ankle-length dresses, has never cut her hair, and is never without a white prayer cap to cover those silver tresses.

I am a pacifist as well, but being a Mennonite, I have a bit more latitude. The Inn has electricity, and I drive a car. My

dresses can be any length, as long as they remain below the knee. Some members of my denomination have even taken

up wearing slacks, but if I ever did that, Mama would spin so fast she'd raise the earth's temperature by five degrees and

melt the polar ice caps. My light brown hair brushes my shoulders, and I never wear a hat unless my head gets cold.

Freni and I spring from the same stock, however. Unlike some Mennonites, my people are of Amish descent. In fact,