But around the quilting frame there was never any competition, just gentle gossip in an atmosphere of total relaxation. I know, because I spent some time there getting the neophytes started.
"You better straighten up those stitches, dear. They look like the tracks of a drunken chicken on a moonless night," I said gently to Roger, one of the sound technicians.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you, hon" - I nodded kindly to Andrea, the prop manager - "by any chance, did you happen to be Dr. Frankenstein in a previous life? I have varicose veins that are straighter than that."
"Sorry, ma'am, I'll try and do better."
"How's this, Miss Yoder?" asked that arrogant Rip, shoving his impeccable needlework practically into my face. "Does this pass inspection?"
I prayed for a charitable tongue, and the Lord heard t me. "We think rather highly of ourselves, don't we? Just remember, pride cometh before the fall." Mama had used that line on me a number of times, so it had to be acceptable. Still, I wish she had said something different when I won first place in the countywide spelling bee.
Rip only smiled and looked for his reflection on the head of a straight pin.
Of course that made me angry. What did he have to be proud of that I didn't? Perhaps it was because I was annoyed, but the next stitch I took bound a thin layer of my thumb to the quilt. Thanks to Susannah's influence, I let out a very un-Mennonite expression.
Nobody seemed to care much. Perhaps yelps of pain are commonplace in Hollywood. To test my theory, I yelped again.
Only one person so much as looked my way. "I know how you feel," said Heather, the pregnant makeup girl.
"Stick your thumb too, dear?" I asked gratefully.
"I meant the pain of losing Don."
I looked closely at Heather for the first time. It was suddenly obvious that she'd been crying.
"How's that, dear?"
"Don Manley was the sweetest, kindest, gentlest man who ever lived!" She burst into sobs.
I tugged on the quilt frame and managed to pull it just out of tear range. Even pseudo-authentic Amish quilts don't generally come with mascara stains.
"There, there, dear," I said kindly. "There's no need to pretend with us. You're among friends."
Despite her size, Heather recoiled with the rapidity of a black snake. "I wasn't pretending! I loved Don Manley. I'm carrying his baby."
"Are you sure?" Andrea asked.
Heather glared at her through bleary eyes. "I don't sleep around."
"A pity," Rip said. "You could have done better."
Heather wiped her cheeks and looked at me. "Miss Yoder, I know a lot of people had it in for Don, but they misunderstood him. Don was really a very sensitive, caring man."
"Did you know that the Ayatollah writes self-help books?" Rip asked. "The one titled I'm Okay, You're an Infidel was actually very good."
But now that Heather had publicly declared her love for the dead Don, nothing could ruffle her feathers. "Say what you want, but Don was always very nice to me. He always made me feel like a lady," she said serenely.
"You too?" Andrea didn't seem to be joking.
Heather's brown-eyed gaze locked in on Andrea. "Don said you would say that. Well, something like that. He said you would be jealous when you found out about our love."
"Even sixth-graders don't call it that anymore. Sorry to be the one to break the news to you, Heather, but Don loved only himself. That's all he was capable of loving."
Heather stroked her belly blatantly. "The proof is in the pudding," she said.
Andrea's eyes flashed. "Then expect to give birth to eight pounds of Jell-O."
"Ladies, ladies," I interjected. "All this talk of food is making me hungry, and it's at least another hour until supper. What say we change the subject?"
"Hear, hear," said Roger.
A few minutes later Heather excused herself to go to the bathroom. Almost immediately after that, Andrea left our cozy little group.
"You don't suppose they've simply taken their fight elsewhere?" I asked out of genuine concern. I had recently had all the bathrooms remodeled. Do you know how much good quality wallpaper costs these days?
"Chill," said Rip. "Those two might not like each other very much, but they aren't about to waste any more energy on each other as long as the true object of their hatred is alive and well, and swaggering about."
"Who's that?"
Rip pointed with his chin to the other side of the barn, where Art and Steven appeared to be deeply engaged in conversation.
"You mean Art? But he really is a pussycat when you get to know him."
Rip chuckled. "If only you knew. But I don't mean Art, Miss Yoder. I mean Bugsy. Or Steven, or whoever."
"Well, Steven can be a bit much," I conceded, "but one gets used to him after a while, and then he's easier to take. Sort of like getting used to the taste of coffee, I guess."
"Unless that cup of coffee ran a pitchfork through the man you love," said Rip evenly.
"Why would he do that?" I asked.
"You really are as naive as you look, aren't you, Miss Yoder?"
"Why, thank you." I patted my hair. One must accept compliments where one finds them.
"Steven's last name is not really Freeman, you know. It's Figaretti. He changed it when he went out to the coast."
"Smart cookie. Figaretti sounds too much like a car."
"That's Ferrari. And that's not my point."
"What is, dear?"
Rip leaned over close to whisper, and I held my breath. He was wearing enough aftershave to asphyxiate a horse. "Haven't you heard that Don owed money to the mob?"
"Yes," I whispered back. "A nosy reporter mentioned something about that the other day."
"Well?"
I turned my head long enough to gulp some fresh air. "Well, what?"
"Well, hasn't it ever occurred to you that Steven Figaretti might be a hit man for the mob?"
I would have reached out instinctively and given him a reassuring pat, but my instincts don't work that way. "You really should try getting a good night's sleep, dear. From what I hear, you film guys party all night long."
Rip withdrew the cloud of fragrant fumes. "You don't believe it's possible, do you. But I'm telling you, Miss Yoder, anything is possible in Hollywood."
I would have to speak to the night manager at the Holiday Inn. "This isn't Hollywood, Rip. This is Hernia."
"Hernia, Hollywood, what difference does that make? Anyway, they're both a pain in the butt, if you ask me."
"Touch‚."
"Touch‚ - isn't that Yiddish for butt?"
I looked up and slipped my stitch when I saw that the voice belonged to Melvin Stoltzfus.
-14-
"Forget Slick's theories," Melvin reminded me for the third time. He had practically dragged me out of the barn and was making me walk with him back to the house. For privacy, he said, but I think it was for a piece of Freni's pie.
"I don't know, Melvin. They make sense to me. Steven Freeman had a lot to gain by Don's death. Like his job, for instance."
I didn't look at him, but I'm sure at least one of Melvin's eyes began to roll slowly in its socket. "People don't kill each other just because they want a better job, Yoder."
"Sometimes they kill for a lot less," I said despite my better judgment. We were passing the six-seater then, and I was trying to figure out if the openings were big enough for me to stuff Melvin through. The pit, I already knew, was deep enough so that the body wouldn't be detected by the casual user.
"Is that a threat?" It doesn't say much for my intelligence if Melvin can read my mind.
I strained several of my facial muscles working up a smile. "Of course not, dear. What do you think of Rip's theory that Steven Freeman is a hit man for the mob?"
I believe Melvin laughed then; it is always so hard to tell for sure. "As usual, I'm one step ahead of you, Yoder. I've already been on the horn to Washington.
"There were no charges against Don Manley. That reporter must have been pulling your leg."
"In his dreams."
"Slick's just doing a number on you too, Magdalena. For your information - "
"For your information, his name is Oilman, not Slick. And since you think I'm guilty, and since you're so fond of conspiracy theories, what makes you rule out the possibility that Steven Freeman is my co-conspirator?"
Perhaps quite by coincidence, both of Melvin's eyes focused on my face. "Because he's not your type, Yoder."
"Well, who is my type, then, and what's he have to do with Don Manley's death?"
Melvin's eyes cooperated with each other for an un- nerving length of time. They must have liked what they saw. "Rumor has it," he drawled ever so slowly, "that you've been seeing this guy from Baltimore."
"Jim? But I haven't even met Jim yet! Melvin, this is crazy!"
"This Jim guy could be anybody, Magdalena. For all I know - "
"Which isn't anything at all, Melvin. Jim is none of your business, and I'll see him if I want to. As a matter of fact, I plan to meet him tomorrow night. How do you like them apples, Melvin? Now, this conversation is over. Unless you want to arrest me, get off my property!"
I think Melvin laughed again, but I'm not sure. We were outside, after all, and it was summertime. Those cicadas are liable to start singing any old time. "Look, Yoder, I may not have enough to pull you in on the murder charge just now, but if I wanted to, I could haul you in on two counts of breaking and entering and one count of assault and battery."
"Susannah had no right to lock her door, and I didn't hit her. I merely raised my voice."
Melvin had whipped out a notepad and was scribbling-furiously. Suddenly he stopped. "That's not what I mean, Yoder. I'm talking about Norah Hall and Clarissa Biddle. They both claim you forcibly broke into their homes, and Norah Hall claims you pushed and shoved her when she asked you to leave. She even claims to have a witness."
"Tell her I'll plead guilty to the charges if she'll produce the witness."
Melvin wrote that down. "So what they said is true?"
I accidentally stepped on his toe while we jockeyed for position to climb the back stairs. "Were they the only ones to complain, Melvin?"
"Maybe. Well, so far, at least. What is it you're up to, Yoder? I can smell a scheme a mile away."
"Those are Freni's pies, Melvin." But they weren't. Not even close. Freni had persuaded one of the crew members to drive all the way into Somerset and check out a book on Thai cooking from the public library. What I had smelled were the results of her first efforts.
"It's Arthur's favorite food," said Freni fiercely. "If the others don't like it, they can just lump it."
"I'm sure it will be just fine," I heard myself say. I knew I was bushed when I lacked the energy to spar with Freni.
"Do you know how much straw mushrooms cost a can?"
I shrugged. "More than they used to?"
"Well, if there's no pie, I'm outta here. For now, at any rate," said Melvin loudly, but he didn't budge.
"And lemongrass... whoever heard of such a thing?"
"Beats me. Who?"
"Perhaps you've got some leftover pie lying around that you wouldn't mind parting with. After all, it wouldn't go very well with Thai food, would it?" Melvin was so bold as to peek into the pie saver Freni had out on the counter. It was empty.
"It doesn't have to be spicy, you know, but Arthur prefers it that way."
"Some like it hot."
"Apple pie should always be served warm, with a big slab of American cheese on top." Melvin had begun to shake the empty pie saver, perhaps in an attempt to ferret out any crumbs.
"And I had to get unsweetened coconut milk. Can you imagine that?"
"Only if I close both eyes and try real hard."
"Apple is my favorite, but cherry will do in a pinch." Melvin licked a finger and ran it around the inside of the pie saver.
Freni and I saw him at the same time, but it was she who reacted first. "Get out of my kitchen, and stay out!" Although only five foot two, Freni had grabbed the much taller and younger Melvin by his belt and collar and was propelling him toward the door.
"Yoder, you're still my suspecto numero uno," Melvin shouted.
"See ya later, Mel."
"Not in my kitchen," puffed Freni.
