"You have got to be bored to tears," I said to DarIa Strutt. Perhaps if I showed some understanding, so would she. I did not fancy being sued because of Shnookums's sex life.
"One million three hundred and fifty thousand, seven hundred and ninety-six dollars and thirteen cents," she said, proving my assumption.
"You want to playa game of cards?" I meant ROOK, of course. We Mennonites don't generally play with face cards.
"Piss off, Magdalena."
I forced a smile. What's a little pain if it's for a good cause? "DarIa, one of my best friends is a vet. He can take care of Fifi's - uh - problem, if you want. It'll be on me."
DarIa stared hard at me. Perhaps she was sizing me up for a coffin. "I wouldn't even speak to you at all, Magdalena, if it weren't for the fact that we're almost family."
That was news to me. "We're definitely not kissing cousins," I hastened to say.
"Don't get me wrong, Magdalena. I still might sue you - for emotional damage - however, I have decided to let my precious Fifi have her pups."
"Why, I'll be a monkey's uncle," I said with relief. "Actually, I'll be a dog's aunt. No, make that great-aunt to an entire litter. I'm sure I don't deserve such an honor."
"Just because we're related doesn't mean I have to be nice to you. I still might sue, you know."
"I know."
"Good, just keep that in mind. Now, what is it you wanted in the first place?"
"I thought we might have a little chat."
"What about? I already spilled my guts to the tabloids."
I smiled patiently. "Guts aren't measured by cup size, dear. Anyway, I don't want to talk about your personal scandals, interesting as they might be. I thought maybe you'd enjoy dishing a little dirt on other people for a change. You know, be on the giving, rather than the receiving end."
Boy, did I feel awful saying that. I really don't approve of gossip, unless, of course, the gossipee is especially deserving - like Tracy Ediger, who ran off to Maryland with Pete Flanagen, our postman, leaving behind a grand total of three spouses (Pete was a Morman), eleven children, seven dogs, four cats, and a badly leaking aquarium. Even then I wouldn't have gossiped about it, except that Tracy had the nerve to come back only a month later and try out for a spot in the choir at the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. : Even then I would have held my tongue and kept one ear covered, but when Tracy started making eyes at Reverend Gingerich, I'd had enough. After all, Tracy is a Methodist. If anyone is going to have an affair with Reverend Gingerich, it should be a Mennonite.
"Well, who do you want to talk about?" asked Darla generously. "I'm one of the few people who know Zsa Zsa's correct age, and l did get a chance to count Jane Fonda's ribs in a locker room one day."
I smiled my appreciation. I even went so far as to pat that little ratty dog of hers. Carefully, of course, given its delicate condition. "Wouldn't it be more fun to talk about people we both know?"
DarIa has a heart of gold. "Well, Kitty in makeup had her thighs liposuctioned in May. Apparently it was a botched job, which is why Kitty walks that way."
"I wondered about that."
"And Bruce, the lighting technician, lights up more than cigarettes on his off hours. Those sunglasses he wears are not job-related."
"Very interesting. But you know, one of the most enigmatic people around here seems to be Steven Freeman. What can you tell me about him?" I asked casually.
Darla blew a bubble the size of Uranus. Somehow she managed to talk without popping it. "Steven's a washout, if you ask me. He comes on big in his Bugsy persona, but there isn't anything there to speak of, if you know what I mean."
I made a mental note to give her Jumbo's number. "But what kind of person is he? Inside?"
The bubble popped, and DarIa staggered back from the force, but she was otherwise undaunted. "You're asking about his mob connections, aren't you?" She started to laugh, and loudly, before I could even begin to answer. Of course that ratty mutt of hers had to contribute to the fracas as well. Had I only had a pitchfork, Freni could have added shish kebab to the lunch menu.
When you've lost face, you might as well face off. What have you got to lose? "Okay, so that's my question. What about it? Does Bugsy, I mean Steven, have mob connections?"
At least DarIa stopped laughing long before her dog did. "Yeah, Steven has mob connections, but only in a very roundabout way. Before he started doing behind-the-camera stuff, he worked as an extra back in Hollywood. Godfather Four was his biggest triumph."
"Is that a movie?" I asked innocently.
Strutt and mutt howled again, and when, after a few minutes, they showed no sign of letting up, I simply walked away. It's bad enough that Susannah attacks my morals, but I won't tolerate that kind of criticism from a bitch. Or DarIa either.
Doc called while we were eating lunch. "What's it today?" he asked politely.
"Oh, some kind of Thai food again. This time it's got squid and eggplants the size of marbles. Frankly, I can't wait until Freni makes up with Barbara. This morning she gave Art a pair of John's suspenders as a present. If this feud keeps up much longer, Freni's liable to adopt Art and return with him to Hollywood. Who will cook for me then?"
"I will." Doc sounded like he meant it. "Speaking of food, you're welcome to join me for lunch."
"Thanks, Doc, but if I duck out now, Freni will blow a gasket. She's threatened second helpings of squid to anyone who doesn't finish their first."
"Can you drop by after lunch, then?"
"As tough as this squid is, Doc, lunch could be an all-day affair. Besides, I have a big scene to shoot this afternoon."
"Tonight, then? There's something important I need to talk to you about."
"Can't we talk about it now?"
"Uhn-uhn," grunted Doc. He sounded like he was losing his patience with me.
"Okay, tonight. Supper?" I asked hopefully.
"Pot roast with carrots, onions, celery, and new potatoes. Three-bean salad. Homemade chunky applesauce. Pineapple upside-down cake."
I told Doc I'd see him with bells on.
The afternoon's shoot went even better than that of the day before. Despite the makeshift script, or maybe because of it, our scenes seemed to flow rather naturally. Art Lapata not only permits ad-libbing, he promotes it, and this method of acting seemed particularly well suited to our little group. It was only on those few occasions when DarIa blew a bubble or Rip swore that we had to do retakes. And those were all at my insistence.
Apparently Bedford was not a half-bad place for partying, because the minute Art yelled "that's a wrap" for the last time, the whole shebang packed up and hit the road north. There was only the briefest of delays when a fistfight broke out over who would be the lucky crew member to have Susannah sit on his lap for the twenty-mile ride. The winner drove an otherwise empty van with my slut-puppy of a sister perched between him and the steering wheel. According to what Susannah told me later, her weight, which is not all that much, left the poor guy stuck in neutral all night. If I knew what she meant, she added. I did not.
After Freni and Mose left- she, eager to snub her daughter-in-law, and he, willing to try to patch things up - I had the place deliciously to myself. When I got out of the tub an hour and three water changes later, I could have been a spokeswoman for the California Prune Board. But I had plumped up enough to look presentable by the time I pulled into Doc's.
"You didn't take enough potatoes," said Doc as he spooned some carrots onto my plate.
It was time to give my fork a brief rest. "Okay, Doc, out with it. Something's been bugging you all evening. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm your friend, remember?"
Doc sighed. Suddenly he looked his eighty-four years. "It's because we're such good friends, and I" - he paused, swallowed and then chickened out - "am so fond of you, that I'm worried."
"Spit it out, Doc!" I hate it when people build things up just for the sake of drama. Of course, on the plus side, things are seldom as bad as they want us to think, and so there is that wonderful sense of relief when they do finally tell you the scoop.
"Well, Mags, the thing is, I've been toying around with my new fax machine, and - "
"And you found out that Also Ran is a washout for the Kentucky Derby?"
"Dammit, Mags! Don't you ever quit? What I'm trying to say is that I faxed a letter to a buddy of mine, who shall remain nameless, who has a practice over in Pittsburgh. Not a vet practice, for your information, but a psychiatric practice. As it so happens, he's on staff at the Roselund Clinic. Of course patient confidentially has to be respected, it's the law. But there are ways of flexing the law just a little bit, for the greater good, you understand?"
"Completely. So what did you learn?"
"That there was a young woman admitted as a patient thirteen years ago, and the facts pretty much line up with the ones in Martha Sims's story."
I inhaled hard enough to extinguish one of the candles Doc had so thoughtfully lit before dinner. "You mean Martha was telling the truth? Norah did have a complete breakdown?"
Doc shook his head. "No, not Norah. It was Martha who came unglued."
Of course, the news chilled me to the bone, and Doc and I hashed it over for at least an hour before we figured out what to do. Finally we agreed that in the morning we would go together to see Reverend Sims at his office at the church. In the meantime, there was nothing else to do but to polish off the pineapple upside-down cake. Fortunately Doc was still a little off his feed, so I got the lion's share. Why is it that standard cake pans don't come any larger than nine by thirteen?
-29-
The night was still young. After the cake was gone, and after trying to dodge Doc, who is not at all as doddery as he should be, I was faced with one of those agonizing decisions that almost make you wish you were living under a strict totalitarian regime where everything is decided for you. It wasn't until I hit Main Street in downtown Hernia that I decided not to go into Bedford that evening to visit Heather and her new baby. After all, I hadn't had time to make a decent gift, and I didn't want to insult either of them with something store-bought. Plus there is the safety factor, you know. Bedford might not be the Sodom and Gomorrah Mama always said it was, but there are a few undesirable elements living in town. By that I mean strangers; people who might foolishly try to take advantage of me in darkened parking lots, forcing me to rake them across the eyes with a fistful of keys.
In Hernia, on the other hand, I feel perfectly safe. No one has bothered me since that night almost ten years ago when Jimmy Harshman, wearing a ski mask, tried to snatch my purse outside Sam Yoder's grocery store. Jimmy now lives in Coos Bay, Oregon, and reportedly sings high tenor in his church choir.
Having made up my mind not to go into Bedford made it easier for me to live happily with choice number two. Not that I should have felt guilty in the first place. How often does a back-to-back marathon of Green Acres reruns occur on noncable television? I know, three or four hours of such fare might be considered decadent by some, but I don't smoke or drink, engage only in the safest sex there is, and tithe religiously to my church. Still, Mama would never have approved of such idle, self-indulgent behavior. For my own peace of mind, I stopped impulsively at Yoder's Market and bought the largest bag of Cheese Crunchies I could find. Hopefully, the noise would drown out the sounds of Mama turning rhythmically in her grave.
was letting myself in by the back door, when I heard the door on the six-seater slam. It was a still, cloudless night in August, the kind with fireflies and crickets, and the distant sound of whippoorwills. There simply wasn't enough breeze to ruffle a cobweb. Besides which, the door to the six-seater was locked, its hasp securely jammed into place with a piece of maple branch. But raccoons have remarkably agile hands, and are forever removing the lids of my garbage cans and scattering trash from here to kingdom come. The last thing I wanted was a clan of furry bandits taking up residence in the six-seater, just yards from the garbage-can corral.
"Shoo! Scram! Beat it!" I yelled angrily. "Head for the woods while you still have four good paws to run on!" I don't wear fur coats, but I'm not above raising I my voice at those who do. Just because their fur is not easily detachable doesn't mean they should get special treatment.
But no coon clan was forthcoming. In exasperation I grabbed the sidewalk broom from the back steps and headed for the six-seater. If war was what the coons wanted, war was what they'd get. Unless one or more of the masked marauders had rabies, they'd soon be running with their tails between their legs. I may be a pacifist by breeding, but when provoked enough, I can be just as ferocious as the English. While I have yet to actually bite a living animal, I do own a strong, healthy set of nails. When I slammed the six-seater door open again, I fully expected to be greeted by the smug smiles of a coon platoon. But there was nothing. Just six empty wooden stalls. It took me only a few seconds to scan them all and determine that those cagey coons had outfoxed me once again. I bolted for the exit just as the door slammed one last time - almost in my face. "I'll get you yet, you lily-livered vermin," I yelled. I shoved hard at the door, but it didn't budge. Now, some of the coons we have around Hernia are so big you wouldn't want them stepping on your feet, but none of them is big enough to blockade a door. And besides, from the way the door gave a little at both the top and bottom, it was pretty clear someone, not something, was behind these shenanigans, and the maple stick had been jammed back into the hasp. At first it was irritation, not fear that followed the realization that someone was playing a practical joke. "Give it up, Susannah," I growled. Susannah didn't answer, which was no surprise. My sister has the memory of a politician. Sometimes she forgets things even as she's doing them. I tried the door again. Still, it did not budge. "Okay, okay. It's a very funny joke, and it was very clever of you to think of it, but enough is enough. You've had your fun. Now, open the door and let me out before I forget that you're my sister." All this was said in a voice loud enough to wake the dead-including Mama, who was always a little hard of hearing - just in case Susannah had indeed forgotten and wandered off someplace.
