'Well," I fumbled, "maybe she couldn't stand to be confronted with her husband's indiscretion."

Jeanette stood up and jabbed her finger in my direction again. "Linda was not the result of some indiscretion. Garrett and I were lovers. True lovers. We loved each other pa.s.sionately, and long before he met Ms. High and Mighty."

Well, that certainly isn't our business, is it? I mean, about you and the Congressman being 'true lovers.' That sort of thing."

"Apparently that 'sort of thing' has never been your business, so why don't you just b.u.t.t the h.e.l.l out?"

"Ladies, ladies," chided Billy Dee gently, "like the man says, we need to stick to the issue."

Well, what about Delbert James?" asked Susannah helpfully. Although she's my own sister, sometimes it seems like Susannah's bulb is so dim even an owl couldn't read by it.

"What about him?" Melvin and I asked together.

Susannah sat gaping silently at us like a hen who has seen the hawk but doesn't know in which direction to run.

"Actually, she might have a point," said Billy Dee gallantly. "Delbert James might have done it. In fact, any of us might have done it, inadvertently."

"You mean that possibly the intended victim was someone other than Linda McMahon?" Melvin seemed to come alive with this new realm of possibilities.

"Yeah, that's what I mean. Now take this Delbert guy, I don't hardly know him, but him and the Congressman are too tight, if you ask me. Like maybe one's got something on the other. Maybe he was trying to poison the Congressman, or the other way around, and Linda ate whatever it was by mistake."

"Or maybe Delbert and the Congressman are gay and Mrs. Ream was trying to poison Delbert," suggested Susannah. Honestly, she should have left well enough alone.

"Don't be such a stupid twit," said Jeanette. "Garrett is far from gay."

n.o.body speaks to my sister like that, except for me. "Well, then, maybe you were trying to poison Garrett because he dumped you, and you accidentally poisoned your own daughter."

"n.o.body dumped me," Jeanette practically shrieked. I didn't flinch. "Or maybe you were trying to poison Lydia Ream because you were jealous of her."

"Why the h.e.l.l should I be jealous of that insipid, bourgeois sheep? Garrett and I split up twenty-three years ago."

In order not to escalate the hostilities, I suppressed a chuckle. If Lydia Ream was bourgeois, then so was Princess Di. "May I go now?"

I had addressed the question to Melvin Stoltzfus, but Jeanette Parker answered. "By all means, do. No-body asked you to come in here to begin with."

"I do own this place," I reminded her. "But not for long, I promise you that. I plan to sue you for everything you've got, Ms. Yoder. You can expect to hear from my lawyers as soon as I get home."

"Ha! Not if someone else beats you to it," I said. "You can't squeeze blood from a stone." I'd rather have the mousy Miss Brown's estate wring me dry than that loud-mouth Jeanette.

"The inn is entirely in my sister's name," Susannah piped up.

"The rats are jumping ship now, are they?" I asked her.

"Leave Shnook.u.ms out of this!" I glared at everyone in the room, including Billy Dee, who hadn't offered anything like the support I had hoped for, and left the parlor. I grabbed my coat from the front closet by the desk and went out the front door and around the house to feed the chickens and gather eggs.

That Mose had already attended to them was irrelevant. I have always found surrounding myself with chickens to be therapeutic. There is something about their squawking and squabbling that empowers me, especially if it is I who have generated the hee-cack. Chickens have many human characteristics, if you stop to think about it. They can be "mad as a wet hen," "gabby old hens," "c.o.c.ky," have "something to crow about, and, of course, just plain old chicken. I suppose your average therapist would have a field day with this, but I enjoy being a Brobdingnagian in their Lilliputian world. Chickens fear and respect me, which is more than I can say for anything else in this world.

As usual, the chickens were flapping and squawking out of my way as I reached into their nest boxes to get out the eggs. In most instances hens will stay put and sometimes even peck the hand that tries to pluck their eggs, but not my darlings. Even the dumbest of them learned early in the game that I will goose any hen who doesn't vacate her box immediately.

I had just managed to intimidate Pertelote, the boldest of my hens, into leaving her nest, when I heard the most awful disturbance behind me. Foxes might be historically infamous for raiding henhouses, but in Hernia it's c.o.o.ns, nine times out of ten. And lately, racc.o.o.ns have gotten bolder and bolder and are as likely to make a foray into fowldom in broad daylight as they are at night. If I wasn't a pacifist by heritage, I would buy a gun and blow those masked bandits to kingdom come.

I whirled around, half-expecting to see a racc.o.o.n."

Lydia!

"h.e.l.lo, Magdalena."

"What on earth are you doing here?" Even in her hunting clothes Lydia Ream looked far too elegant to grace the inside of a henhouse.

"Magdalena, I need to talk to you." Lydia advanced a few tentative steps.

"Don't worry, those hens are just as afraid of you as you are of them."

Lydia pointed down at her shoes. "It's not them I'm afraid of."

"Right. Why don't we step outside into my office?"

She continued to weave her way across the floor to me. "No, I'd rather talk in here."

"Suit yourself then." After all, if a Senator's daughter and Congressman's wife, not to mention a potential First Lady, wanted to chat with me in a chicken coop, who was I to object?

"We just got in," said Lydia. "No sooner had we walked through the front door than this monstrous little man pounced on us and said Linda was dead. Said she was poisoned. He also said everyone here at the Inn is a suspect, at least until they get back the coroner's report. Is that true?"

"That monstrous little man is Melvin Stoltzfus. And, yes, Linda is dead. Susannah found her in bed late this morning. As for all of us being suspects, some of us are less so than others."

Lydia shook her head. "What a tragedy. Linda was so young. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And that man that Mellwood somebody doesn't seem to possess an ounce of sensitivity. Garrett and Delbert are in there talking to him right now, but I had to find you right away."

"Praying mantises eat their mates," I said simply.

"What?"

"Never mind. How did you know where to find me?"

"Your sister told me. She said you find chickens comforting." Lydia smiled as if she approved. "Magdalena, the reason I need to talk to you is because you are such a sensible woman. Why, just look, even your shoes are sensible."

Lydia paused while I glanced down at my feet. When Susannah says that I wear sensible shoes, she means it as an insult.

"And, so," continued Lydia smoothly, "I was hoping that you might help extricate us from a delicate problem."

"Who is us, and what's the problem?" The last time I was asked that question was when Susannah was still a teenager. She had wanted me to buy condoms for her boyfriend, Noah Miller. Of course I told her "no," and then I told Noah to keep his p.e.c.k.e.r in his pants where it belonged.

Lydia smiled, and as much as I liked her, I could still tell it was a political smile. "Well, I guess by 'us' I meant the Congressman. You see, Magdalena, my husband has been fighting a slight problem with substance abuse."

"Are such problems ever slight?"

She smiled again, this time patiently. "What I mean is that Garrett can still function. You know, carry on with his duties. But he does have a problem, I'm not denying that."

"I see."

"But I'm afraid you don't." Lydia reached out and grabbed my sleeve with a perfectly manicured hand. "We aren't here as hunters this week, Magdalena. In fact, hunting is the farthest thing from our minds."

"Then why are you here? The food?" That was supposed to have been a little joke.

Lydia didn't even smile. "We're here scouting out a new rehabilitation clinic in the Laurel Mountains. The Grossinger-Beechman Clinic. Have you heard of it?"

I nodded. There had been a big stink about it in the Hernia Weekly Herald. Something about drug-crazed rock stars invading our peaceful domain to get their heads screwed on straight at the risk of our homes and hearths. Since I hadn't recognized any of the names, and it was all privately funded, I hadn't paid the matter any attention.

"The first day we were here, Monday, Garrett did go hunting, but just as a ruse to get them off his scent. Today, however, we headed straight for the clinic, where he had his interview. Tomorrow, he had planned to commit himself for a three-week stint."

"And you planned to keep all this a secret?"

"From the press, surely. And from that awful woman, Jeanette Parker, who is worse than the press. That woman has been relentless in her persecution of Garrett ever since he took office. She is obsessed with her crusade to do him in politically."

"And that awful woman, of course, just happens to be your husband's ex-lover."

I did not mean to be cruel. Nonetheless, Lydia's mouth fell open like a trapdoor with a sprung lever. "You know about that?"

"The walls have ears, Lydia, or in this case make it the floorboards. Take it from an experienced innkeeper, whenever you're not in your own home, you're in public." Boy, did I know the truth of that statement. Susannah and I had been living in a fishbowl, albeit of my own making, for ten years now.

Lydia didn't seem to appreciate my advice. "What else did you hear?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"What else did you hear through those floorboards, Magdalena?" Even cla.s.sy people can sound nasty if they try hard enough.

"Well, you needn't worry about that!" I had begun to get huffy myself. "Susannah has oiled all the bedsprings." Lydia laughed then, perhaps with relief. Well, I guess I did get carried away there for a moment. Anyway, what I came to ask you, Magdalena, was for help in keeping this matter a private one."

"I see," I said, although actually I didn't. "How on earth can I help in that regard?"

Lydia rubbed the sole of one of her expensive shoes against a clump of straw. 'Well, you are well-known in the community here, and I imagine you exert a considerable amount of local influence. Perhaps you can talk this young officer, whom you seem already to know, into not disclosing publicly where Garrett was today or what his plans are. You know, use some of that influence. After all, it has nothing to do with young Linda, i and revealing it could be disastrous to his career."

It was my turn to laugh. "Me? Influence Melvin Stoltzfus? I can't even get my sister to pick up her dirty underwear. But speaking of which, Susannah is the one you should be talking to. If anyone can influence Melvin, she can."

Lydia seemed taken aback. 'Well, then," she said at last, "could you talk to your sister for me? This is a difficult subject for me to talk about, as you might imagine, and I haven't really gotten a chance to know your sister."

I studied Lydia Ream for a moment. I savored that moment. There is something uniquely satisfying about having a rich, elegant, well-bred socialite beg for one's help in a chicken coop. "Okay, I'll talk to Susannah, but I doubt if it will do any good. If Melvin Stoltzfus has already made up his mind about something, it simply won't be possible for anyone, even Susannah, to change it."

"But you'll have her try?"

"She'll try, but like I said, don't count on his being reasonable. He was kicked in the head by a bull, you know."

"Pardon me?"

"Oh, nothing, just a joke. Now, unless you have any other requests, it's about time we got out of here. Chickens carry fleas, you know, and when it's cold like this, the fleas in the straw on the floor hop up on humans seeking warmth."

Lydia exited rapidly, and I followed. She might have been fleeing the fleas, but I was feeling ravenous again. Stress always does that to me. Fortunately, I still have the metabolism rate of a teenager, otherwise I'd be as big as Aunt Agnes was in her prime. When my mother's sister died, they buried her in the packing crate her Frigidaire had come in. Even then, I'm told, they had to band the box with metal straps to keep her from popping out.

"Have lunch yet?" I called out after Lydia.

She must not have heard me, because she didn't even answer. I can't blame her, though, even if she did. Women in Lydia's league don't often face flea infestation from henhouses. Even their dogs are dipped more often than soft-serve cones at Neubrander's Dairy Bar.

As for me, all I could think of then was food. Fleas, and come to think of it, praying mantises like Melvin Stoltzfus, would just have to wait until after I'd had something else to eat. With any luck I would find Joel still in the kitchen and convince him to whip me up some of his famous broiled bananas. Since they were the only dish that everyone had eaten the night before, and in fact had even had an encore, they must have been good. I couldn't wait to taste this interesting concoction.

20.

JOEL TEITLEBAUM'S FAMOUS BROILED BANANA RECIPE Several large, unripe bananas An ample supply of lemon juice Copious amounts of brown sugar A generous amount of cinnamon An inquiring mind b.u.t.ter or otherwise grease an ovenproof dish. Peel and slice the bananas into quarters. Arrange seed-side up in the dish. Splash with lemon juice. Heap with brown sugar. Sprinkle with cinnamon.

Broil in the oven, about six inches from the heating element, until the brown sugar begins to melt and caramelize (about 3 to 5 minutes). Spoon lemon juice-sugar syrup mixture from the pan over the bananas and serve hot.

21.

Unfortunately Joel was not in the kitchen. Doc still was, however, and he was happily making himself a plate full of fried baloney and ketchup sandwiches. He asked me to join him, and of course I accepted.

"Want some fresh eggs to go with that?" I asked. Pertelote's issue was still warm to the touch.

Doc said he would, and I got out another pan and fried up Pertelote's egg and three others. I like my eggs greasy, slightly runny, and almost black with pepper. Doc likes them the same way.

"Called Ed Houlihan, while you were out," said Doc casually. Mr. Houlihan was the county coroner, a trained pathologist, and a contemporary of Doc's. They'd started in medical school together, before Doc switched over to veterinary medicine. Ed was the ant.i.thesis of Melvin Stoltzfus in that he had been at his job since back in the days when G.o.d was still young. As far as I knew no one had ever run against Ed in the elections, and I don't suppose they ever will. County coroner is not a glamorous job in these parts. That probably explains why Ed can afford to take four-day holiday weekends.

"Ed's back finally? The autopsies are done already?"

Doc waved his spatula in annoyance. "You young people have no concept of patience. You can't even butcher a chicken that fast. I just wanted to tell you that Ed said he'd give me a call when the results are in."

"When do you think that will be?"

"You're always in a hurry, Magdalena." He waved the spatula again. "Ed has to send a few samples from each of them down to Harrisburg, and you know how slow those boys are."

"I see." If they were anywhere near as slow as the boys in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, neither Doc nor I stood a very good chance of living long enough for the results to come back.

"But in the meantime, it's pretty clear that both women died of respiratory failure. Miss Brown was apparently dead before her fall." Doc let that sink in for a moment.

My Stoltzfus blood fought valiantly to keep me in the dark, but then the light broke through. "You mean she was murdered?" I cried joyfully. The PennDutch was mine again; Jeanette's suit didn't stand a chance.

Doc nodded. "It would appear so. But it's not conclusive yet. Her falling down the stairs might have been the result of her dying, but that doesn't automatically mean she was murdered. She may have stopped breathing for a number of other reasons."

"And Linda? You said she died of respiratory failure as well. So then it wasn't poison?"