Just Plain Pickled to Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

Pittsburgh from St. Louis, where they now lived, and then rented a car. From what I already knew about Aaron’s aunties, nothing between the Pittsburgh airport and my Hernia would have sufficed for breakfast.
    “Disjoint my head, then you’re fired,” Auntie Magdalena whimpered.
    “Why, I never!” And I hadn’t.
    Uncle Elias smiled patiently. “What she said was, ‘Just point me to a bed, I’m dead tired.’”
    I pointed. But first I peeked at her feet to see if they could get her up the stairs without complaint. Except for the moss on her shoes they looked entirely normal. Apparently Auntie Magdalena was the exception to the Beeftrust rule. There was nothing about her that was in any way diminutive.
    “Stanks,” she whimpered after I’d shown them to their room and obligingly fluffed up the pillows.
    As I was reaching for the two-dollar tip, I noticed that she had the tiniest hands imaginable on someone that large. Mere child’s hands they were.
    Thanks to my inn’s popularity, the phone all but rings off the hook. I know, I should hire a full-time receptionist, but I refuse to, as long as Susannah is in residence. Freni Hostetler, who is in her seventies, does all the cooking, and I do everything else—except for the ALPO guests. Those folks elect to pay extra for the privilege of participating in the Amish Lifestyles Plan Option, and consequently they get to do their own laundry and maid service. Susannah, however, does nothing—at least nothing connected to running the inn. You would think that answering the phone wouldn’t be too strenuous for her nails, but unless her personal radar informs her that an incoming call is from a virile male, the phone can ring its bell to a nub and she’ll ignore it.
    “PennDutch Inn, but I’m closed for business this week,” I said crisply.
    There was a lot of static on the line, but I was able to piece together enough words to ascertain that a Middle Eastern potentate wanted to rent the entire inn for himself and his harem.
    “When?”
    “Starting tomorrow. For a week.”
    “Sorry, no can do.”
    I was in the act of hanging up when I heard an obscene amount of money being offered.
    “I beg your pardon? Would you mind saying that again?”
    The static cackled the same obscene figure—more than ten times what I would make by renting out the PennDutch at my regular rates.
    “Sorry, but a ragtag gathering of grotesque giantesses doth gyre and gimble in the wabe.”
    “Eh?”
    “What I mean is, I’ve already got a full house,” I said sadly.
    More static.
    “No, there is not a casino attached to the inn. What I’m trying to say is that I have to turn your lucrative offer down on account of my soon-to-be-husband’s aunties have taken over the place.”
    Before I hung up I accepted an offer from him for twice as much money as his previous one, but for the following week instead. In the meantime the persistent potentate was going to purchase a small New Jersey town in which to stash his happy harem.
    The receiver was in its cradle for exactly three seconds before the phone rang again.
    “Oh second thought,” I said smoothly, “I think a deposit of ten thousand is in order.”
    There was silence instead of static.
    “I mean, what if your ladies decide to make veils out of my curtains?”
    “Magdalena? Have you gone totally off your rocker?”
    “Melvin? Melvin Stoltzfus?”
    “That’s Chief of Police Stoltzfus to you. And what the hell kind of game are you playing?”
    Thank the good Lord I don’t own one of those newfangled telephones that shows your picture on a screen. Undoubtedly I was three shades darker than pickled beets.
    “Why did you call, Melvin?” I asked evenly.
    “Oh, that. I called to officially inform you that Sarah Weaver is dead.”
    I am not surprised by anything Melvin can say. Which is not to say I’m never dismayed.
    “Is there a point to this, Melvin?”
    “I just got the coroner’s report back, and like I said, Sarah