Tamar Myers - Butter Safe Than Sorry: A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery

Finally, after almost two hundred years, my hometown had its first bona fide hooker. Of course I dont approve of a woman selling her body for sex-or even for a great deal of money-but I must confess that I found this particular situation rather titillating. After all, Dorothy Yoder was the wife of Hernias most notorious lecher. But apparently Sam wasnt enough for her, so she tried selling herself to a handsome young tourist and got herself arrested. I mean, really, it had all the ingredients of a poorly written novel, a medium with which I am well acquainted.

To be painfully honest, when I first heard this news, my feet began a happy dance of their own accord. Since dancing is a sin, and I could not stop my tootsies from moving, I had no choice but to hop on my husbands bicycle and take a couple of spins around the farmyard. For once, hallelujah, Hernias confirmed floozy wasnt my sister, Susannah.

No siree, Bob. This time Hernias strumpet without a trumpet, her trollop who packed a wallop, was none other than the Dorothy Yoder, my cousin-in-law, a woman who had never been nice to me! Oh how the mighty had fallen-both literally and figuratively. The day after her fiftieth birthday, Dorothy-whod managed to consume four entire sheet cakes and three half gallon cartons of Breyer s Butter Pecan Ice Cream-was being transferred to a new, and larger, bed, when the main cable broke. Dorothy was not severely injured, but apparently jolted enough to consider a very dangerous surgical option over dieting.

Two years, and many cosmetic surgeries later, seven-hundred-pound Dorothy was a svelte size sixteen and looked twenty years younger than her husband. As our towns only grocer, married to the daughter of a wealthy man, Sam had long perched on our highest social rung. But when Dorothy got her looks back-her words, not mine-she started wearing clothes that revealed her dcolletage and emphasized her still-impressive derriere. Not only that, but she got her flaming red hair cut and styled, and started applying more makeup than even a fallen Methodist has a right to. Trust me, I am not exaggerating-not this time. For her maiden outing as the painted Whore of Babylon, Dorothy had a professional apply the goop and glop, and when she returned home, her three daughters didnt recognize her and tried to have her arrested as an intruder.

Schadenfreude, that peculiarly German, but oh so useful, word described my feelings perfectly when I heard this. The reason that Dorothy has never been nice to me is because her husband, Sam, carries a torch for Yours Truly. Sams torch is like one of those trick birthday candles that cant be blown out-no matter what. Sam delivered my son on the floor of his so-called grocery store (Yoders Corner Market), but even seeing my business at its worst, so to speak, was not enough to dampen his ardor.

I should hasten to clarify that I have absolutely no interest in Sam and have never encouraged him. We are, in fact, first cousins on my mothers side of the family, and whilst I am not biologically related to the woman who raised me, that doesnt matter: Sam was, is, and will always be, an annoying cousin who must be endured-somewhat like toenail fungus when prescription ointments wont work.

Thus it was a bittersweet thing to find Dorothy hanging about the store when I popped in that Friday afternoon with my son, Little Jacob, in tow. The woman was wearing a moleskin leopard-print dress and six- inch spike heels. Her eyeliner was so heavy, it looked like shed glued slivers of charcoal to her eyelids. As for her eye shadow, I guessed the metallic silver was supposed to match her lipstick, shoes, and shoulder- length bangle earrings, but frankly, it gave her an eerily reptilian look.

Is that a real woman, Mama? Little Jacob asked the second his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

Out of the mouths of babes, I said, quoting Psalms 8:2.

What did that child say?

Im sure he was admiring you, Sam said. He dotes on Little Jacob and often gives him candy or other treats. I wouldnt mind that so much if the sweets werent stale.

I gave Dorothy a placating smile that was at least partly genuine. Despite the animosity she feels toward me, I feel nothing more than pity for her.

You always were beautiful, Dorothy. But if you want my opinion, this is a classic case of less being more.

She teetered closer for a few steps, her eyes flashing with rage. Well, I dont want your opinion, Magdalena.

But you look like a hoochie-mama, dear.

My four-year-old son doesnt let anything slip by him. Mama, whats a hoochie-mama?

Hmm-remember the pictures I showed you of your aunt Susannah?

He nodded. Shes the lady in the hooch, right?

Right.

Oh, I get it! So thats why shes a hoochie-mama, right?

Well

Like this lady, right?

Not ex

Cousin Sam, can I have a cookie?

Sam gave the love of my life three cookies and then got back to me ASAP. In the meantime, the huffy hoochie- mama snarled at me and showed her claws, but mercifully retreated to watch television at the back of the store, where Sam maintains a little break room for himself. The redundancy of such a place makes as much sense as a fish wearing a life vest. At any rate, Sam wasted no time in pouncing.

Couldnt stay away from me, could you, Mags?

I came to buy lined poster board for Little Jacobs kindergarten project. Do you have any?

He shook his head. Youre the tenth person today to come in here and ask for some. Its for that for family-tree project Miss Kuhnberger assigned, isnt it?

Yes.

She does that every year, and every year you poor parents have to drive into Bedford just to get some poster board. Youd think that old bat would catch on and change her lessons plans.

Or-I leaned forward conspiratorially-some aging lothario whose wife looks like shes about to step out on him would catch on to a solution just as obvious and stock poster board each fall.

Sam rolled his watery blue eyes. My vendor doesnt carry it. And since Id make only about a nickel a sheet on it anyway, it wouldnt pay me to put in a special order with another vendor. But you can take back your insinuation.

My insinuation?

That all Dorothy needs is a little loving on the home front and everything will be hunky-dory-as you are so fond of saying.