Just Plain Pickled to Death by Tamar Myers Page B

quilting on Sundays. Undoubtedly the rest of the Beeftrust were upstairs in their rooms, reading or napping. Whichever it was, they had their privacy, because the uncles—to a man—were sawing wood in the parlor. The faith of my fathers lived on still.
    I should have been ravenous, but all I could think of was a long, hot bath. By the time I was through soaking I had probably absorbed enough water through my skin to fill me up. At any rate, as soon as I was dressed I called telephone information.
    “For what city, please.”
    “Sarasota, Florida.” It was a wild guess. For reasons I know not, Mennonites, and some Amish, are particularly fond of Sarasota.
    “Go ahead, please.”
    “Yes, I’d like the number of a Jonas Weaver.”
    There was a long pause. “Do you have a middle initial, ma’am? I show six listings by that name.”
    I took down all six numbers and began with the first given me.
    “Weavoh wesidence.” The speaker couldn’t have been more than three years old. “Jonas Weavoh speaking.”
    “Hello. Is your mommy home?”
    “No, Mama died Fwiday night. Didn’t they tell you that at chuch?”
    “No, they didn’t. I’m sorry.”
    “Why be sowee? She lived to see huh hundwedth buthday, didn’t she?”
    “She did? Say, the Jonas Weaver I’m looking for is originally from Hernia, Pennsylvania, and—”
    “I’m not that Jonas,” the pipsqueak squeaked. “Ahm fwum Geoge-uh!”
    The second Jonas hailed from Intercourse, Pennsylvania. Did I want to know how the town got its name, he asked? I did not!
    Not only was the third time the charm, but the man on the other end of the line was quite charming. “Guilty,” he purred in response to my Hernia question.
    “This isn’t a trial, Mr. Weaver. It’s just that I have something very important to tell you.”
    “Tell me, then, and please don’t leave out a word. I could listen to you talk for hours.”
    Something wasn’t right. So, to put it in terms my Aaron understands, I decided on a lateral pass to the left.
    “Did I say the Jonas Weaver I’m looking for is from Hernia? How silly of me. The one I’m looking for lived in Hernia briefly, but he’s really from Truss, Pennsylvania.”
    “Even guiltier,” the pervert purred.
    I hung up without telling him there wasn’t such a place.
    It wasn’t until the sixth and last call that I reached a cantankerous old man with a scratchy voice. I knew instinctively that I had struck pay dirt. Through a series of snarls he informed me that I was the first person from Hernia to speak to him in almost twenty years.
    “Then I’m sorry, Mr. Weaver, but I have some bad news for you from home.”
    “Yeah? First, how’d you find me?”
    “I called directory information.”
    “Yeah?” He thought about that for a few minutes, no doubt marveling all the while. Most people either don’t know such a service exists or else they’re too cheap to pay the paltry sum it costs to use it. The PennDutch Inn is listed in the Bedford County phone book, but you’d be surprised how many folks say they can’t find my number—especially when their business with me involves a cancellation.
    “You there, Mr. Weaver?”
    “All right, so you found me. Now, what’s the bad news?”
    “It’s about your daughter, sir.”
    “I don’t have a daughter, so don’t give me that crap.”
    “Sarah!” I shouted, before he could hang up. “She’s been found.”
    “What?”
    “Your daughter Sarah’s body has finally been found.”
    I expected the silence, but I didn’t expect the tears. One more weeper and I was going to call it quits for the day. Still, I waited patiently as the minutes ticked by on my phone bill.
    “Where?”
    “On Aaron Miller’s farm. The funeral—”
    “Where on the farm?”
    “The root cellar.”
    “Buried under the floor?”
    It was a reasonable possibility, I suppose, but something that hadn’t occurred to me.
    “No, sir. It isn’t very pleasant, I’m afraid.”
    “Death seldom