No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk by Tamar Myers Page B

see you about the deaths of Yost Yoder and Levi Mast,” I said. “I have reason to believe that their deaths were not accidental, but murder. I demand that a thorough investigation be held.”
    The ears began to flap slowly while he took that in. He motioned me to a hard plastic seat, which I took gratefully. Apparently Pauline’s pancakes were not as fluffy as they appeared.
    “ ‘Demand’ is a strong word, Miss Yoder.” The ears flapped faster. “What are these reasons you have?” With a Stoltzfus it is always best to start with the obvious.
    “Amish men don’t bathe in their milk tanks. Certainly not in February. In fact, never.
    “And they don’t climb to the tops of their com silos in February either. Especially not on their wedding days. Of course, you should know all that, being a Stoltzfus.”
    The ears went rigid. “I am a Methodist, Miss Yoder, not that it’s any of your business.”
    I swallowed. “Well, back home Stoltzfus is an Amish or Mennonite name. Our chief of police is named Stoltzfus. A real nice guy too.” Okay, so that was an out-and-out lie. And yes, I feel guilty.
    The ears began to twitch with excitement. “You mean Melvin Stoltzfus?”
    “Yes. What a dear sweet man.” When it comes to guilt, it might as well be in for a penny, in for pound.
    “Melvin is my first cousin!” He actually sounded proud.
    “But you said you were a Methodist!”
    “Oh, that. Mother’s second marriage was to a Methodist. After Daddy died—he ran away from home and became an elephant trainer for the Barnum and Bailey, and that’s where he met Mother—she married a Methodist minister. So that’s what I was raised.” He sounded proud of that too.
    “I see. How did your daddy die?” I asked politely. Marvin slapped his cap back on his head, and in one swift movement scooped both of his ears back and tucked them inside. “He was stepped on by one of his elephants, not that this is any of your business either.”
    I nodded with new understanding. To my credit, I didn’t ask Marvin what it was his mother did in the circus. It was clear though that, given his background, Marvin Stoltzfus knew nothing about the Amish and their methods of farming. And now that I understood the logic of the Pennsylvania DMV, it made perfect sense that he should be sheriff in a county largely populated by Amish.
    I decided to switch tactics. “Were you involved in the Elsie Bontrager case?”
    He looked at me defiantly. “Yes, of course I was.”
    “Very interesting,” I said. “From what the Amish tell me, they never pressed charges.”
    The ears must have shifted beneath the cap, because I thought I saw it move. “I didn’t say they pressed charges. I said I was involved in the case. You might say I was a mediator of sorts.”
    “I see. Who asked you to mediate, the Amish or Daisybell Dairies?”
    He stood up angrily. “Just who the hell are you to interrogate me?” He tapped his badge. “I am the law around here.”
    I stood up slowly. “And I’m here visiting family. Amish family. Lots of them.”
    As I said, he was smarter than his cousin Melvin. “The Amish don’t vote.”
    “But the Mennonites do!” I said, and left.
    It was a small victory. Farmersburg County has more Amish than it does Mennonites, and most of those Mennonites were from the German rather than the Swiss tradition. That is to say, they were Mennonite Mennonites, rather than Amish Mennonites, like me. I don’t blame you for being hopelessly confused, because I was hoping Marvin would be confused as well.
    Now that I was actually in Farmersburg, I didn’t need directions to Daisybell Dairies. The gal from Goshen had neglected to tell me that in addition to being the largest building in Farmersburg, the factory was the only one with a thirty-foot Holstein cow in front of it.
    “The statue is exactly twenty-one feet and three inches high, and twenty-eight feet and eleven inches long,” said Arnold Ledbetter, as we began our