Play It Again, Spam by Tamar Myers Page B

banished
    somewhere else."
    "Where?"
    "Who knows? Bedford? Somerset? They took their rental cars and fanned out across the country. Well, I'm assuming they
    did. Not that they consulted me before they left, although it would have been a good idea. I have some lovely and informative
    brochures I could have given them. Full-color, you know."
    "Miss Yoder, I have a confession to make."
    "Confess away!" I said, perhaps too gaily.
    "I lied before."
    "I knew it! I knew those pitiful paws of yours couldn't even span an octave. You're not really a concert pianist, are you?"
    "Oh, but I am! I lied to you about my husband."
    I beckoned her closer. "Do tell!"
    "Miss Yoder, I think my husband is a spy."
     
    9
    “Do tell, dear!"
    I steered her into the dining room, which is on the opposite side of the lobby from the parlor. The vexing veterans were going
    to have their work cut out for them if they expected to eavesdrop on us now.
    "Have a seat, dear." I pointed to a ladderback chair adjacent to a quilt stretched cross a six-foot frame. It is my custom to
    keep a "quilt in progress" at all times for my guests to try their hands at. If their stitches are reasonably small and neat, I allow the
    work to remain. If the stitches are sloppy, or too large, I sneak out to the dining room in the middle of the night and redo them. Not
    only do these quilts function as a form of therapy for my clientele - many of whom are deeply disturbed - but they are a tidy
    source of income for me. I ship the finished quilts to Lancaster County, where they are snatched up like hotcakes by the swarms
    of tourists who converge on that Amish community looking to exchange cash for culture.
    I threaded a needle for her. "Now, dear, tell me everything."
    "You swear you won't breathe a word of this to a soul?"
    "Amish and Mennonites don't take oaths. But if it will make you feel any better, I promise to stick this needle in my eye and
    hope to die if these lips blab a single syllable."
    That seemed to satisfy her. "I don't think my John is the kind of spy like in the James Bond movies. I mean, he doesn't have
    any fancy gadgets that I know of, and as for the women - well, I already told you I thought there was no chance of that."
    I waved a hand impatiently. "I don't watch movies, dear. Tell me what kind of spy your John is like."
    "I think maybe he's C.I.A."
    "Really?" I learned forward. I hadn't heard such a juicy piece of gossip since my first inn blew down.
    She paused dramatically, but at least they weren't wasted seconds because she made a couple of stitches as well.
    "Well, something like that. He won't discuss it, of course. It's probably only for my safety, you see. But he makes secret
    phone calls and sometimes, like when we're traveling, he disappears for a few days."
    "Give me details," I begged. Her fingers flew with the needle. "Well, there was that time I gave a concert in Vienna. No sooner
    had we checked into the Hoffman House - it's a small but exquisite establishment - when he just up and disappeared. If he hadn't
    done the same thing in Belgium the year before I would have been really worried."
    "Ah, so you're used to this strange behavior of his. Why then all the concern now?"
    She looked up from the quilt. "Because Vienna and Brussels, that I can understand. Those are places one would expect
    spies to operate - or whatever you call what they do. But Hernia, Pennsylvania?"
    "I see, so we Herniatites are unworthy of being spied upon."
    "Well - "
    I tapped the quilt, and it vibrated, stretched taut as it was. "Those last few stitches of yours look like the tracks of a drunken
    chicken, dear - and you a concert pianist! For shame."
    She flushed and reached for the stitch-ripper. "I didn't mean to offend you, Miss Yoder. It's just that I think my husband is an
    international spy, and Hernia is practically in Pittsburgh's backyard."
    "We're two hours away, and besides, you have no idea how many of the world's most powerful people have stayed