Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Crime by Tamar Myers Read Free Book Online

relief. Because of its small size, Hernia has only two people on its police force: Zelda and the chief himself, Melvin Stoltzfus.
     
     
"Zelda, there's been a murder out at my place," I panted into the phone.
     
     
"I know," said Zelda complacently. "And they're filming it now, right?"
     
     
"Wrong! You've been working with Melvin too long, Zelda This is a real murder. The assistant director's been forked. Right through the gut."
     
     
"Is that movie lingo, Magdalena?"
     
     
"It's farm talk, Zelda. Somebody speared him with a pitchfork."
     
     
"Is he still alive?"
     
     
I hadn't thought of that. I didn't think a person could be alive if he'd been forked to a barn beam, but people have a way of surprising you. Leah Brockmeyer managed to survive for three weeks after she slipped down her cellar stairs and broke both legs, and all she had for sustenance was a bushel of apples and a one-pint bottle of imitation vanilla.
     
     
"He might be alive," I conceded, "but I wouldn't bet the farm on it."
     
     
"I'll call the Bedford paramedics anyway, and give Melvin a call. It's his day off, but he's probably at home, washing the squad car."
     
     
"Give the poor guy a break and let him have his day off," I hastened to say, but I was too late. Zelda had already hung up.
     
     
In fact, I hadn't even made it back out the door when the phone rang. "Lou Ann's House of Perms and Magical Makeovers," I said as convincingly as I could. "How may we help you?"
     
     
"Yoder, is that you?"
     
     
"Guilty, Melvin."
     
     
"So it was you who stabbed the actor with the pitchfork?"
     
     
"He isn't an actor, Melvin. He's the assistant director. And I didn't stab him."
     
     
"Then you shot him? Magdalena, did you just lie to Zelda?"
     
     
"Yes, I told her I adored you. Look, Melvin, somebody by the name of Don Manley has a pitchfork through his gut. Are you going to sit there and talk about it all day, or what?"
     
     
"You're toying with me again, Magdalena, aren't you? Did you or did you not stab this man with a pitchfork?"
     
     
"I did not stab him!" I clamped a hand over my own mouth, which hopefully muffled the sound a little.
     
     
In my case it is risky business, shouting loud enough to wake the dead.
     
     
"You said you were guilty a minute ago."
     
     
"Of answering the phone, Melvin, not murder."
     
     
"Yeah, sure. How do you know it was murder, then? Maybe the guy fell on the fork."
     
     
"He's standing up, Melvin. Pinned to a beam like a butterfly. You know, like the ones on display in our biology room in high school."
     
     
"I didn't take biology in high school, Magdalena. My folks got a special exemption for me, on account of I'm allergic to the smell of formaldehyde."
     
     
"That figures." I mean, if Melvin had taken biology, perhaps he would have known enough not to try to milk a bull.
     
     
"What does that mean, Magdalena?"
     
     
I ignored his hostile tone. "The point is, Melvin, that there's a man in my barn with a pitchfork through his middle, and it wasn't an accident, and he didn't put it there himself."
     
     
"The first rule in police work is not to rule out anything until you have concrete evidence to the contrary," said Melvin pompously.
     
     
"So?"
     
     
"So, maybe the guy did do it to himself. Suicide by impalement is not as uncommon as you think. The Japanese - "
     
     
"Would you care to give me a demonstration?" I asked hopefully. I hung up the phone. Experience has taught me that this was the fastest way to get Melvin out here. As long as it was going to be Melvin, and not Zelda, I wanted to get it allover with as soon as possible.
     
     
I walked, rather than ran, back to the barn. I wasn't in a hurry to see some Hollywood honcho, even an arrogant one like Don Manley, nailed to a beam. On the way, I passed the old outhouse, which, of course, is no longer in use. The door had somehow come open, so I closed it, and not without pride. It is a six-seater, after all, the