Luscious,” he said. “I don't care how you do it.”
CHAPTER 8
WHEN I ENTERED THE KITCHEN, PRAXYTHEA was bent over the terrarium, cooing endearments to Icky. She straightened when she heard me and turned, smiling. “He looked hungry,” she said, gesturing at the iguana with a limp stalk of celery.
“How can you tell?” I helped myself to a cup of the coffee she had prepared and settled down at the table. Over the rim of the cup, I took a good look at my famous houseguest. This morning, she was a swirling cloud of lavender, purple, mauve, and rose. I suspected this was what Oretta thought she looked like last night in her ghastly black and purple getup.
The only thing marring Praxythea's perfection, in my opinion, was the mask of pancake makeup that covered her porcelain-doll complexion. I was pretty sure I knew why she was wearing it.
“May I assume you are going to be on TV?” I asked.
“My goodness, Tori, if you continue demonstrating psychic abilities I'll have to put you on my show. I'm going to be interviewed at noon on a York TV station.” She smiled, endangering her makeup job.
We were interrupted by Fred and Noel strolling in looking for food and/or affection. Pretending the iguana wasn't there, Noel went straight to the Tasty Tabby Treats while Fred chose the security of my lap.
Praxythea looked critically at him. “How much does he weigh, Tori? Why don't you put him on a diet?”
“Nineteen pounds. And it's dangerous to put large cats on a diet. Fat cats can die in a matter of days when deprived of food. Besides, I like him this way. He's soft and cuddly.”
“Noel's more to my taste,” Praxythea said, as she picked up the dainty calico.
Over cats and Cheerios, we discussed Bernice's death.
“It could have been an accident,” Praxythea pointed out after I'd used the word
“I don't see how a poisonous substance could ‘accidentally’ get into a cup of cider on the stage. If it had, I'm sure someone would have come forward by now to say something like ‘Gee whiz, I thought that funny bottle with the skull and crossbones on it under the sink was sugar water.’”
“If you're so sure she was murdered, you must have some ideas about who did it-or at least why.”
“I don't know who did it, but I'm going to find out. I owe that to Bernice.”
We each had a piece of toast, hers plain, mine buttered.
“How are you getting to York?” I asked, hoping she wasn't counting on me to take her.
“The station offered to send a limo. I'll be home late. Since it's so close to Pennsylvania Dutch country I thought I'd go look at the Amish.”
“I could show you Amish right here in Lickin Creek,” I said, gulping my coffee. “And not the touristy version, either. In fact, I'm heading over to the Farmers’ Market this morning-there's lots of them there. Garnet's sister Greta has a stall at the market, and I want to ask her what she knows about Bernice's enemies. She's got a red-hot connection to the Lickin Creek Grapevine.” I was referring to Lickin Creek's gossip chain, which spread the news about everybody and everything in town at warp speed.
“I didn't know the Gochenauers were Amish,” Prax-ythea said.
“They aren't. Anyone can open a stand there. I think it's only in Lancaster that all the farmers are Amish-or at least appear to be.”
“As long as you're going to a market, I have a little shopping list.” Praxythea handed me a hundred-dollar bill and a list about a yard long. “Thought I'd make a fruitcake. I've got an old family recipe that's just wonderful. Do you think this will cover it?” she asked.
“You could make one out of solid gold for this much money.”
The antique school clock on the wall chimed the hour, reminding me I had a lot to do today. I jammed the list and money into my fanny pack, swallowed the last of my coffee, said good-bye, and rushed out.
Although the Farmers’ Market was open Thursday through Saturday every week of the year, the day to shop was Thursday, when the produce and baked goods were the freshest and the crowds the smallest. Outside the market, several beautiful horses, tied to buggies, waited patiently for their owners. I'd heard that the Amish often bought retired trotting racehorses. These looked hearty enough to still be in competition.
I parked my truck next to a black car, stripped of its chrome, which meant it probably belonged to a Menno-nite family. I had trouble recognizing the differences between the various groups of Plain People in the valley, and the only distinction I was sure of was that the Men-nonites drove cars while the Amish used buggies.
Plywood covered the window openings of the dilapidated brick building, and the wood canopy over the entrance was in danger of collapsing, somewhat like my own front porch. The first time I'd visited the market in the old railroad roundhouse, I'd been horrified. It reminded me of the primitive markets I'd seen in Asian countries, and I couldn't imagine eating anything that came from it.
But familiarity changes one's perceptions of a place, and now I raced inside without a single negative thought about its sanitary condition.
The vast interior was dimly lit by a few bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. I paused in the open doorway and waited for my eyes to adjust. A young woman in a simple cotton dress, white apron, and starched bonnet looked up from a display of freshly baked bread and smiled at me.
“If you play with a door you'll start a family fight,” she said, then added, “Or give me pneumonia.”
“Sorry.” I stepped inside, and the door banged shut behind me.
“Are you looking for Greta?”
It no longer surprised me when strangers knew who I was. I nodded. “But I need to buy some candied fruit and nuts for a fruitcake first.”
“Aunt Emily has the best.” She pointed to a booth at the back of the room.
I moved down the aisle, through a crowd of Plain People and townsfolk who knew where the best bargains in town could be found. Most of the stalls sold farm products such as cheese, milk, meat, and eggs. Some specialized in yummy-looking baked goods. Others carried odd items for unspecified uses like containers of goose grease, sheep tallow, and rings made from horseshoe nails that some local people swore cured rheumatism.
From Aunt Emily I purchased large bags of candied pineapple and cherries, dates, figs, a pound of pecans, and a dozen brown eggs. She looked askance at Prax-ythea's hundred-dollar bill and only decided to accept it after a lengthy consultation with several women from the next booth.
The sign over Greta's booth said THE FINE SWINE SAUSAGE STAND. It was named after the farm owned by Greta and her late husband, Lucky Carbaugh, who'd had a gruesome accident with a manure spreader last spring. While Greta waited on a customer, I stood to one side and watched her.
Greta was a tall muscular woman, whose face was all interesting planes and angles and deeply etched with wrinkles. Her waist-length gray hair was pulled back into a ponytail and tied with a green silk scarf. As usual, she wore a black T-shirt and long, multicolored skirt of Indian gauze, cinched at the waist by a silver concha belt. She was the last of a generation of flower children; more than an anachronism among the Plain folk of the market, but she still managed to be accepted by them by dint of the Gochenauer family having been in Lickin Creek forever.
When Greta saw me, she uttered an exclamation of pleasure and ran around the counter to hug me. “What a treat to see you, Tori! You look wonderful. And so skinny! Don't you ever eat? Let's grab a cup of coffee and talk.”
I loved Greta for a lot of reasons, and one of them was because she always told me I looked skinny.
She led the way to the nearby Koffee Korner and showed me which redwood picnic table to claim. “I can watch my booth from there,” she said. She stood in line at the window and came back in a few minutes carrying two sticky buns, hot from the oven and smelling of cinnamon, and two Styrofoam cups of coffee.
The white cup reminded me of last night and Bernice's death. I couldn't drink from it. Greta sipped her coffee
