Death by Tart Attack by Tamar Myers

Author:Tamar Myers [Tamar Myers]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2022-01-12T00:00:00+00:00

SIXTEEN

To get from the PennDutch Inn to the Bontragers’ old farm was maybe just five miles as the crow flies (since they are monogamous, they always fly in pairs, unless some cruel person decides to shoot one). But crows fly over our numerous hills and creeks, and they ignore property boundaries. That said, it’s a twelve-mile journey by car, and will take the faster driver (i.e. moi) eighteen point seven minutes to get there without doing damage to man, beast, or machine along the way. It can also take a lot longer if one gets behind an Amish buggy to two, or in this case, a string of Amish buggies headed to a funeral.

‘Geez Louise,’ I found myself swearing, and then slapped my mouth for having uttered a profanity. ‘But can’t you clop along any faster?’

The Amish hearse – and yes, there is such a thing as a long, black, hearse buggy – which led the procession to the cemetery, and therefore setting the pace, was moving so slowly that I feared the horses pulling it might fall asleep in their traces. I was sorely tempted to get out of my car, run ahead, and give one of the two horses a slap on one of its haunches. It wouldn’t be a hard slap, mind you, but just enough to startle it, and move it along. After all, if this funeral procession played out the way it was going, then there stood a chance that the body ahead could badly decompose before it was put safely away in the ground.

I could see the road clearly because it curved substantially to the left, before disappearing between two hills. Because of this curve, and the topography which made the curve necessary, the road warranted two double yellow lines down the middle. Twenty years ago those double yellow lines might not have prevented me from pressing the pedal to the metal, and passing twenty-two horse-drawn buggies in one fell swoop. But I have matured a wee bit since marrying the Babester, and most especially since becoming a mother.

During my reckless driving days, one of my sister’s kooky friends (Esmerelda believed in astrology and reincarnation and was a Presbyterian to boot) told me that she ‘just knew’ from looking into my faded blue peepers, that I had been a charioteer back in the days of the Roman Empire. Even crazier was Esmerelda’s supposed memory that she had been my Greek wife, Epiglottis. You can’t beat that with a stick, can you?

Now where was I? Oh yes, I was doomed to have to wait patiently while an Amish funeral cortège of twenty-two horse-drawn buggies crawled along for at least another one point two miles until they reached the turn-off for Weber Road and the Isaiah Weber Cemetery. Since suffering in silence is not my forte, I could sing – but that might spook all the horses, and they could bolt any which way, including loose. I could pray aloud – but that was sure to

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