Just Plain Pickled to Death by Tamar Myers

conversation?”
    “Beats me. I’m not actually in the cellar, am I?”
    “Well, I’m a member of the family, so I have a right to be here.”
    “You’re only connected by marriage, which is exactly what I’ll be too, come next Saturday. So don’t think you’re one up in the rights department.”
    He bowed slightly. “In that case, by all means come on down. But there’s nothing down here worth seeing.”
    “Says who?”
    “Look for yourself.”
    “What’s in those barrels?”
    “Sauerkraut, cider, and pickles. Of course, now it will spoil because someone has pried open the tops.”
    “Melvin.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Our local constable.” Would that he were. The worst English constable would have it hands down over Melvin when it came to brains. Or personality, for that matter. No, if Melvin were British, he’d be a member of the royal family.
    “You never did say what you are doing here. Don’t you have a root cellar of your own?”
    “My mother was color-blind,” I said.
    “What?”
    It was a trick I learned from Susannah. When cornered, divert the enemy’s attention and then sneak away. So to speak.
    “I said my mother was color-blind.”
    “I heard what you said. What’s it supposed to mean?”
    He had confused me, possibly a diversionary plan of his own. “It means what it means. She was, and I’m not.”
    “Are you saying your mother wasn’t a racist, but you are?”
    “What?”
    “Because if it bothers you to marry into a family with an African American member, maybe you should think again. I’ve been married to Magdalena for fifty-two years, and I don’t plan to get a divorce anytime soon.”
    I stared openmouthed long enough to collect a snootful of flies before the cerebral lightning hit. Fortunately there was a light breeze, which kept insects at bay.
    “I meant color blindness literally. My mama couldn’t tell blue from purple, or green from brown. It’s a very rare condition in women, you know, but it does happen. Since Mama almost always wore navy or black, it didn’t matter much in clothes, but I used to have to help her choose her embroidery thread.”
    “So?”
    “So, your left sock is brown, your right sock is green.”
    He had a deep, hearty laugh. “Yeah, well, if my wife would sort them, it wouldn’t happen so much.”
    “You could learn to sort them yourself. She could mark the pair with letters or numbers and then you could sort them when you took them out of the dryer. You do your own laundry, don’t you?”
    “Poor Aaron,” he muttered, shaking his head.
    “What?”
    He sprinted up the stone steps, which surprised me. “I said, ‘Poor Aaron.’ It’s not going to be fun hauling all those barrels up here just to throw it all away.”
    I looked him over closely. “You’re pretty fast on your feet, you know.”
    “You mean, for a man my age, don’t you?” He laughed.
    “Were you in the barn earlier?”
    “Earlier when? I’ve been in that barn lots of times. I’m already family, remember?”
    I swallowed my irritation, since it had no calories. “Earlier this afternoon. Like just a few minutes ago.”
    “No. No offense, but I got bored hanging around at your place and wandered on over here. Decided to check out the root cellar—call it morbid curiosity if you will—but I had no reason to mess with the barn. Why? Is something wrong with it?”
    “Very funny. Do you mind telling me why you had the cellar doors closed when you were in it? Or is this something I don’t want to know?”
    “You’re a gas, Miss Yoder, you know that?”
    “You may call me Ethel, then,” I said drily.
    “Ha, ha. Well, if you must know, I didn’t close the doors. They fell. Nearly hit me on the head. I could have been the second corpse carried up these stairs.”
    That certainly explained the thump I’d heard when I was in the barn. As for the darter—well, I would have to keep that appointment with my optometrist this year. When you have to hold