Batter off Dead

by Tamar Myers

  “Ah, but you do: I’ve heard you. Virtually every born-again Christian does it.”

  “But not me,” I wailed. “You’re putting a word into my mouth that doesn’t belong there.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Yoder, the crowd is edging closer again, so are we going to pray or not?”

  With considerable effort, I managed to get to my feet. “I’m still looking for a volunteer to pray,” I said. “And you can’t use the word just. Anyone who does use it gets to make a one-hundred-dollar donation to the new roof fund. So think of it as a chance to give, folks.”

  The crowd murmured loudly as they scattered to the far corners of the fellowship hall-well, except for the blessed Karen Imhoff and the stubborn Amygdaline Schrock. At any rate, that left only the four of us, and since I was the wealthiest and, some say, the orneriest, I decided to give my own challenge a try. Alas, whether by intention or not, I failed miserably; all that matters is that the brotherhood had a thousand more clams in their coffers when I was through addressing the Almighty to mark the occasion of Minerva J. Jay’s passing.

  Hernia’s only law enforcement officer arrived just seconds after my resounding amen, and I immediately filled him in. Police Chief Chris Ackerman is only in his midtwenties and so good-looking that women have been known to commit minor crimes just so they could have the pleasure of being thrown into his jail overnight. Jaywalking, loitering, even solicitation citations initially went through the roof. Gradually, however, as the people of Hernia learned that the Good Lord, in His wisdom, had chosen Chris to bat for the other team, this much-needed source of income dried up.

  Once, believe it or not, in more prosperous times, we had a two-person police department, and on occasion even that was not enough. At first glance Hernia may not seem like a den of iniquity, but the Devil is just as hard at work here as he is anywhere else. Thank heaven, then, that murder follows me around like odor follows a troop of prepubescent boys, because over the years it has allowed me to become well steeped in the workings of the criminal mind. I say this without hubris. Indeed, I get very little credit-certainly no monetary reward-for solving the brutal deaths of others, and I am often subjected to great danger.

  Why, then, one might legitimately ask, do I involve myself in such a dangerous pastime? Do I experience the same satisfaction one might feel if they’ve taken on the task of solving a particularly complicated puzzle? Absolutely not; the solutions to some murders are absurdly simple. Do I feel especially brave when I’m confronting a killer who has a gun digging into my well-formed ribs? Frankly, with my shapely knees knocking so hard, it’s difficult to tell. Once I even soiled-uh, well, never you mind. But I will confess that another time I foiled a madman by jumping down into the pit of our six-seater outhouse.

  “Miss Yoder!” Young Chris shook me with a good deal of force. “Miss Yoder, you’re not going to faint again, are you?”

  When you wake up and smell the coffee, you can only hope it’s something better than what we serve at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. “I’m as fine as frog hair, dear. I was lost in thought; it’s still pretty much virgin territory.”

  “I was saying that we should go back to my office and talk.”

  “Talk? About what? I told you everything.”

  “Yes, but that was off the record, and in the presence of Miss Schrock.”

  “Why, I never!” Amygdaline was panting with rage. “Listen here, young man, I pay your salary, just as much as Magdalena does, so I have the same right to be privy to this conversation as does she.”

  “But you don’t,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Amygdarling, this is just a guesstimate, mind you, but I’m pretty sure that I pay at least ten times more in taxes than you do, which is neither here nor there, since I am Chief Ackerman’s boss, as well as his sidekick, although at this stage of the game, I’m not the one doing most of the kicking.”

  “Chief! Did you hear what Magdalena called me?”

  No doubt Chris’s laugh was an attempt to smooth things over. “Amygdarling?”

  “But I’m not her darling! The woman gives me the creeps. She’s a self-admitted adulteress, you know.”

  “Inadvertent,” I hissed.

  “Hey, no fair; you can’t hiss without an S.”

  “So?”

  The chief of police grabbed my arm and steered me up the front steps, into the foyer, and then out to his cruiser. “Hernia is nothing like the quiet little Mennonite town I imagined it would be,” he said, “and you are nothing like the typical Mennonite woman, are you?”

  “Heaven help us if that were so, dear.”

  3

  Hernia looks nothing like Lancaster, which lies at the other end of the state. The bucolic pastures of Lancaster are reminiscent of England, albeit one peopled with Amish folks, whereas our tiny plots are squeezed between mountain ridges and highways so twisted that the mere sight of them is enough to induce colic-without the bu. Or worse. Movie stars-mainly guests staying at the PennDutch Inn-who just can’t seem to lose those extra ten pounds for that coveted role have their limo drivers race back and forth along Hertzler Road ad nauseam. In fact, this has happened so much lately that some local wag has dubbed that stretch Hurlzler Road -not that it’s caught on.

  At any rate, the town itself is almost equally divided between old historic homes and houses that are totally devoid of character. Fortunately, most of the latter are to be found clustered in one subdivision with the nonsensical name of Foxcroft. We have one main street, which is sensibly named just that, and the aforementioned four businesses. Our community gathering place is up on top of Stucky Ridge, where there is both a picnic grounds and a cemetery. Both places have lovely views.

  I already have too many strikes against me to admit to being proud of Hernia, but I really can’t imagine a finer place to raise a child. She-or he-can fish or swim in Miller’s Pond in the summer; ice skate on it in the winter; attempt to dam up Slave Creek in the spring; go on hayrides and pick apples in the fall; and play in haylofts and count stars any time of the year. And if she is a very naughty child, which mine won’t be, she can taunt the Amish as they drive by in their buggies, or fling “road apples” at the tourists and then run and hide. But she better run very fast, or else her mama will catch her, and then little Magdalena won’t be able to sit down properly for a week.

  Still, I couldn’t be happier living where I am, which is more than most folks can say. I may have gurgled softly to myself with contentment.

  Chris slammed on the brakes. “Are you all right?”

  “Why the Sam Hill did you do that?”

  “You let out this horrible groan, Miss Yoder; I thought maybe you’d gone into labor.”

  “Well, I might now, for Pete’s sake!”

  “No kidding?”

  “Kidding.”

  “Whew. Don’t string me on like that, Miss Yoder. When I was a kid I watched this movie-the one with Billy Crystal where he helps this calf be born. It was the scariest thing I ever saw. So, as much as I like you, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to help if you went into labor and needed hands-on assistance.”

  “And that’s a good thing, Chris, because if you ever did peek at what’s hiding behind my sturdy Christian underwear, your next job will involve a tin cup-not that I’m advocating violence, mind you, but I’m sure you get my drift.”

  “I hear you, ma’am.”

  “Chris, have you ever seen a town as pretty as Hernia?”

  “Yes, ma’am, plenty of them. In fact, most anyplace you look at back home in California is prettier than this.”

  Now, that got my goat. “Chris, after all this time you still refer to California as home. Is that because there are other homosexuals there? No pun intended, dear.”

  Chris has a thick head of blond hair, a strong jawline, and teeth like Chiclets. He looks more like a movie star than most A-list actors do. When he threw back his head and laughed, I felt like I was watching a performance.


  “Would it surprise you, Miss Yoder, to learn that I’m not the only queer in Hernia?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, gay.”

  “Uh-well, there may be one or two in Bedford. But surely not in tiny little Hernia. And not any homegrown gays-except maybe for Willard.”

  “Miss Yoder, as we discussed when I was hired, it is not my job to expose who does what in this town behind closed doors, as long as they are consenting adults, and they are not doing bodily harm to each other.”

  “Ah, yes, the Sodom and Gomorrah clause. No offense, Chris, but it was the former chief, your mentor, who insisted on its inclusion.”

  “Nevertheless, Miss Yoder, you wouldn’t want to know what really goes on.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Trust me, you wouldn’t. Just last night I had to use bolt cutters and not for the usual reason either.”

  “So if was it wasn’t to cut bolts-”

  “I’ll save you some time, Miss Yoder; it was for cutting handcuffs free from bedposts.”

  “What on earth would handcuffs be doing around bedposts?”

  “You see? You’re not ready to know what goes on behind closed doors, not even in a conservative town like Hernia.”

  “But I am,” I wailed. “I’m intensely curious-I am ready!”

  By then we’d pulled next to the police station and it was time to resume acting like a grown-up, instead of the oversexed adolescent my raging hormones had turned me into.

  “Last one inside is a rotten egg,” I said.

  Hernia City Jail was definitely not built for comfort. We’ve purposely kept our bunks hard and narrow, our mattresses lumpy, our pillows stained, all in hopes of discouraging recidivism. I know it’s worked in my case: I was there only one night-in fact, just part of a night-before breaking out.

  Unfortunately, not everyone is turned off by the grim accommodations. Some folks, like my sister, Susannah, have been in and out of Hernia’s slammer so many times that they keep their own toothbrushes there. In my sister’s case, even though she’s cleaned up her act, her name has been carved into so many flat surfaces that she won’t be forgotten until there has been a complete renovation, which is the second Tuesday after never.

  It was during one of her many stints behind bars that Susannah fell in love with then chief of police Melvin Stoltzfus. For the record, I was always dead set against this match between my sister and the giant praying mantis, and I was horrified, but not shocked, when Melvin murdered my pastor, Reverend Shrock. It pains me to say that this horrible creature managed to break out of the state prison and is now on the loose. Rumors as to his whereabouts abound, the most consistent of which is that he is still in the Greater Hernia area.

  Now, where was I? Oh yes, the Hernia jail. On the morning of Minerva J. Jay’s untimely death, the rancid sludge in the coffeepot informed me that there had been no prisoners in residence for quite some time. This also meant that the Bloughs, the Amish couple who maintained the building, either were on vacation, or were experiencing some family tragedy. The sad fact that my gray matter continues to shrink at an alarming rate did not stop Chris from instantly reading my mind.

  “They’ve gone to Sarasota -just like about half the retired Amish population around here. Is this something recent? I would have thought Florida vacations were too worldly for them.”

  “That’s what the other half of our Amish think-and rather strongly so. It’s a phenomenon that has divided Amish communities across America in recent decades. Those that do spend a portion of their golden years there are able to justify their actions with the fact that there is now already an Amish community in Sarasota to meet their spiritual and physical needs, so that they can still live apart. It was much more difficult for the pioneer retirees, so to speak.”

  In deference to my hemorrhoids (about which I’ve complained loudly in the past), Chris offered me his office chair. It boasts the only padded seat in the police station, so I wisely did not turn it down, as I’ve been known to do, just to prove my mettle.

  “Sorry, I don’t have any hot chocolate to offer you,” he said, “but I have a huge assortment of flavored teas. They’re all decaf, of course.”

  “Do you have Constant Comment?”

  “You bet. I’ll have to try that sometime; seems like everyone asks for it.”

  “You have any ladyfingers?”

  “Only Archway lemon-filled rounds.” Noting the look of disappointment on my face, he added, “Branch out a little, Miss Yoder. You might find that you really like them.”

  After we were settled in with our nosh (after all, I hadn’t had a chance to eat any pancakes), Chief Ackerman didn’t waste any time getting down to business. “Miss Yoder,” he said, his voice assuming a supplicating tone, “I realize that you have certain-uh-limitations at the moment. But quite honestly, you are the best detective I have met.”

  I patted my bun, which is covered at all times by an organza prayer cap. It was a reflexive action; I really didn’t mean to seem proud.

  “Thank you very much, Chief, but as you well know, I am not a detective.”

  He shrugged his broad, well-muscled shoulders. “Labels. Who needs them anyway?”

  “Well, they do make buying clothes a lot easier. But please, Chief, cut to the chase. Suppose my water should break right here. Would you know what to do?”

  He turned a whiter shade of pale. “Miss Yoder, you know as well as I do that Miss Jay was the victim of homicide, and that the murderer belongs to your church.”

  I stared at him for who knows how long. No doubt my mouth was open and my shapely lips bedecked with garlands of drool. Finally it was he who took the initiative by waving a hand an inch or two in front of my face.

  “Are you in there, Miss Yoder?” he asked, and not unkindly either.

  Like an engine on a cold day, I sputtered to life. “I-uh-I’m in here, all right. I’m just wondering if my forehead is missing. How’s my skull in general?”

  His own forehead wrinkled, but he obligingly gave me the once-over. “You look just fine to me.”

  “That’s what I hoped you would say, and I don’t think that even you can read minds that well, Chief, without some assistance. But that’s exactly what I believe: Minerva J. Jay was murdered.”

  4

  “But that’s silly!” We said it in unison. Then we both laughed inappropriately, and for an indecent period of time. When we stopped, it was only because the tea water was boiling.

  “At least I have my hormones to blame it on,” I said. “What’s your excuse?”

  “For the laughing, or my conclusion?”

  “Both, and you may as well start at the beginning.”

  He selected the least-chipped mug, rinsed it with some of the boiling water, and then plopped the bag of Constant Comment in. “Don’t spoil this with milk,” he said. “Besides, I haven’t got any.” That said, he filled the mug dangerously close to the brim.

  “I’m waiting, dear.”

  “Yes, I know, but I’m trying to soothe your savage breast first. You see, Miss Yoder, whether or not you personally had anything to do with Miss Jay’s death is irrelevant to my way of thinking, but your presence at the breakfast was a sure sign of foul play.”

  I am not an umbrageous woman; nonetheless, I recoiled with indignation. Thank heavens I had yet to pick up the too-full mug, otherwise, Little Jacob might have learned that his mother had picked up some rather salty language from both his father and his auntie Susannah.

  “What on earth do you mean by that?” I demanded. “And incidentally, I do not believe you intended to reference ‘my bosoms, ’ as neither of my breasts has exhibited symptoms of savagery in the past several months.”

  He winced. “Miss Yoder, in the year or so that I’ve been here, several local people have died of natural causes, yet you weren’t involved with any of them.”

  “I can’t help it if all my friends are healthy,” I wailed.

  “No offense
, Miss Yoder, but your wailing is very unbecoming. At any rate, the point I’m trying to make is that for some strange reason you seem to somehow, at some point, get tangled up with every murder case that comes down the pike.”

  “That’s because you always call me when the going gets tough.” I made a sincere effort to stand but succeeded only in bumping Little Jacob against the edge of Chief Ackerman’s desk.

  “Ouch,” the chief said (Little Jacob couldn’t quite talk yet).

  It was really only a light tap, and the little feller was well protected by amniotic fluid, but it was just enough of a jolt to cause some of the tea to spill over the rim of the cup. Although I agreed with the young squirt from California that Constant Comment shouldn’t be ruined by milk, I objected to his conclusion that I was the Grim Reaper, and most of all, I was extremely annoyed that he had the chutzpah to comment on my wailing.

  “Chief, be a dear, will you, and run across the street to Yoder’s Corner Market and get me some milk.”

  He looked alarmed. “For your tea?”

  “It’s the cravings, you know; they can’t be helped. And while you’re at it, see if Sam still has that jar of pickled artichoke hearts. I know it’s been there for years, but-”

  “That man is a thief. He rips off the Amish and the elderly, both segments of society who find it too difficult to get into bustling Bedford to shop for essentials. You can buy the same milk in the city for one-quarter as much, and I’ll bet it will be fresher.”

  “Not if you keep flapping your gums, dear.” I gave him a stern but motherly look. Alas, it didn’t seem to have much effect on him. It was time to trot out the officious boss-woman glare. “A mayor with unfulfilled cravings cannot possibly concentrate long enough to sign her employee’s checks, capice?”

  He snapped to attention. “One percent or skim?”

  “Whole milk, of course; Little Jacob is not on a diet.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And away he went.

  Call me a control freak, but after all, the boy was twenty-six, and I was forty-eight. In my day-never mind that; it was still my day, and would continue to be my day until Little Jacob arrived. Then it would be his day until he turned eighteen, or moved out of the house, whichever came first. Although from what I understood by listening to other mothers, being a parent is a lifelong commitment.