Batter off Dead

by Tamar Myers

  “How long is a lot longer?”

  “Let’s put it this way: she stopped the day I said, ‘I like the pink bra better.’ ”

  I shuddered. “Well, I stop the day he bites. Okay, young Chris, what is so urgent? And tell me, why so secretive that we can’t discuss it in your office?”

  “All right, second question first, and the answer is: Sam.”

  “Smarmy pseudo-cousin Sam from Sam Yoder’s Corner Market, the one who mid-husbanded this bundle of joy?”

  “That’s the one. Magdalena, you are aware of how much he likes to gossip, aren’t you?”

  “Was Menno Simons Mennonite?”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, that was sort of a trick question, since Mennonites are the followers of Menno Simons, and he couldn’t very well be a follower of himself. Anyway, of course I’m aware of Sam’s wagging tongue. That’s the only reason I go in there: to get the scoop.”

  “Well, Sam already knows about your-uh-visits, let’s say, to the Brotherhood volunteers on pancake day, including your front porch chat with the Big Guy Himself this morning.”

  “What? The Zug twin already ratted me out?”

  “I must say, Magdalena, that your vocabulary is not what I expected of a Mennonite housewife before I moved to Hernia.”

  “Nor should it be after you leave, because I am iconoclastic, a classic icon, if you will-not that I’m bragging, mind you. We have an old saying here: ‘Scratch your arm at Sam’s store, and you’ll be dead by the time you get home.’ ”

  “Meaning?”

  “That even before cell phones were invented, gossip had a way of traveling faster here than a race car, and that the stories were invariably blown to almost unrecognizable proportions if they came by way of Sam’s.”

  “Is he malicious?”

  “Bored. And horny-oops, pardon my Bulgarian.”

  “Your Bulgarian?”

  “Why should the French get all the credit for talking dirty? There have to be at least some Bulgarians who are vulgarians, not to be confused with the Vulgar Latin, of course.”

  “Or with the very rude Cuban I dated two years ago. At any rate, Magdalena, it has crossed my mind that-well, this is going to sound paranoid, I’m sure-that your telephone might be bugged.”

  It felt like ice water was being poured down the back of my dress. “Is that why you asked me to meet you here?”

  He nodded. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. But I was already up here, and I’ve been watching carefully. We are alone.”

  “Where are you parked?”

  “Where else?”

  “Ah, the woods. If only those woods could speak-on second thought, I’d have to cover my ears and run away.”

  The chief laughed. “How do you think I feel on Saturday nights, playing nanny to a bunch of repressed kids who are finally out of their parents’ sight? You could cut the pheromones up here with a knife.”

  “Back to my phone. Why do you think it might be bugged? Does it show up on some kind of machine?”

  “No, I’ve got to admit that it’s just a hunch. But you’re a veritable clearinghouse of information, Magdalena. I know that if I was going to commit a crime of this magnitude in Hernia, I’d tap your phone.”

  The chills down my spine were gone. “Well, I don’t feel that. Maybe it’s your phone that’s bugged. Have you checked? I mean taken it apart completely, etcetera? That’s such a handy word, isn’t it?”

  As he shook his head, he colored considerably. “I did a quick sweep. Frankly, Magdalena, I’m overworked. That’s another thing I need to talk to you about: we need at least two more officers in the department. I can’t work twenty-four seven.”

  “But we’re an itsy-bitsy traditional community, for crying out loud. Besides the Saturday-night crowd up here, what else do you have on your plate?”

  The young whippersnapper had the temerity to laugh. “Good one! Let’s see. This morning Patricia Maron poured bleach on Margaret Cornwall’s mint patch, so it wouldn’t spread like it did last year and contaminate her phlox bed. I thought one or both were going to have heart attacks, they were so mad.”

  “Patty’s a Baptist from Punxsutawney and Marge is a Methodist from Scranton.”

  “That explains it?”

  “Uh-maybe not entirely. And yes, I know, Nixon was a Quaker, but you know what I mean.”

  “Not exactly. Anyway, yesterday Delphina Wilder thought she had an intruder in her basement, and she did, but it turned out to be a possum.”

  “Delphina is from suburban New Jersey and has Lutheran forebears.”

  “ Magdalena, you sound disturbingly prejudiced.”

  “Moi? I assure you that’s simply not so. But just look around you, dear. In the old days, as far as the eyes could see, this was Amish and Mennonite territory. The Plain People, we called ourselves. Now most of the Mennonites have gone fancy-except for Beechy Grove-and the Amish are beginning to sell their farms to outsiders because they can get cheaper land, and more of it, down south. I’m just saying that there is something to be said for having a homogeneous population.”

  “I once dated a brilliant gay man, but to be absolutely frank, I prefer them more on the dumb side. Anyway, my point is that there is a whole lot more to this job than one person can handle. Were I to-uh-not sign up for another year, you’d be hard put to replace me.”

  “That sounds like a threat.”

  The poor man is without guile, so he looked me straight in the eyes. “I’m sorry. It is. What else can I say?”

  “Okay already, get those calf eyes off me before I cave in and double your salary as well.”

  “As well as a deputy?”

  “Just the deputy. Now, look away, ding-dang it.”

  “I can’t, because I’m giving you the look.”

  “Forsooth, dear, that’s what I’m objecting to-although it’s getting a mite tiresome trying to get the point across.”

  The chief rolled his expressive peepers up before training them off my beady little pair. “I forget that you don’t watch TV. That means you haven’t seen the look Larry David dishes out on Curb Your Enthusiasm.”

  I checked the nursing blanket and saw that my modesty was still intact. One other possibility sprang to mind.

  “I don’t have any boogers hanging out, do I?”

  “No-do I? See, Magdalena? You always get me off track. I’m giving you the look because of the key you swiped from my desk. And don’t even try to deny it, because that will just waste both of our time, and I have to go talk some sense into old Tom Arnold before he shoots Connie Betz’s dog. And here I thought you were supposed to be a peaceful people.”

  “Tom is Church of God, originally from Akron, and you have to admit that Connie’s dog makes an incredible amount of racket every day at sundown. So, how did you know it was me who borrowed that key?”

  Chris sucked air through his flawless teeth in a gesture of genuine concern. “You’re going to hate this.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly. I am a native Hernian, a Mennonite born and bred, although not bred to a Mennonite, as I am not a cow or any other sort of animal.”

  “When I went over to Sam’s to get the cream for your tea, I found him staring at you through a pair of binoculars.”

  I leaped to my feet with so much force that my suckling babe-if I may use such a provocative term-was dislodged. As a result, Little Jacob went from being an unobtrusive third party to the center of attention. Come to think of it, the ensuing din might have been my saving grace, because I actually called Sam a doo-doo head-maybe even several times. Never in my life have I sunk to such a low level of vitriolic verbiage. Potty Mouth should have been my middle name, not Portulaca.

  It took a good ten minutes to calm everyone down, and some of us were still less calm than others. “Just wait until I get my hands around his scrawny neck,” I said through gritted teeth.

  22

  “I thought you were a pacifist,” Chief Chris Ackerman said.

&nbs
p; “Indeed I am, but these are extenuating circumstances, are they not?”

  “So you get to pick and choose? Honestly, Magdalena, you sound just like everyone else; I’m really disappointed.”

  “But I’m only human!” I don’t mean to be immodest, but my cry of distress rang out over the surrounding valleys of the southern Alleghenies like the rumble of approaching thunder.

  “Be careful, Magdalena; that eerie sound you’re making might wake the dead.”

  “Then, boy, are we in for a lot of trouble. It might surprise you to learn that not everyone buried here-those that knew me, I mean-found me to be as delightful as you originally did.” I emitted more distressing sounds for good measure.

  “Oh, all right, I’ll give you what you want: I still find you delightful. Compared to most Hernians, you’re a breath of fresh air.”

  “Thank you. Now tell me, why aren’t you angry that I took the key?”

  “Because I trust your instincts, Miss Yoder. I figured that if you thought it was important enough to swipe, then it must have been. By the way, I have to say that it was very clever of you to spontaneously substitute one of your own keys for the one Minerva left me. As you might have guessed, I didn’t discover the switch until I got all the way out there to the Land of the Weird and Godforsaken Sinkholes. In order to gain access to Miss Jay’s house, I had to get both a court order and a locksmith, and they were a waste of time and money; you won’t find anything useful to the investigation there.”

  “Perhaps this breath of fresh air will see things through fresh eyes.”

  “Like I said; you’re delightful.”

  I sighed heavily. “Alas and alack, our seven suspects don’t share your sentiments.”

  “They hate your guts?”

  “You could have the decency to sound surprised. Besides, I’m not sure they all do, as I spoke to only one Zug twin.”

  “Right, but unless we can figure out which one is which, I think we should treat them as one person. Nonetheless, what are your impressions of them?”

  I waited while, off to my left, in the woods, a mourning dove sounded its plaintive coo. “I’ll start with George Hooley,” I said. “Did you know he was gay?”

  Chief Ackerman put both hands on his hips in mock surprise. “Say it ain’t so!”

  “Of course you did; everyone does. Still, somehow Minerva managed to blackmail him. At least that’s what he claims.”

  The chief scribbled on his pad. “That’s serious stuff. Can you get proof?”

  “I’ll try. But I don’t think George did it. Murdering someone requires a mind that is able to think outside the box, and George is stuck in a rut so deep he can hear Laotian voices at the bottom.”

  “Not Mandarin?”

  “George isn’t straight, remember? When he digs a hole, it doesn’t go down to China. As for James Neufenbakker, he may have been a Sunday school teacher-my Sunday school teacher-but that man’s got a temper worthy of a Bush.”

  “Is that a straight euphemism?”

  “No! I meant George Bush. Anyway, James-or Jimmy, as I call him-practically chased me off his porch. He also called Minerva a trollop.”

  “Hmm, do you think that means he slept with her?”

  “Chris, dear, is that what you call your-uh, paramours?”

  “My what?”

  “Lovers,” I said reluctantly, “but my, how I hate that word. It’s just so-well, so accepting of the whole notion of sex without the bondage of holy matrimony.”

  The chief shook his impossibly handsome head. “First of all, I don’t call my lovers trollops-although I have called a few of them sluts. And second, while I believe you meant to say the holy bonds of matrimony, I think I prefer your slip of the tongue. And third, I was suggesting that Mr. Neufenbakker’s strong negative reaction might be a decoy to keep us from discovering an ongoing physical or emotional relationship with our victim. Such affairs are often hard to end satisfactorily, and sometimes one or both parties suffer deeply.”

  “Dr. Chris Ackerman, I presume,” I said, unable to keep all my sarcasm at bay.

  “Well, I did take freshman psychology at the junior college before I joined the police academy,” Chief Chris said proudly.

  More power to him; better a half-wit than a dimwit, I always say. Still, we had a lot more ground to cover. I laid little Jacob over my shoulder and gently patted his back.

  “Gwerrp.”

  “Good boy.” I continued to pat lightly. “Frankie Schwartzentruber, however, really does have a reason to be upset with Minerva. That woman hit on her husband.”

  “That old battle-ax is married?”

  “Was is the operative word. Decades ago. Frankie has a long memory, but like they say, there is no statute of limitations on crimes of passion.”

  “Who says that?”

  I may have swallowed hard, but I didn’t look away. “Well, somebody has to start those sayings, so why can’t it be me?”

  Young Chris smiled. “I figured as much. Go on.”

  “There’s not much else to say. I tried to talk to Merle Waggler, and although he admitted he didn’t like Minerva, he and I-Look, the man’s an anti-Semite, and I kind of got into it with him.”

  “You fought with him?”

  “We argued. At school. But it was on behalf of Alison, who was being teased, so it was completely justified.”

  “What about Elias Whitmore?”

  “He’s a real hottie, isn’t he?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, really cute. Good-looking. Isn’t that the lingo these days?”

  “ Magdalena, I’m a police officer, and you’re a married woman assisting me on the case. We can’t use language like that.” He glanced around as if to make sure that no one had heard us-except maybe for the mourning dove in the woods, and two sparrows hopping between the headstones twenty feet away.

  “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me; it was like a hot flash of Presbyterianism. Anyway, that kid is so popular. His house is like an ashram or something-but Christian, of course. See that brown square there, poking above the trees on Buffalo Mountain? About an inch from the end?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “That’s his rooftop porch. You can see all the way to Maryland from there. Anyway, despite being a Christian guru, Elias really hated Minerva J. Jay. He blames her for his father’s death.”

  Chris rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Maybe. Elias’s father was a drunk who tried to walk the straight and narrow path a number of times-at least to hear him tell it-but each time, Minerva pushed him off. Supposedly she thought she could get her hands on his fortune easier that way. Oh, and Elias volunteered the fact that Minerva was poisoned. You didn’t mention that to him, did you?”

  “Absolutely not. Very interesting. What about the Zug twins?”

  “I have failed,” I wailed.

  “Your wailing is really getting to be annoying-if I may say so.”

  “You may, but now I’m annoyed. It’s not like I go through a verb-selection process when I emote and then come up empty-handed. Wailing happens to be my signature vocalization.”

  “The Zugs,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, all right. Those Zugs! Rather, I should say that Zug! He weaseled out of my grilling by appealing to my vanity.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with taking the easy way out, so long as it’s effective.”

  “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  “Uh-yours, of course. Although I guess strictly speaking I’m on the side of Lady Justice. Hmm, interesting that she’s a lady, isn’t it?” He rubbed his face with hands that were better tended to than mine will ever be. “Hey, speaking of ladies, we may not be able to tell the twins apart, but their wives look nothing alike. Why don’t you try talking to them? Maybe invite them over to tea?”

  “Tea? I’m not Agatha Christie, for Pete’s sake; this isn’t an English cozy. Besides, I hardly know the
m.”

  “Don’t they go to your church?”

  “That’s the thing. The Zug twins are Mennonite by birth and joined Beechy Grove as soon as they moved here from Canada, but, like me, they are unequally yoked.”

  “I don’t get it. Is that some kind of egg thing?”

  I reined in my smile. The chief is a lapsed atheist, a man raised without faith, but he is now at least open to exploring the options. Still, when one is talking to him it is easy to forget that biblical references, which pepper everyday speech in Hernia, are as foreign to him as tofu is to Amish cooking.

  “It’s what happens when you hitch an ox and a donkey to the same plow. Take the Babester and me: he’s the bull and I’m the ass, and spiritually speaking it’s not a good match. The Zug twins also married outside the Mennonite fold. One is a Pentecostal-I think-and attends the church with thirty-two words in its name, and the other is a nothing. At any rate, neither of them ever shows up at Beechy Grove for services, although they do come for potlucks and anything that basically involves food.”

  “So you have met them.”

  I sighed. “Okay, I’ll invite them to lunch at the Sausage Barn and put the screws to them there.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll call this evening, but I can’t guarantee I’ll even be able to get through. The man who invented caller ID-and it had to be a man-will have his own special place in you-know-where.”

  “Why don’t you slip a note under their door on your way home this afternoon, suggesting lunch tomorrow? Say, noon at the Barn?”

  “Noon,” I snapped. Let’s face it, it’s hard to be pleasant when someone half your age is micromanaging your avocation.

  Yes, a retired husband can be a big help, and so can a mother-in-law. Ditto for a daughter and a housekeeping cousin. But only yours truly was equipped to feed a growing boy in the middle of the night, after which said boy refused to go back to sleep. As a result, I got as much sleep as a polygamist on a ten-minute honeymoon.

  The next morning I was dead on my feet, and right after a six a.m. feeding (Little Jacob promptly fell asleep), I went straight back to bed, an act that is just as much a sin in my culture as the aforementioned polygamy.