by Tamar Myers
While my guests and Alison lunched on Freni's incomparable chicken and dumplings, I snacked on a bag of Fritos washed down with a pint of chocolate milk. This might not sound nutritious to you, but it is, in my opinion, a remarkably balanced meal. The com in the chips is both a vegetable and a starch, depending on how you look at it; the milk is an outstanding source of protein and calcium, and the chocolate, besides being delicious, must surely count as a fruit. After all, cocoa beans come from cocoa pods, which are, essentially, the fruit of the cacao tree. It's as simple as that.
I am an excellent driver, if I must say so myself, and I lunched with one hand while I steered with the other. My route took me back into town on Hertzler Road, up Route 96, past Baughman Lane where Emma Kauffman lives, and almost to the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I was swigging the last of the chocolate milk when I pulled into the tiny gravel parking lot of the church with thirty-two words in its name.
The First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah is nothing more than a whitewashed cinder-block building that could fit into the parlor of my inn. The parsonage—a mobile home set on plain cinder blocks—is almost as large. But from what I've heard, the members of this little congregation share among themselves enough verve and religious zeal to fuel a Southern Baptist Convention. A more fancy wooden church with stained-glass windows wouldn't stand a prayer, what with all the foot-stomping and hand-clapping that goes on during their three- hour-long services. This is not a judgment, mind you, merely an observation. This is a free country, and each of us is free to worship in our own peculiar way, even if it is indecorous.
I parked my car in the sparse shade of an ailanthus tree and crunched my way to the door. Mercifully, it was ajar a few inches. That meant Reverend Nixon was in and I didn't need to try the trailer.
"Knock, knock," I called cheerfully.
"Come in," came the doleful reply.
I stepped from the warm sunshine into a dimly lit oven. I've baked muffins in cooler, brighter places than that.
"Whoa!" I said. "No offense, Reverend, but you really should get an air conditioner."
Reverend Richard Nixon rose from the pews like a marionette on hidden strings. A tall, gangly man, he's the spitting image of Abraham Lincoln, sans facial hair. Reverend Nixon has the most protruding Adam's apple I've ever seen, and sometimes, particularly when viewed in silhouette, he gives the impression of having two heads. At any rate, he was wearing a brown polyester suit worn so thin in spots he could use it to sift flour.
"As a matter of fact, Magdalena, I was just working on that."
"You have a unit down there on the floor?"
"No. I was asking the Lord to provide."
"How much do folks charge the Lord these days? For a good air conditioner, I mean."
He smiled nervously. Perhaps he thought I was taking the Lord's name in vain—which of course I wasn't. Ask and you will receive, the Bible says. I merely intended to help the Good Lord keep His word. And although the Bible doesn't specifically mention tax write-offs, neither does it condemn them.
"Well, I saw a window unit for five hundred dollars, but—"
"You don't have any windows."
"Right."
"So how much would it cost to get a proper air conditioner installed? You know, cooling ducts, the whole works."
"I think it could be done for twenty-five hundred dollars. Three thousand at the most. But we could never raise that kind of money, Magdalena."
"You couldn't. But the Lord could." I fumbled in my purse—I didn't see how the congregation could read their Bibles and hymnals in that poor light—and withdrew my checkbook. "Four thousand. If there's any left over, buy yourself a new suit."
He gaped at me.
"Go on, dear. Never look a gift horse in the mouth—especially if she hasn't brushed her teeth recently."
He finally took the slip of paper, his hand shaking like a dog fresh out of water. "Praise God! Hallelujah!"
"I'll second that, dear. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get down to business/'
He crammed the check into the inside pocket of his shabby coat. Clearly, what the Lord gave, Magdalena Yoder was not going to take away.
"Business?" he asked cagily.
"Don't worry, dear. There aren't any strings attached to that. It's a gift, pure and simple. However, I would like to talk to you about Clarence Webber."
His sigh of relief created a welcome breeze. "Ah, that. Sure, we can talk about Brother Clarence if you like."
Alas, the breeze was short-lived. "Mind if we talk outside, dear?"
He had no objection to following me to my car, where we sat in air-conditioned comfort. There is a good deal of traffic on Route 91, since it is the only way to Bedford, but I couldn't care less. There is absolutely nothing wrong about sitting with a man of the cloth— even threadbare cloth—in a parked car in broad daylight. Not as long as both parties keep their hands to themselves.
"So," I said, when we were settled in, "I understand you visited Clarence in jail."
"That's right. He asked me to pray with him. Read to him from the Bible. That sort of thing."
"Was he a member of your congregation?"
"We of the First and Only True Church—"
"I get the picture! Just tell me if he belonged."
"That's what I was trying to do."
"Then spit it out, dear."
"Well, like I was about to say, we of the First—"
"Please, Reverend Nixon, just get to the point."
He bit his lip. "The answer is no. You see, we don't have members in our church. Not official members on paper, at any rate. That's a human concept. Our membership is only in the Lord."
"How interesting. But did Clarence Webber attend services? You do have those, don't you?"
"Of course we have services." The enormous Adam's apple bobbed as he struggled to swallow his irritation. "And yes, Brother Clarence did attend from time to time. But he wasn't a regular by any means."
"I see. Do you visit all your—uh, attendees—when they end up in the hoosegow?"
The giant apple took on a life of its own. Quite frankly, given the confines of the car, I feared for my safety.
"Magdalena, we may be small, and what you probably consider to be a fringe denomination, but that doesn't make us all criminals. I've been pastor here for six years, and besides Brother Clarence,
Sister Joan is the only worshipper to end up in the hoosegow, as you so quaintly put it."
"Oh? What was Sister Joan's crime?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
"Well, if she was convicted as an adult, it's a matter of public record." I cranked up the AC and patted my pocketbook to remind him of my generous contribution to his creature comforts. "You could save me valuable time, dear."
His sigh raised the temperature of my car a full degree. "Sister Joan was a prostitute."
"Really?" I am ashamed to admit this, but the idea of a real live prostitute in Bedford County was somehow exhilarating. Who would her clients be? Baptists and Methodists? Presbyterians and Catholics were a given. But surely not Mennonites or Amish.
"They only kept her one night at the county lockup. I bailed her out. Trust me, Magdalena, she'll never do it again."
"That brush with the law scared her straight, eh?"
"No. She wasn't very good. One of her clients turned her in. Said she couldn't hold a candle to the prostitutes in Pittsburgh or Philadelphia. Claimed he'd been swindled and wanted his money back."
"Figures." Even professional sinners in Bedford County were second rate.
He put his hand on the door handle. "So, did that answer all your questions?"
"I guess so. And it was nice of you to visit Clarence in jail, especially since you didn't know him all that well."
He shrugged. "I thought I knew him p
retty well. Otherwise I wouldn't have married him."
15 - Pumpkin Grits
Though this dish is hardly ever seen today, it is found in the old cookbooks of the South. The combination of pumpkin and corn is also seen in old-time stews and soups and surely comes from Native American cooking. You may use any of the dense winter squashes in place of the pumpkin, and canned pumpkin is a lot easier to handle than fresh. Just be sure it's plain pumpkin, not pumpkin pie filling. Pumpkin grits are especially good with ham, bacon, or sausages at breakfast.
1 cup pureed cooked pumpkin
1 recipe Basic Boiled Grits (hot)
Pinch of cayenne pepper (optional)
Salt to taste
Unsalted butter
Beat the pumpkin into the grits. Season to taste with cayenne and salt. Serve with butter.
Serves 4 to 6
16
"Get out of town!" I cried. Now there was a sin to get excited about.
Reverend Nixon's long torso pivoted. "I interviewed him thoroughly of course. Marriage is not something to be undertaken lightly."
"Indeed not." I rubbed my hands together in anticipatory glee. "Has your denomination always allowed same-sex marriages?"
There is not a whole lot of room in my car in which to recoil, especially for a man six-foot-six. Fortunately both roof and windows in this model are fairly sturdy. The ceiling was going to require a good stiff brushing, but at least the glass held.
"We do not allow such things," he hissed.
"But you said—"
"I said I married him. I didn't say I got married to him."
"Oh."
"Brother Clarence married—" He paused.
"Spit it out, dear! You've got me on pins and needles."
"I would, Magdalena, but they asked me to keep this quiet."
"Marriages are also a matter of public record." I glared at his breast pocket containing the check. I could almost see through the flimsy fabric.
"Okay, you win. But this is only because you're here to investigate a murder."
"Murder? Who said the M word, dear?"
"Come on, Magdalena. I'm a clergyman, not a cretin. Clarence Webber dies suddenly in jail, and you're here giving me the third degree. I bet you gave it to everyone who visited him. Am I right?"
"Right as rain," I cried. It was time to steer the conversation back on track. "So who was Clarence Webber's mystery bride?"
"Zelda Root."
I jiggled a pinkie in my right ear. It was obviously not working right.
"The weirdest thing just happened," I said. "For a second I thought you said Zelda Root."
"I did. You know her, of course. She's the police officer down in Hernia. Has a bit of that Tammy Faye look about her, only taken to the extreme. Anyway, for some strange reason they had me drive down to Cumberland and perform the marriage there. At a justice of the peace's house, no less. Still, they put me up in a nice motel, and made arrangements for me to eat at a Cracker Barrel. I just love their potato soup, don't you?"
I can recoil without banging into the window or grazing the ceiling. I can't, however, do it without twisting my neck.
"Not my Zelda Root," I moaned.
Reverend Nixon had a surprisingly nice smile. "Your Zelda?"
"I've known Zelda since she was born. She grew up hanging around Melvin Stoltzfus, who grew up hanging around my sister, Susannah. I can't believe Zelda married Clarence Webber. She's still in love with Melvin, for crying out loud."
"What can I say? She and Clarence seemed to be very much in love." He pursed his thin lips. "Of course love is a very overrated emotion."
I thought of Aaron Miller and started to nod. Fortunately the pain in my neck put a stop to that. True love is not overrated, and I was pretty sure that my feelings for Gabe the Babe fell into that category.
"I don't suppose you knew that Clarence Webber was already married."
Reverend Nixon and I were going to have to sue each other for whiplash. "What?"
"In fact, near as I can tell, he died having four wives. Maybe even a whole lot more. Perhaps I should put an ad in the paper." I was serious about that.
Reverend Nixon was no longer listening. "Bigamy! I helped that man commit the sin of bigamy. Therefore I am just as guilty as he is."
"More than two would make that polygamy, dear. And really, you mustn't blame yourself. These things are hard to know in advance. Why, anyone could marry a polygamist."
Alas, that got his attention. He fixed his preacher's gaze on me.
"You of all people should know, Magdalena."
"What's that supposed to mean?" But I knew exactly what he meant. There isn't a literate, or hearing, person in the county who hasn't learned of my inadvertent sin. But it should be old news by now. This horse has been dead so long its hooves have been made into gelatin, the rest of it into glue.
I told the Reverend adios, gave him a gentle shove, and locked the car door behind him. Then I made a beeline back to Hernia. The woman who keeps her face in a jar was about to be grilled like a weenie.
Zelda's car was in her driveway, but she didn't answer the door. Being a faithful reader of Ann Landers, I knew enough to give her at least a minute before jumping to conclusions. Then, because jumping to conclusions is virtually my only form of exercise, I concluded that Zelda Root was lying in a pool of blood, gasping her next to last breath, and that if I didn't immediately barge in to rescue her, said blood would be on my hands.
I tried the doorknob, and since it turned easily, I guessed that I'd made the right call. Just to be on the safe side, I announced myself loudly. There was, I suppose, a slim chance the woman might be in the shower, or otherwise indisposed.
Getting no response to my loud calls of "Zelda! Zelda!," I felt it my duty to search the house carefully. Perhaps she'd been bound, gagged, and stuffed in a closet. Or, and this is not beyond the realm of possibility, she'd been kidnapped and the ransom note had been stuffed in the bottom of one of her drawers. Not every kidnapper leaves the note in plain sight, you know.
I made a quick reconnaissance of all the rooms just to make sure Zelda wasn't lying out in the open, still taking that last breath. Then I got down to the real work. Less charitable folks might call it snooping, but they aren't pseudo-assistant policewomen like myself. If they were, they'd realize that there is no such thing as too much information in this business. Clues are only useful when they're found. Finding a guitar, for instance, would be very interesting indeed.
Zelda's front coat closet was a major disappointment; just coats, umbrellas, and three boots. The closet of her master bedroom (and I use that term lightly in this case) was equally divided between uniforms and civilian clothes. Stretching the entire length, from wall to wall, was a line of shoes; far too many, in my opinion, for a good Christian woman with a clear conscience. I clucked disapprovingly at this extravagance. When there are still barefoot children in parts of Africa and Asia, what does a woman in Hernia need with footwear in every imaginable style and color?
The contents of her drawers were even more disturbing. Clearly her mother had not taught the woman the virtues of ironing and folding underwear. Talk about getting one's knickers in a knot! The tangle of bras and panties was like a Rubik's cube.
Still reeling from that shocking discovery, I opened the closet doors of Zelda's guest room. What I saw there brought me, literally, to my knees. It was both an appropriate and an inappropriate gesture.
"Gott in Himmel!" I cried, reverting to my ancestral tongue.
I was kneeling before a shrine. On the wall before me hung an oil painting of Melvin in an enormous gilt frame. I'm not good at guessing size—or I never would have married Aaron—but the canvas alone was probably sixteen inches by twenty. The artist had managed to capture the essence, if not an exact likeness, of the exasperating little man. Bulging eyes staring in separate directions, crustaceous mandibles—the overall effect made me want to dash out for a can of
Raid. My legs, however, were not capable of supporting me.
Below the painting stood a long narrow table draped in white. It was apparently an altar of sorts, and on either end was an electric candlestick, the kind some folks use for Christmas decorations. Between the lights—as if the vermin's visage weren't enough— Zelda had assembled a collection of some of the weirdest stuff imaginable. The things I could identify included a lock of hair, a tooth, a tooth brush, a golf ball, a man's handkerchief, and a ticket stub from one of the movie theaters over in Bedford. The unidentifiable stuff was just that—although some of the items were so gross that even had I known their identity, I wouldn't have been able to describe them.
I don't know how long I knelt there before I heard the music. Some sort of audio device—perhaps a CD player—had apparently been activated when I opened the closet doors. At first I thought it was a hymn, but then I recognized the theme song to the movie Chariots of Fire. Let me hasten to explain that I do not watch movies, but I do listen to the radio from time to time, and I know this catchy tune. What on earth it had to do with Melvin was anybody's guess.
I realized with horror that I was still on my knees. We Mennonites don't do a whole lot of popping up and down in our worship like Roman Catholics and Episcopalians, but we do kneel from time to time in earnest prayer. We definitely don't kneel in front of statues or pictures, especially ones of Melvin Stoltzfus!
"Forgive me!" I cried and staggered to my feet.
"The hell you say!" the Good Lord roared.
I don't know which was more shocking, the fact that God spoke to me, or that He'd sworn. Not that it mattered. Either revelation was enough to make me hit the floor again, and that's exactly what I did.
"I wasn't praying to Melvin," I whimpered. "You've got to believe me, I'd never do such a thing!"
"I don't exactly pray to him either—oh hell, why am I trying to explain this to you? You're an intruder, after all. I could have you arrested for breaking and entering."
I spun on my knees. "Zelda! Zelda Root!"