Batter off Dead

by Tamar Myers

  Eventually I gave up on the brass woodpecker and used my knuckles, which, by the way, are the envy of real woodpeckers. That did the trick. The so-called music stopped immediately, and a few seconds later the door was opened by a wide-eyed waif in a black sweatshirt that featured Jesus Himself bedecked in a crown of thorns. The rest of the waif’s outfit consisted of ragged blue jeans and the hideously ugly footwear Alison refers to as muck-my-lucks.

  “Who is it?” I heard Elias call from somewhere within the bowels of his wooden house.

  “I think it’s your grandma,” the child said.

  “I don’t have a grandmother,” Elias said, sounding slightly closer. “Tell whoever it is that I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “He’ll be here in a minute,” the waif said, her gaze never leaving my face.

  “In the meantime, dear,” I said, “I think I’ll step in. You don’t want me freezing my tuchas off, do you?” Thanks to my Jewish husband and his mother, I had a small Yiddish vocabulary that allowed me to add a little spice to my daily discourse without making me feel like I needed to wash my mouth out with soap.

  The urchin was quick, however. “Are you a neighbor? Because these windows are double sealed, ya know? Besides which, Elias says he can hear yinz guys classical crap all the time.”

  “Yinz? Me thinks thou must have originated in Pittsburgh.”

  “Huh? What about Pittsburgh? Yinz didn’t say anything bad about it, did ya? Because that’s where I’m from.”

  “What’s not to like about Pittsburgh? It’s got Mystery Lovers Bookstore in Oakmont, and some very fine restaurants. Say, isn’t yinz supposed to be second person plural? Like y’all?”

  “Huh?”

  “Not to mention the fact that you said yinz and ya in the same sentence. At the very least, one should show consistency.”

  “Oh, I get it; you’re that crazy aunt of his.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Well, yinz is too old to be a friend.”

  “Call me Methuselah with a handbag.”

  “You’re really weird, ya know? And I bet yinz weren’t even invited, were ya?”

  “Case in point, and the answer is no, but I-”

  “Then yinz can’t come in. Elias is very strict about not allowing outsiders into these parties. Unless you’re on the list, ya can’t come in. Not without prior screening.”

  “Outsiders? Screening?”

  “You know, like unbelievers. Ya wouldn’t believe how many times they’ve tried to sneak in and sabotage things.”

  “I’m neither an outsider nor an unbeliever,” I said and gently pushed the elfin creature aside as I scurried into the light and warmth of the double-sealed cabin.

  “Intruder!” the spunky sprite bellowed in a voice that was practically demonic in its magnitude and depth. The throng of once singing (and I call it that with Christian charity) young folks pressed around me, their eyes as wide as the waif’s. Perhaps they sought to overpower me with the sheer force of their amazement.

  “Peace be with you,” I wailed. Wailing, I’ve learned, is not only annoying, but deeply unsettling. Nobody really wants to get too close to an adult wailer, for fear of being whaled.

  The crowd stepped back, but I learned that it was not on my account when the very handsome Elias Whitmore strode in, still buckling his pants. “Hey,” he said with a sheepish grin. “It’s only you.”

  I held out both hands and pretended to study them. “Are yinz sure? The left side of this person looks a little unfamiliar.”

  He laughed. “Hey, everybody, this is Miss-uh-Mrs.-Yoder-whatever. She’s the head deaconess at my church. She’s cool, so you can get back to whatever you were doing.”

  Any behavior strong enough to kill a cat was not going to be that easy to override in a room full of teenagers and young adults. No matter where we went for a moment of privacy, at least three people followed. Finally Elias had had enough.

  “Let’s go up to the crow’s nest,” he said. “Half of it’s enclosed, so it won’t be too cold or windy.”

  As I followed him from the room, the vigilant waif grabbed my sleeve. “You don’t look like no deaconess to me,” she hissed without a single sibilant S. “On account of that, I’m keeping an eye on yinz.”

  “Right, or left, eye?”

  “You’re like really, really crazy, ya know that?”

  Elias Whitmore virtually pulled me away before I had chance to respond.

  There were no lights in the crow’s nest. This was intentional on Elias’s part, so that one could not, by merely flipping on a switch, spoil the view. And surely the view from Elias’s crow’s nest was unparalleled in its magnificence anywhere east of the Mississippi.

  Not only could I see my farm, but I could see the lights of Bedford, which lay twelve miles to the north. The bright glow on the northeastern horizon had to be Pittsburgh, which is a full hour away by a lead-footed driver like me, and to the south a much dimmer glow suggested Cumberland, Maryland (one is wise to take along provisions when visiting that state).

  I gasped in awe. “Wow!”

  “Wow is a palindrome, you know.”

  “A man, a plan, a canal, Panama,” I said without missing a beat, although my ticker was beating a good deal faster than it had been at the start of the evening. Elias was turning out to be quite the wonder boy: handsome, charismatic, and now, apparently, intelligent as well.

  “Miss Yoder, you really are smart,” he said, which was a smart move in itself.

  “To be honest, credit for that palindrome should go to Leigh Mercer, who published it in Notes and Queries all the way back in 1948. But we didn’t come up here to discuss this fabulous view, or the beauty of the English language, did we?”

  “You tell me; this was your idea.”

  “Touché-whilst a French word, is quite useful nonetheless. At any rate, I want you to know how much Beechy Grove Mennonite Church appreciates your involvement, which really is remarkable considering your-uh-youth. Your mother must have been a great inspiration to you.”

  If a handsome young man snorts in the dark, one might ask, is it still a derisive, disgusting noise? The answer would be an unequivocal yes!

  “I hate it when people suggest that my involvement in church has to be some kind of legacy from my mother. Why can’t it be because I love the Lord and feel that Beechy Grove is the best place for me to serve Him, as well as grow spiritually?”

  “But we don’t even have a pastor at the moment!”

  “Yes, but there are others from whom I can learn.”

  “Such as?”

  “You definitely are a good organizer, Miss Yoder.”

  Sometimes one must lunge to catch the bullet before one can bite it. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “You know, the spiritual growth stuff.”

  “Yeah, about that-well, you’re a pretty good example of what not to do. That should count for something.”

  “Why, I never!”

  “Sorry. I was just being honest; isn’t that what good Christians are supposed to be?”

  Ha! We’d see about that.

  “How did you feel about Minerva J. Jay?” I asked, like a bolt from the blue.

  Not only did he have the temerity to laugh, but what came out sounded natural and easy. “Finally, you get to the point of your visit. So, I gather I’m one of your suspects.”

  “Perhaps I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “I’d understand perfectly if that was the case. However, if perchance I am not on your list of suspects, then I insist that you add me to it at once.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you’d be stupid not to. Everyone knows that Minerva was poisoned that morning, so whoever the culprit was, he or she had to be someone with access to the kitchen. Including you, that makes eight.”

  “Including me?”

  “Yes, why not you?”

  “But I’m a Menno-”

  “As are we all, Miss Yoder. Certainly you’ve demanded
an independent investigator.”

  “Mr. Whitmore,” I said, adopting my Sunday-school-teacher voice, “please remember that I am the one who is supposed to be asking questions.” I tried to give him a slightly stern yet benevolent glare-even if it was wasted in the dark. “You said that ‘everyone knows that Minerva was poisoned.’ How do they know that-assuming that she was indeed poisoned, of course?”

  He cleared his throat, which signaled to me that he was buying time. “Well-uh-it’s obvious. She ate our pancakes; she died. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.”

  “Why always a rocket scientist? How are they any smarter than the human genome folks? Besides, it seems like nobody cares about the space program anymore, which is a crying shame, if you ask me, but also a great relief. Can you imagine how fast we’d have to scramble if we did discover life on other planets, like, say, Mars? How will we know if those beings have souls? And if they do, will they too need to be saved from their sins? And what if missionaries who aren’t quite as Christian as the rest of us get there first-like, say, the Catholics? Or some other religions altogether, like the Mormons or Scientologists?”

  “You really are crazy,” he said uncharitably.

  But there was a method to my madness, and it was the art of keeping people off their toes-or their game, as the young people call it today. Just when he thought I’d become totally harmless, I pounced.

  “Why did you hate Minerva so much?”

  Even in the dark I could see Elias go through a complete transformation. His muscular physique seemed to swell like a puffer fish, his short blond hair bristled, and when he spoke, his voice shook with rage.

  “You really want to know, do you? Then I’ll tell you!”

  15

  Heavenly Cloud Cakes

  Sour cream, eggs, and flour make pancakes as light as air-so light that at Bette’s Diner in Berkeley, California, these ethereal offerings are called Cloud Cakes. Serve with warm Berry Sauce or Raspberry Maple Syrup.

  3 large eggs

  2 cups sour cream

  cup unbleached all-purpose flour

  3 teaspoons baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  Berry Sauce or Raspberry Maple Syrup (recipes follow)

  1. In a large bowl, beat the eggs until they are thick and light in color. Gradually stir in the sour cream until blended. Sift the flour, baking powder, and salt together in a separate bowl. Gradually stir the dry ingredients into the egg mixture.

  2. Heat a large nonstick griddle or skillet over medium heat until hot enough to sizzle a drop of water. Brush with a thin film of vegetable oil, or spray with nonstick cooking spray. For each pancake, pour a scant ¼ cup batter onto the griddle or into the skillet. Adjust the heat to medium-low. Cook until the tops are covered with small bubbles and the bottoms are lightly browned. Carefully turn and cook until the other side is golden brown. Repeat with the remaining batter.

  3. Serve with Berry Sauce or Raspberry Maple Syrup.

  MAKES ABOUT EIGHTEEN 3- TO 4-INCH PANCAKES.

  Berry Sauce: Combine ¼ cup water and 1 tablespoon cornstarch in a small saucepan and stir until the cornstarch is dissolved. Add one 10-ounce box thawed frozen strawberries or raspberries in sweetened syrup. Heat, stirring, until the mixture boils and thickens. Remove from the heat and stir in 2 tablespoons orange liqueur, if desired.

  Raspberry Maple Syrup: Combine 1 cup maple syrup and ½ cup unsweetened frozen (or fresh) raspberries in a small saucepan. Heat until the mixture begins to boil. Cool slightly. Press through a sieve to puree the berries into the syrup. Serve warm.

  16

  “Because she killed my dad!” Elias’s voice thundered through the treetops.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Miss Yoder, do you have a hearing problem?”

  I jiggled pinkies in both ears to make sure they were clear of wax. “No. But this is the first time I’ve heard about this.”

  “That woman-Miss Jay-was a slut, pardon my crude use of language, Miss Yoder. Anyway, she and my father were having an affair while my father was drinking himself into an early grave. All the while she was trying to get him to marry her so that she could get her hands on his share of BUM. Of course it didn’t work. He used her, just as she was using him, and he died of cirrhosis of the liver without ever intending to pop the question. How did she contribute to his death, you might ask?”

  “Indeed I might.”

  “You see, he tried to go on the wagon a number of times. However, the scheming Miss Jay did everything she could to derail him-if I might mix a metaphor.”

  “Why not? Everyone else does.”

  “He’d check himself into a rehab facility, but then halfway through his treatment she’d come up with some horrific-sounding emergency that would compel him to quit, so he’d have to start all over again. On one occasion she had a message smuggled in that said she’d been diagnosed with stage-four lymphoma and had less than a month to live. Could they please spend that month together in Acapulco, because she wanted to die on a tropical beach? Being the romantic drunk that he was, he bought it.”

  “That’s awful! But surely-”

  “Surely what? Surely my father should bear some responsibility for not being able to withstand the wiles of Minerva J. Jay?”

  “Men are not helpless creatures, dear; if they are, then they have no business running the government.”

  “No disrespect intended, Miss Yoder, but women should not be involved in positions that give them power over men. If you doubt me, then look up what the apostle Paul has to say on the subject.”

  “What about Deborah the judge? That was like being president back then.”

  “Whatever you say, Miss Yoder. Are we through here?”

  “Almost, but first let me say that I choose to interpret your sarcastic rejoinder as complete acquiescence. That said, how did you deliver the poison to her pancakes and no one else’s?”

  That shocked him into a moment of silence. “I could ask you the same thing, you know,” he said at last.

  “Yes, but I’m the interrogator. Now, please answer.”

  “It wasn’t me. But I can answer that for you; the pills were dropped into a single bowl of batter, and then Miss Jay with her enormous appetite ate that entire batch.”

  “Hmm. I suppose that would work-if the killer knew the cakes were headed out to a specific customer. But we were working at breakneck speed. We were all taking turns, dashing about madly, filling in as needed. What you’re suggesting would have taken some planning.”

  “You were dashing about at breakneck speed, Miss Yoder, because that’s your modus operandi.”

  “It’s genetic; I can’t help it! It’s a disease.”

  “Nevertheless, any one of the rest of us, by keeping a calmer head, could have planned an entire griddle full of cakes for that glutton. It was a given that she would show. Oh, and by the way, before you point out that I have one of the calmest heads-which I do-I must likewise point out that your maniacal behavior would also make a perfect cover for that insidious crime.”

  “How dare-”

  “Good night, Miss Yoder. Please watch your step going down the spiral staircase. And peace be with you.”

  “He’s awesome,” Alison said.

  It was less than an hour later, and we were sitting around the kitchen table enjoying a hearty supper of beef cabbage soup and corn bread. Little Jacob, of course, was growing fat on his own special diet. Freni had been driven home by her husband, Mose, via horse and buggy, so my dearly beloved was the only other adult there.

  “He’s a murder suspect,” I said.

  “And no, you can’t date him,” Gabriel said.

  Alison slammed her spoon down on the table, sending specks of broth out into the universe. “Aw, man, you guys are like the meanest parents there are.”

  Oh, what music to my ears. That my pseudo-stepdaughter should refer to my husband and me as her parents, even in a fit of anger, meant that she had trul
y come to accept us as such. Biologically she was the fruit of my quasi-first husband’s loins. Aaron, you see, was the cause of my inadvertent bigamy because he was legally married to, but separated from, a strumpet up in Minnesota, one to whom he is still hitched. They, however, neither wanted to raise Alison, nor cared enough about the child to turn custody of her over to me. Thank heaven all that would change in just eight weeks when the court could declare Alison officially abandoned and our petition to adopt her would be finalized.

  I flashed our future full-daughter a placating smile. “When you turn eighteen, you may date anyone you wish. Although I must warn you that in the meantime you should work really hard on developing a taste for Christian rock music. He plays it for a couple of hours every night for the benefit of his groupies.”

  “Yuck. I don’t like religious music-no offense, Mom. And whatcha mean by groupies?”

  Gabe winked at me. “She means the girls that hang around him, right, hon?”

  “Yes, but I’m not making this up. Alison, dear, before you came to live with me-with us-I had big-name stars stay here at the inn, and none of them had quite this guy’s charisma.”

  “Oh, man,” Alison said as she lurched for her spoon, “this reeks big-time. How come you had big stars stay here before I come along, and since then only piddly people like what’s her name?”

  “Babs is not piddly!”

  Gabe sighed. “I’ll say. You don’t have to be a person who loves people to go nuts over her singing. Even Ma loves her, and she’s critical of everyone.”

  As if on cue, the swinging door from the dining room flew open. “Did I hear my name taken in wain?”

  I couldn’t help but groan. Ida Rosen used to be the mother-in-law from Hades, but ever since she found out that her shikse daughter-in-law (that would be me) could produce an heir, she has been the mother-in-law from the suburb next to Hades.

  “Ma,” Gabe hastened to explain, “I was just saying how much you love Barbra.”