by MYERS, TAMAR
“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.
At any rate, it would have been a complete waste of time for me to twiddle my thumbs while Chief Chris Ackerman was chasing down milk and pickled artichokes. I am sure that there are those who don’t agree, but if you ask me, the Good Lord wouldn’t have given me a gene for snooping if He hadn’t intended for me to use it. I do believe the Bible calls that sort of misuse a “buried talent.” And furthermore, on my second try to extricate myself from my chair, I practically flew out of it, as if my posterior had sprouted wings—perhaps little bunting wings.
Therefore, it was with blessings from above that I glided over to the window and casually lowered the blinds. I wasn’t interested in riffling through the stacks of papers on the chief’s desk; it was the contents of his drawers that called to me.
The Hernia Police Department’s single desk had been donated by the Commonwealth Map & Survey Company when it went out of business in the mid-1950s. The desk is made of solid wood, but painted battleship gray, and is large enough to spread a highway map on top and still have room left over. There is a shallow center drawer and two very deep drawers on either side. It was these deep drawers that held the most allure.
Depending on whether or not Sam had customers to wait on, or perhaps was in an exceptionally garrulous mood (Sam’s six-hundred-and-eighty-four-pound wife, Dorothy, is the bane of his existence, and sometimes he feels the need to vent), the chief could be back in as little as two minutes, or as long as twenty. If I expected to find anything of note, I would have to get down on my knees and dig around in the bottom of each drawer—and then leave everything virtually intact.
“Hang on, Little Jacob,” I said and, steadying myself with both hands gripping the lip of the desk, lowered myself into place.
The first drawer I perused contained nothing but old files. Since the majority of them mentioned me, they would have made good rainy-day reading, but I wisely skipped over them. The second drawer contained a variety of things: a pair of jumper cables; a box half full of Snickers bars; a grip builder; a black compact umbrella with a wayward spoke; and a large padded manila envelope, clasp side up. I pulled out the envelope and laid it on the desk, clasp side down. After that, I can’t remember if I thanked the Lord first and gasped second, or the other way around.
In large, looping feminine script, written with black marker, were the following words: To Chief Chris Ackerman, from Minerva J. Jay—Please Open In The Event Of My Death. The fact that every word was capitalized could at least eliminate the possibility that Miss Jay had ever been a copy editor. The envelope, by the way, was sealed shut, as well as closed with the clasp.
I bolted to the window. The door to Sam Yoder ’s Corner Market was still closed, and there was no sign of Chris. What to do, what to do? Then I had a flash of inspiration, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, could only have been heaven-sent. If steaming an envelope open worked for Agatha Christie’s sleuths, why couldn’t it work for me—a real-life woman of the cloak-and-shoot-dagger looks? With trembling fingers I turned the kettle back on high and, whilst my heart pounded at a dangerously high rate, held the envelope over the steam it soon generated.
Now, I don’t know much about the dame herself, but it’s my guess that most of her tea came to her by the way of servants, and that if she ever did really steam open envelopes, they weren’t the sturdy manila kind. Nevertheless, after a good deal of puckering—both the envelope and my brow—I got the dang thing open. But wouldn’t you know it, at the same instant I heard a sound that ranks up there with one of the ten most annoying sounds in the world, my wailing included.
“Fear not, Little Jacob,” I said. “It’s just your cousin Sam, laughing—although frankly, it sounds more like a donkey in heat braying for a mate.”
My son’s response was to wallop me in the ribs. No doubt he was punishing me for my crude reference to an ass desirous of sex; he was, after all, very much a minor and had every right to be upset. What a smart lad he was already turning out to be. Perhaps I should reconsider his name; Einstein Yoder-Rosen seemed a trifle pretentious, and I’ve never especially cared for Albert. But seeing as how he was the child of my dotage, and Sarah
in the Bible had named the child of her old age Isaac, and Sir Isaac Newton was undoubtedly very bright . . .
Sam brayed again, sending Little Jacob into paroxysms of calisthenics. Finally the gravity of the situation permeated my thick skull; if I could hear Sam, then the door to Sam Yoder’s Corner Market had to be open, which meant that at any minute the door to the police station would open, and the young, albeit handsome, whippersnapper from the Golden State would find me spying on him. I had to act fast.
The first thing I did was dump the contents of the padded envelope into my sensible, Mennonite-size purse (if I can’t carry last Sunday’s church bulletin in it without having to fold it, the bag is too small). All that fell out was a key. That’s it—just a key. A house key at that.
Now, although it is neither here nor there, it is my assertion that every middle-class American is in possession of at least one key, the function of which escapes him or her. I had just such a key on my ring. It was supposed to be the key to the back door of my house, even though it didn’t fit any of my doors.
Yet I was almost positive I was given this key by the builder himself, after the PennDutch was restored following the tornado that leveled it and left me lying facedown in a cow patty. But one thing I did know for sure: it had been manufactured by the same company that had produced the key in Minerva J. Jay’s padded envelope, and a switch would surely go unnoticed for the meantime.
If only I could get the envelope resealed. The kettle method wasn’t going to work; I knew from experience that once an envelope has been opened, it needs tape to be sealed. But maybe the chief had some glue—That’s when I noticed a roll of stamps. Somehow, in the next minute and a half, I managed to detach the useless key and thrust it deep within the envelope, transfer some of the glue from the stamps to the envelope with my tongue, and then seal it. After that I returned said envelope to its proper place in the drawer. What I couldn’t quite manage was settling my huge bulk back into the chief’s chair before he stepped back in.
5
Banana Sour Cream Pancakes
with Cinnamon Maple Syrup
Adapted from a recipe from Bette’s Oceanview Diner in Berkeley, California, these are melt-in-your-mouth moist and tender. The Cinnamon Maple Syrup is easy to assemble while the pancakes are slowly cooking.
4 large eggs
2 cups sour cream
cup unbleached all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon salt
1-2 bananas, peeled and cut into thin slices
Cinnamon Maple Syrup (recipe follows)
1. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs until light and bubbly. Stir in the sour cream until blended. Sift the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, and salt onto the liquid ingredients. Fold until blended.
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 griddle or into skillet. Immediately arrange 3 or 4 thin slices of banana on the surface of each pancake. Adjust the heat to medium-low. Cook the pancakes slowly until the tops are covered with small bubbles and the bottoms are lightly browned. Carefully turn and cook until lightly browned on the other side. Repeat with the remaining batter.
3. Serve immediately with Cinnamon Maple Syrup.
MAKES ABOUT TWELVE 4-INCH PANCAKES.
Cinnamon Maple Syrup: Combine 1 cup maple syrup, 1 tablespoon unsalted butter, and ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon in a small saucepan and cook, stirring to blend, until the mixture boils. Remove from heat and let stand until pancakes are ready to serve.
6
“Miss Yoder, you’re up!”
“It’s these ding-dang hemorrhoids—pardon my French, Little Jacob.”
“You know, of course, that’s insulting to the French people.”
“Are ding and dang really swear words?” The first rule of good espionage is that should one get caught, one must rely on the D word: deflect.
“No,” Chris said, “they aren’t, but they are intended as replacements for swear words, so it is as if you said the real words.”
I pretended to let that sink in. “I see your point,” I said after an uncomfortable length of time had passed. “You know, Chief, it just occurred to me that you are no longer quite as sweet and respectful as you were when you first moved here from California.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “I’m not?”
“To the contrary, dear, if you were a character in a book, you might even be labeled annoying. No doubt some impatient reader would toss the book across the room and promise never to buy another of that author’s books ever again.”
The drawer I’d ravaged was still slightly ajar, but young Chris absentmindedly closed it with his knee. “Wow! I didn’t see that one coming.”
“We never do, do we? Now, be a dear and hand me the goodies. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra cup around here for the milk, would you? I’d drink from the carton, but I usually end up spilling on myself, and these maternity outfits are bling-blang expensive.”
“You don’t want it for your tea?”
“What? And ruin a perfectly good, albeit cold, cup of Constant Comment?”
In the end, until we received an autopsy report from Harrisburg, there was nothing young Chris and I could do but make a list of everyone who could have touched Minerva J. Jay’s hotcakes that morning, and then jot down a few notes listing why he, or she, would have, or would not have, done the dastardly deed. There were “would haves” for every possible suspect, if only because Miss Jay was not a likable person.
This not to say, I must hasten to add, that disliking someone gives an individual license to murder—or Lord only knows, I’d be dead—but rather that everything else being equal, and one was bent on killing someone, then why not make it Minerva? I think I speak for everyone when I say that she was not going to be missed; even her pet cat, Mr. Patty-cakes Woo-woo, followed the paper boy home one day.
As for the “would not haves”—while young Chris was willing to cut a few of the older folks a break, I saw them all as having the potential to take a human life. I know, that sounds absolutely horrid of me, and perhaps it was the hormones speaking, but when you really think about it, you need to look no further than the Holy Bible (and the New King James Version at that), to see that this is true.
Folks in the Good Book were always smiting each other, and a lot of the smiters are supposed to be our heroes. Why, just look at King David. He sent poor Uriah into battle at the front of the line, just hoping he’d get killed, so he could do the palace hokey pokey with Bathsheba. Well, guess what? Uriah did get killed, which makes King David not only a murderer, but an adulterer, yet we recite his psalms frequently in church and at just about every funeral.
My point is that if the man who wrote “The Lord Is My Shepherd” was capable of such a dastardly deed, then the hunched-over little old woman with the unromantic name of Frankie Schwartzentruber can also be a dangerous killer. Of course, there was no way someone as inexperienced in life as Chief Ackerman could be expected to reach the same conclusion. So when I was quite through sharing my opinions, and pretending to listen to him (by which time I’d long finished the artichokes and the milk), I decided to hightail my fanny across the street and torture a man who’d made my life miserable as a child.
Sam Yoder and I are first cousins, except that we’re not. That too is a long story, and not one to be covered here, except to say that I only recently found out that I was adopted—oh, not only that, but I’m also a full sibling to my nemesis, Melvin Stoltzfus, who happens to be an escaped murderer. Now, where was I?
“Magdalena, you look lost.”
“Huh?” I was standing just inside the door to Sam’s shop, and I must admit I seemed to have forgotten my agenda on account of something being not quite right.
“But as beautiful and radiant as eve
r. I swear, Magdalena, if there is anything sexier than a pregnant woman, it’s you.”
“For your information, Sam, I am a woman. However, in light of the fact that I need to pick your meager brain, I shall interpret what you said as a compliment.”
Sam Yoder’s Corner Market has just three aisles, and as the front door boasts a strap of sleigh bells, it is almost impossible for him not to keep track of his customers. His extra vigilance meant that either he had some particularly juicy (and perhaps helpful) gossip to share, or else he wished to pursue his sex comment further. Just for the record, Sam is an ex-Mennonite, having left the fold in order to marry a Methodist.
“Trust me, Magdalena, I have never doubted your womanliness—not since you blossomed in the fifth grade like an Israeli desert. And of course my brain is yours for the picking, although I prefer to think of it as intellectual foreplay.” He winked lasciviously.
“Shame on you, Sam; you’re a married man.”
“Yes, but unhappily so. The last time Dorothy and I consummated our marriage—”
I clapped my hands over my ears, but not so tight I couldn’t hear the rest of his statement. “Even so, I am a happily married woman.”
“Yeah, finally. But how long will that last? You and Gabe don’t have a trouble-free marriage.”
“Who does?” If I said it breezily, perhaps it was due to the hole between my ears. I made this shocking discovery only recently, when I suddenly realized how little I knew—about anything. Rest assured, however, I was not about to reveal my embarrassing condition to anybody, least of all Sam Yoder.
“You’re a stubborn woman, Magdalena. The more you stand your ground, the more irresistible you become. Right now you’re hotter than Angelina Jolie.”
