Batter Off Dead

by MYERS, TAMAR

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

  “Remember that I had a quadruple bypass in ’ninety-four? That I have a pacemaker? That I suffer from emphysema? But that I still volunteer at things like the pancake breakfast, standing on my feet for hours, just to raise a little money for new hymnals?”

  My heart went out to him, of course, but that didn’t mean I found him any less threatening. I fumbled for the doorknob, which was both clammy and greasy. Once I turned it, I pushed the door open with my posterior cheeks.

  “Jimmy, I honestly didn’t come here to accuse you of anything. I merely wanted to ask you if you thought Minerva might have enemies. You see—and you must keep this confidential—if indeed Minerva was murdered, her killer could have been anyone who was there that morning; not just the kitchen crew.”

  Shame, shame, triple shame on me for thinking that Jimmy sounded like a barking sea lion when he laughed. Where was my compassion? Surely a man with that many ailments deserved a huge dose of human kindness, and here all I could think of was how much he resembled a marine mammal.

  “Magdalena, you haven’t changed a bit since the third grade, have you? Where is the information in what you just said? What am I supposed to keep confidential? That a possible murder could have been committed by anyone?”

  My left foot found the porch floor and was quickly followed by my right. “There you go; you just answered your own questions. And really, dear, there’s no need to see me out. I can do a follow-up on Minerva over the phone.”

  Jimmy’s watery brown eyes seemed to crystallize into obsidian. His normally pallid complexion turned blotchy in front of my eyes, and he began to quiver with rage. His sudden mood swing put me right back in the third grade when he was Mr. Neufenbakker and had the right to smack me with a ruler if I so much as squirmed during my Bible lesson.

  Perhaps it was his declining health, or perhaps it was the way he’d always been, but Jimmy Neufenbakker was as emotionally stable as a two-legged giraffe on roller skates. I needed to get out of there before he lost his balance completely, and took Little Jacob and me with him. Alas, I was too late.

  13

  “Stop!” he roared.

  What is it about the adult-child relationship that never quite changes? Or could it be that because Jimmy had been physically abusive to me, that he once had the power to order me around, I felt that I still needed to obey him? Whatever the reason, I stopped and did my own quivering—not from rage, but from fear.

  “Minerva!” he roared again. “So you really want to know what I thought of her, do you? Then I’ll tell you: that woman was a t-r-o-l-l—” He checked himself abruptly as he inclined his small bald head toward the infant seat I cradled. “No, I probably shouldn’t even spell that in front of him.”

  “Who? The little runt? Trust me, he can take it.”

  The red blotches shriveled before my eyes. “Yes, but it isn’t a Christian thing to say. And it was wrong enough of me to call you a smarty-pants.”

  “Pants, shmants. I’ve already forgotten about that. Now, were you saying that Minerva was a troll, like the kind that lived under the bridge when Billy Goat Gruff came trotting along? Because honestly, dear—”

  “No, you idiot, that’s only a children’s story! Now look what you made me say.”

  I took five steps backward and felt for the first step that led down to the walk. “Ah, she was a trolley off her tracks! Well, personally I couldn’t agree more. But in what way did she strike you as being—well, nertz to Mertz?”

  “Magdalena, you’re certifiable, you know that?”

  “Yes, but a padded cell with documentation is better than one without, n’est-ce pas?”

  “She was a trollop, you numbskull!”

  “Oy vey. Little Jacob, cover your ears.” Of course the fruit of my womb was unable to do anything more than gurgle a response to my directive, so I took the time out of my escape to tuck his blanket up around his ears. “Please, Jimmy,” I begged, “no more of that vulgar language.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said at once, “but you really do have a thick skull.”

  “Not the N word; the T word.”

  “Oh, come off it, Magdalena. That little fella was not the product of a virgin birth, and just saying the T word in front of him is not going to turn him into some sort of deviant.”

  “Well, I never! Okay, so perhaps I did, but it’s none of your business. Besides, now who’s not answering questions?”

  Jimmy Neufenbakker snorted. “If a simple answer is what you want, then I suggest you ask the Zug twins.”

  With that he shuffled backward until he could slam the door. Not a second latter a feral cat yowled from beneath the porch. Almost immediately its loud, mournful cry of distress was drowned out by Little Jacob exercising his lungs. Clearly it was time to make a hasty exit, even if I had to leave my dignity behind.

  Little Jacob, we soon learned, found riding in automobiles to be very soothing. Sometimes it was the only way we could get him to fall asleep. Thus it was that after leaving the somewhat temperamental Jimmy Neufenbakker, I took the tyke on a rather extensive tour of historic Hernia.

  Although many tourists are initially drawn to our town by its predominantly Mennonite and Amish culture, a goodly number now come just to gaze at our plethora of Victorian-era homes. To be absolutely honest about it, the most spectacular of these houses were built by our nonpacifist brethren: the Baptists, Methodists, and Presbyterians. At any rate, for me it is always a pleasure to drive, or even walk, through this neighborhood, and Little Jacob immediately proved that he was a chip off the old block.

  I had just turned down Crabapple Street when I noticed Frankie Schwartzentruber out in her yard. She appeared to be bending over to examine something in her flower bed, but since the dear old lady suffers from such severe osteoporosis, it is difficult to tell when in fact she is standing erect. Frankie has been a de facto member of the Beechy Grove Mennonite Church Brotherhood ever since her husband, Simon Schwartzentruber, was killed during a brotherhood game of horseshoes thirty-five years ago.

  Of course it was a freak accident; Simon wasn’t even in the game, but a bystander, watching from the other end of the pit. The game might have proceeded without a hitch, had not Magnus Amstutz, a veritable giant of a man, but a novice player, thrown a pitch so hard that it sailed a good six yards past the stake and slipped around Simon’s long, slim neck instead. Simon was pronounced dead at the scene. As for poor Magnus, he was so traumatized by the event that he quit Beechy Grove Mennonite Church and moved to Washington, D.C., to become a lobbyist for one of the tobacco companies. “If I’m going to kill people,” he is quoted as saying, “I may as well make money from it.”

  Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was about to put the screws to Frankie Schwartzentruber. The woman may be an elderly widow, and as short as a third grader, but may I remind you that it is said that the Devil can take many forms. Since her back was to the street, and she didn’t appear to have heard either my car engine, or the doors slamming, or the clack of my heels on the pavement, I cleared my throat loudly.

  “Expel sputum on this sidewalk, Magdalena, and you’ll get down on your hands and knees to clean it up.”

  I recoiled in surprise. “Frankie, who knew that you knew the S word?”

  “You’re not the only college-educated woman in this town, Magdalena.” She turned slowly. “I know I’m being generous about your two years at the junior college, but hey—noblesse oblige, right?”

  “How very kind of you, dear.”

  “Magdalena, why are you here?” Her eyes, which were slightly crossed (no doubt due to how tight her face had been pulled), focused on my bundle of joy for the first time. “Well, why didn’t you say that you had the little one with you? Come inside before he catches his—well, before he catches cold.”

  I must confess that I hadn’t been inside the Schwartzentruber house since the day after Simon’s funeral, when I came to pick up my empty casserole dish. Simon carved cuckoo c
locks for a living. He sold the clocks through a small catalog, and by word of mouth out of his house. I’d heard that he was one of the best cuckoo-clock-makers in the country and that his prices reflected this. Having never been in the market for a timepiece from which sprang a wooden bird with the sole purpose of insulting me, I’d never bothered to ask just how much one had to pay for a genuine Schwartzentruber. Whatever the price, Simon must have done pretty well for himself, because his widow had never appeared to be in need, and the house was still ticking away like a hundred time bombs.

  “Rather gives you the creeps, doesn’t it?” Frankie said.

  “What?”

  “So it’s true, then, that you’re hard of hearing? And all along I thought you were obtuse.”

  “But I’m neither! Hardheaded maybe, but I mean that literally. My birth mother practically overdosed on milk and calcium supplements, and of course I was raised on a dairy farm. Why, you could drop me headfirst from a silo and the worst that could happen is that I’d bite my tongue. But in answer to your first question, yes, it is creepy in here—no offense, of course—and if those birds all start in at the same time, I might just jump out of my brogans.”

  Frankie’s pale, thin lips formed a split-second bow. “Don’t worry: I disconnected all the birds the day I buried Simon. I never could stand them.”

  “But all these clocks—you have to wind them—why do you still run them?”

  “I can’t stand the silence either, but the ticking I can take.” She hobbled around to peer into the carrier slung over my arm. “Just like I thought; this little fellow seems to like it as well.”

  Indeed, the new numero uno man in my life was fast asleep, and either was having pleasant clock-induced dreams or was passing a smidgen of gas. “Hmm,” I said, “I don’t suppose you’d sell me a couple.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that! These are my retirement, you know.”

  “But you’re already retired—aren’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t work at a job outside my home, if that’s what you mean, but I edit the monthly newsletter for the CCCCP, and that takes a lot of work.”

  “It also sounds vaguely obscene. What does it mean?”

  “Cuckoo Clock Collectors of Central Pennsylvania. But you know, Magdalena, you’re right. I’ve been hanging on to this collection and living off Social Security, and to what purpose? I think we should spend it now, while there’s still time.”

  “Absolutely! What will we spend it on?”

  “Don’t be silly, girl, that was the royal we. But speaking of which, I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt and see the pyramids. My papa was a builder—okay, so he only paved parking lots, but construction is in my blood. Do you think it’s too late for me to travel that far?”

  “Well—”

  “And then maybe a trip to Israel. It gets such bad press, you know, partly because it lets foreign reporters file negative stories about it while on Israeli soil. Can you imagine Saudi Arabia doing the same thing?”

  “Why, no—”

  “Magdalena, for such a verbose person, you suddenly seem to have clammed up.”

  “I haven’t clammed,” I claimed calmly. “I am just being careful lest I employ alliteration, which, as you know, is the bane of effete snobs across the educated spectrum—not that I consider you to be one. A snob, I mean.”

  “Hmm, I shall choose to take that as a compliment. Now, let’s cut to the chase: why are you here? You never did answer that question.”

  “Forsooth, I say, speaking, of course, as one who can handle the truth. How about you? Do you prefer the unvarnished truth, or should I lacquer it up like a Stradivarius violin?”

  “I’m eighty-two years old, Magdalena. It’s beginning to look as if I might die of old age before you get down to brass tacks.”

  “What an odd expression,” I said before attempting a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you have plenty of time left. Who knows, maybe even a few years. As to why I’m here, no doubt you’ve already guessed that it has something to do with Minerva J. Jay’s untimely demise.”

  Frankie’s eyes uncrossed for a split second, and then arranged themselves into diagonal slits. “So that’s it,” she hissed. “I’m on your short list of suspects.”

  “At least you hiss with an S, dear. Don’t you just hate it when folks don’t?”

  “You’re strange,” she said, still hissing. “No doubt it’s that Stoltzfus blood you got from your birth father. Look what it did to your brother.”

  “That murdering maniacal mantis is not my brother—ding, dang, dong! Now look what you made me do. And in front of my sweet, innocent son.”

  “Magdalena, if you weren’t such a brilliant woman and a boon to the area economy, I’d personally lead a drive to have you committed.”

  “Which I am, dear. A more committed wife, mother, and erstwhile amateur sleuth has probably never before crossed your threshold. So tell me, did you like the deceased?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  “Should it be?”

  “Sit!” she barked. “And put that baby contraption on the floor. It’s got to be ding-dong heavy—to borrow your pseudo-swear words.”

  “You forgot the dang; that makes all the difference.”

  “Just shut up, Magdalena, and listen—I mean that with Christian love, by the way. Isn’t that what you always say?”

  I set the carrier next to an overstuffed armchair that looked to be clean, and plopped my patooty on it. “What’s good for one goose is not necessarily good for another.”

  “As I said: shut up. Now, what was I about to say? Oh yes, while Simon was alive, Minerva was the bane of my existence. She was a shameless flirt, you know, and of course my Simon was a physical specimen par excellence. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I’d known Simon my entire life and could never remember a time when he was not a scrawny, pigeon-chested little man with a neck like a swan that was topped by a bobbling head. There is a breed of duck called the Indian Runner that comes close to fitting this description, but I’ve never been sexually attracted to it—well, at least not on an ongoing basis.

  “Your Simon was definitely something else,” I said.

  She nodded with surprising vigor, her white prayer cap bobbing back and forth with dizzying speed. “So you see the problem, then. She even sent him love notes on scented paper, the kind you have to buy in Bedford at the stationery store.”

  “What did they say?” There were moments when I adored my avocation, and this was one of them.

  “What do you think they said? They were love notes, for pity’s sake. Honestly, Magdalena, if I were a judgmental woman, like some I know, I might be tempted to think you were a little slow on the uptake.”

  “Do you still have them? And if so, may I read one?”

  “Certainly not! What are you, a voyeur?”

  I sprang to my size elevens. “I take umbrage at that remark! My interest was purely task related, speculating as I did that said documents might contain some clues as to who might want Minerva dead.” I spread my fingers to dramatize what I hoped was a tone of resignation. “But—if you refuse to cooperate, I will be forced to conclude one of two things: a. the letters do not exist, or b. they exist but contain something that might indict you.”

  Although it took her considerably more effort, and she probably wears a size four, Frankie Schwartzentruber had also found her feet. “If I was going to kill Minerva, I would have done it long ago, when my dear Simon was alive. Of what use it would it be to me now?”

  “Revenge?”

  “Revenge? Why, I’m a Mennonite, for chocolate cookie’s sake! The R word is barely in my lexicon.”

  I picked up the car carrier and edged toward the door. “That may be, dear, but you seem to be exhibiting a great deal of agitation at the moment.”

  “Which means what? Magdalena, you have the ability to get under my skin like a saline drip. Now, before I truly regret my actions, get out of my house.”


  “Gladly. But first let me say, that saline drip comparison was brilliant. Was that a simile or a metaphor? I can never remember which is which.”

  “Out, out, out!”

  If you ask me, it was pretty poor of a card-carrying, bonnet-wearing Mennonite to slam the door behind me.

  There are those who say that I’m a slow learner, but I refuse to listen to them. I must continually shrug off negative comments and forge ahead like Lewis and Clarke. But as to whether or not the aforementioned explorers had any naysayers, I cannot say, and I have no Sacagawea to guide me, so perhaps it was a poor analogy.

  But at any rate, unlike Sacagawea, I had the opportunity to leave my darling little papoose for the duration of my quest, and that’s exactly what I did. From Frankie’s house I drove straight back to the inn and, after tanking up both the rascal and myself on yet another round of nutrients, set out for one final turning of the screws that day.

  In retrospect, it was a move best left for the morrow.

  14

  Elias Whitmore. Now there’s a Mennonite who is hands down more sexy than an Indian Runner duck. Then again, Elias is only half Mennonite; his father was a Methodist udder-balm salesman who charmed young Rachel Beiler off her feet—literally. Rachel was only sixteen, and Johnny Whitmore a decade older, but rather than press statutory rape charges, the girl’s parents unfortunately saw a golden opportunity. The couple was wed in West Virginia, and honeymooned in South Carolina, both states, where, I am told, just about anything goes, as long as one can come up with three Scripture verses to defend it—oops, perhaps I’m being unkind. For that I repent.

  At any rate, financially speaking, the Beilers made a good call, and thus Beiler’s Udder Massage, or BUM, as it’s called in the trade, was born. But poor Rachel was never even given the benefit of counseling, and less than a month after giving birth to her son, she hanged herself in her parents’ barn. To be fair, the girl’s parents claim she was always unstable, and I didn’t know her well enough to hazard a guess one way or the other. I mean, who is to say what’s normal?