Batter Off Dead

by MYERS, TAMAR

  “Bells, shmells; the kids can wait. Let them throw paper wads like we used to do. You see, Merle, this isn’t a survey. I’m investigating Minerva’s murder, and you’re one of the suspects.”

  Yes, the Germans came up with the word schadenfreude, but one must admit that it describes a very universal condition: that of taking pleasure in the misfortune of others—although a great many pious and/or enlightened folk will hotly deny they have ever felt this way. What I’m getting at is that Merle’s smirk dried up like a rain puddle on a cloudless August day, as his tiny eyes flickered from side to side. After all, there were several other teachers in the lounge, and my accusation had not been delivered in a whisper.

  “For Pete’s sake,” he hissed, “keep your voice down.”

  “All right. And there’s no need to get your jockeys in a jumble if you cooperate.”

  “Do I even have a choice?”

  “No.”

  The bell rang. As the other staff members filed out, you can be sure that every single one of them was staring at us. Several of them even collided with one another, which, in my opinion, served them right. I know, that’s not the way a good Christian should be thinking, but I resolved to pray about my attitude just as soon as I had a moment to myself.

  “Okay,” Merle mumbled when the door finally closed, “but do you mind if we sit down first?”

  “Not at all, dear.”

  Alas, I’d spoken too soon. Much to my surprise, I discovered that some teachers can be incredibly messy. Someone had been eating a pastry coated in powdered sugar, and that someone had apparently dropped said pastry on my chair. I only noticed this when I was adjusting my skirt, after I’d been seated. However, I doubt that this was the same clumsy person who had wiped peanut butter on the armrest; again a fact that I discovered after it had been transferred to my dress sleeves. I sighed dramatically as a way to let out steam.

  “Hey, don’t blame that on me too, Magdalena. I always eat over there at the table.”

  “I was merely emoting, dear—as is my wont under the circumstances. Now, just so we’re clear: I expect your full cooperation in this investigation.”

  “By what authority do you act, Magdalena? Your Honor the mayor? Pretend policewoman? Head deaconess of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church? Richest woman in Hernia?”

  “Why, you impudent little—well, man. See what you almost made me do? I don’t normally call people names, you know.”

  “Mmm, but you do try to intimidate them; you can’t deny that.”

  “When the shoe fits, dear, I wear it. And yes, this sensible black brogan with the eighteen-inch lace fits very well. That said, Chief Chris Ackerman, of the Hernia Police Department, has asked me to investigate this case on his behalf.”

  “Is that even legal?”

  “Well, it certainly isn’t illegal for me to ask questions. You are, of course, free to refuse to answer. Be fairly warned, however, that by doing so, you will cast further suspicion on yourself.”

  “You’re basically saying that I have no choice but to submit to your grilling.”

  “Like a weenie on a green willow branch.”

  “That would be roasting.”

  “Not the way I do it. Now, spill; I want to know all about your run-ins with our town’s least-liked personality.”

  “Mmm, well, I’d have to say that up until this morning, you and I have managed to avoid any direct confrontations.”

  “Very funny. Now, be a dear and hurry—wait just one Mennonite minute! You weren’t kidding, were you?”

  “Face it, Magdalena, if it wasn’t for that pile of money you’ve made from fleecing tourists at your inn, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”

  “I don’t fleece these folks! These are very wealthy people who expect to pay through the nose for poor service and a good helping of attitude. After all, almost all of them enjoy traveling in Europe, and a good percentage of them adore Paris. And if you’re insinuating that the ALPO—Amish Lifestyle Plan Option—that I offer these sophisticated travelers has somehow affected my interpersonal relationships, you’re dead wrong. I have oodles of friends and a handsome husband to prove it.”

  “Mmm, whatever.”

  “You’re trying to get my goat, aren’t you? It’s a ploy to distract me. Well, I have news for you. It’s not going to work.”

  He jumped to his feet, and as he did so, his trademark smirk returned to his round, doughy face. “I’ve changed my mind; I won’t be cooperating after all.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You might intimidate the others who volunteered to make pancakes that morning, but I’m not going to let you do that to me. So take your twenty questions, Magdalena, and put them—”

  “How rude! I demand that you sit back down right now.”

  He started to walk away but stopped when he was halfway to the door. “Mmm, and one more thing—”

  “If you’re going to apologize, dear, then come back and do it right.”

  “Ha, you really are a comedienne. The next time you speak to me, it better be with a court order. Is that clear?”

  I jumped to my size elevens, and had I been a Methodist or a Baptist, I might even have tackled Merle Waggler. But I was a mere Mennonite, a pacifist by breeding and disposition. When words failed me, I was as helpless as an Easter chick in the hands of a two-year-old. Still, even though he refused to cooperate with the interrogation, he couldn’t very well ignore a mother ’s plea to put an end to the anti-Semitic taunts hurled at her child.

  “You can ignore me, but you can’t ignore the bullying that goes on in this school!”

  I’m sure that Merle Waggler broke several laws of physics by turning on a dime. “What did you say?”

  “Other children have been calling her ‘Jew girl.’ ”

  “Isn’t she? I never see her in church with you.”

  “No, she isn’t Jewish. Her adoptive father—well, soon to be, at any rate—is, but not her.”

  “Magdalena, what you’ve described is not bullying. Bullying is being called ‘Pillsbury doughboy’ and having your head stuck in the toilet while the other boys take turns flushing it. Bullying is being the last one chosen in gym, every single time, and being called ‘girlie’ because you have some breast development. And when we played dodgeball—we don’t have mixed gym classes in Hernia, as you well know—all the boys ganged up on me, even my supposed friends. And where was the teacher? Standing right there with a wicked old grin on his face.”

  “And where are you when Alison gets teased?”

  “Look, Magdalena, it’s hardly the same. Those people have brought it on themselves.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this, and from a member of my church.”

  “Well, it’s true. They’re the ones who rejected Jesus, not us.”

  “For your information, not even my mother-in-law was around two thousand years ago.”

  “Perhaps you should read Matthew 27:25. The Jews who demanded Christ’s crucifixion volunteered that His blood should be on their heads and on the heads of their children.”

  “Ah, but it says nothing about the children agreeing to that arrangement. But speaking of blood, do you enjoy a good blood sausage?”

  “Blutwurst? Yes, of course; my mother was a German Mennonite.”

  “Ah, then you may do well to memorize Leviticus 17:10—nope, I take that back. According to that verse the Good Lord has already set His face against you, and cut you off from among His people.”

  “Mmm, perhaps some Sunday school teachers need to read their Bibles more, Magdalena. Are you forgetting that in the Book of Acts the apostle Peter has a vision in which the Lord tells him that all creatures are now—how shall I put this?—acceptable for human consumption.”

  “Well, I for one would certainly be cautious about questioning a voice heard in Peter ’s trance. On the other hand, in Leviticus 3:17, the Lord Himself, who has been speaking directly to Moses all along, has the following to say: ‘This sh
all be a perpetual statute throughout your generations in all your dwellings: you shall eat neither fat nor blood.’ The Good Lord is omniscient, Merle, and He could see all the way down the line to the apostle Peter, yet He didn’t put an escape clause in that verse, did he?”

  “That’s because the verse you just quoted applies to Jews only.”

  “Peter was a Jew. You see, Merle, I was the Scripture-verse-memorization champion three years in a row at vacation Bible school. After that they made me ineligible; they said I was demoralizing the other kids.”

  “Mmm, maybe you know your Scripture, Magdalena, but you obviously haven’t been around those people very much. In college—”

  “Well, I do know this, Merle: in Hernia the mayor is also the president of the school board.”

  He took two steps back as his face assumed the color of a bratwurst, which is yet another German sausage. “Is that a threat?”

  “Heavens, no; I was merely stating a fact. And I shall be stating this same fact when I speak to your principal in a few minutes. Of course, I will also remind him that we already have two applications for eighth-grade math teachers for next year and that your contract is up in June.”

  “Mmm, you wouldn’t dare.”

  “On the other hand, getting a new teacher is akin to buying a pig in a poke, no matter how well we screen him or her; applicants are not above lying, or getting their references to lie. But I already know what kind of pig you are. And if I need to, I know just where to poke you—it’s called a salary freeze.”

  “Hey, I’ll make the kids stop harassing her.”

  It may have been childish on my part, but I prefer to view the fact that I swept past him to the door as a power move. “See that you do, Merle Waggler. Oh, and by the way, when you come to church Sunday, bear in mind that you’ll be worshipping one of my husband’s people; one of those people.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it, dear.”

  18

  On the way back to the inn to feed my sweet Baby Bumpkin, I decided to make an unscheduled stop at Susannah’s house. This was a dangerous move on my part: dangerous, that is, for my psyche. My sister is as unpredictable as a Super Bowl game, plus she has a master ’s degree from Adolescence State University.

  Once I found her hanging by her knees from a trapeze in her living room. She said she’d read somewhere that Australians were the smartest people on the planet, and that since their brains were “upside down,” she wanted hers to be oriented that way as well. I told her that made sense, and then I sat down and waited until her knees gave out—all of two minutes later. Fortunately, my reactions were quick that day and I was able to catch her before she broke her neck.

  When our parents died, squished as they were between the milk tanker and the semitrailer carrying state-of-the-art running shoes, they left us the farm on which I later established the PennDutch Inn. My sister is a full partner in this endeavor, although she’s never lifted a manicured finger to do as much as fold a towel or mail a brochure. One might reasonably ask why I haven’t tried to buy her out, or otherwise exclude her from the huge profits I’ve managed to make over the years.

  The answer is twofold: first, Susannah is a free spirit who doesn’t just march to the beat of a different drummer; she has an entire college band in her head—and, I’m ashamed to add, at times in the past they were sometimes found in her bed as well. Second, even though our parents lied to me by not disclosing my adoption, I promised them I would always look after my sister. On her own, my sister could not survive. Of course, I’m not a total idiot; Susannah’s fortune is in a trust until she proves herself responsible. In the meantime she receives an allowance that is sufficient for her needs, but not so generous that it encourages her to lead a life of flagrant debauchery.

  A little circumspect debauchery might even be a necessary requirement for maintaining one’s sanity for those folks who live in Foxcroft, our only, and incongruously, named subdivision. There the houses are cookie-cutter images of one another, the paint colors vary only slightly, and the foundation shrubs differ only in the amounts of foliage their respective owners elect to leave before they tire of playing with their electric shears. It is understandable, then—just not excusable—if a little spanky along with the hanky-panky is seen as a morale booster. This, of course, brings me back to poor Susannah, who, now that her murdering husband is out of the picture, has been lonelier than a cat at the Westminster Dog Show.

  They say that water seeks its own level; therefore, I should not have been surprised when a nun with a very morose expression opened Susannah’s door. The woman’s face was as pale as my cellulite, and her gray eyes appeared almost translucent.

  “Yes,” she said. “May I help you?”

  “Uh—isn’t this 907 Red Fox Lane?”

  “It is.”

  “I’m here to see Susannah.”

  “She isn’t receiving visitors.”

  “I’m not a visitor; I’m her sister.”

  “Ah, so you must be the bossy one they call Magdalena.”

  “Indeed I am—Wait a minute! Bossy? Says who?”

  “Says me.” The nun started to close the door, and might have gotten away with it had I not noticed that beneath her surplice there was a surplus of activity. In fact, to the uninitiated it might have appeared as if the nun’s bosoms were running from side to side, pausing every now and then to leap outward, as if to strike me. But the clincher was the attendant vocalizing. Real bosoms seldom growl, and in my experience never, ever bark.

  “You’re not a nun,” I said calmly. “You’re Susannah.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  At this point the leaping, snarling bosom emitted an odor so foul that its origin was incontestable. “Calm down, Shnookums,” my sister cooed as she peered down into the recesses of her habit. “It’s only your auntie-poo.”

  “I’m not that thing’s auntie, dear,” I said, “and I’m certainly nobody’s poo.” I gently pushed my way inside. A second later I wished I’d kept on driving. “Susannah! What on earth have you done with all your stuff?”

  “Really, Mags, you know good wordsmiths eschew the word stuff.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! All your things, for crying out loud! Where is your furniture—although you’d think that would take a plural verb—and the rest of your bric-a-brac?”

  “Which is just a fancy word for crap.”

  “Susannah, what happened? Were you robbed?”

  My sister’s high-pitched laugh set the mutt in her Maidenform to howling, which in turn set my teeth on edge. I have nothing against dogs, but the rat-size pooch that prowls her bra is undeserving of the moniker. Should I ever find myself alone in a room with him, and me with a frying pan in one hand, I’d conk myself up the side of the head to put myself out of my misery until help could arrive.

  “Please,” I begged.

  “Oh, all right.”

  She reached down her habit and withdrew a two-pound beast, half of which was sphincter, the other half teeth. “Now, run along, sweetie, to your beddy-bye and take your morning nappypoo. Mommy will be there in a minute to tuck you in.”

  The hideous thing snarled and snapped at me for good measure and then trotted off, nails clicking on hardwood floors, as bid, into Susannah’s boudoir. I waited until I was sure the coast was clear before speaking my mind.

  “How old is that thing?”

  “Mags, I keep telling you, he’s not a thing; he’s a pure-blooded, prize-winning, stud-quality Russian terrier. But to answer your question, he’ll be eight in June.”

  Endeavoring always to be kind, I tried not to smile. “So what’s he got left—two, maybe three more years? I mean, what a shame.”

  “More like eight or nine. Usually the smaller the dog, the longer they live.”

  “Like I said, what a shame.” I swallowed hard; disappointment can be as difficult to get down as Granny Yoder’s rhubarb pie. “So tell me, what’s with the empty house?”

  “I sold e
verything. You’re kinda stingy, Mags, and I wanted a new vehicle.”

  “A vehicle? What exactly does that mean?”

  “It’s an old school bus. I’m having it painted black with white lettering. It will be delivered tomorrow.”

  “What lettering?”

  “The name of my order.” She fingered a cross that appeared to be carved from a bar of soap and which hung from her neck on a length of white cotton clothesline.

  I felt the need to sit down. “Do you still have kitchen furniture?”

  She shook her head, causing her wimple to rustle. “We can sit on my bed. It’s the only thing left.”

  I pictured the college band doing more than sitting on Susannah’s bed. “No, thanks; I’m good. Okay, spill. What order?”

  “It’s a religious order, silly—only it’s not exactly religious on account of I’m not religious. I’m calling it Sisters of Perpetual Apathy—SOPA is the acronym. That’s why I’m wearing this cross. Our motto is ‘We care about nothing, so leave us the heck alone.’ I might leave off that last part, though, because it could be a turnoff to potential postulants. Then again, why should I care?”

  I had a short-lived vision of me slapping Susannah on both checks, knocking some sense into her, as it were, and then us hugging and crying, and vice versa, but at the same time I knew it was all a senseless fantasy. Once she has her mind made up, there’s nothing you can do about it but wait it out. Really, it’s hopeless.

  In the meantime, however, a sister has a right to know a few things. “Susannah, who is this ‘we’ that you mentioned? Aren’t you the only member of the Sisters of Perpetual Apathy?”

  “You see just how little you believe in me?”

  I shrugged. “Why should that matter?”

  “For your information, Mrs. Mayor, Mrs. I’ve-Got-a-Doctor-for-a-Husband, Mrs. I’ve-Got-the-Perfect-Baby, there are fifteen other nuns in my order. There’s Sister Despair, Sister Disgruntled, Sister Disenchanted, Sister Disingenuous—”

  “Wait a minute! You’re serious?”

  “No, I’m Mother Dispirited.”