Batter Off Dead (13 page)

Even now, from a hundred yards away, I could hear the thumping rhythm and shrieking vocals of something called Christian rock. Freni, who is denominationally challenged, calls this an oxymormonism. Jesus didn’t have an electric guitar, she says. Neither did the disciples jump around to the beat of Jewish hymns. Of course I can agree with her line of reasoning only so far; any further and I’d have to become Amish, which would mean giving up my car and Big Bertha, my whirlpool bathtub with seventy-odd delightfully pulsating jets.

At any rate, the oversize log cabin lacks a doorbell. Instead, there is a life-size brass woodpecker attached to the door, which one is supposed to rap against a brass plate. It is actually a clever idea—assuming anyone inside can hear over the din.

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.”

“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!”

 

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.

 

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.

“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?”