Free Batter Off Dead by Tamar Myers

last nerve, and I was out of there like kids from a one-room schoolhouse on a Friday afternoon.
    After all, there were no clues to be gleaned from Minerva’s erstwhile residence that the chief himself hadn’t already uncovered. If and when he chose to divulge the information, then I would bother to add it to my mental data bank. Until then, I’d be better off following the more direct approach.
     
     
    All of the Suspicious Seven had been in attendance at my son’s bris—except for George Hooley. A banker, George lives and works in Bedford, the nearest real town. However, the man was born and raised in Hernia and has been a lifelong member of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. George is a contemporary of mine, and many are the times we had to share double desks in elementary school. In both my adoptive and birth lineages, the man is also a cousin of some sort, but to what degree I am uncertain, and have never been motivated enough to sort out.
    A generous biographer would say that George Hooley is tall and gaunt with sunken cheeks; his eyelids hang slack, and his lips are gray and shriveled, yet he manages to project an air of someone—or something—well preserved. He is not unlike a sachet that has been closed in an airtight drawer for a very long time. In fact, George Hooley even smells of lavender and other floral scents. On the plus side, he is a dapper dresser, never to be seen without a suit, tie, and pocket handkerchief. Some of the less charitable folks in our community refer to the man as Fastidious George—of course, not to his face. If you ask me, that’s a lot better than some of the nicknames the Amish use to distinguish the members of their large broods, and quite openly at that. Of course, that’s just my humble opinion.
    George Hooley has repeatedly described himself as “a confirmed bachelor.” Perhaps there really is such a thing—and indeed, George Clooney comes to mind—but in a community as tightly knit as ours, we are well aware that certain of the “confirmed bachelors” and “maiden ladies” in our midst are quite content with their status, and do not really wish to be paired up with anyone of the opposite sex. Nonetheless, George Hooley goes to great pains to enact a role that has fooled no one since he was in the third grade and made the serious mistake of volunteering to play the part of Little Bo Peep in a school skit. Rather than ham it up, as the other boys might have, George made such a good shepherdess that most of the parents watching the performance were unaware that Bo Peep was really a boy Peep.
    At any rate, not quite three weeks after the bris, while Little Jacob and his papa were sleeping (neither of them had slept much during the night), I called on George at the bank. Perhaps I should say that I attempted to call on him.
    “Who did you say you were again? And what is it you want?” After fielding my request to see him, Miss Assistant Manager cum Miss Screener of Scum had disappeared into the office quite clearly marked George Hooley, whereupon I’d heard two voices: one hers, one his. Had she been in there so long that she’d forgotten everything I’d said?
    “Look, dear, tell him I’m the wealthiest woman in Hernia—perhaps in all of Bedford County—and that my investments with this bank total well over two million. Of course, if he’s too busy to see me . . .” I waggled my eyebrows and nodded toward the door, through which could be seen the bank across the street.
    “Is that a threat, Miss Yoder?”
    “Oh, so you do remember my name. Well, keep reminding yourself what it is, so that when I buy this bank I won’t have to waste so much time training the staff. That is, if I decide to keep any of you on board.”
    “But, Miss Yoder, I—we—haven’t done anything wrong.”
    “In the meantime, him tell that my accountant will be in touch—”
    Miss Assistant Manager popped back into the office, and then almost immediately out again, this time with George