Free Batter Off Dead by Tamar Myers Page B

brown, deep tan, pale tan, and pink.”
    “Hmm.”
    “But you didn’t come here to furniture shop, Magdalena. My guess is that you’re here to grill me like a weenie. Isn’t that the quaint expression you’re so fond of using?”
    “Sarcasm does not become you, George. And why on earth would you think that?”
    He locked his well-manicured fingers together and twiddled his thumbs as he mocked me further. “Let’s see . . . could it possibly be because you’re playing detective again, and because I was one of those serving John Q. Public at Minerva J. Jay’s untimely, but most probably deserved, demise?”
    “Why, George Hooley, what kind of mouth is that for a good Mennonite boy to possess? ‘Deserved demise’ indeed!” I glowered at him only briefly, so as not to encourage permanent lines on my forehead. “Such a cold-blooded comment is not befitting someone of your professional ranking, not to mention that you are on the fast track to become a deacon in our church.”
    “I am ? Since when?”
    “Since—well, you do know that the Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t you, George?”
    He sighed and leaned back in his own comfortable chair. “And none quite as mysterious as you. Am I right? Although frankly, Magdalena, you’re as transparent as a CT scan.”
    “Vous êtes très drôle,” I said, exhausting my high school French. “But I’ll overlook your insults if you’ll elaborate on why it is that you believe our poor Minerva got what was coming to her.”
    When fastidious little bankers snort, it’s not unlike kittens sneezing. “Our poor Minerva? Name one person in the entire county who was sad to hear that she died.”
    “Uh—Wanda Hemphopple, out at the Sausage Barn. I wouldn’t be surprised if on slow days, Minerva accounted for almost half of her business.”
    “That was a business relationship. Name someone else.”
    “So what if I can’t? It doesn’t matter; God loves us all. He even notices when a sparrow falls.”
    “The sparrow probably caught Minerva looking at it.”
    “George!” I said sharply, surprising even myself. “What did Minerva ever do to you that you should hate her so much?”
    He stared at his desk miserably, then at each of his walls in turn, while I waited patiently. Finally he could stand it no longer.
    “Can you keep a secret, Magdalena?”
    “Of course, dear.” I pretended to lock my lips and throw away the key. It was a gesture I’d learned from Alison.
    “You need to swear to it.”
    “Don’t be silly; we’re both Mennonites. Just like the Bible says, our yeas should be yeas , and our nays should be nays . But speaking of neighs, what did one horse say to the other when—”
    “Magdalena! This is no time for riddles. I need you to give me your word as a woman of the cloth that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone.”
    A woman of the cloth? The poor man’s gears must have broken a sprocket or two. It was my sister, Susannah, who swaddled herself in fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric, and for whom a trip to Material Girl in Bedford was more of an inducement to good behavior than the promise of eternity spent in Heaven would ever be. I know we’re not supposed to judge, but if it weren’t for the fact that we Christians are justified by faith, and not deeds, my only sibling would be on the fast track to you-know-where in a very large handbasket lined with an entire bolt of brightly colored polyester.
    “You’re thinking of Susannah,” I said slowly, whilst moving my lips in an exaggerated fashion, to make sure he got the message.
    “No, I’m not. Your sister’s a divorced strumpet and a lapsed Presbyterian to boot. I’m referring to you. In the absence of a regular minister, you are our de facto leader. That, Magdalena Portulaca Yoder Rosen, or however you choose to style your name, makes you a woman of the cloth in my book, just as surely as if you were an Episcopal priest, or a Reform or Conservative Jewish rabbi.”
    It is