Tamar Myers: Batter off Dead

“That’s what I hoped you would say, and I don’t think that even you can read minds that well, Chief, without some assistance. But that’s exactly what I believe: Minerva J. Jay was murdered.”

“But that’s silly!” We said it in unison. Then we both laughed inappropriately, and for an indecent period of time. When we stopped, it was only because the tea water was boiling.

“At least I have my hormones to blame it on,” I said. “What’s your excuse?”

“For the laughing, or my conclusion?”

“Both, and you may as well start at the beginning.”

He selected the least-chipped mug, rinsed it with some of the boiling water, and then plopped the bag of Constant Comment in. “Don’t spoil this with milk,” he said. “Besides, I haven’t got any.” That said, he filled the mug dangerously close to the brim.

“I’m waiting, dear.”

“Yes, I know, but I’m trying to soothe your savage breast first. You see, Miss Yoder, whether or not you personally had anything to do with Miss Jay’s death is irrelevant to my way of thinking, but your presence at the breakfast was a sure sign of foul play.”

I am not an umbrageous woman; nonetheless, I recoiled with indignation. Thank heavens I had yet to pick up the too-full mug, otherwise, Little Jacob might have learned that his mother had picked up some rather salty language from both his father and his auntie Susannah.

“What on earth do you mean by that?” I demanded. “And incidentally, I do not believe you intended to reference ‘my bosoms, ’ as neither of my breasts has exhibited symptoms of savagery in the past several months.”

He winced. “Miss Yoder, in the year or so that I’ve been here, several local people have died of natural causes, yet you weren’t involved with any of them.”

“I can’t help it if all my friends are healthy,” I wailed.

“No offense, Miss Yoder, but your wailing is very unbecoming. At any rate, the point I’m trying to make is that for some strange reason you seem to somehow, at some point, get tangled up with every murder case that comes down the pike.”

“That’s because you always call me when the going gets tough.” I made a sincere effort to stand but succeeded only in bumping Little Jacob against the edge of Chief Ackerman’s desk.

“Ouch,” the chief said (Little Jacob couldn’t quite talk yet).

It was really only a light tap, and the little feller was well protected by amniotic fluid, but it was just enough of a jolt to cause some of the tea to spill over the rim of the cup. Although I agreed with the young squirt from California that Constant Comment shouldn’t be ruined by milk, I objected to his conclusion that I was the Grim Reaper, and most of all, I was extremely annoyed that he had the chutzpah to comment on my wailing.

“Chief, be a dear, will you, and run across the street to Yoder’s Corner Market and get me some milk.”

He looked alarmed. “For your tea?”

“It’s the cravings, you know; they can’t be helped. And while you’re at it, see if Sam still has that jar of pickled artichoke hearts. I know it’s been there for years, but-”

“That man is a thief. He rips off the Amish and the elderly, both segments of society who find it too difficult to get into bustling Bedford to shop for essentials. You can buy the same milk in the city for one-quarter as much, and I’ll bet it will be fresher.”

“Not if you keep flapping your gums, dear.” I gave him a stern but motherly look. Alas, it didn’t seem to have much effect on him. It was time to trot out the officious boss-woman glare. “A mayor with unfulfilled cravings cannot possibly concentrate long enough to sign her employee’s checks, capice?”

He snapped to attention. “One percent or skim?”

“Whole milk, of course; Little Jacob is not on a diet.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And away he went.

Call me a control freak, but after all, the boy was twenty-six, and I was forty-eight. In my day-never mind that; it was still my day, and would continue to be my day until Little Jacob arrived. Then it would be his day until he turned eighteen, or moved out of the house, whichever came first. Although from what I understood by listening to other mothers, being a parent is a lifelong commitment.

At any rate, it would have been a complete waste of time for me to twiddle my thumbs while Chief Chris Ackerman was chasing down milk and pickled artichokes. I am sure that there are those who don’t agree, but if you ask me, the Good Lord wouldn’t have given me a gene for snooping if He hadn’t intended for me to use it. I do believe the Bible calls that sort of misuse a “buried talent.” And furthermore, on my second try to extricate myself from my chair, I practically flew out of it, as if my posterior had sprouted wings-perhaps little bunting wings.

Therefore, it was with blessings from above that I glided over to the window and casually lowered the blinds. I wasn’t interested in riffling through the stacks of papers on the chief’s desk; it was the contents of his drawers that called to me.

The Hernia Police Department’s single desk had been donated by the Commonwealth Map & Survey Company when it went out of business in the mid-1950s. The desk is made of solid wood, but painted battleship gray, and is large enough to spread a highway map on top and still have room left over. There is a shallow center drawer and two very deep drawers on either side. It was these deep drawers that held the most allure.

Depending on whether or not Sam had customers to wait on, or perhaps was in an exceptionally garrulous mood (Sam’s six-hundred-and-eighty-four-pound wife, Dorothy, is the bane of his existence, and sometimes he feels the need to vent), the chief could be back in as little as two minutes, or as long as twenty. If I expected to find anything of note, I would have to get down on my knees and dig around in the bottom of each drawer-and then leave everything virtually intact.

“Hang on, Little Jacob,” I said and, steadying myself with both hands gripping the lip of the desk, lowered myself into place.

The first drawer I perused contained nothing but old files. Since the majority of them mentioned me, they would have made good rainy-day reading, but I wisely skipped over them. The second drawer contained a variety of things: a pair of jumper cables; a box half full of Snickers bars; a grip builder; a black compact umbrella with a wayward spoke; and a large padded manila envelope, clasp side up. I pulled out the envelope and laid it on the desk, clasp side down. After that, I can’t remember if I thanked the Lord first and gasped second, or the other way around.

In large, looping feminine script, written with black marker, were the following words: To Chief Chris Ackerman, from Minerva J. Jay-Please Open In The Event Of My Death. The fact that every word was capitalized could at least eliminate the possibility that Miss Jay had ever been a copy editor. The envelope, by the way, was sealed shut, as well as closed with the clasp.

I bolted to the window. The door to Sam Yoder ’s Corner Market was still closed, and there was no sign of Chris. What to do, what to do? Then I had a flash of inspiration, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, could only have been heaven-sent. If steaming an envelope open worked for Agatha Christie’s sleuths, why couldn’t it work for me-a real-life woman of the cloak-and-shoot-dagger looks? With trembling fingers I turned the kettle back on high and, whilst my heart pounded at a dangerously high rate, held the envelope over the steam it soon generated.

Now, I don’t know much about the dame herself, but it’s my guess that most of her tea came to her by the way of servants, and that if she ever did really steam open envelopes, they weren’t the sturdy manila kind. Nevertheless, after a good deal of puckering-both the envelope and my brow-I got the dang thing open. But wouldn’t you know it, at the same instant I heard a sound that ranks up there with one of the ten most annoying sounds in the world, my wailing included.