“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.”

“What?”

“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!”