“Why are you quoting Scripture to me?”

“Silly me! It was You who dictated the Bible to begin with.”

“Forgive me, Magdalena, but you’re really beginning to annoy me with this nonsense.”

“Nonsense? Don’t tell me the Episcopalians are right and that You merely inspired the writers-not that so much inspiring would be an easy thing, I’m sure.”

The Good Lord sighed mightily. “Just tell me why you came here, because I need to get back to work.”

“But I only got to ask one question.”

“Then perhaps you should take your questions to someone else.”

“Oh, I get it. I’m being tested like Job, aren’t I? This is a contest between You and Satan, isn’t it?” I slid off the rocker to my knees. “Oh, please, I beseech Thee, cover me not in boils, and take not from me my firstborn.”

“That does it, eh; I’ve had enough.”

I closed my eyes tightly, bracing myself for the divine wrath. If my punishment was to become a pillar of salt, then I hoped Gabe had the good sense to put me in the north pasture so that my two cows could get in a good lick at me now and then. If I was to be smitten with leprosy-or would that be smited? Somehow smote didn’t sound correct in the conditional tense. Heavens to Betsy, I didn’t even know how to conjugate smite, and here I was about to meet my Maker face-to-face. And not under the best of circumstances.

I heard a thud on the porch somewhere in front of me. “ Magdalena, what are you doing?”

“Bracing myself whilst bemoaning my poor command of archaic constructs. Of course, You can read my thoughts, so why am I even bothering to say this aloud? Come to think of it, since You can read my thoughts, why did You ask-oops, I’m not being cheeky. Honest. Just plain ole curiosity.”

“ Magdalena, have you seen a doctor lately?”

“Just Little Jacob’s pediatrician.”

“I was thinking more of a psychiatrist.” Heavens to Murgatroid. The Good Lord was indeed sounding like an Episcopalian. Perhaps it wasn’t even Him I was conversing with. To be on the safe side, I opened one eye.

“It’s you!” I shrieked, and jumped to my feet.

It wasn’t the Good Lord I’d seen, but one of the Zug brothers. The poor man shrieked as well, staggered backward, and fell off the porch into some Japanese yew bushes.

I recovered sooner than he did and extended a long, skinny arm to pull him back up. However, he needlessly and rudely rejected my offer of help. He might even have said some very uncharitable things that shocked my tender ears.

“Well, I never!” I said, and plopped my patooty right back in the rocking chair.

The Zug twin clawed his way to a standing position but remained in the bush. “You’re absolutely nuts, eh? You know that?”

“Put me on an ice cream sundae and call me delightful. Listen, dear, I may be nuts, but I’m not sacrilegious. I don’t hang out on rooftops pretending to be God.”

“I wasn’t pretending anything. I was replacing some worn-out shingles, and then suddenly you start yammering away.”

“Yammering? They say that in Canada as well? Look, what just happened was-well, it was unintended. So you can’t tell anyone, comprende? Anyway, I came to ask you and your brother a few questions about the morning Minerva J. Jay died.”

“Oh, that.” The Zug twin clambered up on the porch and plopped his narrow patooty into the adjacent Adirondack. “We knew that the States has a murder rate that is three times what it is back home, but who knew that a little speck like Hernia would turn out to be one of the most dangerous places on the planet?”

“Murder? Who said anything about that?”

“Give me a break, Magdalena. Your reputation as an amateur Mennonite sleuth is common knowledge throughout the Mennonite communities of Manitoba.”

“No way, José!”

“But to be honest, so are your eccentricities, eh.”

“I am not eccentric!”

“I believe weird is the word most often used-although of course you have your staunch defenders, eh.”

“I do, eh?”

“Veritable Magdalena Yoder Fan Clubs. There are two in Winnipeg alone, eh. One of them even has a fanzine.”

“A what-zine?”

“A fan magazine. I believe it’s called Magdalena Gumshoe.”

There is no sin that Satan loves more than pride. That’s because he can plant a little seed in your mind and water it with flattery, and the next thing you know it spreads like the kudzu vine that they say is taking over the South.

“Do you think I could find a copy of this fanzine online?”

The Zug twin frowned. “Uh-sorry, I misspoke; I don’t remember the name of any of the fanzines.”

You see? And I should have known better because one of the first Bible verses I memorized was Proverbs 16:18: “Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

I hung my head in shame. “Well, I guess I deserved that-sort of.”

“No, there really is a magazine called Magdalena Gumshoe, and it does star you, but it’s a comic book.”

“You mean like Donald Duck?”

“Like who?”

“The duck with no pants on.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve read one of those. But these are grown-up comics and, I must say, the artist has done a good job of portraying you. But surely you know all this. I mean, didn’t they ask your permission? Surely you’re getting royalties of some sort, eh.”

A comic book featuring moi? How cool was that? Now, that would send Mama spinning in her grave so fast she could supply at least half the country with electricity, thereby reducing our dependency on foreign oil, and freeing us up to put the screws to Saudi Arabia to treat their women as equals. However, if the comic book (could there possibly even be a series?) contained sex, or gratuitous violence, I’d have to put the kibosh on it. After all, I am a peaceful woman by heritage and practice, and my message is one of loving kindness.

“Do you have a copy?”

“No, but I used to. First edition too, eh. I could probably sell it now for a mint. But you know, you can find just about anything on Amazon or eBay.”

“Too true! Toodles, dear,” I said and, like a superhero, practically, flew off the porch in my haste to return home.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Thus said the preacher in the Book of Ecclesiastes. It was a verse that I knew by heart but hadn’t taken to heart, foolish woman that I was.

What the Zug twin failed to mention is that Magdalena Gumshoe was the product of his imagination and, as such, was not available for purchase over the Internet. I didn’t want to believe this at first, but after shaking my computer and whacking my keyboard against the wall, I finally listened to Gabe and did a search from his laptop. The results were the same. Then, with naught left to lose, and possibly a two-dimensional caricature to gain, I called the acquaintance of an acquaintance up in Winnipeg and asked her if she’d ever heard of the comic books starring yours truly.

“We Manitoba Mennonites don’t read a lot of comics, eh,” she said.

“Is that a no?”

“Yes, that’s a no, eh. But I have heard of you. You’re that eccentric woman who owns the bed-and-breakfast, where folks have to pay an enormous sum just to be abused.”

“That’s me, all right! But no Magdalena Gumshoe comic books, eh?”

“Are you making fun of my speech, Miss Yoder?”

“Absolutely. You people would too, if you spoke normal like we do.”

“Good-bye, Miss Yoder.” The woman had the temerity to hang up on me.

Next I called the first cousin of a second cousin once removed in that fair city, followed by the third cousin of a double fifth cousin twice removed. And then a comic book and collectibles shop. All of the above stated unequivocally that they had never heard of Magdalena Gumshoe, and one of the women I contacted went so far as to say that if she ever did come across some copies she’d buy them all up and burn them just to spite me.

Needless to say, I felt both angry and relieved. At least I didn’t have to worry about getting the publisher to correct any misinformation contained in the comic, or to go through the hassle of trying to get him or her to pay me. On the other hand, it was a major letdown; the Zug twin had carried a practical joke way too far-if indeed he’d even meant it in the spirit of fun.