Predictably, Wanda was beyond livid and would have called the sheriff, had I not threatened to reveal more of the recipe. As for Merle, his pants somehow split in the fracas, revealing a bit more than he’d intended, such as that some men wear neither briefs nor boxer shorts. As a result I got a bird’s-eye view of what one might describe-if one were using a vegetable metaphor-as two tiny peas and a baby carrot. Even Little Jacob, it seemed, was better equipped than the smirking, smart-mouthed Merle.

I tried to avert my gaze, but it was like trying not to notice the huge booger half out of your minister ’s nose when he greets you on Sunday morning. (At least I only stared at Reverend Amstutz; it was Mama who unintentionally called him Reverend Booger to his face, and then refused to go to church for the next six weeks because she was so embarrassed.) At any rate, Merle’s full disclosure sent him fleeing from the room as soon as he assessed the situation, which wasn’t soon enough for anyone else.

“Well, that certainly explains his Napoleon complex,” Frankie declared as the door swung shut behind her compatriot.

“That does it, Magdalena,” James Neufenbakker said as he struggled to his feet. “You absolutely humiliated that man. Shame on you; you are a disgrace to the Mennonite community. I am going to start a petition asking to have you removed as head deaconess.”

“What? You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.” He began shuffling for the door.

“But I didn’t do anything except dodge a menopausal missile; the pants split on their own accord.”

“You pushed me,” Wanda huffed. She’d dropped her order pad and pencil so that both hands could be free to shore up the Hemphopple tower of pestilence.

Had I come alone, I could have risked the prospect of her beehive actually collapsing. But I had Little Jacob’s health to consider. Twenty years of unwashed hair threatened to be every bit as lethal as Chernobyl or Three Mile Island.

“Toodleoo, dears,” I said as I scooped up my precious in his car seat.

“You can’t leave now!” Frankie screeched.

I scurried to the door, but I had to wait until James shuffled through before I could plant one foot firmly outside. “Frankie, I only invited the Zug wives here for lunch. As far as I am concerned, the rest of you are all interlopers and, as such, have interfered in a semiofficial investigation. Believe me, this is all going down in my report.”

Frankie had lived too long to be intimidated. “What we’re trying to tell you, you dunderhead, is that you’re barking up the wrong tree. Yes, we may all have our reasons for not having liked Minerva J. Jay, but why limit your investigation to the members of the brotherhood?”

I was flummoxed. “What in tarnation is a dunderhead?”

“It means you’re a dunce. And according to Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, it’s been an English word since 1625.”

One has to admire a woman with a head for facts, no matter how annoying she is. “Frankie, even a dunce like moi has to conclude that it had to be an inside job; no one else had access to the batter.”

“Yes, they did.”

“Excuse me?”

“Who was it who objected to putting port-a-johns in the north corner of the parking lot?”

“But renting them would have eaten into our profits.”

“So instead we let people come through the kitchen on their way to the restroom.”

“Only if they really had to go. Those were the strict instructions I gave you.”

“Little children always wait until the last minute, so they always have to really go. As for adults drinking coffee, and those with incontinence issues-”

“Okay, I get the picture. But surely they were shepherded right through without any dawdling.”

“You were there, Magdalena, serving pancakes out front. You saw how many people there were. That breakfast was a much bigger success this year than any of us had anticipated. And if you thought it was busy on your end, you should have spent more time in the kitchen. If someone had to walk through to get to the restroom, we didn’t have time to stop what we were doing and escort them.”

I nodded reluctantly. We’d actually made a killing on breakfast, no pun intended. The mixes were generic and had been about to expire, so I was able to pick them up for a song at Pat’s IGA in Bedford. I mean that literally. When I saw the dates on the boxes, I took them up to Pat and began to sing the opening aria by Aida from the opera by that name (it is something the Babester has forced me to listen to after you-know-what). At any rate, my singing voice has been compared to a cross between nails on a chalkboard and a basset hound in heat. Pat gave me not only three cartons of pancake mix, but as much generic syrup as I wanted as well.

“You see,” George said-reminding me that he was present-“Minerva’s killer could have been anybody. It could even have been the Baptist minister. He was there that morning, and he once called her the Whore of Babylon.”

“He did? When?”

George’s eyes darted from side to side, as if checking for spies that might have sneaked soundlessly into the room during that split second when our attention was diverted to Merle and his cloven britches. “I shouldn’t be saying this, so consider it confidential, please. All of you, please. Reverend Brimstone is one of my clients-I mean, my bank’s clients. At any rate, we were talking once about people we know in Hernia, and Minerva’s name came up. Has anybody checked to see if Reverend Brimstone is still in town?”

“He was at Little Jacob’s bris,” I said. “I felt obligated to invite him since he’s one of the town’s leaders, being a clergyman and all.”

“He’s definitely still around,” Frankie said. “I ran into his wife at Sam Yoder’s Corner Market over the weekend. Did you know that they actually buy those canned snails that Sam sells? Escarguts I think they’re called.”

“Close enough, dear.”

“Besides, if the Brimstones had left town, we’d have heard plenty. Those Baptists are not a quiet bunch.”

“Wow,” I said. Wanda seemed to have her tower of terror under control now, so I stepped back into the room-but just for a second. “I guess that does change things a bit. Rest assured I will expand my investigation commensurate with the information I have gleaned from this most productive, but hardly digestible, lunch. Perhaps next time we will actually eat.”

That said, it was time to make like a stocking in a briar patch. And run I did, for I had just experienced an epiphany of sorts.

27

I was starving by then, and Freni had taken off for the rest of the day, so what was a nursing mother to do? Perhaps drive the two miles up to the turnpike and hit the plethora of fast-food restaurants that have brought splashes of bold color and bright lights to our otherwise boring landscape of farms, forests, and small towns? While a triple cheeseburger and a large chocolate shake were rather tempting, it was doubtful the young staff at any of these establishments would be willing, or able, to deliver wise counsel along with my meal. Therefore, a home-cooked meal and the ear of an old coot were definitely worth the ten-mile drive to the far side of Hernia.

As usual, Doc Shafor and Old Blue, his bloodhound, were waiting for me at the end of his long drive. Doc is an octogenarian with the libido of an eighteen-year-old, and Old Blue is the canine equivalent of a man in his nineties, but whose sexual interest was nipped in the bud, so to speak, when she was just a pup.

“What took you so long?” Doc asked. That’s what he says every time I show up unannounced. “Lunch is getting cold.”

“How did you know I was coming?” That is my usual patter.

“Old Blue here could smell you coming the second your mind turned to it. Of course, she’s a mite confused by the baby. Do you mind if she gets a better whiff?”