Thou Shalt Not Grill

by Tamar Myers

  Thou Shalt Not Grill

  An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes

  Tamar Myers

  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Thou Shalt Not Grill

  Copyright © 2005 by Tamar Myers

  Ebook ISBN: 9781943772247

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Praise for Tamar Myers’s Pennsylvania Dutch Mysteries

  “A pinch of acerbity, a scoop of fun, and a pound of originality... a delicious treat.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  “A piquant brew, bubbling over with mystery and mirth. I loved every page of it.”

  —Dorothy Cannell

  “Rollicking suspense.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Feisty Mennonite innkeeper and talented sleuth Magdalena Yoder offers a mix of murder and mouthwatering recipes.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Snappy descriptions... humorous shenanigans.”

  —Pittsburgh Tribune-Review

  “A hoot. Guaranteed you’ll be laughing by the third paragraph.”

  —The Charleston Post and Courier (SC)

  “Think Mayberry R.F.D. with Mennonites. Think Murder, She Wrote with a Pennsylvania Dutch accent. Instead of Jessica Fletcher, think Magdalena Yoder, a plain- dressing, blunt-speaking, middle-aged innkeeper who frequently rescues the incompetent chief of police by solving his cases.”

  —The Morning Call (Allentown, PA)

  Dedication

  For Genny Ostertag, with gratitude.

  Acknowledgments

  I’m a lousy cook. However, it is my pleasure to share the recipes included in this book. I am indebted to Sharon and John Wilkerson for their Grilled Grouper recipe and Jim and Jan Langdoc for their Beer Butt Chicken recipe. A special thanks goes to Damon Lee Fowler for the other recipes in the book, all of which came from Damon Lee Fowler’s New Southern Kitchen, published by Simon & Schuster, New York, 2002.

  1

  I seldom discover feet protruding from the top of my washing machine. Forgive me, then, if I assumed the worst. Besides, jumping to conclusions is my only form of exercise.

  My heart leaped into my mouth. Given the length of my scrawny neck, that is quite a trick. At any rate, there have been enough murders at my full-board inn to satisfy a multitude of morticians. Of course, murder is always tragic, but somehow it becomes even more so when it happens in your home. To put it plainly, a corpse in my Kenmore was not going to be good for business.

  Forcing my heart back down my narrow gullet, I approached the machine for a closer look. The shoes were cheap. Some kind of shiny plastic. The pant legs looked plastic as well, and they didn’t droop down the legs like real pants would. Then I noticed the little tube that protruded from one ankle. It looked just like the valve on the air mattress I sometimes use to float on when I swim at Miller’s Pond.

  “Buzzy Porter,” I said through clenched teeth.

  The man lived up to his name. He had been my guest for only an hour, and already this was his third stunt.

  The first was when we shook hands in my lobby and I got the shock of my life. I mean that literally. The little gadget hidden in his palm packed a punch that nearly lifted me out of my brogans. His second stunt was to take advantage of my state of confusion and slap a sign on my back that read KISS ME, I’M GORGEOUS. This gag might have worked on someone who is used to being manhandled. But I felt his hand, as hot as a branding iron, burning its way, first through the paper, then my dress, and finally my sturdy Christian underwear.

  Perhaps I should have been flattered by the word “gorgeous,” but it is so far from the truth as to not even be funny. Of course, my fiance, Gabriel Rosen, would disagree with that, but he is blinded by love. My point is that I have no illusions about who I am.

  One of the things that I am is opinionated—although I prefer to use the word “informed.” I have been known to inform others of their failings, in hopes that they will mend their ways and in the end make the world a better place. It was high time Buzzy Porter did his share to help.

  I found the prankster supine in the parlor, but hardly resplendent in faded shorts, a torn T-shirt, and bright orange flip-flops. In Grandma Yoder’s day, there wouldn’t have been a piece of furniture comfortable enough upon which to sprawl. Not only did Grandma believe that reclining was inherently evil, but it was her policy that guests—all of whom were friends and neighbors— should not stay more than two hours. Three straight-back chairs and one lumpy Victorian love seat enforced that policy.

  My guests, on the other hand, pay through the nose for an “authentic” Pennsylvania Dutch experience. Some even take advantage of A.L.P.O.—Amish Lifestyle Plan Option—whereby they pay extra for the privilege of performing chores. None, however, are willing to risk hemorrhoids, and in recent years I’ve been forced to supply a comfy couch and several well-padded armchairs. But no La-Z-Boy recliners. Grandma’s ghost wouldn’t sit still for that.

  “Mr. Porter,” I said, after praying for patience, “you will find your toy in the kitchen trash can, should you wish to retrieve it.”

  He had the audacity to feign ignorance. “What toy is that?”

  “On second thought, maybe I should keep it. I have a foster daughter who might get a kick out of it.”

  That got his attention enough to make him sit. “No, no, I’ll go get it. But first, would you like a piece of gum?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He held out a packet labeled Floozy Fruit. “Oh, come on, Miss Yoder. Take a piece.”

  “Mr. Porter—”

  “For your foster daughter,” he said. “Maybe she’d like a stick.”

  “All right,” I said just to shut him up. Between you and me, I eschew gum chewing. It’s not the substance itself I detest, but those people who chew like cows chomping on their cuds. Worse yet are the folks who attach used gum to the undersides of tables, or leave it to sizzle on hot sidewalks, where it invariably finds its way to the soles of my shoes.

  I reached for the gum. But no sooner did my digits touch the pack, than a spring-loaded contraption came out of nowhere and snapped closed on my index finger. I felt like a mouse that had been trapped.

  “Get this thing off me at once!” I roared.

  “Gotcha!” Buzzy let go of the gum pack and slapped his thighs. At least he was entertained.

  I ripped the offending gadget off my finger—it really wasn’t on all that tight—and dropped it down the front of my dress. I have not been blessed in the bosom department, and where there was once room for a Siamese kitten, there was now plenty of room for a fake pack of gum. Frankly, if the little spring went off again, there was nothing for it to grab.

  “Mr. Porter, one more prank, and you’re out of here. And don’t even think about asking for a refund. In fact, I have half a mind to charge you for what will surely be the onset of my first gray hair.”

  “Okay, okay, I hear you. But don’t I at least get my trick back? It cost me twelve nin
ety-nine.”

  I may be a simple Mennonite innkeeper, but the Good Lord gave me a head for business. The Bible instructs us to nourish our talents, and I try to do so on a daily basis.

  “Ten bucks even,” I said.

  “Aw come on, Miss Yoder. That’s not fair.”

  “I’m going to count to ten, and then the price goes up to twenty.”

  “But, Miss Yoder—”

  “You’ll still be saving almost three dollars in the event you want to go out and buy yourself a new one.”

  “Miss Yoder—”

  “That’s my name all right. Don’t wear it out. One, two, three—”

  He whipped out his wallet so fast it was a blur. When my eyes had adjusted I studied the two bills he proffered. I even walked over to the window and held them to the light. They looked genuine, but I was, after all, dealing with an irrepressible jokester.

  “If the ink on these disappears,” I warned him, “I’ll know where to find you.”

  “Yes, Miss Yoder,” he said. Perhaps the smirk on his face was accidental.

  My name is indeed Yoder—Magdalena Portulacca Yoder—although it won’t be that way for long. Sometime next year I plan to marry Dr. Gabriel Rosen. Gabe the Babe, as I like to think of him, lives across Hertlzer Road in an old farmhouse. My intended is a retired M.D., an urban refugee from the Big Apple. For some reason he decided that my hometown of Hernia, Pennsylvania, population 1,978.5 (Selma Graber is five months pregnant) would be the perfect place to try his hand at writing mystery novels.

  I, on the other hand, have local roots that extend to China. My Amish ancestors founded Hernia in 1804, my family having first settled in the eastern part of the state in the early seventeen hundreds. I am related to all the first families: the Yoders, of course, the Bloughs, the Hostetlers, the Seilers, the Zugs, and a host of others. In this south-central Pennsylvania valley we have inbred to the point that I am, in fact, my own cousin. Give me a sandwich and I constitute a family picnic.

  However, I do not qualify as a family reunion, and that is a good thing. Hernia was about to celebrate its bicentennial—Hernia Heritage Days we were billing it—and Amish and Mennonite exiles were pouring into town like bees to the hive at dusk. My inn, The PennDutch, had been booked solid for more than two years in advance. This is not unusual, mind you, because the rich and famous have long used my establishment as a “quaint little getaway,” to quote Condonest Travels.

  In fact, it was in this very magazine that the town council had placed an advertisement, hoping to draw at least some of its dispersed back home to celebrate the birthday bash. For the record, I had been firmly against this ad, on the grounds that it might draw too many people, and as a result our hamlet would turn into another Lancaster. And judging from the buzz in the biz—and by that I mean other hoteliers in the county—we were in for quite a crowd. Of course, that didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was that none of my expected guests appeared to be of the faith. They certainly didn’t have the right names.

  After I left Buzzy Porter—certainly not one of our kind—I mulled over this phenomenon. Perhaps this week’s guests were merely run-of-the-mill tourists with exceptional foresight. I would have asked Buzzy his motive for visiting, had he not immediately given me the shock of my life. Oh well, the next guest to arrive was going to get grilled like a wienie at a Girl Scout cookout. A wienie that had broken off the stick and landed in the coals where it...

  The jarring sound of my doorbell brought me back to reality. “Let the grilling begin!” I cried.

  The couple that stood at my door looked as if they had already been grilled. Perhaps over a very hot fire. He was as bald as a cantaloupe, and his exposed skin, where not covered by freckles, was only a shade or two lighter than the poinsettia my sister gave me for Christmas. He wore faded overalls over a mostly white shirt. At least the yellow stains spreading from his armpits matched the clump of hair that sprouted above the top button of his collar and the eyebrows the size of sparrow wings.

  She, on the other hand, was deeply tanned, but her blue eyes had faded to the point that their color was in question. Her sun-streaked brown hair was short and as dry and coarse as kindling. The hideous twigs were held in place by tortoiseshell barrettes that begged to be released from duty and thrown in the nearest garbage receptacle.

  Because I charge exorbitant prices, I normally get an exclusive clientele. After all, there is no limit to the amount of abuse folks will tolerate, just as long as they can view it as a cultural experience. The more you charge them, the better deal they think they are getting.

  At any rate, the couple standing before me didn’t look like they could afford a night in a Motel 6, much less my esteemed establishment.

  “May I help you?” I asked charitably.

  He proffered a chapped paw. “We’re the Nortons. Chuck and Bibi.”

  She nodded vigorously. I assumed it was in agreement, although it’s possible she was trying to dislodge the ugly doodads from her do.

  “You should have a reservation for us,” he said. He spoke in flat tones that hinted of one of the square states far to our west.

  While I like to think that I have a mind like a steel trap, it is more likely made from unadulterated iron. It seems to have been rusting up on me quite a bit lately.

  “Ah yes, the Nortons.”

  “From Inman, Kansas,” she said, sounding worried.

  Inman, Kansas. That rang a bell. So it wasn’t a square state but a rectangular one. Sort of like Pennsylvania, but a great deal flatter. My family is no longer Amish, but Mennonite, and many of our number have migrated to Kansas, particularly to the Inman area. When I’d received the Nortons’ request for lodging, I had made a mental note of their hometown, hoping to play “Mennonite geography” with them when I saw them.

  Alas, Norton is neither an Amish nor a Mennonite name. But a buck is a buck, is it not?

  “Koom on een, dears,” I said. “Velkommen to zee PennDutch.” Most guests, by the way, get a kick out of my fake German accent.

  The Nortons showed no reaction, although Chuck did step aside to allow Bibi to enter first. She strode in on sturdy brown legs, but didn’t give my quaint decor a second look.

  “When do the festivities start?” she asked, preempting my grilling session.

  Already it was time to ditch the accent. “The tractor pull and pig chase are tomorrow. The hay-baling contest and Bake-Off are the day after. So is the cow auction. And then Wednesday—well, that’s the big day. The actual anniversary. At noon we dig up the time capsule. After that we have the town picnic up on Stucky Ridge.”

  “Fireworks?” Chuck Norton asked.

  I shook my head. “We Plain People aren’t really into that.”

  “How far is it back into town?”

  “Four point two miles, but you’re not going to find another place to stay. I’m the only game in town, and you won’t even find a room over in Bedford, which is the nearest real city. Everything’s been booked for months.”

  “Oh no, we’re not looking for another place.” The frumpy woman was as nervous as a mouse in a cattery.

  “Mother likes to walk,” Chuck Norton explained.

  “Your mother!” I cried in amazement. “Why, she doesn’t look but ten years older than you.”

  “She’s my wife. Mother is what I call her.”

  Bibi Norton was too tanned to blush. “And I call him Father. We have twelve grown sons, you see.”

  Father Chuck slipped a thumb under an overall strap. “And all of them wheat farmers like Mother and me.”

  “You don’t say.” This is my newest response when, in fact, I have nothing to say. I’m sure the world can use twelve more wheat farmers, but for one couple to have a dozen offspring seems to be taking to excess the biblical commandment to be fruitful and multiply. Perhaps this is just sour grapes on my part, seeing as how I am forever doomed to be as barren as the Gobi Desert.

  I checked in the Nortons. They declined A.L.P.O. a
nd expressed no interest in the history of my charming inn or its engaging proprietress. In short, they promised to be as much fun as a mammogram. At least on the plus side, they were strong enough to carry their own luggage to the top of my impossibly steep stairs. Otherwise I would have had to schlep their bags up myself. My elevator, which is barely larger than a bread box, has been on the fritz ever since two contestants from a pie-eating contest decided to do the mattress mambo in that minuscule space.

  “Third room on your right,” I called after them.

  They didn’t even have the courtesy to respond.

  2

  I was still filing the Nortons’ paperwork when the front door slammed open. Without looking up I knew exactly who it was and had a pretty good idea what had happened. My foster daughter has at least one hormone- related crisis a day.

  “Boy trouble?” I asked.

  “I hate him!” But instead of stomping off to our room—we share one when we have guests—Alison collapsed on the floor like a winter coat that had slid off its hanger.

  “Jimmy?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral. Jimmy was her boyfriend du jour, and I did not approve of him in the least. She had just turned thirteen, and he was seventeen. Of course, she wasn’t allowed to date, but I couldn’t stop them from seeing each other at school. What’s a pseudomother to do, except pray that they broke up?

  “Don’t be a dingus, Mom. Of course it’s Jimmy. Do you know what he had the nerve to do?”

  “What?” It was all I could do not to jump and shout for joy. Because the check-in counter hid my feet, I did a little shuffling dance. Yes, I know, it’s a sin to dance. I would just have to repent of it later.

  Alison pulled herself up into something resembling a sitting human being. “He went out with Carrie Sanders, that’s what. On a real date! In a car and everything. And you know what?”