Grape Expectations: A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery With Recipes

by Tamar Myers

“All we have is orange, grapefruit, and tomato. Although I suppose I could round up some prune juice. Have you reached that age yet, Magdalena?” She twittered as the tower on her head teetered.

  Chris snickered. “Oh, I get it.”

  “What is this?” she demanded. “Some kind of inside joke?”

  “Sky juice is water,” I said, “because it comes from clouds.”

  “That’s just stupid. People don’t call milk cow juice, do they?”

  “Susannah does.”

  “No offense, Magdalena, but your sister is nuttier than a PayDay.”

  “Make up your mind, dear. Last time you said it was a Snickers. And another thing, I wouldn’t be bringing up prune juice to someone who is younger than you.”

  “Younger? Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” I said. I was referring to Chris, so it was dearly not a he, merely a misrepresentation of the truth. Presidents do it all the time.

  “I know you’re not allowed to swear, Magdalena, on account of you attend Beechy Grove Mennonite, but would you still say ‘positive’ if I put your hand on a stack of Bibles?”

  “Affirmative.”

  For the first time since I’ve known her—which is my entire life—Wanda seemed on the verge of tears. “Magdalena, you’re not going to spread this around, are you? I mean about me being older. I wouldn’t care so much, but since you look so much older than I—well, folks will start to say that I’ve had a face-lift. Then someone will tell Hebert. And you know my husband: he jumps to conclusions easier than you do. He’ll discover that I cashed in those bonds my daddy left us, which I did, but it wasn’t for a face-lift.”

  Sometimes gossip is as good as caffeine. “Why did you cash in those bonds?”

  “I was trying to be helpful—and invest in our future. That letter from the man in Nigeria sounded so convincing. If I loaned him just ten thousand dollars, he could redeem an account that was frozen during their civil war. He said it was worth millions, and I would get half.”

  I’d received similar e-mails. “Don’t worry, dear. They say that dates are one of the first things we forget. I’m sure you’ll help me forget your birth date as well.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Free breakfast for both of us will go a long way toward amnesia. You know what they say about bacon fat clogging the arteries that lead to the brain.”

  “Wait just one fat-congealing minute! You’re blackmailing me for a free breakfast.”

  “Righto.”

  “Magdalena, you’re despicable. Did you want butter on that cinnamon toast?”

  “Yes, and remember, I tip generously,” I said to ensure she did not spit on my eggs.

  “That will be a first,” she snorted before retreating to the counter. The beehive bobbled along behind her.

  I turned my attention to Chris. “What’s the matter? Did Dunkin’ Donuts close?”

  “No. It’s just that I was hungry for—Hey, that was a dig, wasn’t it?” He laughed agreeably. “Like I said, you’re a hoot, Miss Yoder. But the truth is, I really do like doughnuts. I especially like doughnut holes.”

  “I’m an old-fashioned girl myself.”

  “Miss Yoder, I’m glad you’re here. I just got off the phone with the chief She says I’m to be at your disposal twenty-four/seven.”

  “Sounds like a husband, but without any of the bother.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind me. I’m just babbling as usual. Tell me, how do you feel about this assignment?”

  He popped a piece of crisp bacon into his mouth before answering. “I think it’s great. Miss Yoder, I’m not a sexist, or I wouldn’t be working for the chief.”

  “Touche.”

  “And from what I hear there’s a lot you could teach me.” I patted my prayer cap, lest there were any stray hairs protruding from my bun. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me—well, almost everywhere. But just to bring you up to speed, so far I’ve interviewed Agnes Mishler, the woman who discovered the corpse; Dr. Faya Rashid, who is Muslim and therefore theoretically opposed to alcohol consumption; and her husband, Ibrahim Rashid. I have a gut feeling Agnes is telling the truth, and the Rashids’ stories jibe.”

  “Who are you putting the screws to next?”

  “I beg your pardon! Is that official police talk?”

  “No, ma’am, I saw that in a movie once. What I meant was, who are you going to question next?”

  “Well, I need to give that some thought—The man who just walked in!”

  10

  Grape Glazed Carrots

  2 bunches young carrots

  1 teaspoon grated lemon or peel

  1tablespoon butter or margarine

  1 teaspoon ground ginger

  1 cup Concord grape jam

  2 tablespoons toasted chopped pecans

  2 tablespoons lemon juice

  Pare carrots and cut into 2-inch pieces by slicing diagonally. Cook until tender in lightly salted water. Drain. Combine butter, Concord grape jam, lemon juice, lemon peel and ginger in a saucepan. Add carrots. Cook for 10 minutes over moderate heat, turning often to thoroughly glaze carrots. Garnish with pecans.

  MAKES 4-6 SERVINGS

  11

  “Who?” He started to turn his head.

  “Don’t look now!”

  He looked anyway. “Looks a little bit like Mel Gibson, but with sad eyes. Neck may be thicker as well.”

  “That’s him. The thick neck comes from being a farmer—all that hard work.”

  “ ‘Tote that barge, lift that bale.’ ”

  “We don’t have barges here,” I said kindly. The poor lad still had California neurons firing in his brain.

  “So, what’s this guy’s name, and why is he on your list?”

  “His name is Hiram Stutzman. Two years ago come Easter, his wife and seven children were killed by a drunk driver. Easter! Can you imagine? I can see why someone might want a drink at Christmas—not that I would, mind you—because it can be depressing if you have no family to speak of, and the days being dark and all, not to mention the tremendous pressures put on you by merchants. But Easter is all about hope, and life, and crocuses blooming, and longer days. I mean, you’re hardly even expected to send Easter cards anymore. Uh—where was I?”

  “His family was killed by a drunk.”

  “Right. It was perhaps the worst tragedy in Hernia’s history. Hiram stayed home from church that day because one of his dairy cows was having a difficult labor. His wife, Marie, and the kids were driving home from church, and when they got to Dead Man’s Curve, they were hit head- on by another car. The poor man has got to be outraged about Grape Expectations. I’m sure that on some level he blames the Bacchustellis because they plan to sell alcohol.”

  “Dead Man’s Curve? Isn’t that out there on Hershberger Road, just after you cross Slave Creek?”

  “Yes. There have been tons of accidents there in the past, and a number of deaths, but not for several years. And never eight people at one time. There are plenty of signs up now, and the shoulder is wider, so it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be. Besides, Maria was an exceptionally careful driver, and the sheriff’s investigation showed that she was in her lane when it happened. The other driver, however, was not.”

  “Was he or she killed as well?”

  “He is an Amish boy. Luke Hostetler—a distant cousin of Freni and of course myself. Luke was sixteen at the time. His car had an air bag, and he didn’t even get a scratch. Marie’s car didn’t have air bags. She and the two oldest went through the windshield. Trust me, you don’t want to know the details.”

  “I thought the Amish weren’t allowed to drive cars. Or to drink, for that matter.”

  “You’re right But Luke was in rumschpringe. This is a period during adolescence during which Amish children are given free rein to sow their wild oats in the hope that they’ll get it out of their system and settle down as obedient Amish.”

  “I guess most do.”


  “Most But about twenty percent still leave the fold. Some, of course, kill themselves.”

  “Did I hear correctly? Did you say kill themselves?”

  “If you think it’s hard being gay out in the world—not that you would have personal experience or anything— think how hard it must be for an Amish teenager. If they come out, as everyone calls it these days, they have no choice but to leave home or totally repress it There can be no middle ground. None. Conformity is everything.”

  “That’s sobering.”

  “At any rate, when Carolyn Augsberger arrived on the scene—she was the one who reported it—Luke was staggering around in the middle of the highway chanting the lyrics to a rap song. He didn’t even realize there had been an accident.”

  “Shoot,” Chris said (he actually used a much stronger word), “I wouldn’t blame Mr. Stutzman for going off the deep end.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Because that’s exactly what Hiram did. He didn’t say a word for weeks. Just sat like a stone—wouldn’t eat or anything. His brother put him in a hospital in Pittsburgh until he came out of it. He was there a month or so. In the meantime, everyone in the community pitched in to do his chores. Especially the Amish. They felt terrible that one of their own was responsible for what happened. I don’t mean to be flip, but when Hiram finally snapped out of it, his farm never looked better.”

  “So he talks now?”

  “Only when spoken to.”

  “What happened to the Amish boy?”

  “Ah, that. Well, a few days after the accident young Luke hung himself with his suspenders in his jail cell. Of course, he wasn’t supposed to have them, but he claimed his religious rights were being trampled when they tried to take them away from him. I know this sounds awful, but you could almost feel the sigh of relief that swept over the community as the news spread.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Luke’s parents moved to Indiana shortly after that Freni heard from another cousin there that they still feel a lot of shame.”

  “Miss Yoder, how are you going to interview Mr. Stutzman? I mean, it doesn’t feel right somehow. The poor guy has been through enough.”

  I chose my words carefully. It was hard work with that undeveloped part of my brain.

  “Sergeant, I’m sure you’ll agree that although Felicia Bacchustelli was an underhanded businesswoman, she didn’t deserve to die. And she was right about one thing: Ed should have read the fine print. In fact there were steps we all could have taken to prevent Grape Expectations from getting a foothold in our community. Yes, Hiram Stutzman has suffered a loss neither of us can comprehend. But if he; killed Mrs. Bacchustelli, he still has to be made accountable. It wasn’t she who destroyed his family.” He took a slow sip of coffee. “But you’ll go easy on him, won’t you?”

  “Watch and see.”

  I am a woman of my many words, so yes, I did leave Wanda a big fat tip. She acknowledged it by snorting and then demanding that I pay for the two chocolate mint patties I had palmed from one end of the counter. And yes, there was a small sign saying they cost two bits each, but believe me, the tip I left Wanda would pay for a small cocoa plantation on the west coast of Africa.

  “Toodle-loo,” I said cheerily, despite my soured mood, and traipsed out the door, head held high, with pretty boy Chris at my heels.

  “But Miss Yoder,” he protested, “Mr. Stutzman is still in there.”

  “Of course, dear. Now you go back in and tell Wanda that you’ve lost something very important in the crack between the bench and backrest of the booth we were just in.”

  “Something important?”

  “Car keys, driver’s license, photograph of your significant other—you get the picture—no pun intended. Pour on that California charm. Get her to help you look for it. Tear apart the booth if you have to. Meanwhile I’ll slip back in and pay Hiram a nice little visit.”

  “But I didn’t lose anything. I would have to lie.”

  “You’re a police officer, for crying out loud!”

  “I don’t lie, Miss Yoder.”

  “Not even for a good cause?”

  “I don’t know where you got your information about police officers, Miss Yoder, but most of us are straight, well, you know what I mean.”

  I sighed and took a fifty-dollar bill from my wallet. Sergeant Chris Ackerman was still a boy. After he’d lived awhile he’d come to appreciate that not everything is black or white. Indeed, if that’s how the Good Lord expected us to see things, he wouldn’t have created gray.

  “Here,” I said, “take this and drop it down the crack. Then tell her you dropped it. That way you won’t be lying. If you manage to recover it, there will be no need to act happy, because it’s yours to keep.”

  “The chief said I’d learn a lot from you.” It sounded more like an accusation than a compliment.

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I guess.”

  I gave him a gentle push toward the door and then waited until I saw Wanda trot after him in the direction of the booth. I’m tall but thin, so I offer little wind resistance and not much of a shadow. I was able to slip past the cashier station without being noticed by the woman with a deadly do, although it took me longer than I’d expected to locate Hiram. At last I spotted him sitting between a pair of hefty tourists from Ohio (one can tell by their accents) and the bathroom.

  His bade was toward me so he didn’t know that I was there until I slid into the booth beside him. I would have jumped and so-earned if someone had done that to me, possibly even caught my bun in the ceiling vent, but Hiram merely turned his head slowly in my direction, as if highly sedated.

  “Magdalena,” he mumbled.

  “As big as life, and twice as ugly. May I join you?”

  “I’m not up to talking these days.”

  “No need, dear, I’ll do the talking. All you have to do is nod or shake your head. Although feel free to grunt, if the spirit moves you. But please, don’t express yourself the way Glenn Gerber does.” Glean lost his larynx in a tragic hunting accident and now communicates with the help of beans and cabbage. Use your imagination to connect the dots.

  Hiram grunted and turned his attention back to a stack of hotcakes.

  “Did you hear about the murder out on Hungry Neck Road last night?” I asked in as neutral a tone as I could muster.

  “No.”

  “A young reporter from New York, they say. Funny, but we don’t get many African-Americans out here, and then one shows up, and wham, the next day she’s dead.”

  He’d put his fork down and was staring at me. “You sure?”

  “Sure about what, dear?”

  “That she was black?”

  “Pretty sure. Of course, from what I’ve read the whole concept of race is being questioned these days, on account of historically adjacent populations have intermarried with each other and blurred the racial lines. But a missing person’s report listed her as African-American.” Lest I be judged for lying, I feel obligated to point out that the trap I was laying was for a good cause.

  Hiram picked up his fork, licked the syrup off, and set it down again. “Bacchustelli sounds Italian to me.”

  “It is. Who said I was speaking about her?”

  There was nothing nebulous about the sound I was treated to next. “Hells bells, Magdalena,” Hiram roared. “What the heck is it you want?”

  “Tsk-tsk for the language, dear. All I want is the truth. Where were you last night?”

  “What time last night?”

  “Say between the hours of seven and five this morning.”

  “Are you asking this in your pseudo-official position as a criminal investigator or as Magdalena Busybody Yoder?”

  “Why, I never! Hiram Stutzman, shame on you—you big kidder, you.” I was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that ears all over the restaurant were turned our way, like miniature, ill-shapen satellite dishes. “I’m asking on behalf of the
Chief of Police, of course.”

  “If you must know, Magdalena, I was in Bedford relieving tension.”

  “What about the other nine hours and fifty-seven minutes, dear?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Occasionally my hunches are wrong. “Uh—exactly how were you relieving your tensions?”

  “I’ve taken up racquetball. My therapist recommended it He said the exercise would help with the depression.”

  “Has it?”

  12

  “Some. Look, Magdalena, I know that you and just about everyone in Hernia thinks I’m a walking time bomb. Maybe I am. But for the moment, I’m a broken man, not an angry one. I haven’t reached that stage yet. Believe me, when I do, I’m not going to kill the snobbish owner of an upscale vineyard and winery. I’m going to lie in the tuley weeds next to my driveway and shoot one of those son-of- a-beach Amish kids when they come roaring by drunk out of their skulls on a Saturday night. Then I’m going to haul his bag-of-manure body over to the family farm and dump him on the front porch. I’ll get away with it too, Magdalena, because no one’s going to believe I had it in me. I’m the broken man who can hardly speak, remember?” Of course that wasn’t precisely what Hiram said, but you get the gist.

  “You’re forgetting one thing, dear. I’ll tell them about this conversation. Some folks think you’re awfully cute, Hiram. How would you feel about a girlfriend named Bill?”

  He turned to me with that sweet, sad look of his, the one that fooled every Hemian except moi. “No one believes a dead woman, Magdalena.”

  “Why, you murderous little maniac—”

  “There she is!” Wanda bellowed. “Arrest her, Officer!” Chris grinned sheepishly at me and then mumbled something to the raving restaurateur.

  “I don’t care what she says she’s doing,” Wanda shrieked. “You can see that she’s harassing my customer!”

  Hiram turned slowly, Wanda’s bellows and shrieks finally impinging on his grief-stricken thoughts. His eyes were sadder than a basset hound’s and he had to move his lips several times before the words came out.