Grape Expectations: A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery With Recipes

by Tamar Myers

  About a quarter mile before the Sausage Barn I made a flying right turn onto Applegate Lane. Very few folks other than the ones who live along this road are aware of its existence. That’s because the entrance to Applegate Lane is all but obscured by a pair of enormous rhododendrons that billow over the roadway and are trimmed only when the few residents of this back road have difficulty entering the highway. Susannah, much to my disappointment, was not only familiar with Applegate Lane but whooped with delight.

  “Wahoo! You go, Mags!”

  I braked as quickly as was possible. A second later I could hear the car following us roar by.

  “We’ve lost them,” I said. “At least for now.”

  “I tell you, Mags, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “I’m full of surprises, dear. Apparently, so are you. How did you know about this place?”

  “How did you?”

  “This is still inside—although just barely—the town limits, thanks to our land-grabbing ancestors who set the boundaries two hundred years ago. When I was on the planning commission, we had to approve the houses built out here. Now you answer me.”

  “My Mellykins and I used to make out here all the time. When we were dating, of course. After we got married, we made out in our home. We usually started on the couch, but then—”

  “I get the picture. Please stop before I have to plunge my car keys into my ears.”

  “Sis, you never did like Melvin, did you?”

  “Never.”

  “Not one teeny-weeny bit?”

  “Not even one molecule.”

  “Why?”

  What was there left to say that I hadn’t said a million times over the years? Susannah already knew—or at least she’d been told—that I found the mantis repulsive in every conceivable way. Perhaps what irritated me the most about the man was his arrogance. In his mind he was always right; everybody else was wrong. Never mind that an eel skin purse has more brain power than the miserable mantis. Here, after all, is a man who once tried to milk a bull and who regularly sent his favorite aunt in Scranton packages of ice cream by UPS I know, this must sound harsh and not at all Christian, but believe me, my description has been charitable to the extreme.

  “Why?” I repeated.

  “You heard me.” Susannah glowered at me from beneath her hood. I never thought the day would come when I thought she looked better in makeup than without. The only way out of this conversation was to derail it.

  “Don’t you want your surprise?”

  Her face—what I could see of it—softened. “Of course I want it.”

  “Then let’s am-scray,” I said, and saw that we covered the distance from Applegate Lane to the Sausage Barn in record time.

  Wanda Hemphopple was her usual disagreeable sell “Back so soon?” she snarled.

  “You know the mantra, dear. Fat’s where it’s at I just can’t stay away.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Su—”

  “Suzie Reaper,” Susannah said in an unnaturally high voice.

  Wanda cocked her head. “You been here before?”

  “No.”

  “That right?” Wanda clamped my arm with talons of steel and yanked me away from Susannah.

  “What on earth!” I protested.

  “Shhh!” The woman with a life-threatening hairdo dragged me outside before continuing. “Magdalena, I know you and I don’t see eye to eye on most things—”

  “Try again, dear. Mine is the eye of a needle, yours is the eye of a hurricane.”

  “Whatever. Look, I’ll give you dinner tonight free if you’ll take that street person somewhere else for breakfast.”

  “She’s not a street—”

  “Dinner free for the rest of the week.”

  “Beverages included?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Lunches too?”

  “Okay. Now, go in and get her?”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “Oh, why not. Now hurry!”

  “I don’t think so. I can afford to buy my own meals, thank you.”

  “But you led me to believe—I mean, you said—”

  I jerked free from her grip, but she has the tenacity, if not the looks, of a bulldog. The talons just dug new holes in my arm.

  “I’m not playing games here, Magdalena. I can’t have that person in there now.”

  “That person?”

  “Your friend. Miss Reaper. You have got to take her someplace else. Please? Please!”

  “What gives? And you better tell me the truth.”

  Wanda sighed so hard and long that a patch of ice at our feet began to melt. “All right. It’s the Board of Health. Apparently, there’s been some kind of complaint—I can’t imagine what—and those fools have decided to pay me a surprise visit. You know how it is.”

  “All their visits are surprises, dear. That’s how the system works.”

  “Yes, but—never mind. My point is that your guest, while I’m sure she is the nicest person, looks a bit—uh—unsanitary.”

  “Unsavory, perhaps, but not unsanitary. I assure you that Ms. Reaper is scrupulous about washing her hands.” That I knew for a fact.

  “You may be right, but—”

  “Speaking of butts, I need to set mine down. I noticed that booth seventeen was empty, so I’ll just show myself to it.” I wrenched away a second time and threw myself against the door. “Ta, ta, and no need to thank me.”

  Although Susannah was tapping her foot impatiently, she was still standing by the cashier stand. You can be sure, however, that every diner in the place had his or her eyes glued on the messenger of death. Mrs. Wattlebaum, who has been pushing the century mark for a ridiculous number of years, appeared especially terrified. The poor dear is afraid to reveal her true age lest Willard Scott wish her a happy birthday on television. Mrs. Wattlebaum read somewhere that the centenarians Willard acknowledges all die within a decade.

  “Sis,” Susannah hissed, “what are these people staring at?”

  “Death warmed over.” I grabbed her by bell-shaped sleeve and dragged her back to booth seventeen. I may be skinny, but Susannah is a smoker and weighs as much as a tumble weed.

  “What did Wanda want, Mags?”

  “It’s nothing. But just in case she hassles us—Why, Wanda, dear! Did you follow me just to take our order?”

  “That’s right. Knowing you, Magdalena, I’m surprised you didn’t head straight for the kitchen, just to get me in trouble.” She whipped out a pad and a pencil so short it was running out of periods. “What’ll it be?”

  “My usual.”

  Wanda nodded, her eyes shifting to Susannah.

  “She’ll have my unusual,” I said.

  “Your what?”

  “The opposite of my usual: eggs runny, pancakes burned, and bacon so crisp it shatters just by looking at it.”

  Wanda scribbled a notation. “Don’t leave this booth,” she whispered, and then threatened me by lowering her head and waggling her beehive practically in my face.

  “Sis,” Susannah said when she was gone, “you remembered how I like my food!”

  “You’ve been married, Susannah, not out of the country. Now take a deep breath—one of those yoga things you’re always yapping about—because what I’m going to tell you will knock your socks oft”

  “I haven’t worn socks since the eleventh grade. Besides, you don’t wear socks with sandals.”

  “Is that a fact? I’m sure I wouldn’t know, seeing as how I wear sturdy brogans, like the Good Lord intended.”

  “Which aren’t in the least bit sexy.”

  “Sexy shoes, indeed. Don’t even get me started—oops, too late. Take high heels, for instance. They make your feet hurt, so you take them oft and then, since you’re already half-undressed, you take everything off, and that leads to the horizontal hootchy-kootchy, which leads to unmarried mothers, which leads to undisciplined children, which leads. to crime. If you boil all that dow
n you’re left with the simple equation: high heels lead to murder. If you ask me, any shoe with a heel higher than an inch should be outlawed. Now, where was I?”

  “You’re about to knock my low-heeled sandals oft.”

  “Right. Susannah, there’s no way to sugarcoat this. So here it is: Zelda Root is your half sister.”

  My sister stared at me for an interminable length of time. Then her eyes began to twinkle, and the corners of her mouth turned up.

  “You finally did it, Mags. You had the humor transplant I told you about.”

  “What?”

  “It was only a joke, Sis. But somehow you actually found a doctor who could do it. Did it hurt? Better yet, how much did it cost?”

  “I’m not joking! She really is your half-sister. If you don’t believe me, just ask Doc Shafor. Better yet, ask Zelda.”

  “Now you’re going too far, Sis. Jokes are funnier when they’re short.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Come on, give me a break.”

  “Papa was a two-timing adulterer, for crying out loud!” It isn’t my fault that I was blessed with a pair of lungs capable of seeing me to the top of Everest without an oxygen tank. Every adult in the restaurant looked our way, including Marlene Mandelbrot, who wears a permanent neck brace. She was going to have some explaining to do to her insurance company.

  “Mags, I can’t believe you’d say such a horrid thing about Papa. If you’re going to make something up, make it up about Mama.”

  “Mama?”

  “She was always looking sideways at Mrs. Bumblegrass, my high school guidance counselor. I swear, Mags, I used to wonder if the two of them weren’t up to something.”

  I gasped, so great was my shock. “Mama was a virgin!”

  “Right, and I’m the pope.”

  “Wrong color robes. Look, Susannah, leave Mama out of this. And I am not making this up. Papa really did have an affair with Zelda’s mother. That means she’s our half sister. Like it, or not, we’ve got another sibling.”

  The transformation that my sister’s face underwent was both startling and fascinating. I’ve met Jim Carrey—he once stayed at the PennDutch—but he couldn’t hold a candle to my Susannah’s rubbery mug. First amusement, then disbelief, followed by doubt, then finally horror as the truth I’d spoken permeated her very core.

  “Oh my gosh!” she shrieked, raised both hands, and slammed her fists into her chest

  The truth is, my sister did not use the word “gosh.” I won’t repeat the word she said, because I’m sure you know what I mean. Much more interesting is the fact that her chest exploded, and something black, hairy, and evil burst forth into the light.

  25

  Lavender Frappe

  1 can (8 ounces) frozen Concord grape juice concentrate, thawed and undiluted

  1 can (6 ounces) frozen apple juice concentrate, thawed and undiluted

  3 cups water

  1cup lemon juice

  In bowl or pitcher, combine all ingredients and blend thoroughly. Pour into freezer container and freeze until mushy. Beat with a fork and return to freezer. Freeze until firm. Scoop into glasses to serve.

  MAKES 8 SERVINGS

  26

  Shnookums, my sister’s wretched excuse for a dog, stood blinking for a few seconds in the middle of the table. No one knows for sure which breed he is, seeing as how Susannah adopted him from a “high-kill” shelter. I’ve always maintained that he was half bite and half sphincter muscle. A charitable veterinarian once postulated that the pitiful pooch might be half teacup Chihuahua and half Yorkshire terrier. Whatever his bloodlines, he’s one hundred percent terror. Never did such a spiteful, ill-tempered creature walk the face of this earth—not that he’s ever had to do that, mind you.

  Susannah, like myself, is flatter than washboard. There’s plenty of room for the mangy mongrel to ride around in her bra, and that’s exactly what he does. Except for lunging at folks, his wickedly barbed jaws snapping, the poor excuse for a rat never has to move. I’m not exactly sure how my sister attends to the needs of his sphincter half, and I’m not eager to find out.

  At the risk of eliciting sympathy on his behalf, I must report that the curmudgeonly canine was yelping piteously, having just been pummeled by his owner’s fist. You can be sure that our table was still the center of everyone’s attention.

  My poor sister, bless her heart, was beside herself with anguish. “My baby! My precious Shnooky-wooky. What have I done?”

  Shnookums responded by throwing back his head and howling like a dog a hundred times his size. I dare say he sounded almost as loud as a beagle.

  “Lester, it’s a singing rat,” an enormously fat woman said, gasping between words. She tried to squeeze free from her booth, but the table in between her and freedom had other ideas. Her children, already quite chubby, sobbed as her elfin husband tried in vain to pull her loose. Judging by her weight and his antics, I took them to be tourists from Ohio.

  “Baby, look at Mama,” my sister ordered her odiferous offspring.

  The odious creature would not obey. His snout pointed to the ceiling, Shnookums was far too busy vocalizing to hear his mistress’s voice. What then was a loving sister—like moi—to do?

  “Shut up, you miserable excuse for a dog,” I said, not uncharitably. To ensure I got his attention, I clapped my hands with some force.

  Apparently, I clapped too hard. How was I to know? At any rate, the miniature mutt not only ceased howling, he took off like a rocket propelled missile, streaking across tables and leaping over the backs of seats with all the agility of a cat. Although I’m quite sure that cats and dogs cannot interbreed—it’s undoubtedly illegal in several states—the possibility of this happening, however small, might be worth investigating. That might explain some of the weird behavior the beast has engaged in over the years.

  Alas, with no coaching from me, Shnookums headed. straight for Lester’s wife. The poor woman shrieked, as did her jam-covered children, which only served to excite Shnookums all the more. The last I saw of my honorary nephew was his sphincter disappearing through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen. The distant clatter of pots and pans, as well as muffled oaths, confirmed that his presence had been noted by the cook and quite possibly by the health inspectors.

  Susannah, who had, up until now, been all but immobilized by shock and concern, sprang suddenly to life. She would have made a mad dash after him, but I gallantly blocked her. I made her sit and followed suit.

  “Let him be for now. They’ll realize soon enough that he’s at least part dog. They might even give him a bone. You need to sit back down and process what I just said: Zelda Root is our sister.”

  Poor Susannah looked as white as the mold on the tomatoes she keeps in her vegetable bin.

  “Mags, are you a hundred percent sure?”

  “I’m afraid so. Doc Shafor got it straight from the horse’s mouth—in this case mouths. Papa and Mrs. Root went to see him about an abortion, but he refused. Would it help, Susannah, if you talked to him? Maybe there are questions you’d like to ask.”

  “But he’s a creepy old man. I mean, isn’t he always putting the moves on you?”

  “Well, yes—but he’s an exceptionally good cook. And I’d be happy to go with you.”

  “I’ll think about it, Sis.” She was silent for a moment. “Is Zelda younger or older than me?”

  “Technically that would be ‘I,’ as in ‘than I am.’ But never one to split hairs—”

  “Mags!”

  “The truth is, I don’t really know. We’ll have to ask her.” “I hope she’s younger. I always hated being the baby.” “You know, Susannah, it might be fun having another sister. We could have sleepovers, make popcorn and s’mores, go swimming in Miller’s Pond late at night—not skinny-dipping, of course, although we could wear skimpy Presbyterian underwear. We could even rent a video. I wouldn’t mind watching one, as long as there was no swearing, no violence, and everyone stayed properly
clothed as the Lord intended.”

  I stopped enumerating the good times that lay ahead, not because I’d run out of fun things to do, but because a shadow had fallen across our table. I looked up to see

  Wanda’s do swaying menacingly close to the genuine faux Tiffany light fixture.

  “Well, I hope you’re happy!” She was clearly anything but.

  “Excuse me? We’re having a family discussion here.”

  “You’re going to have to take it somewhere else.”

  “We haven’t even gotten our food yet.”

  “There isn’t going to be any food.”

  “You can’t deny us service—that’s discrimination.”

  “Yeah,” Susannah chimed in, “that’s discrimination against an old-fashioned Mennonite woman and a poor widder woman. We can sue.”

  Wanda looked like she would sooner crumple than argue. I braced myself to catch her should she fall. If my spindly arms couldn’t support her weight, maybe I could at least prevent the lethal beehive from hitting the floor.

  “They’re closing me down,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  “Who?” I said. “The Board of Health?”

  “I was in the kitchen when that awful beast”—her chin pointed at Susannah—“burst through the door. I tried to convince them it wasn’t a rat, but they didn’t believe me. They said that even if it is a dog, that’s against health regulations. They said they’re going to shut me down.” The mighty Wanda began to whimper.

  I like my foes to be stalwart, able to give tit for tat When the fight goes out of them, it goes out of me. Sometimes even, as much as I struggle against it a latent maternal instinct kicks in, and I come to the aid of my former combatant.

  “We’ll just see about them shutting you down.” Having yet to consume a bite, I slid easily from the booth, maneuvered carefully around Wanda and her teetering tower, squeezed past the billowy Buckeye tourist (who’d been finally pulled free by her elfin husband), and trotted to the kitchen. Susannah, who is always up to a good show, skipped along behind. She was, of course, eager to get back her bosom buddy.