Grape Expectations: A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery With Recipes

by Tamar Myers

  “And a holler. But am I right?”

  “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Sis. What I meant was, are you impressed that all the doormen know me?”

  “Well, now that you mention it—”

  The elevator door opened, taking me by surprise; it opened directly on the penthouse. I must confess that I reared back like a mare startled by a snake in the road. Only it wasn’t a serpent that I beheld.

  28

  I was gazing at paradise itself. Who knew that such luxury existed? I shall spare you most of the details, even the memory of which causes me to lust. Suffice it to say the carpet was so thick that having stepped on it, my feet disappeared from sight Every hard surface that should have been wood was gold instead, and where simple Christian plaids would have sufficed, silk brocade and simmering satin had been put to sensuous use. When I looked up at the ceiling I saw clouds—painted clouds to be sure—but so high they might well have been the real thing.

  “Nifty, isn’t it,” Susannah said, just calm as she could be.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Yup—well, I’ve been to the servants’ wing. It’s almost as nice.”

  “But—”

  “Hello, Miss Yoder. Hello, Susannah.”

  Had I been alone, I might have jumped to the conclusion I was having a religious experience and it was the Good Lord speaking I might even have concluded that I’d died and gone to Heaven and was now standing at His front door. Alas, the real Heaven—it pains me to say this—might not include Susannah. Although hopes for her salvation dimmed when she joined the Presbyterians, since leaving them she has surely been on the wide, fast track to the other place.

  At any rate, since I wasn’t alone, I merely jumped out of my left brogan. “Susannah, did you hear that?”

  She giggled. “Of course.”

  “But I don’t see anyone. Do you?”

  “You’re on a surveillance camera, Mags.”

  “I am?”

  “Sure. You don’t think someone this rich wouldn’t have top-notch security, do you?”

  “But this is rude. What if I’d been picking my nose when the door opened?”

  “Don’t be silly. There are cameras in the elevator too. Besides, Vinny could just as well have been standing in front of the door to meet you.”

  “In which case I’d politely look away,” Mr. Bacchustelli said, appearing from nowhere.

  At the risk of sounding easily startled, I feel obligated to reveal that the man’s sudden appearance caused my right foot to leave its brogan. As the carpet pile totally hid my tootsies, I decided to worry about my shoes later.

  “Mr. Bacchustelli,” I said somewhat sharply, and then remembered that I was speaking to a bereaved man. Using a tone that was pleasant but still conveyed my disapproval of magic, I continued. “I trust that all the funeral arrangements have been made to your satisfaction.”

  “Yes, they have. Again, thanks for your help.”

  “It was my pleasure. Uh—you know what I mean.”

  “Miss Yoder, Susannah, would you care to come and have a seat?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Susannah said, and then without further ado sailed off into one of the vast rooms that opened onto the equally vast sitting area. In her flowing black rags she looked for all the world like a witch without a broomstick.

  “I can only stay a minute,” I said. My eyes, I’m quite sure, betrayed me. How comfortable were those gilded couches piled high with silk pillows? Would I be allowed a close-up look at the coffee table, which was essentially a large, intricate carving protected by a glass top?

  The grieving brother-in-law ushered me to the nearest couch, with which my bottom eagerly connected. It was indeed comfortable—especially when I arranged the pillows like so. As for the coffee table, I was dying to ask the price. Never had I seen such detailed carving. Even Blind Noah, who’s been carving cuckoo clocks since he was a boy, is incapable of work that exquisite. Well, perhaps by now he might be, were he not missing three fingers and a thumb. “Would you care for a drink, Miss Yoder?”

  Mr. Bacchustelli was not only rich, but he could also read minds! I was, after all, quite parched.

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Is it still cold out?”

  “Very. It’s going to be a three sheep night.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, it’s just an old saying around here. It means that it is so cold, you’d have to take three sheep to bed to keep you warm.”

  He chuckled. “Sheep, eh? I’d always heard it was dogs.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Who ever heard of taking a dog to bed?”

  He laughed again. “Well, since it’s that cold, I recommend we drink Irish coffee.”

  “I don’t suppose you could rustle up a mug of hot chocolate instead. And don’t forget to pile those miniature marshmallows on top—although the regular size ones will do in a pinch.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Yoder, but we don’t keep either cocoa or marshmallows on hand.”

  “Then Irish coffee it is!” To tell the truth, it was shaping up to be a long, hard day and I could use a boost. A nice cup of exotic European coffee sounded like just the ticket. “Whipped cream on top?”

  “Yes, please.” I’d never had coffee with whipped cream on top. How clever of the Irish.

  Mr. Bacchustelli pressed a button on the wall, spoke in low tones into a circle of small holes, and then sat back on his own couch with a smile. “Miss Yoder, I’m glad you stopped by. I was about to call you, anyway. Have the police made any progress in their investigation?”

  “Well, these things always take more time than people realize. I assure you, Mr. Bacchustelli, that I’ve been working as fast as I can.”

  “What do you mean by it? Are you the only one working on it?”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case. No doubt the others are handling the forensic aspects. The only reason I’m doing preliminary interviews is because I know the locals.”

  “I see,” he said, although he sounded like he didn’t.

  “I have some leads. As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here.”

  He stiffened a little, but that may have been because a uniformed maid materialized out of nowhere. She was bearing a tray upon which beckoned two very tall glass mugs containing the Irish coffee and topped with towers of whipped cream.

  Without being told, the maid approached me first. Perhaps it was rude of me, but I didn’t wait until my host had been served before taking my first sip. I like my hot beverages scalding—just a bubble away from boiling. Hot enough to scour loose the phlegm, as Papa used to say. Papa, however, would not have approved of this coffee.

  I’m sure Ireland is a beautiful country, and I’ve known many fine folks of Irish descent, but just between you and me, they can’t grow coffee there worth beans. My goodness, was this stuff terrible. All the Irish whipped cream and sugar wouldn’t have made it palatable. The only way not to appear rude was to consume it as fast as I could while it was still hot. My throat would be phlegm-free for months.

  Apparently, Mr. Bacchustelli had never seen someone drink a cup of coffee that fast. “Wow,” he said, “that’s really amazing.”

  I smiled weakly. “That just goes to show what I thought of it.”

  “Would you like another?”

  “Well, as delicious as' that was—”

  “Go ahead, take mine. I’ve had too much caffeine today as it is.”

  I was suddenly feeling peculiarly light-headed. Oh, what the hay, as Susannah sometimes says. If gulping down another mug of noxious brew would make a grieving man feel better, then I’d be a pretty poor excuse of a human being if I didn’t cooperate. And why not, anyway? My throat was already acclimated to the heat. “Open the hatch and down it goes, but where it goes, nobody knows.” I gulped the second mug of noxious brew even faster than the first one.

  “Miss Yoder—”

  “Did someone call my name?”
/>   “Miss Yoder—”

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

  “I think maybe you shouldn’t have had that second drink.”

  “Nonsense, dear. Just because it was vile is no reason for me to be rude. Or should I have said ‘wretched’? Because ‘wretched’ and ‘rude’ alliterate, you see. Alliterate—now that’s an odd word. Who do you suppose sat back on their duff, on a divan spilling over with puffy pillows, and said, ‘I think I’ll invent a word and call it “alliterate”?’ I bet it was Samuel Johnson—or Sammy, as I like to call him.”

  “I’m getting your sister Susannah.”

  “Not Susannah—Sammy!”

  “Stay right there.”

  “Where else would I go?” I was, after all, feeling deliciously relaxed. In fact, so much so that I swung my bare feet up on the couch and decadently draped myself across down-filled pillows whose silken covers had been made at the expense of thousands of silkworms. What had I been thinking when I decorated the PennDutch in austere, bone-bruising furniture? Why practice living in Hell, when it is possible to achieve a little bit of Heaven on earth? What an exciting thought! The possibilities were endless. Out would go the margarine; in would come the butter. Out would go the cheap paper towels; in would come the thirsty, quilted variety. Out would go the plastic flowers; in would come the fresh. Out would go my crabby, mean-spirited acquaintances; and in would come—”

  “Mags!”

  “Sammy!”

  “No, it’s Susannah, Sis. Who’s Sammy?”

  “The man with the Johnson—I mean Johnson. Did I already say that?”

  “Mags, you’re drunk.”

  “Am snot.”

  “Are so. Vinny said you drank two Irish coffees in less than two minutes.”

  “Hideous stuff—they should stick to corned beef and cabbage. They grow much better cabbage than they do coffee.”

  “Mags, it’s called Irish because there’s whiskey in it.”

  “Don’t be silly. You know I don’t drink alcohol. It’s a sin. So why is it that Jesus drank wine? And don’t give me that grape juice argument If it was grape juice he’d turned that water into, the Bible would have said so.” I looked at Vinny to see if he had the answer. But forget answers. Here was one handsome man.

  “Look at me, Mags.”

  “I’d rather look at Vinny. Vinny, Vinny, Vinny. Did you know it rhymes with ‘ninny’?”

  “You’re drunk, and I’m going to take you home. Otto will drive.”

  “Otto? Now isn’t that a coincidence? Otto is the reason I came here. Otto, Otto, Otto—just like that dog in the funny papers.”

  “It ain’t a dog’s name,” Otto growled.

  “Yes, it is. He’s kind of a cute dog too. Even wears army clothes. You ever wear army clothes, Otto?”

  Susannah held my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her. “Where are your shoes?”

  “They’re lost.”

  “Lost? Where?”

  “If I knew, they wouldn’t be lost, would they?” I felt the sudden urge to sing: “They’re little black shoes who have lost their way—”

  Susannah grabbed me by my armpits and hauled me off the comfy couch. “Mags, you’re making a fool of yourself.”

  “There’s no fool like an old fool.”

  “Come on, it’s time to go.”

  “No, it ain’t—I mean, isn’t. I have to ask the dog a question. That’s why I came here.”

  “There’s no dog here.”

  “Otto, then.”

  “Ask me what?” Susannah might have been right; I haven’t encountered many dogs that could actually speak.

  “I want to know what you were doing in Hernia early yesterday morning.”

  “Hernia?”

  “Silly name for a town, isn’t it? Our great-great-great- grandpa named it. He wanted to name it Hemorrhoid, but he didn’t know how to spell it. Now, where was I?”

  “Something about Otto being in Hernia yesterday morning,” Mr. Bacchustelli said helpfully. “I’d like to know the answer to that as well.”

  Otto blushed. “I was seeing Susannah.”

  “Seeing her about what?”

  “Boss, do I have to tell you in front of her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I spooga nightowl wi Susnah,” he mumbled.

  “I only speak English,” I said somewhat crossly.

  “That was English.”

  “Then repeat it clearly,” Mr. Bacchustelli said, also sounding a bit cross.

  Otto was the crossest of all. “I said, ‘I spent the night at Susannah’s.’ ”

  Now Susannah was blushing. “I can explain, Sis.”

  29

  “In English as well, please.”

  “I’ve been lonely with my Pooky Bear gone. Then one day I met Otto and we hit it off right away, and since he was lonely too, I didn’t see any harm in it. We’re friends, Mags, nothing more. Sometimes I visit Otto here, back in the servants’ quarters. That’s how come I know my way around.”

  Otto turned even redder. “I ain’t lonely, boss.”

  I struggled to make sense of what was being said. English or not, the conversation was difficult to follow. Who knew that two cups of coffee would make me so sleepy?

  “Uh—what I want to know,” I said, “is—uh—why Susannah was walking along the highway today. Why didn’t she—uh—ride into town with you?”

  “Drop it, Mags,” Susannah said, her nails digging into my arm like a raptor’s talons.

  “You know,” Otto said, “I’d like to hear the answer to that too.”

  Susannah didn’t give him a chance. Using her black artificial nails, she pulled me from the sumptuous penthouse before I even had the chance to thank Mr. Bacchustelli for the disgusting beverage he’d had the audacity to serve.

  The second the elevator doors closed, she let me have it with both barrels. “How dare you embarrass me like that?” “Like what?”

  “Otto is not supposed to know that I’m on my way to see Melvin.”

  “Why not?” I jabbed at the lobby button but somehow missed.

  Susannah punched the correct one. “Because he’s jealous of Melvin, that’s why.”

  “He’s jealous of a killer? Killer—now that’s a word I don’t get to say every day. Killer, killer, killer. It rhymes with Miller, even Phyllis Diller.”

  “Give me your keys, Mags.”

  “What for?”

  “Because you’re drunker than a skunk.”

  “Hey! I resemble that remark—I mean, resent.”

  “Your keys.” Her talons, which had released their prey when the elevator doors closed, gripped me again.

  “All right, hold your horses!” I searched my purse in vain for the keys. Is it my fault that many items, such as church bulletins, facial tissues, or tubes of lotion, become amorous in my pocketbook and reproduce? Finally, I gave up and dumped the contents onto the elevator floor. If Susannah was dead set about getting the keys, let her find them herself.

  Susannah claims that seconds after I emptied my purse, my eyes rolled back in my head and I slumped to the floor. She claims that I lay there, passed out, until Derrick the bell captain helped her carry me to the car. For the record, this is utter nonsense. I did not pass out I was completely aware that Derrick carried me to the car and laid me in the backseat. I may, however, have fallen asleep shortly after that.

  When I awoke I was at home in my bed. Sitting on my bed, just inches from my head, was the Babester. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat on steroids. Given that Quasimodo was ringing church bells in my head, I feel that I had a right to be irritated.

  “Gabe! What in the world are you doing here? And what’s with that silly grin. You look like a horse getting its teeth examined.”

  “I love you too.”

  “And for crying out loud, what am I doing in bed?”

  “I’m afraid you were drunk again, hon.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! You know I’v
e never had a drink in my life—except for the time I inadvertently drank a pitcher of mimosas.”

  “What about the hot toddies?”

  “Inadvertent as well.”

  “Hon, do you know what an Irish coffee is?”

  “Disgusting?”

  “That would be the whiskey part of it.”

  “There really was alcohol in the coffee?”

  “Bingo.”

  “But I had only two cups.”

  “Public opinion aside, you’re not accustomed to drinking. Besides, I heard you gulped those two cups down like your mouth was lined with asbestos.”

  “Who told you that? Susannah? Because she wasn’t even—”

  “Hon, I didn’t come here to get on your case about drinking. I want to talk about us.”

  “Us?”

  “There is still an ‘us,’ isn’t there?”

  “Of course there is—isn’t there?” Granted, the last time Gabe and I spoke we were both hot under the collar, but I never once doubted that we would eventually work things out. But even we couldn’t, it would be me who called it off, not him. The thought that he might be the one to end things was terrifying. It would have frozen my blood had it not been for all that alcohol, which just goes to show you that imbibing that whiskey had actually turned out to be a blessing. And if something was a blessing, it obviously couldn’t be all bad.

  “Earth to Magdalena. Come in, please, Magdalena.”

  “What?”

  “I asked you if you were feeling well enough to come over to the house for supper.”

  “Uh—when?”

  “Now”

  “Now? It isn’t even lunchtime yet.”

  “Hon, you’ve been asleep for six hours.”

  “But I’m sure I look awful. I feel like something the cat dragged in, ate, and then threw up.”

  “You look fine.”

  “Just fine?”

  “Okay, ravishing. In fact, if I didn’t know you to be a woman of high moral character—the occasional tipple aside—I’d ravish you right here and now.”

  “You mean that?” Yes, I was taking a risk, but if he answered correctly, he would gain a whole lot of brownie points.

  “Absolutely. Magdalena, I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but as beautiful and alluring as you’ve always been, lately you’ve become even more so.”