Grape Expectations: A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery With Recipes

by Tamar Myers

  “As in the next island over from Tahiti?”

  “That’s the one, I read someplace that there is a resort with glass-bottom huts built out over the water. One can lie in bed and look at brightly colored tropical fish.”

  “You’ll spring for that?”

  “Absolutely. Doc, you’ve been there for me so many times I’ve lost count. It’s time I tried to pay you back. And anyway, what good is money if you can’t spend it? Especially on friends.”

  Doc’s eyes gleamed like a cat’s. “You’re one heck of a woman, Magdalena.” He tapped Gabe on the shoulder. “You’d be a fool to let this one go.”

  “I know,” Gabe said. “But before you two get carried away, I think you should know that my mother hates flying—”

  The door flew open, slamming into my beloved’s behind. “Vhat he said is not true! I love to fly.” Ida waved her stubby arms, nearly hitting me in the face with a fistful of liver spots. “See? I fly like a bird.”

  “MaGabe gasped, “you were listening at the door?”

  “Nu? I’m your mother, I gave life to you.”

  “Indeed, you did,” I cried gaily. “So, are we all agreed?” Alas, my betrothed looked as if we’d all agreed to enter a boiled turnip-eating contest No doubt it was the thought of his mother doing the box springs bossa nova in Bora- Bora that made him unhappy. That was something his mother and mine did not have in common. Despite having given birth to two children, Mama was a virgin when she died.

  “Then it’s all settled,” Doc said.

  “Great” I gave Ida a broad smile so that she would find it easier to thank me.

  “Gabeleh, is this woman trying to get rid of me?”

  “No, Ma—”

  “Actually, I am. I can’t wait for you to leave so I can throw your son to the ground and make mad, passionate love to him.” I clapped both hands over my filthy mouth. I couldn’t believe I’d actually said those words, which, by the way, I’d read in a romance novel Susannah loaned me. It just goes to show why the Good Lord wants us to wear sturdy Christian underwear and not those easy to rip bodices depicted on the covers of titillating books.

  Doc grinned. “Ouch. It makes me hurt with envy just to hear this kind of talk. Ida, will you throw me on the floor of our glass-bottom hut in Bora-Bora? But throw me gently. We wouldn’t want the glass to break.”

  “Yah, no problem.”

  “Ma!”

  “Vhat? A mother shouldn’t have any fun?”

  I grabbed Gabe’s hand. “Come on, let’s give the lovebirds some time alone. Will you walk me back to the inn?” “But Ma’s supper— Oh, the heck with Ma’s supper.” Gabe squeezed my hand and then pulled me close so that he could put his arm around my bony shoulders.

  Although the night was bitterly cold, I felt snug and warm all the way home. We stood for an eternity on the kitchen steps, unwilling to part. In the end it was the incessant ringing of the wall phone inside that spurred us to say our good nights. What might have ended with Gabe rounding second base, well on his way to third, got him barely past first. Contrary to the rules of the game, he insisted on carrying his bat with him, and in an upright position to boot—although that is neither here nor there.

  “Yes,” I snapped into the receiver after the millionth ring.

  “I know who killed Mrs. Bacchustelli,” a strange woman said quietly.

  32

  “Who is this?”

  “Magdalena, don’t you recognize my voice?”

  “Mama?” Just so you don’t think I’m strange, my much deceased mother once communicated with me before. It wasn’t with words—she made her wishes known by a rain shower on a perfectly sunny day—so I wasn’t sure what her celestial voice sounded like.

  “You’re such a hoot, Magdalena. I’m glad we’re best friends.”

  “We are?”

  “Maybe we should save the joking for later, Magdalena. What I’ve got to tell you is pretty important.”

  “Tell away!”

  “Remember how you asked me to keep my ears and eyes open and report anything—anything at all—that might have to do with Felicia Bacchustelli’s death?” Agnes Mishler! Of course. I did indeed ask her to keep me informed—but not when I’d finally decided to allow Gabe to reach second base.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Well, I was minding my own business when I saw this car pull up, and guess who got out?”

  “The mailman?”

  “Don’t be silly, Magdalena. What would the mailman be doing out at Grape Expectations?”

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “Releasing Felicia Bacchustelli’s soul from the dead.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “In many cultures it is believed that the soul of a departed person lingers near the place where the death occurred. This is especially true if the person has been murdered. I took the liberty of seeing to it that Felicia Bacchustelli’s soul realized it was free to go.”

  “And just how did you do that?’

  “I simply told her so—that she was free to go. And I left a few coins and some chocolate and water so that her soul would have sustenance on its journey.”

  “Provisions? She wasn’t going to Maryland, for heaven’s sake.”

  “Magdalena, you’re not mad, are you? I mean, we’re still friends, aren’t we?”

  “As much as ever, dear. Do you mind terribly if we get to the business of the car?”

  “The car?”

  “The point of your call,” I wailed.

  “Oh yes. There I was, minding my own business, when suddenly Hiram Stutzman drives up. Hiram doesn’t see me because it’s dark out and I’m wearing black sweats. I know, you’re supposed to wear white when dealing with the dead, but you see, I didn’t want to confuse Mrs. Bacchustelli. I mean, what if she thought I was You-know-who and came toward me instead of going to the light?”

  There was no point in telling my new best friend that there could be no confusing a very stout woman with the Lord. “Let’s skip along ahead, dear, shall we? What did Hiram do after he got out of the car?”

  “He got a gun, that’s what. And he aimed it right at—” The next thing I heard sounded like a bolt of lightning. Of course, it wasn’t lightning; there wasn’t a cloud in the winter sky. But what could it be?

  “Agnes? Agnes, are you still there?”

  She did not respond.

  “Agnes, can you say something? Make a sound—anything. Let me know you’re all right”

  Call it instinct, call it intuition, call it a hunch—just don’t call it psychic ability, because that, I’m pretty sure, is a sin—but I knew deep down in my rangy bones that Agnes Mishler, Hernia’s diva of gossip, was dead. I had the same feeling at the exact time that my parents were crushed between the milk tanker and the semi-truck loaded with state-of-the-art running shoes.

  I hung up and dialed Chief Hornsby-Anderson.

  We pulled into the clearing at the same time. Because it was cold, I waited until she got out before doing the same. By then the moon had risen, and her badge glistened in its light. Something else glistened as well, and it took me a few seconds to recognize it as a gun. Taking a cue from nature, my blood ran cold.

  “Miss Yoder,” the chief said, acknowledging me with a brisk nod. “I prefer that you wait in your car.”

  “Nonsense. I mean, I’m coming with you. Agnes Mishler counted me as a friend. Not many people do that.”

  The chief sighed. “Are you always so strong willed?”

  “Hardheaded is the preferred term. Sounds more feminine, don’t you think? And the answer is yes.”

  “Then stay behind me. Keep in my shadow.”

  That was easier said than done. Chief Hornsby-Anderson is six inches shorter than me and takes baby steps. I, on the other hand, have the gait of an Arabian— the horse, not one of the Saudis. It wasn’t my fault that I kept bumping into her and, worse yet, stepping on the backs of her shoes.

  “Miss Yoder, please
—”

  “Call me Magdalena. Or, if you prefer, you may continue to call me Miss Yoder. In fact, call me anything you want— although calling me Mrs. Rosen would be a mite premature. Just don’t call me late to dinner.” In retrospect, my verbosity was due to heightened emotions. Trust me, it isn’t easy searching for the body of a friend, even a recent one like Agnes.

  “Miss Yoder, please keep your voice down.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The chief stopped abruptly, and I didn’t. For a moment, we staggered and clutched at each other like heathen dancers who’d consumed too many hot toddies. The chief, being more agile and a good deal younger, stabilized first. “Please stay right where you are, Miss Yoder.”

  “No problemo, your chief chieftainship.” Perhaps it was best that I stay behind. The Bible tells us not to be a stumbling block to others. Heaven forefend a young impressionable soul should drive by and see the chief and I doing the vertical hootchy-kootchy by the light of the silvery moon.

  While I shivered—from cold, not fright—Hernia’s finest, armed with the largest flashlight I’d ever seen, did a remarkably thorough, albeit quick, search of the area where Felicia Bacchustelli had been found. She did not, however, find any sign of Agnes Mishler. Nonetheless, I complimented her on her efficiency.

  “Thanks. To tell you the truth, I was a little nervous about shining this light at the trenches.”

  “In case you should find poor Agnes lying in one of them, as dead as last week’s pot roast?”

  “No, the dead I can handle. It’s the undead that give me the willies.”

  “The undead?”

  “I know, that’s not a very scientific term, is it? You see, in California my partner in the homicide division was Linda Lopez. One of the cases we handled was that of a woman who’d been murdered and thrown into a farm pond by her lover, who owned the farm. We’d been tipped off by a neighbor who claimed to have witnessed the event. The pond was dragged and then drained, but still no body. Then we had a torrential rain that left about six inches of water in the pond bed, because the drain had been resealed. Linda went out there one last time because she couldn’t shake this feeling that the woman was still there.

  “The pond had a dock that extended about twenty feet over the water, and on a moonlit night just like this—but not as cold, of course—Linda looked down from the dock and saw a reflection in the water. But it wasn’t her face, she saw, but that of the murder victim.”

  “Stop. This is too creepy.”

  “Anyway, you see? When I looked in the footers, I was afraid that I might see Mrs. Bacchustelli’s reflection staring back up at me instead of my own.”

  “Don’t stop altogether. Did you ever find the woman’s body?”

  “Yes. But it wasn’t until almost a year later. The farm had been sold and the pond drained again—this time to build a strip mall. The corpse was found about a foot beneath the muck. You see, the farmer hadn’t just thrown his lover into the pond, he’d actually managed to bury her at the bottom.”

  I shuddered. “Does this sort of thing happen often in California?”

  “Every day.”

  Dense may be my middle name, but I know sarcasm when I hear it. “Agnes might have been calling from home,” I said. “There really was no way to tell.”

  “Let’s drive out to her place,” the chief said. “We’ll take my Crown Vic.”

  We got in the squad car but not without checking the rear seat first. Just for fun, since someone else was driving, I adjusted my seat all the way back and hoisted my hooves tip unto the dashboard. Yes, it was an immodest thing to do, but sturdy Christian underwear can hide a multitude of sins. Besides, I was never allowed to do this as a teenager. A gal has a right to have fun sometimes, doesn’t she? “Miss Yoder, please take your feet off the dash.”

  “What if I take off my shoes?”

  “Feet belong on the floor.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Miss Yoder, why is it you don’t have caller ID?”

  “Where’s the fun in that? Having it would be like finding out the sex of a baby before it’s born.”

  “What about telemarketers?”

  “Nothing could be more fun.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The trick is to listen intently—well, pretend to, at least—to their entire spiel. Then when they’re done, you say, ‘I’m sorry, but I have a hearing problem. Could you repeat that, please?’ ”

  “You don’t!”

  “I most certainly do. And let me tell you what—”

  “Miss Yoder, don’t you find this a bit childish?”

  Never underestimate the value of a quick change of subject. The more obscure the topic, the better.

  “Did you know that the loggerhead turtle is the official state reptile of South Carolina?”

  “What?”

  “Make your next right, dear. That will take us directly to Agnes Mishler’s house.”

  The chief shook her head to clear it of confusion dust. “Thanks.”

  Slightly irked at having been called childish, I decided not to warn her about Agnes’s quirky uncles. Assuming she hadn’t yet heard the gossip, she might be in for a little surprise. Sure enough, about a hundred yards from the Mishler brothers’ home, she stomped on the brakes. Had my tootsies still been on the dashboard, I’d be picking shards out of my feet to this day.

  “What in the devil is that?”

  33

  “What, dear?”

  “That! What are those naked women doing outside on a night like this?”

  “They’re not women; they’re overweight men. And I think they’re playing badminton.”

  “You sure? About them being men?”

  “It was easier to tell when they were thin. Especially in the summer.”

  “There has got to be an ordinance against this type of behavior.”

  “There is one against public indecency, but this is a private road.”

  The chief shook her head again. “And to think we Californians are supposed to be kooky.”

  “The land of fruits and nuts,” I said agreeably.

  She scowled. “Aren’t you calling the kettle black?”

  We pulled into Agnes’s driveway, and that’s when my heart sank. Agnes always keeps a security light burning by the front door. It’s not her uncles she’s afraid of but bears and kooky Californians who have come east to find themselves. The light was off tonight, as apparently were all the lights in the house.

  “You stay in the car,” the chief said. “And keep the doors locked, no matter what.”

  “Aye, aye—I mean, yes.”

  Wielding a flashlight the size of Delaware, our new Chief of Police, Olivia Hornsby-Anderson, strode bravely to the house. I saw her ring the bell a couple of times and then knock. When no one answered the chief walked around to the front-facing garage and, standing on her tiptoes, peered through a narrow window that spanned the topmost portion of the door. After giving me a thumbs-up, she jumped back on the porch and rang the bell again.

  When a reasonable length of time had passed, the chief, who was remarkably spry, jumped off the porch and worked her way around the house, shining her beacon into all the windows. Back on the porch, having completely circled the house, she simply turned the front doorknob and let herself in. That’s when I hopped out of the car.

  Call me foolish, but aren’t rules meant to be broken? Besides, this wasn’t a rule; it was an order the chief had given me. At any rate, the second I got up on the porch, the front door opened with a bang and out staggered the chief, shaking like a leaf and as pale as the skin behind my knees. “Miss Yoder, I told you to stay in the car!”

  “What?” Playing hard of hearing need not be reserved just for telemarketers.

  “Get back in the car!”

  “What?” By the time I could hear her, it was too late for her to do anything about it but complain.

  “Miss Yoder—”

  “What’s wrong?
Why didn’t you go inside?”

  “I did.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Uh—okay, I’ll tell you. But this has nothing to do with my effectiveness as Hernia’s Chief of Police.”

  “Spill it, dear. If I were a cat, you’d have used up seven of my lives by now.”

  “Well, you see—okay, I’ll come right out with it. I’m claustrophobic. There, are you happy?”

  “Is that all? I thought maybe you found Agnes lying on the floor dead or something.”

  “Miss Yoder, you don’t mind having a look around, do you?” She thrust the monstrous torch at me. “You’ll need this; the lights won’t come on.”

  Of course, I minded doing the chiefs job for her. No sane person would agree to wander the maze inside Agnes’s house with just a flashlight to illuminate the way. But Agnes had called for my help, and besides, I left sanity at the door the day I fell in love with Aaron Miller, my pseudo first husband.

  “Is the back door locked?” I asked sensibly. After all, there was no point in winding through the maze in Agnes’s living room if the kitchen door was unlocked.

  “Yes, it’s locked. Magdalena, are you sure you don’t mind doing this? I know it’s asking a great deal, and you’re not even an official policewoman, but you’re so—so—well, confident. I have complete faith in your ability to take care of yourself.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said, and squared my bony shoulders. Confidence, I’ve learned, comes from self-esteem, but it can also derive from the way we act. In other words, you become what you appear to be.

  While I may have appeared to be confidence personified, inside I was a shaking, quivering bowl of unsolidified headcheese. Agnes’s maze was creepy enough in the daytime with the lights turned on. A good Christian should never undertake a dangerous endeavor without praying first, so that’s exactly what I did. My fear was not abated, so I kept right on praying, my head bowed and hands clasped, like the Good Lord intended. Did you know that there are some Episcopalians who don’t even close their eyes... “Miss Yoder, are you all right?”

  “Fine as frog’s hair, dear.”

  “I beg your pardon?”