by Tamar Myers
Between a Wok and a Hard Place
An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes #5
Tamar Myers
Copyright
This e-book is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This e-book 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.
Between a Wok and a Hard Place
Copyright © Tamar Myers, 1998
Ebook ISBN: 9781625173324
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.
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Dedication
Nancy Yost of Lowenstein Associates, Inc. I couldn’t ask for a better agent.
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge all the members of the Wednesday Workshop, as well as Mignon Ballard, Gwen Hunter, Misty Massey, James Werrell, David Lyon, and the staff at York County Public Library. I am particularly indebted to the real live Pooky Bear, who is nothing like the one in this book.
Chapter One
I was a virgin until I married at age forty-six. Use it, or lose it, my sister Susannah always said.
Maybe she was right.
Of course this is none of your business. I am a God-fearing woman and I certainly do not intend to discuss my sex life with you. It is imperative, however, that you understand I was still in a state of shock when the events I am about to relate happened. After all, I had been married only a month, and what Mama had only hinted at paled in comparison with the real thing. I was born and raised on a farm and had seen animals—cows and horses—but never a naked man. How was I to know they looked like that? Thanksgiving is forever ruined for me. I can’t even look at a turkey neck now without feeling embarrassed.
So, perhaps you can understand why I was distracted enough not to notice the young woman lying in the intersection of North Main and Elm streets until I was almost upon her. I swerved sharply, and it was the curb I hit, not her. I’m almost positive. And surely she was already dead by then, because she was lying flat on her back with her arms folded across her chest, a white cotton handkerchief spread across her face.
Even Melvin Stoltzfus, our chief of police, seemed to believe me, and that’s saying a lot. Rumor has it that Melvin was kicked in the head by a bull he was trying to milk. Of course he was just a teenager then, but the adult Melvin is not a whole lot brighter. Scarcely over a month ago he tried out a new chain saw—intended for me as wedding present—and met with an unfortunate accident. Melvin was surprised when the limb he was sitting on not only parted from the tree, but took him with it.
“Tell me the story again, Yoder,” he said, limping around the body to view if from another angle. “What were you doing driving through Hernia at four o’clock in the morning?”
I sighed patiently. “My name is Magdalena Miller, now. Mrs. Aaron Miller. You were at the wedding—actually you weren’t. Come to think about it, Aaron and I never did get our present!”
“Yoder!”
“Oh, all right. It’s like I just said. Aaron had a ten-thirty flight to catch out of Pittsburgh last night. I took him to the airport in my new car, but as you well know, Melvin, it’s at least two hours from Pittsburgh to Hernia, and along about midnight I got sleepy and pulled over into a rest area to grab a few winks. But I must have been really tired because—”
Melvin had the audacity to tap on his cast with his cane. “The highlights, Yoder. I want only the highlights.”
If humoring him meant I could at least go to bed, so be it. “Well, I was driving through town, minding my own business, and suddenly there she was. But I did not run over her.”
“Mmm. Have you ever seen her before?”
I looked at the body again. The victim had been a beautiful Asian woman, probably in her mid-twenties. Her thick, black hair was cut short, but it suited her.
Her complexion was flawless, but in the early-morning light, at least, it had a bluish cast. She was dressed on the shabby side; jeans, a Coca-Cola T-shirt with a few brown stains sprinkled across the front. She was wearing no socks, and her brown loafers were scuffed gray along the toes. The only distinguishing mark that I could see was a small blue rose tattooed on the inside of her left wrist.
“I’ve never seen her,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Positive,” I said, my patience wearing thin.
Hernia, Pennsylvania, (population 1,532) has a remarkably homogeneous population of Swiss and German ancestry. The majority of us are Amish and Mennonite, although we do have a Methodist, and even a Presbyterian church. Our only minorities are the members of the First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah congregation out by the turnpike. None of them are Asian-Americans.
“Then she’s from out of town,” Melvin said.
“Brilliant deduction,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” I feigned a warm smile.
“What was that grimace for, Yoder? You didn’t tell me you were hurt in the accident. How bad is it?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Melvin. I’m not hurt, and I wasn’t in an accident. Can I go now?”
“Well—uh—I—uh—”
A stammering Melvin is a dangerous Melvin. If I’d been any brighter than him, I would have made a dash for it. The Maryland state line is less than fifty miles away.
“Spit it out, dear,” I said kindly.
“Yoder—you—uh—well, have a good head on your shoulders. And folks around here seem to like you. Some even respect you. In fact, I—”
“Thank you, Melvin, but you’re too late. Aaron and I are still happily married.”
It was true, I’m sure. Besides, even if it weren’t and Aaron and I went our separate ways, I would never marry again. First of all, it would be a sin, and second, I would never want to see another naked man. A body can only take so much shock. Perhaps that’s why the good Lord instituted marriage as a lifelong commitment.
Melvin probably glared at me. It is hard to tell these things because Melvin has enormous green eyes that operate independently of each other. He also has an unusually skinny neck, a long torso, and knobby joints. I am not the only one in Hernia who thinks he resembles a very large praying mantis. But at least he’s a male praying mantis, so I wasn’t in danger of being eaten.
“I wasn’t proposing to you, Yoder. I was about to ask you a favor.”
“Moi?” Coming from Melvin, that was a greater shock than a marriage proposal.
His left eye swiveled to fix on my forehead. “You’re making this hard for me, Yoder.”
“Okay, okay. Ask me your favor so I can go home.”
“I want you to be my assistant.”
I jiggled my ears with my pinkies. Surely I had not heard right. Melvin is my nemesis, a fact which I have made very clear to him over the years.
“Melvin, dear, you already have an assistant. Zelda Root. Besides, I have a full-time job. I own and operate the PennDutch Inn, remember?”
“It would only be temporary, Magdalena. Just for this case. Just un
til this cast comes off.”
I don’t think Melvin has called me by my first name since we were kids. The man was obviously desperate.
“And Zelda?”
“Zelda does a great job on the small stuff, so don’t get me wrong. Last week she tracked down Rita Stutzman’s missing scarecrow. It turns out a raccoon had hauled it off into the woods because Rita had used a real cob of corn for the nose.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “But Zelda is not so hot on the big, important cases.”
It’s a good thing I was wearing bloomers under my pantyhose. An admission like that was guaranteed to knock my socks off, as Susannah so quaintly puts it. Not only are Melvin and Zelda engaged to be married, they exhibit a fierce sort of loyalty not often seen outside of the animal kingdom.
“I’m flattered that you asked, Melvin, but I have no police training. Not that I’m incapable of passing the course, mind you—what color would my uniform be? Navy? Frankly, I look much better in royal blue. Baby blue is all right, too.”
His right eye focused on my chin. “There wouldn’t be a uniform, Magdalena. Not unless you made it yourself. This would all be unofficial.”
“And my salary?”
The truth is, I didn’t need any. At the risk of sounding immodest, I seem to have a flair for business. After my parents died—a tragic death, squished between a milk tanker and a semitrailer loaded with state-of-the-art running shoes—I turned the family farm into a highly profitable bed and breakfast. Thanks to a couple of good reviews and my inflated prices, the PennDutch Inn has become the destination for the rich and famous who yearn for solitude. In fact, I now have a two-year waiting list.
A lot of my guests are in show biz, although I prefer not to deal with the Hollywood crowd. But as long as they possess healthy bank accounts, I feel it is wrong to discriminate. Indeed, the reverse is true. It is my Christian duty to administer to their spiritual needs. We are to be a light unto the world, and believe you me, there are a lot of dark places in the minds of some of those folks who hail from the “Hills.”
Of course, a number of my guests have nothing whatsoever to do with Celluloid City. Some are attorneys, some politicians, some both. Their minds could use a little light, too, and believe it or not, a number of them have mended their ways after spending a week at the Inn. After spending only three days with me, one infamous divorce lawyer not only gave up a million-dollar practice, but became a missionary to a remote region of Zaire.
And then there are the plain old business types. They may be less flashy than the aforementioned folks, but—and I say this in all modesty—they admire my business acumen. Some very important tycoons come just to study at my feet. Take that little Texan with the big ears, for instance, who thinks I’d make a good Vice President.
Few of the above are anywhere near as wealthy as the televangelists, however. Mama would turn over in her grave if she knew I was charging men of the cloth for the privilege of sleeping in her bed. But she’d be spinning like a gyroscope if she knew just how tight-fisted some of those guys—and gals—are. And no matter what they say, religious tracts and complimentary testaments do not count as tips!
“There’d be no salary, Magdalena.”
“Well, in that case...” I shook my head.
“You’d get to carry a beeper.”
“Whatever for?”
“To let you know that I have something important to tell you. Then you come or call in as soon as you can.”
“Ah, I see. I get to come running like a dog that has been whistled for. I think not, Melvin.”
“Please.”
It was the first time I’d heard the word “please” make it past his lips, and it was a surreal experience. I wouldn’t have been any more surprised if the street lamp near me had spoken.
“What did you say?”
“Don’t make me beg, Magdalena,” he pled. “What say I call you as soon as I get the coroner’s preliminary report?”
“Melvin, I—”
“Have it your way, Yoder. I’ll call in a special investigator. It’ll cost the taxpayers something, of course. Chances are he’ll be English—an outsider. He won’t know our ways.”
I sighed deeply. He had me between a rock and hard place. Aaron was out of town, and even though the Inn was full, my cook, Freni, was more than competent. Helping Melvin with a case might actually be fun. On the other hand, it was sure to be aggravating. Although possibly not quite as aggravating as higher taxes and a meddlesome outsider.
“All right,” I said, and then immediately regretted it.
Chapter Two
“Ach du leiber!” Freni shrieked. “You did what?”
Seventy-five-year-old Freni Hostetler is Amish. Her pacifist traditions originated in Switzerland four hundred years ago. She lives a life of simplicity and modesty, not much different from that of her forebears who settled Pennsylvania in 1738. Her home is without electricity, and she and her husband drive a black, horse-drawn buggy instead of a car. Freni wears ankle-length dresses, has never cut her hair, and is never without a white prayer cap to cover those silver tresses.
I am a pacifist as well, but being a Mennonite, I have a bit more latitude. The Inn has electricity, and I drive a car. My dresses can be any length, as long as they remain below the knee. Some members of my denomination have even taken up wearing slacks, but if I ever did that, Mama would spin so fast she’d raise the earth’s temperature by five degrees and melt the polar ice caps. My light brown hair brushes my shoulders, and I never wear a hat unless my head gets cold.
Freni and I spring from the same stock, however. Unlike some Mennonites, my people are of Amish descent. In fact, Freni and I are related through both of my parents. Freni is also related to her husband Mose, who is related to me, and I am related to my husband, Aaron, who is related to both Freni and Mose. The four of us in turn, are related to 80 percent of the Amish families in America.
Although this may sound confusing, it has its advantages. I am, in fact, my own cousin. I can be alone and still be at a family reunion. Throw in a sandwich and it becomes a family picnic. And who needs baby pictures when I can simply gaze upon all the towheaded youngsters in the community? I’m not claiming that these children are interchangeable, but Rebecca Neubrander, who came home from church with the wrong toddler, didn’t notice the difference until two years later. By then it was too late to do anything about it, and little Samson had her name changed to Sarah.
My point is that not only do Freni and I have fewer genes than a one-legged man, we are genetically challenged. Being a pacifist does not come easy to either of us. Sometimes it is a struggle to be the cheerful, even-tempered woman I present to the world. Freni, I know, feels the same. In fact, she had only recently confided to me that she was making a special effort to curb her tongue. Apparently her daughter-in-law, Barbara, had complained to the church elders that Freni’s tongue was sharper than a two-edged sword. Freni was doing her level best to rectify the situation, but it was a monumental task.
“Calm down, Freni,” I said to my cook and kinswoman, “it’s only temporary. Poor Melvin can barely hobble around with that cast. Have you seen it?”
“Ach!” Freni exclaimed, and then her jaw clamped tighter than a pit bull on a mailman’s leg.
“So, how are the guests doing?” I asked pleasantly.
Freni was rolling out dough for fresh yeast cinnamon rolls on the heavy plank table in the middle of the kitchen. Dough, rolling pin, and table were all getting a vigorous workout while she pondered her answer.
“You told me I wouldn’t have to cook for children,” she said, without moving her lips.
She had me there. I did have an “adults only” policy. The brochure I sent the Dixons had stated that quite clearly. But what was I to do when they showed up for their scheduled week with three children in tow?
“But these children have famous parents,” I said.
The rolling pin came down with a thud that shook the rafters. “I never heard of them
.”
“Angus Dixon is a Pulitzer prize-winning photographer,” I explained patiently, “and his wife Dorothy is a very popular children’s book author.”
She stopped pounding and began slathering butter on the dough. “Bible stories?”
“Minerva the Mermaid books,” I said reluctantly. “I hear they’re best-sellers.”
Freni stared at me. “There is no such thing as a mermaid, Magdalena. What kind of a parent would put such crazy ideas into a child’s head?”
“Actually, she seems to be a very good parent. But then, what do I know?” I added quickly.
Freni took a handful of cinnamon and sprinkled it liberally across the dough. “The children are hard enough to cook for, Magdalena, but that movie star! He wanted to know if the vegetables we serve are organic.” She tossed a handful of sugar after the cinnamon. “Are they?” she asked hesitantly.
My heart went out to the woman. To her, food is food. I had only recently convinced her that cheese was not a fruit. We had yet to tackle organic gardening.
“Yes, our vegetables are organic.” It was the truth. We grow our own vegetables, and I much prefer to use the free fertilizer our two milk cows provide than to pay good bucks to get similar results out of a bag.
“So now I’ll tell the movie star.” Freni actually smiled, and began rolling the dough into a long, thick coil. It reminded me of something and I glanced away in shame.
“Terry Slock is not a movie star, dear. Susannah says he’s a former child actor from that popular TV show, Mama Wore Pearls. After that he made one or two guest appearances on a soap opera. The Young and the Spiteful, I think it was. He played a vampire. Anyway, Susannah says he hasn’t been on TV for years.”
My sister Susannah knows these things because, unlike Freni or I, she watches television. It will undoubtedly shock you to learn that my sister is not a Mennonite. Her apple not only fell far from the tree, it rolled into another orchard altogether. Susannah is a Presbyterian—and a lapsed Presbyterian at that!
