No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk (An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes (PennDutch #3))

by Tamar Myers

  “Ah, it’s Chez,” I said, “not Cher. Chez Normandy.”

  “Same thing,” Susannah said. She snuggled deeper into Danny’s slain beasts. With Shnookums snuggled in her bosom, she should have felt deep shame.

  It had been a quiet ride from Farmersburg to Canton. Every time Danny tried to speak—usually to me—Susannah pelted him with kisses, so any extended conversation would have been perilous to our lives. As a consequence I knew nothing more about Danny after the hour ride than I had before except that he belonged to AAA and had had his oil changed three weeks prior. These things I discovered by discreetly rummaging through the glove compartment. That is a driver’s prerogative, you know.

  “Park here, darling,” Danny directed.

  I pulled the sleek silver car into the reserved spot and turned off the engine. One could hardly tell the difference. It had been a joy to drive, really, once I’d gotten over the shock that I was the designated driver.

  “He only drinks a little bit,” Susannah whispered, just as I’d opened the door to the Troyer house.

  What she neglected to say was that he drank a little bit all the time. The menagerie of minks masked a flotilla of flasks. Come to think of it, the poor animals were probably not dead, just stupefied by the fumes engulfing them. That Susannah had managed to make it to and from Canton the night before was a testimony to her guardian angel. That overworked being deserves to retire permanently as soon as Susannah’s number is called.

  Money does indeed speak, and the amount of cash Danny Hem flashed around that night had a very loud voice. The staff of the Chez Normandy snapped to attention the minute we walked in the door and didn’t stop snapping the entire evening. Not at us, of course, but at each other. Money can make people very tense, you know.

  As the proprietress of a successful inn I consider myself somewhat of an expert on the restaurant trade, so I feel entitled to comment on what I observed at Chez Normandy. First of all, the tables were far too small. Putting fine white linen cloths bordered in Flemish lace on something the size of a TV table is more than just foolish, it’s begging for spills. As for the flocked velvet wallpaper in the gold fleur-de-lis pattern, it made the place look cheap. And whoever heard of a fountain in the middle of a restaurant, much less an obscene one of a boy urinating champagne?

  “Why, I certainly don’t get fifty dollars just for showing my guests to their table,” I felt compelled to say. Okay, so the PennDutch has only one very long table in its dining room, but I do seat the guests, and I have yet to receive a tip.

  Of course, I would have seated my guests differently as well. I know that the table was small, but there was no reason to seat Danny Hem between Susannah and me. He was a virtual stranger to me, after all. Although I must say, once shed of the pile of pelts he looked rather appealing. Not as a boyfriend, mind you, but as a nephew perhaps. A very young nephew, since he couldn’t have been a day over twenty.

  “Actually, I’m thirty-six,” he said, when asked.

  “Months?”

  He laughed pleasantly and took a sip of champagne. I do not believe in drinking, but if I ever faltered from the straight and narrow and became a worldly Presbyterian, like Susannah, I might be tempted to try a tonic now and then for cosmetic purposes. Apparently alcohol can preserve more than bug specimens in ajar.

  “Plastic surgery,” Danny volunteered, as if reading my mind. “Two eyelifts, a chin tuck, a face peel, and collagen injections to fill all the cracks. Hurts like hell when you do it, but does wonders for your self-image.”

  “Mama looks just fine the way she is, don’t you think?” Susannah asked sweetly.

  I gave her a swift but sweet little kick under the Flemish lace.

  “Your mother doesn’t look a day older than you,” Danny said. “In fact, you two could be twin sisters.”

  Susannah choked on the champagne she shouldn’t have been drinking. “Well, that’s because she isn’t my mother after all. Mags is my sister, but she’s old enough to be my mother. I just said she was my mother as a joke.” My own flesh and blood winked wickedly at me.

  “Your sister, eh?” Danny’s wink was beyond wicked since it was accompanied by a hand on my knee. That table, as I said, was far too small.

  “And what about yourself?” I asked Danny. “Do you have any surviving siblings?”

  My hand was now under the table as well. Unlike his, mine gripped a fork.

  Danny drooled. “Let’s not talk about me, sweetheart. You sisters into a little swinging?”

  Unfortunately, since I couldn’t see under the table, it took me two tries to dispatch the prick. This called for great stoicism on my part, if I must say so myself. As for Danny, he was an even greater stoic, or else the booze blocked the brunt of his pain. He barely grunted, but the hand was immediately removed from my knee. Susannah, I’m sure, didn’t suspect a thing.

  “Miss, could I please have a clean fork?” I remembered to ask when the waitress came to take our orders.

  The waitress cheerfully brought me a clean fork, so I knew right off she wasn’t French. She was, in fact, a young American gal named Tina, with one brown eye and one blue eye, and very friendly. It was her first day there, she said, would we cut her some slack? We all agreed, most of all Danny Hem, who was becoming slacker by the moment.

  Because the menu was all in French, which no one but me could read, there was a great deal of confusion, and by the time we’d placed our orders I had all but forgiven the horrible insult. There are other ways to extract vengeance besides toes and tines.

  “She’ll have the escargots and the ris de veau,” I told the waitress. “He’ll have the anguilles frites, and I’ll have a filet mignon, rare, with pommes de terre a I’anglaise.” Mama was right about one thing. The French I took in high school did come in handy one day.

  No sooner had the waitress disappeared into the kitchen than a waiter came bustling over. This fellow, a genuine Frenchman, was preceded to the table by his nose. Apparently he had overheard me order.

  “Is madame quite sure that’s what she wants to order?”

  “Quite.”

  He pointed to Susannah with his nose. “But is the mademoiselle sure?”

  “Of course.”

  The nose aimed at Danny Hem. “And the monsieur?”

  “Yes,” I said tiredly, “and we are all hungry and want to eat as soon as possible.”

  “Will that be all then?” he sniffed.

  “Come to think of it, I’d like some steak sauce with my filet,” I said pleasantly.

  The nose bobbed a haughty retreat.

  Everyone within a block of Chez Normandy knew when Susannah’s escargots arrived. “Ugh, slugs!”

  “No. Snails, dear.” I winked mischievously. “They are absolutely delicious dipped in that garlic butter there.”

  “But they’re still in their shells!” Susannah cried. “They might even be alive!”

  “Nonsense, dear.” I grabbed one of the slippery snails with the special holder and pried it loose from its house. “See? Dead as a doornail.”

  Susannah’s shade of green did nothing for her. “Gross! It’s totally disgusting. Even that holder-majiggit is disgusting. My gynecologist—”

  “Now this,” I went on, pointing at the sweetbreads, “is a positive treat for the taste buds.”

  “Looks interesting,” Susannah said. “What is it?”

  “Brain food.” I winked again.

  My brave little sister tried the sweetbreads. “Not bad,” she said, “but Freni’s scrambled eggs are better. These are a little too salty.” Nonetheless, she wolfed them down.

  I dug into my filet before it could get up and walk off the plate. As for Danny Hem, he seemed to be enjoying his eels. Between, I interrogated him. Skillfully, of course, so that he didn’t know what was going on.

  “So, I hear you’re originally from West Virginia, Mr. Hem. Just where, exactly?”

  “Huntington.”

  “Go to school there?”


  He nodded. When his mouth wasn’t full of eel, it was full of champagne. The little boy with the bladder problem was working hard to keep up with Danny Hem’s thirst.

  “West Virginia University?”

  “Yep.”

  I tried to hold him in a gripping stare, but bleary eyes are hard to connect with. “Marshall University is in Huntington,” I said. “West Virginia University is in Morgantown.”

  He smiled amiably. “Went there too.”

  I tried a different tack. “How do you like living in Farmersburg?”

  “I don’t.”

  Now I was getting somewhere. “After Huntington, those Farmersburg folk must all seem like yokels to you, right?”

  He swayed but managed to keep his glass still. “Nah. I meant I don’t live in Farmersburg. I live right here in Canton.”

  “What?”

  “Get real, Mags,” Susannah said, chasing the last bite of sweetbreads around on her plate. “What would a man of Danny’s experience be doing in Farmersburg?”

  “But you work there, don’t you?”

  This time the glass swayed and Danny kept still. “Well, I own Daisybell Dairies, but I don’t exactly work there. Although I guess that depends on what you mean.”

  I ignored the sordid chuckles from my two dinner companions. “What I mean is, are you involved in the running of Daisybell Dairies?”

  “Well...” He looked to Susannah for help, which just shows you how much he’d been drinking.

  “Danny believes in delegating his responsibility,” Susannah said blithely. “Like I do.”

  “You’re kidding!” I waved my fork to get Danny’s attention again. “But you spend time at the dairy, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you must have been aware of the shortcuts that took place, which, along with a certain incident, caused all your Amish employees to quit?”

  “My Amish quit? Why they go and do that?”

  The man was fading fast, so I had to cut to the chase. “Did you molest a young Amish woman by the name of Elsie Bontrager?”

  He stopped in midsway. “Blue eyes, Elsie. Nice blue eyes.”

  “Well?”

  “Nah. I din touch her. Just admired her eyes.”

  “I see. Mr. Hem, why did you drive out to the farms of Levi Mast and Yost Yoder when they were running their cooperative?”

  “I did?”

  “You certainly did. I have it on good authority you visited the Mast place at least twice, and the Yoder place once. Was that to threaten them and get them to disband their cooperative?”

  “Magdalena!” Susannah’s voice was so sharp that Shnookums took up the call to arms and began yapping. Fortunately my sister was able to quiet him by dropping a snail—sans shell—down her blouse. No doubt the Chez Normandy frowned on four-legged furballs at the table, unless they wore mink.

  I ignored my sister. “Well?”

  Hem squirmed and the champagne sloshed, but his speech was surprisingly lucid. “I was interested in how they were going to make their cheese without the resources of Daisybell Dairies. Call it professional curiosity.”

  “Yes, of course. And this from a man who cares so little about cheese-making that he delegates his responsibilities at his own factory?”

  The bleary eyes bulged. “I don’t have to sit here and take this, you know.”

  I dug into my purse and pulled out the keys to his Mercedes, which dangled just outside his reach. “No, you don’t. But you probably won’t get very far, unless you take a cab.”

  Danny boy lunged for the keys, but the chains of champagne restrained him and he passed out on the table, facedown in Susannah’s snails. It happened so quickly that it wouldn’t have caused a scene had Susannah been more circumspect.

  “Magdalena Yoder! Now look what you’ve done!”

  I looked. “I’m afraid he did it to himself, dear.”

  “Garcon, garcon, garcon!”

  Susannah began to scream for the waiter, who, being an actual Frenchman, took his own sweet time getting there. Unfortunately this allowed Shnookums time to work himself up into a furry froth, so eviction was inevitable. It was also inevitable that I had to pay the tab, since I was the only one with money who was conscious enough to write a check (I eschew credit cards, unless they are offered to me).

  Having paid that enormous sum, I felt entitled to speak my mind. “That fountain statue is obscene, your tables are far too small, and my sister says the calf thymus glands are too salty.”

  I was not responsible for what Susannah did next.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I let Susannah sleep in the next morning while I went to visit Annie Stutzman. I know, I should have paid a courtesy call on our cousin much earlier, but Annie is a lot like a watermelon rind pickle: tough on the outside, pithy on the inside, and all-around tart. Perhaps I shouldn’t be casting aspersions, but it has got to be the Stutzman in her. We Yoders are nothing if not sweet.

  Annie’s mother was a Yoder, but her father was a Stutzman. She married Samuel Stutzman, who, incidentally, was less closely related to her than her parents had been to each other. Both of them were descended from the patriarch Jacob Hochstetler three times, whereas Samuel was descended from the patriarch only once. Susannah and I, incidentally, are descended from this man through two of his children, but in five different ways. If this sounds confusing to you, then think of my people as a map of New Jersey. It is crisscrossed by hundreds of roads, but they all lead to Hoboken. Or so says Susannah.

  Anyway, after putting Danny in one cab and ourselves in another, we managed to get back to the Troyers’ in time for me to catch my requisite eight hours of sleep before lunch, but of course not for Susannah’s sixteen. Actually I made it downstairs just after the last zucchini waffle disappeared at breakfast, but discreetly retired to our room until I could hear Lizzie doing the dishes and was sure that the coast was clear. No doubt it was ungracious of me to sneak out without saying good morning, but when faced with Annie Stutzman, one needs a full reserve of charitable feelings.

  I had met Annie only once before that I can recall, and that was at a family reunion near Hernia. My impression was of a monstrous woman with piercing dark eyes and a light mustache. Unfortunately I made the mistake of pointing cousin Annie’s attributes out to her, and Mama saw to it that I ate a bar of Camay soap.

  Of course, I was only four at the time and I could have had things turned around. Annie Stutzman could well have been a light woman, with monstrous eyes and a dark, piercing mustache. Not knowing what to expect, I approached the woman I saw sweeping Annie’s porch with caution.

  “Gut Marriye. Could you please tell me where I can find Mrs. Samuel Stutzman?”

  The woman, who had not looked up when I drove into her yard, continued to be fixated on her porch. “I know a lot of Mrs. Samuel Stutzmans,” she said. “How do I know which one you want?”

  “Are you Annie Stutzman, first cousin to the late Amos Yoder, of Hernia, Pennsylvania?”

  “Could be,” she said, turning her back further, presumably to sweep out a corner, “but Amos Yoder is a common name. Even in Hernia, Pennsylvania. I might not be that Annie Stutzman you’re after.”

  Even without a glimpse of her nose, I knew this was the right woman. “The Annie Stutzman I’m after is fat and has beady eyes and a mustache,” I said, proving that two could play that game as well as one.

  “Ach du Heimer!" Annie whirled around, accidentally striking me on the shins with her broom. At least I think it was an accident. “Why, Magdalena Yoder! You haven’t changed a bit. I can see you have that same mean streak in you that you had last time I saw you.”

  “I was four then, Annie. I’m meaner now.”

  “So you are,” she agreed. “Well, now that you’re here, you may as well come on in. I have a cold, you know. No point staying out here and catching my death of pneumonia.”

  “No point at all,” I said. I followed her into a spotlessly clean house. At least the broom
hadn’t been a sham; not only were those floors clean enough to eat off, but open-heart surgery on them was not altogether out of the question.

  Annie motioned me to sit in a straight-back chair, while she settled into a much more comfortable rocker. “Of course you’re a day late, dear.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The funeral was the day before yesterday. When I didn’t meet you at the cemetery, I fully expected you to come by and see how I was. If not that day, then surely the next. Any daughter of dear, departed Amos would have done that.”

  “Well, this one didn’t.” I thought of Susannah, undoubtedly still asleep under a pile of comforters, a cantankerous canine her only concern. Why am I the only one of my parents’ offspring expected to toe the line?

  Annie’s sniff was unrelated to her cold. “The Pennsylvania branch of the family has always been—”

  “Annie dear, I’m here now. So, how are you doing?” I had been partially right. Although my father’s cousin was of average weight for her age and height, she did have beady eyes and a mustache that would make most men proud. I suppose she was near my father’s age, had he been alive, which would put her close to eighty. Perhaps it was the bead in her eye, or the way she’d handled that broom, but in person Annie Stutzman came across much younger than I’d expected.

  “I have a cold, of course,” she snapped. “At my age that could be dangerous, you know.”

  “Then what were you doing outside on the porch, dear? It’s fifteen degrees.”

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” Annie sniffed. This time it was the cold.

  I pulled a tissue out of my bra and graciously handed it to her. “And you’ll be next to God sooner than you expect if you don’t start taking care of yourself. Would you like me to make you some tea?”

  “Ach, just like your father,” she said, but the protest ended there.

  I meandered to the kitchen through a series of spotless rooms. It wasn’t until I had the water heated and was pouring it into the teapot that it struck me that something was missing from all those rooms. There was no sign of a man. Even in the mudroom, which should have been full of boots and coats, there was only one set of lady’s galoshes and a woman’s coat.