Custard's Last Stand (An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes Book 11)

by Tamar Myers

  Custard’s Last Stand

  An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes

  Tamar Myers

  Copyright

  This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook 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.

  Custard’s Last Stand

  Copyright © 2003 by Tamar Myers

  Ebook ISBN: 9781943772223

  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.

  NYLA Publishing

  350 7th Avenue, Suite 2003, NY 10001, New York.

  http://www.nyliterary.com

  Praise for the Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery series

  “As sweet as a piece of brown-sugar pie... Magdalena is so likable.”

  —Booklist

  “The series’ popularity is rising like sticky bun dough [The] key to Myers’s success is her main character.”

  —The Morning Call (Allentown, PA)

  “Deadly games, food, and fun... fast-paced, tongue-in-cheek... zany humor... a funny and entertaining read... [by] a wise and perceptive writer.”

  —The Rocky Mount Telegram (NC)

  “With her sassy wit and odd habits... Magdalena is a delightful main character.”

  —The Champion Newspaper (Decauter, GA)

  “Had me constantly laughing... Life would never be dull with [Magdalena] around... A wonderful book with skillful writing and I highly recommend it to everyone.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  “Broad, sometimes self-deprecating humor, nonstop action, off-the-wall incidents, and idiosyncratic characters result in clever entertainment.”

  —Library Journal continued.

  “A pinch of acerbity, a scoop of fun, and a pound of originality... a delicious treat.”

  —Carolyn Hart

  “All the right ingredients.”

  —Mostly Murder

  “Feisty Mennonite innkeeper and talented sleuth Magdalena Yoder offers a mix of murder and mouth-watering recipes... Magdalena’s irrepressible personality, amusing colloquial speech, and quirky habits will delight the reader, while the asides on Amish society offer insights into a traditional culture trying to retain its integrity in the twenty-first century.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A hoot. Guaranteed you’ll be laughing by the third paragraph.”

  —The Charleston Post and Courier

  “A piquant brew, bubbling over with mystery and mirth. I loved every page of it.”

  —Dorothy Cannell

  “Myers’s delightful sense of humor weaves its way throughout the book, eliciting giggles and grins on nearly every page.”

  —The Herald-Sun (NC)

  “Tamar Myers has a great sense of humor.”

  —Murder Most Cozy

  “As filling and satisfying as the Pennsylvania Dutch meals it features.”

  —Sharon Zukowski

  “The dialogue sparkles as the mystery unfolds. As always it’s a joy to read about Magdalena Yoder and the other zany folks in town... delicious recipes.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Every book that Tamar Myers writes in her wonderful Pennsylvania Dutch series contains much humor and insight... just plain funny... The characters are likable while the mystery is well drawn and executed. On a scale from one to five, this regional amateur sleuth novel is a ten.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Blends humor, an affection for food, and investigative sleuthing under one cover and is certain to attract a large audience... many twists of plot.”

  —Mystery Shelf

  “A tasty small-town murder thriller.”

  —El Paso Times

  Dedication

  For F. Jay Ach, with my deepest gratitude

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks go to Linda Zimmerman for allowing me to use recipes from her wonderful book Puddings, Custards, and Flans, published by Clarkson N. Potter, Inc., 1745 Broadway, New York, New York 10019.

  1

  I much prefer Hernia to Intercourse. Or Lancaster, Pennsylvania, for that matter. Hernia has Amish and Mennonite ambience out the wazoo, but it has yet to be discovered by tourists.

  My full-board inn, the PennDutch, is the only game in town, and it has only six guest rooms—actually five, now that I’ve taken in a foster child. My establishment caters to the rich and famous, who come here to do the staring, and not to be stared at themselves. My favorite guests are Babs and Brolin, Brad and Jennifer, Mel and his wife, Julia—well, you get the picture. Even Presidents have stayed under my roof, and despite the fact that I’m a Mennonite woman of high moral standards, one even tried to stay in my bed. The only guest I really want to entertain, and still haven’t had the privilege to do so, is George Clooney. That’s why I was thrilled to the soles of my size eleven shoes when his shiny black limousine pulled into the gravel driveway of my converted farmhouse.

  It was the largest limousine I had ever seen. I mean not just long, but high, like an SUV. In fact, forget SUV. The only thing that set this vehicle apart from an RV was the rounded roof and darkened windows. While I may have been shocked, I wasn’t surprised. No doubt a good-looking man like George traveled with a bevy of buxom bathing beauties, each with their own consortium of hairdressers, makeup artists, and the like. In fact, it wouldn’t have surprised me if they all were on horseback inside that motorized monster.

  What did surprise me was that only three people emerged, and none of them was George Clooney. The first person to exit the limo stood at least seven feet tall. He lumbered around to the side and opened a door. Out popped a woman who, although comely, was certainly not worthy of George Clooney. The last to exit had silver hair and a tan acquired in the tropics. I judged him to be about sixty. He looked more like the actor George Hamilton than George Clooney, but alas, he was neither.

  This mature man was obviously in charge. He approached first, his manicured hand extended, his capped teeth blinding in the September sun.

  “Colonel Custard,” he said, in a charming Southern accent.

  I loathe the medieval custom of shaking hands. It was originally intended to show that one was unarmed, but now it serves as the number one conveyor of the common cold. Much better, I think, to fold one’s hands like the Thai people and bow. But when in Hernia... so even though I didn’t know this man from Adam, I did like the Hernians and pumped the proffered paw.

  “Magdalena Yoder,” I said in my quaint Pennsylvania accent.

  The porcelain grin widened. “You’ve got quite a handshake there, ma’am.”

  “I grew up milking cows.” I gave his hand a final squeeze, one guaranteed to drain the last drop from the most recalcitrant bovine. With George Clooney due to arrive any minute, it was time to dispatch the interloping trio. “How can I help you, Mr. Custard?”

  He gave me the once-over. “I don’t think you’ll be needed, thanks. Ivan here”—he nodded at the giant chauffeur—“can handle the luggage.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The sign out by the road says PennDutch In
n, am I right?”

  “That is correct, and I am the proprietress.”

  “Then I’m at the right place.”

  “Perhaps so, but you’re definitely here at the wrong time. The entire inn has been booked for George Clooney—the actor.” I clapped a hand over my mouth. Sometimes it feels good to let the horse out of the barn before closing the door.

  Colonel Custard didn’t seem the least bit impressed. “You don’t say?” He reached into an inner pocket of his three-piece suit and removed a snakeskin wallet, which, I might add, matched his shoes. From the classy billfold he extracted a slip of paper. “I have the confirmation number right here. Thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-three.”

  I gasped. Those uninspiring numbers are actually my measurements, and I give them out as confirmation numbers only to a select few. You can be sure I never explain their significance to the recipients.

  “How did you get that number?” I demanded.

  “I believe it was you who gave it to Ivan over the phone when he made the reservation.”

  “But that’s impossible. I distinctly remember speaking to George Clooney’s personal secretary.”

  “What did he sound like?”

  “Like a cross between James Earl Jones and an enraged bull.” I meant that kindly.

  The colonel nodded again at his chauffeur. “Ivan, say something.”

  “What do you want me to say, boss?”

  There was no need for him to say anything more. The ground was shaking from the vibrations of the deepest voice I’d ever heard.

  “B-but that’s impossible. Over the phone you identified yourself as working for George C.”

  The colonel turned to his employee and frowned. “Ivan, I’ve told you many times not to pull that stunt.” He turned back to me. “My name is George C. It’s Colonel George Custard. I apologize for the confusion.”

  Ivan, whose head was half the size of Massachusetts, hung his noggin in shame. “Sorry, boss.”

  Neither of them was half as sorry as I was. For two weeks I’d been mending my panties and darning holes in my socks, and I was a happily engaged woman, for crying out loud. Well, there was nothing to be gained by pouting. And an empty room—make that five empty rooms—was not going to enrich my coffers.

  “Come on in,” I said.

  The woman in the trio spoke up for the first time. “Shall I bring my pots in now, or wait until we’ve checked in?”

  “Pots?”

  “Forgive me,” the handsome colonel said. “Please allow me to properly introduce my staff. You have already met Ivan Yetinsky, my chauffeur and right-hand man. Now allow me to introduce my personal cook, Miss Anne Thrope.”

  “Your cook?”

  The young woman stepped forward. “I hope you have an institutional-size stove. One of good quality.”

  I stared at her, not quite comprehending. “My stove?”

  “It isn’t a wood-burning stove, is it? I’ve never cooked on one of those.”

  I can only take comfort in the fact that it is the dimmest bulbs that often burn the longest. “It’s a gas stove, dear, and you won’t be cooking on it, I assure you.”

  The charming Colonel Custard flashed me a smile that forced me to squint. “Miss Yoder, Anne always cooks for me.”

  I smiled back, although my mellow yellows didn’t even cause him to blink. “Not here, she doesn’t.”

  “Perhaps something can be arranged.”

  That got my attention. I may be a simple Mennonite, but I am an astute businesswoman. I even offer my guests something called A.L.P.O.—Amish Lifestyle Plan Option—whereby they get to experience the Amish and Mennonite work ethic by helping out with chores. Of course they pay extra for the privilege.

  “What sort of an arrangement?” I asked.

  “How does a thousand a day for run of the kitchen sound?”

  “Make it two grand and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  He grabbed my hand again and, instead of pumping it, held it tightly. I won’t deny that enough electricity passed between us to cook Sunday’s roast.

  “Miss Yoder, I think you and I are going to get along very well.”

  I shut my eyes altogether for a second, and then opened them wide. Against the blank screen of my lids I’d already begun to undress this man, a total stranger. Not that it’s okay to undress a man, mind you, unless he’s your husband—and then what’s the point? Please understand that I do not normally engage in such wanton behavior, but there were enough pheromones wafting between the colonel and me to make a mummified Pharaoh moan. The sooner I hustled their bustles into the inn, the sooner I could get out of that charged situation. Maybe run some errands.

  “Welcome to the PennDutch Inn!” I cried.

  Although the next few days promised to be lucrative, they were not going to be easy. Keeping my distance from the charismatic colonel was going to be the least of my problems. When she heard that I had agreed to let another cook into her kitchen, my own cook was going to go ballistic.

  2

  “Ach!” she squawked when she heard the news. “Then I quit!”

  Freni Hostetler is a stout Amish woman who dresses in black and wears a white bonnet indoors. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perch precariously on an almost nonexistent nose. To look at us—I’m tall and thin, and flat as a carpenter’s dream, not to mention that my shnoz deserves its own zip code—you’d never guess that we are cousins. Cousins of a sort. Our family tree is so intertwined that I am, in fact, my own cousin. Give me a sandwich, and I constitute a family picnic.

  “You can’t quit,” I said.

  She stared at me through lenses dusted white with cake flour. “I will not have that woman in my kitchen.”

  “It’s my kitchen, Freni.”

  “Yah, but it is my denomination.”

  “I think you mean ‘domain,’ dear.” Pennsylvania Dutch, not English, is Freni’s first language.

  “Whatever, Magdalena. I will not share this kitchen.”

  “I’m not asking you to share it, Freni. I’m simply suggesting you take a short vacation.”

  “Ach! So now you want to get rid of me?”

  Besides being my cook, my kinswoman is also my friend. She is my departed mama’s age. When Mama and Papa met a premature death, squished in a tunnel between a milk tanker and a truck full of Adidas shoes, it was Freni and her husband, Mose, who acted as surrogate parents to my sister Susannah and me. I no more want Freni out of my life than I want to get rid of my shadow.

  “Freni, you have three little grandbabies that you claim you never get enough time to play with. Take that time now. Just for a few days. Now go home and enjoy yourself.”

  “Ach! To enjoy yourself is a sin, Magdalena!”

  “I didn’t mean that way,” I wailed. “Just go home and relax. Your job will be waiting for you as soon as this eccentric bunch of guests leave.”

  Freni is like a stubby little milk cow, or a two-year-old. Take your pick. You push one way; she pushes back. You pull; she pulls. Now that I had given her permission to take a few days off, she had no interest.

  “Better I should stay around to keep an eye on things. You don’t want she should break your pots and pans, yah?”

  “She brought her own, dear.”

  Even through the curtain of flour I could see her dark beady eyes assessing this information. “She brought from home?”

  I shrugged. “She’s a professional cook—not that you aren’t too, dear. Anyway, no doubt she has these high-tech gizmos that cook without water, or whatever. I’m sure our stuff is safe.”

  “Then I stay.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “So maybe I learn from this woman, yah?”

  Freni, like myself, was born knowing everything. We started forgetting a few things around age twenty, with a slow progression in memory loss since then. We are not about to learn anything new, that’s for sure.

  “Freni, you will just be torturing yourself.”

  She cros
sed her stubby arms. “So?”

  There was no point in arguing. Until the colonel and his entourage left, there would be two cooks in the kitchen. One would actually prepare food; the other would skulk about, clucking like a pullet who had just laid her first egg.

  I must say that although Miss Anne Thrope didn’t seem to particularly care for people, she certainly knew her business. This was the tastiest meal I’d had since my last trip to Pittsburgh. Never mind that I couldn’t pronounce the names of all the fancy dishes, or even identify many of the main ingredients.

  My culinary limitations are partly Mama’s fault, and partly Freni’s. Both women held strongly to the belief that there were four important food groups: meat, sugar, starch, and grease. Fruits and vegetables fall into a secondary category, suitable for garnish but not essential for nutrition. If served by themselves, vegetables must be cooked to the consistency of mush.

  I’ve long since given up trying to convince Freni that cheese is not a fruit. To her, the hard-to-classify foods (eggs and dairy products) take on the category of the food with which they are commonly served. Because I insist on a slice of cheddar with my apple pie, cheese has become a fruit. By logical extension, macaroni and cheese is also a fruit dish.

  At any rate, after serving us, Miss Thrope retired to the kitchen to rejoin the clucking Freni. Ivan Yetinsky, I was told, would eat his meal up in his room. That left just the very handsome Colonel Custard and me—and my daughter, Alison.

  Well, Alison isn’t really my daughter. She’s the foster child I mentioned before. It’s a long story that would bore you to tears, but the gist of it is that I was once briefly married to a bigamist named Aaron Miller. This wasn’t my fault, you understand. I was duped. Anyway, he ran off to rejoin his legal wife up in Minnesota. After a year he returned, not to reconcile, but to dump off his twelve-year-old daughter. The girl, whose very existence was news to me, was too much for Aaron and his real wife to handle.