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

by Tamar Myers

  The game was getting old. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Yoder, you do have the best motive, you know. You’re the only hotel in town. Yours would be the business most affected.” He reached into his bulging left pocket and removed a pair of cuffs. “Sorry, Yoder, but this case looks open-and-closed to me.”

  The man was serious! “Why, you miserable little mantis. I ought to—”

  I felt Gabe’s hand on my elbow. “Easy, hon,” he murmured.

  “But he’s accusing me—”

  Gabe’s fingers could double as a vise. While he gave my elbow the full treatment, his eyes were on Melvin.

  “Look, Stoltzfus,” he said, “you know Magdalena even better than I do. And I know for a fact she’s incapable of murder. Instead of sitting here flapping our gums, at least one of us should be out looking for the real killer. By my reckoning, that person should be you.” Melvin’s left eye fixed on Gabe, his right eye on the ceiling. That’s as close as the mantis gets to squirming.

  “But Colonel Custard was a big shot,” Melvin whined. “This is going to be a high-profile case. People are going to expect results.”

  “So?” Gabriel Rosen is normally a softy, but when it comes to protecting me, he can be as tough as the roast beef I served for lunch.

  “So, I—uh—damn it. Don’t make me do this, Yoder.”

  “Do what?” I asked, although I knew perfectly well what was going on: business as usual. Every time a difficult case arises, my dim-witted brother-in-law insults me, then begs for my help. Two heads are definitely better than one in this partnership, because only one has a working brain.

  “What my Cuddle Buns means,” Susannah said, both her eyes adoringly fixed on her husband, “is that he’s been under a lot of strain lately, and could use a little assistance.”

  What Susannah meant is that her misguided husband was running for a seat on the state legislature and had all but abandoned his job as police chief. Although why it was a man who didn’t have time for work did have time to visit sex toy stores was beyond me. The bottom line was that either Zelda—who is best suited to handing out citations for littering—was going to have to solve this case, or it was up to moi, suspect numero uno.

  “I’d be happy to lend assistance,” I hissed, “if the merry mantis over there apologizes.”

  “Mags,” Gabe whispered, “don’t push your luck.”

  His warning came too late. “Why should I apologize to a woman who wears her bra backwards?” Melvin demanded. This time both eyes were aimed squarely at my scrawny chest.

  I leaped to my feet. “What does that mean?” I snapped.

  “Mags,” Susannah said, and then giggled. “Look at yourself.”

  I looked down. Sure, I could see every inch of my tootsies, but that was always the case. The problem was that now I could see my ankles as well. With an asbestos vest and apron to protect me, one could iron a tablecloth smooth on my front side.

  “Oh my gracious!” I reached around behind me as far as I could. Sure enough, the padded brassiere I normally wear was on backwards. That’s what I got for dressing in such a hurry.

  “I think it’s kind of attractive,” Gabe said. He sounded serious, which was both alarming and endearing.

  “Really?”

  “You bet, hon. I think it’s kind of sexy.”

  Of course he was just being nice, but Susannah didn’t know that. She has never been a follower, or she wouldn’t swaddle herself in fabric. She is, however, extremely competitive. If a hunk like the Babester thought a bra on my back was sexy, then my baby sister was going to wear hers that way too.

  Unfortunately, at the moment Susannah’s brassiere was occupied by the mangy mite of a mongrel that she claims is really a dog, and not a rat. Although sis did her bra switching under the privacy of her mantle, it was not without a great deal of drama. Her elbows beating against the cloth gave the wicked impression that there were two people in there. To make matters worse, Shnookums was not happy with the process of relocation. The pitiful pooch wailed so mournfully that even I began to feel sorry for him.

  “Maybe you should just leave him where he is, dear.”

  “I can’t,” Susannah gasped. “I’ve got the dang thing turned halfway around already. Whoever heard of wearing boobs on your side?”

  She had a point. Ignoring the yips and yaps of the bite-size beast, I turned to Melvin.

  “I accept your apology,” I said, just to show how magnanimous and mature I can be. “I’ll get started on the case right away.”

  “But I didn’t apologize, Yoder! In fact, I think I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want—”

  “Then it’s all settled,” Gabe said loudly, and grabbed one of Melvin’s hands and proceeded to pump it like it was attached to my well. “You made a good choice, Stoltzfus. Now go off and run your campaign. There’s no need to worry about this little incident anymore.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Gabe pulled Melvin toward him and clapped an arm around my brother-in-law’s bony carapace. “In fact, I was just thinking about donating a little something to the effort. How does a thousand sound?”

  There was no need for him to say more.

  Gabe and I were finally alone in the parlor. I was about to reward him with a peck on the cheek—it was, after all, still the middle of the afternoon—when I heard the front door open and what sounded like a herd of buffalo in the foyer, which, as it happens, also serves as my office.

  “Mom! Mom!”

  That word was as sweet to my ears as Gabe’s “hon.” No, even sweeter. From a purely practical standpoint, I was less likely to ever hear “Mom” from another’s lips. I may be too old to have a baby of my own, but despite a few flaws, I am apparently capable of getting a man. Yes, I know adoption is always an option, and a wonderful one at that. But if you were on the placement board of an adoption agency, would you trust a child with me? Enough said.

  “Here I am, dear,” I called.

  Gabe, ever patient, ever faithful, gave my shoulders a squeeze and ducked from the room. A second later a gaggle of gangly teenage girls galloped into the room.

  “Ya see,” Alison said, pointing a finger at me, “what did I tell ya?”

  “Awesome,” a redhead said.

  I didn’t recognize her. In fact, I didn’t recognize any of the girls except for Alison. That meant the girls weren’t from Hernia, or if they were, they were relative newcomers. I pretty much know everyone in this town by first and middle names.

  “Does it speak?” a blonde asked.

  Alison nodded. “Say something, Mom.”

  “I’ll say something all right. Who are you, and what’s going on?”

  All the girls except for Alison jumped back. The blonde actually shrieked.

  “It does tricks too,” Alison said. “Go on, Mom, jump up and down. Like you’re doing jumping jacks or something.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If she doesn’t do tricks,” a stout brunette said, “I want my money back.”

  “Alison, what is going on?”

  “Ah!” the redhead cried. “Bigfoot knows your name.”

  “Sweet,” the brunette said. “Can we pet it?”

  I may have a noggin that can crack coconuts, but eventually I figure things out. “I am not Bigfoot!” I bellowed.

  The blonde shrieked again.

  “Like, really sweet,” the redhead said. “It sounds like the Bigfoot I saw on TV. I was like, Alison doesn’t really have Bigfoot at her house, but now I’m like, wow, this is worth the five bucks.”

  I treated the redhead to some Bigfoot sounds. “Five dollars?” I yelled. “You charged them a measly five dollars? You should have gotten ten.”

  My sarcasm was lost on Alison, who hung her head in shame. “Sorry, Mom. I shoulda come up with something like A.L.P.O., right?”

  “That’s my girl. Charge them extra to watch me ground you.”

  “Hey, Mom, you’re not mad, are ya?”


  “Maybe you can teach it to do your homework,” the brunette said.

  I stamped a big foot and roared. “Out, out, out! All of you, out! Except for Alison.”

  The girls climbed over each other to get through the door. Alison tried to follow but I grabbed her by the arm.

  “You, young lady, are going nowhere.”

  “Aw, Mom!”

  “Sit.” I tried to steer her to a chair, but the child suddenly lost her spine. I mean that literally. One second she was standing upright like a normal human being, and the next second she slumped to the floor. The arm I was grasping felt like an octopus tentacle.

  “You are so mean, ya know that?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. Look, dear, today while you were at school something terrible happened.”

  The amorphous arm took shape. “Yeah? What?”

  “There was a murder—”

  “Where?”

  “I’m afraid it was here.”

  Alison was back on her feet. “Cool. Who was it?”

  “It was the colonel, dear.”

  “Where? How?”

  “Why don’t I tell you while we drive?”

  “Drive where?”

  “You see, dear, I’ve volunteered to help your uncle Melvin work on this case. He isn’t exactly the—uh—”

  “Brightest bulb in the chandelier?”

  “Alison!”

  “Come on, Mom, ya say that all the time.”

  “I do?”

  “You’re always saying that he wastes his time staring at orange juice containers because they say ‘concentrate.’ ”

  I slapped my own mouth—gently of course. “Well, I hope you know I was wrong to say those things. Anyway, how does staying with Freni sound?”

  You wouldn’t think that a girl who’s from a big city and has a pierced tongue (I don’t let her wear the stud, believe you me) and an elderly Amish woman would have anything in common, but they do. They absolutely adore each other. Maybe it’s because opposites attract, or maybe it’s because they have a bond stemming from a common goal—aggravating me. Whatever the reason, when Alison visits Freni she loves playing Amish.

  “What about school?” she demanded. “Can I go to the Amish school with Sarah and Rebecca?”

  “Who are Sarah and Rebecca?”

  “Don’t ya know anything, Mom? They’re Freni’s neighbors, of course. The kid neighbors, I mean.”

  The Amish school is a private, one-room institution, which only goes up to the eighth grade. That wouldn’t be a problem, because Alison was still in seventh, but the Amish school has a heavy emphasis on the Bible and...

  “The Amish school sounds wonderful!” I cried. “We’ll see if Freni can pull a few strings and get you in. It’s only for a few days.”

  Alison beamed. “You’re the best, Mom, ya know that?”

  “The best Bigfoot, you mean.” Already I’d practically forgotten my irritation with the girl. My mind was on the task ahead, that of finding the colonel’s crafty killer.

  I don’t keep my doors locked—no one in Hernia does, except for Crazy Irma, who believes aliens from outer space are out to abduct her—so gaining entry wasn’t a problem. But the murderer had to have been watching my house, waiting for that moment when the colonel was alone. No, wait a minute. Since the colonel had two servants, and Freni is always in the kitchen—when she’s not between jobs—the perpetrator must have made an appointment.

  So that’s why Colonel Custard sent me off to entertain the crabby cook and his Chevy-size chauffeur. He was planning to buy off one of his opponents, no doubt someone on the town council. And since that crooked council person wasn’t me (why doesn’t anyone ever try to bribe me?), it could only have been one of two people: my cousin Sam Yoder or Elspeth Miller.

  10

  Baked Vanilla Custard

  Any number of delicious variations can be made by adding your choice of flavorings to this basic custard.

  3 cups milk

  4 large eggs

  1 cup sugar

  1 ¼ teaspoons vanilla extract

  ½ teaspoon salt

  Preheat the oven to 350° F.

  Slowly warm the milk in a heavy saucepan over low heat. Do not let it boil. While milk heats, mix the rest of the ingredients together with a whisk just until smooth. Slowly pour the milk into the egg mixture, whisking as you pour. Skim off any foam.

  Strain the custard into six 6-ounce custard cups or a 114-quart baking dish. Place in a bain-marie. Bake 25 to 35 minutes for cups, 50 to 60 minutes for the baking dish, or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Remove from the bain-marie and let cool on a rack before covering and refrigerating.

  SERVES 6

  Variation: Cinnamon Caramel Custard

  Stir in ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon before pouring the custard into cups. Serve with caramel sauce.

  11

  I was waiting patiently on the front porch for Alison to gather her things, when Gabe strode up the driveway, carrying what looked like a huge satchel. He held it with both hands in front of him, and when he got closer I could see that it was a wire cage with a white cloth draped over it.

  “What do you have there?” I asked, trying not to let the excitement show in my voice.

  He grinned. “It’s been a tough day, and until you find the colonel’s killer, you’re going to be under a lot of stress. So I thought you could use a little pick-me-up.”

  “I love presents,” I cooed.

  “This was going to be your birthday present. But don’t worry. I’ll get you something else for that. Something even more special.”

  My birthday is September twenty-first, which was still a week away. If he hurried, he might actually manage to do what he said. Call it a small character defect, but I tend to be picky about my gifts.

  “Show me what you’ve got now,” I said, my excitement mounting.

  “Close your eyes, hon.”

  I closed them—well, not all the way. What’s the use of having long pale lashes if you can’t peek through them? “They closed?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Without further ado, Gabe whipped the white cloth off the wire cage. My eyes flew open and I found myself staring at the biggest cock I had ever seen.

  “A rooster,” I cried in dismay.

  “Isn’t he a beaut? Not that I know much about chickens, but both Freni and Mose said this was the finest Rhode Island Red they’d ever seen. Got him at the county fair last week over in Somerset.”

  He was a good-looking bird, but that wasn’t the point. What woman wants a rooster for her birthday? As a general Happy Tuesday present, a big red cock is fine, but not on one’s birthday. Birthday presents should be romantic, like a pair or two of nice cotton stockings, or a box of fine stationery, or—and this is what I’d really been hoping for—that elusive engagement ring.

  But I am a mature woman, not given to hurting feelings intentionally—well, unless utterly provoked. “It’s very nice,” I said. “I’m sure the hens will love him.”

  Gabe’s soft brown eyes fixed on my watery blue gray ones. “But you don’t, do you?”

  I gasped. “Love a rooster? Why, Gabe, that’s against the Bible—even your version.”

  “You know what I mean, Mags. You’re disappointed. I can tell.”

  “Well, I’ve never thought of poultry as being gift material. Now a sturdy flannel nightgown—”

  “Women. I’ll never figure you out.”

  “Would you like it if I gave you a ream of paper for your birthday?” I tried to pick something that every writer eventually needs, even in this computer age.

  He smiled. “Laser or ink-jet compatible?”

  “Now you’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

  The soft eyes hardened into dark lumps, like brownies left uncovered overnight. “I know what you’re getting at. You think I didn’t put any thought into this gift, but I damn well did. Do you think I like visiting the livestock tents at county fairs?
Stepping in sheep shit and ruining a pair of practically new Italian leather loafers?”

  I clapped my hands over my ears. “I will not tolerate swearing, Gabriel M. Rosen.”

  “Well, I won’t tolerate having my intentions misread. A normal woman, Magdalena, would have wanted roses or chocolates, or jewelry. Yeah, jewelry. Oh no, but not you. I tried my damnedest to think of what you’d like, and this is the thanks I get?”

  I wrested the rooster from his hands. The stupid bird weighed as much as a small child. Yes, I needed a good cock, but I prefer to buy my own livestock. What I certainly didn’t need was a lovers’ (did I dare call Gabe that?) spat just as I was beginning a murder investigation. “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  But neither of us meant what we said.

  I put the rooster—which I decided to call Chanticleer II—in with the hens. They took a shine to him right away, which made me even more irritable. Pertelote, my favorite hen, was the most shameless, but I gave them all a stern lecture on the impending perils of Freni’s stewpot. Then, after securely latching the door, I set off to solve the mystery of the colonel’s murder.

  My first stop was Sam Yoder’s Corner Market. If Hernia had a proper downtown, and not just a cluster of churches and a police station, Sam’s little grocery would be smack-dab in the heart of things. On weekdays it is the heart of things, at least for those in search of a little harmless gossip.

  Just for the record, Yoder’s Corner Market is not a business my cousin had to build from the ground up. Sam’s wife, Dorothy, comes from money, and the store was her dowry. The fact that Sam switched from being a Mennonite to being a Methodist, to make his Methodist father-in-law happy, is nothing short of shameful, if you ask me. Five hundred years of heritage down the drain, and for what? Three aisles of dusty canned goods, an aisle of sundries, and a bin of limp produce?

  There were several bona fide Amish women, two conservative Mennonite women, and a possible Presbyterian on the premises, but I managed to pull Sam into the women’s hygiene section for interrogation. No one but the possible Presbyterian would dare come near with someone else present, especially a man. If the possible Presby put in an appearance, I’d give her a withering glare. Sure, she might jump to the conclusion that Sam and I were engaged in a romantic assignation, but what harm could there be in that? As a former inadvertent adulteress, my reputation was already ruined. A new rumor might help displace the old, and anyway, if it got back to Gabe, it could even be beneficial. Maybe then the Babester would think I was worth more on my birthday than a Rhode Island Red.