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

by Tamar Myers

2 egg yolks

  1 cup sugar

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  1 cup freshly squeezed blood orange or tangerine juice

  2 tablespoons lemon juice

  1 cup milk, scalded and slightly cooled

  Preheat the oven to 350° F. Butter six 6-ounce custard cups.

  With a whisk or electric mixer, beat the eggs, yolks, and sugar until ribbony and pale yellow, then slowly beat in the flour and juices. Add the milk and combine well. Pour into the cups.

  Bake in a bain-marie for about 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Let cool to room temperature, then refrigerate. Unmold and serve cold.

  SERVES 6

  16

  Opportunity is often a gift from God, and what kind of a Christian would I be if I denied my Maker the pleasure of bestowing a gift on me? Faithful believer that I am, I stomped on the brakes when I saw the light on in the little church with the thirty-two names. Gabe must have been listening to a favorite CD, because he sailed off into the night.

  I screeched to a halt in the gravel parking lot, grateful that I had recently sold my sinfully red BMW and bought a car more fitting for a woman of my persuasion. The Reverend Richard Nixon lives in a trailer adjacent to the church, and his was the only other car in the lot. The minuscule congregation often has weeknight meetings, but this obviously was not the case tonight. Therefore I felt no compunction about imposing myself on the scene. The last time I barged into the church, I found the good reverend on his knees, cleaning the floor with Murphy Oil Soap.

  The door was again unlocked. I opened it wide enough to insert my horsey head and peered around. Sure enough, the good man was on his knees again, but there was no aroma of cleaning solution.

  “I beseech thee, Lord,” I heard him say. “Have mercy on me, a sinner.”

  “Reverend,” I called softly, wishing not to intrude, but to make my presence known. “Reverend.”

  He looked up, scanning the low soundboard ceiling. In moments of religious fervor, he’s been known to bump it with his head. Still, the reverend, who takes things even more literally than I do, must have assumed that God was always above.

  “Lord,” he called, “is that you?”

  “Not unless the Lord is a woman,” I said.

  “You’re a woman, Lord?” At some point the reverend had gotten too much Murphy Oil Soap in his ears.

  “Would that be so bad?” I know—it’s a sin to impersonate the Lord, but as long as I repented before the moment of truth, what did it really matter?

  “I knew it,” the reverend cried. “I knew you were a woman. All that attention to detail in creation, the way you’re able to multitask—I just knew it!”

  I gasped. I’d only been joking, and it was wrong of me to do so. Everyone knows that God is a man—well, not a man, exactly, but definitely male. The Bible quite clearly calls the Lord a “He.” Says so right there in the King James Version. And anyway, if God was a she, She would have given men menstrual periods.

  “Shame on you, Reverend. I am not the Lord— although Gabe has been known to call me a goddess. Of course I discourage that kind of talk.”

  “Magdalena, it’s only you.” The poor man’s disappointment was palpable. Imagine, if you will, the disappointment some Baptists feel when they get to Heaven and discover that they’re not the only ones there.

  “Reverend, since I happened to find you on the job, I’d like to have a moment of your time, if I may.” Reverend Nixon sighed and struggled to his feet. It was like watching a foal take its first steps.

  “Magdalena, there is no denying you this request, is there?”

  “Not if you want a peaceful night’s sleep.” He was free to interpret that anyway he wished.

  “Then, please, sit. I will stand, if you don’t mind.”

  “By all means.” With limbs that long, I’d be loath to reposition them too.

  He waited until I’d settled my bony butt, as best I could, on the hard oak bench. “So, what is troubling you now?”

  “Now? It’s not like I come running to you every little whipstitch.”

  “You come enough times,” he said.

  “Maybe, but this time I haven’t come to ask your advice; I’ve come to question you.”

  “Me?” He seemed genuinely surprised, which meant he was either a very good bar—not uncommon among men of the cloth, I’m afraid—or as innocent as that newborn foal.

  “Reverend, did you know Colonel Custard had been murdered?”

  Again, there was the distressed look of innocence brought up short. “You mean he’s dead?”

  “Deader than that skunk near my house.”

  “How?”

  “A bullet to the head.”

  “Self-inflicted?”

  “Definitely not. The entry hole was small and uniformly round, meaning the gun had to be fired from more than an arm’s length away—unless, of course, one had arms as long as yours. Which the colonel didn’t.”

  He nodded. “Did this happen at the PennDutch?”

  “You guessed it.”

  He looked me straight in the eyes. “And you think maybe I did it?”

  I prefer shifty and canny to mournful and sincere. “Well, uh—it is possible you have a motive.”

  “Because I am against the big hotel? Magdalena, that will only bring sin to Hernia.”

  “And perhaps a wider road.”

  I hate feeling sympathy for a suspect, but the poor man looked so disconsolate, I wanted to hug him. Fortunately I’m genetically disinclined to hug anyone, even a close relative.

  “Yes,” I said, “I know all about the easement violation.”

  He looked down at his feet. His shoes were in need of a good polishing, so I looked away.

  “It was an honest mistake,” he said. “This church was built by members, you see. We got a building permit and everything, and of course we had to have the county inspector come out—but he only came out once, just when we were getting started. Then we made a slight adjustment to our plans—I know we shouldn’t have—but it put us over the line, something we didn’t realize until we were done.

  “Magdalena, this has caused many a sleepless night, and not just for me. We have prayed about it many times, and many times we have come close to telling the authorities, but...” He sounded like he was walking away from me in the Allegheny Tunnel.

  “But you thought you would take your chances?”

  He hung his head, his long chin resting on the Windsor knot in his polyester tie. Clergy in Hernia do not wear Roman collars.

  “They said the road would never be widened—not in our lifetime. Who wants to go to Hernia, except for those people already living there?”

  I nodded. It’s been said that Hernia, because of its remoteness, will be the last place to experience the Second Coming.

  “I understand your predicament, Reverend, but surely the zoning board would have made an exception.”

  “Not at the time. The commissioner wasn’t happy about giving us a permit to begin with. Thought we were a bunch of weirdos, I guess, on account of our name.”

  “Which you must admit is a little long.”

  He said nothing.

  “But catchy,” I added.

  “Magdalena, as time passed we found ourselves in a situation we couldn’t easily explain. It got to the point where it seemed wiser to do nothing. But that wasn’t the right thing, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m guilty of lying by omission, but I am not”—he dragged each word out, as if they would be his last three—“guilty of murder. That’s one of the big ten, you know.”

  “Indeed, it is.” There was no point in reminding him that some folks would consider him guilty of breaking the ninth commandment. Besides, those folks would be wrong. That one commands us not to bear false testimony against our neighbors—as in lying about them in a court case. It has nothing whatsoever to do with everyday fibs, and the Pennsylvania Department of Tran
sportation was certainly not the good reverend’s neighbor.

  “What are you going to do?” he finally asked.

  “Go home and go to bed.”

  “I mean, what are you going to do about this—uh—situation?”

  “I’m not.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “But you will. Tomorrow you will go to the zoning board—it’s in the Bedford County Courthouse—and explain your situation. Speak to a woman named Claire, if you can. It was an honest mistake, and if you present it as such, you may just get a slap on the wrist. In my opinion—for what it’s worth—the worst they will do is levy a small fine.”

  “They won’t make us move the church?”

  I shrugged. “I can’t imagine that they would, but I’m not in any position to make promises. Still, the sooner you fess up, the better off you’ll be.”

  He grabbed my hand and squeezed. It felt like I was being mauled by artichokes.

  “Thank you, Magdalena. Thank you. If you weren’t engaged to that doctor fellow, I’d—well, he’s a lucky man.”

  I allowed myself the pleasure of a brief fantasy. There is nothing wrong with that, as long as you don’t take it too far. Mrs. Richard Nixon had a certain ring to it—or would that be the Reverend Mrs. Richard Nixon? That was even better. Fortunately my fantasy ran out of steam on its own just when I got to the point of imagining us doing the horizontal hootchy-kootchy. It would be like wrestling with a pile of telephone poles, and a gal could get seriously hurt.

  The reverend was oblivious to my thoughts, thanks to the beauty of the human mind. Or perhaps he may have been having similar thoughts. After all, many clergymen I’ve met—Reverend Schrock excluded—have a randy side. At any rate, when I left, Richard Nixon was relaxed and smiling. He had his snug little trailer to retire to, maybe even dreams of me. I, on the other hand, faced the prospect of sleeping in an inn that was empty, except for two of the strangest people I’d encountered in almost a decade of inn-keeping.

  “Pray for me,” were my parting words.

  17

  I said my prayers before going to bed. As usual, I started off with The Lord’s Prayer. Then I took the liberty of asking the Good Lord to hold off giving my sister Susannah any babies until He was sure Melvin Stoltzfus was the one and only man for her—hopefully sometime after the twelfth of never—and until she stopped carrying a pooch around in her bra. Even then, unless my nephew or niece was very tiny, he or she was not going to get a comfy ride. I prayed that Gabe the Babe would see the light, but not be blinded like Saul of Tarsus. I requested blessings for Freni and family, imploring the Lord to compel Freni to return to work as soon as possible, and to help Alison deal with her adjustment to a new school.

  Finally I prayed for myself “I know I’ve caused you a lot of trouble,” I whispered, “but if you help me solve the colonel’s murder, I promise not to bother—”

  The ringing of my bedside phone made me jump. On the outside chance AT&T had a satellite link with Heaven, I answered immediately. One of these days I was going to pay someone to pry my parsimonious fist open wide enough to spring for Caller ID.

  “Hello?”

  “Yoder, it’s about time.”

  “Good evening, Melvin.” Frankly, I was relieved it was merely the mantis, and not his Maker. “What can I do for you?”

  “What’s with all this false cheer, Yoder? Never mind. Where were you all night?”

  “The night has just begun, dear. And I’m home in bed, snug as a bug—”

  “Yoder, I don’t care if you’re hanging by your toes from the chandelier. I’ve been calling every five minutes for the last three hours—”

  “No, you haven’t. I’ve been home for half an hour, and the phone hasn’t rung once.”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Yoder. This is police business.”

  “Yah wohl, mein kommandant.”

  “You swearing at me in Dutch?”

  “I don’t swear, Melvin. That line is from an old TV show your wife watches. Brogan’s Heroes, or something like that. Now tell me, what is so important that it can’t wait until morning?”

  “Got me a preliminary autopsy report, that’s what.”

  I ordered both ears to listen, and propped a pillow behind my back. “And?”

  “The colonel was shot all right, but he’d been squeezed too.”

  “Squeezed?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. Squeezed, like a tube of toothpaste. The coroner said it was as though he’d been hugged or something—by somebody really strong. One rib was actually cracked. A few showed hairline fractures. Did you know he had a hairy chest, Yoder?”

  There is no point in trying to blow out a trick birthday cake candle. “I never saw his chest, Melvin. But I must say, this sounds a little—are you sure that’s what the coroner said?”

  “Yoder, I’m not stupid. I know English when I hear it. Anyway, we got ourselves a very interesting problem on our hands.”

  “I’ll say. Was he shot before, or after, he was squeezed?”

  “Uh—that’s not why I’m calling, Yoder. We got to get ourselves a posse together and hunt down this thing.”

  “Thing?”

  “Bigfoot, you idiot.”

  I sighed. “You’re not telling me that you think it was an ape man who killed the colonel, are you? Please, Melvin, tell me you’re not.”

  “Of course, Yoder. It’s as obvious as that nose on your face.”

  “You don’t need to be rude, dear. Ridiculous should be enough.”

  “It’s all around town, Yoder, or haven’t you heard?”

  “I’ve heard. I’ve also heard about the tooth fairy.”

  “Yoder, I don’t have time for this crap. Bigfoot is fact. You can read all about him on the Internet if you don’t believe me. Anyway, you’re wasting my time. We’re supposed to be putting a posse together. I was thinking that Jewish fellow of yours—”

  “His name is Gabriel. Dr. Gabriel Rosen, and he’s about to become your brother-in-law.”

  “Yeah, whatever. You think he knows how to handle a gun?”

  “I certainly hope not!”

  “Israelis know how to handle guns. He one of them by any chance?”

  “He’s from Manhattan. Before that, Connecticut.”

  “Is that a yes or a no, Yoder?”

  I’m sure there are doctors who hunt. Old Doc Shafor in Hernia used to hunt—before he mistook a gray SUV for an elephant. What he thought a pachyderm was doing in a Pennsylvania woods is beyond me. At any rate, I couldn’t imagine the Babester killing anything but time, or some character in the frankly tepid murder mysteries he tries to get published.

  “He knows how to handle a staple gun,” I said. “Oh, and a hot glue gun.”

  There was enough silence to allow me to adjust my pillow, which has a bad habit of slipping sideways. What I heard next was either static or Melvin thinking.

  “A staple gun is not going to penetrate all that fur,” he said finally, “but if he uses Krazy Glue in that gun, maybe your boyfriend can get enough on that thing, so that it gets stuck to a tree when we’re chasing him through the woods.”

  “And maybe tonight while you’re sleeping, Susannah will roll the rock off your brain, so that it has a chance to grow.” Okay, I admit it. That was not a Christian thing to say, but I’d asked to be delivered from temptation, not Melvin. That sin requires its own amendment.

  There was a blessed moment of peace while Melvin processed my remark. “Yoder, you just insulted me, didn’t you?”

  I prayed for patience. To my astonishment, the Lord must have answered that prayer.

  “Melvin,” I heard myself say, “there is no such thing as Bigfoot. You need to find out whether the colonel was shot first and crushed later, or the other way around. It may have a bearing on this case.”

  “Yoder, you’re wasting my time. I’ve got to get this posse together tonight, so we can start our search first thing in the morning. You think the Mishler brothers ar
e up to joining?”

  “They’re both blind, dear. Look, Melvin, if you persist with this posse idea, you’re going to shoot yourself in the foot—both literally and figuratively. When you don’t find your monster, you’re going to be the laughingstock of Bedford County, maybe even the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Then what will your chances be of winning a seat on the legislature? Because, Melvin dearest, if you don’t stop this nonsense at once, I’m going to remove myself from the case.

  Wash my hands like Pilate. Is that what you really want?”

  If silence was truly golden—and it is not, I assure you—I could have become an even richer woman. Finally, the miserable mantis moved his mandibles enough to mutter something almost intelligible.

  “What was that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “What was that, dear?”

  “Look, Yoder, keep doing what you’re doing.”

  “Does that mean you won’t be chasing hairy things in the woods?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that applies to the Stucky sisters,” I said. Agnes and Polenta Stucky are Veronica’s younger sisters—you know, the hairy gal who went off to Maine to be a logger.

  “You don’t think—” Melvin started to say, which proved that he obviously didn’t.

  “Don’t even go there, dear. I’ve known them since they were babies. Besides, they’ll shed again come spring. I’m going to hang up now and get some shut-eye. I suggest you do the same.”

  Melvin must have done what he was told, because he didn’t call back. Sleep, however, was not forthcoming. No sooner did I settle my bun into my pillow than the entire inn shook. For a second I thought I was experiencing my first earthquake.

  “And if I die before I wake,” I cried, “I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Of course it was silly of me to add that partial prayer, because I had yet to fall asleep. And if it was an earthquake, lying in bed was not the right thing to do.

  The house shook again, and I realized that what I was hearing were thuds coming from upstairs. I sat up, my blood pressure having already reached a dangerous level.