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

by Tamar Myers

  “But more funds would mean a new copy machine. From what I hear Odelphia still can’t get all the marks off it, thanks to Donald Sidewaller trying to take a picture of his derriere.”

  “Magdalena, you don’t get it. Like I said at the meeting, new kids mean new ways. Some of those new ways are just superficial, like the body jewelry your Alison wears. But believe me, next we’ll be dealing with pregnancy, drugs, maybe even AIDS. Is this what you want for our community?”

  I’d been looking him in the eyes, but had to suddenly look away. The man was crying, for Pete’s sake. Tears the size of olives were forcing their way through stretched ducts. The once middle-American face of Herman Middledorf was red and contorted beyond recognition.

  I let him blubber for a minute or two. Trying to get coherent words from him at this stage was a waste of both of our times. I even lent him a wad of semi-clean tissues from my left bra cup, the side of me least in need.

  Herman used the tissues well. When he was quite through blowing and honking, a small flock of Canada geese had gathered in the school yard—but I digress.

  “Herman, dear, what on earth has gotten you so worked up? Oh—you really were using that computer for naughty purposes, weren’t you?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “Honestly, I wasn’t! Magdalena, it’s just that I’m afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  Before he could respond he required some of the tissues from my right cup. I was happy to comply. One hates to be unbalanced.

  “Magdalena, I’m Herman Middledorf.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m a nobody—just a principal of a small southern Pennsylvania secondary school. We have grades seven through twelve under one roof for crying out loud.”

  “Again, dear, what’s your point?”

  “If that hotel had been built, if that led to a population explosion like everyone has been predicting, then we’d need a new high school, right?”

  “Quite possibly—oh, I see. You were afraid you’d have no place in this city of the future. Am I right?”

  “I wasn’t made for big cities, Magdalena. I wasn’t made for high-stress jobs. I’m Herman Middledorf remember?”

  “Indeed, I do.” My better nature felt an impulse to reach out and hug him, to tell him that I thought he was capable of any challenge the Good Lord threw his way. It is not my fault that five hundred years of Swiss in-breeding left me incapable of physically touching him, and barely capable of uttering words of comfort. Still, I did my best.

  “There, there,” I said. “We don’t even have to think about such a thing now that the colonel is dead.”

  He sniffed back a glob of something that could have buried Pittsburgh. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for coming by, Magdalena. I feel better just talking to you.”

  I said good-bye and stepped back into the antechamber, where Alison’s eyes screamed a question at me. I gave her a thumbs-up before sauntering over to Odelphia Pringle’s desk.

  Any fear I’d had of the woman, I’d left behind with the facial tissues. In fact, she looked afraid of me.

  I leaned over her desk so I wouldn’t have to shout into the ears that had heard baby Moses gurgle among the bulrushes.

  “Check in on Herman now and then, dear. Take a special peek at his computer screen. If you see anything that looks in the least bit naughty, call me.”

  She gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing. Then I turned on my narrow, but hairless, heels and literally skipped from the office.

  Thanks to my persistence, and Herman’s outburst, there was one less suspect on my fist. But two steps out into the hallway, I tripped by snagging my right heel on my left big toe and fell flat on my face. Fortunately, I wasn’t hurt. However, a superstitious Magdalena might have taken this unexpected spill as a portent of things to come.

  20

  Lemon-Scented Flan

  Whether it’s flan in Spain and Mexico, creme caramel renversee in France, or caramel custard in America, it’s all the same soothing egg custard cloaked with an amber caramel sauce. This recipe can easily be halved.

  1½ cups sugar

  1 cup water

  4 cups milk

  1 2-inch strip of lemon zest

  4 large eggs

  1 2-inch piece of vanilla bean, split and cut in half

  6 large egg yolks

  Preheat oven to 350° F.

  Combine 1 cup sugar and the water in a heavy saucepan. Caramelize the sugar over medium-high heat until light golden. Immediately pour into an ungreased 1‘/2-quart mold, quickly tilting the mold to completely cover the bottom and sides. Set aside to cool.

  In another pan, combine the milk, remaining sugar, vanilla bean, and lemon zest. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat; lower the heat and simmer for about IS minutes, or until the milk reduces to about 3 cups.

  Set aside to cool. Remove the vanilla bean and lemon zest.

  Gently beat together the eggs and yolks. With a wooden spoon, stir in the cooled milk just until blended. Strain into the mold and bake in a bain-marie for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a sharp knife inserted near the center comes out clean.

  Let cool on a rack for 1 hour. Cover and refrigerate until well chilled, at least 4 hours. To unmold, quickly dip the mold in hot water, then invert onto a large serving dish. Slice, and spoon some sauce over each portion.

  SERVES 10 TO 12

  21

  A hunch from a woman is worth two facts from a man. Thist me on this. While I don’t go in for fortune-telling and crystal balls, I believe we should each listen to our inner voice—just as long as what it’s telling us is not a sin.

  When I left the high school my inner voice was shouting at me. “Go back to the inn, Magdalena! Go back now!”

  But I had no reason to return home. I’d fed the chickens, Alison was safely in school, and I certainly had not left the stove on. Lollygagging about the inn would be a waste of time, especially since I wasn’t expecting any new guests to fill my coffers. Now that is a sin. Nevertheless, I pointed my car in the direction of home, and even though it didn’t make a lick of sense, it felt right.

  With no particular reason for being there, I ambled into the kitchen, poured myself a tall glass of fresh milk, and sat at the scarred wooden table to drink it. I eat very little meat, and my cholesterol is as low as Melvin’s IQ, so I am one of the lucky few who can indulge in the full-fat version without a twinge of guilt. Milk with a blue ring is not for me.

  Mama used to scold me if I blew bubbles in my milk. For that very reason I sipped my milk through a straw, stopping every now and then to fill the glass with froth. It was during one of my bubble breaks that I heard the strange sound.

  At first I thought it was a cat meowing. A Siamese cat, to be exact. That breed has a loud, distinctive voice, and there is no mistaking it for another. As jumping to conclusions is my best sport, I immediately pinned this one on Mama. Believe me, Yoder women are quite capable of interfering from beyond the grave.

  “Okay,” I wailed, “I won’t blow any more bubbles, but no fair making cat noises. You know how much it hurt to give up Little Freni when I took in Alison.”

  Mama showed no mercy and the meowing continued. To spite her, I blew even harder—until the most fantastic thought permeated my pumpkin head. Perhaps that really wasn’t Mama I heard, but an actual cat. Could it possibly even be Little Freni? After all, I read stories of felines with amazing homing instincts. One, I think, had traveled a thousand miles to rejoin its human family. In contrast, Little Freni’s new home was only a few miles away.

  My mood shifted abruptly from self-pity to utter joy. “Little Freni,” I cried, “I’m on my way!” I knocked over the chair in my haste and thundered up my impossibly steep stairs in record time.

  At the top landing I had to pause for a few seconds, because my breathing was so loud I couldn’t hear my baby’s meows. When I heard them again, I had no doubt they were coming from Miss Anne Thrope’s room.

 
; By now I fully expected to scoop a furry bundle of joy into my arms and smother it with kisses. Therefore I was stunned when the following scene greeted my eager eyes.

  The room looked like I’d rented it to a fraternity party for the night. Everything was topsy-turvy. My genuine imitation mahogany veneer bedside table was on the floor, the Pottery Barn Chinese vase lamp smashed to smithereens. Even the sheets and quilt had been pulled off the bed.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor was the gentle giant Ivan Yetinsky. In his massive arms he cradled the limp body of Miss Anne Thrope. The man was beside himself with grief and was sobbing so hard I feared he might be holding back Lake Meade with his bulging eyes. Should one of them pop, I’d be swept back down the stairs like a piece of driftwood.

  “What happened?” I demanded.

  He burbled something unintelligible; it was barely more than a meow.

  I approached and searched for a pulse. As I suspected, there was none.

  I decided to give Ivan a moment of privacy and called my idiot brother-in-law from the downstairs phone. I realize that is an uncharitable way to refer to him, but someday when I’m retired and have nothing else to do, I’ll repent of that sin. Melvin actually made me spell the word “dead” over the phone. Then he had the audacity to tell me there was no a in it.

  After hanging up on the doofus, I hoofed it back up-stairs to comfort Ivan. I should have remembered that praying mantises have wings and are capable of flight, because I barely had time to trot out the “there, there’s,” when I heard the squeal of tires on Hertzler Road, followed by the ping of gravel in my driveway. Seconds later Melvin and his sidekick squeezed through the door together like children called for dessert.

  There is no limit to the duo’s ineptness. They both had their pistols drawn, and from Zelda’s free hand dangled a pair of cuffs.

  “Freeze!” Melvin shouted.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Melvin,” I said quietly.

  “Stand back, Yoder.”

  “But Melvin—”

  “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to—”

  “At least a modicum of common sense?” I asked. Because Melvin’s eyes operate independently of each other, he is incapable of a full-strength glare. Still, he gave me the fifty percent job with his left orb.

  “Do you want that I should arrest you too, Yoder?”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Obstruction of justice.”

  “How am I obstructing justice?”

  “By yapping, Yoder.” He waved his gun at Ivan like it was a laser pointer. “The man is as guilty as Cain. Look, he’s still holding the victim.”

  “Melvin—dear,” I said, struggling with my tongue, “if Mr. Yetinsky had wanted, he could have bolted when he saw me. In fact, he could have killed me too. That way there wouldn’t have been any witnesses.”

  Zelda teetered forward. “This kind of thing happens all the time, Magdalena. Why just this morning I was reading in the paper about a woman in Philadelphia who killed her husband, called the police, and then sat with the body until they arrived.”

  “Yes, but I called the police, not Mr. Yetinsky.”

  She frowned, sending flakes of her makeup floating to the floor. “You can be so particular, Magdalena.”

  “I think the correct word is ‘responsible.’ ”

  “Whatever.”

  “Yoder,” Melvin said through clenched mandibles, “either shut up or leave the room.”

  There was no sense in trying to reason with them. In general two heads may be better than one, but even a cabbage could outwit Chief Stoltzfus and his sidekick. Not having a cabbage with me, I decided to appeal to Melvin’s higher authority. But first I addressed my higher authority and said a silent prayer on the deceased’s behalf

  Susannah and Melvin live in a modest aluminum house on the south side of Hernia, as far away from me as one can get and still reside within the town limits. This is a new neighborhood of blue-collar folks, and bears the lofty but nonsensical name of Foxcroft. In my dictionary a croft is either a small, enclosed field adjoining a house, or a small farm worked by tenants. It has nothing to do with rows of identical homes on postage-stamp lots.

  As usual, it took me forever to find the right house. All the streets have foxy names and her number, 66, is so small one needs a pair of good binoculars to spot it from the street. Alas, I’d neglected to bring my pair with me. I made two complete circuits each of Foxhaven, Foxmoor, and Foxmoss before spotting a telltale strip of red at one of the windows. Susannah’s living room drapes are the color of fresh blood, and the neighborhood association made her line them with white. But Susannah, being who she is, keeps one edge turned outward so that a sliver of red shows—if you are approaching from the right direction. This is not just an act of defiance, but helps Melvin and Susannah find their home as well.

  I found Susannah at home, wrestling with a bolt of cloth (at least that’s what it looked like to me), but it took only a second for my sister’s thoughts to turn from fabric to jewelry. Not the most subtle of folks, she feigned blindness.

  “Get that away from me, Mags. I’D tell the truth—just don’t shine that light in my eyes.”

  “Very funny, Susannah.” I wiggled my ring finger, sending rainbows dancing across the small room. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “If you like that gaudy sort of thing.”

  That from a woman who wears lime green plastic san- dais with her fuchsia chiffon. I should have known she’d be jealous, and broken news of the engagement ring to her gently. The microscopic diamond Melvin gave her has so many inclusions it looks more like an old dental filling than a gem.

  “It’s a little large,” I conceded.

  “A little? Sarah Hughes couldn’t even skate across that thing without getting tired. Mags, you know you’re going to get flak from the church ladies.”

  That was for sure. Mama hadn’t even been allowed a ring with a stone in her day.

  “What can I say, Susannah, Gabe is a very generous man.”

  “I’ll say. Once I saw a ring just like that in a jewelry store in Pittsburgh. It cost over twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Get out of town!” I was shocked, but pleased as well. I had the feeling Gabe could afford a ring like that, but he could have gotten away with much less.

  “Susannah, do you think Mama would disapprove—if she were here today, I mean?”

  “She’s probably turning over in her grave right now.” I found myself smiling. “Now, tell me about these bolts of cloth. What did you do, rob a fabric store?” There were at least a dozen unrolled bolts of cloth draped over the couch, living room chairs, and dining room suite. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought I was staring at the contents of an exploded fabric store.

  “I got these from the Material Girl up in Bedford.”

  “You bought all these?”

  “Don’t be silly, Mags. They’re on loan until I make up mind.”

  “About what?”

  “A new outfit to wear to Melvin’s inaugural dinner.”

  “He’s running for President now?”

  “No, silly. But when he’s elected to the legislature, we’re going to have a special dinner. We’re even going to invite you and Gabe.”

  “How very generous of you.”

  Sarcasm is wasted on Susannah. “Of course, you’re going to get a new outfit too, right?”

  “I am?”

  “No offense, Mags, but you still dress like Mama. And those shoes—they’re like major clodhoppers.”

  “They’re comfy,” I sniffed. Until Gabe complained, I wasn’t about to trade comfort for fashion.

  “Well, I’m wearing black, velvet-covered stilettos. Got them for only $12.99 at Payless. But I can’t decide which of these bolts is prettier, this hot pink silk or that royal blue over there on the chair.”

  “Definitely the royal.”

  “But it’s polyester.”

  “There’s nothing wron
g with that—especially if you have a little cotton mixed in with it to help it breathe.” Although frankly, Susannah’s outfits don’t need any help breathing. The diaphanous material she generally uses has less substance than gauze, and the pulsating pooch in her bosom offers ample proof that life can exist within her ensembles.

  “You don’t get it, Mags. If I’m going to be a congress-man’s wife, I need to set a good example.”

  “Your point, dear?”

  “I was reading this article about the endangered poly-ester bush. They grow only on Madagascar, you know, and polyester seedpods—that’s where they get polyester from—can only be harvested from wild bushes. The article said there has been a bad drought for the last three years, and unless—”

  “Susannah, dear, there is no such thing as a polyester bush. Polyester is made from esters, which—”

  “Mags, I was yanking your chain. Just like you were doing to those reporters.”

  I swallowed. It was not a mouthful of guilt, but surprise. Who knew she’d even heard of Madagascar?

  “Ah, the Bigfoot articles,” I said. “Has Melvin seen them?”

  “No. But when he does, you know he’ll go ballistic.”

  “You’re right. When I saw him a few minutes ago he was merely his usual incompetent, irritating self.”

  Susannah has thrown a few tantrums in my presence over the years. The standard procedure is for her eyes to roll back while she stamps her feet and waves her arms like a symphony conductor. Often there’s a good deal of cursing involved—thanks to that Presbyterian first husband of hers. Now, however, she was standing with both feet on the ground, her arms to her sides, and her irises fully exposed. When she spoke it was in hushed tones that sent chills up my bony spine.

  “That bit about him being the father of your—I mean, Bigfoot’s—child was going too far.”

  “It was a joke, dear. No one really believes those rags.”

  “Like I said, Mags, you still don’t get it. This could lose Melvin the election if people don’t take him seriously.”