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

by Tamar Myers

  “Deal. Now, be a dear and go fetch Gabriel.”

  Die Babester knew better than to ask about my con-versation with Wanda. We made small talk until the meal arrived, and before long we’d fortified ourselves to the point where I could afford to risk an abrupt end to the dining experience.

  “Gabe, I’ve been thinking that maybe this ring, beautiful as it is, might be a bit too much.”

  By the look on his face, I may as well have said that it was not Zelda Root, but I, who was Jimmy Hoffa in disguise. He dropped his fork, and since he’s a slower eater, tiny drops of egg yolk splattered his crisp blue shirt.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I love it. But it’s not really me.”

  His dark brown eyes fixed on my watery blue ones. “It’s not you, or it’s not what others think you should be wearing?”

  “Maybe both. But in this community, in my culture, to some extent they’re both the same.”

  “I see.” He sure sounded like he didn’t.

  “Which doesn’t mean that I don’t want a ring—I just want one that’s a little less fancy.”

  I could see at once that he’d misinterpreted what I’d said, because his eyes softened and he gave me a glimpse of his trademark pearlies. “But you still want to get married?”

  “More than ever.” I meant it.

  He grabbed my left hand, and then gently removed the ring. “Hon, you’re one in a million, you know that?”

  “Is that all?”

  “You’re one in a billion. I can’t believe my good luck in finding you. As it happens, I’m going into Pittsburgh on Friday, so I’ll exchange this for something a little more modest.”

  “But not too modest.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Gotcha. And I’m bringing back something else for you too.”

  “What?” I hate surprises. Perhaps that all started with the birth of Susannah, which came as a total surprise. One would think that an eleven-year-old girl would have some inkling her mother was pregnant, but not yours truly. Of course back in those days women didn’t get pregnant; they got in the “family way.” Since Mama was always in my way, blocking my every move, I didn’t think anything of it. Yes, she did put on some extra weight, but on a woman her size it was hardly noticeable.

  When the bawling, red-faced Susannah arrived, I was told by Granny Yoder that the baby had been plucked from under a head of cabbage (this was years before my seed talk with Mama). The very next day, while everyone was preoccupied with the demanding brat, I went out to the vegetable garden and poisoned all the cabbages with weed killer. I checked under each one first, so as not to be guilty of infanticide, but yes, I was an early believer in birth control.

  Gabe loves surprises. “I’m not saying another word, except that you’re going to love this one.”

  A big cock, an ostentatious ring—I dreaded this surprise already. “Not even a hint?”

  “None whatsoever.” He got up, and before leaving planted a smooch on my mug that might have gotten him halfway to second base under the right circumstances, or at least a commitment from me to take dancing lessons. “Gotta go, hon,” he said, tearing himself away. “You be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  Gabe knew better than to answer with the truth. Sometimes caution has to be thrown to the wind, and I seem to experience more than my share of breezy days.

  The first dangerous thing I did after Gabe left was to order another rasher of bacon. Of course this one I had to pay for, but it was worth it. And if Melvin had had the sense to add me to his official payroll, I could have charged it as a business expense, because my waitress this time was Dorothy, who, as it happens, is my cousin Sam’s niece by marriage.

  “Can I get you anything else, sweetie?” she asked. Sweetie? This from an urchin who was barely older than my Alison? I gave her my biggest, warmest smile. It is always a risk, because exposing my chompers has been known to scare horses. Although on one occasion it made a stallion amorous.

  “A little more coffee when you have a minute, dear. But no rush. I’m more interested in hearing what you have to say about Wanda’s you-know-what.”

  Dorothy slipped into the seat Gabe had vacated. She’s a mere wisp of a girl, so I knew it wasn’t because she needed to sit.

  “There ain’t no need to worry, Miss Yoder. I was a- scared of that thing too, but it ain’t never fallen. She’s got it pinned up with, like, a million bobby pins. Although one time a little dog got into it, which you’d think was kinda strange, except this—oh, that’s right, you know all about that. The dog belongs to your sister, Mrs. Stoltzfus.”

  “The you-know-what I was referring to, dear, was not her hairdo.” I waggled my eyebrows, which are, alas, pale and scant. “I’m talking about why she was late to work yesterday and had to get you to open.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Cousin Magdalena knows everything.” I tried winking this time. Although that gesture has provoked laughter among two-legged mammals, it has never caused equids to stampede—or come on to me, for that matter.

  Dorothy giggled. “Can you imagine taking piano les-sons when you’re that old?”

  “What?”

  “It ain’t like she’s gonna get famous like you and be on TV or nothing. Or in them papers.”

  I decided that was a compliment. “Wanda takes piano lessons?”

  “Every week, Tuesday mornings at eight. Man, now that I’m out of high school I don’t never get up that early—well, except for Tuesdays, of course, ’cause that’s when she makes me open. Gotta get my butt outta bed and be down by six to let the fry cooks in.”

  I shook my head in disbelief “Why are the piano les-sons such a big secret? Is she embarrassed? I mean, a lot of adults take piano lessons.”

  Dorothy shrugged. “Whatever. But Wanda thinks it’s a big deal. If she knew I was telling you this, she’d kill me. Perhaps I was getting distracted. “Why can’t the fry cooks let themselves in?”

  “Geesh, you’re kidding, right? Nah, I can see you ain’t. Well, because they ain’t as responsible as me.”

  My head was spinning, which often happens after I’ve had a vigorous workout of jumping to conclusions. But this time I’d only been gullible and swallowed a pack of lies.

  “Your boss,” I growled, “told me she was having an affair with a twenty-three-year-old African-American and—”

  “Leroy?”

  “He’s the one.”

  “He ain’t her boyfriend; he’s mine—which is so not anybody’s business. You’d think I robbed a bank or something, when all I did was fall in love with someone of a different color.”

  I was shocked. Why hadn’t I heard this piece of gossip? Was I that far out of the loop? Was I losing my touch? No, it had to be because this Dorothy, being the niece of Sam’s Dorothy, was a Methodist and lived in Bedford. Had the girl been a Mennonite, or even just a Hernian, I would have been among the first to pass along this juicy tidbit.

  Not knowing what to say, I switched subjects. “Where does Wanda take these piano lessons?”

  “From Miss Quiring. She used to be the music teacher at the high school.”

  “I know her well. She was there when I attended.”

  “No kidding! She must be, like, really ancient.”

  I gave Dorothy the evil eye and picked up another slice of bacon. “Are these lessons at the high school?”

  “Nah, at Miss Quiring’s house. Wanda says it smells like the inside of a birdcage.”

  I sighed. To get from the Sausage Barn to the retired teacher’s house, one takes Highway 96 until it hits Augsburger Road, and then one makes a sharp left onto Schwartzentruber. One does not pass my house—not unless one is male and therefore refuses to read his map or ask for directions.

  “Well, dear, you’ve been very helpful, and the bacon was just right. You can count on a nice tip. And speaking of tips, here’s a little free advice. If you’re sure Leroy is the right man for you, then ignore the gossip an
d criticism. However, if you’re involved with him just for the shock value—maybe to give your parents a hard time—then it’s not a good thing, and you’re just using him.”

  “Miss Yoder, I love Leroy with all my heart. It wouldn’t matter what color he was.”

  “Then stick to your guns.”

  She blinked. “I don’t have a gun, Miss Yoder.”

  “What I meant was, hang in there, or whatever it is you young people say these days.”

  “Thanks.” She got up and looked both ways down the narrow aisle. “Oh, and there’s no charge for the extra bacon. Just don’t say anything to Wanda.”

  You can be sure that Dorothy got a fat tip. You can also be sure that I did not go straight to Miss Quiring’s house.

  27

  The First and Only True Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah is barely more than a link’s throw from the Sausage Barn. Two tosses at the most. When the wind is right, the smell of bacon, pork patties, and authentic imitation maple syrup all vie for one’s olfaction. Despite this onslaught of odors, members of this sect refrain from eating on Sunday mornings until after the three-hour service—which, come to think of it, might be why there are so few of them. This might also help to explain why, until recently, the small building had no windows.

  Of course my object was not to sniff the air, but to check out the color of the reverend’s car. I’d seen it a million times, and my recollection was that it was black. But that was before I had any real reason to notice. It could well be a dark navy. After all, Ivan Yetinsky had said that his form of color blindness made it hard for him to distinguish shades.

  Much to my relief the reverend’s car was as black as sin—well, those parts that weren’t being consumed by rust. I would have wheeled right on out of there, headed for Miss Quiring’s, had I not noticed that the door to his trailer was open.

  While I’d been inside the church with thirty-two names on numerous occasions, I had never had as much as a peek into the bachelor preacher’s living quarters. They say curiosity killed the cat, but since I didn’t have one anymore, what did a little snooping hurt?

  “Knock, knock!” I called cheerily, although I didn’t dare do any actual knocking, because the mobile home was nearly as rusty as the car.

  No one answered, so I climbed the rickety wooden steps and poked my horsey head through the door. Boy, was I in for a surprise.

  On either side of the entrance, cartons of canned food were stacked to the ceiling. They formed a corridor that made a ninety-degree left turn about six feet into the trailer. The corridor of cans—and they covered all the food groups, from SPAM Lite to diced pears in heavy syrup—led to the far end of the trailer. Every now and then there would be an entrance to a tiny room entirely lined with boxes of food. Inside these rooms were tables and chairs, sofas or beds, just like the ones you might find in a regular room, except they were jammed closer together due to the lack of space. I know all this, of course, because I gave myself the grand tour.

  It wasn’t until the very last room, at the end of the corridor, that the construction material changed from food to dry goods. That entire wall was built from toilet tissue rolls, the ones that come packaged together by fours. That door was closed.

  “Knock, knock,” I cried cheerily again.

  The door swung open so fast and with such force that the paper wall wobbled. For a second I feared being smothered by an avalanche of Scott double-ply.

  “Magdalena!” The good reverend was as pale as the paper around him.

  “The front door was open, so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His expression made it clear that he did, even though Richard Nixon is a kindly man who wouldn’t hurt my feelings for all the hygiene products in the world. He pointed down the narrow hall.

  “The latch needs to be fixed, and I don’t usually lock it during the day. Anyway, my sitting room is down there. Come, please, be my guest.”

  He squeezed past me and led me to the first room, which was arranged as a parlor. A very cramped one, of course. The furniture had been through the Goodwill outlet in Bedford at least once—I think I recognized the end table as something I donated—but one hardly noticed its vintage or wear. It was the walls that grabbed your attention.

  The one in front of me contained cans of baby peas, baby peas with onions, both fingerling and sliced carrots, whole-leaf spinach and chopped, tomato sauce with and without onions, tuna fish in oil and spring water, jars of applesauce with cinnamon and without, as well as jars of both creamy and crunchy peanut butter.

  “It’s almost like Noah’s ark,” I said. “There’s two of each, but they’re not quite the same.”

  The reverend smiled. “That’s to give me a little variety.”

  “Reverend, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but that’s an awful lot of food for one person.”

  “It’s supposed to last a year, Magdalena.”

  “Still, that’s a lot. I couldn’t eat that in a year—although I probably could use all that toilet paper.”

  “Well, it’s not all just for me. There are some in the church who do not put aside the required food.”

  “Required? Reverend, what’s the story?”

  “It’s in your Bible, Magdalena. The Book of Revelations.”

  “I believe there’s no 5 on the end—” I slapped my mouth for having corrected a man of the cloth. “Reverend, does it mention stockpiling enough food to feed an army?”

  “It talks about the end times, Magdalena. The day of wrath. Do you think the Giant Eagle in Bedford—or even your cousin Sam’s little market—will stay open then?”

  I shrugged. The Book of Revelation has always made me uncomfortable, and not because I don’t feel assured of my salvation. I do. But whereas I view this collection of writings as allegorical, people like Richard Nixon take them literally. I fear that my opinion may be in the minority.

  “Believe me, Magdalena, when the time comes, those who haven’t planned ahead will wish they had.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Reverend.” It was time to change the subject. “Did you go to the zoning commission like I suggested? Did you speak to Claire?”

  “Yes, and I want to thank you. I’ve been sleeping much better since then. In fact, that’s what I was doing just now.”

  “Sorry, Reverend, didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “That’s all right, Magdalena. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  “So what happened? No punishment of any kind?”

  He bit his lip. It was obvious he was thinking twice before speaking, a habit I would do well to learn—although it would leave me a very dull gal.

  “Come on, Reverend, spit it out. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “They fined us fifty thousand dollars.”

  “They what?”

  “That was at first. But the Lord provides, Magdalena. I was able to talk them down to twenty.”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Reverend, but is the Lord going to provide that as well?”

  He looked like he wanted to crawl under the WalMart-via-Goodwill coffee table in front of him. “ ‘And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him,’ ” he said, quoting Romans 8:28. “In other words, Magdalena, whatever happens is for the best.”

  That just so happens to be my least favorite Scripture verse—after the one that says “Wives, submit to your husbands.” I tried, but I just couldn’t keep my yammering yap shut.

  “Tell that to the mother over in Somerset whose two-year-old was crushed by the cement truck.” “Magdalena, what are you saying? Are you having a crisis of faith?”

  “Absolutely not,” I wailed. “But I don’t have to like everything in the Bible, do I?”

  His look said that I did.

  Rather than argue theology, I decided to help the Lord carry out His promise to the revere
nd. I took out my well-worn checkbook and scribbled out a two and four zeros. Before I get nominated for sainthood, it is only fair that I state, yet again, that I am a wealthy woman. I can afford to be generous. Besides, my accountant would find a way to make at least part of that sum tax deductible. Having said that, by the time I got to zero number four, I felt like I’d put my hand in a blender. It might be better to give than to receive, but that doesn’t mean that giving isn’t painful.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing him the check. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  He stared at the check with the same wide-eyed wonder with which I’d stared at Aaron Miller on our bogus wedding night. “Is this for real?”

  “That’s the same thing I said,” I cried.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Never mind, dear.”

  “Magdalena, how can I ever thank you?”

  “No need, dear. The expression on your face is enough.”

  “We’ll pay you back, I promise. We can work out a monthly—”

  “No need to do that either.” I glanced around the room with edible walls. “When the time comes, maybe you will let me have a couple of those cans. But not the peas. With them, it’s either fresh or nothing.”

  “You got it.”

  Having been promised food during the Apocalypse, I set out in earnest to visit its horsewoman—not mentioned in the Bible, by the way—Miss Quiring. Next to being chosen last in gym class, the music teacher had been what I hated most about school. In the tradition of Beethoven she was hard of hearing. There is, of course, nothing wrong with that, but it is quite wrong for a teacher to pull a student’s ears just because she can’t hear you.

  It wasn’t just my ears Miss Quiring pulled, but those of every student who passed through the doors of Hernia Elementary School. We arrived in the first grade looking like beatific cherubs, and graduated from the sixth grade resembling mules. Jack Rule, who broke every rule in school and perhaps deserved to have something pulled, was the only exception. By the time he entered the seventh grade, he looked like a jackrabbit on steroids.

  So it was with fear and trepidation that I rang Miss Quiring’s bell. I didn’t expect her to answer the door right away and had already made a fist, prepared to bang myself into her consciousness, when the door opened.