As the World Churns
Page 1
As the World Churns
OTHER PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH MYSTERIES
by Tamar Myers
Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary & Crime
No Use Dying Over Spilled Mik
Just Plain Pickled to Death
Between a Wok and a Hard Place
Eat, Drink, and Be Wary
Play It Again, Spam®
The Hand That Rocks the Ladle
The Crepes of Wrath
Gruel and Unusual Punishment
Custard’s Last Stand
Thou Shalt Not Grill
Assault and Pepper
Grape Expectations
Hell Hath No Curry
As the World Churns
A PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH MYSTERY WITH RECIPES
Tamar Myers
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Tamar Myers, 2008
All rights reserved
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Myers, Tamar.
As the world churns : a Pennsylvania Dutch mystery with recipes / Tamar Myers.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1191-5
1. Yoder, Magdalena (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 3. Cookery—Pennsylvania. 4. Pennsylvania Dutch Country (Pa.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.Y475A9 2008
813'.54—dc22 2007029577
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For Anne Bohner
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Shelagh Caudle, editor at www.ice-cream-recipes.com, for permission to use the scrumptious ice cream recipes. I would also like to thank my husband, Jeffrey, for all his encouragement and support; my dear friend Gwen Hunter for her friendship and inspiration; and, of course, my four-legged staff of three.
1
Not all men are created equal. I learned this fact while honeymooning with my second husband, the Babester, but I will leave the particulars to your imagination. Suffice it to say, whilst showering that evening, I threw back my head and burst into joyous song. Of course, I took care not to swallow too much water and drown like a turkey in a rainstorm.
“Oh, sweet mystery of life,” I trilled, “at last I’ve found you!”
“Hon, are you all right?”
“Right as rain! Never been better. Tut-tut, cheerio, and all that sort of rot.”
Gabe stuck his head into the tiny bathroom. Fortunately, the shower curtain was opaque.
“I thought maybe you’d hurt yourself.”
“No sirree, Bob. I am as fine as frog’s hair.”
“Boy, you sound happy.”
“Never happier. In fact, I was just thinking—”
“Just a second, hon, the phone’s ringing.”
“Let it ring. Ta-ling-a-ling-ling.”
“But it might be Ma.”
As my sweet baboo ran off to answer that stupid machine, my rare good mood dissipated like steam from a mirror. We’d been married for less than six hours and this was the second time my mother-in-law had called. Our wedding was supposed to have cut the apron strings that tied son to mother, but what good did that do when the two of them were joined at the hip? It was going to take a team of orthopedic surgeons to separate this pair.
“Tell your mother to take a long walk off a short pier, dear.” It’s all in the delivery, you see? Had my tone been any lighter, I might well have bumped my head on the ceiling, thereby adding to the dent that was already there. On the ceiling that is, not my head.
My dearly beloved must not have heard me. The walls of our Motel One (it charges by the hour) were sufficiently thin for me to hear his voice, but too thick to allow me to hear what was being said. Since he sounded agitated, I knew I’d been right: it was his mother. There are only two people in this world who can rattle my sweetykins: myself, and the woman who bore him.
I tried to dry off with the only towel, which was as thin as a facial tissue and not much larger. Finally I scooped up the bath mat, picked off a few hairs, and used that instead. After donning sensible Christian pajamas—flannel, and a good deal thicker than the towel—I slipped into my heavy terry robe and prepared to face the music.
“Okay, dear, let her rip.”
Gabe was off the phone by then and sitting on the bed, his back to the bathroom. His head was bowed, his face cupped in his hands. It was a typical post–Ida Rosen pose. Try saying that correctly three times in rapid success
ion. But beware: the prize for getting it right is a weeklong visit from the old badger herself.
I know, Jesus commanded us to love our enemies. But with all due respect, the Lord didn’t have a mother-in-law. Also in my defense, I’d like to add that I don’t hate Ida Rosen as much as she hates me. In fact, she despises me. Not only did I take her son away from her, but I refuse to lie down and let her run over me. Literally—with her car.
My handsome groom turned slowly. “Hon, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“But you promised,” I wailed. There are those who claim that only sirens are capable of wailing, but those folks have yet to meet me. “You said that we could have the first three days of our honeymoon all to ourselves. You said—”
“Babe, I’m sorry.”
I eschew cussing, but sometimes a gal has to do what a gal has to do. “Ding, dang, dong, blast it all! If you think I’m going to share our room with—”
“The call wasn’t from Ma; it was the warden from the state penitentiary.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sit down first.”
I waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, go on. Why would the warden be calling us? How did he even know we were here?”
“You left a contact number with Chief Ackerman, remember?”
“Yes, but it was for emergencies only.” Our little town has only one police officer—a young and inexperienced one at that. Since I am the mayor, we are frequently in touch.
“This is an emergency. Please, sit down.”
“No!”
He stood. “The warden said that Melvin is—uh—ah—”
“Spit it out, dang it!”
“Melvin is missing.”
“Missing how? You mean like playing hide-and-seek?”
“They don’t know. No one has seen him since lockdown last night.”
“What? That’s almost twenty-four hours ago.”
“The warden said he didn’t want to get us worried, and then have Melvin show up in the bottom of a laundry bag like last time.”
“He works in the laundry room, for crying out loud. He knows they check the outgoing bags.”
“Yes, but this is the same man who once tried to milk a bull. Am I right?”
I felt my chest imploding for want of oxygen. “Does this mean what I think it might?”
Gabe nodded somberly. “That son-of-a-twitch has escaped.”
The room swayed, then spun, and soon my poor brain couldn’t keep up with all the motion. I have a vague recollection of Gabriel lunging for me. Then all went black.
My full name is Magdalena Portulaca Yoder. And no, I did not take Rosen as my new surname. Neither did I wish to add it with a hyphen. Why should I? Plain old Yoder has been good enough for my family for hundreds of years. Besides, if Gabe truly desired a linguistic connection, he was quite free to adopt the name Yoder—which he didn’t.
At any rate, I am a simple Mennonite woman, whose ancestors were originally Amish settlers from Switzerland. The older of two children, I was born and raised in Hernia, Pennsylvania, where I still reside. My sister and I are co-owners of the PennDutch Inn, a full-board establishment that caters to well-heeled folks who want to be culturally enriched merely by soaking in the ambience. We are delighted to comply.
My waiting list is two years long, but when it’s their turn, my lucky guests find that they have the privilege of signing up for ALPO, which stands for Amish Lifestyle Plan Option. In short, they can pay extra for the joy of cleaning their own rooms and helping with chores. Lately I’ve added Ultra-ALPO, which means they can shell out even more in order to have the full Amish experience of having their climate-control units turned off at the front desk. After all, the Amish don’t use electricity, so AC is unheard of, and a proper Amish home is heated only by a stove located on the ground floor level, whereas my guest rooms are all upstairs.
I run my business with the considerable help of my cook, Freni Hostetler, and despite the whining of my pseudo-stepdaughter, Alison Miller. This brings me to my sister, whom I love with all my heart. That said, Susannah is a free spirit whose work ethic is limited to putting on makeup and rearranging her CD collection. She is absolutely no help around the inn, even though she is half owner.
My baby sister might have turned out quite differently, had not our parents been squished to death between a milk tanker and a truck loaded with state-of-the-art running shoes. Yes, she was already an adult by then, but a fragile one. Sadly, Susannah coped with her loss by becoming a world-class slut, sleeping her way from Pennsylvania to Alaska and back again.
Then one day, inexplicably, Susannah fell head over heels in love with Hernia’s Chief of Police, Melvin Stoltzfus. He professed to love her in return. Everyone in town was shocked, most of all me. I hadn’t thought that Melvin possessed a brain, much less a heart. I know that sounds uncharitable, but only to those who have never actually met the mantis—I mean, man.
I could go on and on about Melvin’s glaring faults, but in any event, I would finally have to admit that for a while he was actually good for Susannah. She settled down. True, she continued to wear her outlandish sari-like outfits—fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric was her favorite—and carry her pooch, Shnookums, around in her bra. But she was happy. Ultimately, isn’t that what we all want?
Then a year ago, Melvin, who was supposed to be our law enforcer, was convicted of murder in the first degree. Not only that, but his victim was our minister. Faced with both undeniable evidence and a confession of his guilt, Susannah fell into a deep funk, one from which she has only just begun to recover. Today, at my wedding, was the first time she’d worn anything but black since the verdict was read (although her dark gray bridesmaid dress left something to be desired).
To learn that Melvin was on the loose would be like picking a giant scab off her heart. What’s more, it was bound to be utterly terrifying. I certainly was scared out of my wit (I’m down to my last). What was to stop him from returning to Hernia and killing me, the person who’d apprehended him? The answer is “nothing.” Evil, such as lives in Melvin’s miniscule heart, is as unstoppable as Congressional pork.
Was it any wonder then that I fainted?
2
“What happened?” I asked for the billionth time.
“You fainted, hon. When I told you that the warden called and said Melvin was missing, you just collapsed.”
I gazed up into my Pooky Bear’s big brown eyes. Or were they blue? He appeared to have two heads.
“I can’t believe they let him escape. It’s just so unreal.”
“Here, babe, let me help you sit up.”
“Mebbe she vants to stay on the floor.” It was a woman’s voice. A most unwelcome woman.
My blood ran cold. “No!”
“You see? She doesn’t vant to sit.”
I struggled, first to a sitting position, and then finally to my feet. Yes, I swayed a bit, but, like the Empire State Building, I am vertically enhanced. I read somewhere that it sways from side to side as much as several feet in high winds. I generally sway a bit less.
“Ida,” I gasped through clenched teeth—not an easy feat, mind you. “What are you doing here?”
“Ma just got here, hon. She was kind enough to bring me my pajamas. I was sure I’d packed them—”
“Indeed you had, dear, but I unpacked them.”
“Oy! Married yust a few hours, and already dis von’s a slut.”
“Ma! Please, stay out of this.”
“Yes,” I agreed sweetly, “stay out of this. Far out of this. I hear they’re having a sale on condos in Fiji. If you hurry, you can catch the slow boat to China out of New York tomorrow morning, and make connections from there.”
“Gabeleh, you see how she talks to me?”
“Ma, you deserved it.” He turned to me, flashing pearly whites that were the envy of dentists from Boston to San Diego. “You really unpacked my pajamas? You little minx, you.”
I could feel myself blush. It sta
rted in my toes and worked itself up to the roots of my bun. At five ten, I haven’t been called “little” since the third grade, and I’d never been referred to as a minx. How sinfully, deliciously erotic. If it wasn’t for Ida, I’d have thrown my stud muffins on the bed and shown him what puts the yo-yo in Yoder—if you know what I mean. Alas, I had to settle for giving him what I’d hope was a suggestive wink.
“Hon,” he said, “is there something wrong with your eye?”
Before answering, I glared at his mother for good measure. “No, my eye is fine. Gabe, we’ve got to get back to Hernia immediately. Susannah, Freni, Alison—they could all be in danger. I need to call Chief Ackerman, then the county sheriff—”
“I don’t think he’d hurt them: it’s you he’s probably after.”
Ida tugged on her son’s arm. Apparently she’d yet to be filled in on the prison break.
“Who vants to hurt her?” She sounded hopeful.
“Melvin Stoltzfus. Our former chief of police.”
“My sister’s husband,” I added.
“You see, Gabeleh, vhat happens vhen you marry a shiksa? I told you it vas a terrible idea. Marry that cute little Schwartz girl, I always said. Mit hips like dat, she could give me lots of grandchildren. But no, you gotta marry dis—”
“Ma, butt out. Please.”
“Vhat?”
“You heard me, Ma. And you’re right: Magdalena is my wife. I won’t have you talking about her like that.”