by Tamar Myers
Lodema gasped indignantly and strode away.
“No need to thank me, dear,” I called to her back. “And don’t worry, I won’t say a word about Lady Marion and her formula number twelve!”
A familiar cackle prompted me to turn.
“Are you being mean spirited again, Magdalena?”
“Old Irma! You’re just the person I wanted to see— well, you and the reverend.”
“Oh, what about?”
“The Butcher, dear.”
Old Irma’s face tightened so dramatically, it was like she had a facelift before my eyes.
“What about him?”
“You knew he was—is—here in Hernia, didn’t you?”
“I did not.”
“Of course you did. It was you who wrote Mr. Montgomery and ratted on Sam, right?”
“Ach, don’t be ridiculous! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I steered Old Irma aside. “A secret for a secret, dear.”
“I know all your secrets, Magdalena, and there isn’t one of them worth repeating.”
“Thanks, dear. But yours are worth repeating.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Not if you fess up to the truth. And if you don’t, I might spread the rumor that Melvin is your illegitimate son.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If I had a son, he’d have to be far older than that.”
I smiled. “Logic seldom interferes with a good rumor.” Old Irma’s faded eyes darted in every direction. Still a good spy, she was wisely cautious.
“Okay, so you know more than you should. Yes, I suspected Strubbly Sam. I always have. But I thought he was Johanne—the two boys looked a lot alike in the old days.”
“But you know Strubbly Sam very well. You know that he’s a changed man. Regardless of which brother he is, he’s not the same man he was in 1942.”
“Yes, I know. But I always felt guilty keeping my suspicions to myself. When I saw that TV interview with Mr. Montgomery, I looked at it as a chance to turn the problem over to someone else.”
“So you washed your hands of Strubbly Sam, just like Pontius Pilate, eh?”
She frowned, and almost a century of wrinkles returned to her face. “Don’t be so hard on me, Magdalena. I didn’t want to die with a guilty conscience.”
“I understand. So, don’t die with one now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the Butcher died last night in the old grist mill, and as for the Scorpion, he’s off in Paraguay someplace making macrame shopping bags for German tourists.”
“I understand.” Her eyes flitted to the left and back to me.
I can be slow on the uptake, so I will admit it took me several more flits before I turned.
“Gabriel!”
He looked incredibly handsome in a hand-tailored Italian suit. “I hope you don’t mind my being here.”
“Mind? Why should I mind?”
“Because I didn’t run down to the mill last night after we heard the crash. I figured there were enough people involved. And anyway, those guests of yours seemed to know exactly what they were doing.”
“Yeah, well, they were men with a mission. And you were a man busy playing games.”
“Am I meant to be offended by that last remark?”
“That’s your call, dear. So, who won the game of Rhythm?”
“I did.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I said, not unkindly.
“Excuse me?”
“If I hadn’t been so distracted I could have beaten the pants off you.”
“That’s a laugh.”
“What? Look, buster—”
“Children!”
I whirled. “Susannah!”
“Am I interrupting something, Mags? Maybe a little romantic tension between you and this gorgeous hunk of a doctor?”
“Susannah!”
“On that note, I think I’ll find myself a seat,” Gabriel said.
“So, Mags,” Susannah finally said—we’d both been watching Gabriel’s buttocks until he disappeared in the crowd—“what do you think of your baby sister?”
“Huh?”
“How do I look?”
What was there to think? My baby sister looked resplendent in her fifteen yards of royal blue silk, which she had draped behind her in the world’s longest train.
“You look gorgeous, dear.”
“And?”
I studied her, and finding nothing much to criticize, allowed my gaze to wonder.
“Susannah!”
Standing right beside her—and with remarkable patience, I might add—was that ratty little dog of hers, Shnookums. I hadn’t noticed the beast before, because he tended to blend in with the train. He too was swaddled in his own blue silk, and in fact, he had his own little train.
“He’s my bridesmaid,” Susannah said proudly.
“But he can’t be your bridesmaid,” I wailed. “He’s a dog! And an ugly, spiteful dog at that.”
Normally these are fighting words, but Susannah was smiling. Old Irma had begun to warble “O Promise Me,” and it was time for the show to begin.
“Ready to give me away?” my baby sister asked.
“And how!” I said.
Twenty-Eight
Ragin’ Cajun SPAM® Party Salad
(as served at Susannah’s wedding supper)
Salad:
8 ounces wagon wheel shape pasta
1 (6-ounce) jar marinated artichoke hearts
1 (12-ounce) can SPAM® Luncheon Meat, cubed
1 cup diced bell pepper
1 cup chopped red onion
1 cup sliced ripe olives
3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh basil leaves
Dressing:
1 cup olive oil
¼ cup creole seasoning mix
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 tablespoon mayonnaise or salad dressing
1 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon dry mustard
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon dried thyme leaves
1 clove garlic, chopped
Cook pasta according to package directions. Drain artichokes, reserving marinade; cut into quarters. In large bowl, combine all salad ingredients. In blender, combine reserved artichoke marinade with dressing ingredients. Process until smooth. Add dressing to salad, tossing well. Cover and chill several hours or overnight.
Serves 8 to 10.
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION PER SERVING:
Calories 325; Protein llg; Carbohydrate 26g; Fat 20g; Cholesterol 35mg; Sodium 669mg.
An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes Series (PennDutch)
An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes Series (PennDutch)
Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Crime
No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk
Just Plain Pickled to Death
Between a Wok and a Hard Place
Eat, Drink, and Be Wary
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
As the World Churns
Hell Hath No Curry
Batter Off Dead
Butter Safe than Sorry
Belgian Congo Mystery Series
The Witch Doctor’s Wife
The Headhunter’s Daughter
The Boy Who Stole the Leopard’s Spots
The Girl Who Married an Eagle
Den of Antiquity Series
Larceny and Old Lace
Gilt by Association
The Ming and I
So Faux, So Good
Baroque and Desperate
Estate of Mind
A Penny Urned
Nightmare in Shining Armor
&nb
sp; Splendor in the Glass
Tiles and Tribulation
Statue of Limitations
Monet Talks
The Cane Mutiny
Death of a Rug Lord
Poison Ivory
The Glass is Always Greener
About the Author
Tamar Myers was born and raised in the Belgian Congo (now just the Congo).Her parents were missionaries to a tribe which, at that time, were known as headhunters and used human skulls for drinking cups. Because of her pale blue eyes, Tamar’s nickname was Ugly Eyes.
Her boarding school was two days away by truck, and sometimes it was necessary to wade through crocodile infested-waters to reach it.Other dangers she encountered as a child were cobras, deadly green mambas, and the voracious armies of driver ants that ate every animal (and human) that didn’t get out of their way.
At sixteen, Tamar's family settled in America, and she immediately underwent culture shock:she didn’t know how to dial a telephone, cross a street at a stoplight, or use a vending machine.She lucked out, however, by meeting her husband, Jeffrey, on her first day at an American high school.They literally bumped heads while he was leaving, and she entering, the Civics classroom.
In college Tamar began to submit novels for publication, but it took twenty-three years for her to get published.Persistence paid off, however, because Tamar is now the author of three ongoing mystery series: One is set in Amish Pennsylvania and features Magdalena Yoder, an Amish-Mennonite sleuth who runs a bed and breakfast inn;one, set in the Carolinas, centers around the adventures of Abigail Timberlake, who runs an antique and collectable store (the Den of Antiquity); and the third is set in the Africa of her youth, with its colorful, unique inhabitants.
Tamar now calls North Carolina home. She lives with her husband, a Basenji dog named Pagan, two rescue kitties: a very large Bengal named Nkashama, and an orange tabby cat who goes by the name of Dumpster Boy. Tamar enjoys gardening (she is a Master Gardner), bonsai, travel, painting and, of course, reading. She's currently working on her next Amish mystery.
tamarmyers.com
