by Tamar Myers
Contents
Cover
A selection of titles by Tamar Myers
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Barbara Hostetler’s Death by Chocolate
A selection of titles by Tamar Myers
The Pennsylvania Dutch mysteries
THOU SHALT NOT GRILL
ASSAULT AND PEPPER
GRAPE EXPECTATIONS
HELL HATH NO CURRY
AS THE WORLD CHUMS
BATTER OFF DEAD
BUTTER SAFE THAN SORRY
THE DEATH OF PIE *
TEA WITH JAM AND DREAD *
PUDDIN’ ON THE BLITZ *
* available from Severn House
PUDDIN’ ON THE BLITZ
Tamar Myers
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2019 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY.
This eBook edition first published in 2019 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2020 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
Copyright © 2019 by Tamar Myers.
The right of Tamar Myers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8915-7 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-642-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0341-0 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved office staff, all of whom were buried in the back garden since I wrote my previous mystery. They were as follows:
The first one to pass was Pagan, my basenji dog. She was my office manager, and official greeter. Her ‘cubicle’ was an armchair placed by a sunny window. Basenji dogs originated in the Democratic Republic of the Congo area of western Africa. They cannot bark because they are a ‘natural’ breed. Wolves cannot bark, either. The ability to bark was a trait that was selected for ancient man. However, like wolves, basenjis can howl. Basenjis can run as fast as whippets, they move like thoroughbred horses, and they are fearless. In Africa they are even used for hunting leopards. One day at a Florida dog park, our little basenji female, all of twenty-seven pounds, stood her ground and stared down two massive wolf-hybrids that came charging at her from across the park. One snarl from Pagan, and a display of her canines, sent the wolf-hybrids racing back to their owner, who should not have had them in the park to begin with.
Next to leave a hole in my heart was my beloved Kasha, my Bengal cat. He was my typist and random editor. He enjoyed wandering back and forth across the keyboard, making interesting additions to my document, especially when it was time for him to be fed. Kasha loved to wrestle with his big sister, Pagan, and would initiate the play. To watch a cat and a dog play like that, time after time, and clearly enjoy it, was truly a privilege.
Our final loss was Dumpster Boy, whose office role was to help my printer do a quicker job. He would grab emerging pages with both front paws and pull for all he was worth. Dumpster Boy was born in a McDonald’s dumpster in mid-December and spent his first year living at the veterinarian’s office. The ‘Boy’ in his name derives from the TV show The Waltons. I believe that our pets generally behave the way in which they have been treated. I treat mine with kindness, and they have always been gentle to me and everyone else. That said, animals do have a pecking order, and poor Dumpster Boy arrived in our home as a one-year-old rescue, whereas the other two had been with us since they were babies. That put poor Dumpster Boy on the bottom. Nevertheless, this gorgeous twenty-one-pound marmalade tabby never hissed or raised a paw to his detractors. He remained sweet and loving to the end. His only fault, if it could be said to be one, was that he purred so loudly that at times it made it hard for me to concentrate. Although on the plus side, upon occasion it did drown out my husband’s snoring.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my publisher, Kate Lyall Grant, at Severn House for the opportunity to write this book. I would also like to thank my editor, Sara Porter, for her wisdom and skilful guidance. I also wish to acknowledge my copyeditor, Anna Harrison, for a bang-up job, and of course, the art department for a scrummy cover.
In addition, I am very grateful to my literary agent of twenty-seven years, Nancy Yost, of Nancy Yost Literary Agency. I want to give a shout-out to the entire team there, most especially Sarah, Natanya and Cheryl.
ONE
I don’t look good in orange. I don’t even look good when I’m holding the fruit. If you ask me, it’s not even a colour that a God-fearing woman should be caught dead in, lest she be barred from the Pearly Gates. Trust me, you won’t even find the word ‘orange’ in the Bible. Even harlots don’t wear orange; they wear scarlet. Besides, there is not another word in the English language that rhymes with it. That should tell you something right there.
‘No thank you, dear,’ I said to the policewoman. ‘I much prefer the colour blue – a bright, royal blue, to be specific. On second thought, the Bible does exhort us to dress modestly, so perhaps I should choose navy. What do you think?’
The officer snorted. ‘I think that a self-righteous woman like yourself shouldn’t commit murder in the first place. If ya didn’t want to dress like a perp, then ya shouldn’t have gone and killed someone.’
‘Oh, please,’ I said, ‘I didn’t kill anyone. Surely you can tell by the way that I’m dressed that I’m a mild-mannered, Conservative Mennonite woman. Just look at my skirt; it extends well past my knees. My blouse has elbow-length sleeves, and it is buttoned primly up to my neck. My sturd
y Christian underwear alone covers more of my body than your guard outfit does. You know, if I removed the pleated white organza cap from atop my pile of braids, and was able to force my thin, withered lips into a proper smile, I might possibly be able to sneak into a Mormon community undetected.’
Officer Twaddlebottom’s response was to snatch the hideous jailhouse garments from my hands and throw them violently down on a metal cot so narrow that a strand of spaghetti would have had trouble getting comfortable on it. Then she whipped a pistol out of a gleaming black holster and gave its barrel a good whack against the door of the cell.
‘Get undressed,’ she snapped.
‘Hold your horses, dear,’ I said. ‘Do you realize how stupid that was? Your gun might have accidentally discharged, sending a bullet ricocheting off these bars until it eventually struck and killed me. Then you would be the one true murderess standing here today. No offense, dear, whereas I am unnaturally tall, and perhaps a wee bit on the gaunt side, you, on the other hand – I say this with utmost Christian charity – are more than a mite broad in the beam. Although, to be fair, you do have remarkably trim ankles, unlike mine, which would make a mother elephant proud to see them on her newborn calf. I trust that you give the Good Lord thanks on a daily basis for those mere twigs on which you manage to balance so precariously.’
Apparently Officer Twaddlebottom did not take kindly to being chided for having ignored basic gun safety etiquette. ‘Strip!’
‘Excuse me, dear?’ I said.
‘You heard me, dear. Take off all your clothes. Down to your bare skin. Leave nothing on.’
‘Now?’ I asked incredulously.
‘No, silly,’ Officer Twaddlebottom said. ‘I was only teasing. At any minute the maid will bring us some refreshments. After that, if you’ve been a good girl, we can hop on the bus and take a trip to the famous Pittsburgh Zoo.’
I may not be the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but then again, neither has my pilot light gone out – if one will allow me to mix metaphors. I’m not a betting gal, but if I were, I’d almost be willing to bet dollars to donuts that there was no maid waiting in the wings with refreshments, and no trip to the zoo planned either. Given that I’ve so often been accused of being a pessimist, I decided to shake things up this time and trust in the Good Lord that everything would work out for the good.
‘You are one fabulous lady, Miss Twaddlebottom,’ I cooed. ‘Snacks and a field trip into Pittsburgh sound awesome.’
Unfortunately, the policewoman was not moved by flattery. ‘Strip,’ she barked.
‘No, ma’am,’ I said resolutely.
‘What did ya say?’
‘I said, dear, that I will not strip. Not in front of you – certainly not in front of that camera over there. No one except my dearly beloved husband and the Lord Almighty have ever seen me naked. The Lord, by the way, has X-ray vision and can see through clothes. Even yours.’
‘Amen to the Lord’s X-ray vision,’ said Officer Twaddlebottom. ‘But that handsome hunk of flesh that you’re married to now, him ain’t the only man who seen you naked, is he, Mrs Yoder?’
‘Really, dear,’ I said, trying to stall for time, ‘your grammar is atrocious. I’m sure that you must find it demoralizing, getting passed over for promotions on that account, but never fear, today is your lucky day. As a very wealthy woman, I would be happy to pay for a private English tutor.’
‘Mrs Yoder, are you trying to bribe me?’
I clutched my meagre bosom in mock dismay. ‘Why I never! If I was trying to bribe you, then I would dangle a ten-day Hawaiian cruise in front of—’
‘Shut up!’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said. ‘See? My lips are closed. Sealed with glue. I’ve shut my yap. I’ve sprung my trap. I’ve—’
‘Not one more word,’ the officer growled through clenched teeth. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Certainly.’
Officer Twaddlebottom closed her eyes and began breathing quite rapidly. Frankly, her behaviour was vaguely reminiscent of that exhibited by my hunky husband, whom I call the Babester, at those moments when he achieves … uh, marital bliss. I’m fairly certain that Officer Twaddlebottom was not on the same page. At last, my tormentor opened her eyes.
‘Ya mean to say that your hunky husband is the only man to ever see ya naked?’ she asked incredulously.
I recoiled like a stepped-on snake. ‘Frankly, dear, that’s none of your ding-dong business – oops, sorry, I didn’t mean to swear.’
Officer Twaddlebottom smirked. ‘Such a potty-mouth on ya, Mrs Yoder. But really, a sexy woman like ya must have had oodles of boyfriends. Surely one of them guys got lucky enough to make it past your sturdy Christian underwear.’
‘Really?’ I said, as I patted my mound of coiled braids. ‘You think I’m sexy?’
‘Like a Playboy centrefold – excepting one wearing granny clothes. Speaking of them clothes, Mrs Yoder, ya gotta ditch them things for the inspection.’
‘What inspection?’ I said. Then I remembered observing Amish horse auctions, so I pulled my withered lips away from my gums using four fingers. ‘See! I still have all of my teeth, except for my wisdom teeth.’ I shuffled my feet and whinnied. ‘And my hoofs are in good shape as well – uh, except for a bunion on my right big toe.’
Officer Twaddlebottom didn’t even chuckle. ‘You’re an idiot, ya know that? I gotta inspect ya where the sun don’t shine.’
‘No way!’
‘Way. Gotta check and see that you ain’t trying to smuggle in any contraband.’
Now it was my heart that was racing, but I kept my eyes wide open because I sensed that I was fighting a losing battle, one that was going to end very badly for me. Even before routine visits to my gynaecologist I require a long, relaxing bath, followed by downing a tranquilizer with a glass of warm milk. For those who wish to judge me on my pharmacological habits, try walking in my size forty-four moccasins first – or just size eleven, if you’re an American.
‘Look here, Officer Twaddlebottom,’ I said, ‘what you’re suggesting is absolutely disgusting. You ought to be ashamed for even thinking such a filthy thing, much less uttering that remark. Just be glad that I’m not your mama. If I was, I’d wash your mouth out with soap, and then hang your tongue out to dry in the chicken yard.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Oops. Never mind me, Officer Twaddlebottom. I’m an idiot. Remember?’
‘Why in the chicken yard, Miss Yoder?’
‘Never mind. It’s just a silly little saying that I heard somewhere.’
‘Bet me. It’s because chickens will eat anything, including chicken. Am I right? They would somehow manage to tear my tongue to shreds in a heartbeat, even if it was hanging from a clothesline.’
‘Uh-oh.’
Officer Twaddlebottom took a couple of steps closer, which put her far too much inside my comfort zone. As she proceeded to scrutinize me with sudden, intense interest, I struggled futilely to ignore the plethora of scents to which I was being subjected: cigarette smoke, beer, last night’s liver and onions, scrambled eggs with green peppers and anchovies, and liquorice candy. I could scrub the woman’s tongue with a strong lye soap for an hour or more, but I doubt if I could get even a single one of my chickens to peck at that thing.
‘You have very nice eyes, dear,’ I said, desperately hoping that flattery would work as well on her as it does on me. ‘We both have mousy brown hair, but your beady dark eyes set it off nicely, whereas my faded blue eyes just make me look blah.’
Much to my relief, Officer Twaddlebottom took a giant step back. ‘It is ya, Auntie Mags, ain’t it? At first, when I read your name, I weren’t sure that it was ya, because back when I knew ya, ya was skinny like a beanpole. But now ya is all filled out and has them sexy curves goin’ on. Ya know, them feminine thrills. Of course now I am right positive that it is you, on account of ya made up that little saying about ya washing my mouth out with soap, and then hanging my tongue up to dry in the
chicken yard. Ya did it because I was always swearing at ya and calling you a big poop-head.’
I cocked my poop-free head. I squinted. I pushed my eyelids apart, and then pulled them into slits, in vain attempts to enhance my vision. Then as I tried staring through eyeglasses formed by thumbs and rounded index fingers, an ancient memory bobbed to the surface of the soup that filled my cranium.
‘Little Bindi, is that you?’
My jailer’s response was to throw herself into my long, spindly arms and begin to pat my back. The second her wide, meaty hands began hammering away at my ribcage, I began to slap her vigorously in return. A clueless observer might be forgiven for assuming that we were both choking on inedible prison food, and gallantly trying to save the other person’s life. However, someone who was born and raised either Mennonite or Amish would instantly recognize our strange behaviour as nothing more than hugging. How this custom started is anyone’s guess. One theory is that folks who share my DNA are genetically unable to maintain physical contact with another human being for more than a nanosecond without having wicked thoughts enter their heads.
Officer Twaddlebottom stopped her senseless patting first. ‘Ya can give up on the back-slapping, Auntie Mags. I ain’t gonna burp like no baby. I ain’t eaten cabbage nor drunked me a cola all day.’
‘Good one,’ I said, as I tried to reconcile two images in my mind. The last time that I’d seen gun-toting Officer Twaddlebottom, she’d been a skinny nine-year-old Mennonite girl named Belinda Rickenbacker for whom I’d been babysitting since she was six. As far as I could remember, she’d always had dark beady eyes and skinny ankles. The girth around her middle was new but eating Mennonite cooking for an additional thirty-nine years could easily explain that.
‘Auntie Mags,’ said Bindi Twaddlebottom, ‘you and me has ourselves a whole lot of catching up to do, but first I gotta process ya just like everyone else.’
‘Fine,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Pat me up, pat me down, pat me to the right, then pat me to left, and then put your left foot in, and shake it all around. But just so we’re clear, I will not submit to being strip-searched quietly. I will resist with every fibre of my old, practically emaciated body. Any bruises on my thin and easily damaged skin that may result from the drubbing that ensues will, of course, be attributed to you. I am quite sure that our left-leaning liberal media will be happy to take advantage of this savage and senseless attack on a pillar of the Mennonite community, and said media will label it as prisoner abuse. Elder prisoner abuse.’
