by Tamar Myers
“Toodle-oo,” I said, springing to my feet.
Zelda scrambled to her feet as well. “You can’t go, Magdalena.”
“Of course I can. Oh, those cookies were delish by the way—although next time you might consider adding a tad more ginger.”
“But Esther and Mary are just about to reach the one hundred and nineteenth virtue. That’s when they have to do a little dance called the Shake-and-wag-your- heinie-poo.”
It was the perfect excuse for me. “Dancing is a sin,” I cried, and fled the den of iniquity.
Old Blue must have been on the ball again. Doc met me at the end of his drive. He had his thumb out like a hitchhiker. I stopped and lowered the passenger window.
“Going somewhere, mister?”
“Yeah, straight back up this drive, where we’re going to have ourselves a nice lunch.”
I gestured for him to get in. “Doc, I came to talk, not eat.”
“There’s no reason we can’t do both, is there? I’m making pork chops, macaroni and cheese—not the kind from a box, but the real stuff with lots of extra-sharp cheddar—green-bean casserole, and wilted-endive salad with bacon dressing. And, of course, fresh-baked rolls. For dessert there’s blackberry cobbler, or we can hand crank some ice cream. Better yet, we’ll put the ice cream on the cobbler. What do you say to that?”
“Doc, do you always eat like this?”
“Folks as blessed as we are who only eat to live, and not the other way around, are missing half of life’s pleasures.”
I didn’t dare ask what the other pleasures were. “Okay, count me in on lunch, just as long as I can ask you a serious question.”
He made me wait on the shop talk—as he called it—until my second helping of warm cobbler. The mound of rich, high-in-butterfat ice cream was melting like an ice-berg at the equator, and I tried in vain to catch all the sweet rivulets with my spoon. Finally I gave up and stirred them into the black goo.
“Doc, have you ever heard of buried treasure in Hernia?”
“You mean like a pirate’s treasure?”
“Not a pirate’s treasure, but nonetheless, something very valuable.” I slurped a spoonful of blackberry cream. “Sounds silly, doesn’t? But Zelda Root claims it’s true. Says the old folks—her grandmother, for one— used to talk about it all the time.”
“Oh, that.” He took a huge bite of his dessert just to torment me.
“Well? Speak with your mouth full if you have to. I won’t fine you for doing so. I promise.”
He chewed twenty times before swallowing. “It’s not a buried treasure, it’s a huge parcel of land back in the old country.”
“Switzerland?”
He nodded. “You’re a descendant of Jacob Hochstetler, the patriarch, aren’t you?” He used the original German pronunciation.
“Of course. Mama was a Hostetler. You know that. And Papa was descended from Jacob in at least two ways.”
“Do you own the bible?”
He didn’t mean the Bible, by the way. The Descendants of Jacob Hochstetler, originally published in 1911, remains the most comprehensive genealogy devoted solely to the offspring of this important Amish settler. Written decades before the invention of the first computer, it lists nine thousand coded individuals, all of whom are cross-referenced. Jacob was born in 1704, but it has been estimated that now, three centuries later, close to a hundred thousand people can claim him as an ancestor.
“Yes, Mama passed her copy down to me. What about it?”
“It mentions the treasure.”
“No kidding! I thought that book was just a bunch of begots.”
Doc laughed. “There’s a lot of interesting family history in there. But the treasure stories—and there are a number of variations—are conjecture. The version I heard from my daddy isn’t even in the book.”
“Tell it anyway!”
“Well—” He reached for his spoon, all the while grinning like a Cheshire cat on steroids.
I slapped the utensil out of Doc’s hand. “Tell it now, or I’ll never eat another bite of food in this house again.”
Doc sobered instantly. “Daddy’s version had it that our ancestor Jacob was forced from his land by the Swiss authorities, who considered him a threat because of his religious convictions. To avoid accusations of outright theft, they made Jacob sign a document that said they were leasing his land from him for the next two hundred and fifty years—a quarter of a millennium. At the end of that time his descendants were free to claim it, if they provided proof of kinship. Of course, poor Jacob had no choice but to sign the paper.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry for what happened to Jacob, but I don’t see of what importance that is today. I mean, how is a few acres of bucolic Swiss countryside such a big deal? It certainly isn’t worth killing for—not that anything is.”
Doc shook his hoary head. “And I always thought you were a dreamer. Well, let me tell you why this would be such a big deal—if it were true. According to the oral tradition in my family, those few acres were really hundreds of acres, and what’s more, they were located in what is now the heart of Bern.”
“Switzerland?”
“No, Berne, Indiana. Of course, Switzerland. Magdalena, the Hochstetler fortune, as described by my daddy, would be worth millions. Maybe even billions.”
I pushed my lower jaw back into speaking position. “And all one has to do is show kinship?”
“That, and provide the lease.”
“Which, of course, nobody can do—wait just a minute!” I had to wait as well, because my heart was pounding so hard Doc’s pork chops were doing the rumba in my belly. I tried to breathe deeply, but couldn’t get air past my esophagus. “What if,” I finally managed to say, “the lease document has been buried in the time capsule all these years?”
Doc slapped his knee. “That’s my girl. There’s your famous imagination. Unfortunately, that scenario is just not possible.”
“Why not?” The truth be told, the task of locating the missing time capsule had taken on an exciting new dimension. Yes, I am well-fixed financially, but one can never have too much moola. I mean, think of all the charitable donations I could make with that Swiss fortune. And so what if one or two of the donations were to myself?
Doc grinned. “I can read your mind, Magdalena. And that’s what I like about you—you’re honest with yourself. But it’s not going to happen. If the lease document were buried in the time capsule, don’t you think someone else would have dug it up years ago? Maybe even a century ago?”
“Poking pins in my balloons is not going to get you into my bloomers—not that anything would,” I hastened to add.
“On the other hand,” Doc said just as quickly, “each branch of the family seems to have its own tradition. Local folks either discount the story these days, or assume that the document—if it ever existed—is lost in the annals of history. But it’s possible that some of the family branches that moved away had traditions that involved the capsule, or they created their own stories. Family histories, if not well documented, tend to morph from generation to generation, and usually in a favorable direction. That’s one of the reasons so many people claim to have royal blood.”
“You’d think that trend would have reversed itself in recent years.”
“Touche. Magdalena, was the time capsule mentioned in any of the ads the town council placed in magazines?” “No. There wasn’t room for everything. And we still managed to go over the budget. Although we did mention the tractor pull—but only because Sam insisted on it, since it was going to be held in front of his so-called grocery. We made him chip in some of his own dough for that.”
“So any descendants that don’t live around here, the exiles so to speak, had no clue we were going to dig up the capsule?”
“None.” I caught my breath. “Uh, well, I did send my guests an e-mail of the complete schedule and current weather conditions.”
“When was this?”
“About three days ago. I
wanted it to reach the Japanese guest, in case she didn’t check her e-mail when she traveled. Except at the time I didn’t know if she was a he, on account of the name.”
Doc licked the last of the cobbler from his spoon. “This isn’t much to go on, but you might take a closer look at your guests. Do you think any of them might own the Bible?”
I had to laugh. “If any of them have even a drop of Hochstetler blood, I’ll eat my prayer cap.”
Doc scraped the empty spoon futilely around the inside of his bowl. “I’ll make you a bet, Magdalena. If one of your guests turns out to be kin, you have to eat supper with me every Saturday night until Christmas. If they don’t—”
“You know Mennonites don’t wager.”
“I’m not betting money. What’s the matter, you afraid you’re going to lose?”
Don’t throw down the gauntlet in front of me unless you’re prepared to lose. “You’re on, buster.”
“Good. And what is it you want from me if you win— theoretically, at any rate, since it ain’t going to happen?”
“You date Gabriel’s mother.”
The color drained so thoroughly from the octogenarian’s face that I worried I’d gone too far. Three corpses in one day was more than even I, the doyenne of death, could handle.
“I beg your pardon?” he rasped.
“You heard me. You have to date Mrs. Rosen—and I mean take her on a real date. Maybe bowling in Bedford and then out to dinner. Or just a nice ride in the country. You could even show her the lights of Hernia from Stucky Ridge.”
My friend shuddered. “You know I’m a ladies’ man, Magdalena, but that woman is like a bucket of ice water. Make that a million buckets. Heck, the National Park Service ought to ship her out West to put out forest fires.”
“Are you backing down?”
He shuddered again. “No. As a matter of fact, I’ve already started to plan the menus for our future feasts. Next time we’ll start out with a nice oxtail soup—”
By the time I got to my car, he hadn’t even gotten to the main course. Perhaps I should have lingered, because just hearing Doc talk about food can pack on the pounds, and the Good Lord knows I could use a little extra ballast.
I fled. If I lost this bet Gabriel was going to be jealous, which is not altogether a bad thing, but if I won, I might well be able to permanently pawn his mother off on the good-hearted veterinarian. She might have dampened his ardor with her abrasive opinions, but the woman could cook up a storm. Maybe even a tornado. If her flank steak didn’t rekindle Doc’s flame, then all his talk was just that.
If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to purge my future mother-in-law from my life, I wouldn’t have come so close to taking the lives of two pedestrians.
15
Creole Sauce
2 pounds ripe tomatoes (preferably plum or Roma type), or 2 cups canned Italian tomatoes, seeded and chopped, with their juices
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 large or 4 medium shallots, or 1 medium yellow onion, split, peeled, and chopped
1 medium green bell pepper, stem, seeds, and membranes removed, chopped
1 small carrot, peeled and chopped
1 clove garlic, lightly crushed, peeled, and minced
1 small red hot chili pepper such as cayenne, serrano, or jalapeno
A bouquet garni made from 1 leafy celery top, 2 bay leaves, 2 large sprigs thyme, and 1 large sprig parsley
2 ounces lean salt-cured pork or country ham, in one piece
½ cup dry white wine or medium dry sherry (such as amontillado)
Salt
1 large or 4 small scallions or other green onions, thinly sliced
Creole sauce is an important element of many cuisines of the African Diaspora of the Americas and comes in many variations, from the simple salsa cruda (raw sauce) of the Caribbean to the suave, complex sauce creole of New Orleans’s French Quarter. It is an indispensable accompaniment for Grilled Chicken Breasts with Eggplant, Creole Style (Chapter 10), and enhances almost any fried vegetable, seafood, or poultry.
(If you are using canned tomatoes, skip to step 2.) Bring a large tea kettle full of water to a boil. Put the tomatoes into a heatproof bowl and slowly pour the boiling water over them until they are submerged. Let them stand for 1 minute, drain thoroughly, and refresh them under cold running water. Core them and slip off the peelings. Working over a wire sieve set into a large bowl, split the tomatoes in half crosswise, and scoop out the seeds into the sieve. Discard the seeds and roughly chop the tomatoes. Add them to the collected juices in the bowl and set aside.
Put the olive oil, shallot or onion, green pepper, and carrot into a heavy-bottomed sauce pan and turn on the heat to medium high. Saute, tossing frequently, until the shallot is translucent but not colored, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and saute until fragrant, about a minute more. Add the tomatoes, hot pepper (left whole), bouquet garni, ham, and wine. Bring the liquids to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes break down and the juices are thick, about an hour.
Taste and add salt if needed. Stir and let simmer for another minute or so to allow the salt to be absorbed into the sauce. Turn off the heat. Remove and discard the hot pepper, bouquet garni, and ham or salt pork. The sauce can be made up to this point several days ahead. Cool and refrigerate in a tightly sealed container.
Just before serving, reheat the sauce over medium-low heat. Stir in the scallions and serve at once.
MAKES ABOUT 2 CUPS
16
“I’m so sorry,” I cried, mortified at what had nearly transpired.
“That’s okay, darling,” Capers Littleton said. “You sprayed us with a little gravel, that’s all. It’s really no big deal.”
“But it is a big deal. I wasn’t paying attention to the road. I may as well have been yakking it up on my cell phone. Ladies, again I apologize.” It doesn’t hurt to go overboard sometimes, especially if it can prevent lawsuits.
Terri Mukai bowed slightly. “Perhaps it is my fault. I am not used to cars driving on the wrong side of the road.”
“This is the right side, dear, both literally and figuratively.” I smiled pleasantly so as not to undo my apology. “May I offer you ladies a ride?”
They exchanged glances before Capers answered. “We’re on our way to the pig chase.”
“Great! So am I.”
That was not a lie by any means. But since these two were on my list to interview, I would take a little longer to get there. And where they were coming from was the first question I’d ask. By my reckoning, they were less than a mile from the base of Stucky Ridge and on the side over which the murderer had quite possibly thrown the shovel. What’s more, they were on the opposite side of town from Hernia High, where the pig chase was to be held.
“Thanks, Miss Yoder.” Capers opened the front passenger door and gestured to Terri to get in, but the younger woman insisted that she would climb into the back. For several wasted minutes I was privy to a battle of manners: Miss Magnolia Blossom versus Miss Cherry Blossom.
We natives of the Keystone state have a different take on politeness. “Both of you hop in the back or you’re going to walk.”
They clambered in.
“Sorry, Miss Yoder,” Capers panted.
“Gomen nasai, Yoder-san. I am sorry too.”
“Think nothing of it, dears. Oh, by the way, what brought you to this far comer of Hernia?”
“The fall color,” Capers said, without missing a beat. “I can’t get enough of it. Back home we get just a touch, and it isn’t until much later in the season.”
It seemed like a reasonable explanation, but I had a lot more to ask. Although shedding a future mother-in- law is not as important as finding a killer—possibly even a pair of them—it still ranked high on my list of priorities. I decided to drive slowly and make some unnecessary turns, in order to give me more time.
“Well, ladies,” I said to my captive aud
ience, “I’m sure you must find our ways very strange.”
Terri nodded vigorously. “Yes, you Americans are very strange.”
“I wouldn’t be calling the kettle black, dear. I meant our Amish and Mennonite culture—not Americans in general. Mrs. Littleton, are there any questions you’d like to ask?”
“Why, yes,” she said, stretching the two words into five syllables. “I was wondering what you thought of the movie Witness.”
I clucked, not unlike my favorite hen, Pertelote. “I don’t go to movies. Too much sin on the silver screen to suit me. The Amish don’t watch movies either, but I heard that they hated this one.”
“How could they hate something they hadn’t seen?”
“Well, maybe hate is too strong a word. Anyway, they were very unhappy that Harrison Ford, who was dressed like an Amish man, committed an act of violence.”
“Yes, when he struck the boy who was taunting them. I thought that might be the case.”
“Ah, so you’re familiar with our ways.”
“Not really. Just what I’ve picked up from movies.”
In desperation I resorted to trotting out the first thing folks asked me when I visited Charleston, South Carolina, on my vacation a year or two back. “Who are your people, dear?”
She smiled, grateful to be given the chance to impress me. “Well, my mama was a Capers—that’s where I got the name, and her mama was a Rutledge, and her mama was a Pinckney, and her mama was a Moultrie and—”
“And your papa—I mean, daddy?”
“Daddy was a Calhoun, and his mama was a Hostetler—”
“Did you say Hostetler?” My heart sank. It’s not that I minded eating supper with Doc all those times, but on whom was I going to palm off the pint-size pest that was my future mother-in-law?
Capers blushed. “Yes, just like your cook’s name. Miss Yoder, I can’t help that I have some Yankee blood.” She clapped a manicured hand over her mouth, no doubt thinking she had offended me.