Eat, Drink and Be Wary

by Tamar Myers

  She trotted after me like a well-trained poodle. Before we sat, I stoked the fire and threw on another log. If you’re going to roast a hotdog, do it right.

  “Ms. Holt, did you bring a paring knife with you to the PennDutch?”

  She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “This is your question? The one we needed privacy for?”

  “Just answer the question, please,” I said.

  I wasn’t sure she had heard me at first over the sound of grinding teeth. But after a minute she cocked her head and smiled.

  “Of course I brought a paring knife with me.”

  “Just one?”

  “Of course not. Every cook worth her salt has a wide inventory of knives, several of which can be loosely termed paring knives. Although, as we all know, not all knives are created equally.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There are knives, and then there are knives.”

  “I’ve always hated riddles, dear.”

  She rolled her eyes, a shocking gesture in a woman whose mascara probably cost as much as the dress on my back. “Never skimp on quality. When it comes to knives, there is only one brand to buy—Ridgeworth.” Well, la-de-da. Imagine being proud of some stupid old knives. Mama had only one paring knife, one butcher knife, and a bread knife. Yet humble little Freni owned three paring knives, and at least a handful of others. Although, to be honest, if you compared their cooking, Mama would only rank as a three-knife cook. Freni was definitely an eight, present lunch excepted.

  “Ah, yes of course, Ridgeworth,” I said. “Now, dear, Freni tells me that you prefer not to keep your knives in the kitchen.”

  A perfectly plucked brow arched ever so slightly. “Is there a rule that says I have to?”

  “Absolutely not. It’s just that I’d like to have a look at what you brought, if you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever for?”

  I had two options: lie, and tell her I wanted to buy a set of replacement knives for Freni for Christmas; or I could tell her the truth, make her really angry, and maybe never get to see an honest-to-goodness Ridgeworth knife. If pressed, I will admit to lying, but only because I’d already racked up so many spiritual demerits for the day, I didn’t think it would make much difference. I really did intend to make it right with the Lord, just as soon as I could catch my breath.

  If tortured, I might go so far as to say that my lie was worth any consequences a lie of that caliber might exact. In words that Susannah might use, Ms. Holt’s knife set was totally awesome. The mahogany and brass box, lined with blue velvet, no doubt cost more than Mama’s and Papa’s coffins combined. Boy did that make me feel guilty. Anyway, tearing my eyes away from the knife box was hard enough, but those knives! Who knew that just looking at steel could give so much pleasure? And those handles—could they possibly be ivory?

  Ms. Holt read my meager mind. “Sanded bone,” she said. “Less slippery than wood. A dull knife is much more dangerous to its user than a sharp knife, and every one of these could slice a hair lengthwise, but slippage is always a problem. My predecessor— the show used to be called Cooking With Connie— rolled a knife when she was deboning a particularly stubborn chicken. Left her little finger lying on the cutting board.”

  I shuddered. “Which ones are the paring knives?”

  Ms. Holt brushed her own well-groomed pinkie across the row of handles. “There are twelve in all, but these five are what most people would call paring knives, although they each have their own function.” It was as clear as Hernia water that Ms. Holt did not take her knives lightly. If I were a betting woman, I would have been willing to wager the farm that the knife lodged in George Mitchell’s spine was not a Ridge worth. As for the possibility that Ms. Holt might have used someone else’s knife, well, there was as much chance of that as there was that I would wear someone else’s underwear. In other words, Susannah would become a nun first.

  I glanced at her bedside clock—I do not wear a watch—a third of my precious hour was already gone.

  I got straight to the point in my own inimitable, indirect way.

  “It was a horrible way for Mr. Mitchell to die. He was such a dear, sweet man.”

  “He was a louse. People step on bugs all the time. Why not stab them if they are large enough?”

  I disguised my gasp by adding a “choo.” Hopefully it passed as a sneeze.

  “Do tell, dear. No one loves a juicy story more than yours truly.”

  Ms. Holt lovingly closed the mahogany and brass box. “It was a fitting way for him to die. A backstabber stabbed in the back of the neck. Frankly, it didn’t surprise me at all. I’m just surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

  “I take it there are others who shared your sentiments.”

  She looked me straight in the eye. “I know what you’re doing, Miss Yoder, but there is no need to play psychological games. I didn’t kill George Mitchell. I don’t have that kind of nerve. But you don’t need to waste my time, or yours, beating around the bush. Yes, I did very much want him dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I sneezed again. “Why?”

  “Because he ruined my life, that’s why. You see, the son of a bitch came on to me, and when I refused to sleep with him, that was the end of my show.”

  “You mean—”

  “That’s right. Cooking With Kimberly has been terminated, effective December first. It was owned by East Coast Delicacies, you know. Oh, sure, there other companies out there with cooking shows, but do you have any idea what the competition is like?”

  “Vaguely,” I said. I have author friends who tell me that the odds of getting published are staggering. Only one out of every one thousand writers will ever see their words turned into a book.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what the competition is like. It’s a twenty-something woman with breasts like cantaloupes, gay men with razor-sharp wits, or someone decidedly ethnic. Thai cooking is big this year again. Upscale white women pitching haute cuisine are not in vogue anymore.”

  “What about Julia Child?” She seemed as white as Sunbeam bread, and I had yet to hear any rumors that she was gay. As for her cantaloupes—well, that is a subject I prefer to leave alone, being that I am a victim of crop failure myself.

  “Exactly my point! There can be only one Julia Child, and I would have been her someday. Now someone else has already moved into my space—some dimwitted housewife named Janet from Rhode Island. Now I ask you, does Cooking With Janet have that certain je ne sais quoi?”

  “Mais non,” I said in my best high school French.

  “There you have it. I’m thirty-eight years old, and my career has been flushed down the toilet, and all because George Mitchell wanted to put another notch on his belt.”

  “I beg your pardon?” It seemed to me that an extra notch would have helped George Mitchell keep his pants on, not take them off.

  “I mean that George just wanted to add me to his list of conquests. I know for a fact that he slept with this Janet person. Albert—he was my producer—said that on Janet’s first day on the set, George took her into the stockroom and—”

  “Whoa there!” I had no interest in learning the particulars of George Mitchell’s sex life. My own were horrific enough.

  “Anyway, like I said, I didn’t kill George. I just wished him dead. But wishes don’t kill, do they?”

  “If they did, there would be no one left on this planet. Still, someone here did more than wish him dead. Sorry, but I don’t buy the theory of a hit-and- run killer. Certainly not a professional—they would have used something more lethal than a paring knife.” I clamped a large, bony hand over my big, blabby mouth, but it was too late.

  “So that’s what this is all about? You had no intention of buying Mrs. Hostetler a set of Ridgeworth knives! You wanted to see if one of my knives was missing.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Her brow furrowed slightly as the highbrow eyebrows strained to meet. Plastic surgery can be murder on a good glare.
>
  “If you’re looking for a suspect, try Marge Benedict. It’s no secret that she despised George Mitchell.”

  “I know all about it, dear. She was demoted at American Appetite magazine.”

  “That’s only the half of it. Marge Benedict is the only woman George wouldn’t sleep with. I daresay that you can’t blame him—she’s nothing but skin and bones. That didn’t stop the little wretch from throwing herself all over him. She’s been the laughingstock of the industry for years.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Everybody knows about it. But to hear Marge talk, they were the love story of the century. If you ask me, that’s why George demoted her. He couldn’t stand the woman, but then to have her claim she’s conquered his kingdom—so to speak—well, that was simply too much.”

  I focused my beady eyes on the bridge of her sculpted nose. “You aren’t too fond of the woman yourself, are you?”

  “Me?” She laughed dryly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s a shame then. I thought we were connecting there for a second.”

  Her sculpted eyes focused on the bridge of my beaky nose. “Okay. The truth is, I despise that woman as much as George. Maybe more. Even though we worked for the same boss, she trashed my show in her column. Chi-chi cooking, she called it. Cream puffs for the masses.”

  “And George Mitchell let her get away with it? I mean, it was essentially his show she was trashing.”

  “George thought it was cute. He thought a little in-house tiff would spike ratings.”

  “So, who did you hate more, George Mitchell or Marge Benedict?”

  “Oh, George,” she said unequivocally. “But I didn’t kill him.”

  I opened my mouth to ask what surely was a profound question—but is now lost to me forever—when Susannah burst into the room. Fifteen feet of filmy fabric floated in after her.

  “Magdalena, come quick! The front porch!”

  “What is it? Another murder?”

  “No, but there might be, if you don’t put a stop to things now.”

  “Susannah, can’t you see—”

  “It’s that creep from the National Intruder,” she rasped.

  That’s all I needed to know. I hiked up my hem and sprinted for the front porch. Carl Lewis, eat your heart out.

  My sister was right. It was a murder in the making. In fact, it was a potential double homicide, with me as the killer. Not only was Derrick Simms from the National Intruder seated comfortably in one of my rocking chairs, but he was engaged in a tete-si-tete with Lodema Shrock, my pastor’s wife.

  “Get off my porch!” I bellowed. One eyewitness reports that I even brandished a broom.

  Simms snickered, and Lodema laughed.

  “I don’t understand what all the fuss is about,” she said. “I just came over to apologize.”

  “Is that so? To whom do you plan to apologize, him or me?”

  “Well!”

  “Your husband—I mean, the reverend—said he was sending you over to apologize to me, not to some slimy snake in a stained overcoat and scuffed wing tip shoes.”

  She turned to Derrick Simms, who was busily jotting things down in a notebook. “You see what I mean? That woman’s tongue could cut through marble.”

  “It could not!”

  Lodema ignored me. “She’s a polygamist, you know.”

  “Is that so?” Simms hissed.

  “I am not!”

  “Don’t lie, Magdalena. You know that lying is a sin. Everyone in Hernia knows you’re a polygamist.”

  “I’m an adulteress,” I wailed. “I slept with only one married man.”

  “You see? She admits it. And I’m telling you, all that stuff about the murder is true too.”

  Simms smiled smugly and scribbled.

  “What murder?” I said, trying my best to sound innocent.

  “Ha! As if you don’t know. That big shot food executive with the knife in his neck, of course.” She turned back to Simms. “There have been other murders here, you know.”

  “He knows all about them. He’s distorted every event in my life since the first celebrity walked through these doors. I wouldn’t be surprised if Derrick Simms was the one who murdered George Mitchell, just so he could lie about that too.”

  Derrick Simms glanced up from his notepad. “Is that Mitchell with two L’s or one?”

  “Two L’s I think,” Lodema said, “but you can get those kind of details later. It’s the important stuff you need to write down.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Well, for one thing, Barbara Yutzy said Elvina Stoltzfus said Freni Hostetler said that the dead man was making goo-goo eyes at Magdalena.”

  I gasped. “He most certainly was not!”

  “Well, not after he died, of course. Anyway, she also said he made goo-goo eyes at just about everyone, but that Magdelena was the only one who made them back. So, you see, it might well have been a crime of passion. Maybe this Mitchell guy—”

  I waved the broom at my preacher’s wife. “Get off my porch!”

  Simms smirked while Lodema lingered.

  “Get off this minute!” I shrieked.

  “Tut, tut,” she said, “how can I be expected to apologize if you insist on carrying on like that?”

  I’m pretty sure that the weather was to blame for what happened next. My poor bony fingers were simply too cold to grasp the broom handle any longer. At any rate, the tips of the bristles barely touched her.

  “Assault!” she screamed. “Did you see that? Magdalena Yoder assaulted and battered me.”

  “That’s Magdalena with one L,” I said to Derrick Simms. “Lodema has only one L as well, but the woman herself has two faces.”

  She was off her rocker. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  I showed Simms a smug mug of my own. “Her husband is the pastor at Beechy Grove Mennonite church. She is, in fact, the organist. While she’s at church, she is the sweetest, most gentle Christian soul you could hope to find. The minute she leaves the building she turns into a back-stabbing gossip. It’s just like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

  “That’s not true.” I have heard chain smokers swear off cigarettes with more fervor than that.

  “But of course she doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know that Lou Ann Stretcher—” I bit my tongue lightly.

  “I do so! I know all about Lou Anne’s baby. That’s not a Stretcher or a Troyer, I said. Just ask Catherine Blough. If you ask me, Lou Anne went and got herself pregnant in Mexico. Or Colombia. Yes, that’s it. Little Ernest Stretcher is the spitting image of Juan Valdez.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, that coffee man on TV. The one with the horse who pops up in the aisles—”

  I gasped. “You watch television?”

  My pastor’s wife turned the color of communion wine—although in our church it’s grape juice. “Ed-ed-educational television,” she sputtered.

  “Isn’t it all, dear?”

  Lodema’s eyes were darting back and forth between Derrick Simms and I, like Ping-Pong balls in the China Cup. “Okay, so I watch E.R. and N.Y.P.D. Blue.”

  The initials meant nothing to me, but they obviously meant something to Derrick Simms. His writing hand was a blur.

  “All right, all right,” she wailed, “I watched one episode of Seinfeld, but I didn’t understand a thing. It was all about being master of one’s domain, or something like that. Isn’t that supposed to be Jesus?”

  I shrugged. Papa was the official master of our domain and wore the pants, but Mama was always the seat of power.

  Lodema clutched my elbow with icy fingers. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  I shrugged again.

  She clutched Derrick. “You’re not writing this down, are you?”

  “Hmm,” Derrick said scribbling faster. “ ‘Mennonite Matriarch Confesses to Worldly Vice’... too tame, you think?”

  “Definitely back page, dear. How about ‘Pastor’s
Wife Falls Into Fish Pond and Gives Birth to Frog Child,’ ” I said. Years of experience have taught me that tabloid titles and content need not be at all related.

  Susannah, who had been standing quietly by, cleared her throat. “Once I saw her eating in a French restaurant in Pittsburgh. I didn’t pay that much attention, but it could have been frog legs. Maybe you could throw in something about cannibalism.”

  Lodema’s eyes rolled back in hysteria. “Magdalena, help me,” she begged.

  I smiled beneficently. “Perhaps we could start with an apology.”

  “I’m sorry!” she wailed.

  “Like I said, that’s a start. Now—” Someone was tapping me on the shoulder. I whirled.

  “Melvin!”

  “And Zelda,” a high-pitched female voice said.

  I stooped and peered behind my nemesis. Sure enough, Melvin had brought his half-pint, painted sidekick with him. Something big was about to go down. Perhaps they were here to arrest Lodema for slander. Derrick too, come to think of it.

  “I’d be happy to testify in court,” I said.

  Melvin arranged his mandibles in a close approximation of a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Do you know what time it is, Yoder?”

  Watchless as usual, I grabbed Lodema’s wrist. “Oh, my gracious! It’s two thirty-seven!”

  “Two-thirty on the dot, I said. Had you forgotten that?”

  “No—well, I wouldn’t have, but Lodema here fell into a fish pond and gave birth to a tadpole.”

  “No kidding?” Melvin, who had long since left the fold, looked at the pastor’s wife with new respect.

  “Yes, kidding, you—”

  “Ah, ah, ah, no name calling, Yoder. Not when I’m about to make an arrest. Who knows, the cuffs might accidentally end up on you.”

  “Arrest?”

  “They give free hearing tests at the high school, Yoder.”

  “I mean”—I desperately rolled my eyes to indicate the despicable Derrick Simms—“you’re going to arrest someone now?”

  “Yes, now. Read the warrant, Zelda.”

  Dutifully, she began to read. When she came to the name of the arrestee, I clapped my hands over Derrick Simms’s ears.