by Tamar Myers
“You poisoned Freni’s bread pudding?”
“Veratrum alba—commonly known as false hellebore. Did I mention that I’m a Master Gardener of the state of Maryland?”
“You’re a real Renaissance man,” I said with just as much sarcasm that shouting and a gun to one’s head permit.
“Yes, ma’am, I guess I am. I grew the flowers myself, you know. Dried them, and mashed them up in a stone pestle, just like the Indians might have done. Had a hell of a time sneaking it in that pan of bread pudding, though.”
“There were two pans, dear.”
“Which explains why only one person got sick.”
“Actually two. A very innocent and dear Amish man suffered terribly because of you.”
He shrugged, and the gun traveled a fraction of an inch along my scalp. “You would think they would call the damn thing off because of that. But hell no, I had to dig into my bag of tricks further and pull out that shard of glass.”
“That was you too?”
“An air force investigator would have been on top of that in a minute. It should have been clear that someone was trying to sabotage the contest.”
“Well, this isn’t the military, dear. This is Hernia, Pennsylvania, and all we have is a nincompoop police chief and one deputy, who is so in love with the chief, she doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.”
“And then there’s you.”
“Me?”
“The air force could use a woman like you, Miss Yoder. The marines claim they have the best men, but they sure the hell don’t have anyone like you.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “And I’m sure the funny farm could use a man like you. Your daughter is a contestant, for crying out loud. Why on earth would you want to stop the contest?”
To my surprise, he smiled. “You’ve got moxie, Miss Yoder. Too bad I didn’t meet you earlier. Maybe things would have been different.”
I entertained the briefest of fantasies. “I don’t even think so, dear.”
“You ever been alone, Miss Yoder?”
I noticed for the first time that neither of his hands were on the controls. “Shouldn’t you be steering, or something?”
“What?”
“You’re not even touching the steering wheel. You don’t want to die too, do you?”
“This is a yoke, ma’am, not a steering wheel. I’ve got her set on automatic pilot. How about you answer my question?”
“Of course I’ve been alone. What a silly question.”
“I mean all alone. With no one left you can count on.”
Well, maybe not all alone. Freni and Mose were there for me when my parents died, and Susannah flits in and out of my emotional life like a hummingbird in a flower garden. And of course I’ve always had God. That’s one of the advantages of being sure of one’s faith.
“Is this about Gladys wanting to move to Albuquerque?” I asked, no doubt hastening my death.
“You see, ma’am, Glady is the only person I have left. My wife died when Gladys was only three. I raised her myself, you know.”
“You did a good job. But surely you have someone else.”
“No, ma’am. My parents have both been dead for years. Last month my only brother died. I don’t have anyone else, but my daughter.”
“What about your air force pals?”
“I’m retired, ma’am. I see some of the guys now and then, but they’re not family.”
“Let me get this straight. You killed a man just to keep your grown daughter at home. Those are some apron strings, if you ask me. Apron strings of steel.”
The gun barrel pushed against my skull. “No one asked you, ma’am. But now I’m going to ask you to unbuckle your shoulder belt and kindly open that door.”
“You won’t get away with this, you know. Chief Stoltzfus might be terminally stupid, but someone else will put two and two together.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but there won’t be anything left of you to put together. You won’t amount to much more than a pound or two of hamburger. Besides, that’s the Moshannon State Forest down there. It’s one of the largest wilderness tracts east of the Mississippi.”
“It’s almost hunting season!” I screamed. “Some hunter will find what’s left of me.”
He smiled. It was a sick, not a cruel smile. Believe me, there is a difference.
“The raccoons and coyotes will find you first. Did you know that there is a resurgence of coyotes in this part of the country? Some people even claim to see panthers.”
“You don’t say!” So that’s how it was going to all end. I was never to know true love, never to experience the birth of a child—even Barbara’s by proxy— but I did get the rare opportunity to end up as dinner for some yipping cousins of Shnookums. Well, Mama, what do you think of that? If you had let me go steady with Jimmy Kurtz in high school, things might have turned out a lot different. I might have married a farmer, raised eight kids, and never had the need to open a bed and breakfast. Well, Mama, think about this—falling from an airplane is every bit as dramatic a way of dying as being squished between a milk tanker and shoe truck. In fact, I think I’ve got you beat.
The barrel prodded again and I cocked my head farther to the right. “Time to say goodbye, Miss Yoder.”
I prayed. If it was my time to die, so be it. But couldn’t I at least skip the falling stage and proceed straight to my assigned cloud? I was already up there, after all.
“Unbuckle your shoulder belt. Now, Miss Yoder.”
Believe me, the good Lord does indeed answer prayer in mysterious ways. My mouth, which had always gotten me in trouble, was the instrument He used to get me out of trouble.
“Look, a spider,” I screamed and pointed to the opposite side of the cockpit.
The second Gordy’s head whipped around, I bit the gun-wielding hand. I don’t mean just a timid nibble either, but a Mike Tyson, flesh-tearing chomp. That sucker—the gun, not the hand—fell right into my lap. The rest is history.
Chapter Thirty-two
Freni cut another slice of Gladys’s tomato brunch cake. I reached for it, but she waved the knife menacingly at me.
“Ach! This is for my Barbara.”
Barbara blushed. An attentive mother-in-law was going to take some getting used to.
“What about me,” Susannah whined. “I only had one slice.”
“Barbara is eating for three.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m eating for two.”
I kicked Susannah under the table. She had better not be eating for two, not unless she was referring to the mangy menace, and if that was the case, she had no business feeding him something as tasty as Gladys’s tomato brunch cake.
“So,” Barbara said, anxious to move the conversation along, “everything okay now at the PennDutch?”
“Things are peachy-keen,” I said. “They all went home yesterday, two days ahead of schedule, which finally gives me some time off.”
“And me.” Freni was staring at her daughter-in-law, no doubt willing the child within to grow faster.
“A watched pot never boils,” I said.
“Ach!”
“Not that anyone cares,” Susannah said, still whining, “but I’ve finally made a decision about Melvin.”
I whirled, and then catching myself, smiled slowly. “Really? Do tell.”
“He jumps to conclusions more than even you, Mags.”
“Yah.” Freni nodded vigorously, although her eyes had to still to leave Barbara. “Like with my cousin Alma.”
“She isn’t your cousin, dear,” I said calmly. “You don’t have a drop of Native American blood in you. You just happen to be a native of America.”
“Yah, whatever. The important thing is that Alma is free now, and that awful Mr. Dolby is behind bars.”
“Retired four-star General Gordon Oliver Dolby, and that’s thanks to me, not Melvin.”
“Imagine him being that scared of a spider!”
“Melvin Stoltzf
us is afraid of spiders?” Barbara asked. I’m sure she’d heard the whole thing before, and was just being polite. Either that, or she didn’t want the subject to return to her pregnancy. She had yet to tell anyone else she was expecting triplets, because she wanted to tell her own mother first, and had been unable to reach her.
Whatever the reason, one should always humor a pregnant woman, so I repeated the story for the millionth time. I’m not complaining, mind you. It isn’t every day I single-handedly apprehend a cold-blooded murderer. And with a gun, yet!
“I still don’t see why they couldn’t go ahead with the contest,” Freni said. She seemed to be blaming me.
“How about plain old common decency? I would have kicked the whole bunch out the morning George Mitchell was murdered, but Melvin asked me to keep the group together as long as possible for the purposes of the investigation.”
“Ach, but all that money.” No doubt visions of what that much moolah could buy for her grandchild were dancing through her bonneted head.
“Well, it looks like at least one of that group stands to profit.”
“Ach, so that child really is Mr. Mitchell’s daughter?”
“Eve Stackrumple seems to think so. It remains to be seen, however, if there will be anything left for her to inherit. Apparently George played fast and loose with his assets and the company’s.”
“Can we get this conversation back to me?” Susannah wailed. “I’m trying to tell you guys that I’ve got Melvin out of my system for good.”
“What?” If true, those words were worth more than one hundred thousand dollars to me.
“Well, I’ve been married, so I know what that’s all about, and I don’t want to be tied down, so what’s the point?”
“Exactly, dear, what is your point?”
“Well—promise me you won’t get mad, Mags?”
“No can do, dear.”
“I don’t care, I’m going to tell you anyway. I’ve decided to move to California.”
“You what?”
“Well, I met this nice guy from Los Angeles who says—”
“Over my dead body!” I roared. Susannah might be more pain than a toe with an elephant standing on it, but I was going to need her company in the months ahead. Freni was obviously going to be too involved with the babies to pay much attention to me. In a very small way, I could almost understand Mr. Dolby. Not the murder part, I don’t mean that.
“I knew you were going to get mad!”
“I’m not mad, dear,” I said calmly, albeit through gritted teeth.
“Yes, you are. You sound just like Shnookums when he growls with his binky in his mouth.”
“Don’t you ever compare me to that pitiful pooch! The truth is, the family needs you. What with Barbara having triplets—oops.”
“Triplets?” Freni squawked, and fainted into what was left of the tomato brunch cake.
Discover Tamar Myers
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
PennDutch Mystery Box Set 1-3
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
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
Non-Series Books
Angels, Angels Everywhere
Criminal Appetites (anthology)
The Dark Side of Heaven
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