Custard's Last Stand (An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes Book 11)

by Tamar Myers

  Being the dummkopf that I am, and probably doomed to forever be as barren as the Gobi Desert, I agreed to take the child in for a year. This decision came at a great personal sacrifice; Alison is highly allergic to cats, so I had to get rid of Little Freni, a pure-bred Siamese given to me by my latest suitor. A cat for a kid. Was it worth it? you ask. Well, the kid has driven me so far up the wall I now have footprints on the ceiling. But she’s been a blessing as well. I’m forty-six years old, yet if I die tomorrow, I will have lived a hundred years. Who can ask for more than that?

  Although I am engaged to be married to a wonderful man, it was still fun to pretend that Alison and the colonel and I were a nuclear family. What did one call a colonel’s wife anyway? A coloneless? I’d certainly settle for Your Ladyship.

  “Please pass the fancy-schmancy carrots, dear,” I said. The orange roots, which had been doctored up with some incredible seasonings, were midway between Alison and George C. I held my breath to see who would respond to my request.

  Alas, it was Alison who picked up the bowl. “These things are hard as rocks. I like Auntie Freni’s better.”

  “Mind your manners,” I said, but couldn’t suppress a grin. I knew from experience that Freni would be in the kitchen with her ear pressed to a glass. I widened the grin into a friendly smile. “So, Colonel, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  Before answering, he patted the corners of his mouth with a genuine poly-blend napkin. “I’m here on business.”

  “Really? But Hernia has no businesses—outside of my inn, a small grocery, and a feed store.”

  “Ah, but soon that’s all going to change. And that’s why I’m here,”

  “There’s some kind of yucky sauce on this meat,” Alison whined.

  I gave her a loving glare. “How is it going to change, Colonel?”

  “Do you know the Jonas Troyer property at the end of Main Street?”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “I purchased it last month.”

  “Get out of town!” In retrospect, I should have meant that literally.

  “Your inn was all booked up then, so I had to stay in Bedford. Used a rental car so as not to garner attention.”

  Bedford is the nearest city, and while it is twelve miles away, it may as well be twelve hundred. The Good Lord Himself could be staying in Bedford and we’d never know it.

  “But I didn’t even know the Troyers were in the market to sell.”

  The colonel winked. “They weren’t. I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse. They’ve decided to retire to Florida.”

  “And you’ll be moving here?” My fiance is everything I could want in a man, but in the event he turned out to be a bigamist, it would be nice to have a backup.

  “Maybe—I haven’t decided. Fortunately I have enough good people working for me that I could work out of my home in Louisville.”

  I will be first to admit that I am easily distracted. “You said business. What kind of business?”

  He dabbed his mouth again and took a sip of ice water. As a faithful Christian, I don’t serve my guests wine. The colonel had brought his own, but I had insisted he keep it in the limousine.

  “I plan to build a five-star hotel,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been to Lancaster County many times, Miss Yoder. I know what a draw the Amish are for tourists. But in my opinion that area has become overdeveloped. Just too many tourists and urban refugees. I’ve done very careful market research and concluded that Bedford County contains some of the best Amish ambience in the world. Your charming Hernia, of course, is the epicenter. I think the time has come to capitalize on that, don’t you?”

  Through the wall I heard the crack of Freni’s glass hitting the floor.

  “But you can’t do that!” I cried. “It will ruin Hernia.” He cocked his silver head in amusement. Suddenly he didn’t seem at all handsome.

  “I’m not building another Amish World,” he said. “This is a very small, but tasteful, hotel that will cater to the elite. The creme de la creme, so to speak. They know how to deport themselves.”

  “You mean like my hotel?”

  “Not quite. My hotel will be a five-star operation.”

  “But I have Hollywood stars—well, usually.”

  “Yours is an inn, Miss Yoder. Custard Suites will have one hundred well-appointed rooms and all the best amenities, including a spa.”

  “But you’ll be stealing my guests!”

  “I don’t think so. You draw mostly from the celebrity crowd, don’t you?”

  “Babs has class. You can’t get any more elite than that.”

  “Yes, but I’m talking about real thoroughbreds. The Cabots, the Vanderbilts—”

  “Haufta mischt!”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “That’s Pennsylvania Dutch for horse manure.”

  He looked taken aback. If only he’d taken himself back to Louisville, or wherever he came from.

  “Why do you find this so upsetting?” he asked.

  “Because you’re going to put me out of business, that’s why.”

  “Miss Yoder, I’ve already explained that we’re not competing for the same customers. Your quaint little inn can just keep chugging along as usual.”

  “It doesn’t chug! Why, I’ll have you know I’m booked solid for the next year. You only managed to get in by lying.”

  “That was Ivan’s doing, not mine.”

  “Maybe, but you’re a snob. Thoroughbreds indeed.”

  “I’m a snob? You’re the one who is in love with Hollywood.”

  If the truth hurts, mumble something even more hurtful. That is, of course, not the Christian way. But I can’t be true to my faith all the time.

  “Why, I doubt if you’re even a real colonel,” I said.

  “I am. I’m a Kentucky colonel.”

  “Like Colonel Sanders?”

  His face hardened. “What about you? Are you a real Mennonite, or is this some little charade you put on for the benefit of your guests?”

  That shocked me to the toes of my heavy cotton hose. I patted my organza prayer cap.

  “Of course I’m a real Mennonite. My family has been either Mennonite or Amish for the last five hundred years.”

  “Well, you could have fooled me. I thought Mennonites were supposed to be a kind, peaceful people.”

  “We are.”

  “Maybe most are. But you, Miss Yoder, have a tongue that could slice Swiss cheese.”

  Alison, who’d been watching this discourse intently, jabbed the air with her fork. “Hey, you can’t say that to my mom.”

  My heart burst with sinful pride. She may not have sprang from my loins, but she was as faithful as any daughter. At least when the attack came from the outside.

  I flashed Alison a smile. “Colonel Custard,” I said, “I feel it is only fair to warn you that I fully intend to inform the citizens of this community of your diabolical plan to destroy their way of life.”

  “I don’t intend to destroy anything. But if you think you can stop me from getting a building permit, you’re too late. I’ve already got it.”

  I gasped. “Melvin Stoltzfus! That miserable, menacing mantis who poses as our mayor.”

  Colonel Custard nodded. “He was actually a very pleasant man. I think I’ll offer him a job in—”

  I didn’t stay to hear the rest of his sentence.

  In addition to being mayor, Melvin Stoltzfus is our Chief of Police. This is only a temporary condition, mind you, due to the unfortunate incarceration of our previous mayor. But that is another story. Hernia is such a small community—just over two thousand souls—that a lot of its administration is done by consensus. While the mayor does have the power to issue building permits, if there is the potential for controversy, he or she must ran the proposal past the town council. The council is composed of the owners of the top three businesses, which, incidentally, are the cornerstones for Hernia’s tax base. And th
e PennDutch, I might add, provides the town with its single highest source of revenue.

  When I was a year or two younger, and in a rebellious phase, I bought a sinfully red BMW. I now drive a very modest, and Christian, Toyota Camry. Pressing the pedal to the metal I arrived at Melvin’s bungalow in less than ten minutes. I prayed for patience for another full minute and, finding it not forthcoming, decided that the Good Lord must have intended for Melvin to get a good scolding.

  Before going further I must explain that the man is also my brother-in-law. He is married to my younger sister, Susannah, who is nothing like me. Whereas I still cling to the faith of my fathers, my sister’s apple not only fell far from the tree, but it rolled into another orchard altogether the day she became a Presbyterian. Although I have not been able to confirm the rumors that members of this denomination bathe in beer, my sister has confessed that she has personally had sex while in a standing position, an activity that is bound to lead to dancing.

  At any rate, I marched to their door, rang the bell several times, and when no one answered, I tried the knob. The door swung open easily, and just as my sister was putting a dog down her bra. Perhaps I should explain this as well. But what can I say other than that Susannah, who lacks a discernible bosom, carries a pitiful pint-size pooch named Shnookums around in her undergarment as ballast? The miserable mangy mutt—Shnookums, not Susannah—usually goes undetected. This is due to the fact that my baby sister eschews conventional clothing, preferring to drape herself in fifteen feet of filmy fuchsia fabric.

  “It was feeding time,” Susannah said. For the record, she doesn’t nurse the critter, but feeds him the most expensive dog food on the market.

  “How come you didn’t answer the door?”

  “I had to finish burping him first, Mags. You wouldn’t want him to have gas, would you?”

  “Where’s Melvin?”

  “He’s taking a nap.”

  “Well, go wake him.”

  “No can do, Mags. He left strict orders not to be disturbed.”

  “Then I’ll wake him. It’s after supper, for Pete’s sake. This is no time to be napping.”

  “Mags, I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

  “I’m not afraid of him, Susannah.”

  “I know that. But”—she giggled—“my iddle-biddle Sugar Buns always sleeps naked.”

  I clapped my hands over my eyes. The last thing I wanted was to see my nemesis au naturel.

  “Melvin,” I hollered, “nap time’s over!”

  There was no response.

  “Rise and shine, Mel! Your chickens have come home to roost and I’m the biggest hen of them all.”

  Still no response.

  “I’m counting to three, Melvin, and then I’m coming in. Even if it means plucking my eyes out afterwards.” Being rather fond of my peepers, I counted all the way to thirty. In English and Spanish. I was going to try it in French when the bedroom door opened. My hands still covered my eyes, but I spread my fingers just wide enough to see if there was anything I might find offensive.

  Although what I saw didn’t cause me to pluck out my peepers, I did close them tightly. But of course I got a good gander first. Melvin was naked from the waist up, with only a sheet to shield his unmentionables from my prying eyes. Thist me, Melvin’s bare torso was bad enough. His skin had the color and texture of tapioca, and his chest was no bigger around than a loaf of bread. My theory that Melvin was really a giant praying mantis had finally been confirmed.

  “What’s so damned important, Yoder?” he demanded.

  “You shouldn’t swear, Melvin. Not around my baby sister.”

  “This is my house, Yoder. I can do what I want.”

  I decided to move right along from what he shouldn’t to what he couldn’t do. “Melvin, you know you can’t issue a building permit that the town council wouldn’t approve of.”

  Melvin’s eyes move independently of each other. His left eye focused on my face, while his right eye focused behind me, presumably on Susannah.

  “The colonel’s in town?”

  “So you do know this man! Melvin, what on earth were you thinking?”

  “Revenue, Yoder. That’s what this town needs more of—revenue.”

  “But it will ruin Hernia.”

  “Don’t be so stupid, Yoder. This is the twentieth century. This is progress.”

  “It’s the twenty-first century, Melvin. And there’s enough so-called progress everywhere else on the planet. Hernia doesn’t need any.”

  “What’s the matter, Yoder? You afraid you can’t compete with the big boys?”

  Nothing hurts like the truth, but I tolerate pain well. “There isn’t going to be any competition, Melvin. That’s what I came to tell you.”

  “You know that according to our bylaws, once a permit has been issued, it can’t be revoked, even by your stupid little town council.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But also according to our bylaws, it can be revoked by a community referendum.”

  In a rare moment of ocular coordination, both his eyes bored into mine. “That’s insane. A referendum means ballots. That’s going to cost Hernia money, not add to our revenue.”

  “I’ll pay for the ballots.”

  “Idiot!”

  I could have called him a name as well, but what’s the point in having large feet if you can’t think fast on them? “I’m calling a town meeting tomorrow night at Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. Be there, or be square.”

  I turned on my long but narrow heels and strode from the room. The fact that I fumbled with the doorknob did not mar the impact of my departure.

  Unfortunately I was still in a snit when I got home. A calmer Magdalena would have been more patient with the man waiting for her on the back steps.

  3

  “Gabe! Good heavens, you nearly scared the daylights out of me.”

  “That’s because it’s nine p.m., Magdalena. There’s no daylight left.”

  “Very funny. What do you want?”

  I didn’t mean it to sound the way it came out. Gabriel Rosen is my fiance, even though he hasn’t gotten around to buying me a ring yet. He’s also a handsome Jewish doctor from New York City, one who decided to retire early and create a new life for himself writing mystery novels on the farm opposite mine. We have been engaged for two months, and are planning a spring wedding.

  Because I will not abandon my faith, and Gabe has no interest in being a Mennonite, ours will be a mixed marriage. My pastor, Reverend Schrock, seems to have no problem with this. After all, Jesus’ mother also married a Jew. If only Mrs. Schrock would be as open-minded. As a pacifist, she cannot publicly espouse the idea of burning me at the stake. In private I know she’s been stocking up on kindling. But since she’s convinced I’m going to burn in Hell anyway, she may as well spare herself the effort.

  Gabe has the face of an angel. A deeply tanned, dark-eyed angel with curly black hair. He looked fondly at me.

  “Magdalena, I just came by to say good night. Maybe even steal a kiss or two if you’re in the mood.” Gabe knows I won’t go further than first base until after we’re married. And since there’s not much of a second base for him to reach—well, he’s lucky I even agree to leave home plate.

  “I’m sorry, Gabe. It’s just that I’m really—well, peeved.”

  “You said a dirty word.” He laughed and kissed my forehead.

  “I did not!”

  “Easy, babe. I’m on your side, whatever it is.”

  “It is Melvin.”

  “What’s he done now? Use city funds to purchase an ice plant in Greenland?”

  “Worse. He’s sold us out to the tourists.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I grabbed Gabe’s hand and pulled him off the porch, in the direction of the barn. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but the entire inn has been booked by this guy who calls himself Colonel Custard. Turns out he bought the Jonas Troyer place and plans to build a five-star hotel. He ev
en has a professional chef.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “That’s what I told him, but he won’t budge.”

  “Deny him a building permit. You’re on the town council.”

  “That’s where Melvin comes in. He already gave this guy the green light.”

  “Holy shoot!” Gabe has modified his speech since knowing me. “There’s got to be something we can do.”

  “We, dear?”

  “Magdalena, we’re a team now, right? Besides, I love this town just like it is. That’s why I moved here. I don’t want to see it overrun by tourists in polyester shorts with disposable cameras.”

  “According to the colonel, this will be an elite crowd. Linen shorts and Nikons are more like it.”

  “Well, I don’t want that either. Don’t worry, babe. We’ll think of something.”

  “I already have.”

  “That’s my girl. Care to share?”

  I told Gabe about my plans for a town meeting. The first thing we needed to do was to get out the word. We divided all the blabbermouths in town between us, and then he went home to call his share, and I went in to call mine.

  Before leaving he gave me a kiss on the lips.

  My calls went as well as expected. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the folks on my list were properly outraged. In a peaceful town like ours, outrage can manifest itself as a soft sigh, especially when coming from those of Mennonite heritage. The Amish don’t have telephones, but Gabe had promised to get the word out to a few of the key elders the first thing in the morning. Perhaps this should have been my job, since I was raised among the Amish and can call virtually all of them kin. But the hunk from the Big Apple was glad for an excuse to visit our most reclusive citizenry.

  The .1 percent of the people who didn’t respond as expected was my very own pastor’s wife. Before I go further, allow me to stress that Lodema Schrock is an anomaly among my people. Only once have I been compared to her, and the comment stung like a cloak of nettles. Can I be blamed then for saving that call for last? “Do you know what time it is?” she growled.