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

by Tamar Myers

  “Hernia is my business. You should be grateful I even told you about this meeting.”

  “Why did you tell me?”

  “Because I believe in playing by the rules. You, on the other hand, sneaked into town on your previous visit like a thief in the night.”

  “Everything I did was legal, I assure you.”

  “But not ethical.”

  “That,” he said, flooding me with more pheromones, “is a matter of interpretation.” Thist me, if his share of the pheromones had been water droplets, I would have had to dig out my bathing suit. Fortunately it was a modest one-piece deal, in black, with an attached skirt. But a worldly man like him probably wore one of those Speedo things—I gulped for air.

  “What happens tonight won’t need any interpreters. You’ll be hitting the road, buster. Sayonara, as they say in Japan.”

  He had the temerity to smile. “I’ve always liked a woman with attitude.”

  “Attitude? Colonel Custard, I assure you, I have not yet begun to fight.”

  “Miss Yoder, if you somehow manage to screw up this deal for me, you can bet I’ll sue.”

  “Sue away!” I cried. “You’ll just be wasting your time and money. Once the people hear—”

  I was interrupted by a thump above my head. After delivering her message, Anne had returned to the kitchen to torture Freni. That meant the noisemaker upstairs was Ivan, something that came as no surprise.

  “Is that big galoot rearranging my furniture?” I asked, not unkindly.

  “Huh?”

  “Didn’t you hear the thump?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t.”

  As if on cue, Ivan obligingly dropped something else. “There it goes again!”

  The colonel shrugged. “Whatever he’s moving, I’ll make him put it back.”

  “You do that. And if there’s been any damage done to it, or the floor—well, then we’ll see who sues.”

  He displayed his caps in what I suppose was meant as a smile. “We could be friends, Miss Yoder, you and I.”

  “When geese wear shoes.” I strode from the room. One minute longer and I would have drowned in my own lust.

  Before leaving for the town meeting, I buttoned down the hatches. That is to say, I gave Alison strict orders to finish her homework, told her where and how to call me in an emergency, and then locked the chicken house for the night. My hens are free-rangers, but every evening at dusk they come back to the coop to roost. I lock them in for their protection, not from two-legged thieves, but from foxes and raccoon. It isn’t even a proper lock that I use, but a bolt through the hasp. Nonetheless, it is an important nightly ritual, and a necessary one if I hope to maintain a flock.

  Although I was the first to arrive at the church, I wasn’t alone for long. No-sirree-bob! I may be a bad fiancee, undeserving of the Babester’s affection, but I am a darn good organizer. Even if I have to say so myself. By seven o’clock that evening the carriages began to arrive—both horseless and horse-powered. At half past, when the meeting began, the parking lot of Beechy Grove Mennonite was jammed, and there were cars and buggies parked for a quarter of a mile up and down the road in both directions. The sanctuary, which theoretically holds three hundred people, was packed so tight head lice had to stay outside.

  Most, but not all, of the people who sat up front were members of my church. Directly behind them sat members of the First Mennonite Church, our more liberal sister congregation. Behind them sat the Baptists and Methodists, then the Presbyterians, and finally the handful of folk who attend the church with thirty-two names. By and large the Amish did not sit, preferring to stand along the walls. Gabe the Babe, incidentally, graced the front row, right next to Lodema Schrock. To be sure, the Schrock was shocked by my hunk’s chutzpah, and was practically sitting in her husband’s lap to avoid the possibility of physical contact with someone of the Hebrew faith. Short of making a scene, however, there was nothing she could do about it.

  The town council was seated on the dais, where the pulpit normally stands (our church does not have an altar in the liturgical sense of the word). As president of the council, not to mention chief organizer of the meeting, yours truly was seated dead center. On my right sat Sam Yoder, the manager of Yoder’s Corner Market; on my left, Elspeth Miller, owner of a feed store, our town’s only other business. Curiously absent was my brother-in-law, Melvin Stoltzfus, our less than illustrious mayor and Chief of Police.

  From my favored position I had a bird’s-eye view of virtually everyone in the room. Although I had been watching the door like a hawk, there was no sign of the colonel or his staff Perhaps he’d come to his senses, and they were back at the inn packing.

  My ancestors originally came from Switzerland, and at the appointed hour I stood and delivered my spiel. The audience was properly horrified by the scenario I presented, and some of them who hailed from non-pacifist traditions—particularly the Methodists—seemed eager for blood. Well, maybe not literally, but emotions were running high. In fact, in the space of ten minutes I’d been able to whip up so much energy that I briefly considered running for political office.

  “Are we all in agreement?” I said in finishing. It was a rhetorical question, of course.

  “I don’t agree at all,” someone said.

  5

  Pear and Ginger Custard

  Apples also work well in this recipe.

  1½ pounds ripe Bartlett pears, peeled, cored, and cut into pieces

  1 cup sugar

  1 cup heavy cream or half-and-half

  4 tablespoons grated fresh ginger

  4 large eggs, lightly beaten

  1 teaspoon unsalted butter

  Garnish: 8 slices candied ginger

  Put the pears and sugar in a medium saucepan. Cook slowly for about 5 to 7 minutes, or until the pears are soft. Set aside to cool. If the pears yield an excessive amount of water while cooling, drain before pureeing. Puree in a processor or food mill, then put in a mixing bowl. You should have about l½ cups.

  Scald the cream with the grated ginger in a medium saucepan. Remove from the heat and let the ginger steep for 15 minutes.

  Reheat the cream just until it begins to bubble around the edges. Slowly stir 1 cup of it into the eggs. Stir the mixture into the remaining cream and strain into the bowl with the puree. Whisk together to mix thoroughly. Pour into 4 buttered 1/2-cup ramekins, filling each about three-fourths full.

  Preheat the oven to 350° F. and bake in a bain-marie for 40 to 45 minutes, or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Chill for several hours. Unmold if desired and garnish with candied ginger.

  SERVES 4

  6

  I whirled in astonishment. The comment had come from Sam Yoder, who, as a fellow council member, should have been backing me one hundred percent. Sam, incidentally, is a kissing cousin on my daddy’s side, and although we’ve never actually kissed, it’s not for his lack of trying.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Sam stood and without as much as a “please” or “thank you” snatched the microphone right out of my hand. “I think you’ve understated the problem, Magdalena.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This hotel will not only ruin Hernia, but the entire county. Next thing you know they’ll be widening Route 96 down from Bedford, and you know what that means.”

  “I do?”

  “Strip malls, that’s what. Laundromats, automobile dealers, pizza parlors, and video stores. The sound of clopping hooves will give way to the screech of tires and the roar of motorcycles. How many hitching posts do you think Blockbuster will install in their parking lot?”

  It took a bit of energy, but I retrieved the microphone. “Sam, dear, the Amish don’t rent videos, but your point is well taken. Okay, now that we all understand—”

  “Drugs,” a voice in the pews said.

  I scanned the audience. The voice was familiar and came from somewhere near the back.

  “You wish to speak?” I asked.<
br />
  In slow motion a lanky man unfolded himself and rose from his pew. I recognized him immediately as Reverend Richard Nixon of the First and Only, The Church of the One and Only Living God of the Tabernacle of Supreme Holiness and Healing and Keeper of the Consecrated Righteousness of the Eternal Flame of Jehovah.

  If the reverend grew a beard, he’d be a dead ringer for Abe Lincoln. I’m not quite old enough to have heard Lincoln speak, but I imagine Reverend Nixon sounds like him too.

  “Miss Yoder, members of the council, and citizens of Hernia, and Bedford County in general—”

  “Get to the point, Rev,” Elspeth Miller whispered.

  The good man could not hear her and plowed on. “As Samuel Yoder just said, the hotel will bring unnecessary development, which will in turn invite a flood of urbanites, and in their wake, the drug dealers will surely follow. Then we will undoubtedly see an influx of harlots and ladies of the night, and the next thing you know there will be a bar opening on Main Street.”

  “How soon?”

  I recognized the impudent youth as our town’s sole Episcopalian. “ ‘Wine is a mocker and beer is a brawler,’ ” I said. “Proverbs, chapter twenty, verse one.”

  There were mutters of approval and a smattering of applause. I smiled in triumph.

  “Now then—” I began.

  “ ‘Wine that gladdens the heart,’ ” he said. “Psalm one hundred and four, verse fifteen.”

  “ ‘Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery.’ Ephesians five, verse eighteen.”

  “ ‘Come, buy wine and milk.’ Isaiah fifty-five, verse one, second half”

  The muttering grew louder, some of it possibly in his favor. Unfortunately, I’d run out of wine quotes. Oh, what humiliation, to be bested in a Bible-quoting contest by an Episcopalian—even if he did quote from the New International Version, and not the King James, which everyone knows is the translation from which the Good Lord Himself reads.

  “Moving right along,” I said, my face as red as any drunk’s, “the reason I called this meeting is because we can revoke this outsider’s building permit with a referendum. All we need to do is get this petition signed”—I reached into an otherwise empty bra and withdrew a sheaf of papers—“and we will have put a moratorium on Colonel Custard’s building permit.”

  “Which would be wrong! Even a sin!” Lodema Schrock had leaped to her feet and was poking the space in front of her with an index finger. Perhaps she was seeing bubbles where I saw nothing but hot air.

  “Lodema, dear,” I said with admirable restraint, “the chair hasn’t recognized you yet. You need to ask permission to speak.”

  “Then you didn’t recognize any of the others, because no one else asked permission.”

  “Can I help it if they don’t play by the rules?”

  “Rules, schmules.” Lodema jumped away from her chair with the agility of an aerobics instructor. She turned to face the crowd. “We’re all Christians in this room, are we not?”

  “I’m not.” The Babester was smiling.

  Lodema was clearly not amused, but she wasted no time in getting back on track. “We are supposed to be lights unto the world, right? To put our lights on stands for all the world to see. Well, how can we let our lights shine on the world if we never have contact with it?”

  A low rumble emanated from the perimeter of the room and rolled inward. The Amish much prefer that their lights glow discreetly within the confines of their community. The less contact with the world, the better.

  The last thing I wanted was for the Amish, who comprised at least a quarter of the folks in attendance, to bolt en masse. So you can imagine my gratitude when I saw Herman Middledorf, our high school principal, wave his hand.

  “The chair calls on Herman!”

  “Permission to speak?”

  “Granted.”

  “That’s no fair!” Lodema looked like she wanted to ride her current of warm air right up onto the stage and punch my lights out. As a good Mennonite she would not have actually done so, but I was relieved nonetheless when Reverend Schrock reached out a restraining arm and pulled his wife gently back to her seat. Believe me, there was going to be an extra bill or two in the offering plate come Sunday.

  “Speak,” I ordered Herman. There was no telling how long my pastor could keep his wife under control. He’s not had a good track record.

  Herman Middledorf has slicked black hair and glittering ferret eyes. Think Hitler without the mustache. He toyed with his clip-on tie as he spoke.

  “What Reverend Nixon said, what Sam Yoder said—they’re both right. These outsiders will have children, and I guarantee you’re not going to want these kids learning alongside yours.” He paused and when no one, not even Lodema, objected, he seemed to gather courage. “Tattoos and piercings, that’s what these new kids will bring. Do you want your children turned into colorful pincushions? I rest my case.”

  Alison arrived on my doorstep with rings in at least three places where the Good Lord did not intend for there to be holes. You can be sure the holes are empty now.

  “And a good case it is,” I said quickly.

  “Here, here,” Elspeth Miller cried. She may as well have hooted. The woman barely comes up to my chest, and wears enormous horn-rimmed glasses. Every time I see her I’m reminded of an owl.

  I smiled benevolently at the tiny thing, although personally—and this is terribly unchristian of me—I loathe her in my heart of hearts. Well, maybe “loathe” is not the right word after all. That would definitely be a sin. No, it’s more like disdain mixed with pity. Elspeth, you see, was a husband-beater. Beat her husband, Roy, regularly. The poor man had to walk around in long-sleeve shirts in the dead of summer or, if the lacerations were to his face, skip work altogether.

  You may find it strange that an itty-bitty bird of a woman could beat up a man, but there is a reason in this case. Roy is a true Mennonite, a pacifist through and through. It pains him to slap a mosquito, much less raise a hand to defend himself. Elspeth is not of our faith. She is a Lutheran, born in Germany. This is not to imply that Lutherans or Germans are necessarily violent. I know plenty of peaceful folks in both categories, but unlike Elspeth Miller, none of them had an honest-to-goodness Nazi storm trooper for a father. At any rate, after years of putting up with her abuse, and praying that she would change her ways, Roy up and left. Nobody seems to know where he went, but for his sake, I hope it was New Zealand.

  “Elspeth, do you have anything else to say?”

  The woman wastes no love on me either. “Only that you move this meeting along, Magdalena. Pass that petition around.”

  “Yah wohl,” I muttered. I dangled the papers over the edge of the platform. “Any volunteers?”

  The first woman out of her seat was Wanda Hemphopple, owner of the Sausage Barn. A liberal Mennonite, Wanda lives in Hernia, but her business is all the way up by the interstate. That’s the reason she is not on the town council. I have been known to say prayers of thanksgiving that this is the case. Although I love eating at the Sausage Barn—much to Freni’s consternation—learning to love Wanda is a lifelong project, and I have just recently reached middle age.

  Wanda snatched a couple of papers from my hand. “I have to agree with Elspeth. You do prattle on, Magdalena.”

  “Moi?”

  “You should have been a senator. Then you could filibuster.”

  “Why, I never!”

  “Which is probably why you can’t stay married.”

  “I could have stayed married if Aaron hadn’t been a bigamist.”

  She signed her name at the top of the petition while she spoke. “A lot of my customers are single. If you like, I’ll keep my eye out for a good man.”

  “I’ve got a good man, thank you very much, and he’s sitting right there!” I pointed to Gabe.

  She shuddered, which in her case was a dangerous thing. It was Wanda who invented the beehive hairdo back when the Good Lord Himself was just a boy, and I don’t thin
k she’s washed it since. Like the Tower of Babel, Wanda’s do strives to reach the heavens. Should Hemphopple’s tower topple, Hernia could be obliterated by an avalanche of dandruff and assorted vermin. Rumor even has it that the U.S. military has been begging Wanda to travel to various hot spots in the world and let down her hair. I did not start that particular rumor, by the way. I merely passed it on.

  “Magdalena, you don’t mean that guy from New York, do you?”

  “I most certainly do.”

  She shuddered again. “You really ought to reconsider.”

  “Why? Because he’s Jewish?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I have nothing against his faith. It’s because he’s a writer.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  Wanda cocked her head to give me a disbelieving look, and the gargantuan cone of hair tilted perilously. “Because writers tend to be mentally unbalanced. Mystery writers in particular. I read somewhere that ninety-eight percent of them are nuttier than a PayDay.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief “He’s not an official writer, because he doesn’t have anything published yet.”

  “That doesn’t matter. It’s the fact that he wants to get published. What kind of person expects to get paid just because they have a good imagination? Egomaniacal weirdos, that’s who.”

  “Weirdo alert!” I cried. The Babester had gotten up and was headed our way, no doubt to rescue me.

  Gabe and I both felt the meeting was a success. The four petitions sent around the room garnered 536 signatures. That doesn’t count the big “NO” that Lodema scrawled across the tops of three of the papers.

  After my sweetiekins dropped me off, I went straight inside to check on Alison. The girl was supposed to be studying for a math test the coming morning. I have only a small black-and-white TV, which I keep stored in the attic ever since reruns of Green Acres went off the air, so I knew that wouldn’t be a problem. But the telephone—that’s harder to control than my tongue at a coffee klatch. Sometimes I think the child has it glued to her ear.