by Tamar Myers
3 tablespoons cider vinegar
2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
2 teaspoons prepared mustard
2 (15 ½-ounce) cans pinto beans, rinsed and drained
1 (12-ounce) can SPAM® Luncheon Meat, cubed
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
In 5-quart saucepan, sauté onion in oil until golden. Stir in carrots, chicken broth, tomatoes, chili sauce, brown sugar, vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, and mustard. Mash half of beans with fork; add mashed beans and whole beans to soup. Blend well. Bring to a boil. Cover. Reduce heat and simmer 30 minutes or until carrots are tender. Stir in SPAM® and parsley. Simmer 2 minutes.
Serves 6.
NUTRITIONAL INFORMATION PER SERVING:
Calories 331; Protein 22g; Carbohydrates 34g; Fat 13g; Cholesterol 46mg; Sodium 2263mg.
Eleven
“Get out of town!”
Strubbly Sam looked like a sheep who had just been asked an algebra question.
“It’s an expression of incredibility, dear. So tell me, how are you going to fix my life? Can you cook?”
He nodded. “Yah. I cook every day now that my Amanda is gone.”
“I thought cooking was women’s work.”
“Yah, it is, but God looks the other way when there is no one to help.”
“Hmm.” If that were indeed true, maybe I should see about buying a new Hoover with all the attachments.
“Do you think you could follow a recipe for SPAM® jambalaya?”
“Ach, my favorite!”
“You’d be cooking for war veterans.”
Strubbly Sam blinked. “Soldiers?”
“Ex. But nonetheless mysterious, mumbling men who spend all their time huddled together in the parlor, no doubt scheming to take over the government.”
“God gives everyone a second chance, Magdalena. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Well, okay, but what about the mantis?”
“You mean Melvin Stoltzfus, the chief of police, yah?”
“You got it. Incidentally, what nickname do you Amish have for him?”
Strubbly Sam found new interest in my ceiling. “Handsome Mel.”
"What?”
“I too think he looks like a praying mantis, but the others”— he shrugged—“they think he’s very handsome. Not that one should be proud of such a thing, mind you. It is a gift from God.”
I decided to move the conversation along before I said something uncharitable. My tongue may not cut cheese, like Irma Yoder’s, but it has been known to slice butter into neat, uniform pats.
“So how are you going to stop Susannah from marrying Melvin?”
“Does your sister know that Handsome Mel—”
“Please!"
“Does she know that Elvina’s son is adopted?”
“Say what?”
“Elvina found him on the front porch the morning after a caravan of Gypsies passed through.”
“Get out of town!” I’d known Melvin his entire life and had never heard that story. In fact, I clearly remember seeing Elvina Stoltzfus pregnant. Still, the tale had a certain ring of truth. Leave it to Melvin to be left by the Gypsies, not stolen.
The sheep smiled, now that he knew an equation or two. “Elvina couldn’t have any children herself, see, so she and Amos—may his soul rest in peace—took the little boy in and raised him as their own.”
I sighed. “That’s all very interesting, dear, but it isn’t going to stop her. Nor should it. There’s nothing wrong with being adopted.”
“Yah, this is true.” He scratched is head while the straw hat bobbled. “Ach, now I know!”
“Do tell, dear. Time’s a-wasting.”
“Handsome Mel only has one.”
“One what?”
Strubbly Sam clamped a hand over his mouth, but that didn’t stop the words from leaking through his fingers. “His head wasn’t the only place that bull kicked him.”
“So what?” I wailed. “Susannah’s slept with the man! That isn’t going to be news to her. You can’t stop this wedding, can you?”
“Ach, maybe we should go to the third thing on your list. Did you say someone was missing?”
I nodded miserably. “One of my guests. A man named John Burk. What do you propose to do, Strubbly Sam, organize a posse?”
The sheep drew a blank again.
“A search party, dear. Because if—”
“Yah, that I can do.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? I mean, it’s planting season—how are you going to get anyone to join a search party for a missing Englisher?”
The straw hat was a blur. “There’s Strong Jonathan, Small Ben, Two-Horse Miller, Left-handed Ed, and Strubbly Pete. They’re all retired like me. They’d be happy to help.”
“Are you sure, Sam?”
“We can find this guest, Magdalena.”
“You forgot the ‘Big.’ ”
“You forgot the ‘Strubbly.’ ”
We grinned like a pair of Cheshire cats, and in that moment, an unlikely friendship was born.
I expect my guests to gather in the parlor between six and half-past every evening. At the very minimum, gentlemen must wear shirts, pants, and shoes. I will not tolerate shorts at the dinner table. Ladies may wear slacks—although dresses are preferred—and they too must wear shoes. Neither sex may wear sleeveless apparel. After all, there are parts of the body the Good Lord intended for us to keep private, and any place where odor is a problem is on that list. I do encourage my guests to go beyond the minimum code, and am sometimes rewarded by smartly dressed diners who appear to have stepped right off the society page of The Philadelphia Inquirer.
At any rate, I collect my guests promptly at six-thirty and lead them to the dining room where I personally assign their seats. Anyone rude enough to be late risks being seated next to me, within poking range of my fork. By the second day tardiness is no longer a problem. Occasionally—and this happens, or I should say used to happen, with the Hollywood crowd more than any other group—someone will fail to appear altogether. If I have not been notified in advance, and food has been prepared, the culprit is treated to a thorough tongue-lashing. Perhaps this might not seem like the Christian thing to do, but neither is wasting food—not when there are all those starving children in India.
This particular evening, since the men were already gathered in the parlor, and the women not the sort who gussied up a lot, I didn’t anticipate any problems. Neither did I anticipate what happened. At twenty-nine minutes after six, just as I was about to rap on the parlor door, it opened and Tulsa Bob stepped out, looking like the cat who’d swallowed the canary.
“Ah, Miss Yoder, you’re just the woman I want to see.”
“Well, here I am, as big as life and twice as ugly.” It was a phrase I’d picked up from Susannah and which I intended to be humorous. A sporting person would have laughed, and contradicted my obvious joke.
Bob, however, merely nodded. “Yeah, I’m glad we got this chance to talk before dinner.”
I glanced at my plain, but very accurate watch. “You have thirty-nine seconds, dear.”
“Ma’am?”
“Make it fast,” I said crossly, “or I’ll have to shorten the table grace. You don’t want me to cheat God, do you?”
“No ma’am. It’s this—we won’t be needing the parlor anymore. As a conference room, I mean.”
That announcement did little to improve my mood. “A deal’s a deal, dear. We agreed on fifty dollars a day.”
His eyebrows merged, like two storm clouds coming together. “Ma’am, it’s not like you’d really be losing money on it. Would you? Our deal didn’t stop you from renting it to anyone else, did it?”
Okay, so he had a point. But never let someone off the hook unless you have something to reel in. Otherwise you risk snagging yourself.
“How about a new deal?”
“What kind of deal, ma’am?”
“Well, it would appear that one of my guests is missin
g—”
“Missing, ma’am?”
“Well—and this is strictly confidential—I think it’s more likely he ran away.”
“Is this a child we’re talking about?”
“Hardly. He’s at least your age, dear. But”—I lowered my voice—“his wife’s a little strange. She has this crazy idea he’s a spy. Says he’s gone missing all over the world. She’s a concert pianist, you see, and travels a lot, but just between you and me, these musician types tend to be high-strung. My guess is the poor guy just needs a break now and then. Anyhow, I promised her I’d organize a search party tomorrow and we’d comb the woods around here.”
“Isn’t that something the authorities are supposed to do?”
“Not this early in the game, and not without compelling evidence of foul play. And frankly, I’d be hesitant to jump in to somebody else’s business except that—well, enough said.”
The storm clouds lifted and parted. “Ma’am?”
“It’s just that I have a reputation to uphold.” There was no need for him to know that a few previous guests had gone missing, only to be found on the premises as corpses. I don’t mean to sound heartless here, but if John Burk was found dead, it had better not be on my property. The kind of folks who might be attracted to stay in an inn where multiple deaths had occurred were not the folks I wanted as guests.
“I see. Well, ma’am, me and the guys sort of had plans.”
“Are those plans worth two hundred dollars? Because that’s what you’d owe me through Friday.”
Bob grinned. “Ma’am, I was in sales in civilian life. I sure could have used a woman like you on the team.”
“What did you sell, dear?”
“Previously owned cars.”
I wrinkled my nose, which given its length, takes a few seconds. “Well then, do we have a deal? I’ll let you out of the agreement if you help me look for John Doe—I mean, John Burk.”
“Deal,” he said and thrust out a hand for me to shake.
While I’d just as soon pick up someone’s pair of dirty undies than shake their hand—both things have been in the same place, after all—I grabbed the proffered paw. I’ve been told I have an uncommonly strong grip, thanks to my penchant for pinching pennies. Contrary to rumor, I cannot squeeze blood out of a turnip. I can, however, force a few tears.
The hedgerows came together again, this time in a wince. “Yes, ma’am, you and I would have made great teammates.”
I patted my bun with my free hand. Flattery can get me to do many things, but selling used cars is not one of them.
“Say uncle, dear, and hurry up before I have to cut the grace out altogether.”
We all agreed that an organized search should wait until the morning. Samantha seemed calmer now that she had shared her suspicions with me about John being a C.I.A. agent. And Zelda, bless her little overly made-up face, had promised to keep a painted eye open for any suspicious Englishers skulking about Hernia. As for Sam, not only was he a dynamite cook, he was a whole lot more pleasant than Freni.
Dinner was served around a massive table that was built by my great-great-great Grandfather Jacob “The Strong” Yoder. The table was constructed of solid oak and can seat twenty people—twenty-six in a pinch. It and Grandma Yoder’s bed were the only pieces of furniture to survive intact during the tornado. Frankly—and this is just between you and me—I wish Granny’s bed had sailed away to Oz. Sure, I was born in that bed, but Granny died in it. And while I’m not about to confess that I believe in ghosts, I have seen Granny in that bed on several occasions since she left her earthly body. Unfortunately, it is the same bed I feel compelled to use—after all, Granny wouldn’t be happy with a stranger sleeping on top of her.
At any rate, Sam made an excellent butler and he hovered over us like a mother hen, pecking at each little worm and flinging it to the neediest chick. Of course, that’s a bad analogy, because Sam was an excellent cook. Even better than Freni, if the truth be told.
The guests seemed delighted by a butler liveried in livery clothes, and were altogether in high spirits— except for Sandy Hart, who was at her other pole, and as quiet as a can of worms. Her husband, Bob, however, more than made up for her silence.
“Excellent meal, Miss Yoder.”
I nodded graciously at the bobbing butler. “Thank Sam. You didn’t know that Amish men could cook, did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“My sugar plum can cook,” Doris Hill cooed. “He learned it in the army.”
I arched one brow, to signify that I was displeased at her interruption. “Did he now?”
“Oh, yes! He learned to cook in that horrible prisoner- of-war camp he was in”—she ran chubby fingers through her husband’s hair—“what was the name of that, dear?”
“We called it the Black Hole,” Bob said before Jimmy Hill could as much as part his lips.
“Prisoner-of-war camp? Black Hole? Are we sure this is proper dinner conversation?” I asked gently. Actually, I was dying to hear more, but in a one-on-one situation. It is my dinner table, after all, and I should be the mistress of conversation.
“Oh, it’s just history,” Bob said without missing a beat. “You see, it was during the war—WWII, that is— and we were in an armored tank regiment in the Tunisian desert.”
“Is that so? You know, the king of Morocco stayed here once. He brought seven of his wives with him—or were they harem girls? Anyway, I said I wasn’t going to allow any hanky-panky with girls wearing hankies. Made him put them up at a motel in Bedford.”
“Well, this was Tunisia,” Jimmy said needlessly. “It’s two countries over.”
“And the capital is Tunis,” Doris hissed. I think she meant to purr.
I rolled my eyes politely. That is to say, I kept at least a smidge of iris showing at all times.
“I’m quite good at geography, dear. I haven’t traveled much personally, but my guests have. Did you know that the shape of Tunisia has often been compared to the hull of a ship?”
“Isn’t that interesting,” Bob said, his voice straining, as if to change gears. “I guess I was too concerned with the shape I was in to be noticing the shape of the country. You see, we were fighting Rommel in the desert—the temperature was like a hundred and forty in the daytime. At night it was freezing.”
“The highest temperature ever recorded was one hundred thirty-six point four in the shade, and that was in Aziz, Libya,” I said instructively.
Bob barreled on. “Our unit was destroyed by a division of Panzers. There were only seven survivors. We four”— he waved a hand at the other men present, excluding Sam—“were there. We all escaped into the dunes, and they didn’t bother to follow.
“I got off easy—-just some shrapnel in my left leg. But others—like Frank over there—were hit pretty bad. Frank, show Miss Yoder here your scars.”
“I don’t think so, dear.”
“Anyway, we went three days with just one canteen of water between us—nothing to eat, of course—and then we were found by a tribe of Bedouin. They’re nomads—”
“I know all about the Bedouin, dear.”
“I’m sure you do, Miss Yoder. Anyway, these were the nicest folks. They didn’t have as much as a Band-aid, but at least we were safe until he showed up. Well, that’s what we thought.”
“Until who showed up? Rommel?”
“I wish. No, ma’am, I’m talking about the Butcher of Tunis, and his sidekick, the Scorpion.”
“Hernia’s too small to have its own butcher, but there’s a good one over in Bedford.”
“Not that kind of butcher, ma’am. This one butchered humans.”
“How fascinating, dear.” I turned to Samantha, who had remained silent through the meal. “Who is your favorite composer?”
Bob’s bushy black eyebrows merged in a hedgerow frown. “Beg pardon, ma’am, but the story is just beginning. And it ain’t a pretty story like that Casablanca movie. The Germans were in control in Tunisia, not the
wishy-washy Vichy government of France. And there wasn’t anything like Rick’s bar in Tunis—well, not the part that I saw, at any rate.
“You see, the Butcher of Tunis was in charge of a prisoner-of-war camp just outside the city. We called it the Black Hole, because that’s just what it was. Nothing but a pit under a building, where there were twenty- five of us, crammed together like sardines in a can. We couldn’t even lie down. And it was hot in that hole too—hotter than in the desert, I think. And the smell, ma’am—”
“Please! Can we get back to the Bedouins?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s where the Butcher caught up with his brother. His brother, the Scorpion, was an S.S. agent whose job it was to round up Allied troops who had escaped capture behind enemy lines. Anyway, the Scorpion had this network of spies and unfortunately one of them was a Bedouin. His name was Achim—”
“Bless you, dear.”
“No, that was his name. A very personable fellow in his early twenties. The only one in the camp who spoke a little English. Anyway, the minute the Butcher and his brother, the Scorpion, showed up, our lives were hell.”
“I do not allow swearing in this establishment,” I said firmly.
“I wasn’t swearing, Miss Yoder. Just stating a fact. The Butcher and his gang of sadists starved and beat us. I wouldn’t do that to a rat. For six months we lived like that—may as well have been six years; it seemed like a lifetime. Three of my regiment—Eddy Dalton, Bill Easley, and Jackson Hayes—didn’t make it. I swore that if I ever got out of there alive I was coming after the Butcher of Tunis. The Scorpion and Achim too.”
“And did you? Go after them, I mean. You’re obviously very much alive.”
“You better believe it, ma’am. We all did. Frank there even hired a German private investigator.”
“What did you learn, dear?” I said, turning to Frank, and then immediately wished I hadn’t. Anyone that old and still having sex is unstable if you ask me—like Doris and Jimmy Hall. If by the time we reach our dotage we’re not free of the urges of the flesh, then there’s no hope for our redemption as a species. Besides, in heaven there are only single beds. Read your Bible if you don’t believe me.