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  Tamar Myers - PA Dutch Inn 10 - Gruel and Unusual Punishment

  GRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

  3 1730 05177 1645

  New American Library

  Tamar Myers

  A PENNSYLVANIA DUTCH MYSTERY WITH RECIPES

  New American Library

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

  London WC2R 0RL England Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

  Victoria, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

  Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

  Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First Printing, February 2002

  10 987654321

  Copyright © Tamar Myers, 2002

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Myers, Tamar.

  Gruel and unusual punishment: a Pennsylvania Dutch mystery with recipes / Tamar Myers. p. cm.

  ISBN 0-451-20508-1 (alk. paper)

  1. Yoder, Magdalena (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Pennsylvania—Fiction. 3. Pennsylvania Dutch—Fiction.

  4. Hotelkeepers—Fiction. 5. Pennsylvania—Fiction. 6. Mennonites—Fiction.

  7. Cookery—Pennsylvania. I. Title.

  PS3563.Y475 G78 2002 813'.54—dc21 2001044441

  Set in Palatino

  Designed by Leonard Telesca

  Printed in the United States of America

  an ebookman scan

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For the best in-laws in the world,

  Robert and Vonnie Root

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  The recipes in this book, with the exception of the first one in Chapter Five, are from Good Old Grits Cookbook, by Bill Neal and David Perry (copyright 1991 by Bill Neal and David Perry), published by Workman Publishing (800-722-7202). Used by permission of the authors.

  GRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

  contents

  Tamar Myers - PA Dutch Inn 10 - Gruel and Unusual Punishment

  contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5 - The Lethal Gruel (Shrimp 'n Grits) Freni Served

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10 - Basic Boiled Grits

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15 - Pumpkin Grits

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20 - Grits Polenta

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25 - Jalapeno Grits Casserole

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30 - Spinach and Parmesan Soufflé

  31

  32

  33 - Grillades and Grits

  End of Gruel and Unusual Punishment

  1

  I killed Clarence Webber just three days after he bought my sinfully red BMW. It was an inadvertent killing, to be sure. If anything, I killed him with kindness.

  You see, my name is Magdalena Yoder, and I own the PennDutch Inn, a full-board establishment in Hernia, Pennsylvania. Although quite charming, Hernia is only a tad larger than a gnat's navel, and there are no restaurants in town. So when the county jail over in Bedford ran out of space, they starting housing their overflow of lawbreakers at our lockup, and guess who got to cook for them?

  Well, not me exactly, but my double second cousin once removed, Freni Hostetler, a surprisingly cantankerous Amish woman in her mid-seventies. Freni has worked for me—a mellow Mennonite in her mid-forties—since the day my parents died, squished to death in a tunnel when the car they were driving got caught between a milk tanker and a semitrailer filled to the gills with state-of-the-art running shoes. Although Freni cooked for the Hernia prisoners, she was under my employ, and besides, it was I who chose the menu that fateful day.

  "You idiot, Yoder!" the Chief of Police yelled. "Didn't you know Mr. Webber was allergic to shrimp?"

  I glared at the man, although I tried not to actually see him.

  Melvin has bulging eyes that move independently of each other, and virtually no lips. In short, he looks like a praying mantis.

  I'm not judging the man by his looks, mind you, because I'm no picnic to look at myself. Generous folks have described me as being somewhat horsy in my appearance, and they're right—if they're referring to a very skinny mare, one with virtually no curves. I have a long narrow face, and a nose that deserves its own zip code. I wear my faded brown mane in a bun atop my head. I cover the bun with a white organza prayer cap and I wear solid-color dresses with elbow-length sleeves and knee-length skirts. My shoes have often been referred to as clodhoppers. So you see, physical beauty means very little to me.

  Character is what counts, but alas, Melvin seems sadly lacking in that department. The man has always been my nemesis, and will always be so. The fact that he is now married to my sister, Susannah, has done little, if anything, to change the way Melvin and I feel about each other. I know, it isn't Christian to harbor these negative thoughts—I wouldn't quite call them hate—and I pray daily for a change of heart. That prayer, like so many others of mine, has gone unanswered. The best I can do is hold my tongue.

  "He didn't have to eat the shrimp," I said evenly. "It's not like they were hidden in the sauce."

  "That's why you're an idiot, Yoder. If they were in the sauce, that's all that mattered. And anyway, you had no business serving him gruel. I hired you to serve food. Real food."

  "It wasn't gruel, it was shrimp and grits. I picked up the recipe on my vacation in Charleston, South Carolina."

  I peeked at Melvin just long enough to see that his right eye was fixed on me, his left on the phone. "Meat and potatoes, Yoder, that's what we like to eat."

  "Mantises eat their mates," I said wickedly, and then wondered for a second if my sister Susannah was in danger. She wasn't, thank heavens. It's the female mantis that eats her mate.

  "Very funny, Yoder. Unfortunately I can't arrest you until I get the lab results, but I'm expecting the phone to ring any minute."

  I prayed for a charitable tongue. I really did.

  "You're crazy, Melvin,” I said kindly. "You're as nutty as a jar of Jiff. If you arrest me, you'll have to arrest Freni. She's the one who actually made the meal. I simply supplied the menu."

  That shut him up. In addition to being my cook, Freni is Melvin's mother's best friend. They are also some sort of cousins, which—and I shudder to say this—makes Melvin kin to me.

  Oh what a tangled web they weave, when Amish-Mennonites conceive. Both Melvin and I are Mennonites of Amish derivation, which puts us squarely in that category. My blood lines are so tangled that I am, in fact, my own cousin. All I need is a sandwich in order to qualify as a family picnic.

  I willed myself to look at Melvin. "Melvin, if you need my help
solving this case, just ask. Threats, however, will get you nowhere."

  "I don't need your help, Yoder," he said vehemently. Of course we both knew that was a lie. Melvin couldn't pass an I.Q. test for blondes. The story goes that Melvin's lack of mental acuity is the result of having been kicked in the head by a bull—one he was trying to milk.

  You might ask, then, how is it Melvin came to be our Chief of Police? The answer is simple. No one else in Hernia wanted such a low-paying, thankless job.

  "In that case," I said calmly, "I'm outta here." I turned on my heels—which are quite narrow by the way—and strode to the door of his small, stuffy office.

  "No, Yoder, wait!"

  "Give me one reason."

  "Because—uh—well—"

  "Spit it out, Melvin."

  "Because sometimes you have a pretty good head on your shoulders."

  Of course he was right. It may be a horsy head, but it's actually quite bright.

  "Flattery will get you everywhere, dear, but you need to be a little more profuse."

  "Damn it, Yoder, don't make me do that." Melvin is a lapsed Mennonite, which explains his foul language. I'm sure it doesn't help either that he's married to Susannah, who is, of all things, a Presbyterian. In her case, the apple not only fell far from the tree, it rolled out of the orchard altogether.

  "Ah, ah, ah," I said. "No swearing."

  "Okay," he grunted through clenched mandibles. "I rely on you a lot. But part of that has to do with the fact that I'm running for the state legislature. I can't do two things at once, you know."

  The phone rang before I could respond with a clever quip. I waited patiently while he carried on an interminable mumbled conversation into what has to be the world's last remaining rotary phone.

  Finally he turned to me. "It wasn't the shrimp, Yoder. It was the gruel itself. Somebody put arsenic in it."

  2

  I felt like I'd been hit on the soft spots behind both knees. Fortunately, my bony bottom found the cold hard seat of a metal folding chair, sparing me a nasty fall to the floor.

  "What did you say?"

  There was a faint, triumphant glimmer in his wandering eyes. "You heard me. Arsenic. Now, I wonder how that happened."

  "Don't even go there, Melvin. Not if you want my help with this case." As much as we dislike each other, we both know the other is incapable of cold-blooded murder.

  The glimmer died. "You got to help me with this one, Yoder. If word gets out that I've been poisoning my prisoners, I'll never make it to the legislature. That means the U.S. Senate is out, not to mention the presidency. Then where will America be?"

  I bit my tongue so hard, it was a wonder I didn't swallow it. As it was, my poor lingua was so punctured, I could have strained soup with it.

  "Before you cancel your plans to redecorate the Oval Office," I lisped, "I suggest we have ourselves a little tête-à-tête."

  "Yoder, I'm married! And you call yourself a good Mennonite."

  I gasped at his twisted interpretation. "In your dreams, buster. I wouldn't do that with you if you were the last arthropod on earth.

  I simply meant that we need to get our heads together and figure out some things."

  "Ah," he said, sounding slightly disappointed. "You want to tête now?"

  "The sooner the better." I pulled my chair closer. "Start at the beginning, Melvin."

  His left eye blinked. "You were there, Yoder."

  "Yes, I know, I sold my BMW to Clarence Webber. But I had no idea at the time that he was wanted for credit-card fraud. After all, he paid me cash."

  "Money cash, or check cash?"

  "Money. Nice, crisp, one-hundred-dollar bills." I could still feel them between my fingertips. The sound of Clarence snapping them as he peeled them from his wad, and the sound of me snapping them as I counted them aloud—even Mozart didn't write music that sweet.

  "How many of these bills, Yoder?"

  I bristled at the question, but it was a matter of public record. I'd advertised in both the Hernia Herald and the Bedford Daily News.

  "Two hundred of them. The car was out of warranty and needed a little work."

  Melvin was drooling like a teething baby. He knew I'd bought the car for cash, and therefore the twenty grand had gone straight into my bank account. That much money was more than he ever hoped to see in one lump sum—well, without me in the picture, at any rate. Perhaps if Melvin and Susannah stuck it out, and perhaps if Susannah showed a smidgen of responsibility, I might leave her more than I currently plan to.

  There's no law that says I have to leave my sister my money. I love her dearly, but moolah slips through her mitts like sand through a bottomless bucket. I, on the other hand—with the exception of that sinfully red BMW—pinch a penny until it screams. I work hard for every cent, while my sister lolls around on her divan eating chocolate-covered bonbons and watching trash TV. But I digress.

  "So, Yoder, you had no idea he was a con man?"

  "None whatsoever."

  "And those bills, you sure they're real?"

  "I'm a businesswoman, Melvin, not a fool. They were real."

  "But it didn't strike you as strange that a sleazeball like that would have so much cash on him?"

  "Look, I know what you're getting at, and I'm not going to fall for it. That money stays right where it is."

  Melvin leaned forward, his head bobbling on a neck far too scrawny to give it adequate support. "What if that money belongs to his victims?"

  "I've already prayed about that. I told the Good Lord that He was free to take from my money market account any dough that didn't rightfully belong there. Last time I checked, I was already earning interest."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "I never joke about spiritual matters. Now, let's move this discussion along, shall we? As I understand it, Clarence Webber was arrested in Bedford when he tried to use a stolen Visa card at the liquor store. Is that correct?"

  "Yeah. You'd think they'd build a bigger jail in Bedford."

  "So the Bedford police asked you to keep him here until his arraignment, but then since he couldn't even make bail—"

  "Because you had all his money."

  My glares mean nothing to Melvin, but I gave him one on principle. "I didn't have all his money. He's apparently quite loaded. You know as well as I do that his assets were frozen on account of the fraud charge. And anyway, my point is, he had to stay in jail, at least for a few days, and since you're not exactly equipped for guests, you asked me to feed him."

  "But not gruel," he growled. "And not arsenic."

  I drummed on Melvin's desk impatiently. Both Mennonites and Amish are peace-loving denominations, and if it were not for five hundred years of pacifist inbreeding, I would have drummed on Melvin.

  "The facts, Melvin. We're trying to sort through the facts here. Did Clarence Webber have any visitors?"

  Even a blindfolded person, facing the other way, would have seen the light bulb go on in Melvin's head. No doubt all that emptiness magnified the light, because I didn't think the man had that many watts in him.

  "Are you trying to say, Yoder, that one of his visitors may have killed him?"

  "Bingo."

  "Yeah, maybe you're on to something, Yoder."

  "I take it you have a record of these visitors."

  It must have been a three-way bulb, because it clicked to a lower setting. "That's Zelda's job."

  I nodded. Zelda Root is Hernia's only other police officer and functions as Melvin's right arm. She's a short thing with broad shoulders, huge bosoms, and no hips. She has no chin, rabbit teeth, and a nose like Karl Malden's. I'm not being unkind, merely observant here. Besides, these less than perfect features could be offset somewhat by creative grooming. But Zelda chooses to wear her hair in a man's haircut—what folks used to call a buzz—and she doesn't just put her makeup on with a putty knife; she uses a garden trowel. Still, like I said, she's indispensable and
highly organized. I should have thought to ask her in the first place.

  "She's off now, right?"

  "Need you ask?"

  Melvin is forever griping that the Hernia police force needs a larger staff, but the truth is, in a town of just under two thousand— 1,999 ½ now that Agnes Stucky is five months pregnant—there's not a whole lot for them to do as it is. We have no bars, there's very little worth stealing, folks generally drive slowly because of all the Amish buggies, and with the majority of us being pacifists, violence against one's person is a rarity—unless you want to count murder. We have had our share of those, but most of these cases have involved persons from the outside.

  "Right," I said, "I'll swing by Zelda's place. Any messages you want me to deliver?"

  "Very funny, Yoder." Zelda carries a torch for Melvin. Why she does is one of life's great mysteries, along with why it is we park our cars in driveways, but drive them on parkways.

  "Well, see you later, alligator," I said cheerfully. The truth be known, I rather enjoy these investigative ventures I undertake on Melvin's behalf. Even if my inn's reputation was not at stake, I would probably snoop around just for the fun of it.

  Melvin didn't respond. In a rare instance of ocular coordination, both eyes were focused on the ceiling, which has been graced by a single footprint for as long as I can remember.

  I let daydreaming mantises lie, and sneaked off to examine Clarence's empty cell for clues. I found Susannah's phone number written on the wall—it's been there for years—and a girlie magazine under the pitiful excuse for a mattress, but nothing suspicious. A quick look around the reception area1 was fruitless as well. I hadn't really expected to find anything, but now I knew for certain that my investigation would have to focus elsewhere.

  Welcome to Hernia. We are located just twelve miles from the city of Bedford in the mountains of south-central Pennsylvania. We are not—and I repeat not—at all like Lancaster County. Tourists occasionally find us, but they have yet to descend upon us in droves. While some of us eke out our livings from the soil, or have related occupations, the majority of us drive into Bedford where we are engaged in occupations that represent a cross section of that community.