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  Tamar Myers - PennDutch Inn 13 - Assault and Pepper

  Assault and Pepper

  A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery with Recipes

  Tamar Myers

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

  New American Library

  First published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Tamar Myers, 2005 All rights reserved

  NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 0-451-21394-7

  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 product 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.

  Contents

  Tamar Myers - PennDutch Inn 13 - Assault and Pepper

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5 - Puppy’s-Breath Chili

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10 - Chili and Dumplings

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15 - Chilies-and-Dried-Beef Dip

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20 - Chorizo with Eggs and Chili

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25 - Bottom-of-the-Barrel Gang Ram Tough Chili

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30 - Sharon Wilkerson’s Beef Chili

  31

  End of Assault and Pepper

  Acknowledgments

  For Martha Bushko

  First, I would like to acknowledge my mother-in-law, Vonnie Root, for her creative suggestion for the title. For the rest of you, though, please don’t start sending me more title suggestions. I appreciate the thought, but frankly, most of the suggestions I get are not really very good.

  A special thanks goes to the International Chili Society (ICS) for most of the chili recipes in the book. They are available on their Web site, www.chilicookoff.com, along with a bunch of other wonderful chili recipes. Another thanks goes to my friend Sharon Wilkerson for her contribution in chapter 30.

  1

  “Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies,” Reverend Schrock said, seconds before toppling, face forward, into a pot of chili. That’s the gist of it. I’ll spare you the grisly details, but those seconds seemed like lifetimes, and all the while we, the congregation of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church, were powerless to do anything.

  By the time the rescue squad arrived, our pastor was as dead as last summer’s daisies, and getting ready to push up fresh ones of his own come spring. Although there was nothing we could do to help the reverend, there was quite a bit we could do to assist his wife. The trouble is that Lodema Schrock has the personality of a flea-bitten badger. A few folks, less charitable than myself, have suggested that she even looks like a badger. At any rate, it was soon clear that everyone present at our annual chili supper cook-off wanted to pawn the pastor’s widow off on someone else.

  Not that any of us was rude about it. We didn’t draw straws, or do anything obvious like that, but we rolled our eyes among ourselves and grunted our excuses. Apparently I didn’t roll hard enough, or grunt loud enough, because I found myself driving the distraught woman home.

  Normally the woman can’t go two minutes without insulting me, but that evening she sat in the passenger seat of my car, just as silent as Lot’s wife after she’d been turned into salt. It wasn’t until we were in the driveway of the parsonage that she spoke.

  “Peanut butter,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Magdalena, are you deaf now, as well as stupid?”

  I prayed for patience. “I thought you said ‘peanut butter.’ “

  “I did. That’s what killed Arnold.” For the record, that was the first time I had ever heard Lodema say her husband’s Christian name. It had always been “the reverend” this, “the reverend” that, as if we laypeople were unworthy of hearing anything more intimate. Once she even referred to herself as “the reverendess,” and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t joking.

  “I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”

  “Arnold was allergic to peanuts. You know that, Magdalena. Everyone in Hernia knows that. My husband was murdered.”

  “But Lodema, dear, he hadn’t even eaten anything. Besides, there weren’t any sandwiches at the cook-off—just chili.”

  “You’re talking like a dunce again, Magdalena. How hard is it to stir some creamy peanut butter into a pot of chili? Who knows, it might even taste good. I’m sure it would have improved that horrible-looking stuff you brought.”

  “Freni made that, not me.” Freni Hostetler is my cook at the PennDutch Inn. She’s an Amish woman in her mid-seventies. If it was meant to be cooked, Freni can make it taste delicious. Of course delicious does not necessarily equate with healthy. To Freni, there are three food groups: starch, sugar, and fat.

  Lodema grabbed my right arm with nails as sharp as badger claws. “Arnold did a lot for you, Magdalena.”

  “Reverend Schrock was a good friend.”

  “He was very fond of you.”

  “And I of him—of course only in a platonic sort of way.”

  The claws searched for my ulna. “Promise me you won’t let him down.”

  “I promise—I mean, what can I do for him now? Write a eulogy?”

  “Don’t be so dense. I want you to find his killer.”

  “But we don’t even know for sure if he was murdered. And I’m not a policewoman. You know that!”

  “You might as well be. You solve all the important cases around here, not your cousin.”

  “Melvin Stoltzfus is only a distant cousin. Otherwise he couldn’t have married my sister. And I only solve these cases because—okay, so maybe I am a smidgen smarter than he is, and maybe I am a bit on the nosy side....” I waited in vain for her to contradict my last statement. “All right, I’ll make sure Melvin looks into all the possibilities.”

  She let go of my arm. “You know what, Magdalena? You’re not so bad after all.”

  “Thanks—I think. Shall we go in now?”

  She threw open the door. “In? Who said you’re coming in?”

  “Don’t you want me to? Lodema, I’d be happy to spend the night, if you need the company, that is.” By the way, the Lord doesn’t mind lies that are told for the purpose of sparing someone’s feelings. I read that somewhere, in some kind of religious book, so I know it has to be true.

  The not-so-merry widow glared at me. “You’re nuts if you think I need a babysitter. What I need is to be left alone.”

  I nodded. I wasn’t agreeing with the “nuts” part, but I understood about the need for privacy. When my pooky bear abandoned me, I wanted nothing more than to burrow under my covers with a flashlight, a good book, and two pounds of dark chocolate. I needed to lick my wounds, and maybe the chocolate as well. Unfortunately the world impinged on my grieving process before I’d gotten even halfway through the chocolate, much less the book, and even though I am in a healthy relationship now, I will always feel somewhat cheated.

  “Well, call me if you need anything,” I said, hoping that she wouldn’t.

  Lodema slammed the car door and stalked up the walk to her house without so much as a thank-you. Suddenly all the negative feelings I’d ever had for the woman, and which I’d managed to suppress ever since my peppy pastor plotzed in the peppery pot, came rushing to the forefront. If it weren’t for the fact that her husband had indeed been a good friend, I might have chased after Lodema, tackled her, and, by twisting one arm behind her back, forced the woman to cry uncle. Or at least acknowledge how grateful she was.

  Instead, I backed sedately out of her driveway and drove home in a rage. That is how the first week of November got off to a really bad start.

  2

  Home is the PennDutch Inn, located just north of the bucolic town of Hernia in the mountains of south-central Pennsylvania. We are primarily a Mennonite and Amish fanning community, but not to be confused with the high-profile folks over in Lancaster County. We’re a mite too far from major metropolitan centers to attract day-trippers, and although we get tourists, I’m just about the only one who profits from them.

  My name is Magdalena Portulaca Yoder. Portulaca is a variety of flower, and Mama got the name from the back of a seed packet. As for Magdalena—the twisted limbs of my family tree contain five ancestors who bore that moniker. Of course Papa got the name Yoder from his papa, and there have been Yoders in Pennsylvania since the early 1700s.

  The immigrant Yoders were Amish, as were the rest of my people, but I was born and raised Mennonite. I am often asked about the differences between Amish and Mennonites. Unfortunately, when I try to answer that question, most often the listener’s eyes will glaze over. But since you asked so politely, I will endeavor to answer it one more time.

  Mennonites are the followers of Menno Simons, a sixteenth- century Dutch theologian, who was formerly a Catholic priest. He rejected the practice of infant baptism, espousing the baptism of believers only, and adhered firmly to
the doctrine of nonviolence. The Amish, on the other hand, are the followers of Jacob Amman, a seventeenth-century Swiss Mennonite who believed that the Mennonite Church had become too lax in some of its practices. In a nutshell, Amish are more conservative than Mennonites. They are also likely to be more identifiable by their dress. Amish people who cannot live up to their faith’s rigid requirements often become Mennonites, as was the case in my family. There is, however, very little movement in the other direction.

  Now that you are an expert on that matter, let’s return to the subject of me. I am a godly woman in my mid-to-late forties (my exact age is none of your business). I have a younger sister, Susannah, who left the faith of our fathers altogether when she married a Presbyterian. She has since been divorced, and is now remarried to Melvin Stoltzfus, our town’s Chief of Police. I have never been married—not from a legal point of view, at any rate. I once thought I was hitched, to a hunk named Aaron Miller, but he turned out to be a bigamist, making me an inadvertent adulteress. Aaron and his legal wife have a daughter, Alison, whom they cannot control. Since my womb will forever be as barren as the Gobi Desert, I have graciously assented to be this child’s guardian.

  It was Alison who met me at the kitchen door that night. “Hey, Mom, can I have a raise in my allowance? Donna Wylie gets five dollars more a week, and she’s almost a year younger.”

  I tried to smile. “Can we talk about this some other time, dear? Something tragic happened tonight and—”

  “Yeah, I know all about that.”

  “You do?”

  “Auntie Susannah was just here. Said the reverend drowned in his chili bowl. Did that really happen?”

  “Yes—well, sort of. It wasn’t his bowl, but someone’s pot, and I don’t think he drowned. It’s more likely he had a heart attack.”

  For a moment her eyes clouded over, and I thought she might cry. I could recall several occasions on which she’d expressed how much she liked our pastor, who, although childless himself, always seemed to get along well with the youth.

  “Bummer,” she said softly.

  “He was a fine man, Alison. It’s going to be hard getting used to not having him around.”

  “Yeah. So, can I have that raise or not?”

  Needless to say, I was shocked by her callousness. “Not!”

  “Aw, Mom, ya don’t have to get sore about it.”

  “I thought you liked Reverend Schrock.”

  “I do—I mean, I did. But he’s dead, ain’t he? That ain’t gonna change if you keep my allowance the same.”

  She had a point. But she also needed to learn a lesson about priorities. I was just the person to teach her this lesson, and was about to begin with some basics, but the dining room door flew open and in flapped Freni, my cook.

  “Ach, Magdalena,” the stubby woman squawked, “the English are crazy!”

  “Like, I’m outta here.” Alison darted through the still-swinging door.

  “Freni, dear,” I said to my Amish cook, “maybe you haven’t heard about Reverend Schrock.”

  “Yah, I hear.” She stared at me through glasses as thick and blurry as ice cubes.

  “So don’t you have anything to say about that before launching into your litany of complaints about the English?” The Amish, by the way, use the word “English” when referring to anyone not of their faith. An Amish man from London (although there aren’t any to my knowledge) would not be English, whereas a Buddhist from Japan would most certainly be English.

  Freni continued to stare.

  “You could at least express your condolences, dear.”

  “Yah, the reverend has my dolences, but that woman—she gives you so much trouble.”

  “That may be, but her husband is dead. Anyway, we can be sad about the reverend’s passing, without letting our feelings for Lodema get in the way.”

  Freni hung her head in shame. At least she attempted to do so. Unfortunately the woman has very little neck, so her penitent gesture did little more than tilt her face just enough so that her beady eyes gazed over the top of her glasses. She looked ominous, rather than sad, and it was all I could do to keep from laughing.

  I did manage to maintain a straight face long enough to force Freni to give up her charade. “So,” she said, her gaze once again impenetrable, “I can tell you now why the English are crazy?”

  “I doubt you can tell me why they are crazy, but I’ll settle for a list of what they’ve done to make you think they are.”

  “The couple from California want only vegetables to eat, but the couple from New York say they want only meat and cheese. The Fat-Kids Diet, I think they call it.” She shook her head. “So I make chicken and dumplings with carrots and potatoes, and the couple from New York eats the chicken, but no one eats the dumplings, or the carrots and potatoes.”

  “Freni, you’ve cooked for vegetarians before. You know they won’t eat anything that’s been cooked with meat. What about our fifth guest, the redhead from Dallas?” Thank heavens I’d had two last-minute cancellations for that week, and there were no more guests to inquire after.

  “Yah, the redhead, but she also has a complaint. ‘Why is the toilet paper not folded to make a point?’ she asks. Magdalena, I do not understand such a question.”

  “It’s something hotels and motels do nowadays. Only the Good Lord knows why. Who wants to use paper that’s been handled that much?”

  Freni pursed her lips in a way that accused me of being nuts even for knowing about this strange custom. Then she took off her working apron, folded it neatly, and placed it on the kitchen table.

  “I quit,” she said.

  I couldn’t help but smile. This was the ninetieth time she’d quit in the last six years. When she reached a hundred, I was going to give her a plaque. Perhaps I deserved one too, for giving her so many chances.

  She took two steps toward the back door and stopped. “This time I mean it.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Ach! I mean I really mean it.”

  “That’s nice, dear.”

  She took three more steps, baby steps all, then stopped and turned. “You’ll be sorry, Magdalena.”

  “Yes, I suppose I will. Just not half as sorry as you.”

  “Yah?”

  “I saw your dear, sweet daughter-in-law, Barbara, at Yoder’s Corner Market this morning. She shared that she is suffering from a severe case of PMS.”

  “Ach!” Freni clapped her hands over her ears.

  “Not premenstrual syndrome,” I said loud enough to wake the dead three counties over. “She’s got pre-Mennonite syndrome. She said she thinks the Amish here are too strict. Said she and Jonathan are seriously considering joining the Mennonite Church.”

  Freni’s usually florid face turned cake flour white. Barbara is the bane of her existence. If you ask me, it’s not just because the big gal—she stands six feet in her patched woolen stockings—hails from a more liberal Amish community in Iowa. The crux of the problem is that Freni refuses to cut the apron strings that tie her to her son and only child.

  The fact that Jonathan and Barbara, along with their triplets, live with Freni and Mose makes any kind of separation virtually impossible. Put two alpha females into the same pack, and you can beta there will be trouble. But all this talk about the younger generation becoming Mennonites is, in my opinion, just a way for Barbara to seek her independence. While it is true that if the young couple did become Mennonites, Amish Church law would force them to move from his parents’ home and, in fact, have no further contact with them, I don’t believe that is their intention. I believe that they would prefer to move out voluntarily and stay within the Amish fold. I am convinced that Barbara would be happy to remain Amish—just not under her mother-in-law’s roof.

  “She needs more space, Freni.”

  “But she has her own house.”

  “Yes, but it’s attached to yours, and you feel free to come and go as you please.”

  “But I own it.”

  “Barbara needs to feel like she is the mistress of her own house. Tell me, do you let her cook for Jonathan and the children?”

  Freni’s lips twisted into a pale pink pretzel. “Even the pigs do not like what she cooks.”