Grape Expectations: A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery With Recipes Read online

“Perhaps, but do I look like a killer to you?”

  “Killers come in all sizes, shapes, and colors,” Chris Ackerman said.

  “Et tu, Brutus?” I wailed.

  The table bucked one last time, and Freni emerged on the far side. The dough now encased her head like a football helmet. Globs of gooey stuff hung over her glasses like the wattles of a very pale turkey.

  “Riddles,” she hissed. She turned her attention to the chief. “So, is Magdalena going to jail again?” Freni sounded almost hopeful.

  “There was only that one time! Okay—maybe two. But that’s it.”

  The chief actually smiled. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Hostetler, that your cousin will be staying right here.” The chief turned to me. “Miss Yoder—I mean, Magdalena—I understand that you have quite a bit of experience in criminal investigation. Am I correct?”

  “Our previous Chief of Police couldn’t pour water out of his shoes, even if the instructions were printed on the heels. Someone had to do his job.”

  “And you also know the people of this community.” “Nobody knows them better—unless it’s Esther Schwartzengruber.”

  “Ach!”

  The chief smiled. “I’ll have to ask you about her later. In the meantime, do you think you could spare the time to help me with investigating the death of Felicia Bacchustelli?”

  “Is this a command performance?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Certainly. But then, you see, Sergeant Ackerman and I might find ourselves concentrating too much on just one suspect”

  “You mean you’ll grill me like a weenie and make my life a living Hades?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “I capitulate!”

  “Riddles,” Freni hissed again.

  “There’s one more thing,” the chief said.

  “For you anything—even up to half of my kingdom.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Now she makes fun of the Bible.” Freni tossed her head in righteous indignation, causing the dough wattles to swing around and slap her ears.

  “I was merely paraphrasing King Ahasuerus.”

  “I see,” the chief said in a tone that implied she didn’t “Magdalena, I was thinking that you might benefit from taking shooting lessons. I could help you with target practice, and—”

  Every hair on my body stood on end. Fortunately, the hair on my head is braided and then coiled tightly into a bun. Nonetheless, I’m sure that my prayer cap bobbled. “Are you talking about guns?”

  “Firearms,” Chris Ackerman said.

  I gave him a well-deserved glare for butting in. “I don’t care if they’re called bananas, dear. I am a Mennonite, my parents were both Mennonite, and their parents Amish. I can trace them back five hundred years to Switzerland, where they were persecuted for their Anabaptist beliefs. And do you know how they reacted when they were tortured on the stretching racks or thrown into icy lakes? Well, I’ll tell you—they prayed. They didn’t fight back. Not one of them. If I pick up a gun, I’ll dishonor the memory of all those who came before. It would also mean betraying myself.”

  “You go, girl,” Freni said, and punched the air with a dough encrusted finger. That is not, by the way, an Amish expression, but one my kinswoman picked up from my sister Susannah.

  The chief stood. “I respect that, Miss Yoder. Will you at least agree to carry a cell phone?”

  “I’m religious, not stupid. But you really don’t have to worry about me; I’m pretty good about getting out of scrapes without having to scrape anyone, thanks to my sturdy Christian underwear.”

  Young Chris’s eyes widened. “Say what?”

  “You heard me, dear. And just so you know, the giantess I disabled with my bra was merely stunned, not seriously hurt.”

  Although she’d heard the story dozens of times, Freni covered her ears and fled into the dining room.

  “Your bra?” Chris asked incredulously when the coast was clear.

  “Yes, sir. But it wasn’t one of those flimsy things, like the ones Victoria’s Secret sells. It was a Hanes Her Way from Sears with a double hook closure and an adjustable strap. It can’t be padded either, because the cup has to fold around the stone. Besides, a padded bra is the same as telling a lie, isn’t it?”

  Chris chuckled. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I never joke about underwear, dear.”

  “I must say,” the chief said, “you do tell some colorful tales.”

  “No, sir—I mean, ma’am. this isn’t a tale. You can ask anyone in Hernia; it really did happen. But speaking of colorful— sturdy Christian underwear should only be white, like the Good Lord intended. You don’t think Jesus paraded around Galilee in pink, do you? And you can be sure he wore boxers, not briefs.”

  “I doubt if he wore either,” Chris said. “Underwear had yet to be invented.”

  I stifled an image that popped into my brain involuntarily. “Get behind me, Satan!”

  “We really must be going,” the chief said. I could see her give Chris the old half-roll with her eyes. It means vamoose in any language, as in “let’s scram before the crazy lady whacks us over the head with her cook’s rolling pin.”

  “You’re a hoot, Miss Yoder,” the boy said as his boss dragged him away by his collar.

  “And a holler,” I hollered after him.

  I smiled as I watched them get into Hernia’s only squad car and drive away. They were a good pick; just the ticket to write up a ticket for the occasional Amish man who didn’t clean up after his horse. And so far they’d done a bang-up job of catching the teenagers who banged up their parents’ cars drag racing through town on Saturday nights. But when it came to real crime, they came to me.

  Of course I was capable of solving the mystery that surrounded Felicia Bacchustelli’s death. At least I was pretty sure I could.

  I shook my head vigorously, clearing it of doubt—possibly even a few wits. When I realized that might be the case, I stopped shaking immediately. I was going to need as many wits as possible to deal with the man who was walking up my drive through the settling dust.

  5

  Stuffed Cornish Game Hens

  6 Cornish game hens, thawed if frozen

  1 cup chopped onions

  6 tablespoons melted butter or margarine

  1 cup dry white wine

  Salt and pepper

  2 tablespoons butter or margarine

  Game hen livers

  2 tablespoons chopped onions

  ¼ teaspoon poultry seasoning

  ¼ cup Concord grape juice

  ¼ cup Concord grape jelly

  1½ cups canned beef gravy

  2 tablespoons lemon juice

  ¼ teaspoon curry powder

  1 tablespoon brandy or sherry

  1 cup raw wild rice mix, or 3 cups cooked

  Remove giblets and set aside game hen livers. Sprinkle game hens inside and out with salt and pepper. Heat butter and saute game hen livers until livers are cooked. Chop livers with onion. Stir in poultry seasoning, brandy, bamboo shoots. Cook wild rice mix according to package directions until tender. Stir Vi of the rice into liver mixture. Use mixture to stuff game hens. Sew or skewer opening. Place hens side by side in a foil lined baking pan. Sprinkle with chopped onions and brush with melted butter. Roast in a preheated moderate oven (350°F) for 30 minutes. Mix wine and Concord grape juice and spoon over game hens every 10 minutes. Roast another 30 to 40 minutes or until game hens are tender. Place game hens on serving platter and keep warm. Pour pan juices into a saucepan. Stir in Concord grape jelly, gravy, lemon juice and curry powder. Simmer until bubbly. Spoon over game hens and surround with remaining wild rice.

  MAKES 6 SERVINGS

  6

  Although he doesn’t wear a uniform, Gabriel Rosen really is Hernia’s finest—at least in the looks department. The Babester, as I like to call him, is a doctor who retired early from his practice in Manhattan and purposely so
ught out the wilds of Pennsylvania as the place to begin his new career: that of a mystery novelist. Frankly, I think this is unrealistic. The man doesn’t possess a shred of creativity. Once I peeked at a letter Gabe received from an editor in New York. The woman was very angry. She’d read a portion of my beloved’s manuscript immediately following a luncheon and proceeded to throw up all over the copy-edited pages of a very important author. Please, the poor woman begged, do all of the publishing world a favor and never submit again.

  The Babester might be clueless when it comes to writing mysteries, but he’s a real pro when it comes to women. He scooped me into his arms when I opened the door and carried me out onto the small porch, where he planted a big one on my kisser. That, by the way, is about as far as he’ll get until our wedding night.

  Incidentally, one does not have to be beautiful in order to catch a man. Consider moi, the case in point. I’m too tall, too skinny, and, well, let’s face it—horsey. When the Good Lord made me, He forgot to slap a saddle on my back and yell, “Giddyup.” I do, however, seem to attract very handsome men. Go figure.

  “You all right, hon?” this very handsome man said after ending our smooch.

  “Fine as frog hair split three ways,” I said, quoting a friend of mine in Charleston.

  “I didn’t know frogs had hair.”

  “It’s so fine you can’t see it. Why did you ask if I’m all right?”

  “Chief Hornsby-Anderson and that Ackerman fellow were here. Where I come from, the police don’t stop by just for a piece of pie and a chat.”

  “There would have been cinnamon rolls, dear, but right now they’re hanging from Freni’s glasses.”

  “Always one with the jokes, hon. How long do I have to wait until you tell me what’s really going on?”

  I grabbed one of Gabe’s hands—he currently has two—and pulled him down the steps and to the shade of a large maple. A few weeks ago my beau hung a swing from one of the ancient limbs. It was a birthday present for my pseudo-stepdaughter, Alison. Alas, the Babester might know how to treat a woman, but he doesn’t know beans about junior high girls. Alison would rather be grounded for a month than have her peers see her on a “child’s toy.” Fortunately, Babe made the swing sturdy enough, and just wide enough, for two. On second thought, maybe he does know something about teenagers.

  As I knew he would, Babe put his arm around me to keep me from falling backward off the swing. As he must have known I would, I pretended to lose my balance a couple of times.

  “Well,” I finally said, “it seems as if Grape Expectations has met with an unexpected setback.”

  “Which is?”

  “Felicia Bacchustelli, one of the owners, was found dead this morning—encased in a cement footer.”

  “Holy guacamole!”

  “The chief wants me to help with the investigation.”

  “But Mags, hon, I thought you agreed not to play detective for a while.”

  “I did. But you see—well, a gal has a right to change her mind, doesn’t she?”

  Gabe withdrew his arm. “Wait one barn-raising minute. You’re a suspect, aren’t you?”

  “Not just any suspect, mind you. I’m suspect numero uno.”

  “You’re proud of that?”

  “Aren’t we all supposed to be the best that we can be? As long as I’m a suspect, there is no point in being second-rate.”

  The Babester shook his handsome head. “I guess I should be glad you aren’t a gangster. Just promise me one thing, will you?”

  “What?”

  “Promise first.”

  “Sight unseen?” The last time I made a sight unseen promise, I was in for the shock of my life. I had just married Aaron Miller, my pseudo-stepdaughter’s father, and the fires of passion were still burning brightly. One night we—well, never you mind. Suffice it to say, that explains the footprints on my bedroom ceiling.

  “Do you love me enough to make a sight-unseen promise?” Gabe asked gently.

  “Yes, but—okay, I promise. Now what is it?”

  “I want you to promise that you will not knowingly put yourself into any dangerous situation.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I mean it, Mags. Until I met you, I was a confirmed bachelor. As selfish as it may sound, there wasn’t anyone with whom I wanted to share my life.”

  “Besides your mother.”

  “Now that was a low blow.”

  “Sorry.” But I wasn’t. The only drawback I can see to marrying this fine specimen of a man is Ida Rosen, the woman who endured twenty-six hours of excruciating pain to bring him into the world. They’re still connected; not by apron strings but an umbilical cord as thick as the transatlantic cable. She still cuts his meat for him, for crying out loud. I might even be able to deal with this were it not for the fact that Gabe is a surgeon. Thank heavens Ida has recently begun dating Doc Shafor, who, although an octogenarian, has the libido of a high school football team. Much to Gabe’s consternation, and my joy, I’ve been seeing less and less of her.

  “You know Ma’s just trying to be helpful,” he said. “But enough about her. How’s the search for a new reverend going?”

  “Not very well,” I said.

  Beechy Grove Mennonite has been without a pastor for almost six months. Reverend Schrock, a wonderful man and a good friend, was murdered by our former Chief of Police—who also happens to be my brother-in-law. Because I am both a deaconess and the congregation’s biggest supporter, I am on the committee to find a replacement preacher. This has been a far tougher job than finding a new law enforcement team.

  Beechy Grove wants a man who is dynamic and inspiring yet traditional. So far we have interviewed a number of candidates who fit the bill. However, there is one caveat: I want a pastor who will be willing to perform a mixed marriage—namely mine and Gabe’s. Reverend Schrock, may he rest in peace, was open-minded enough to agree to this, but his potential replacements have, to a man, informed me that they will perform only Christian marriages. My argument—that Jesus’s parents were not married in a Christian ceremony—has so far fallen on deaf ears. Meanwhile, the rest of the search committee is losing patience with me.

  “Maybe we can find a rabbi in Pittsburgh,” Gabe said.

  “Excusez moi?”

  “Well, you keep saying it was good enough for Mary and Joseph.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t say anything about a rabbi.”

  “On second thought, it might be hard to find a rabbi to perform a mixed marriage, seeing as how I don’t belong to a synagogue there.”

  I recoiled in shock. “Why would a rabbi not want to marry us?”

  “The same reason a minister wouldn’t want to marry us: because you’re not of the faith.”

  “But I am of the faith!”

  “Which faith would that be?”

  “The right faith, of course. I mean—it’s the right faith for me.”

  “Are you saying that I don’t belong to the right faith?” “I can’t help what the Bible says,” I wailed. “You try to explain John 3:18!”

  “I don’t have to, hon. It’s not in my Bible.”

  “That’s because yours isn’t complete.”

  “Uh-oh, I think we’ve just stepped over the line.”

  “Maybe we did—”

  “I really didn’t mean ‘we,’ hon. I meant you.”

  “Me?”

  “Why is it that you get to say that my scriptures are incomplete—I hear that all the time from Christians, by the way—but if I were to say that your Bible has a bunch of made-up stuff tacked on the end, courtesy of some guy named Paul, aka Saul of Tarsus, I’d have holy heck to pay?”

  “But the truth is the truth.”

  “I guess that depends on whose version we’re talking about.”

  “There is only one truth.”

  Gabe slid off the swing. “Maybe it’s just as well that we’ve had this conversation now.”

  I jumped off the swing too. “What are you saying? Are yo
u trying to tell me that our engagement is off?”

  “No, but I think we should do some serious thinking.” The morning was bright and sunny, and there were birds singing in the other large maple on the far side of the lawn, but the day felt anything but glorious. I felt like that wolf in nursery tales, the one that had stones sewn into his belly while he slept. It was all I could do to keep from collapsing.

  I couldn’t tell what Gabe was thinking—the sun was at his back—but he was breathing hard. Perhaps he was fighting back tears. Maybe he was struggling not to shout at me.

  That’s what I wanted to do to him: shout. I wanted to back him up against a wall and shout the truth into him. And yes, I’d even go so far as to whack him over the head with a Bible—if I thought it would do any good. But with a belly full of stones, I’d do well just to make it back inside and to the comfort of my bed.

  “Yes, you think about it real hard,” I said.

  He turned and walked slowly back down my drive.

  As I’m sure you’ll understand, I was in a foul mood when I rang Agnes Mishler’s doorbell a mere twenty minutes later. She lives in a renovated farmhouse, by the way, adjacent to the house her uncles own. The Mishler brothers eschew clothing and are often to be seen performing chores—such as cutting firewood—in the altogether. Of course, we have an ordinance prohibiting public nudity, but the Mishler clan lives way out at the end of Dust Devil Road. Besides, the brothers have nothing to brag about. Especially in the winter, like now. All fluff, no stuff—if you know what I mean.

  Agnes answered the door instantly, as if she’d been peering out through a window, waiting for my arrival. Perhaps she had been.

  “What brings you all the way out here, Magdalena?”

  “Be a dear and invite me in. It’s turning colder by the minute.”

  “It feels fine to me, Magdalena.”

  “That may be, but according to your uncles’ brr-ometers, it’s well below freezing.”

  “Why, Magdalena, I never!”

  “This is no time to discuss your sex life, dear. Besides, it’s none of my business. I was hoping you would invite me in so we could have ourselves a nice little chat. Oh, and some hot chocolate would be wonderful—piled high with those mini-marshmallows. Although, if you don’t have the tiny ones, the regular ones will do. I’m not in the least bit picky. Of course, some ladyfingers would be nice for dipping, once the marshmallows are gone.”