Grape Expectations: A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery With Recipes Read online

  “You’re right,” I said. “At the moment there’s nothing to be gained by telling anyone. But just so you know, I might have to at some point.”

  “I understand, like I said, Magdalena, you’re okay.”

  “You’re not as bad as I thought either—oops. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  “Do you think we could be friends?”

  “Stranger things have happened, dear. In the meantime, we could certainly be first-class acquaintances.”

  “I’d like that.”

  I stood. “Well, I need to hustle my bustle. Agnes, I’d appreciate it if you’d use that keen observation of yours and report—to me—anything else you see around town that you think may be relevant to this case.”

  Her eyes shone with pleasure. “Magdalena, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Ask away! We’re burning daylight.”

  “If you could have just one wish come true, what would it be?”

  “Hmm. Speaking of light, I guess it would be that my fiance saw the Light.”

  “Perhaps there’s more than one Light, Magdalena. Have you ever thought about that? Maybe there’s an entire celestial chandelier.”

  “And you call yourself a Mennonite!”

  “I try to keep an open mind, that’s all.”

  “If you keep your mind open too wide, your brain will fall out.” I started to trot back to the front door, hoping mightily that I wouldn’t make a wrong turn when I got to the fork in the path.

  “Don’t you want to know what my wish would be?”

  “Sure, but make it quick.”

  “I wish my uncles would keep their clothes on.”

  “You and half of Hernia.”

  “There is a second part to that wish, Magdalena.”

  “Oh?”

  “I wish that my uncles and I got along better.”

  “Their nudity rubs you the wrong way—oops, that’s not what I meant.”

  “Yes, it does irritate me, but there is nothing I can do about that, short of having them committed, and that’s easier said than done. I’ve had them examined by two sets of psychiatrists, and they all agreed that while my uncles are eccentric, they are not pathologically disturbed. They are not a danger to themselves or anyone else. Anyway, that’s not it. This is something much bigger.”

  “Do tell—and I won’t.” How clever I can be at times. “It’s this: my uncles are dead broke.”

  “Get out of town!”

  “Their house, their land, even their car—I own it all. Before Daddy died he made me promise that I would take care of his two younger brothers, on account of they’ve never worked a day in their lives and wouldn’t have a clue as how to provide for themselves.”

  I’d known of the Mishler brothers my entire life—indeed, as teenagers we used to sneak around in their woods and try to catch a glimpse—but they were already young adults when I was born. By the time it occurred to me to wonder how they supported themselves, they were already drawing Social Security.

  “Go on, dear. I’m all ears.”

  “It used to be that I could put up with the embarrassment and the teasing, but I can’t anymore. I’m not too old to live a normal life—am I, Magdalena?”

  “You’re never too old to try, dear.”

  “So anyway, about a month ago I decided to put my foot down. I told the uncles that either they covered up when they went outside, or they had to move out and find a place of their own.”

  “How did they take that?”

  “They were pissed. May I use that word, Magdalena?”

  “Most emphatically not. And you a Mennonite!”

  “But that’s what they were. They were furious. Uncle Big said I was a disappointment to the family, and who was I to say they were an embarrassment.”

  “And Uncle Little?” For as long as I can remember the Mishler brothers have gone by their nicknames, Big Goober and Little Goober. To my knowledge Agnes has never called them Goober.

  “Uncle Little said Daddy was turning over in his grave, and didn’t I remember my promise to take care of them?” “

  How awful.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind the anger so much as the silent treatment. Neither of them has said a word to me since. And as you can see, they haven’t started wearing clothes.”

  “Don’t they freeze their little, uh, hinnies off?”

  “They’ve been running naked since they were toddlers. The only time they bother to get dressed is when they go into town, and that’s only because they have to. Speaking of which, I used to run a lot of errands for them, which I’ve stopped altogether. That’s another thing that’s really got them boiling mad at me.”

  “But I thought you were taking them to Pittsburgh.”

  “That was a little white lie so I could stop singing your praises. Magdalena, I wish more than anything that we could be a normal family—like yours. That my uncles would grow up, and that we could have Norman Rockwell-type holidays. But things just keep getting worse and worse. I shudder to think how it all might end. Magdalena, seeing as how you’re so much older and wiser than me, can you tell me what to do?”

  “Never substitute the objective form for the subjective, even in dialogue, or readers with too much time on their hands will jump all over you.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind! That just popped into my head; I have no idea where that came from. And I’m sorry, I don’t have any advice for you—except not to waste a wish on having a family like mine. If it wasn’t for dysfunction, my family wouldn’t have function at all. But hang in there. What doesn’t kill us, makes us extremely ill—or something like that. And remember, fifty years from now this will all be over.” I reached out and patted her arm in what I hoped she took as an affectionate gesture. Nature allows me less than a dozen such maudlin expressions a year. It would be a shame to have one go unappreciated.

  I need not have worried. “Magdalena, thanks for coming. I mean that. You’ve been a blessing to me.” She patted me clumsily in return, a sure sign that there was a blood relationship somewhere back down the line.

  “No problemo.” It was past time for me to scoot. Ahead I could see a narrow shaft of light, a promise that the doorway lay just ahead, and beyond it a more normal world. Or not.

  8

  The Rashids live in the upscale part of Foxcroft, Hernia’s only real suburb. My sister, Susannah, lives in the downscale portion. Although how it is that a house costing over a hundred thousand dollars could be considered downscale is beyond my ken. Whoever heard of paying so much for a place to hang your prayer cap?

  If anything, the Rashids live in the upper reaches of their scale, in that zone well past the two hundred mark. Their mansion is clad in genuine white fiberglass siding, and the pillars that pretend to hold up the porch roof were milled from the finest composite wood. I know, because I gave them the tap test.

  But what makes the Rashid manor the talk of the town (aside from its owners) is that it is home to Hernia’s first in-ground swimming pool. For months, that’s all anyone could talk about. The buzz hit a feverish level when invitations went out welcoming everyone who is anyone to a poolside barbecue on the Fourth of July. Being someone, I was, of course, invited. A postscript on the stiff, embossed paper requested guests to wear modest bathing attire.

  The Rashids need not have worried. The Mishler brothers aside, we Hemians are loathe to bare our flesh. Although several in attendance dangled their feet in the water, the only person to actually show up in a suit and immerse herself was Betty-Anne Justice. The woman is a Baptist, which explains her boldness. Her claim to being anyone is the fact that her cousin’s husband’s first wife’s nephew invented the electric rake. I hear this is supposed to be all the rage out in California, but frankly, I’ve seen very few of these devices hereabouts.

  When the Rashids didn’t answer the doorbell, I switched over to knuckle power. My raps are the envy of woodpeckers. Within a minute I heard someone thumping down the grand stai
rcase and then the sound of a throat being cleared.

  “Who is it?” Faya Rashid called. Her tone was surprisingly timorous.

  “C’est moi, Magdalena Yoder,” I said, using all that I remembered from two years of high school French.

  “Who did you say?”

  “Magdalena Yoder,” I chirped. “Big as life, and twice as ugly.”

  “No thank you. I think I am not wanting to buy anything today.”

  “And I’m not selling. I merely want to chat.”

  There was a moment of silence. “I do not think I know you.”

  “Sure you do. Look through the peephole, dear, and tell me if this hose doesn’t ring a bell.” Truth be told, I have used my schnoz to press doorbells when my hands are full. I have even used it for typing, although going too fast makes me dizzy, and I can only type lowercase.

  “Ah, yes.” The door opened just wide enough for her head to fill the space. It was obvious she’d been sleeping, although it was the middle of the day. Although her hair was tousled and hung loose about her shoulders and there were dark circles under her eyes, she was still a beautiful woman.

  “Is your husband there as well, Dr. Rashid?”

  “No. He is work in one of Bedford shops. Is it him you wish to speak with?”

  “You’ll do for the moment. May I come in?”

  She hesitated just long enough for me to get the hint that it was to be a short visit. “Please to forgive the way I am dressing.”

  I glanced at her clothes. Flannel nightgown, thick chenille robe... The woman might be a Muslim, but she was dressed like a proper Christian.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said approvingly, and sailed past her and into the formal living room.

  “Please to have a seat.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” The furniture was fit for a queen. I selected an ornately carved and gilded armchair upholstered in white silk brocade. For a few seconds I fantasized that I was sitting on a throne and that Prince William was at my feet, declaring himself my liege man.

  “May I offer some drinks?”

  “Some hot chocolate would be nice. I’ll take a mug, not a cup, and there’s no such thing as piling it too high with those little marshmallows.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Of course, if you don’t have the little ones, two big ones—Uh, I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

  “My English is not so good.”

  “You’re not alone, dear Most native-born Americans speak English that is not so good—myself included, I’m afraid. Why, just the other day I used the nominative case in place of the objective— Uh, ix-nay on the hot chocolate. Please sit as well. I want to speak to you about your whereabouts this morning.”

  She perched on the edge of a matching chair, looking as if at any moment she would flap her chenille wings and fly back upstairs. “I do not understand, Mrs. Odor.”

  “That’s Yoder, dear. And I’m a Miss, not a Mrs. What I am asking is, where were you this morning?”

  “I was—I was asleep.”

  “I’m sure you were. But where were you between the hours of four and five o’clock this morning?”

  She glanced at the telephone on an end table situated between our two thrones. “Miss Yoder, why do you ask this question?”

  “Silly me, I guess you haven’t heard that I am an amateur sleuth—uh, like a detective. Just not official. Because I grew up in Hernia and know most of the people, I sometimes help the police solve crimes.”

  Dark eyes that had been merely alert now broadcast terror. “Crimes?”

  “Murders usually. For a small town, we seem to have more than our share.”

  “But I did not kill anyone, Miss Yoder. And my husband did not kill anyone. Please to believe me.”

  “Oh, I’m not accusing you. But someone was killed last night, and I need to ask questions.”

  “I am afraid I cannot help you, Miss Yoder. I do not know this man who was killed.”

  “Who said anything about a man?”

  She blinked rapidly, her eyes Mill on the phone. “Is it not usually a man who gets killed?”

  “I suppose that depends where the murder takes place. In Hernia it seems that more women than men are the victims of violent crime. But back to my question, dear. Where were you early this morning?”

  “In the car—yes, we were making the journey home from Pittsburgh.” She pronounced it “Pete’s-burgh”. An improvement, if you ask me.

  “At that hour?”

  “We were visiting friends. From Lebanon. We stay very late, and then we must drive home because my husband has to be at the store at seven o’clock.”

  “Did you make any stops on the way back from Pittsburgh?”

  She stared so hard at the phone that I thought it might levitate. “Pete’s-burgh?”

  “It’s a simple yes or no question. Did you stop on the way home?”

  “Miss Yoder, my husband and I do not have much disagreement. But this one thing—we have much discussion about it.”

  “About you going home to Lebanon?”

  She didn’t seem surprised by my guess. “It is very difficult for me here. I do not make friends, and I cannot yet receive work as a doctor. In Beirut there is much I could do.”

  “So you did stop on the way back. At the future site of Grape Expectations to be exact.”

  She appeared to give up on whatever help the phone might have brought. “In America are there many spies?”

  “Dr. Rashid, you were not being spied on last night—technically, early this morning. As it so happened a woman was out jogging—that means running—and she stopped to rest beside the cement truck. She was there when you and your husband arrived, and she overheard your conversation.”

  “Why does a woman run alone when it is yet dark?”

  “That’s a good question. But she did. And after you left she discovered a dead body in the foundation ditch.”

  Doctor or not, she recoiled when I mentioned the corpse. “A dead person, yes?”

  “Yes. A woman.”

  Her eyes, the window to her soul, now registered anger. “And you think my husband and I had something to do with this?”

  “No. I’m just gathering information. Impressions, if you will.” I had no intention of letting her know that I adhered to the old adage that killers invariably return to the scene of the crime. Of course, innocent people also find their way to crime sites. Folks like poor Agnes Mishler.

  “I assure you that we are not killers.”

  “I haven’t accused you of anything. I’m here only to ask you what you saw and heard at the construction site.”

  The fire left her eyes. “I remember very little, Miss Yoder, except for this argument. It was very cold—I was having the shivers, yes? And I heard the bark of a dog. But I did not see the woman who runs, or the one who is dead.”

  “Did the argument occur inside or outside your car?”

  “We were on the outside. Ibrahim smokes cigarettes— Egyptian cigarettes without the filtration, yes? But he does not do this in the car for my sake.”

  “Dr. Rashid, what were you and your husband doing on Hungry Neck Road in the first place? It’s a dead end, for crying out loud. And it certainly isn’t on your way home from Pittsburgh.”

  “It was to shorten the trip, but we got lost.”

  That was a reasonable answer. Our terrain consists of steep parallel ridges we call mountains—much to the amusement of Westerners. By and large we live and farm in the valleys that lie in between. I have myself been on a ridgetop and spotted my destination on a second ridge, but with no clear idea of how to get there.

  “One last question,” I said, and her eyes brightened. “Why weren’t you and your husband at the demonstration against Grape Expectations? After all, its whole purpose is to sell wine, something which I happen to know is forbidden by your religion.”

  She fingered the belt of her chenille robe as if it were a string of worry beads. “My husband travels much for h
is job. He was in Harrisburg on that day. We have two stores there, Miss Yoder.”

  “What about you, dear?”

  “I do not have the driving license.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I am wanting one, yes?”

  “Yes—I mean, I guess so.”

  She planted both feet firmly on the floor and leaned forward, her eyes blazing with passion. “Ibrahim will not allow this. Miss Yoder, this is another reason for which we disagree. You see, back home, in Beirut, I am driving, but here—”

  “Dr. Rashid, I really don’t want to get into a religious discussion just now. I mean, if you want to see the light, I am always available. But you need to call me at home for that For the moment I would like to restrict this conversation to police work.”

  “But this is not about religion, Miss Yoder. In Lebanon many Muslim women drive—just as they do here in America. Ibis is about my husband, Ibrahim.”

  “Oh?” On second thought, in a thorough investigation, just about anything can be relevant.

  “Do you think I am beautiful, Miss Yoder?”

  “Excuse me? I don’t understand what this has to do with the case at hand.”

  “Ibrahim says I am very beautiful. Do you agree?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That is my main problem. Because Ibrahim thinks I am beautiful, he will not agree to the driving. I am not permitted even to take the lessons. And because I cannot drive in America, I cannot take the course of study I need to pass the exam for American doctors. Miss Yoder, I cannot even go to the little food store in town by myself.”

  “What about the juicy marital tidbits?” I wailed.

  “Now it is I who do not understand.”

  “When you said this was about your husband, for a moment there I thought—just forget it. And you may as well forget about shopping at Yoder’s Corner Market too. Sam’s prices are outrageous, and none of his produce is fresh. Every summer I gouge my initials into a beet or a head of cabbage, and the dang thing is still there a year later.”

  “There are more stores in Bedford,” she said, her gaze unwavering. “I would very much like to shop at those alone.”

  “Well, dear, we can’t have everything we—Just one corn-shucking minute. Yes, we can! At least you can. Dr. Rashid, how would you like me to teach you how to drive?”