Hardcover(Large Print)
-
PICK UP IN STORECheck Availability at Nearby Stores
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
A brand-new quirky mystery with recipes in the longrunning Pennsylvania-Dutch series.
When a bestselling novelist falls face-down dead into Magdalena Yoder’s prize-winning apple pie during the village of Hernia’s 110th Annual Festival of Pies, there is no shortage of suspects in the subsequent murder investigation. A former guest at Magdalena’s PennDutch Inn, the author had made many enemies on publication of her subsequent tell-all book, exposing the faults and foibles of members of the local Amish/Mennonite community, and mocking their way of life. But who was enraged enough to want to poison the acid-tongued writer?
Hopelessly out of his depth, Hernia’s inexperienced young Chief of Police requests Magdalena’s help in uncovering the answer. As she sets about questioning her friends and neighbours, Magdalena discovers that more than one villager has a secret to hide.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780727897657 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Severn House |
| Publication date: | 02/27/2015 |
| Series: | A Pennsylvania Dutch Mystery , #19 |
| Edition description: | Large Print |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.60(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Death of Pie
By Tamar Myers
Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2014 Tamar MyersAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-512-4
CHAPTER 1
If it is true that only the good die young, I will live to a ripe old age. Indeed, I am a wicked woman. Well, perhaps I exaggerate just a wee bit, although in one way or another, I have broken nine of the Ten Commandments. Of course, none of this is anyone's business but my own. However, given that I do have a rather crucial point to prove, and that there is a certain method to my madness, I hereby go public with this list of all my worst sins.
For starters, I have never even seen an idol, much less had occasion to bow down to one. However, our idols can be things other than the images carved from stone or wood, things that are more important to us than God with the capital G. In my case, I got sucked into sin one Sunday morning as I lollygagged in my Jacuzzi bathtub, the one with the thirty-two jets, the one I have named Big Bertha. One moment I was soaking lazily, the next I was shouting Bertha's name at the top of my lungs and thrashing about like a great white shark. I was so ashamed, I tell you, that I never even made it to church that day.
My second huge sin is that I often use the Lord's name in vain. Why, just last week when somebody cut me off in traffic, nearly sending me up a telephone pole, I heard myself say 'jam and cheese!' Using someone's initials is the same thing as using that person's name.
Now, about honoring the Sabbath Day in order to keep it holy: I always thought that I did this until I acquired a Jewish husband and learned that the word 'Sabbath' is derived from the Hebrew word Shabbat, which refers to Saturday. It was the Emperor Constantine who declared, ex cathedra, that Sunday was suddenly our new Sabbath. Given that God trumps emperor – at least in the heavenly hierarchy – I had never once honored the actual Sabbath Day.
Some commandments are easier to follow than others; that said, it is virtually impossible for any American child to honor their parents by being obedient one hundred percent of the time. Children in the Bible had trouble obeying their folks as well, or else it wouldn't be necessary to address the topic of honoring one's parents in the Big Ten.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a rotten kid, and if I did mouth off, Mama wasn't above slapping my 'sassy trap,' as she called it. But when I got to be a teenager I learned that most parents really don't want to hassle their kids. They don't want a 'situation.' Therefore, if they forbid you to go to Joshua Stahly's barn dance, they probably have a good reason. But how was I to know that Joshua would somehow manage to sneak in a keg of beer, and that Marlene Deitlemeyer, who had all the morals of a basset hound in heat, would kick over a lantern in the hay loft, whilst having a roll in the same?
Alas, when my parents picked me up at the police station I was forced to tell them that I had not been drinking – so as not to disappoint them, of course – and it was because of the contents of Joshua's keg that I felt compelled to 'borrow' some gum from Marlene's purse while she was pulling up her stockings. Crash! Boom! Down went more commandments, the ones forbidding lying and stealing. But lest I be judged too harshly, surely one must take into consideration that I was only trying to honor my parents by preserving their image of me? And anyway, I still think that if they hadn't been quite so strict I wouldn't have had to lie or steal, and thus those commandments might still be intact. Might.
Don't think for a minute that I've glossed over the Fifth and Sixth Commandants. I shall begin with the Sixth Commandment, the one concerning adultery. Is my elderly cousin, Freni, correct when she claims that one can commit adultery with a Jacuzzi bathtub equipped with thirty-two jets? If so, then I must confess to having a torrid affair with Big Bertha. Oh, the shame of it all, for I am a happily married woman who finds herself torn between two lovers and feeling like a – well, a jerk. But then again, how can something so wrong feel so right? For now I comfort myself with the knowledge that this love affair (if indeed that's what this was) wasn't a dirty one. Not that it would have made a difference anyway; I am still an adulteress – if only an inadvertent one.
You see, I was once inadvertently married to a very handsome man named Aaron Miller. He was a smooth-talking bigamist with a wife stashed up in Iowa, and I was a country bumpkin who sincerely believed that the first marriage proposal to come my way would be my last.
The Ninth and Tenth Commandments are sort of one and the same. Here you will find a long list of things not to covet. A lot of that stuff, like menservants and maidservants, are hard to come by in our village of Hernia, Pennsylvania, but I will hereby fess up to coveting a good ass. For instance, my neighbor two farms down the road, Donald Hooley, has an exceptionally fine ass. No sooner did I set eyes on it than I begin to maneuver myself into a position to get my hands on it. I have always wanted a donkey – make that a pair of them – to pull me around in a wagon. Once, when I was a little girl, I saw a family of Amish children horsing around with a pair of asses and a wagon, and I immediately began to covet what they had. In fact, that is the first time I can remember ever really wanting something badly.
All right, that does leave the Fifth Commandment: 'Thou Shalt Not Kill.' I have saved it for last because it is the only one of the Big Ten that I have not committed – to my knowledge. I qualified that statement, but only because I can't be sure that one of my teachers wasn't driven mad by my presence in her classroom and subsequently did herself in. Ours is a small village, and although every other teacher can be accounted for, my kindergarten teacher, Miss Kuhnberger (who screamed, 'I can't take it anymore!' before moving to LA), has not been heard from since.
From the above I hope I have made it abundantly clear that I have never killed anyone in the literal sense. I have never shot, stabbed, struck or poisoned a human being. Sometimes I slap at mosquitoes, and I have set out cockroach bait. But allow me to reiterate, to make this point perfectly clear: I am not a killer. I am most definitely not a murderer. It was not me who murdered that despicable purveyor of pulp fiction, Ms Ramat Sreym.
Having said that, perhaps I should introduce myself. My full name is Magdalena Portulacca Yoder Rosen. Because I was married rather late in life and because my maiden name, Yoder, is ubiquitous in these parts, Yoder – Miss Yoder – is what I go by in my everyday dealings. Portulacca, in case you're wondering, is the name of a gorgeous flower that thrives in bright sunshine. This leads me to believe that my mother suffered from a rare flash of optimism.
I am five foot ten inches tall and skinny as a fence post. Each of my feet is as large as the state of Florida and, if I was ever truly destitute, I could hire my chest out as a billiards table. Fortunately, due to my God-given business acumen, the odds of rock-hard balls larger than my bosoms rolling hither, thither, and yon across my barren ribcage are entirely miniscule. I am, you see, a millionaire many times over.
My parents were simple Mennonite dairy farmers whose ancestors were Amish immigrants from Switzerland. Both the Amish and the Mennonites are religious sects – similar to Protestantism, but with some key defining differences. Chief amongst these is the fact that their members adhere to strict pacifism. Neither a Mennonite nor an Amish person will lift a hand against another human being – even to save the life of one's own child. There are many degrees of strictness, with some groups of Amish being the strictest, and some groups of Mennonite being the most liberal. For now, suffice it to say that the Amish are generally the ones you might see driving around in horse-drawn buggies, the men wearing straw hats, and beards with no moustaches, and the women decked out in their black travel bonnets and fetching black aprons worn modestly over their ankle-length dresses.
My, but I do get lost in my head! What I meant to tell you right off was that my beloved parents died early. Being liberal Mennonites, they were permitted to drive, but Pennsylvania where we live is a mountainous state with an exceedingly long tunnel. One fine spring day, when I was a mere lass of twenty, and my flat chest was palpitating with the sort of dreams that only the young – or stupid – dare entertain, my parents were squished like a bug in that tunnel when a truck carrying milk rear-ended their car, thrusting them forward into a semi-trailer loaded to the gills with state-of-the-art running shoes. Or was it the other way around? It doesn't matter – shoes, milk and parent parts were everywhere. It was unspeakably awful, and my younger sister, Susannah, literally did not speak for the next three years.
Now, I do not mean to say this unkindly – only with true Christian love – but Susannah, who was eighteen at the time, did more than just hold her tongue. She began dealing with her pain by driving into Bedford, the nearest city, and hanging out at its bars where she managed to convince evil men that she was of legal drinking age, and they indulged her. She soon descended into the world of— Hmm, how can I put this gently? The life of a harlot wearing scarlet, or perhaps a tart with a broken heart, or maybe even a floozy ever so boozy? I'm sure you get the picture. I have no doubt that our parents rolled over in their graves with such rapidity that they supplied our village of Hernia with enough electricity to see us into the twenty-second century.
This left me with no choice; I had to support both of us. Believe me, back in those days I would have much rather indulged myself by a day spent sitting on a lightly padded straight-backed chair, reading the Holy Scriptures, with the occasional break to refresh my energy by eating a slice of bread with jam. But pampering myself like that was not about to pay Papa's mortgage on the farm. Although our elderly Amish cousins, Mose and Freni, agreed to stay on to help with the farm work, it soon became apparent that I was not cut out for the life of a dairy farmer.
Fortunately our dear parents had the foresight to leave everything to me in their will, with the provision that I care for my sister in perpetuity, or as long as it took her to get on her feet financially – on her own. At that time I was to make some sort of just redistribution of property. At any rate, in the meantime, the farm was mine – all mine, to do with how I pleased. What pleased me was to turn my traditional farmhouse, with its authentic barn (and perhaps just two dairy cows) into a charming bed and breakfast. And since it was nestled in the western portion of the Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania, a state famous for its Pennsylvania 'Dutch' culture, I named it The PennDutch Inn. For the record, the Pennsylvania Dutch have nothing to do with Holland and windmills. The people referenced are descended from Swiss and German immigrants, and the 'Dutch' they speak is laced with English.
Unfortunately, bed and breakfast inns are a dime a dozen, so in order to succeed, my establishment had to have a particular twist. To put it frankly, the angle I chose was abuse. Hold your horses, please, because I know that sounds bad. But consider this: when one travels to a foreign country, one where men can be seen urinating in public, albeit against a wall, is that not a form of visual abuse? When one must bravely attempt to sleep upon a pallet of lumps, and a pillow of buckwheat or straw, instead of a proper pillow-top mattress and an eider down pillow like the Good Lord intended, is that not a form of abuse as well? Likewise, when a humble soul, such as myself, enters a shop and blurts out a cheery 'good morning, my dear sir, and where do you keep the laxatives?' and the proprietor turns up his nose, having taken deep offense just because I speak what is now considered to be the International Language, and I don't know any words of that man's language, which was once the lingua franca of the world, I ask you, isn't that abuse? So there you have it! People are prepared to pay outrageous sums of money for abuse just as long as they can view it as a cultural experience.
'Voila!' I shouted when this thought occurred to me. I devised a system called the ALPO plan, an anagram for a popular dog food in the United States – there being no connection, of course. My initials stand for Amish Lifestyle Plan Option. The Amish are mostly farmers, and as such very hard workers. By signing up for my system guests can pay up to three times the normal rate by performing chores. For an extra one hundred dollars they get to clean their own rooms; two hundred dollars more allows them the privilege of scrubbing toilets. Three hundred bucks gets one into the chicken house, along with the right to rake droppings onto the compost heap. Four hundred dollars buys guests the opportunity to muck out the cow barn, and then there is the once-a-year ten thousand dollar grand prize raffle (guests have to be present to win) which is draining and relining the cesspool.
To make a long, sweet story slightly shorter, I had a head for business, and was soon raking money in fist over tightly clenched fist. However, I say that tongue in cheek. I give God ten percent of everything I make, and twenty percent or so after that back to the community. With less than two thousand residents, the village of Hernia could not afford a police department, so I pay for a police officer's salary, as well as that of the mayor and the animal-control officer. Lest I get too much credit for my charity, I must hasten to point out that I am both mayor and dog-catcher.
Of course, I am much more than just a flat-chested, wealthy woman, long of limb and somewhat hard on the eyes. I am a conservative Mennonite woman who chooses to wear her long, mousy brown tresses in braids that wrap around her head and are held in place by so many hairpins that I set off metal detectors wherever I go. Atop my metal mountain I carefully perch a freshly washed white organza prayer cap, although I hold it in place with yet another metal pin. This is because the New Testament instructs everyone to pray at all times, and that women should pray with their heads covered. I wear dresses that cover my knees (as well as my privates, of course) with elbow-length sleeves. I do not believe in wearing fancy-schmancy jewelry.
Now, it has been said that I am a stubborn, opinionated woman – even bossy at times. Rubbish! We Mennonites are a soft-spoken, gentle people, renowned for our humility. I, for one, am quite proud of my humility. But anyway, what is so wrong about a woman having an opinion? After all, we women are intuitive folk. Is it not true that a hunch from a woman is equal to two facts from a man?
One final, and confidential, bit of information that I will share about myself is that I suffer from a chronic and heartbreaking disease known by the acronym of STAB. The initials stand for sarcastic, tart, alliterative blather. I used to think that Lucifer was the reason I couldn't control all the alliterative words that flowed so effortlessly from my tongue. Believe me, I have prayed diligently about this matter. I have even worked with a speech therapist. The matter remains out of my control. I was on the verge of a deep depression until I consented to one session with a therapist, a very pleasant woman named Dr Luci Feragamo – a woman not of my faith. In that one session Dr Feragamo was able to convince me that alliteration is pleasant to the ear. She went on to say that only copyeditors and others like them – people who probably dance and stay away from fatty foods – find alliteration annoying. 'Just ignore them,' she said, and so I have.
Well, enough about me. Now I suppose I should properly introduce the corpse, that despicable purveyor of pulp fiction, Ramat Sreym. Her first name was pronounced Ram-it, to rhyme with a certain cuss word, and her last name was pronounced S-raym. She claimed to have been born in the nation-state of Sreymistan, but I can find no such place on the map, and Google is boggled as well. However, her accent was Midwest American – possibly one of the square states.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Death of Pie by Tamar Myers. Copyright © 2014 Tamar Myers. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.