Read Just Plain Pickled to Death Online
Authors: Tamar Myers
Tags: #Detective and mystery stories, #Cookery - Pennsylvania, #Fiction, #Mennonites, #Mystery Cozy, #Women Sleuths, #Mysteries, #Mennonites - Fiction, #mystery series, #American History, #Women Detectives - Pennsylvania - Fiction, #Pennsylvania Dutch Country (Pa.), #Culinary Cozy, #Crime Fiction, #Thriller, #Women's Fiction, #Mystery, #Detective, #Pennsylvania, #Pennsylvania Dutch Country (Pa.) - Fiction, #Amish Recipes, #Pennsylvania - Fiction, #Diane Mott Davidson, #Woman Sleuth, #Amish Bed and Breakfast, #Cookbook, #Pennsylvania Dutch, #Cozy Mystery Series, #Amateur Detective, #Amish Mystery, #Women detectives, #Amish Cookbook, #Amish Mystery Series, #Mystery & Detective, #Amateur Sleuth, #General, #Miranda James, #cozy mystery, #Mystery Genre, #New York Times bestseller, #Crime, #Cookery
Just Plain Pickled to Death (27 page)
Susannah patted my arm in a rare show of sisterly affection. “That isn’t an aisle, Mags. It’s a hay- covered barn floor.”
I patted her in return. “Then be careful and walk slowly. This hay is slippery.”
Barbara began the second verse, and my baby sister dutifully set out for the far side of the bam, where Aaron, his father, and Rev. Schrock waited. I am pleased to report that, for one of the few times in her life, Susannah was wearing a proper dress—one that had been sewn together with stitches. While this may sound like a victory for my side, let me assure you this was a compromise. Black is not an appropriate color for weddings.
But then again, I suppose taste is in the eye of the beholder. There were those who advised me not to wear a full-length white bridal gown, on the grounds that I was of a “certain age.” An off-white or cream suit, they said, was far more appropriate. But I defied them. It was my wedding after all, and I was only going to have this one.
The dress I chose would have made Princess Diana weep with envy, which is probably the real reason she stayed away. (Thanks anyway, for the sterling-silver escargot holders, Di.) My gown was white satin silk and floor length. The bodice was covered with literally hundreds of seed pearls, as was the hem of the full skirt. Under the skirt I had to wear three crinolines to give it shape. But my favorite thing of all was the train. It was an absolutely frivolous five yards of material, with no other purpose except to trail behind me, but it made me feel like a queen. Mama would never have permitted such an extravagance.
Then came the big moment, the one I had been waiting for my entire life. Diane, bless her soul, hit the first note of the wedding march loud and clear.
I took my first step down that makeshift aisle, the first step of the most important journey of my life. Why, then, Mama, didn’t you somehow intervene and prevent me from planting the left heel of my new white pumps in a knothole on the barn floor? Was it because you were jealous of my happiness, Mama? Well, I hope it pleases you to know that what happened next was the most embarrassing moment of my life.
Even now it is too painful to remember in any detail. Suffice it to say that my pump remained put while I hurtled forward. Freni, always a fast thinker but not particularly knowledgeable about English fashions, stepped on my train to hold me back. Unfortunately the train was not detachable from the skirt, but the skirt was detachable from the bodice. I continued my forward movement with my top intact, but having shed my skirt easier than a snake sheds its skin. Thank the good Lord I was at least wearing the three crinolines.
Susannah heard me stumble and turned to help, but I waved her on. When faced with a situation like that, one has but two choices: find a hole large enough to crawl into or proceed with the greatest of dignity. Because the knothole was too small, I chose the latter. Aaron told me later that he had never been so proud of anyone or anything in his life. This supportive statement from my Pooky Bear almost made up for the rumors that have since circulated through the Mennonite grapevine that I got married in my skivvies. One particularly vicious wag way out in Indiana is supposed to have claimed that she saw me get married in the buff.
“Why, I never!” Lodema Schrock gasped loudly as I passed her seat.
“You wouldn’t have the guts,” Susannah said over her shoulder.
As for the good Reverend, he didn’t as much as flicker an eyelash. Perhaps, as a man of the cloth, he had seen it all before, although quite probably his mind was off in West Virginia—fly-fishing. The service continued without any further hitches—until the next disaster.
“Into this holy union,” Rev. Schrock intoned, “Magdalena Portulaca Yoder and Aaron Daniel Miller Jr. now come to be joined. If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now or else forever hold your peace.”
The heavy barn door slid open with a thud and Auntie Leah burst in, accompanied by a gust of rain. In my excitement I hadn’t noticed her absence.
“Someone left the cake out in the rain,” she bellowed.
“I don’t know if I can take it,” I said, leaning heavily on Aaron’s arm.
“Don’t worry, hon,” my Pooky Bear whispered. “When this is over I’m going to take you on the trip of your dreams—to Japan. It was going to be a surprise.”
“Japan?” I was approaching a state of shock.
“What?” Auntie Leah barked.
Aaron turned to her and put a silencing finger to his lips.
“But it took so long to bake it,” Auntie Leah boomed in despair, “and I won’t have time to make that recipe again.”
“Oh, no!” I wailed.
That’s when Barbara Hostetler stepped forward. “Don’t you worry, Magdalena. I have thirty pecan pies at home. You’re welcome to them.”
“Thirty pecan pies?” Delirium wasn’t all that bad, as long as it solved your problems.
“Yah,” Barbara said, with a smile that was clearly meant for Freni. “When I get my work done on the farm I spend my time baking pies for the English. John and I are saving up for our own place.”
“Ach du lieber!” Freni started to pass out in her chair, but when Mose made no move to catch her, she sat up straight again.
“Well, then, may we continue?” Rev. Schrock asked. The edge to his voice hinted that he preferred grilled trout to pecan pie.
We nodded humbly.
“Magdalena Portulaca Yoder, will you have this man to be your husband, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”
“Ahoooooo!”
“I beg your pardon?”
I was staring helplessly at Susannah. It wasn’t me who had yowled, but the bantam-size beast in her bra.
“She will,” Susannah said, without skipping a beat.
Clearly Rev. Schrock was eager to get on with it. “And will you, Aaron Daniel Yoder, have this woman to be your wife, to live together in the covenant of marriage? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health; and forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”
“I will,” said my Pooky Bear loud and clear.
“Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder,” the reverend said quickly. “I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
“Ahoooooo!” Shnookums yowled again.
This time everyone laughed.
Aaron grinned and put his arms around me. His lips met mine. I kissed my husband for the very first time.
Chapter Thirty
Magdalena Yoder’s Wedding Feast, from Soup to Nuts
Barbara Hostetler’s Save-the-Day Pecan Pies
4 eggs, beaten
1 cup pecans, chopped
1 cup brown sugar
1½ cups dark corn syrup
½ cup melted butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
dash of salt
1 unbaked fluted piecrust
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all the filling ingredients and pour into the pie shell. Bake approximately 40 minutes or until set. Especially delicious when served slightly warm and topped with hand-cranked vanilla ice cream.
Serves 8.
Discover Tamar Myers
An Amish Bed and Breakfast Mystery with Recipes Series (PennDutch)
Too Many Crooks Spoil the Broth
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Crime
No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk
Between a Wok and a Hard Place
Belgian Congo Mystery Series
The Boy Who Stole the Leopard’s Spots
Den of Antiquity Series
Non-Series Books
Criminal Appetites
(anthology)
About the Author
Tamar Myers was born and raised in the Belgian Congo (now just the Congo). Her parents were missionaries to a tribe which, at that time, were known as headhunters and used human skulls for drinking cups. Because of her pale blue eyes, Tamar’s nickname was Ugly Eyes.
Her boarding school was two days away by truck, and sometimes it was necessary to wade through crocodile infested-waters to reach it. Other dangers she encountered as a child were cobras, deadly green mambas, and the voracious armies of driver ants that ate every animal (and human) that didn’t get out of their way.
At sixteen, Tamar's family settled in America, and she immediately underwent culture shock: she didn’t know how to dial a telephone, cross a street at a stoplight, or use a vending machine. She lucked out, however, by meeting her husband, Jeffrey, on her first day at an American high school. They literally bumped heads while he was leaving, and she entering, the Civics classroom.
In college Tamar began to submit novels for publication, but it took twenty-three years for her to get published. Persistence paid off, however, because Tamar is now the author of three ongoing mystery series: One is set in Amish Pennsylvania and features Magdalena Yoder, an Amish-Mennonite sleuth who runs a bed and breakfast inn; one, set in the Carolinas, centers around the adventures of Abigail Timberlake, who runs an antique and collectable store (the Den of Antiquity); and the third is set in the Africa of her youth, with its colorful, unique inhabitants.
Tamar now calls North Carolina home. She lives with her husband, a Basenji dog named Pagan, two rescue kitties: a very large Bengal named Nkashama, and an orange tabby cat who goes by the name of Dumpster Boy. Tamar enjoys gardening (she is a Master Gardner), bonsai, travel, painting and, of course, reading. She's currently working on her next Amish mystery.
