Killer Confections8 Delectable Mysteries(557)

“But you’ll have her try?”

“She’ll try, but like I said, don’t count on his being reasonable. He was kicked in the head by a bull, you know.”

“Pardon me?”

“Oh, nothing, just a joke. Now, unless you have any other requests, it’s about time we got out of here. Chickens carry fleas, you know, and when it’s cold like this, the fleas in the straw on the floor hop up on humans seeking warmth.”

Lydia exited rapidly, and I followed. She might have been fleeing the fleas, but I was feeling ravenous again. Stress always does that to me. Fortunately, I still have the metabolism rate of a teenager, otherwise I’d be as big as Aunt Agnes was in her prime. When my mother’s sister died, they buried her in the packing crate her Frigidaire had come in. Even then, I’m told, they had to band the box with metal straps to keep her from popping out.

“Have lunch yet?” I called out after Lydia.

She must not have heard me, because she didn’t even answer. I can’t blame her, though, even if she did.

Women in Lydia’s league don’t often face flea infestation from henhouses. Even their dogs are dipped more often than soft-serve cones at Neubrander’s Dairy Bar.

As for me, all I could think of then was food. Fleas, and come to think of it, praying mantises like Melvin Stoltzfus, would just have to wait until after I’d had something else to eat. With any luck I would find Joel still in the kitchen and convince him to whip me up some of his famous broiled bananas. Since they were the only dish that everyone had eaten the night before, and in fact had even had an encore, they must have been good. I couldn’t wait to taste this interesting concoction.





Chapter 20: Joel Teitlebaum’s Famous Broiled Banana Recipe





Ingredients:

Several large, unripe bananas

An ample supply of lemon juice

Copious amounts of brown sugar

A generous amount of cinnamon

An inquiring mind



Butter or otherwise grease an ovenproof dish. Peel and slice the bananas into quarters. Arrange seed-side up in the dish. Splash with lemon juice. Heap with brown sugar. Sprinkle with cinnamon.



Broil in the oven, about six inches from the heating element, until the brown sugar begins to melt and caramelize (about 3 to 5 minutes). Spoon lemon juice-sugar syrup mixture from the pan over the bananas and serve hot.





Chapter 21





Unfortunately Joel was not in the kitchen. Doc still was, however, and he was happily making himself a plate full of fried baloney and ketchup sandwiches. He asked me to join him, and of course I accepted.

“Want some fresh eggs to go with that?” I asked. Pertelote’s issue was still warm to the touch.

Doc said he would, and I got out another pan and fried up Pertelote’s egg and three others. I like my eggs greasy, slightly runny, and almost black with pepper. Doc likes them the same way.

“Called Ed Houlihan, while you were out,” said Doc casually. Mr. Houlihan was the county coroner, a trained pathologist, and a contemporary of Doc’s. They’d started in medical school together, before Doc switched over to veterinary medicine. Ed was the antithesis of Melvin Stoltzfus in that he had been at his job since back in the days when God was still young. As far as I knew no one had ever run against Ed in the elections, and I don’t suppose they ever will. County coroner is not a glamorous job in these parts. That probably explains why Ed can afford to take four-day holiday weekends.

“Ed’s back finally? The autopsies are done already?”

Doc waved his spatula in annoyance. “You young people have no concept of patience. You can’t even butcher a chicken that fast. I just wanted to tell you that Ed said he’d give me a call when the results are in.”

“When do you think that will be?”

‘You’re always in a hurry, Magdalena.” He waved the spatula again. “Ed has to send a few samples from each of them down to Harrisburg, and you know how slow those boys are.”

“I see.” If they were anywhere near as slow as the boys in the Bureau of Motor Vehicles, neither Doc nor I stood a very good chance of living long enough for the results to come back.

“But in the meantime, it’s pretty clear that both women died of respiratory failure. Miss Brown was apparently dead before her fall.” Doc let that sink in for a moment.

My Stoltzfus blood fought valiantly to keep me in the dark, but then the light broke through. “You mean she was murdered?” I cried joyfully. The PennDutch was mine again; Jeanette’s suit didn’t stand a chance.

Doc nodded. “It would appear so. But it’s not conclusive yet. Her falling down the stairs might have been the result of her dying, but that doesn’t automatically mean she was murdered. She may have stopped breathing for a number of other reasons.”