Eat, Drink and Be Wary Read Online Free

remember?"
     
     
My sister rolled her eyes again. One of these days they're going to stick in that position, and she's going to have to learn to part her hair in back.
     
     
"Melvin pisses me off," she said. "I'm thinking of calling off the whole damn thing."
     
     
First, allow me to assure you that I do not countenance vulgarity in my home. I would have sharply rebuked Susannah, had not my heart been skipping with joy. Melvin Stoltzfus, the aforementioned police chief, is my nemesis. The good Lord put him on this earth for the sole purpose of reminding me of Adam and Eve's sin. Woman's punishment is the pain of child-bearing, but since I will forever remain as barren as the Mojave Desert, God gave me Melvin.
     
     
The man is as bright as a two-watt bulb. He once sent a gallon of ice cream to his favorite aunt in Scranton - by U.P.S. His mother would have you believe that he wasn't always this stupid, that it really began when he tried, unsuccessfully, to milk that bull. She claims it was the kick in the head that did it.
     
     
But I am a tolerant person, and can overlook gross ineptitude, if it isn't accompanied by arrogance. Unfortunately, Police Chief Melvin Stoltzfus is a graduate of the Paris School of Humility. He delights in throwing his meager weight around, and once even had the audacity to accuse me of murder. I would do just about anything - even play matchmaker - to knock Melvin out of the picture.
     
     
I thought fast. "I understand Mr. Anderson is single."
     
     
That may have been a mistake. If given a choice, she prefers the challenge of married men.
     
     
"oh."
     
     
"And he does look like Tom Cruise."
     
     
"Give me a break."
     
     
"Well, he is a vice president of a major corporation."
     
     
"So?"
     
     
"He's probably well-to-do."
     
     
Her eyes lit up like a pair of flares, and she flounced off to flirt with her next victim. Melvin, with his policeman's salary, was out of luck.
     
     
Moments later a distinguished-looking gentleman, carrying a matched set of luggage, strode into the office. Close on his heels was a tidy woman dressed in a tweed skirt suit and black pumps. Her mousy brown hair was cut in a neat bob, and she wore a moderate - might I say tasteful p amount of makeup.
     
     
"Gordon Dolby," he said, and handed me the prerequisite invitation. "I'm here for the East Coast Delicacies cooking contest."
     
     
I took the paper and checked it against my list. His name was there all right. G. Dolby, but there was nothing on the invitation, or my list, about his wife. It was precisely at that point that my "vexometer," as Susannah refers to my temper, began to rise.
     
     
"I'm Magdalena Yoder, your proprietress."
     
     
"Ah, a learned woman," he said and glanced at his wife.
     
     
I smiled pleasantly and asked them to each sign the guest register. Much to my irritation he signed both their names.
     
     
"I'm giving you room number one," I said curtly.
     
     
"And my daughter?" he asked.
     
     
I peered around the pair. There didn't seem to be a child with them. Mr. Anderson was going to get an earful for withholding such crucial information. It's not that I'm anti-children, you see, but it's just that I've never been terribly fond of the little brats.
     
     
The woman I'd pegged as Mrs. Dolby stepped forward. "I'm the daughter, you see. My name is Gladys Dolby." She seemed more resigned than embarrassed.
     
     
That revelation vexed me even more. My inn has eight guest rooms, one of which Susannah uses during her intermittent stays. There were to be four contestants, besides Freni, and three judges. If father and daughter desired separate accommodations, Susannah was going to have to bunk with me. I would sooner have the inn crawling with urchins.
     
     
I pretended to scan the ledger. "Hmm. I don't suppose -I mean, would one room be all right?"
     
     
"Certainly not!" he barked.
     
     
Gladys looked away.
     
     
"I'm putting you in number eight, dear," I