by Tamar Myers
Pride is the worst of sins. That said, I’ve always been proud of my mental prowess. I may have the face of a mare and the body of a scarecrow, but at least I have a top-notch brain. That brain now asked me to consider what the doctor was saying. Could it possibly be that I wasn’t as ugly as I believed myself to be? I mean, Jimmy had been a good buddy in the sixth grade, but I didn’t for a second doubt that he would be happy to fix any of my many flaws, and charge me an arm and a leg for the privilege. What was in it for him to make me feel good about myself? Absolutely nothing; zilch; zero.
Again I looked at my image in the mirror, this time with open eyes—well, one open eye. “Oh, my heavens, oh, my stars,” I said, feeling faint.
4
Jimmy stood over me, fanning me with his filthy magazine. “You fainted, Magdalena; you’ll be all right in a minute.”
“Fainted? I think not. I was dreaming, and one doesn’t dream whilst fainting—does one?”
As always, Skinny Jimmy was easily amused. “What were you dreaming about?”
I could feel myself blushing. “That is for me to know, and you not to find out.”
“That you’re not ugly, but beautiful?”
I struggled to my feet. “How did you know that?”
Jimmy grabbed my shoulders and turned me to face a full-length mirror this time. “You weren’t dreaming; you were in shock. I can’t imagine what you’re feeling. I worked out forever to beef up, so the change was gradual for me.”
If allowed, I think I would have stood there staring at my reflection in the mirror until I turned into a pillar of salt. Fortunately the intercom on Jimmy’s desk buzzed.
“Yes?” I heard him say, although he sounded a mile away.
“Dr. Skinner, your first patient is ready in cubicle nine.”
“Thanks.” He turned to me. “Sorry, Magdalena, but I’ve got to go. Duty calls.”
“Sure thing, Doc.” My voice still sounded like it belonged to a homely woman. Would that change as well?
“Before I go, just one quick question. What brought you here today? You weren’t actually thinking of having a procedure, were you?”
I shook my head. “I came to speak to Priscilla Livingood.”
“What about? Is this personal?”
“It’s police business.”
“That’s right; I heard you solve their difficult cases—which seem to be just about all of them lately. Then you know, of course, that her fiancé died the day before yesterday.”
“Yes. I also know that she came to work yesterday. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
He shrugged. “We all have a right to grieve in our own way. Priscilla is a hard worker. Coming in yesterday and today is how she copes.”
“Is she in now?”
“Yes, that’s who I just talked to.”
“May I speak with her?”
“You can use my office. I’ll send her in.” He picked a folder off his desk and started for the door. Halfway there he stopped. “Please go easy on her.”
“I will.”
“And enjoy your new self. You’re a knockout, Magdalena. Remember that.”
“Aye, aye, sir. And thanks, Jimmy. From the bottom of my heart.”
But it wasn’t easy to remember Jimmy’s words. When Priscilla walked through the door, doubt was close on her heels. Yes, I knew that the woman owed a lot of who she was to petroleum by-products and Jimmy’s skillful fingers, but nonetheless, she was the epitome of what society now regards as female beauty. The cantaloupe bosoms, the batwing eyebrows—I’d seen them a thousand times on covers of the magazines in the checkout line of Pat’s IGA. Surely my homegrown assets, if indeed I really had them, seemed bland by comparison.
Priscilla appeared resigned to see me. “Magdalena Yoder, what took you so long?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I was expecting to see you yesterday. Don’t you usually pounce on your victims almost immediately?”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, at a loss to say anything else.
“I’ll just bet you are. I’m sure you and every other hoochie in Hernia have been crying buckets.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, did I step on a nerve? Magdalena, you have a reputation for being blunt, straight to the point. Are you going to beat around the bush, or are you going to come right out and confess that you too had an affair with my Cornelius?”
“Ew!” I could feel my face take on a life of its own; it was as if I’d just tried to suck a slice of rotten lemon.
“What was that all about?”
“No offense, dear, but Cornelius Weaver never did a thing for me. Not that there was anything wrong with him, but I have my own fiancé.”
“So this is strictly police business?”
“Strictly. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
There were two chairs in Jimmy’s office. A straight-back with a plastic seat, intended for anyone other than him, and the leather swivel behind the desk. Priscilla had the chutzpah to slip into the latter and offer me the plastic chair.
“Shoot,” she said.
I consulted my list. “Were you and Cornelius living together?”
“I slept at my own house. Sometimes he did too, but more often not.”
“Was yours an exclusive relationship?”
It surprised me that such a beautiful woman, albeit a man-made one, should have such an unpleasant voice. It was like the sound of toenails scraping on a chalkboard. I’ve heard enough of that to be a good judge, by the way.
“Exclusive, my eye. Cornelius knew he was the most illegible bachelor in town.” Priscilla Livingood is syntaxically challenged, to coin a new word.
“Come again?”
“You know, he has the most to offer, so every woman wants him.”
“I most certainly do not!” I shuddered just at the thought. I’d rather eat a plateful of boiled eels.
“That’s because a woman with your looks can reach far beyond Hernia to get a man. Bedford too. That handsome doctor of yours is from where? South Carolina?”
“New York. And he came here; I’ve never been to the Big Apple.”
“All the same, he wouldn’t have looked twice at a girl like me.”
I’m sure Gabe would have looked several times, but I wasn’t about to point that out. “Tell me, Priscilla, if Cornelius was a lothario, why did you agree to marry him?”
“Because he was rich, handsome, and single. Sounds shallow, doesn’t it? I don’t care. I’m forty-three, Magdalena; my eggs are getting old. I want to have babies, lots of them. I only need two more procedures; then I’m through. After that Cornelius would have had eyes only for me.”
“I didn’t realize Dr. Skinner did brain transplants.”
“What? Was that a dig?”
It was. And I should have been ashamed of myself. But what woman in her right mind would put herself under the knife so many times? Why couldn’t she just suffer in silence like I did all these years?
I cleared my throat. “What I meant to say is, I wouldn’t think Dr. Skinner would agree to do so many surgeries on the same patient. Is there a code of some sort?”
“You mean the Hypocrite’s oath. Yeah, well, Dr. Matthews is going to do it, not Dr. Skinner. But I still get my twenty percent discount, because they have this Episcopal thing.”
This one took me a minute. “Ah, reciprocal.”
“That’s what I said. Now, are we done here?”
“Almost. Where were you when you learned that Cornelius had passed?”
“Passed on what? I told him to sell that ’67 Mustang convertible of his and buy an SUV like everyone else. I can’t have my babies riding around without a roof over their heads.”
“Indeed. But I’m speaking of his death. Where were you when you learned that he’d had a heart attack?”
“At my house, sleeping in my own bed. Cornelius said he had a killer multigrain and was just going to lie low for the evening.”
�
�Now, that’s what I call a cereal killer.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Who called you?”
“That cute young police sergeant, what’s-his-name.”
“Chris Ackerman.”
“Yeah. He said Cornelius had suffered a heart attack, and that I should meet him at Bedford County Memorial Hospital. I didn’t even take time to get dressed; I just put on a robe. I got to the hospital the same time the ambulance did, but Cornelius was already dead. It doesn’t surprise me that Cornelius hadn’t called for help when the attack began; he was such a stubborn man. He thought he could tough out anything, but you can’t tough out a heart attack.”
That was interesting. Priscilla had unwittingly exposed a cover-up. Chief Hornsby-Anderson and her protégé had conspired to make it look as though Cornelius had called 911 himself, and died on the way to the hospital. When I agreed to keep secret the fact that the Grim Reaper had caught Cornelius and the chief in flagrante delicto, I hadn’t fully realized the ramifications of such a problem. It was one thing not to mention the chief’s presence at the house, but quite another to be party to a story that had Cornelius dying someplace else altogether. What was I thinking?
“Magdalena,” Priscilla said, waving her hand in front of my eyes, “you’ve zoned out on me. Have you been hitting the sauté again?”
“Excuse me?”
“The bottle. You know, drinking.”
“I most certainly have not! And for your information, I don’t hit the sauce on a regular basis, not unless it’s au jus. The three times I did partake of the funny juice were all by accident.”
“Whatever. So, then we’re through here?”
“One last question. Are you on the drug Elavil?”
“Just because you drink, doesn’t mean I take drugs.”
“Indeed it doesn’t. This is a prescription drug.”
“For your information, I don’t take any drugs, not even an aspirin, unless I’ve just had a procedure. Then the doctor gives me pain pills, but I get off them as soon as I can.”
“Did Cornelius take Elavil?”
“Not that I know of. But I never snooped in his medicine cabinet, if that’s what you mean.”
“No. You’ve been very helpful.” I headed for the door, but stopped when the most important question of the day occurred to me. “Priscilla, just out of curiosity, what are the two procedures you’ll be having?”
“Liposuction on my upper arms, and floating rib removal.”
I jiggled pinkies in both ears to make sure they weren’t blocked and I could hear right. “I’m sorry, I thought for a second you said ’rib removal.’”
“I did.”
“But that’s so bizarre. And painful, I would imagine.”
“Magdalena, don’t you be judging me until you’ve walked a mile in my pumps. What does a perfect woman like you know, anyway?”
Apparently not as much as I thought. But until that morning I thought I knew everything there was to know about having a poor self-image. Well, color me wrong! I never could have dreamed that I would meet someone who felt even worse about her body than I did. And I still did. Jimmy’s lecture had yet to sink in fully, although I had already begun to pray that he was right.
To have a woman as beautiful, albeit unbalanced, as Priscilla Livingood call me perfect—well, it was an indescribably wonderful experience. The sad part is, there may have been many nice things said about my appearance over my life span; things I’d managed to block out because I couldn’t possibly believe they were true. Perhaps my ears were deceiving me now. Perhaps I was nuts, as well as ugly. Perhaps I was dreaming. Whatever the case, I wasn’t going to hang around Jimmy’s office any longer to find out.
“Toodle-oo,” I said, and sailed from the room.
My full name is Magdalena Portulaca Yoder, and I have a life apart from my amateur detecting work and my killer bod. I’m the co-owner, but sole proprietress, of the PennDutch Inn, one of the most desirable full-board establishments east of the Mississippi. I am a sister to Susannah, a well-meaning, but slovenly, slothful, and slutty woman who is married to a jailed murderer. I am also a foster mother to a fourteen-year-old girl, who is the issue of my pseudo-ex-husband’s loins. And last, but not least, I am engaged to Dr. Gabriel Rosen, a retired physician, who fancies himself a mystery writer.
When I got back to my car, the first thing I did was consult the rearview mirror. “Mirror, mirror, in the car, who’s not pretty, har, har, har?”
The mirror usually doesn’t hesitate to scream right back at me, “You’re not pretty, you dummkopf.”
Now the mirror was mute.
I tapped it with my index finger. “Come on, wake up. This is an important question.”
The mirror mocked me with its silence.
“Okay then, mirror, how about this: I have a classical face and a killer bod.”
The mirror didn’t even snicker. “Congratulations, Magdalena. You’ve finally seen the light.”
I turned on the ignition, squealed out of the parking lot, and careened down the highway to the Sausage Barn, where I was scheduled to meet four people for brunch. I knew for sure that one of these, in particular, would not hesitate to tell me the truth.
Curries
All of the following recipes reflect typical curries of either meat or vegetables with a masala or curry sauce, which can be wet or dry. Different regions of India and Pakistan account for the variations in ingredients and preparation methods involved. Northern India and Pakistan see cooler, fragrant ingredients given the climate and spices indigenous to those regions. The farther south you go, the hotter the palate, thus the spicier the cuisine. Why eat hot foods in hot climates? Because the excess heat induced by the cuisine promotes perspiration, in turn cooling the person enjoying the dish. Coastal areas will have more seafood, rugged regions more meat; regional vegetables abound everywhere.
All of these curries came from our kitchen. Curries vary, as do people. There are authentic curries that demand an acquired taste, and very modernized curries that do not resemble anything of the original curry, save for curry powder. These recipes are as homemade as they come. But they also allow one to experiment and make these curries one’s own. Also, since these are curries, and like any dish, really, they are reflective of one’s capacity to withstand spices. Adjust the spices to your liking, and experiment. There is no one right way to make a curry, but don’t let Granny know that!
Garnishes may include finely chopped cilantro (or coriander leaves), julienned ginger, shredded coconut, lime wedges, or fried onions.
Raita is a yogurt salad used to cool the palate while eating spicy foods or to just add a little something to the meal. The basic recipe is as follows.
Ingredients
1–2 green chilies, finely chopped(optional)
¼ cup coriander leaves, finely sliced 2 cups yogurt, whipped
1–2 teaspoons cumin seeds, slightly roasted Salt and black pepper to taste
1–2 cups cucumber, grated Coriander leaves, crushed cumin, and black pepper for garnish
1 garlic clove, finely chopped
Yield: 4 servings
Preparation
1. In a blender add chilies, cumin seeds, salt and pepper, garlic, and coriander leaves and process.
2. Add this mixture to yogurt.
3. Fold in cucumber.
4. Garnish with some coriander leaves, crushed cumin, and black pepper.
Notes
Variations are limited only by your imagination: Add ¼ cup chopped mint leaves, a tablespoon or two of a favorite chutney, roasted mashed eggplant, shredded lettuce, or a garden confetti mixture of finely diced onions, green bell pepper, and red bell pepper.
Another idea is to use yogurt and any prepared chutney, whether sweet or hot. Mix a cup of yogurt with the desired amount of chutney for a wonderful sandwich condiment or as a salad dressing.
Ginger-garlic paste is mentioned in these recipes, but you can buy ginger paste or garlic paste
separately as well. Or make your own by blending enough water with ginger and/or garlic to make a paste. Store in the fridge; it should last 2 weeks.
Garam masala is a dry ground powder made from a mixture of whole spices such as cloves, cinnamon, and the like. New cooks should use it sparingly.
As you cook, keep tasting the curry, and make adjustments accordingly. If you think a curry is too hot and spicy, add a peeled and diced potato to absorb some of the heat.
Using canned stewed or crushed tomatoes is just as good, and in some cases better than fresh, since canned tomatoes tend to make much smoother gravies. I prefer canned.
6
As is usually the case, I was the first of my party to arrive. It was not quite eleven; too early for the lunch crowd, and past time for breakfast—at least for most working folks. This meant that Wanda Hemphopple, the world’s meanest restaurateur, would be free to play the part of hostess. She does not, however, have the mostest.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”
I scanned the sticky linoleum floor around me, looking for bunny heads and bird legs.
“I meant you, Magdalena.”
“And a cheery good morning to you too, Wanda.”
“I suppose you want your usual booth, and your usual breakfast. How boring, Magdalena.”
“Actually, I’ll be wanting one of the round tables, instead of a booth. There’s going to be five of us.”
Wanda quickly considered, and just as quickly rejected, the idea that I might have friends. “It’s gotta be some church thing.”