Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, sounding surprised, even though her door had a perfectly good peephole.

  “No, it’s my very much older, identical twin sister.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, dear. ’Twas merely a joke. Go ahead and attend to your needs, while I wait on the charming balcony.”

  She made no move to usher me into the apartment, and out again onto the balcony. “What needs?”

  I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Wash your swollen face, run a comb through that jungle hanging from your head, and maybe even spritz those pits, for crying out loud, before they asphyxiate us both.”

  “Magdalena, I’m not going to invite you in, and frankly, neither my appearance, nor my odor, is your concern.”

  “I beg to differ, Your Chieftainship. I’m here to discuss the Cornelius Weaver case, and if I pass out and hit my head, I might get a concussion, possibly resulting in permanent brain damage, which means my sister, Susannah, would have power of attorney, and might decide to ship me off to Alaska and put me on an ice floe, and by the time the Supreme Court could hear my case, I’d have frozen to death, and I must tell you, Your Chieftainship, that I just plain don’t like being cold.”

  “You’re nuts, Magdalena. Practically even stark raving mad. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “No one has the nerve. It’s the evil glint in my eye that puts them off. Besides, I’m not crazy; I just act that way.”

  “And I’m supposed to invite you in?”

  “You are a policewoman, after all. I’m sure you know how to defend yourself against raging lunatics. Still, if you like, we can chat here, even though the acoustics, thanks to the parking lot, allow my voice to be heard from a good quarter mile away.”

  “Very well.” She gave me a warning growl. “If you so much as make a wrong move, you’ll be sorry.”

  I couldn’t tell whether she was serious or not. Some folks have such a dry sense of humor that their jokes go right over my head. Oh well, if she was genuinely afraid of me, that was her problem, not mine. Just as long as she didn’t whip out her pistol and punch my one-way ticket to Heaven. That would certainly be ironic, given that I am a pussycat; even the pat of a kitten’s paw against my face turns me to mush.

  Keeping my long, elegant hands in sight, and a goofy grin plastered across my sculpted face, I slipped into her apartment and gave the sitting room the quick once-over. Chief Hornsby-Anderson would get along very well with Caroline Sha. The minimalist look is fine, as long as there is something to sit on. But this room was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Could it be that the chief was planning to skip out of town, leaving me to hold the bag? That reference, by the way, is to snipe hunting, a sport at which I excel. Freni has some tasty snipe recipes—Now, where was I?

  “You look like you’re lost in thought, Magdalena.”

  “Yes, it’s such unfamiliar territory.”

  “Touché. I’d offer you a place to sit, but since Hernia refused to pay for a mover, I sold my furniture before I left California. I’ve been meaning to shop for new stuff but haven’t had the time. I did, however, buy a king-size bed in Bedford, no pun intended, the day I arrived in Pennsylvania.”

  “I’m sure that bed has already seen its share of use.”

  “Innuendo does not become you. Yes, my bed has seen a lot of use, but that’s because it also functions as a desk and as my couch. I mean, really, what more do I need? The minute I get home every evening, usually around seven, I put on my pj’s, hop in bed, and watch TV while I catch up on paperwork. Of course none of this is your business, so please, let’s get on to police business. What have you been able to uncover in your investigation?”

  “What a clever pun. Do you mind if I use it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Never mind, it was ill conceived. Yes, business. Well, there are six women whom I’ve put on my suspect list.”

  23

  “No men?”

  “Not yet. Anyway, all of these women were romantically involved with the deceased. They are, in the order in which I interviewed them, as follows. Priscilla Livingood, who has more store-bought parts than a John Deere tractor, is—I mean, was—his fiancée. I thought she would be snooty, but she’s actually very nice. Works for a plastic surgeon.”

  “He does good work.”

  “Next up, we have Alice Troyer. She’s a professional comedienne with a radish for a nose—I mean that kindly. Alice claims that she and Cornelius were engaged, had even picked out a whappalooza of a ring.”

  “A what?”

  “An eye-buster, kinda like the ring I had.” I glanced at the pale band of skin left by my ring. “Anyway, he dumped her the day before their engagement party. Alice says it came as a total shock.”

  “I bet.”

  “Carolina Sha, on the other hand, seems to have been aware that she was not the only one being wooed. Speaking of which, the woman is a little woo-woo, if you ask me. She lives in a paper house and doesn’t use ice because she doesn’t want to hurt the water, but she’s happy to boil it for you. It’s obvious that she’s still bitter about not being chosen to be the next Mrs. Weaver, but I honestly don’t think she would kill a living thing—although she might feel differently about termites.”

  “It seems that Cornelius was a busy man.”

  “That’s just the half of it. Did you know Thelma Unruh was a natural blonde? Very few women are, you know. And even fewer have a tower of Babel in their living room—well, a remnant, at any rate. It was obvious Thelma didn’t like being cuckolded. Can that word apply to a woman?”

  “No, and I think there has to be marriage involved.”

  “Whatever, as my Alison would say. Thelma insisted I speak to Veronica Weaver, the victim’s mother. According to her, Cornelius needed to borrow ten thousand dollars, and he went to Mommy to get it. Mommy confirmed it, which didn’t make a lick of sense, because I know, for a fact, that he was flush with bucks.”

  “You have a way with words, Magdalena.”

  “Verily. And Veronica also said he needed the money so that Thelma could get an abortion, something I need to follow up on. Not that I’m following up on my own abortion, mind you, but the veracity of Thelma’s. Sometimes I think we’d be better off speaking German, despite it’s phlegm-clearing consonants and monstrously long multisyllabic compound words. At least it lets one know, by the case, which function each word performs in the sentence.”

  “You’re wandering again.”

  “Wondering, as well. Why is it that, until recently, every non-English speaker coming to this country was expected to learn the host language? Can you imagine what a polyglot of tongues we’d be babbling if the Germans, Italians, French, Chinese, Japanese—if they’d all insisted on bilingual services? And what about the poor Albanians? Do you honestly think banks would bother to have Braille Albanian posted on their drive-through machines?”

  “Now you’re waxing political.”

  “Sorry. I shall endeavor to wane. Now, where was I headed? Oh yes, the next bonnie lass on my list is Drustara Kurtz. She’s a stunning redhead. I read an article recently that suggested the gene for red hair might have found its way into Homo sapiens via random matings with Neanderthals. Of course this isn’t true, because the world was created in six days, and not six long days, either, or the Bible would have said so.”

  “Now you’re on to religion.”

  “Better that than sex, since I don’t know a whole lot about that. But anyone who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor hasn’t seen a naked man.”

  “Finally, something upon which we can agree. So that’s the six suspects, huh?”

  “Absolutely not. Veronica Weaver was his stepmother. She’s not on the list.”

  The chief shook her head with tight little jerks. “No, no, Miss Yoder. You can’t rule out anyone because of family connections. Stepmothers do kill their stepchildren. Haven’t you read Snow White? What’s more, birth mothers kill their children too, and vic
e versa. The Menendez brothers, for example. When it comes to murder, all bets are off. Anyone can be a suspect, and anything can be the motive.”

  I sighed to let her know that I hate being corrected. “Okay, so I have seven suspects in all.”

  “Yes, and who is seventh?”

  “That would be you, dear.”

  “Me?”

  “Most certainly. You were his lover as well. Perhaps he made the same promise of marriage to you, as he did the others. Then you discover he’s planning to marry Priscilla Livingood. As they say, ’Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”

  “This is outrageous! I’m the chief of police. I’m the one who asked you to investigate.”

  “Actually, young Chris Ackerman did. Besides, like you said, anyone can be a suspect.”

  “This is egregious. I’m taking you off the case.”

  “I’m not sure you used that word correctly. You might want to look it up. Also, I’m not a licensed investigator, and I’m certainly not a real policewoman. ’Concerned citizen’ is how I’d describe myself. So you can’t take me off a case I was never on.”

  “I can have you arrested for obstruction of justice. Why I ever agreed to take a position in this Podunk town is beyond me.”

  “Now, that would be an egregious mistake. You see, as mayor of this Podunk town, I have it in my power to terminate your employment.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Suspicion of murder, what else?”

  “But you can’t—”

  “Oh, but I can. That’s the beauty of living in Podunk; we make our own rules.”

  “Yes, but the beauty of living in America is that I can exercise my God-given right to sue.”

  “It is indeed a wonderful country. I can countersue, and since you’re the outsider, suspected of killing one of our own, what do you think your chances would be of winning?”

  “I’ll have the trial moved to Philadelphia—or Pittsburgh.”

  “Ah, the city of brotherly love, and the city of pierogies. Fill a pirogue with pierogies, Pittsburghers say, and you still wouldn’t have nearly enough. Got to love them, though—the Pittsburghers, not the pierogies. Their fair metropolis is too far west to be an eastern city, and too far east to be Midwest. Ergo, they have developed their own culture, and practically their own dialect. Do you know what a gum band is?”

  “Something with teeth and braces?”

  “No, it means ’rubber band’ in Pittsburghese. But back to the issue at hand, which seems to have gotten out of hand, but I think I have a handle on it. You see, my dear, I can count on one hand the number of successful lawsuits wherein the plaintiff was not a local. On the other hand, just to be fair, we’ve only ever had one. The lawyer was brilliant, so I’ll give him a hand. In fact, you have to hand it to him, because he was handicapped, as well as coming from Pittsburgh. And speaking of that burg, whose circuit court would you choose? Judge Morris Bluffman, or Judge Beatrice Ess? Bea Ess, we call her for short. But if filial affection is your preference, may I suggest you try and stay away from Judge Anne Thrope—Miss Anne Thrope, when I knew her. Anyway, she hates everybody.” I spoke rapidly, which is a nonviolent, albeit passive-aggressive, way to assert authority.

  “Okay, okay, you win,” the chief shrieked in that high-pitched voice that is peculiar to Californians. “Go ahead and grill me, Miss Yoder. Grill me like a weenie.”

  “It would be my pleasure, dear, but first I have a few requests.”

  I grilled the chief while sitting on a lawn chair, on her balcony, facing the feed store. After all, no Hernian in her right mind would pass up a chance to see a truck unload or, at the very least, a stock boy burning empty boxes in a barrel. In one hand I held a mug of hot chocolate, piled high with miniature marshmallows; in the other, a ladyfinger—the cake variety, of course, not a real one.

  “So,” I said, pausing to lick my lips, “when was the last time you saw the deceased?”

  “You know when; it was the moment he died.”

  “And you don’t know CPR?”

  “Who says I don’t? Of course I do. I probably even cracked a few of his ribs. Check the coroner’s report for that, will you?”

  I nodded. “How long were you and Cornelius doing the Posturepedic hokey pokey, and believe me, that’s not what it’s all about.”

  “What?”

  “There’s more to life than sex.”

  “Macadamia, or filbert?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Which nut are you?”

  “This is a murder investigation, Your Chieftainship. This is no place for levity. Please answer my question.”

  “Corny—that’s what he asked me to call him, so no comments from the peanut gallery—and I had been seeing each other from the day I moved here.”

  “That’s been months!”

  “Yes, the best months of my life.”

  “And it started the very day you arrived?” How did a strumpet attract the town’s reigning playboy so quickly? Did she leave a trail of pheromones on her way into town?

  “I ran down to Yoder’s Corner Market to get some milk, and there he was, buying a tin of ravioli.”

  “And you—”

  “I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m not a slut. We didn’t sleep together for almost a week. We didn’t need to. Corny said he found me refreshing, able to carry on a sophisticated conversation—unlike the other women he dated.”

  “For the record, we never dated.”

  “I wouldn’t think so, given your age.”

  I treated her to a display of my teeth, which, depending on one’s intent, is not the same as a smile. “During the months you were involved with Cornelius, were you aware of the other women in his life?”

  “Boy, I’ll say. His phone was always ringing. But in anticipation of your next question, they were not aware of me.”

  “They are now. There’s not a sentient being in the county who doesn’t know of the affair.”

  “Have they begun to collect the tar and feathers? Or is it to be a huge scarlet A, maybe with neon lights?”

  “They were hoping to do both, but I convinced them that wooden stocks would suffice—provided they were too tight and stopped your circulation. We could take turns lashing you with an Amish buggy whip.”

  “Why is it that I’m not sure if you’re joking?”

  “Funny, but I feel the same way. Scary, isn’t it?” I took a deep sip of cocoa. “Be a dear, will you, and refresh this. It’s supposed to be hot chocolate, not warm.”

  She smiled. “My pleasure.”

  While she busied herself with hostess duties, I kept an eye on Kevin, a new stock boy at Miller’s Feed Store. He’d come out back and was breaking down cardboard boxes to be fed into a fire barrel. Cool as it was, he’d taken off his shirt, and his muscles rippled in the firelight. Either his jeans were one size too small or he was well equipped, both in front and in back. How old was he? Eighteen? Maybe twenty? Just for one minute I’d like to get my hands on…

  “Here you go, Miss Yoder. Hot, just like you wanted.”

  “Ach! I wasn’t—I mean—I guess I drifted off. One is not responsible for images conjured whilst dreaming.”

  “Right. No need to play innocent around me, Miss Yoder. I’m the town slut, don’t you recall?”

  “Your words, dear, not mine. I was thinking ’strumpet.’ It has more class, don’t you think?”

  “Please, drink you cocoa while it’s still hot.” She took a small sip from her own refreshed cup.

  Ever an agreeable woman, I obliged her by taking a huge gulp. Now, I’m one of those few, but blessed, individuals who have asbestos throats. What is too hot for most folks is still only tepid to me. Pour boiling coffee into a cup, stir it twice, and it’s just right the temperature. I even have to heat the milk I add, lest it render the beverage too cool for my tonsils.

  That said, the refill the chief handed me was hot enough to singe the lungs of Lucifer. What’s more, it had the vine
gary taste of Tabasco. Olivia Hornsby-Anderson had played a dirty trick on me, but she wasn’t going to get away with it.

  My tongue screamed for relief, but I forced it to cooperate. “This is wonderful. Now be a dear and fetch me some more ladyfingers, will you?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide with wonder at my ability to drink liquid brimstone. Even before I heard the glass door slide closed behind me, I was hard at work at the task at hand. Dumping my spiked cocoa over the balcony was too obvious and exacted no revenge. Yes, I know the Good Lord said, “Vengeance is mine,” but with all due respect, He’d never been tricked into drinking hot sauce. No, what I needed was a solution that would spare my mouth further agony and fix her wagon at the same time. Aha! I knew just the thing.

  24

  Just switching mugs with my reluctant hostess wasn’t going to work. Hers was white with bright orange script that read World’s Best Mom. Mine was brown and had a pedestal base. What I needed to do was to pour her cocoa into a receptacle of some sort so that I could I transfer my drink into her cup. Then I could pour her beverage into my mug and proceed to sip it smugly. But what could I use as a container?

  Aha! And Mr. Langley thought I was too stupid to pass college physics. If only he could see me now. Maybe two things of equal volume and density can’t occupy the same space at the same time, but they can be switched around with the aid of a sturdy brown brogan. And thank heavens I’d switched to brogans after my nap!

  Quick as a magician I pulled off my right shoe, poured my doctored potion into it, poured the chief’s cocoa into my mug, and then emptied my shoe into her mug. The transfer happened so fast, my brogan barely got wet—well, almost barely. But what’s a wet foot between fiends?

  I completed my diabolical deed just in time. “Are you enjoying your hot chocolate?” the chief asked. She had in her hand a plate piled high with my favorite snack.

  “Scrumptious,” I said.

  “Really? Not too sweet?”

  “It’s perfect. I could drink gallons of this stuff.” I chugged back half a mug’s worth.