Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  He sighed so hard into the phone, I could feel his breath stir the downy hairs on my forearm. “Good. I’m counting on you. Shall we take a moment to pray together?”

  “Now? Over the phone?”

  “Yes. Believers do it all the time.”

  Leonard is a world-class prayer. Once he gets started, you either have to wait it out by telling stories in your head, or take a nap. I had neither time nor patience that evening.

  “I think I’ll pass, dear.”

  “Pass on praying? Magdalena, what’s gotten into you?”

  “Leonard, I just remembered something vitally important.”

  “More important than praying?”

  “God helps those who help themselves,” I said. Then I hung up and raced for my purse.

  Not every church can lay claim to owning a parsonage. Some congregations simply cannot afford the expense, whilst others find it too much bother. Then again, many ministers—or their wives—are too picky about their accommodations to settle for what the church is willing, or able, to provide.

  We, the members of Beechy Grove Mennonite Church, have found that supplying agreeable quarters for our pastor allows us to pay him a much smaller salary than we would have had to shell out had housing not been provided. Our parsonage is a sprawling Victorian house in the heart of the historic district and is the envy of all who have seen it. In the past, virtually every candidate that I have interviewed for the job of minister has accepted the position by the time we are done touring the house. Many of them don’t even see the church before saying yes. Why, then, I wondered as I pushed the doorbell, was Reverend Fiddlegarber so ungrateful?

  There wasn’t a single light on in the parsonage that I could tell, but the door was answered within seconds. “Reverend, it’s me, Magdalena Yoder, as big as life and twice as pretty.”

  “What the heck do you want at this time of night?”

  “To come in? Tsk, tsk, dear, you really should clean up your language.”

  “This is my house, and I can speak like I want in it.”

  “Actually, it isn’t your house. That’s precisely why I’m here.”

  “Go away, Magdalena, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Yes, please call Chris Ackerman. I was going to call him myself on the way over here, but I couldn’t see the menu on my cell phone without my reading glasses. It wouldn’t do to rummage through my purse while driving at a record speed, now would it.”

  “Shut up and disappear, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “Your threats don’t bother me, dear.”

  “They’re not threats. I have a black belt in—”

  “I have a black belt as well. It came with that store-bought dress I got in Pittsburgh back in December. ‘Dry-clean only,’ it says, but I’m telling you—”

  The door was flung open so hard that it slammed into the stopper against the wall, causing it to vibrate.

  “Come in,” he barked.

  “Why, certainly. But first be a dear and turn on the light.”

  He did as bade. “You are uninvited, just remember that.”

  “I wish I could say the same.”

  “Ah, so that’s what this is about. Your chickens have come home to roost, have they?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Riddlegobbler. You’re not nice enough to be a chicken. I’d say a thieving blue jay is more like it.”

  “My title is reverend, and my name is Fiddlegarber.”

  “I don’t think so. Reverend means worthy of being revered, and you are far from that. As for your last name, how can I be sure of it, when you’re a fraud and a liar?”

  “My credentials are real. My theology degree wasn’t just one of those Internet deals where you send in twenty-five bucks, and they automatically send you a certificate. No sirree, ma’am. It cost me five hundred, and I had to take a correspondence course.”

  “Who finally ordained you? Reverend Jim Jones?”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “It isn’t yours.”

  “Don’t be a sore loser, Magdalena. Besides, if you opened that tightly closed mind of yours, I might even find you a place in my operation. Exciting things are going to happen in Hernia, I’m telling you. The Voice of Armageddon Cathedral is going to be the single largest church in the United States when I’m through. Pat Robertson and Jerry Falwell are going to beg to be my water boys. Presidents are going to call and ask my advice. Heck, they’re going to ask me for permission to implement their policies—make that my policies.”

  “And where will God be in this?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, the Man Upstairs. Although he isn’t really a man—”

  “‘Put your hand on the television screen,’ I’m going to say, ‘and feel the healing power of the Lord surging through you. Did you feel that, Sister? Brother, are you healed? No? Then maybe your faith isn’t what it should be. To prove your faith, Brothers and Sisters, send in your checks, of a hundred dollars or more, so that I can buy that diamond mine in Botswana that the Lord has laid on my heart.’”

  I’d heard far too much. “Out of my house, Satan!”

  “You seem to have flipped your lid, Magdalena. What’s the matter? Is that bun on the back of your head screwed on too tight?”

  I whipped the winning envelope out of my purse. “Read it and weep, buster.”

  37

  He stared at it, sensing for the first time that his wicked plan might not have been foolproof.

  “Go ahead, Beelzebub. This is the deed for the parsonage. Unlike the church building, it is not co-owned by the congregation. You see, Lucifer, the old parsonage was in awful condition and had to be demolished. We sold the land to my cousin, Sam Yoder, who built his grocery store on the lot. At that time the church was deeply in debt, so the proceeds went to paying that down some. For a long time after that, we limped along without a parsonage, but we were having trouble getting a minister on what little we could offer him. Then this house came on the market, and it was perfect for the job, so I bought it. But you see, I didn’t sign it over to the church because—come to think of it, I really don’t know why. Every time I thought about doing that, something inside me said no. I guess that was the Good Lord looking out for us.”

  “Let me see!” He snatched the paper from my hand, and with each line he read from the document, his face grew redder.

  “It’s all there. And search the church records, if you like, but you’ll find nothing that gives you the right to live in my house.”

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” he snarled.

  “Unfortunately for you, I am the law.”

  “Squatter’s rights,” he hissed.

  “Then squat on the curb.” I consulted my watch, which is the same simple, unadorned Timex my parents gave me for college graduation. “The movers should be here in ten minutes.”

  “The movers?” he roared.

  “Tsk, tsk, again. You are so full of emotion, dear, anyone writing your biography would be forced to use disruptive conversation tags.”

  “And you’re stark raving mad.”

  “Clichés as well.” I gifted him with a calm, Christian smile. “Will you be needing help with the small things? I’m afraid I don’t possess a lot of upper-body strength, so furniture moving is out. But I can toss silverware into a paper bag, or pack up the pantry—just not both. And if you pick pantry, be appraised of the fact that I would be tossing those items as well, and I’ve been known to drop jars of spaghetti sauce, fumble-fingers that I am.”

  By now he was shaking with rage. “You will pay for this, Miss Yoder. As God is my witness, you will rue the day you double-crossed me.”

  “Is that a threat, dear?”

  “Don’t call me dear.” He glanced wildly around, presumably looking for eavesdroppers. Finding none, he got back to the business at hand. “If by the word threat you mean that you will soon become persona non grata in these parts, then the answer is yes. I have been blessed with a magn
etic personality, Miss Yoder. I will use my influence to increase my flock until we have swallowed all of the churches in Hernia. What will your world consist of then, Miss Yoder? Regrets? Just as woman cannot live on bread alone, neither can she live on regrets.”

  “Hmm. Well, I do regret not having called the movers five minutes earlier, perhaps saving myself from your—Ah! There they are now. Oh, I almost forgot; the movers are nephews, by marriage, to my cousin, Sam Yoder. One’s a Methodist, and the other three are Baptist. They are not opposed to using force if necessary.”

  “Come on, Magdalena, let’s not be hasty. Surely we can work things out. Compromise—isn’t that what it’s all about?”

  “I don’t make deals with the Devil.”

  The truck began to back into the parsonage driveway. Reverend Fiddlegarber was practically on his knees.

  “Everyone has a price, Magdalena. Just tell me yours. I’ll see if I can meet it.”

  “Not everyone has a price, dear. I’ve even known animals with more principles than you. Take my favorite hen, Pertelote. Once she starts setting on her clutch, she won’t budge from those eggs, even if you set a cup of mealworms an arm’s length away. You see, a mother’s love, for one thing, can’t be bought.”

  A truck door slammed, causing the Spawn of Satan to jump like a coffee addict. “That’s just instinct. I’ve counseled mothers who’ve abandoned their children. These women did so just because they’d fallen in love with guys who hate kids. Wave a million dollars in front of some of them, and I have no doubt—”

  “Junior,” I said to the driver of the truck, “no matter what he threatens, keep loading. When you’re done, drive this man and his wife anywhere they want in a hundred-mile radius. I’ve already called the sheriff, so he won’t be bothering you.”

  Junior, who is the size of a side of beef, grunted. “Whatta we do if he don’t give us no address?”

  “Then drive out to the dump and unload everything there. Your uncle wants the truck back tonight ASAP. You have any questions, reach me on my cell.”

  “You can’t do that, Miss Yoder,” the not-so-good reverend cried. “You can’t leave me with these thugs!”

  “Junior, did you hear that? He called you a thug.”

  The lad, who is the captain of his high school’s football team, flexed the muscles in his Methodist biceps. “I ain’t no thug.”

  “Of course not, dear.” I turned to go.

  Reverend Fiddlegarber, out of options, literally threw himself at my retreating feet. Fortunately, his fingertips only grazed my ankles. I hate kissing the sidewalk and avoid it whenever I can.

  “Please, Miss Yoder,” he begged piteously. “Please reconsider.”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, you can have the church back; just don’t kick us out of the house. I’m begging you.”

  “Shut up—dear.” I started walking at a fast clip, the soon-to-be-disposed-of reverend crawling along behind me on his hands and knees.

  “I’ll make you rich. Richer than even you can imagine. You could own a jet and fly relief missions to Africa. Real ones. Think of all the good you could do.”

  “At the expense of you bilking widows out of their life savings?”

  “What? You’re walking too fast.”

  I stopped so he’d be able to hear what I said next. “This has been an ugly experience Mister Fiddlegarber—you do not deserve the title reverend. Nonetheless, just like the honey that was made inside the carcass of the lion that Samson killed, some good has already come from it. At least I now know the identity of Cornelius Weaver’s killer.”

  Never underestimate the power of greed. Until my conversation with the fraudulent Fiddlegarber, I was willing to cut mothers a little slack in that department. Stepmothers as well. I may only be Alison’s pseudo-stepmother, but I would never, ever even be tempted to kill her, not for a million, trillion dollars. Which isn’t to say that, from time to time, I don’t want her to simply disappear.

  But now the scales had fallen from my eyes, and I could see that there were indeed folks out there who would do anything for money. And there was only one person I knew of who stood to profit from Cornelius Weaver’s death: his stepmother, and only living kin, Veronica.

  Of course I don’t believe in the phenomenon of psychic ability, akin as it is to both witchcraft and new age philosophy. But if I did believe it existed, it would be because I have observed it over and over in my almost half century of existence. Therefore, I was not in the least bit surprised to discover the killer at her mobile home, waiting for me.

  “Come in, Magdalena. I’ve been expecting you.”

  “So you have. Is that hot chocolate I smell?”

  “Yes. And if I remember correctly, you are particularly fond of ladyfingers.”

  “But—”

  “But not the real ones. It’s a pretty stale joke, Magdalena.”

  “Just because you’re a murderess is no cause to be rude.”

  “Ooh, touchy, are we? What’s got your knickers in a knot this time?”

  “You. I can’t believe someone would kill their own son.”

  “Stepson. There is a difference.”

  “Not to me. I only have a foster daughter, but still—it’s inconceivable.”

  “What choice did I have? I never thought Cornelius would marry. He was such a playboy, you know.”

  “To indiscriminately sow one’s seed,” I said, “is not something to be admired.”

  “Magdalena, you are such a prig.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, because I am, in fact, quite proud of my priggishness.”

  “Isn’t pride the worst sin your kind can commit?”

  “My kind?”

  “Never mind. Do you want to know my reason for killing Cornelius, or not?”

  “Frankly, at this point I’m not sure. If you tell me, will I soon be signing up for harp lessons?”

  “That depends. But I’d say probably. The other place, I hear, has been getting rather crowded lately.”

  “Oh dear. I hope you remembered to make yourself a reservation.”

  “Very funny. But I don’t plan to go there for a long time. And that’s why I needed the money, you see.”

  “What money?”

  “Cornelius’s, of course. As you well know, he was loaded. Worth millions, right?”

  “Maybe.” Is eleven million a lot these days?

  “Until that plastic bimbo came along, I was the sole beneficiary of his will. I still don’t know why he thought he had to marry Priscilla Livingood.”

  “Actually, if you strip away the face putty, and suck out all the silicone, you’re still left with a very attractive woman who is nice to boot. But that doesn’t matter now. What concerns me now is the fact that you are a cold-blooded killer.”

  Veronica’s trailer is smaller than some closets I’ve seen. One minute the woman was standing in her living room, barely an arm’s length from me, and the next thing I knew she was in the kitchen brandishing a wicked-looking butcher knife. She smiled when she saw that I knew she was armed.

  “Magdalena, you have always been one for exaggeration. That heart of his was a time bomb that could have gone off at any minute, whether I got involved or not. All I did was give it a little push. And the drug was perfectly legal, you know.”

  “So is a knife, but that doesn’t give me license to stab—or you, for that matter.”

  “I suppose you’d prefer a bullet, like the one I put through Chief Hornsby-Anderson’s head?”

  “Yes, if I had to choose.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t oblige. I tossed that gun in the trash barrel behind Miller’s Feed Store—and I do mean tossed. Made it in from the chief’s balcony in one try.”

  “What do you want? Applause? Why kill her, when she wasn’t investigating the case? It was me you should have gone after.”

  “Don’t worry, I would have gotten around to you, Magdalena, had you not come to me. Besides, I never liked that woman. She had t
he gall to sleep with my stepson one day and search my place for pot the next. You would think that being from California, she’d have been more enlightened on that score.”

  She lapsed into a prolonged silence.

  “Listen dear,” I finally said, “I’m sure you’re concocting a nefarious plan in that little coconut-shaped head of yours. Just so you know, I don’t want to be stabbed, burned, or drowned. And if it must be a bullet, make it right through the heart, because I’m partial to my noggin. That said, it would be futile for you to do anything, because Sheriff Johnson and Chris Ackerman are both waiting at the bottom of the hill. The sheriff has a lot of hair growing in his ears, but young Chris can hear a frog fart a mile away—oops, sorry about the four-letter F word. I tend to develop a potty mouth under extreme duress.”

  “Yes, frog is an ugly-sounding word for an ugly, slimy animal. But as to your claim that you have backup waiting just down the hill, I say Haufa mischt.”

  “Horse manure?”

  “You’re full of it, Magdalena. Always were, so I’m going to call your bluff.”

  “My bluff?” It’s a good thing my braids are wrapped tightly to form a bun. Otherwise, had they stood on end, Veronica Weaver might have been able to tell just how scared I was.

  “Magdalena, I want you to stand in the doorway of my mobile home and shout as loud as you can. Holler as much as you want. I bet your life no one is going to hear you.”

  “You’re on, Sister.” Of course it is a sin to bet one’s life, but I didn’t really think I was going to lose. Not really. You see, I suffer from a disease that is rarely found in female adults my age. Stupid Teenage Boy Syndrome, or STABS, is the belief that one is invincible. That, in a nutshell, is how society is able to ship teenagers off to fight our wars. You won’t find the president, or the members of Congress, on the front lines.

  “Okay,” Veronica said, “but I can’t have you bolting.” She yanked open a kitchen drawer with one hand, still holding the butcher knife with the other, and removed a pair of handcuffs. “Here, put these on.”

  “You want to hobble me like a horse?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But only your arms will be hobbled. Still, don’t get any ideas. One can’t run very fast without using one’s arms for balance.”