Hell Hath No Curry (18 page)

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?”

148

Tamar Myers

“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 vice 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.”

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149

“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 150

Tamar Myers

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, fac-ing 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.”

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“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 strum -

pet 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 anticipa-tion 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 152

Tamar Myers

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 vinegary taste of Tabasco. Olivia Hornsby-Anderson had played a dirty trick on me, but she wasn’t going to get away with it.

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153

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.

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155

“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.

I saw her eyes dart from mug to mug as she assured herself that nothing had been switched. “Cheers,” she said, and quaffed back half her mug in a single gulp.

“Good Scrabble word,” I said.

She stared at me, her eyes as big and round as the saucers our mugs didn’t have.

“
Quaff.
It’s not a word one thinks of on a regular basis. Of course with that letter combo, it would be pretty obvious.”

The chief exploded from her chair, knocking it over, and threw herself half over the rail. My instinct was to lunge for her and pull her back, lest I be the one to hear her splat on the concrete below.

With my luck she’d drag me over with her, and we’d both go splat, and me not having made a final confession of sin. Then, instead of being greeted by Papa and Mama as I entered the Light, I might be saying howdy to Cousin Eldridge Hostetler, who did unspeak-able things with his pony, and was mean to animals as well, and who always claimed there was no God. I know, once saved, always saved, but a deathbed confession doesn’t hurt, does it?

Fortunately the chief expectorated before I could react, thus saving me from both puke and pulverization. When she was quite through gagging, she tore back inside, and I could hear the water running. She took her sweet time about returning, but I didn’t mind, thanks to Kevin, the stock boy.

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

By then my shoe was steaming in the cool air, but she didn’t look down. “Do what?” I asked sweetly.

“Switch the drinks?”

“Come again?”

“I have to hand it to you, Miss Yoder. You’re not the yokel I thought you were.”

156

Tamar Myers

“Another good Scrabble word—
excuse
me? You thought I was a yokel?”

“Oops, did I say that?” She clapped her hand to her mouth in what was supposed to be a coy gesture.

“So now you’re mocking me?”

“Miss Yoder, you don’t honestly think I would have taken this job, moved way out here to East Nothing, if I’d thought I’d have to contend with a powerhouse like yourself, do you?”