Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  After her husband’s death, Veronica purchased a three-bedroom mobile home and had it hauled up to Speicher’s Meadow, a grassy knoll that had been in her family for generations. Veronica seemed perfectly happy up there—sometimes even too happy, like the time she was busted for growing more than an acre of marijuana hidden only by a border of sunflowers.

  It was a miracle that I didn’t wreck the car while driving up to Speicher’s Meadow, given that I was also wrestling with the Devil the entire way. Sometimes Satan pops an idea into my mind that I can’t seem to get rid of. I am ashamed to say that sampling marijuana was a particularly persistent thought.

  But let’s face it, what harm would there be in trying it only once? Just once. After all, it isn’t like crack or cocaine, in which case once can be one time too many. And it isn’t a manufactured drug, like LSD. Marijuana is a natural herb, like oregano, or basil. And in the Bible the Good Lord Himself gives us permission to eat every herb He created. Take Genesis 1:29, for example: “And God said, ‘See I have given you every herb that yields seed which is on the face of the earth, and every tree whose fruit yields seed; to you it shall be for food.’” There is no exclusion for marijuana, a seed-bearing plant, just as there is no exclusion for wine-producing grapes, another seed-bearing plant. Seedless grapes, on the other hand, might be problematic.

  And if the Good Lord’s endorsement isn’t enough, then look to our nation’s leaders. Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, the two most intelligent men who ever lived, both admitted to some youthful experimenting. Just because my youth was spent toeing the line in my sturdy brogans, does that necessarily mean that I will have to die with a virgin’s nostrils? (In a manner of speaking, that is.)

  Still, I know it was a sin to think like that, because just the thought of taking a puff or two got my blood to racing. “If it feels good,” Mama used to say, “then it’s wrong.” That’s why Mama was into hard, uncomfortable furniture and bland, tasteless food. Although Mama never wore a hair shirt, I once saw her tuck a burr into the waistband of her Sunday skirt, lest she derive too much pleasure from the hymns sung by a visiting choir.

  One thing for sure, Mama would not have experienced a speck of pleasure from viewing Speicher’s Meadow in early spring. The flowers and grasses that made it such a delight in the summer had yet to resurrect. The lane that led back to the trailer was muddy and riddled with potholes. The trees Veronica had planted years ago remained spindly and were, of course, still bereft of leaves. Even the mobile home looked tired and weather-beaten, as if biding its time until it could be hauled off to early retirement in a junkyard.

  Much to my disappointment, there wasn’t an automobile in sight. Whereas my mind is like a steel trap—rusty and illegal in thirty-seven states—it does work, if given enough notice. I hadn’t called ahead because I knew that Veronica Weaver, like the Amish, did not believe in owning a telephone. This is not to say that Veronica is Amish; she is far from it. Instead, she subscribes to the notion that telephones, rather than bringing folks closer together, actually create distance, as they make face-to-face interaction no longer a necessity. This is, in my humble opinion, ironic coming from a woman who has chosen to live out in the tulle weeds, where the only faces she encounters on a daily basis belong to deer and raccoons.

  The knowledge that I was quite alone gave me an idea that was borderline sinful. You see, many years ago, during my rebellious college days, when I wore dresses that came down only to my knees, and sandals without socks, I allowed myself to be talked into seeing a movie. I’m not referring to a home movie produced by a lonely missionary in some far-off place like the Congo; I’m talking about a real Hollywood movie.

  It was one of only two movies I’ve ever seen; the other being Eleanor Does Washington, which I’d been led to believe was a political documentary, and which it would have been rude to walk out of, seeing as how I was seated in the middle of a row. It was, incidentally, an incredibly boring film. Anyway, The Sound of Music was the name of the other movie, the one I enjoyed. At the beginning of this film, Julie Andrews runs up over the crest of a hill, singing with joy. It is an image I have carried with me over the years, and from which I have drawn a measure of comfort during some difficult times.

  While I do not claim to sing on par with Miss Andrews—oh, who am I kidding? I might well be the world’s worst singer. Papa always told me to be the best I can be, and surely being the best worst singer is an accomplishment of sorts. I am unaware of a contest for this negative skill of mine, but the fact that I am guaranteed to put the hens off laying and curdle the milk in dairy cows six pastures away ought to count for something. One Sunday, during a particularly rousing rendition of “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee,” a pack of stray dogs burst into our little church and attempted to have their way with me.

  Nonetheless I have enjoyed some musical moments in the privacy of my own home, safe within the soapy embrace of Big Bertha. That I have never tried singing the opening song of my favorite movie whilst cavorting in a meadow is due only to the lack of suitable meadows in the Hernia environs. Our landscape consists of wooded ridges and narrow, cultivated valleys. To my knowledge, Speicher’s Meadow is the only grassy sward between the turnpike and Maryland, across which one dare not venture without stocking provisions.

  But I have digressed. My point is that I found myself quite alone in a meadow setting, and was overcome with the urge to exercise my lungs. Flinging my purse to the ground, I spread my arms, twirled several times, and then ran to the top of a low rise, all the while braying the words to the opening song of The Sound of Music. Upon ending the song, I cocked my head and pretended to hear the sound of bells clanging in the abbey below.

  “Brava! Brava! Encore!”

  One can imagine my shock and horror to discover that just below the rise was the supine form of a woman. The nerve of her! Who in their right mind lies down in a meadow like a tired sheep?

  “Veronica Weaver!”

  She stood slowly, brushing blades of dead grass from a bohemian-style skirt and blouse. Around her neck hung a tangle of brightly colored beads, a few of which matched the silk flower that was tucked affectedly behind her right ear. Except for the flower, which is fresh when in season, Veronica looked exactly the same as she did three years ago, the last time I saw her.

  “Don’t stop now, Magdalena. Sing ‘Climb Every Mountain.’”

  “You don’t have to be mean.”

  “Mean? I don’t get it. I love hearing you sing.”

  “And I love boiled turnips and fried liver—not!” Sometimes Alison’s slang comes in handy.

  She stared quizzically at me. Her blue-gray eyes are paler than mine, although perhaps they just appear that way thanks to the shaggy dark brow that stretches, uninterrupted, from temple to temple.

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” she said.

  “And I think I’m about to lose my temper. Enough is enough, Veronica. I know I’m a lousy singer. You don’t need to rub it in.”

  “But I—you think I’m teasing you.”

  “Tormenting, is more like it.”

  She clapped her hands. No adult woman deserves to have hands that small, if you ask me. Even a Cracker Jack ring would be large on Veronica, which probably explains why I’d never seen her wear a wedding band, even when Latrum was still alive.

  “But I’m serious. You may be untrained, but you have one of the most beautiful voices I’ve ever heard.”

  It was my turn to stare. “Are you nuts, dear?” For the record, I said that kindly, couched in Christian love, on the off chance the woman was telling the truth.

  Veronica laughed pleasantly. “You’re so frank, Magdalena. That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You never beat around the bush.”

  “Only in private. Do you really like my singing?” I jiggled my pinkies in both ears to make sure they were in working order. They seemed to pass inspection.

  “Like it? I love it. If you’d been trained, I bet you could have had a career a
s a singer.”

  “But I bray like a donkey!”

  “Says who?”

  “Mama. She used to bribe me with a molasses cookie if I kept my trap shut in church.”

  “No offense, Magdalena, but I knew your mama well. There never was a harder, more cynical, more bitter woman than the one whose womb gave you shelter for nine months.”

  “She wasn’t that bad,” I wailed in Mama’s defense. “If I forgot and started to sing, I still got to lick some cookie crumbs that she’d shake loose from the bottom of the jar. Mama—now there was a woman who loved to sing.”

  “You see? She was jealous; that’s all there was to it.”

  If the truth hurts, think of something else. “What were you doing lying on the ground, and where is your car?”

  “One, my car’s in the shop, and two, I was trying to hear buffalo hooves.”

  “Aha.”

  “Don’t you ‘aha’ me. You think I’m nuttier than a Payday, and you’re entitled to your opinion. But as it happens, I was taking a walk and started thinking about what this land must have been like in precolonial times. I’d read somewhere that there were so many buffalo—bison, actually—that just by putting one’s ear to the ground, it was possible to hear an approaching herd from miles away.”

  “And did you?”

  “Now who’s mocking who? Of course I didn’t. I just wanted to see what it was like. I did, however, hear you drive up. What gives, Magdalena? Why the visit?”

  “It’s about Cornelius. Your stepson.”

  Her round, hirsute face darkened, although no cloud passed overhead. “I still can’t believe it. He was so healthy—his arrhythmia aside. I thought it was being controlled through medication. I had no idea it posed such a grave danger.”

  “Who might have known?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I knew that Cornelius didn’t work because of heart issues—I think everyone in Hernia knew—but who might have known just how bad it was?”

  “Well, you’d think I’d have known, being his stepmother. In my defense—no, I take that back. There really is no excuse for me not knowing. But the reason I didn’t is because I didn’t want to know. I’ve always thought of Latrum’s son as my own. After having lost his father, I couldn’t bear to think that I might lose him as well.”

  “I understand. She isn’t really even my stepdaughter, but I couldn’t bear it if something happened to Alison.” I took a deep breath before plunging on. “Veronica, I hate to have to be the one to tell you, but—”

  17

  She gasped. “Cornelius was murdered, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. How did you know? I mean, I’m awfully sorry.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Magdalena, I don’t mean to be unkind, but why else would you be here?”

  “To offer my condolences?”

  She shook her head. Her hair, which was long and somewhat stringy, swung in clumps.

  “You’re not a bad person, but neither are you pastoral. It’s like you have a vulture perched on your shoulder. When you show up it either has to do with money or murder. Silly me, I’d forgotten about that. Well, as you can see, I don’t have any money, so it has to be murder.”

  “That is so unfair! True, perhaps, but nevertheless unfair. I can’t help it that I have experience in these matters, so the police come to me.”

  She continued to shake her head. “How did he die? How was he killed?”

  “Amitriptyline. It’s a drug used to treat both pain and depression. But it can interact with the heart.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “That’s why I’m here. To gather as much information as I can. Just investigating all the women your stepson was involved with—well, it has to be a record of some kind.”

  “Just like his father.”

  “What? I thought you and Latrum had the ideal marriage.”

  “Ha. The ideal marriage is one woman and six husbands to support her, and wait on her hand and foot. But as far as traditional marriages go, ours wasn’t even close. Or sadly, maybe it was. I loved Latrum until the day he died, and I have no doubt he loved me just as fiercely, but the man got around as much as Johnny Appleseed. I made the decision to stick with him early on. There was a price to be paid for that, but it was worth it. In his own way, Latrum loved me just as passionately.”

  “As passionately as a rabbit,” I muttered under my breath.

  “What did you say? Something about a rabbit?”

  I sought desperately for a word that would sound the same but wouldn’t upset her. “I’m sure you wanted to stab it” was out. “He was a nasty old habit” wasn’t much better. I cleared my throat to give me time.

  “When happiness comes, grab it,” I eventually said.

  “Magdalena, you are a wise woman, you know that?”

  “Indeed. Tell me, Veronica, do you know the names of all Cornelius’s—uh, for want of a better word, lovers?”

  “Well, there was Alice Troyer—that one puzzled me.”

  “She may be no beauty, but she is definitely very smart. Funny too.”

  “If you say so. Priscilla Livingood, now there was a beauty.”

  “A veritable walking advertisement for petroleum parts.”

  “Oil?”

  “Exactly. That’s where silicone originates.”

  “You don’t say. Caroline Sharp is another beautiful woman, and all natural, I’d say. Such a shame about her condition.”

  “I think her bald head is stunning, so you must be referring to her spiritual values. All the talk about chi and chai—throw in some cha-cha, and you’ve got the Devil’s playground.”

  “You may be wise and have the voice of an angel, Magdalena, but you’re as weird as they come.”

  “Thank you for the superlative. I was just remembering how Papa always said that I should strive to be the best at whatever course I choose.”

  “Case in point. Which brings me to Drustara Kurtz. I just saw her on Oprah.”

  “Oh my, I didn’t think Oprah swung that way—not that I’m judging, mind you.”

  “On Oprah’s TV show, you ninny! Sorry, Magdalena. It’s just that you can be so literal.”

  “Again, thanks for the compliment, dear. A lot of folks think they can get away with reading the Bible through a twenty-first-century lens. They say it wasn’t meant to be taken literally, but rather as an account of mankind’s journey into faith. Well, poppycock and nonsense! The Bible itself says it should be taken literally, so who are we to argue?”

  “You’re not sucking me into a religious argument, Magdalena. Don’t you want to hear about Drustara Kurtz?”

  “Do tell.”

  “If you give me a chance, I will. Like I said, she was on Oprah, discussing her new book, The Dark Side of Heaven. Have you read it?”

  “Not yet. It’s on my to-be-read pile, just under George Carlin’s When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?”

  “Somehow I think you’re serious. Be forewarned; George Carlin’s book is not the devotional you think it is. Anyway, Drustara admitted that the town of Heaven in her novel is a rather thinly disguised Hernia.”

  It was either heart palpitations I felt, or my bosoms were off on yet another growth spurt. Clutching my chest, I sat down heavily on the winter-dried thatch of Speicher’s Meadow.

  “Am I in it?” I asked weakly.

  “Magdalena, dear, life isn’t all about you. There is a throwaway line about an inn that caters to wealthy tourists, but nothing about you per se.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Will disappointment never cease? I mean—oh well.” I tried out a jaunty smile. “Was Cornelius in it?”

  “You bet. The character Barnabas fits my stepson to a tee. Which means you can scratch Drustara off your list of suspects.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because Cornelius was the one with the motive to kill—not Drustara. I’m afraid my stepson’s actions, when held to the light of fiction, were rep
rehensible. But if a motive for murdering Cornelius is what you’re after, then it’s Thelma Unruh you should be talking to.”

  “I did, but—and I shouldn’t be telling you this—she doesn’t appear to have a motive.”

  “Vengeance seems like motive enough to me.”

  “Vengeance? You mean because he gave some other woman a ring?”

  “Because he talked her into having an abortion.”

  I was stunned. The A word for Hernia, aside from Amish, is usually adultery. Although abstinence is heard more and more, now that folks no longer take it as a given. But abortion? To my knowledge, Thelma was the first woman I knew to have one.

  “Cat’s got your tongue, Magdalena, doesn’t? At first Cornelius claimed they both were using protection, but that somehow it failed. That sounded fishy to me, so I pressed him. He then changed his story and said that only she was using it—was on the pill—and that she secretly stopped so that she could get pregnant. In her mind a baby trumped a ring. That’s when Cornelius came to me and asked for a loan. Ten thousand dollars, to be exact. He’d managed to talk her into it by threatening to dump her if she didn’t have an abortion.”

  “What a scumbag—oops! Sorry.” I clapped a large, but exceptionally attractive, hand over my large, but well-formed, mouth.

  “No need to apologize. I told you he was less than perfect.”

  “You only know the half of it.”

  She scooted closer. Unfortunately for me, Veronica is of the opinion that Americans bathe too frequently, thus destroying helpful bacteria. She also believes that clogging one’s pores with deodorant is tantamount to killing millions of skin cells. While I’m pretty sure she has showered since the seventies, I think the nineties might have brought on a lasting drought.

  “Tell me what you know, Magdalena.”

  I leaned away as far as possible without appearing rude. “I think you were had for ten thousand dollars. Cornelius and I are in the same investment club and the man was worth—well, not as much as I am, but suffice it to say, he was well-heeled.”