Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  He slapped his knee. “So Ida has rubbed off on you. Magdalena, you poor insecure soul. I’ve been hitting on you since the day you turned eighteen. How many times have I said you were beautiful?”

  “A million?”

  “And one. And how times have you disagreed?”

  “A million and two?”

  “Bingo.”

  “But I’m starting to believe it, Doc.”

  “Get out of town and back! What brought that on?”

  “Doctor J. P. Skinner, I guess.”

  “The plastic surgeon?”

  “Yes. He said I was—well, you know.”

  “I don’t. What did he say?”

  “But you do know.”

  “Say it, Magdalena.”

  “I can’t. It’ll sound silly.”

  “Say it loud, say it proud.”

  “No, I’m embarrassed.”

  Doc snorted. “You have got to purge yourself of that pride hang-up; it doesn’t become you. Any other suspects on your list?”

  I nodded. “Thelma Unruh—did you know she plans to turn that monstrosity of a house into a bed-and-breakfast? She actually thinks she can make it work because of that stupid wall.”

  “She probably can.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve often thought of buying that house and doing the very same thing. Of course I wouldn’t, not as long as you’re operating the PennDutch.”

  “But they’re just bricks, for crying out loud.”

  “Bricks that someone tried to use as a stairway to Heaven. Besides, it’s a great house for a B and B. High ceilings, great crown molding, and a fireplace in every bedroom.”

  I gasped. “Oh my stars! You’ve slept with her too! What kind of a man-slut are you?”

  Doc roared with laughter. “Did you say ‘man-slut’?”

  “I learned that from Susannah. It means—”

  “I know what it means. Not that it’s any of your business, but I haven’t bedded either of the young ladies.”

  “But you just said—”

  “You jumped to conclusions. You do that a lot, you know.”

  “That’s how I get my exercise. But if you didn’t do the twin bed twist—”

  “Still using euphemisms for sex, I see. And dance terms, no less—but that was really scraping the bottom of the barrel. At any rate, sex is another word you need to say loud and proud. S-E-X. And for your information, an old goat like myself can go a-courtin’, and have himself a grand old time, without it involving sex.”

  Don’t ever throw down a gauntlet in front of me and not expect some kind of reaction. While I may have the heart of a Mennonite pacifist, my mouth is nondenominational. If Doc wanted me to say the S word, so be it.

  “Sex!” I shouted. “Sex, sex, sex, sex, sex. Sexy sex. Sex in Essex, sex in Wessex, sex in excess, excess sex in Essex and Wessex.”

  Doc grinned. “You’re downright weird. Now try the B word.”

  That was a little more difficult. My first two words were not Mama and Papa, but modesty and pride. The first was desirable, the second to be loathed. It is pride that leads us to believe that we are without sin. It is pride that leads to the destruction of one’s soul. That said, difficult topics are often best expressed in song. I threw back my comely head, and to the tune of “America the Beautiful,” tackled the B word.

  Oh beautiful, my blue-gray eyes,

  My lustrous light-brown mane,

  For bounteous bosoms majesty,

  My chest is not a plain,

  Magdalena, Magdalena,

  I have a great body.

  I’ll swing my hips

  And purse my lips,

  But stay away from me.

  Doc clapped. “Brava, brava! That was an inspiring rendition of ‘Magdalena the Beautiful’—although I must admit I didn’t care for the last stanza.”

  “Would you like me to sing another verse?”

  “No, that will do just fine.”

  “Veronica Weaver said I had a lovely voice.”

  Doc smiled but said nothing for a long, painful period of time. While silence is golden, it can also be damning. Maybe Veronica was wrong and I really did sound like a donkey in heat. Or maybe I sounded like a choir of angels, and Doc thought I was getting greedy with my gifts.

  “Speaking of Veronica,” he finally said, “how is the old biddy?”

  “Apparently out of pot,” I said, and clamped a hand over my mouth.

  “What did you say?”

  “A parent who cares a lot.” Okay, so it was a white lie, but who was it going to harm? The truth, however, could hurt my reputation a lot. In any case, I wasn’t bearing false witness against my neighbor.

  “I like you better when you stick to the truth,” Doc said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. Even pretending you didn’t understand what I just said is a form of lying. Magdalena, we’re old friends. We should be able to always tell each other the truth, because we trust the other not to judge.”

  I hung my head in shame. “Okay, I confess. I was curious about marijuana. I wanted to see what it was like to get stoned.”

  “Thank you. I respect that.”

  “You’re not horrified?”

  “Why should I be? Imagine that every one of us was required to wear a small electronic screen strapped to his or her forehead, with electrodes connecting it to the brain.”

  I waved my hand like a schoolgirl who’s finally got her first right answer.

  Doc sighed. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Do the Amish have to wear those screens too? As you know, they don’t use electricity.”

  “The screens are battery powered—they only take three C batteries. Anyway, every thought you have, no matter how private or absurd, will flash up on your screen.”

  I waved again. “Do my thoughts appear on just my screen, or everybody’s screen?”

  “Just shut up, Magdalena, and I say that lovingly. The point I’m trying to make is that everyone, and I mean everyone, is going to have stuff flashing up on that screen that will shock the socks off their families and friends. I guarantee you, every single person on this planet has strange and bizarre stuff popping into their minds, even for just a millisecond. Whether or not they choose to dwell on it, that’s another matter. That’s why the church has ruled that the mere presence of a thought is not a sin in itself.”

  I swallowed hard. I think even Doc would be shocked by some of the weird things that flit through my mind. Once I imagined that I was able to transport myself back to caveman times—which, of course, never were, because they’re biblically incompatible—and I had a huge box of matches and a flashlight. The cavemen were so impressed by my “magic” that they made me their queen, so I was able to tell them all about the Lord and convert them, even though there weren’t any Christians then, because I wanted them to be saved just in case they, the cavemen, really did exist. That way they wouldn’t be going to Hell. Then there was that time during Reverend Fiddlegarber’s inaugural sermon, which was delivered outdoors on a windy day, when I pictured him flying, naked under his choir robe, over our heads as he…

  “Earth to Magdalena,” Doc said.

  I shook my head. “But the reverend has such big ears. And he insists on wearing a black robe with these enormous sleeves—none of our previous ministers ever wore a robe. Anyway, if he flapped both his arms and his ears just so during a strong gust, don’t you think he could achieve liftoff?”

  “Nah, I’ve already thought of that.”

  “You have?”

  “Like I said, we all have strange thoughts. But the reverend would have to flap his arms as fast as a hummingbird flaps its wings, which is two hundred beats per second. Besides, he doesn’t have hollow bones.”

  “Too bad, because lately I’ve been wishing he would just fly away.”

  “You’re no longer satisfied with your pick?”

  “Ding, dang, dong, Doc. When am I ever going to learn?”


  “Hopefully, you’ll never be through. So, Magdalena, back to your task at hand. You’ve mentioned, Priscilla, Alice, Thelma, and Caroline as your suspects. Anyone else?”

  “No. Aren’t those enough?”

  “How about Drustara Kurtz?”

  “Oh yes, I forgot! Hey, how did you know? Priscilla again?”

  “I was driving by Cornelius’s house one day and saw them in a lingering parting kiss on the front porch.”

  “Did you linger to watch?”

  “No, but I could see them in the rearview mirror. They weren’t in any hurry to end it.”

  “The way I see it, Doc, is that there are four women who might have been very angry—angry enough to kill—at the man for not having proposed to them, and a fiancée who might have been very angry that her boyfriend wasn’t faithful. So I’ve got motive, the means would be Elavil, and as for opportunity—they all had it. What I don’t have is an eyewitness. What else is missing?”

  29

  “A confession.”

  “How do I get that? Beat it out of them? That was a joke, by the way.”

  “Yes, but a rather titillating image popped up on my view screen.”

  “If it involves me, erase it at once.”

  “Done. Okay, here’s what I suggest: Throw a dinner party for these ladies.”

  “Doc, they hate each other. They’re not going to show unless I neglect to mention who else is coming. As soon as they get to the inn and discover someone else is there they’ll turn around and go home.”

  “No, they won’t. All these women felt, at some point, that they were it, the special woman in Cornelius’s life. They’re all going to want a chance to drive that point home to their rivals.”

  “Go on.”

  “During dinner, concentrate on one guest—other than Priscilla—and, in you’re usual loud, but not too unpleasant, voice, comment on how she must have been Cornelius’s true love. But make it sound confidential, as if you are speaking only to her. Trust me, there will be fireworks, and that’s when the guilty party is most likely to let down her guard and say something incriminating.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Doc, but how can I do that when I have an inn full of guests?”

  “How many guests do you currently have?”

  “Seven—well, nine, if you count the twin girls the woman from Mississippi is carrying. She’s going to name one Sweet and the other Tea. Doesn’t that stray beyond the borders of eccentric?”

  “Would you be the pot or the kettle?”

  “Doc!”

  He winked. “Okay. Seven guests is no problem. Tell them you’ve arranged for them to have dinner with one of Hernia’s living legends, an expert on local history. Arrange for them to be driven out here, and I’ll fix them a dinner they’ll be telling their grandchildren about. Who knows, I might even become one of the official side trips you offer your guests.”

  “Maybe. As long as you don’t hit on them.”

  “Touché. But Magdalena, aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “I was about to say thanks. Honest, I was.”

  “It’s not that; it’s Chief Hornsby-Anderson.”

  “You mean Hot Lips?”

  Doc’s eyes danced. “Would you care to explain that?”

  I filled Doc in on my shameful, albeit satisfying, sin of revenge. He laughed so hard that Old Blue started braying, which got me to braying, which in turn set off every dog on the south side of town.

  “Shame on you, Magdalena,” Doc finally said. “That was such a childish prank. Lucky for me I’m in my second childhood. Are you sure you won’t reconsider dating yours truly? Think of all the fun we could have.”

  “Don’t tempt me, dear. Anyway—getting back to business—Her Chieftainship is not on my list of suspects.”

  “Why not?”

  “For starters, I have a gut feeling that she is innocent.”

  “I’ve always admired your gut.”

  “Thanks. My second point is this: Unlike the others, the chief was only using Cornelius. She neither wanted, nor expected, anything but pure, unadulterated adultery.”

  “Strictly speaking, since neither of them was married, it would be fornication.”

  I shuddered. “Doc, please don’t say the F word. Now, where was I? Oh yes. My third point is that Chief need not have involved me at all in the investigation. She holds all the cards. She could have lied to the EMTs, and no one would know she was with Corny the moment he croaked—may he rest in piece. And she didn’t have to tell me he had a high concentration of Elavil in his system. If she was guilty, this whole thing could have been swept under the rug, written off as simply a heart attack. Everyone in town knew about his overtaxed ticker.”

  “Your third point is well taken.”

  I stood. Doc, ever the gentleman, stood as well.

  “Magdalena, you sure you can’t stay for lunch? We could play rook—I know you don’t use face cards—or anything you like.”

  “Sorry, Doc, gotta run. Say, you wouldn’t mind if I took some of those biscuits with me, would you?”

  “You going to Maryland?”

  “No, just back into town to chat with Hernia’s number one source of gossip, and listening to gossip always makes me hungry.”

  “Hmm, Agnes Mishler doesn’t exactly live in town.”

  “Right, so guess again.”

  “The blacksmith shop?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aha! My number one rival.”

  “He isn’t your rival, Doc, because neither of you are in the running. Besides, he’s my first cousin.”

  “You could marry him in South Carolina.”

  “Could, but wouldn’t. Besides, he’s married. Now, may I please have some of that thick-cut marmalade, and some real butter to go?”

  I wouldn’t marry Sam Yoder if he was the last man alive, and Big Bertha was broken, and my Maytag out of order. That’s because Sam is more like an ill-behaved brother than a cousin. We’re the same age and, because Hernia is such a small town, consequently we were in the same class from kindergarten through twelfth grade. Because we were seated alphabetically, Samuel Nevin Yoder occupied the desk directly behind mine. During those twelve years he cut my hair, dipped my braids in his inkwell, put gum in my bun, put a live toad in my paper bag lunch, sat on my paper bag lunch, put a dead toad in my desk, and made all manner of crude noises, some of which were accompanied by noxious odors. That said, and despite these years of torture, I felt a twinge of sadness when Sam married Dorothy. She wasn’t even a Mennonite, for crying out loud.

  Yoder’s Corner Market stays in business only because most folks won’t eat the animal feed available at Miller’s Feed Store. Even Freni, from time to time, sends me into town to pick up a bottle of genuine imitation vanilla extract, or some other ingredient she didn’t anticipate needing when she made her weekly trek into Bedford. This particular morning everyone in the community appeared to have been prepared, because Sam’s usually packed parking lot was as empty as Aaron Miller’s heart the day he stopped cleaving to me and clove to his first wife—in a manner of speaking.

  The market has an irritating buzzer that sounds whenever the front door is opened. “Howdy,” Sam said as he stuffed a magazine somewhere beneath the white apron he wears whenever he’s on duty, which is most of the time. “If it isn’t my favorite customer.”

  “Reading another girlie magazine?” I asked pleasantly.

  Except for the white hairs that festooned the lobes, Sam’s ears turned bright pink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Magdalena.”

  “Be careful, Sam. You already have the formidable Yoder nose. Keep lying like that, and you’ll be able to turn the pages without using your hands.”

  His ears went from pink to red. “You won’t tell Dorothy, will you?”

  I crossed my toes within the privacy of my brogans. “Not if you cooperate with me.”

  “Cooperate how?”

  “I want to know all the gossip there is
to know in regards to Cornelius Weaver’s death.”

  “Is that all? My gossip is free—always has been. You know that.” He paused to rub his nose. “Wait a minute. Magdalena, are you thinking what I’ve been thinking?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “Not that. What I mean is, do you think that the death of Cornelius Weaver was not entirely due to natural means?”

  “It has crossed my mind. That’s why I need to know everything you’ve heard about the late lothario and his between-the-sheets shenanigans. But please, clean it up a little.”

  “Well, as you undoubtedly know, he and our hot police chief were in flagrante delicto when he checked out. He slept with more women than a flea in a sorority house, but apparently Olivia Hornsby-Anderson knew some California tricks that drove him so wild, his poor heart couldn’t stand it another second.”

  “Ha to the tricks part. I’m sure she’s just another pretty face, but his time was up. What else you got?”

  “Word has it that she’s pregnant and plans to take a leave of absence and fly off somewhere secret to have the baby, then give it up for adoption, and then come back here like nothing’s happened.”

  “Ha to that too. Who said that?”

  “Gloria Reiger, I think.”

  “No wonder. Gloria has sixteen children, and the way her husband Caleb’s been eyeing her, number seventeen will start to show before too long. Anyhoo, Gloria wants everyone to be pregnant. You know what they say about misery loving company.”

  Sam shook his head. “Those Amish, haven’t they ever heard of birth control?”

  “The more hands, the merrier—at least when it comes to doing farm chores. Anything else?”

  “You’re not going to believe it, so what’s the point?”

  “Try me.”

  “First you have to make a bet.”

  “I’m still a Mennonite, Sam—unlike some people I know. We don’t make bets.”

  He didn’t even blink. “This is a friendly bet. No money involved. If you believe there’s even a ghost of chance that what I have to say might be true, you have to pay up.”

  “Sam, give it a rest. For the one zillionth time, I’m not going to kiss you. We’re kissing cousins only in name. Besides, I had garlic sausage over at Doc’s.”