Hell Hath No Curry

by Tamar Myers

  33

  I grabbed the doorknob and turned. “What did you say?”

  “You’re not getting away without giving me Drustara Kurtz’s phone number. She is single, isn’t she?”

  Never let them see you sweat, someone once told me. I forget the context, but it was a futile thing to tell a middle-aged woman. I took a plain white hanky out of my recently formed cleavage and dabbed my brow.

  “Your thermostat must be stuck on high,” I said as I scribbled Drustara’s number on the back of a church bulletin. I handed him the information. “But please, don’t tell her I gave it to you. I’m not in the habit of matchmaking.”

  “Sure, thanks. Do you have a key?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “For Olivia’s apartment. I saw the young sergeant lock it when he left, so if you don’t have a key, you’re welcome to use mine.”

  “You have a key?”

  “Is that so unusual? We are—or were—neighbors. I’m home all day, and she usually wasn’t. If she forgot to put the meat out to thaw, or thought she might have left the thermostat set too high”—he had the nerve to chuckle—“she’d call, and I’d take care of whatever it was.”

  “That must be a California thing. We in Hernia don’t generally lock our doors, and if we do, we simply leave the key under the mat, or above the door.”

  “Isn’t that asking for trouble? A stranger could walk in at any time and walk off with everything.”

  “Ah, but that’s just it; except for tourists, there aren’t any strangers in Hernia—at least not until recently. We’re like one big family, and you don’t steal from family.”

  “You know, that’s one of the things I like so much about this town.” He sighed, and I could smell coffee on his breath. “That’s also the thing I don’t like about this town.”

  “Too clannish for you?”

  He took the key from a hook by the door and dropped it into my hand. “Clannish is an understatement. Hernia makes any town in Iowa feel like London, or Paris, by comparison.”

  “Well, now you’ve got a phone number of an available woman you can pursue, and if that doesn’t work out, I’ll give you my sister’s number. But you’ll have to wait until she gets divorced. Her husband is a convicted murderer, which is neither here nor there, but explains why he’s there, and not here.”

  “And you?”

  “Oh, I’m here, but not always there, or so some would have me believe.”

  “I mean, are you available for dating? I see you’re not wearing a ring. I also see a band of white skin on your ring finger.”

  I looked at my finger and feigned surprise. “Why I’ll be dippty-doodled! How on earth did that get there? Excuse me, dear, while I dash off to solve yet another riddle.”

  Writers are a nosy sort. For them, everything is fodder for the grist mill that eventually churns out plots and characters. I’d sooner be stuck in an elevator with a hungry anaconda than with a writer of fiction. If a snake devoured me I would at least, eventually, return to the earth as fertilizer and soon become dust. The writer, on the other hand, would twist my life like a pretzel before committing it to the page, where it would sit for all eternity in the basement of the Library of Congress.

  I knew without a doubt that Mr. Bigger was going to be watching through his keyhole, so I went downstairs, got in my car, and drove to the end of the block. After spending a good five minutes jotting down notes and squeezing out a blackhead, I hoofed it back to the apartment and crept up the stairs like a leopard on the prowl. Olivia’s lock, thank heavens, opened soundlessly, as did her front door. I was in.

  Despite my deeply held religious beliefs, I still found it spooky to be in a dead woman’s apartment, especially a woman who had been murdered just hours ago. I know, put your faith in the Lord, and He’ll take care of you. But will He take care of me like He took care of the twenty-some survivors of a recent plane crash that made national news, or like He took care of the two hundred dead passengers? And will He take care of me like He took care of the family of five who survived a tornado by seeking refuge in their basement, or like He took care of the family of eight who perished when their house disintegrated around them? And don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of ghosts so much as I find them annoying. Both Mama and Grandma Yoder have interfered in my life post-corpus, so to speak.

  Of course I started with the bathroom. Frankly, I was a bit disappointed with what I saw. I’d always thought Californians placed a high value on atmosphere, such as scented candles, flowery soaps, and the like, but the chief’s throne room, the bathtub excepted, would have met with the approval of even the most dour of my acquaintances, myself included. The walls were beige, the towels soft, but brown; even the toilet paper said more about function than aesthetics.

  With one hand covering my eyes, I drew the shower curtain back slowly. I must have peeked through my fingers a dozen times until it dawned on my overloaded brain that there was nothing to see. The tub was a lot cleaner than the ones back at my inn. If the chief hadn’t been cooling her heels in the county morgue, I would have made it a point to ask her which brands of cleaning products she used.

  Mine is only an amateur eye, but it doesn’t take long to search a mostly empty apartment. Nothing struck me as particularly out of the ordinary, except for the chief’s eating habits. Californians, in my experience, tend to be grazers. That is to say, they devour an inordinate amount of uncooked greenery. I know this because my guests sometimes request various edible leaves and roots, the names for which either I’ve never heard before, or else I’ve heard used for things other than food. Once, in an effort to keep a conversation going with a Hollywood starlet, I asked her how the shopping was on Radicchio Drive. Without batting a false eyelash she told me about an upscale Japanese store where she’d just purchased a fabulous crouton for her guest bedroom. At any rate, the chief’s larder contained nothing but boxes of cereal and frozen TV entrées and, of course, Freni’s fabulous curry. In my opinion, aside from her affair with Cornelius Weaver, the chief lived a very lonely existence.

  There was nothing else for me to do at the Narrows but take some photographs and try to lift some fingerprints. It was Olivia Hornsby-Anderson herself who taught me the art of fingerprint lifting, and the irony of it was not lost on me. When I was through with my police work, I said a silent prayer. We Mennonites do not pray for the souls of the dead, believing, as we do, that their fates have already been sealed. My prayer was for insight on how to proceed next, the wisdom to use my insight to its best advantage, and the strength to deal with whatever else my investigation turned up. I suppose I could have just asked God to solve the case for me, but experience has taught me that the Good Lord prefers that I travel the difficult route.

  I learned to pray at my mama’s knee, and she at her mama’s. They were long-winded women, so their prayers never stuck to just one subject. Having asked the Good Lord’s help with the murder cases, I prayed that He would heal the gash that Gabe had inflicted on my heart, I beseeched Him to make Alison more interested in her schoolwork, I thanked Him for my good health, as well as Freni’s, and finally I asked Him to motivate Herman Lichty to see a good dermatologist about the ever-changing mole on his forehead.

  Having got my spiritual ducks in a row, I locked the door to Olivia’s apartment securely behind me. You can be sure I pocketed the key.

  My guests were thrilled to be invited to Doc’s house for dinner. My suspects were far less enthusiastic about dining at Chez Magdalena. It wasn’t until I thought to bribe them with a door prize that might include a luxury vacation that they all agreed to come. Given the sensitive nature of the evening’s true purpose, I gave Freni the night off. My pseudo-stepdaughter adores the woman, so I sent Alison home with her. As for the meal, there is nothing wrong with Chef Boyardee from a box. Besides, I intended to add some of my own toppings.

  It was no surprise to me that Caroline Sha, the one who lived the farthest from my house, was the first to arrive. Co
unterculture people are, in my experience, either extremely polite or rudely indifferent to common courtesies. Caroline, a student of the East, would rather be early than show disrespect by arriving even a minute late. I watched through a lace curtain as she hurried up the walk and then slipped off her shoes before ringing the doorbell. While I very much appreciated her promptness, at the same time I couldn’t help but find it slightly annoying.

  I opened the door just a crack so that I would be heard. “No, thank ya,” I called in my best Maryland accent, “we already done give once this year.”

  “Magdalena? Is that you?”

  “Put away that gun, Homer, ’tain’t nothing but a woman in a blue and white bedsheet.”

  “Magdalena, that is you, and for your information, most Marylanders speak better English than you. Shame on you for making fun of an entire state and perpetuating a stereotype.”

  I flung the door open. “How can it be perpetuating a stereotype when you’re the only one to hear me, and you’re not likely to pass it on?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Words have power and should never be spoken without intent. Those mean-spirited comments of yours are now woven into the fabric of the universe forever.”

  I pulled her in so that the chilly night air wouldn’t be part of my heating bill. “Have you been watching Oprah again?”

  “The woman is a saint, and I won’t have you mocking her.”

  “Very well. I would ask you for your coat, but you’re wearing only a sheet. Come to think of it, you ought to be wearing a comforter or a duvet over it, not a coat.”

  “It’s a sari, and you know it.”

  “Sorry.”

  The doorbell rang again, and because I was standing right next to the chimes, I nearly jumped out of my brogans. “Ding, dang, dong,” I said. “Oops, sorry again. I really need to work on my swearing.”

  “That’s not swearing, Magdalena.”

  “Yes, it is. Those might not be swear words, but the intent was there.”

  “You’re weird.”

  “I’m weird? I’m not the one who lives in a paper house—”

  The doorbell rang again. More than a bit annoyed at having my lecture interrupted by an impatient guest, I gave the door a good yank.

  “Oh, my stars,” I said when I saw what was standing there. “Oh, my ding-dang-dong stars.”

  34

  Cows seldom ring my doorbell. Therefore, it is quite understandable that I should swear again, this time upon seeing a black-and-white cow, standing upright, on my front porch.

  “Hello, Magdalena,” it said.

  “Excuse me, dear, while I pinch myself.” I gave my arm a good tweak, but the bovine specter did not disappear. That meant either I was still asleep, or the next car to pull into my driveway would contain the men in white coats.

  “Please tell me I’m not the first to arrive,” the cow said.

  “There’s more of you? You mean like a herd?”

  The cow snorted, sounding more like a horse than a Holstein. “That depends on how many you’ve invited. Who knows how many of us there are altogether.”

  I gave her the once-over. She had a small udder but sizable teats. When freshened, which is farm talk for having been caused to lactate, she could be a decent milker.

  “What’s your capacity, dear? How many quarts?”

  “A gallon even, morning and night.”

  “I already have two Holsteins that average better than that. So listen, dear, can you move this dream along a little bit? Better yet, morph into a handsome man in his late forties. Just be sure he’s single, but not commitment phobic. Oh, and he has to floss and trim his nose hair on a regular basis. I don’t know why men want us to be well groomed, but they can’t be bothered themselves. Not that good grooming was ever an issue for the Babester. He excelled at what he called his ‘metrosexual routine.’ Hmm, in retrospect I wonder if that was part of the problem.”

  “What?” The cow pulled off her head. “Magdalena, you’re even weirder than they say.”

  I stared at the headless cow—except that she wasn’t really headless. Protruding above what I could now see was a cow costume was the not-so-comely head of Alice Troyer, the comedienne. Perhaps the fact that she was dressed in a Halloween costume should not have come as a surprise to me, but I’ve had a hard life and, in particular, a very difficult last few days.

  “Alice! It’s you, and you’re not really a cow!”

  “Magdalena, enough with the pretending. Who else is here?”

  I willed myself to appear as sane as the next person. Given that the next person showed up to a dinner party dressed as a cow, it didn’t take a whole lot of work.

  “Caroline Sha is here. And to answer your earlier question, I’ve also invited Thelma Unruh, Drustara Kurtz, and Priscilla Livingood.”

  A smile spread slowly beneath her radish nose. “That’s it?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “You know what I mean, Magdalena. I know you do. You didn’t fool me for a second. I’d bet my life that everyone here tonight—with the exception of yourself—has thrown herself at Cornelius Weaver. May he rest in pieces.”

  “How unkind of you!”

  “Okay, so maybe you too were a victim of his charm.”

  “That’s much better. Now, come on in. I’m about to freeze my tootsies off.”

  The rest of the Weaver harem arrived momentarily, and after a minimum of hissing and claw baring we proceeded straight to the dining room. I, of course, took my rightful seat at the head of the table, but not until I’d served each a tall glass of milk and two slices of homemade pizza from a box. As was expected of me, I said grace, extending the prayer until the milk was warm and the pizza cold.

  “Is there something to drink besides milk?” Caroline asked the second I said “amen.”

  “Water.”

  “What’s wrong with milk?” Priscilla said. “The female cow hormones help keep one’s skin smooth.”

  “I thought that was called an acid peel,” Alice said. After having received barely a snicker from the others, the standup cow-cum-comedienne had changed into proper clothing.

  “Cow’s milk,” Caroline said, “is meant for baby cows—calves, that is. What right do we have to drink it at their expense?”

  “That’s not how it works,” Drustara said, shaking her lovely auburn locks. “Modern dairy cows produce far more milk than their calves require.”

  “You’re missing the point,” Thelma Unruh said, adjusting her tinted glasses. “Caroline eschews animal products.”

  “So that’s how eschew is pronounced,” I said.

  Priscilla patted milk residue from her lips, which were full to bursting with collagen. “But that’s ridiculous—drinking soy milk instead, I mean. Doesn’t that keep mama soybeans from making baby soybean plants?”

  “Ha!” I shall not divulge the identity of the childish person who drew a numeral one sign in the air to signify a point scored.

  Drustara’s emerald green eyes narrowed into slits. “All this talk about not drinking milk is ridiculous. What you should be upset about is the way veal is produced.”

  “Pray tell,” I said, although I already knew.

  “The calves are isolated from their mothers and kept in pens so small they can’t turn around, or stretch out when they lie down. The reason they spend their short lives standing in one position is so that their muscles atrophy, keeping the meat soft and tender. They are also kept in the dark, and never get to see sunshine. They never get to run and play, or be nuzzled by their mothers. Their liquid food is intentionally low in iron, which makes the calves anemic, producing the pale color of veal. These are baby animals, mind you, not cabbages. Anyone who eats veal, in my opinion, is either ignorant or heartless.”

  “But I love veal,” Priscilla said.

  “How do we know this isn’t propaganda?” Thelma said.

  “Because we raised dairy cows,” Drustara said. “Papa sold the extra calves to Mr. Kleinhof
fer, who produces veal. I rode along with him once and saw what happens with my own eyes.”

  “Ladies,” I said pleasantly, “don’t you think it’s odd that Alice showed up in a cow suit, and that’s all we’ve talked about so far?”

  “It’s not odd at all,” Thelma said, putting her two cents in. “Visual stimulation is very powerful. If she’d come dressed as a carrot, we’d probably be—”

  “If we didn’t kill animals at all,” Caroline said, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation, and the calves would be out in meadows frolicking with their mothers, and not held in torture chambers.”

  “And you,” Thelma spat the words, “wouldn’t be interrupting me.”

  The room erupted into righteous rancor as my guests debated whether or not plants had feelings, the pros and cons of drinking cow’s milk, and whether laws should be enacted preventing the raising of veal calves. While I don’t mind spirited conversation, chaos was not going to advance my agenda.

  I tapped on my water glass with a knife. Ruth Redenbacher, who attends my church, can play entire hymns just by tapping on partially filled glasses. She supplies her own glasses, which some say are of an exceptionally fine quality. My tumblers are cheap, as is my cutlery, so the ensuing sound was anything but musical.

  “Order in the house, order in the house!”

  That brought the volume down to a dull roar. I kept tapping until the irritating sound was all that could be heard.

  “Really, dears, you’re almost as bad as my fourth-grade Sunday school class. They, however, are forced to be there by their parents. You, on the other hand, are my guests, here by your own volition to enjoy my largesse.”

  “Then, bring it on,” Alice said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve eaten cardboard tastier than this pizza. Please tell me this isn’t all there is to eat.”

  “Are you in the habit of eating cardboard on a regular basis?”

  Everyone laughed, except Alice Troyer, who scowled at me. “Magdalena, you’ll never make it as a comedienne.”