Hell Hath No Curry (13 page)

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 as 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.”

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Tamar Myers

“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 arrhyth-mia 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?”

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“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 HELL HATH NO CURRY

107

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, pop-pycock 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 Car-lin’s
When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops?
”

“Somehow I think you’re serious. Be forewarned; George Car-lin’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.

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Tamar Myers

“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 reprehensible. 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.”

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“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.”

Her unpainted mouth opened and closed several times without emitting a sound. When she found her voice, it was surprisingly husky.

“I should have known. I was played for a fool, wasn’t I?”

“That depends. What was his story?”

“He said he’d lost all the money his daddy left him in some Nigerian Internet scheme, and that he’d learned his lesson, and was finally going back to college in order to get a real job someday. He seemed so contrite. Magdalena, there were even tears in his eyes.”

“They’re called crocodile tears, dear. Cornelius was far too bright to be suckered by a letter from Nigeria asking for monetary help in recovering lost assets. He’s the one who warned me about them, and that was probably ten years ago. I’m truly sorry, Veronica, but your stepson did not need your money.”

“But then why the sob story?
Why?
”

I shrugged before scrambling to my large, but uncommonly attractive, feet. Why, indeed. I don’t understand why people do half the things they do. Why, for instance, do folks deface public 110

Tamar Myers

property? Why do they litter? Why do they spit their gum out onto the pavement in front of the Bedford Wal-Mart? Why do they let themselves get so frustrated by other drivers that they react in anger? And this is just the small stuff. Why do they deliberately do hurtful things to other people . . .

“Magdalena, is your mind wandering yet again?”

“I think it’s lost.”

“I swear, Magdalena, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were stoned on pot.”

“Alas, that has never been an option—oops, did I say that? I mean, it isn’t, is it?”

“Are you hinting around for a joint?”

“If I was, would you give me one?”

“Do I look stupid, Magdalena? You represent the law in Bedford County. Of course I wouldn’t give you one—
not
that I have any to give. You should be ashamed of yourself. You have everything going for you in life: money, beauty, a handsome boyfriend, and that incredible voice of yours. Why would you want to risk any of that? What emotional hole are you trying to fill?”

“I don’t have any holes to fill,” I wailed.

“Magdalena, if you don’t mind me saying so, wailing does not become you. It’s very distracting.”

And here I thought I’d already learned the lesson of humility.

Let me tell you, there is nothing more humiliating than having an ex-hippie lecture you on comportment. Gathering my shreds of pride about me, as if they were a garment that had malfunctioned, I hoofed it back to my car with nary a peep. Pressing an elegant, albeit elongated, foot to the metal, I most certainly set a record for getting back to Hernia.

When all else fails, go to the one who isn’t supposed to fail. Normally that would be the Good Lord, but at the moment I had his emissary in mind. After all, the Lord had more important things to do, like choosing which passengers on a doomed airplane are HELL HATH NO CURRY

111

praying the hardest, and thus deserve to live, or which people, based on the intensity of their supplications, will be plucked alive from the devastation left behind by a hurricane. These are important matters to consider, whereas mine was entirely personal, and trivial to boot.

Reverend and Mrs. Fiddlegarber live in the parsonage owned by Beechy Grove Mennonite Church. It is the same house that was occupied by Reverend Schrock and his shrill wife, Lodema. Sadly, the good reverend has gone on to eternal rest, and as for Lodema, she is ensconced in a rest home for the severely disturbed that is located deep within the heart of the Pocono Mountains. After her husband’s murder she regressed to the level of a six-year-old girl.