Hell Hath No Curry (17 page)

“Ach!” Freni squawked and popped up like Lazarus from the dead.

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“Ooh, gross,” Alison said. “I ain’t got nothing against them gays, but my own mom with my cousin? That’s sick.”

Her words were music to my ears:
my own mom
. And the fact that she considered Freni to be a cousin of hers—well, it couldn’t get any more touching than that. The cousin in question, however, was not similarly moved.

“Ach,” Freni squawked again, and like a plump hen pursued by a hungry fox, flapped her stubby arms and virtually flew from the room.

“It’s not what you think, dear.”

“It’s okay, Mom, I’m cool with that. I mean, I ain’t, but I want younz to be happy.”

“Alison, for crying out loud, quit jumping to conclusions. I was having a hard time, and Freni brought me a snack, and then we both fell asleep—not that I need to explain anything.”

The child can be as aggravating as gum on the soles of my brogans, but then a second later she is more astute than Aristotle. She digested my explanation, having apparently found it palatable.

“What kind of hard time?”

“Oh, nothing.” I could feel my chin quiver just remembering my parting words to Gabe.

“Ya got that weird look on your face, Mom. The kind my other mom had when I said I didn’t love her no more.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, but now I ain’t so sure I meant it. I was real mad at her, though, on account of she was acting all goofy toward Pop, like she loved him more than me, and he weren’t even there when I was a kid.”

I looked at the daughter I would never have, but still did have, in a funny cosmic sort of way. True, I didn’t get a chance to carry her in my womb, but then again, I didn’t have to change a single diaper, or get up for a middle-of-the-night feeding. But it was clear she loved me enough to trust me with her feelings, so it was only fair that I be straightforward with her.

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Tamar Myers

“Alison, uh—well, Dr. Rosen and I are no longer engaged.”

Her expression reminded me of my favorite cow, Bessie, the first time we ever hooked her up to the automatic milking machine. “But y’are still getting married, right?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What happened, Mom? ’Cause whatever it is, I can go over there and fix it. I know I can.”

“Not this time, dear. We’ve broken it off for good.”

“Was it
her
? Was it Grandma Ida? Was it because she treats him like a baby?”

“You were aware of that?”

Alison plopped on the bed beside me. “I ain’t blind, Mom. I ain’t stupid neither.”

“Nor a grammarian.”

“Yeah. So it was Grandma Ida. Man, I knew it.”

“It wasn’t just that, dear. Dr. Rosen and I couldn’t see eye to eye on some pretty important things.”

“Ah, I get ya; it’s that religious stuff, ain’t it?”

“Yes, in a nutshell.”

“No offense, Mom, but ain’t that kinda stupid?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Ya both worship the same God, right?”

“It’s not that simple, dear.”

“Well, it oughta be. If ya love each other, it seems to me that’s all that should matter. Let God decide if He wants ta be pissed at ya because younz don’t agree.”

I sighed. The Bible says that a child shall lead them, but it doesn’t say where to. Perhaps to the bathroom, where I could wash her mouth out with soap.

“Alison, it’s not going to happen, so can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She was silent for all of three seconds. “Hey Mom, is it all right with ya if I get me a bikini wax?”

“A what?”

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“Ya know, like a leg wax, only they don’t stop anywhere near the knees. Shelby Saylor had herself one, said it hurt something awful. Even worse than pulling a tooth. She said I oughta be glad I don’t need one, but I ain’t so sure.”

“Shelby Saylor is right,” I cried as I clapped my hands over my ears. I wouldn’t have thought in a million years that I would ever side with Shelby Saylor. The child is every mother’s night-mare, except for her own mother, who doesn’t seem to care one whit about her daughter’s upbringing.

My hands have never stopped my ears from hearing. “I was kinda hoping ya would say that,” Alison said nonchalantly.

“You
were
?”

“Yeah, it was kind of a dare. But I asked ya, didn’t I?”

“You’re darn tooting,” I said, which is almost as bad as I can swear. Defying five hundred years of inbred reservation, I reached out to hug Alison, but she slipped away from my grasp.

“Don’t ya be getting all mushy with me, Mom. I ain’t about to take a nap with ya either.”

I smiled, despite my broken heart.

Broken hearts, unlike broken limbs, do not require casts or crutches, so I had no excuse not to hit the sleuthing trail again. Besides, I’d heard that keeping active was a good way to keep from hurting. Then again, I’d also heard that time can heal a broken heart, and that turned out to be a load of
Haufa mischt
.

Whilst lollygagging about in bed (but only briefly) after Alison’s touching visit, it occurred to me that I had been approaching the case from the wrong angle. I’d been investigating on behalf of Chief Olivia Hornsby-Anderson rather than on behalf of the town of Hernia. The five “suspects” I’d chosen to interview were all women who’d been romantically involved with the deceased, Cornelius Weaver.

Yet not only was the chief also involved with Cornelius, but they were doing the Sealy Posturepedic polka when he passed on 142

Tamar Myers

to meet St. Peter. From what I’ve read, bad tickers, especially those that are unused to exercise, can be adversely affected by the rapid heartbeats brought on by sexual climax. How lucky we women are; we need only lie there, planning our menus, or reviewing the day’s events, just as long as we remember to show some response at the critical moment. With a little planning, such as purchasing a good hairnet, we need hardly look worse for the wear.

At any rate, there were a number of factors not in Chief Hornsby-Anderson’s favor. For starters, as a police officer, she should know CPR. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying that CPR

could necessarily have saved Cornelius’s life, but it increased his chances. The fact that he died anyway had to be taken into consideration.

And then there was her questionable choice of me as prime investigator. Why not turn the matter over to the sheriff, or at the least, the inexperienced, albeit very handsome, Chris Ackerman?

Could it be that the chief was hoping that I would make such a mess out of things that by the time she was forced to turn to professional help, it would be too late to make a coherent case against her? Well, if that was the case, she was in for a nasty surprise.

One of the very few benefits of possessing a cracked cardium is that the intense pain involved makes one less likely to give a rodent’s rear about what other people think. Whereas just yesterday I might have been a wee bit nervous about putting the screws to the chief, now I really didn’t care whom I screwed. So to speak.

Anyway, Chief Hornsby-Anderson (she has never invited me to call her Olivia) lives in Hernia’s only apartment building. Why it is called the Narrows, no one seems to know. There are only eight units, four up and four down, and the chief lives up, with an inspiring view of the parking lot, and the back of Miller’s Feed Store. Twice a week the chief can watch, from the privacy of her own balcony, the supply trucks unload. Amanda Tutweiler, who used to live in 2D, rented folding chairs up there for sixty cents an hour. I’m told she had a waiting list a mile long, so I never HELL HATH NO CURRY

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bothered to put my name on it. Who says there’s nothing to do in Hernia?

Even though it was not a delivery day, the chief took an inordinately long time to answer. She is an attractive woman, rather well preserved given her sunny California origins, but today she appeared blotchy and bedraggled. Immediately I recognized the signs of excessive lacrimal duct secretion. That is to say, she’d been crying.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, sounding surprised, even though her door had a perfectly good peephole.

“No, it’s my very much older, identical twin sister.”

“What?”

“Nothing, dear. ’Twas merely a joke. Go ahead and attend to your needs, while I wait on the charming balcony.”

She made no move to usher me into the apartment, and out again onto the balcony. “What needs?”

I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Wash your swollen face, run a comb through that jungle hanging from your head, and maybe even spritz those pits, for crying out loud, before they asphyxiate us both.”

“Magdalena, I’m not going to invite you in, and frankly, neither my appearance, nor my odor, is your concern.”

“I beg to differ, Your Chieftainship. I’m here to discuss the Cornelius Weaver case, and if I pass out and hit my head, I might get a concussion, possibly resulting in permanent brain damage, which means my sister, Susannah, would have power of attorney, and might decide to ship me off to Alaska and put me on an ice floe, and by the time the Supreme Court could hear my case, I’d have frozen to death, and I must tell you, Your Chieftainship, that I just plain don’t like being cold.”

“You’re nuts, Magdalena. Practically even stark raving mad.

Has anyone ever told you that?”

“No one has the nerve. It’s the evil glint in my eye that puts them off. Besides, I’m not crazy; I just act that way.”

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Tamar Myers

“And I’m supposed to invite you in?”

“You are a policewoman, after all. I’m sure you know how to defend yourself against raging lunatics. Still, if you like, we can chat here, even though the acoustics, thanks to the parking lot, allow my voice to be heard from a good quarter mile away.”

“Very well.” She gave me a warning growl. “If you so much as make a wrong move, you’ll be sorry.”

I couldn’t tell whether she was serious or not. Some folks have such a dry sense of humor that their jokes go right over my head. Oh well, if she was genuinely afraid of me, that was her problem, not mine. Just as long as she didn’t whip out her pistol and punch my one-way ticket to Heaven. That would certainly be ironic, given that I am a pussycat; even the pat of a kitten’s paw against my face turns me to mush.

Keeping my long, elegant hands in sight, and a goofy grin plastered across my sculpted face, I slipped into her apartment and gave the sitting room the quick once-over. Chief Hornsby-Anderson would get along very well with Caroline Sha. The mini-malist look is fine, as long as there is something to sit on. But this room was as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. Could it be that the chief was planning to skip out of town, leaving me to hold the bag? That reference, by the way, is to snipe hunting, a sport at which I excel. Freni has some tasty snipe recipes— Now, where was I?

“You look like you’re lost in thought, Magdalena.”

“Yes, it’s such unfamiliar territory.”

“Touché. I’d offer you a place to sit, but since Hernia refused to pay for a mover, I sold my furniture before I left California. I’ve been meaning to shop for new stuff but haven’t had the time. I did, however, buy a king-size bed in Bedford, no pun intended, the day I arrived in Pennsylvania.”

“I’m sure that bed has already seen its share of use.”

“Innuendo does not become you. Yes, my bed has seen a lot of use, but that’s because it also functions as a desk and as my couch.

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I mean, really, what more do I need? The minute I get home every evening, usually around seven, I put on my pj’s, hop in bed, and watch TV while I catch up on paperwork. Of course none of this is your business, so please, let’s get on to police business. What have you been able to uncover in your investigation?”

“What a clever pun. Do you mind if I use it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind, it was ill conceived. Yes, business. Well, there are six women whom I’ve put on my suspect list.”

23

“No men?”

“Not yet. Anyway, all of these women were romantically involved with the deceased. They are, in the order in which I interviewed them, as follows. Priscilla Livingood, who has more store-bought parts than a John Deere tractor, is—I mean, was—his fiancée. I thought she would be snooty, but she’s actually very nice. Works for a plastic surgeon.”

“He does good work.”

“Next up, we have Alice Troyer. She’s a professional comedienne with a radish for a nose—I mean that kindly. Alice claims that she and Cornelius were engaged, had even picked out a whappalooza of a ring.”

“A what?”

“An eye-buster, kinda like the ring I had.” I glanced at the pale band of skin left by my ring. “Anyway, he dumped her the day before their engagement party. Alice says it came as a total shock.”

“I bet.”

“Carolina Sha, on the other hand, seems to have been aware that she was not the only one being wooed. Speaking of which, the woman is a little woo-woo, if you ask me. She lives in a paper HELL HATH NO CURRY

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house and doesn’t use ice because she doesn’t want to hurt the water, but she’s happy to boil it for you. It’s obvious that she’s still bitter about not being chosen to be the next Mrs. Weaver, but I honestly don’t think she would kill a living thing—although she might feel differently about termites.”

“It seems that Cornelius was a busy man.”

“That’s just the half of it. Did you know Thelma Unruh was a natural blonde? Very few women are, you know. And even fewer have a tower of Babel in their living room—well, a remnant, at any rate. It was obvious Thelma didn’t like being cuckolded. Can that word apply to a woman?”

“No, and I think there has to be marriage involved.”

“Whatever, as my Alison would say. Thelma insisted I speak to Veronica Weaver, the victim’s mother. According to her, Cornelius needed to borrow ten thousand dollars, and he went to Mommy to get it. Mommy confirmed it, which didn’t make a lick of sense, because I know, for a fact, that he was flush with bucks.”

“You have a way with words, Magdalena.”

“Verily. And Veronica also said he needed the money so that Thelma could get an abortion, something I need to follow up on.