Hell Hath No Curry Read online

  I jumped to my feet. One of the advantages of wearing size-eleven shoes is that it’s easy to land on them. Sometimes, however, my tootsies can be quicker than my brain.

  “Oh, yeah?” I retorted. “Well, this isn’t even real hot chocolate.”

  “Of course not. I’m a vegetarian.”

  “And where do you think cocoa beans come from, a cocoa cow?”

  “Well, chocolate milk—” Her blush seemed to flow across her scalp like a red tide. “Miss Yoder, I would appreciate it if you’d leave.”

  I opened my pocketbook and pretended to speak into it. “For the record, are you throwing me out?”

  “No, I’m not—yes, I am! You are the rudest woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve met some real doozies, including your soon-to-be mother-in-law.”

  “You’ve met Ida?” I asked in astonishment.

  “I went to Bora-Bora a while back. She and Doc Shafor were coming back on the same flight. They weren’t speaking to each other, but they both had plenty to say to me.”

  “Do tell,” I said, and threw myself back down on my makeshift chair.

  “Don’t get too comfy, Miss Yoder. There isn’t that much to tell.”

  “No need to use the C word dear; a bed of nails would be more relaxing. But enough about furniture, or the unfortunate lack thereof. What did the battle-axe have to say?”

  “What didn’t she say? If Miss Yoder could only hear Mrs. Rosen talking, I thought to myself, she’d take a one-way flight to Kuala Lumpur and never look back. Malaysia produces some lovely textiles, incidentally. The batiks are simply gorgeous. And KL, as we in the know call it, is a fascinating city in its own right, what with the mix of cultures—Malaysian, Chinese, Indian. You should see the Batu Caves on the edge of town. There is a Hindu temple—”

  “Enough with the travelogue, already. Let’s talk about me. What did that obnoxious woman have to say about me?”

  “All right, if you insist.”

  “I most definitely do. And I promise to leave your paper house the second you tell me.”

  “Deal. Well, Mrs. Rosen said that she’d rather her son marry a homely woman with a brain than a knockout beauty like yourself, who wouldn’t know her elbow from her knee if she didn’t have it labeled with indelible marker.”

  “That was a joke! I did it to amuse Alison.”

  “She also said that it was a good thing she was moving in with you, or her poor son would starve to death.”

  “But Freni is an awesome cook.”

  “I’m sure she is, but Mrs. Rosen seemed to be under the impression that Freni Hostetler would be given her walking papers.”

  “What?” That hiked my hackles so high, I was back on my feet again.

  “Oh yes,” Caroline said calmly, although a wicked grin played at the corners of her mouth. “It was quite clear that Mrs. Rosen has every intention of taking over the PennDutch Inn. She even went so far as to give it a new name: Rosen’s Roost.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I growled and swept from the house on a tide of righteous wrath.

  Alison, who was having a ball with the enormous white dog, did some growling of her own. I had to remind her several times that it is I who spring for her allowance, and not that ne’er-do-well father of hers up in Minnesota (that part I left out, although I did think it). It wasn’t until she smelled Ida’s blood in the air that she agreed to go. Then, all of a sudden, she couldn’t wait.

  My ancestors became pacifists under the tutelage of Menno Simons, the founder of the Mennonite sect. This occurred in the late fifteen hundreds. But Menno and his minions were not strict enough for my people, who switched over to the teachings of Jakob Amman, founder of the Amish church about a century later. They also followed the pacifist way of life, and many of them were tortured—drowned, burned at the stake, and so forth—by the state-established church in Switzerland. After several generations in America, my family became Mennonite again. I say all this to prove that I have four hundred years of pacifist blood running through my veins and must think at least twice before stepping on a cockroach. Now, Ida Rosen, a tiny little woman from New York City, was about to undo centuries of careful inbreeding. Whoever started the saying that “good things come in small packages” should be whipped with a generous length of high-quality wrapping ribbon.

  Fortunately for my blood pressure, I didn’t have to spend much time looking for the bane of my existence. She was right where I’d expected her to be, ensconced on the Babester’s Italian leather couch, giving instructions to another diminutive woman, Judge Judy. Since Green Acres went off the air, I don’t watch television, but if I did, I’d definitely watch Judge Judy. I’m all for giving what for to those who deserve it—but not violently, of course. Yes, I know, the Bible says to turn the other cheek, but it says plenty else too. In fact, there is an entire book called Judges. Should I ever lose the inn, heaven forefend, or retire, I would seriously consider becoming a judge. The robe is certainly modest enough to suit my needs, plus I could sit down, and while it might come as a surprise to some, I’m quite good at giving others a piece of my mind.

  I have my own key to Gabe’s place, just in case I need to turn off the stove or, to be entirely truthful, am overcome by the desire to snoop. Anyway, this is how I managed to catch itsy-bitsy Ida shouting orders to the boob tube. So engrossed was she, that I must have stood there for several minutes before she noticed me. When she did, she let out a throaty yelp and clutched her ample bosom with both tiny hands. It then took her several tries to produce a coherent sentence.

  “Vhy you vant to give an old voman a heart attack?”

  “I want no such thing—well, maybe a very mild attack, one that didn’t hurt too bad, or do too much damage, but just strong enough to make you pack your bags and haul your hiney back to Manhattan. Sorry for using such foul language, but I’m a mite on the perturbed side at the moment, and I promise to take a bar of soap to my mouth as soon as possible. And of course that would be the antibacterial variety of soap, which, I have discovered, will substitute for mouthwash in a pinch.”

  “Ugh,” Alison said. “It tastes horrible. Believe me, Grandma Ida, I know what I’m talking about, because she made me eat a piece once when I said a swear word.”

  I gave the ungrateful child a mild version of the evil eye. “I only had you chew it; I didn’t make you swallow. Besides, most things that are good for us are unpleasant, like broccoli, and lima beans, and hard benches at church. And for the umpteenth time, she isn’t your grandma; she’s merely your pseudo-grandmother-to-be, which, on Magdalena Yoder’s Scale of Familial Connectedness, ranks a two on a scale of one to ten. Only ex-cousins-in-law rank lower.”

  Ida released her bosoms in order to throw her hands in the air. “You see?” she said, addressing the ceiling. “The voman is meshugganeh. Nothing she says makes any sense. Vhat am I to do, I ask you? Just sit back and vatch her marry my Gabeleh?”

  I strode over to the TV. I’ve never used a remote control, so I don’t know how those gizmos work, but with a bit of searching, my eagle eye eventually found an off button on the set itself. I punched it with enough force to knock over Arnold Schwarzenegger. Alison stared at me openmouthed, but I turned my full attention to my new nemesis.

  “I have no problem with you just sitting back and watching—from a distance, of course. But what’s this I hear about you taking over the PennDutch and renaming it Rosen’s Roost? It isn’t your inn, for crying out loud, and it’s never going to be.”

  “Does that mean,” Alison said, her voice rising with excitement, “that I get to inherit it?”

  “Maybe,” I grunted, “if you outlive your Auntie Susannah and her mangy mutt. Now am-scray, so I can ell-yay at the eadachehay from ades-Hay.”

  Ida hauled herself to her feet and advanced toward me, her bosoms leading the way like a pair of giant, well-padded battering rams. She didn’t stop until there were only a few inches left between her chest and my navel. Then she threw back her head and allowed h
er gaze to climb slowly skyward, until her beady eyes finally locked onto mine.

  “Nu, so I don’t speak Hebrew, so vhat?”

  “Hebrew?”

  “For your information, my Gabeleh doesn’t speak it either, so you learn it for nothing. Now Yiddish, that’s another story.”

  “That wasn’t Hebrew,” Alison gushed. “That was—”

  My hand found my young charge’s mouth, which I gently covered. It was obvious the old woman didn’t know about pig latin, a fact that could come in mighty handy at some later date.

  “You seem to have a knack for changing the subject, Mrs. Rosen. I still want to know what made you think you could possibly take over the PennDutch Inn.”

  “You vant to know so bad? I tell you! Because vhat belongs to my son is also mine, yah? I gave birth to my boy, I changed his diapers a million times—such a poopy boy you never saw. Vhen he vent to school I verk sewing shmattes for ten hours a day. I verk my fingers to the bone, for that my Gabeleh should become a doctor. And now he vants to give his poor ma something nice, but his rich girlfriend, she can’t be bothered.”

  “Rich shikse girlfriend.”

  She shrugged. “So maybe that too. Is it a crime for a mother to vant the best for her son?”

  “Not at all,” I said agreeably.

  “Think again,” a male voice said as the love my of life entered the room.

  13

  “Hon,” Gabe said to me, “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Uh—take what?”

  “I’ll handle Ma.”

  “Go easy on her, dear. This sweet little woman loves you so much. It’s just heartbreaking to hear about all her sacrifices.” My intended was standing behind me, so he couldn’t see me stick my tongue out at Ida. Neither could Alison. And for the record, I stuck it out only a few millimeters. I’m capable of a good deal more.

  “You see vhat she did?”

  Gabe put his hand on my shoulder. “She gave you empathy, Ma. That’s more than you give her.”

  Ida’s tongue was remarkably long, and frankly, not nearly as pretty as mine. “There! I give her vhat she vants; plenty of empty.”

  “Ma! How could you?”

  “Vhat? I should let her insult me, and not fight back?”

  “She didn’t insult you, Ma. And the word is empathy, not empty. I want you to apologize right now.”

  “Vhen Hell freezes over.”

  Both Gabe and Alison gasped, but I sighed piteously. “That’s all right, dear. She needn’t apologize. I’d feel the same way if a woman I didn’t approve of was about to marry my only son.”

  “She’ll apologize,” Gabe grunted.

  As we waited for the aforementioned Hades to freeze over, I let my tongue flick from side to side. Soon it took on a life of its own, playing along the perimeters of my lips.

  “You see?” Ida sputtered. “She insults me again.”

  I sucked back my telltale tongue in order to speak. “Oh, my stars and heavens. I didn’t mean to upset her so much. Alison and I will be going now. Say good-bye to your grandma, dear.”

  “But you said she wasn’t my grand—”

  I grabbed the urchin’s hand and fled while the going was good.

  “But, Mom,” Alison said as we got in my car, “you were sticking your tongue out at that nice old woman.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea, dear?”

  “The mirror.”

  “What mirror?”

  “The one above the couch where Grandma Ida was sitting.”

  “Oh, that mirror. Oops.” My face started burning just as hot as if I’d held it too close to a campfire. If Alison beheld my wicked tongue, then it was almost certain that Gabe had seen it as well. And to think that the dear, sweet man had chosen to take my side over that of the woman who still cuts his meat.

  “That wasn’t very nice, Mom, was it?”

  “Perhaps—no, it wasn’t.” I hung my head in shame. Now that I’d finally grown a chin, I didn’t have nearly as far to hang it.

  “Does that mean ya’re going to be grounded?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If I stuck my tongue out at an old lady, ya’d ground me for years and take away my allowance.”

  “Not years; only months.”

  “Well?”

  “Well—a deep hole in the ground used to collect and store water.”

  “Not funny, Mom. Ya’re always yapping at me about right and wrong, but I guess it don’t work the same for grown-ups, right?”

  “Wrong! But you see, dear, we grown-ups live in a much more complicated world, one that often calls for complex solutions in order to expedite conflict resolution. Therefore it is incumbent on us to implement retaliatory measures judiciously, so as to avoid tertiary expenditures.” I had no idea what I’d just said. Hopefully she didn’t either.

  “Haufa mischt.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said horse manure. That’s how ya say it in Amish.”

  “I know what it means,” I growled. To be honest, I was so proud of my young charge for picking up some “Dutch” that I was tempted to give her a high five. But of course I couldn’t approve of such foul language. I gave my young charge the evil eye. “If you must swear, say ’chicken droppings.’”

  “Yeah, whatever. My point is, Mom, that ya were just trying to confuse me with that fancy language. Ain’t that right?”

  “I plead guilty on all counts. From now on I will try not to taunt Gabe’s mother, and to punish myself for the tongue business, I will ask Freni to make mashed turnips for supper, and I promise to eat as much as you put on my plate.” The only thing worse than mashed turnips is fried liver with rubbery blue veins running through it.

  “Really? You mean that?”

  “Absolutely. Now, are you coming with me on my next interrogation?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” I couldn’t help but sound disappointed.

  “It’s not as fun as I thought. Ya don’t really turn any screws on your victims. I think I’ll go over to Stephanie Burkholder’s house and watch her parents fight. Sometimes they throw furniture at each other, but it’s usually just food. Steph says that the stairs landing is a good place to see the action from, and we can run to her room if things get too bad.”

  “That’s an awful idea, and I forbid it!” Who knew the Burk-holders were having so much trouble in their marriage? I was going to have to pay closer attention next Sunday at church.

  Alison slumped so far in her seat that if it hadn’t been for the belt, she would have slid to the floor. “Okay then, I’ll just hang around the inn and do nothing. Who knows, I might even die of boredom.”

  “Or you could come with me, like I said.”

  “Nah, I’d rather die.”

  “Suit yourself, dear.”

  When I dropped Alison off at the inn she immediately became engaged in helping Freni make snitz pies for supper. I said a prayer of thanksgiving for elderly cousins before resuming my quest to find Cornelius Weaver’s killer.

  Thelma Unruh, my next interviewee, operates a beauty parlor business out of her home on Poplar Street, in Hernia’s beautiful historic district. The rambling Victorian house with peeling paint, sagging porches, and bulging balustrades is, quite frankly, an eyesore. The town council has been trying for years to get Thelma to spruce up her house, but she stubbornly refuses. We have even gone so far as to fine her, but she won’t cough up a dime. As for the beauty shop, according to Ordinance 367, it isn’t even allowed.

  How does Thelma get away with this, one might rightly ask? The answer is simple: Like me, Thelma is descended from one of the founding families of our fair town. Her great-great-great-great-grandfather, Leghorn Unruh, pounded the first property marker into Hernia soil, claiming the freshly cleared land for God and king—I wish. Leghorn appears to have been gifted with remarkable foresight, looking out, as he did, for generations of slovenly Unruhs. When the town was incorporated a fe
w years later, and he found himself smack dab in the middle, Leghorn Unruh refused to become an official part of the community, unless he was permitted to do things his own way. After much palavering, the founding fathers granted the Unruh homestead semiautonomous power in perpetuity. In short, although his descendants must pay property taxes, and in turn are entitled to municipal amenities, there are to be no restrictions on what the family can do with either the house or the land.

  Theoretically, Thelma Unruh can raze her ramshackle mansion and erect a ninety-story skyscraper, or, much more appropriately, go into chicken farming. Speaking of skyscrapers, Elias Unruh, Leghorn’s grandson, attempted to build a circular tower that reached to Heaven. The Good Lord need not have feared an unwanted visitor, because Elias decided to be his own architect, and the tower collapsed when it was only three stories high. A circular remnant of this structure has been preserved within the walls of the crumbling Victorian. Unfortunately, this is not hearsay, as I have seen it several times with my own eyes.

  At any rate, I gave Thelma a buzz, and when she didn’t answer at her home number, I tried her business.

  “Hello. Unruh’s Unique Hair Designs.”

  “Hello. Yoder’s unique PennDutch Inn. May I speak to the illustrious Thelma, please?”

  “Magdalena, is that you?”

  “As large as life, and twice as loud.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind, dear, I need to drop by for a chat.”

  “When?”

  “Now.

  “No can do, unless you have an appointment.”

  “Then please let me make one—for as soon as possible.”

  “How does immediately sound?”

  “Great!”

  “Now, what do you want done?”