Hell Hath No Curry Read online

“Nothing, of course. Like I said, I just want to chat.”

  “Again, no can do. Magdalena, this is Unruh’s Unique Hair Designs, not Unruh’s House of Perpetual Chatter. You have to schedule a procedure.”

  “Uh—okay. Trim my ends. Some of them are undoubtedly split, but just some, mind you. I keep my hair well conditioned.”

  “That’s what they all say. But in any case, that won’t be enough. I have to design something. You know, do a little styling.”

  “Oh, all right. But it better be temporary. I’ve worn my hair in proper Christian coils my entire life. I better not come out of there looking like Betty Baptist, or heaven forefend, Patti Presbyterian. And before we go too far, how much will this cost?”

  “A style with wash will be twenty-eight.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Of course—oh, that’s right, you do have a reputation for stinginess, don’t you?”

  “I prefer to think of myself as frugal. And just so you know, our Good Lord Himself was frugal. He turned the water into wine; He didn’t bring it as a gift.”

  “I think that’s blasphemous.”

  Alas, so did I. After whispering a quick prayer for forgiveness, I got back to business.

  “So how much would it cost without the wash?”

  “Don’t be silly; I wouldn’t cut someone’s hair without washing it first. I tried that once with Wanda Hemphopple and was in for a nasty surprise.”

  I swallowed guiltily. “You found a hot dog?”

  “Among other things. Did you know that an original menu from the Titanic, even one in bad shape, is worth a lot of money?”

  “You found a menu in her beehive?”

  “Heavens, no. But there were a couple of termites in there, which fell out, of course, and then escaped. Before I could have them exterminated, they got into my desk drawer and ate the Titanic menu. I bought it at a yard sale and was all set to take it in to the Antiques Roadshow when it came to Philadelphia.”

  “I promise I don’t have any termites in my hair. Can’t you at least shave off a dollar or two?”

  “No can do, but I can shave off that mustache of yours. That would be on the house.”

  “I don’t have a mustache,” I yelled, “and I won’t for at least another a week.” I slammed down the receiver. The nerve of that woman. She was going to get a piece of my mind, even if it was the last remaining piece.

  14

  I nearly broke my neck climbing up the rotten wooden steps that lead to the sagging and rotten porch, so it is quite possible that I rang the buzzer a few more times than was necessary. Therefore, I was a mite surprised that when she opened the door, Thelma appeared as calm as a setting hen. That’s when I decided to ruffle her feathers—just a wee bit, and all in good Christian fun.

  “My lawyers will be in touch with your people later on this afternoon. The injuries I have sustained from the bottom step alone should be worth a couple of mil.”

  “You need to go around to the back. There’s a sign that says ’Business Entrance.’”

  “I’ll do no such thing. I risked life and limb to get this far.”

  “Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel your appointment.”

  “I’ll double your fee.”

  Even though Thelma wears glasses with a pale blue tint, her eyes appear a washed-out gray. Her brows are so sparse, she has to pencil them in, and it would be safe to bet the farm that she never has to worry about a mustache. But it is her crowning glory that makes her the envy of every woman in Bedford County.

  The all-natural golden tresses cascade in waves below her shoulders because, unlike myself, Thelma is a member of the more liberal First Mennonite Church. No braids or buns for her. It has been noted, by the gossipers among us, that Thelma tosses her locks repeatedly whenever she speaks to a man. Long swirling hair is supposed to be attractive to men, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. After all, hair is nothing more than long strands of dead protein called keratin. In theory, at least, one would be just as successful by waving a bouquet of donkey hooves at a man. In practice, however—trust me—ix-nay on the ooves-hay.

  Thelma tossed her mane in vain before responding to my offer. “Okay, I’ll break my rule. We can chat without a procedure, but you have to pay up front.”

  I fished the money out of my well-worn purse. “Here you are, dear. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s move this show inside and get nice and comfy. Some hot chocolate would be nice, and some ladyfingers. Oh, and I prefer the mini marshmallows to the large ones.”

  “You’re not getting refreshments, Magdalena, and we’re not moving inside. We’re going to talk here.”

  “Here where? There isn’t even a rickety porch swing upon which to plunk my patooty.”

  “You just want to see the tower remnants, isn’t that right?”

  “No—not just. Anyway, I’ve seen them before. What I want is to talk to you about Cornelius Weaver.”

  The pale irises widened behind the tinted lenses. “What about Cornelius?”

  “I understand you were—uh—seeing him.”

  “You mean having an affair, don’t you?”

  “Your words, dear, not mine.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to disclose my source. Besides, this is a small town. One can’t change toilet paper brands without hearing about it at Sam Yoder’s Corner Market.”

  “You’ve stopped using corncobs?”

  “I supply them only in the outhouse, and it’s for my guests’ amusement. Proper paper is available upon request. But speaking of gossip, you had to know that Cornelius was engaged to Priscilla Livingood.”

  “Of course I knew,” she said with surprising vehemence. “I’m a natural blonde. And just because Cornelius gave Priscilla a ring doesn’t mean that what we had together wasn’t special.”

  “I’m sure it was. Thelma, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Preliminary autopsy reports reveal that Cornelius might have died under suspicious circumstances.”

  “I knew it!”

  “You did?”

  “Priscilla was just after his money, wasn’t she? Ha, talk about irony.”

  “Indeed—I mean, yes, talk about it!”

  “Well, everyone knows that Miss Silicon USA is up to her liposuctioned armpits in debt, just so that she can look like Barbie. I bet she could fit into Barbie’s clothes too, although the shoes would probably be too small. At any rate, Cornelius told me more than once that all Prissy Priscilla could talk about was money. How expensive her procedures were. It was clear to me from the beginning that she believed Cornelius was stinking rich, on account of he lives in one of the big historic homes and comes from a solid family background. But he wasn’t, you see. Rich. Tourists drive by and think we’re really loaded on account of what they see, but boy, are they wrong. Name one person, one descendant of the founding fathers, who is really rich.”

  “Yours truly.” I tried not to sound smug.

  “Yeah—well, you made your own money. That’s different. My point is that when those big-city folks come here and look around, they think we’re wealthy. Do you know how much money I made last year?”

  “No.”

  “Guess.”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  “What dreamworld do you live in?”

  “Seventy thousand.”

  Even though they’re penciled on, Thelma’s brows can work themselves into a nasty scowl. “I wish. My gross was twenty-seven thousand nine hundred. And chump change.”

  “That’s pretty gross,” I agreed.

  “I bet you made a lot more than that.” The words were flung at me like bricks.

  “Back to Cornelius, dear—”

  “I’m not your dear, and I’ll thank you to know that. Now, answer my question, Magdalena.”

  “I did.”

  “No, the one about your income.”

  “That wasn’t a question,” I wailed. Yes, I know, I wail far too much, but I felt like I was up aga
inst a wall covered with spikes, like the inside of an iron maiden. It is a device that, for some bizarre reason, has been much on my mind lately.

  “I told you, so now you tell me.”

  “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “It’s the only way you’re going to get me to share my theory of who killed Cornelius.”

  “You have a theory?”

  “Quit wasting my time.”

  “Okay, but you’re not going to like it.” I closed my eyes. “Take your income, multiply by ten, and add another two percent for ALPO.”

  She was silent for far too long. “That much,” she said finally. “Who knew? But it just occurred to me, given that the architecture of my house is much more interesting than an old farmhouse, and given that my place is within walking distance of Hernia’s shopping district, not to mention the mystique of the tower wall, I bet I could double your business, maybe even triple it.”

  “What shopping district, for crying out loud? There’s nothing in town but Yoder’s Corner Market and Miller’s Feed Store. And no offense, dear, but the architecture about which you boast is barely recognizable, seeing as how you’ve allowed this place to be run into the ground.”

  To my astonishment, and disappointment, my stinging remark failed to get her goat. “You’re right, it could use a little sprucing up. But let’s face it, Magdalena, with your personality, who needs sauerkraut? The way I see it, I’ve got you beat hands down in the public relations department. Hmm…what shall I name it?”

  I had a brilliant idea. “How about Unruh’s Roost? That would give a nod to your ancestor, Leghorn.”

  Pale gray eyes can appear quite steely when their owner is not amused. “I can honestly say it’s been nice chatting with you, Magdalena. Your idea of an inn is fabulous. I’m going to get right on it. What thread count do you use?”

  “What?”

  “You know, for the sheets.”

  “One-sixty,” I said proudly. “They have to pay ALPO prices if they want the burlap. There’s no telling how much folks will pay for abuse, as long as they can view it as a cultural experience.”

  “Interesting. But you and I both know the Amish don’t sleep on burlap sheets. That’s just plain ridiculous. No, I’m going to go the other direction. I recently saw an ad for one-thousand-thread-count sheets in a magazine. That’s what I’ll get, and I’ll import eiderdown comforters directly from Norway. My guests will feel like they’re sleeping on butter.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Why not? You make your guests pay through the nose for shabby treatment. Mine will pay an arm and a leg for fabulous treatment. Whose inn do you think they’re going to prefer?”

  “Mine.” I swallowed a mouthful of fear. “After all, I am an authentic Mennonite woman of conservative persuasion, and I have an honest-to-goodness Amish cook. I give them the cultural experience they crave.”

  She had the nerve to smile. “Have you ever been to Disney World, Magdalena?”

  “No, but—”

  “At Epcot you can sample a world of cultures, all of which have been re-created on the spot. If they can do it, so can I—on a much smaller scale, of course. But I can hire an Amish cook and Mennonite cleaning ladies. I can have a little blacksmith shop built out back, so the tourists can watch horses being shod. Oh, and a gift shop! One that sells homemade jams and pickled watermelon rinds, and traditional Amish quilts. Maybe even some Amish-made furniture.” Her smile turned diabolical. “And of course, there is the wall. You’re starting to get the picture, aren’t you, Magdalena?”

  “Indeed I am. It’s a very expensive picture that is going to require a good deal of capital. Have you given that any thought?”

  Thelma glared at me, a look that was made even more sinister by the tinted lenses. “I only just now thought of my inn. You don’t need to rain on my parade.”

  “Your parade was going to run me out of business.”

  “Magdalena, I don’t recall inviting you here. It’s time for you to leave.”

  “But I paid double your hair-cutting fee just to speak to you, so I’m not leaving here until I’ve gotten my money’s worth.”

  It was Thelma’s turn to fish for the money, which she’d tucked in the pockets of her brown corduroy jumper. But upon finding the money, rather than hand it to me in a mature fashion, she had the nerve to thrust it under my perfectly shaped schnoz.

  “Here. I don’t want your money.”

  “Keep it; it’s yours.”

  “Either take it or I’m dropping it.”

  I decided to call her bluff. “Do whatever you want, dear.”

  Lo and behold, Thelma was not bluffing. I stared in disbelief as the coins hit the porch floor and rolled in all directions. The bills, buoyed by a slight breeze, took longer to land.

  What Thelma had done was totally un-American, possibly even illegal in several states. In my book, it was worthy of a one-way pass to the funny farm. It was also, I began to believe, evidence that the gal with the golden locks was not a gold digger.

  “Toodle-oo,” I said. “I left something on the stove and need to get back to the inn as soon as possible.”

  “Electric or gas?”

  “What?”

  “Your stove. What does it run on?”

  I allowed my mind to visualize my most recent power bill. “Uh—gas.”

  “Ha! You’re not cooking anything, except for another harebrained theory.”

  “I’ll have you know I’ve solved a number of murder cases with this hare brain of mine. And for your information, missy, you were wrong about Cornelius not having any money. We share the same stockbroker and—never you mind. Suffice it to say, the man was loaded.”

  Poor Thelma, and I mean that literally, appeared stunned. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I am that the sun will come out tomorrow.”

  “It’s supposed to rain.”

  “It’s a saying, dear. Trust me, the dearly departed had more dough than a string of commercial bakeries.”

  “In that case you really need to speak to Cornelius’s mother.”

  “His mother is dead.”

  “His stepmother isn’t.”

  “Veronica Weaver? What does she have to do with the price of cheese in Amsterdam?”

  “She had to loan him ten thousand dollars, that’s what.” She turned to go back into the house.

  15

  Palak Paneer

  Ingredients

  3 pounds spinach, thoroughly cleaned and roughly chopped

  1 teaspoon ginger-garlic paste ¼ teaspoon turmeric

  Pinch salt, plus salt to taste

  ½ pound paneer, cut into 1-inch cubes

  ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper (or to taste)

  ¼ cup oil

  ¼ cup heavy cream

  2 medium onions, finely sliced 2 medium tomatoes, chopped 2 green chilies, split in half

  ¼ cup coriander leaves, finely chopped, for garnish (optional)

  Yield: 4 servings

  Preparation

  1. Bring a pot of water to a boil. Add spinach and pinch of salt and stir for approximately 5 minutes or till spinach is tender, but do not overcook. Strain spinach and keep ready.

  2. Heat a little oil in frying pan and fry paneer cubes till lightly golden brown. Remove and drain on paper towels.

  3. Heat oil and add onions. Stir-fry till light golden brown.

  4. Add tomatoes, green chilies, ginger-garlic paste, turmeric, cayenne pepper, and salt. Thoroughly mix.

  5. Let this mixture cook for 10–15 minutes. Add a little water if need be to keep from sticking or burning.

  6. Add spinach and mix well.

  7. Add heavy cream and stir. Then add paneer cubes and mix.

  8. Cover pot and allow to cook on low heat for 5 minutes.

  9. Garnish with coriander leaves and serve with naan or rice.

  Notes

  You can find paneer in the refrigerated section of any Indian or Pakistani grocery store.

/>   Some like to leave their spinach just as is, while others like to blend it to a paste. The choice is yours. You may also substitute tender spinach leaves.

  Substitute 2 cups peas for the spinach to make Mattar Paneer.

  16

  “Wait just one Mennonite minute!”

  “Now what?” she snapped. If you ask me, only mothers of teens have a right to sound that exasperated.

  “Did you mean it when you said I could have this money?” I pointed at a nice, crisp dollar bill with the toe of a much-worn brogan.

  “Yes. And for the record, you’re impossible.” The door slammed behind her.

  I may be a weensy bit greedy from time to time—I’m only human, after all—but I am certainly not impossible. It was an honest question, a thoughtful one even. For all I knew, she’d changed her mind. Besides, it really was my money in the first place, and we hadn’t even mentioned hair.

  Greedy is not necessarily stupid, so before I left the premises I chased down every cent except for one. That penny lies beneath a hole in the porch, one that is guarded by a spider so large that, at first glance, I mistook it for a discarded hairbrush.

  Having recovered my loot, I headed for the hills.

  Veronica Weaver never quite recovered from the 1970s. Or would that have been the late sixties? I seemed to have missed out on the whole “make love, not war” movement. For me the “summer of love” was the summer I married Aaron Miller, and it was not so much a summer of love as it was a string of three-minute interludes.

  At any rate, Veronica Speicher was a hippie who married Latrum Weaver, father of the late Cornelius. (Latrum’s first wife, Willetta, choked to death trying to eat a ham sandwich while singing along to a Mama Cass recording.) Cornelius was only a lad of three when he acquired a stepmother and took to her like dust to a refrigerator top. By all accounts it was a happy marriage, ending only when Latrum succumbed to periodic bouts of increased heart rate—also due to three-minute interludes, or so I am told.