Hell Hath No Curry (9 page)

“Cool. Can we see our place from here?”

Our place?
What music for my soul!

“Yes, dear, our place is over there to the left. You can just barely see the inn through those big maple trees.”

“Who owns that big farm there, Mom?”

“Which one?”

“The one with them blue silos—I think that’s what ya call them.”

“Very good, dear. That belongs to Amos and Wilda Bontrager.

They haven’t any children, so someday it will be for sale.”

“Can we buy it?”

“Would you really like that, dear?”

I could hardly believe my ears. It warmed the cockles of my heart just to think about my dear, if somewhat aggravating, pseudo-stepdaughter and her future family living on a farm near Hernia. I would have pseudo-step-grandchildren to play with, and when I finally became infirm, either Alison or one of her daughters would feed me with a silver spoon and escort me to the privy. What more could one ask of a life well lived?

“Heck yeah,” Alison said, excitement rising in her voice. “We could tear down that stupid barn and them nasty silos, and build us a great big shopping mall. And ’cause we’d own the mall, we could get all the stuff from it for free. Man, I’m going ta build me a tunnel that goes straight from the Gap to my bedroom.”

Disappointment is a bitter pill to swallow, but I managed to choke down most of mine before turning onto the gravel lane that dead-ends at Caroline’s drive. An enormous white dog appeared out of nowhere, barking loudly, and escorted us the rest of the way to the house.

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“Alison, you’re not afraid, are you?”

“Heck no, I ain’t.”

“Good. The dog’s name is Cujo. He’s really a sweetheart, unlike your Auntie Susannah’s little mutt.”

“Hey! I like Shnookums.”

“But you can’t—never mind. Do you know what alopecia is?”

“Yeah. A girl in my class has it. It ain’t fair, if ya ask me.”

“We’re not meant to understand everything in this life, dear.”

“That don’t mean I gotta like it. Trish don’t have ta worry about fixing her hair at school, or getting it all messed up during gym.”

“Wait a minute. You’re jealous of Trish?”

“Who wouldn’t be, Mom? The boys think its sexy, and she’s got this cool sticker for her locker that says, ‘Bald is beautiful.’

Amanda Brinkwater’s mom let her shave her head, but the principal expelled her. He don’t say nothing ’bout Trish. It ain’t fair, just like ya said.”

“You said that, not me.”

The door to the house opened and out swept the most beautiful woman in all of Bedford County. Caroline was draped in a red and gold sari, no doubt something she’d picked up on her recent trip to India. The woman gets around more than a bad pun.

It’s a wonder she had the time to have an affair with Cornelius Weaver.

“Welcome, visitors!” she said as she bowed low to the waist.

“Having a condition doesn’t stop her from being a fruitcake,”

I said, charitably under my breath.

I could have said much worse, mind you. Carolyn Sha is an artist—Buffalo Mountain seems to be awash in artists—and gives new meaning to the word
eccentric
. The stone facade of her spacious home gives no hint that the interior walls are made of paper.

I mean that literally. They are double-sided panels that slide along HELL HATH NO CURRY

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tracks, an idea she claims to have gotten while visiting Japan. Her furniture consists of nothing more than colorful cushions, and her bed is just a mat, for crying out loud. Even invited guests are required to remove their shoes before entering the house, and don’t expect to consume a proper meal, unless you count soy as at least two food groups and are adept at eating with chopsticks.

While Alison played with the wolf in a white dog’s clothing, I explained the nature of our visit to Caroline. Other than a trembling vein near her right temple, she displayed no change of emotion.

“Certainly,” she said, and led me into the main room, which at the moment pretty much included the entire house. “I’m letting the chi settle a bit,” she said as if it were an explanation. “Sometimes there is just too much motion for me to think.”

“That’s nice, dear. An overactive chi can lead to chi-kiness, and we certainly don’t want that.”

She motioned to an array of beautiful, brightly colored, silk-covered cushions scattered about the floor. I knew that Caroline had designed the fabric herself and that this, in fact, is what she did for a living.

“Have a seat,” she said. “Sit anywhere you like.”

I piled three flat cushions so that they formed a low seat.

Meanwhile, she sat cross-legged on a single cushion and, despite the fact that her sari was hitched up almost to her knees, still managed to look both modest and graceful.

“How’s things?” I said, borrowing from Alison’s lexicon. Caroline was, after all, closer to Alison’s age than she was to mine.

“Things are wonderful, thank you. I just finished designing the bed linens for the Taj Warhol Hotel in New Delhi. That was a bit more of a challenge than I’m used to, so I’m glad to get it out of the way.”

“Pardon me, dear, but didn’t you mean to say the Taj
Mahal
Hotel?”

Her laughter was like the chimes I often play with when I find 72 Tamar

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myself alone in the garden section of Home Depot. Sometimes I get as many as a dozen chimes tinkling at the same time. If any employees dare give me the evil eye, I point to the nearest child and shrug. Technically, this isn’t lying, because the child
would
have started the chimes playing, if only he, or she, had thought of it. Now, where was I? Oh, yes.

“No, you heard right,” Caroline said. “The owner is a big Andy Warhol fan, but his wife wanted a Taj Mahal theme, so they compromised. Would you like to see the sketches?”

“Uh—well—perhaps on another occasion. I’m here to ask you a few questions about Cornelius Weaver.”

Her beautiful features turned as white, and hard, as alabaster.

“You were aware of his death,” I said, “weren’t you?”

“Miss Yoder, I’m so sorry, but I completely forgot that I’m expecting a call from Dubai this afternoon. You see, a sheik’s son is getting married, and all fourteen of his current wives want matching outfits for under their abayas—”

“In a pig’s eye, dear.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“You heard me. I know quite well that you and the late Cornelius were having an affair. Spare me the sinful details, but other than that, I want to know everything about the relationship.

Where and how often you two met. Did the others know? When was the last—”

“Others?”

“The rest of his harem, so to speak. Surely you ran into each other, coming and going. Or did you use the back door?”

It is easy to tell when a bald woman is livid. Especially if she picks up the pillow she is sitting on and not only hurls it at you, but catches you off guard, hitting your left eye with one of the corners. To be sure, I squealed like a nine-year-old girl. To be fair, I squealed even louder.

“Miss Yoder, I’m so sorry! What can I do to help?”

“Ice! Bring me an ice pack.”

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“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe in ice.”

“Say what?”

“It not only bruises the water; it slows down the chi.”

I kept my left hand over the injured eye while I jiggled my right pinky in the corresponding ear to make sure it wasn’t clogged with gunk. “Did you say it bruises the water?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t think some trees were pretty badly bruised in order to make your paper walls?”

“I knew you’d say that. Everyone does. But you see, the paper was already made when I bought it. Freezing water, on the other hand, is totally under my control.”

“Do you ever boil water?”

“Of course. I could make you a cup of chai. That might help with the pain.”

“Chai with chi?”

“Now you’re mocking me.”

“Sorry, dear, my tongue seems to have a life of its own. But if it’s all the same, I prefer some hot chocolate. Never underestimate the healing power of a cocoa bean, I always say.”

She uncrossed her legs and rose to her feet in a fluid movement that I would not have been able to imitate at any age. Maybe there was something to this chi business.

“Would you have any ladyfingers to go with that?”

“More mocking?”

“No, I seem to have skipped lunch.”

“I have some nut and honey bars. Will that do?”

“Absolutely.”

“How is the pain?” she called from the kitchen end of the vast room.

“It’s died down a bit. I think I’ll survive.”

“Good. Then you can grill me now, right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your reputation precedes you, Miss Yoder.”

12

I didn’t know whether to feel flattered or insulted. If my reputation pegged me as relentless, ending an interview only when I had the desired information, that could be a plus. In any case, whatever I could do to enhance my reputation would make my job all that much easier.

“I’ll need a nice flat surface for the thumb screws, but I forgot the bamboo splinters. You wouldn’t happen to have any shish kebab skewers, would you? They’ll do in a pinch—all puns intended. Oh, and I brought my own stretching rack. It’s portable, and I can set it up just about anywhere. I had to leave the iron maiden behind, as it’s currently in use.”

She made no comment until she returned with the snacks.

“Miss Yoder, either you have a very dry sense of humor or you are a very sick woman. Possibly both.”

“Definitely both.” I took a bite of honey bar. It wasn’t nearly as sweet as I would have preferred. Neither was the hot chocolate, which wasn’t even chocolate, but made from carob powder. I didn’t have to ask about that; you can’t fool a real chocoholic.

“So ask away,” she said, just as calmly as if she was inviting me to inquire about a vacation to the Poconos.

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“How long were you and Cornelius involved? More specifically, were you two still an item when he proposed to Priscilla Livingood?”

“Priscilla,” she hissed. “Don’t say her name again. Words have power, and I don’t want that word imprinting on these walls.”

“But you just said—oh, never mind. Please answer my question.”

“Yes, we were an item, as you put it, when he gave her that vulgar ring, but they were never truly engaged. Not to be married, at any rate. You see, Cornelius had a roving eye, and that woman thought she could tame him by tricking him into marriage, but it wasn’t going to happen. He would have balked, sooner rather than later. The minute she started talking about guest lists and menus, he’d have come to his senses.”

“But she must have talked about those things; they were three days away from tying the knot.”

“Are you
sure
? Were you invited?”

“No, I was not invited, and I wouldn’t have gone if I had been invited and the wedding was still on. With all the bed-hopping Cornelius engaged in, I might have been seated next to Beelzebub himself. Sitting next to Satan on a Saturday is not my cup of chai.”

“Well,
if
there really was going to be a wedding, it’s only because she tricked him.”

“Tricked him?”

“There is no other way to explain it. That woman has less personality than a boiled rutabaga, and not one bit of her is real. She had the nerve to brag to me that they went on a ski trip together to Aspen in February. He supposedly popped the question when they were sitting in front of a cozy fireplace. Oh, please, give me a break. That woman can’t sit within twenty feet of a fireplace, for fear of melting.”

“Miss Sha, a less judgmental woman than myself might offer the opinion that you sound bitter.”

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“Bitter? About what? You don’t honestly think I would have wanted to marry Cornelius, do you?”

“Who wouldn’t have—except for myself, of course. I am, as you may have heard, engaged to an exceptionally handsome Jewish doctor, who will someday be a famous novelist.”

“Ha. I think you should be the one writing the books, given your vast imagination.”

Pride is one of the gravest of sins, so I work hard to eradicate it from my life. I think I have made remarkable progress, even to the point that I can finally say that I am proud of my humility. But today the Good Lord must have been testing me, for not only had I been informed that I was beautiful, but apparently I had a vast imagination as well. Glory hallelujah was all I could say at a time like this.

Caroline smiled pleasantly before continuing. “Your fiancé is retired from medicine, is not even published yet, and from what I hear, he’s bolted to his mother’s apron with three-inch chains. Yet somehow you see this as positive. Miss Yoder, I’ve got to hand it to you; you’re even more positive than Norman Vincent Peale.”

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.”

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“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 make-shift 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?”