Hell Hath No Curry by Tamar Myers

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?”
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    “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 HELL HATH NO CURRY
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    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 Burkholders 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 eye-sore. The town council has