Free Hell Hath No Curry by Tamar Myers Page B

didn’t.”
    “But I was going to,” I wailed. I know, I’ve promised to lay off the wailing, but sometimes I have no choice.
    Alison regarded me with eyes the color of her father’s, my erstwhile bogus husband. They are a bewitching blue, and I think there should be a law against them.
    “So, can I go over to Jimmy’s?”
    I cleared my throat several times. It’s a trick I learned, after becoming a pseudo-mom. It gives me a little extra time to think.
    “Jimmy? I thought we settled that. I mean, I thought he—
    uh—was interested in someone else.”
    “Yeah, but he dumped her, and now he wants to date me again.”
    “You are too young to date. And Jimmy is too old for you.
    Alison, we’ve been through this a million times.”
    “Okay, no need to get your panties in a bunch. Can I go with ya, then?”
    “Too late, dear, I’m engaged. You should have asked sooner.”
    The beguiling blues widened for a second, and then she burst out laughing. “Good one, Mom. No, I want to go detecting with ya.”
    “ Excuse me?”
    “Auntie Freni says you’re working your tuchas off on a new case, and since I don’t have school this afternoon, I want to come with ya to watch ya grill your suspects.”
    “Freni actually said tuchas ? Where did she learn that?”
    “Same place you did: Grandma Ida.”
    “She is not your grandmother! Not yet, at any rate.”
    “So, how about it? Can I come?”
    To tell the truth, I was immensely flattered. From what I’ve 68 Tamar
    Myers
    heard, most fourteen-year-old girls wouldn’t be caught dead hanging around their mothers. Perhaps I was doing a better job than I thought.
    “I don’t grill anyone; I merely put the screws to a few deserving individuals—oh, all right, you can come. But you have to be quiet. No interrupting me with questions, or touching their stuff.”
    “Deal.”
    “And try not to lean against their walls either, and if they ask you to sit, don’t throw yourself on the chairs or couches. Lower yourself properly, like a lady.”
    “Yeah, yeah, whatever. So who are ya going to screw over first?”
    “ Excuse me?”
    “Them’s your words, Mom, not mine.”
    I was in for a long day.
    Thelma Unruh, the natural blonde, lived the closest, but I decided to pick my victims alphabetically. Besides, Caroline Sha lives on the tippy-top of Buffalo Mountain, where the views are stunning.
    Hopefully, a drive up the mountain would lift my spirits. Who knows, I might even burst into a spontaneous rendition of “Climb Every Mountain,” one of the few secular songs to which I know the words.
    As we twisted and turned up the narrow road that led to the old Sha homestead, I had a field day sharing the sights with my foster daughter. The fact that Alison seemed genuinely impressed was an unexpected blessing.
    “We don’t have nothing like this in Minnesota,” she said. “At least not where my parents live.”
    “This is where our ancestors lived for generations, dear. This land is your land. See the valley there? Your great-great-great-great-great-grandfathers and grandmothers settled it almost two hundred years before you were born.”
    HELL HATH NO CURRY
    69
    “Did they chase off the Indians?”
    “Of course not, dear; they were pacifists. They let others chase them off. A generation earlier, two of your direct ancestors were captured by the Delaware tribe and adopted as full-fledged members.”
    “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