Hell Hath No Curry by Tamar Myers Page A

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
    Myers
    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.”
    HELL HATH NO CURRY
    73
    “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