Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (11 page)

It seemed like overkill to me. Again, no pun intended. I knew the identity of the murderer and wanted to let the deputy know I knew. But more than that, I wanted to be considered a “serious” journalist. So I asked what I was supposed to ask, pointless as it seemed. “Deputy Ryden, is it conceivable that Samantha Berg was abducted on her way to the bar? By a stranger? Someone just passing through town?”

The deputy wiped his mouth with the back of his closed fist. “Call me Randy.”

“Well, Randy? What do you think?”

Again, he sighed. He did that a lot.

“Samantha lived out back,” he said, “in a small rental house on the other side of the alley, twenty yards from the rear entrance of the bar. There’d be no reason for a stranger to be back there. But if some guy was, he would have been spotted. People from town use the alley all the time.” He took a three-beat rest. “And if she’d been grabbed, Jim and the folks in the bar would have heard her scream. No band was playing that night. The place was quiet. And Samantha had a big mouth. Yet no one heard a thing.”

I propped my elbows on the table and rested my chin on my palms as I mulled over his remarks. See? I could also be a “contemplative” journalist. “What if the guy stabbed her right away? From behind? Then she wouldn’t have had a chance to scream.” I was doing my utmost to remain open minded—or at least give that impression.

“She faced her killer. We know that from the tests done on her chest wound. As for the blood? Someone would have noticed it that night or right away the next morning.”

“Not if it got covered by the snow.”

He rolled his eyes. “A killer’s not going to stab someone and stop to shovel snow over the blood.”

I shot him a cold, hard look. He deserved no less for being rude. “I meant it might have snowed later in the evening. Or the wind may have picked up and caused the snow to drift.”

The corners of his mouth drooped. “Sorry about that. You’re right, it did snow, but we only got a dusting. And while the wind regularly blows hard up here, it wasn’t strong enough that night to move all the snow necessary to cover the blood that would have flowed from that wound. It was a nasty one.”

I tried to maintain my glower. He’d been rude, and I didn’t want to let him off the hook too easily. But when it came to eyes, I was no match for Randy Ryden. His eyes were hypnotizing. At that precise moment, they had me imagining I was swimming in a pool of melted chocolate. And it’s damn hard to glower while floating in chocolate. “Well, um …” I stuttered, “is it possible she was murdered elsewhere?”

Unlike me, the deputy spoke without sputtering. “It’s possible. Even probable. We just don’t have any evidence along those lines.”

The deputy then put his coffee cup to his lips, providing me the opportunity to take control of the conversation. And for that, I was thankful. Because I’d become increasingly distracted by the man, I prayed that by talking more about the case, I’d avoid going completely ga-ga over him.

“Deputy Ryden … I mean Randy, based on what you said, the person who killed Samantha Berg must have been someone who didn’t prompt her to scream. Someone she left with voluntarily and on the spur of the moment.” I made an effort to read him, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t give much up. Though after a few minutes, I thought I saw a flicker of what I’d hoped to find. “That’s it, isn’t it? I was right!”

He set his cup down. “What do you mean, you were right?”

I folded my hands studiously. “Well, to my way of thinking, Samantha Berg was killed by someone she knew well. Someone with ties to both her and Lena Johnson. That makes the most sense given she disappeared exactly one year to the day after Lena’s death.”

He raked his top teeth over his bottom lip. “If that’s what you suspected, why all these questions?”

“Just covering my bases.”

He smiled a lopsided smile, as if he couldn’t help himself. “Well, most likely, you’re right, Sherlock. But since no one’s been arrested, let’s move on.”

“No! Not yet.” Sure, I had to be cautious. I didn’t want him any more suspicious about what I was up to than he already was. But questions remained, the most important being, did Ole Johnson kill Samantha Berg? While I knew the answer, I still needed verification.

Granted, the deputy was unlikely to come right out and finger Ole given that he and his police buddies never even arrested him, which raised a bunch of other questions. But they would have to wait. First thing’s first.

I fiddled with my napkin as I deliberated my approach. What was the best way to get the deputy to verify my murder theory?

The longer I thought about it, the more convinced I became—or the more I convinced myself—that I’d have the greatest chance of obtaining the affirmation I sought if I took a circuitous route. Certainly the road less traveled for me—the woman with an expressway between her brain and her mouth—but what the hell. “Tell me, Randy, do you have any theories of your own about Samantha Berg’s death?”

He squirmed. “It doesn’t really matter what I think.”

I dropped my napkin and sat up straight. “Yes, it does. Please tell me. I’d really like to know.” I was being extremely professional, and for that, I gave myself a couple mental pats on the back.

“Like I said, my personal opinion doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, but it does.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does. So please tell me. Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on it” I clasped my hand over my mouth.
Pretty please with sugar on it? Did I just say that? Ugh!

The deputy leaned back and, with his lips twisted in amusement, stretched his arms high above his head.

I was terribly embarrassed. Yet, when he lowered his arms, I still managed to admire how nicely his beefy shoulders filled out his uniform. Double ugh!

“We never had more than a handful of suspects.”

“Such as?” I squeaked out, my throat now tight with shame. At least I assumed it was shame. Although it may have been something else, like lusty desire. That sometimes made my throat tight too.

The deputy failed to answer me. Rather, he snatched one of two different bars from the edge of his plate, bit into it, and licked his lips. “Mmm, these are good. You should try them.”

My throat just about closed up completely. Yep, it was desire, all right. And it forced me to cut to the chase. If I wanted to be regarded as a serious journalist, I couldn’t wait for this guy to disclose what he knew about the case. Our lazy back-and-forth allowed too much down time—time for him to lick his lips and the devil in me to concoct all kinds of ideas—some of them real doozies. At present, for instance, it was trying to convince me to climb over the table and jump the nice officer’s bones.

“Okay … um. Well, um … I’ll start.” I coughed in an effort to clear my hormone-clogged throat. “Ole Johnson … Well, he … um … seems to be the most logical suspect.”

Deputy Ryden didn’t utter a word, choosing instead to give all his interest to his Halfway Bar.

I knew it was a Halfway Bar because I’d asked Margie about them when I was arranging the dessert platters. She’d pointed out that while a Halfway Bar was similar to a Blondie, a Halfway Bar was topped with a brown-sugar meringue.

His looked moist and delicious. And when he popped the last of it into his mouth, I couldn’t help but wonder which would taste better, the bar or the man?

Okay. Okay. As a professional, I was—and no doubt remain—a work in progress.

Deputy Ryden glanced around the room, greeting folks with a slight nod of his head or lift of his finger. If the number of smiles he received in return were any indication, the people of Kennedy liked him just fine, even if they didn’t consider him one of their own.

Following his hellos, he turned back to me and said, “The night Samantha Berg disappeared Ole was covering for Margie here in the café.”

“He could do that? The way he drank?”

“He wasn’t drinking then. He quit following some problem at the fair and didn’t start again until after Samantha went missing.”

“Don’t you find that suspicious?”

The deputy started in on his second dessert selection, a Special-K Bar. “What I’m trying to tell you is that Ole had an alibi.” He worked his treat into his cheek. “Samantha vanished sometime after Jim talked to her but before he checked to see why she didn’t show up at the bar.”

My mouth went dry. “And Ole?”

“He was here in the café all evening—until close to eleven.”

“Oh.” I swear I heard the sound of my new-found career as a top-notch investigative journalist getting flushed down the toilet.

“Don’t be disappointed. He was a nice guy.”

“I’m sure he was.” I inhaled a shaky breath. “It’s just that when Margie told me about the murder, I might have implied … um … that Ole was the most logical suspect.”

“You said that?”

I rearranged my silverware. “Well, not in those exact words.” Specifically, I moved my spoon over a fraction of an inch. “But based on what she told me …”

The deputy leaned forward, touched my hands, and a bolt of electricity shot up my arm. “That’s not how you make friends, Emerald.”

I dropped my fork. “Very funny.” Not much of a retort, but I wasn’t in the mood for creative thinking. What’s more, Deputy Ryden’s touch had not only shocked my hand, it had short-circuited my brain. It felt like forever before I could say anything at all, and then it was only to repeat myself. “You’re sure you can account for Ole?”

The deputy relaxed against the back of the booth. “Most of the night, he was playing cards with those three.” He motioned to John Deere, his friend, and Shitty. “And they’re as honest as the winter nights up here are long.”

Frustration washed over me, and the deputy took note. “Sorry, I hope Ole’s innocence won’t dampen your enthusiasm for the news business.”

What a smart-ass! A very handsome smart-ass, but a smart-ass nonetheless.

He lowered his head and peered into my eyes. “You don’t take teasing very well, do you?”

Since the question was rhetorical, I didn’t answer.

“Next,” he continued, “you’ll probably accuse the Anderson sisters of the crime because they can wield a crowbar. At least the older two can.”

He was having a lot of fun at my expense, and I didn’t appreciate it. Usually I was a pretty good sport, but disappointment had taken its toll on my disposition.

“And you, Deputy Ryden, can be a pain in the butt.”

A smile played around his lips. “I guess I can be, especially when I’d rather be talking about something else—like you.”

Nice recovery
. That’s what I said in the solitude of my brain. Out loud, I merely promised to “end the inquisition” if he answered “one last question.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. I imagined he was debating whether to stay or run for the hills, which, given the local landscape, would have been far, far away. “Okay,” he eventually said, opting for the former, at least for the moment, “what’s your ‘last’ question?”

I sat up straight. “If Ole Johnson didn’t kill Samantha Berg, who did?”

I wanted to believe I had asked solely out of concern for the deceased. But I knew my own desperation played a role too. When I thought Ole was guilty, I felt as if I were on my way, professionally speaking. Admittedly, I was moving in the wrong direction, but at least I was moving. Having experienced that, I wasn’t crazy about returning to a job that revolved around food and recipes but didn’t look to be leading anywhere else anytime soon. Nor did I want to wait for my editor to decide when I was ready for a decent assignment. I had a good story right here. And I was determined to pursue it.

Yes, from this point forward, I was going to take control of my life. I wasn’t going to leave it to chance or allow someone else to dictate it. Barbie’s words had niggled at me. And I’d come to a decision. I would no longer “live by default.” I’d live my life on my terms. And I’d start now.

The deputy laid his hands, palms down, on the table. “I’ve told you about a hundred times, Emerald, no one ever got arrested.”

“I know, I know.” His evasiveness was beginning to wear on me. “But you must have some ideas. What do you think? Was it Jim, the man who discovered Samantha missing? Do you think he killed her?”

“No. He was back from her house in less than two minutes, madder than hell that she’d taken off after promising to sub for him. And he showed no sign of a struggle.”

“Well, I’m certain it was someone who could handle a knife and, considering the date, someone with ties to both Samantha and Lena. So what do you think? Was it Margie?”

I hated to offer her up. She was my host, and I really liked her. But I had no choice. Because of her prowess with kitchen knives and her hatred for Samantha, she was a potential murder suspect, and I was intent on hunting down the murderer, whomever it might be. I had to. For the sake of my career. I stopped, knowing I was forgetting something but having no idea what. One second passed and then another before it came to me. Justice. That’s right. I was seeking justice too.

“Emerald, it doesn’t matter what I think,” the deputy said in response to my insistence.

“Oh, come on.”