Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (16 page)

While listening, I selected a Chocolate Carmel Bar with lots of caramel drizzled on top, conveniently forgetting that only moments earlier I’d ordered myself to forgo any more sweets.

When finished talking, Margie chose one too. “I think these taste great with this wine,” she said, swishing the contents of her coffee cup. “But remember, you’re supposed to sip wine, not chug it, not even from a mug.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I uttered for lack of anything better to say. I was ashamed of my poor drinking prowess but not ashamed enough to abstain. I gulped more wine before taking a big bite of the thick, dessert bar.

Margie was right. The bar tasted delicious on the heels of the golden wine—like a chocolate-caramel truffle with kick.

After swallowing, I spoke in a throaty voice, my gullet clogged with rich chocolate. “Did Vern blame Samantha for Lena’s death?”

Apparently as amused by my eating as she’d been by my drinking, Margie smiled. “I suppose he blamed Samantha.” She stopped to reflect, several emotions passing over her face. “Although he was really mad at Ole too. Not so much over Lena’s death as the affair itself.”

“Oh?” I sucked caramel from my fingertips.

“Yah, Vern was furious that Ole took up with Samantha in the first place, and he never got over it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, after he found out about the affair, he gave up on bein’ friends with him.”

“Wait a second.” My fingers licked clean, I rested my hands in my lap. “I thought you said that when Ole left Samantha, he moved into a trailer out on Vern’s farm.”

“That’s right. Vern helped him out, but they weren’t close. Before the affair, they were more like brothers than brothers-in-law. They fished together and bowled and curled. Gosh, they even took a vacation to Alaska together. But after Ole moved in with Samantha, Vern wouldn’t hang out with him anymore.” She slowly tipped her head from one side to the other. “No, sir-ree, he couldn’t stand the thought of Ole bein’ with Samantha Berg.”

I absently patted my hand against the table, the tapping underscoring a number of questions. I wanted to know why Ole’s affair upset Vern so much. Was it only because of his brotherly love for Lena? Or was something else going on?

I stared at what was left of my Chocolate Caramel Bar. I longed to finish it. It tasted great, and as I might have mentioned, I think better when I eat. My editor routinely said I was the type of writer who “likes to chew things over.”

But contrary to what I’d assumed earlier, my stomach wasn’t eagerly awaiting a “chocolate-caramel truffle with a kick.” And now it was upset again and warning me against so much as another nibble. To keep peace, intestinally speaking, I pushed the chocolate treat aside.

Was it truly possible that, once upon a time, Vern had designs of his own on Samantha Berg? Well, that would certainly explain his strong reaction to Ole’s affair with her. He was jealous. And when Ole finally put an end to his relationship with the woman, Vern quite possibly began frequenting her house on his own behalf. Allegedly, he went there to stop her from harassing his niece, but maybe he was actually having an affair himself.

But if that were true, why kill her? It couldn’t have been in retaliation for Lena’s death. He wouldn’t have had an affair with her first. That would have been just too creepy. Nor would he have waited an entire year after Lena died to commit the crime. Moreover, he probably would have killed Ole too since Ole was just as much to blame as Samantha for the tryst that resulted in Lena’s failing health and ultimate death.

I drew a blank index card from the bottom of the pile and jotted down the recipe for Chocolate Caramel Bars. As I wrote, I grappled with a notion that was lurking around the edges of my consciousness: Stabbing someone, particularly in the heart, was an intimate crime. I recalled that from school. And Deputy Ryden had confirmed that the perpetrator in this case faced Samantha while thrusting the knife—or whatever the weapon was—into her chest. The killer stood close to her, mere inches away. He must have seen the terror in her eyes. Yet, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. With unbridled anger and overflowing adrenaline, he shoved the weapon through her ribs and lungs and into her heart. “Hmm.”

I was in the dark, although slowly, very slowly, understanding dawned on me. The murder of Samantha Berg was personal, an act of passion. There was no other reasonable explanation. And given that, the perpetrator was much more likely to be an enraged lover than a concerned uncle or distraught in-law.

It all made sense. Vern and Samantha were having an affair. They had to be, in spite of Margie’s belief that Vern would never do such a thing. And on that fateful night, the two of them were embroiled in a heated argument, quite possibly over Samantha’s threat to expose their relationship. Their exchange was emotionally charged. And at some point, Vern lost control, stabbed her, and with both of the hands he had back then, dumped her body in the Red River.

I allowed the air I’d been unknowingly holding to escape my lungs. There it was. Vern’s motive as well as his
modus operandi
. I had them both figured out. And that should have provided me with a sense of satisfaction. Which it did. For a second. But that satisfaction was quickly followed by major misgivings. Not about my presumption. I was confident that Vern was the killer. But I didn’t like being in agreement with the bag of mixed nuts known as the Anderson sisters. Nope, I didn’t like that one bit.

Margie unfolded herself from the booth and scuttled to the kitchen, where someone was hollering for help with cleanup. I was about to follow, thinking my head, a bit cloudy from wine and thoughts, might be well served if I moved the rest of my body. But before I could, Vivian slid into Margie’s seat.

“Hi, there.” She extended her hand and limply shook mine while scrutinizing me with cool detatchment. “I’m Vivian Olson, Margie Johnson’s younger sister.”

I smiled at how she emphasized the word “younger,” although I think she interpreted it as a sign that I was delighted to meet her. And while not “delighted,” I was admittedly interested. Remember, I wanted to learn the role she’d played, if any, in covering up Samantha Berg’s death.

“I heard you’re doin’ a story about Margie.” She snapped her gum while splaying her hands in front of her face. She looked as if inspecting her manicure was far more interesting than any response I might offer.

“That’s right.” I attempted to take her all in. It wasn’t easy.

Vivian Olson was on the near side of fifty and blonde, her hair helped—and I use that word loosely—with dye that left it all the same dull shade. It was sculpted into a French roll, bangs at rest on her frameless, rectangular glasses. Her eyes were similar to those of her sibling’s, but hers were dramatically made up with thick black liner, brown shadow, and lots of mascara. Her facial features, also like her sibling’s, were angular, but hers were much sharper, probably because she was rail thin, a condition undoubtedly exacerbated by her cigarette habit. The smell of tobacco clung to her despite a generous use of lilac-scented perfume.

In her arms, she cradled an ivory, satin-covered album, which she placed on the table and opened to the
click-clack
of her red acrylic bracelets. “First of all,” she said through a plastic smile, “I, myself, as does everyone else in town … Well, we think it’s just great about the article ’cause Margie’s worked hard these many years to progress this café and also makes good hot dishes and bars among oh so many other things. Not that the food is great, but it’s fillin’ though some should eat less even if she doesn’t charge much and rinses the meat and lets folks take some home for themselves or a party. And there too, I suppose that makes her deservin’ and a role model to them that haven’t been so blessed by showin’ each and every one what opportunities are there if they’re willin’ to work hard, though the café’s not all that busy most of the time, and caterin’ is hit and miss. Still, I keep remindin’ Marge she has to reach high and really stretch not only her hours but her menu options, not to mention her budget, to grab that there brass star, such as it is.”

Huh? My brain must have been malfunctioning. That’s all I could figure. Why else would Vivian sound so ridiculous? I hit the side of my head with the heel of my hand in an effort to realign the mental spark plugs that must have been misfiring.

“And sometimes,” she proceeded to say in the same screechy voice, only louder now to drown out the clatter of the dishes in the kitchen, “special occasions call for somethin’ more special than bars, not that there’s anythin’ wrong with bars, oh gosh no, but that’s where I come in if I’m so blessed to do so, even though I don’t work at the café.” Her eyes darted around the room, as if she were talking to an audience—an audience partial to Pig-Latin or some other form of gibberish. “See,” she said, pointing to the plastic-covered pictures in her album, “I make special-occasion cakes to help shore up the menus for those special occasions and also for other things.”

Her voice and speech were quickly becoming too much to bear. If hitting my head had helped, I still would have been banging away. As it was, all I could do was cringe when she opened her mouth again. The grating tone. The complete disregard for syntax.

“Also,” she went on to say, “it’s an honor for me to be a small part of those special occasions, offerin’ best wishes in the best way I know how for those lucky enough to be celebratin’ there.”

While cracking her gum, she arched her brows and gently rubbed her red, bobble necklace between her thumb and tobacco-stained index finger. It was an obvious attempt at conveying an air of elegance. It failed.

Her cakes, however, were anything but failures. The confirmation cake pictured in her book was decorated like the Bible, complete with gilt-edged pages and a frosting cross emblazoned on the cover. And the retirement cake on the opposite page was shaped like a golf cart, a bag of frosted clubs leaning out the back.

“Mind you,” she continued, “these cakes are edible, I’m proud to say, usin’
the best ingredients and makin’ them in my kitchen, from scratch, to yours.”

“Well,” I managed to utter, “they
certainly are pretty.”

She pulled her shoulders back and stuck out her flat chest. She then paged through the album with one skeletal hand while using the other to play with her red, dangle-ball earrings. Directing her remarks to her imaginary audience—the one versed in gibberish—she spoke in circles about basket-weave piping, gum-paste flowers, and tier separators.

“You betcha,” she said at some point, “if I’d known you were comin’, I would of baked a cake.” She cackled. “And, also, I could of gotten together a small picture book to look at and for you to take on back there to the Twin Cities if you were so inclined to present my cakes. As it was, I could only hurry home and grab my big album, as you can see here. Although I have half a mind …”

No truer words were ever spoken. I pinched my thigh and reminded myself to be nice.

“Vivian, your cakes are beautiful, but I was assigned to gather recipes for the kind of food served at church functions.”

She fluttered her gunked-up, spider-like lashes and cracked her gum some more. Ever since high school, I’d hated gum. And the sound of hers popping put me on edge.

“Well, my cakes are served at all kinds of church functions—weddings, baptisms.”

“Vivian, I mean I’m after recipes for the kind of food served at … um … funerals.”

She grinned, and because of her sunken cheeks, the grin truly stretched from ear to ear. “I’ve done a few funeral cakes too.”

She flipped through her album until reaching a page near the back. Then, with a long, pink-painted fingernail, she tapped against a picture of a cake designed like an elaborate marble headstone. The deceased’s name as well as the dates of birth and death were etched in black icing.

“These folks, who ordered this cake here, were real proud of the marker they designed for their mother, after dyin’ of colon cancer, and wantin’ a cake to match.” I visualized her—Vivian, not the dead woman—with duct tape over her mouth. But somehow, she kept on talking. “Of course I did my darndest to give it to ’em, balancin’ good taste and keepin’ that in mind along the way.”

She clapped her hands together. “Get it? Good taste? And I’m referrin’ to cake?” She cackled again, this time ending with a snort. “If ya want, ya can use that there line in your article.”

“Thanks.” My right eye began to twitch. “I just don’t think my editor will accept cake recipes.” I held my eyelid shut with the tip of my finger. “He’s more interested in food … well, in the kind of food served here tonight.”

“Oh.” Vivian’s shoulders drooped, her plastic smile cracked, and a sharp pain penetrated my chest even though I assured myself I had no reason to feel bad for Vivian Olson. She was the one annoying me, for God’s sake. Because of her, my eye was twitching like I was using it to send Morse code. What’s more, I didn’t need to take pity on someone possibly mixed up in murder. Which reminded me, I had questions to ask.

True, Vivian was unlikely to answer them. And even if she did, I probably wouldn’t understand a word she said. Still, I had to ask. And because I’d have a better shot at getting her to drop her guard if she liked me, I weighed my options while pretending to wipe dirt from my jeans.

Cake recipes on the one hand. Information on the other. If I agreed to a few recipes over which I made no publishing decisions anyway—though she didn’t need to know that—she might say something pertinent to the case.