Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (19 page)

“If I had a beer,” Margie jokingly whimpered, “I’d cry in it.”

“But, believe me,” he added, sans the accent, “there’s nothing here beyond that story or the one you’re writing about this old crow.” He hooked his thumb in Margie’s direction. “No, there’s nothing else worth reporting about from Kennedy.”

He peered at me, his eyes unnerving. “And whatever you do,” his voice equally unsettling, “don’t give a whit of credence to any if the cockamamie stories the Anderson sisters might tell you, especially about Vern.”

He leaned forward, and I slunk back.

“A few years ago,” he continued, “there was a homicide here, and those three actually started a rumor that Vern had committed it.”

“That’s not quite right.” Margie worked her jaw. “They reported he was at Samantha’s house the night she disappeared. Which was true.”

“Those old scallywags insinuated a whole lot more, and you know it.” Father Daley’s gaze only brushed Margie’s face before returning to mine. “Because of them, Vern was subjected to countless interrogations. His home was searched. So was his car. It got so bad he voluntarily took a polygraph just to get the cops off his back. Sure, it proved what we knew all along—that he was innocent—but it took a lot out of the guy. Thank God he’s resilient.”

“What did you say?” I needed him to repeat himself because I couldn’t believe my ears.

“He’s resilient.”

“No, before that.”

“I said Vern was innocent. He had absolutely nothing to do with that woman’s death.”

He went on talking, but I didn’t hear a thing except the pounding of my heart. It grew louder in direct proportion to my anger. Soon I was so livid I was certain that both the priest and Margie could hear every furious beat. Those old bitties had used me! They’d accused Vern of murder, knowing he was innocent. And they’d used me!

My thoughts were scattered, and I knew I had to gather them up. To think clearly, I also had to set my emotions aside. But I couldn’t. Three stale nuts had lied about Vern previously, and now they had done it again. Only this time, they’d involved me!

Spots jumped in front of my eyes, and I could only stare at Father Daley until they faded. I had questions for him, and when my eyes finally cleared and my pulse returned to a more natural rhythm, I opened my mouth to ask them. But all attempts at speech failed. I’d been struck dumb yet again. Or, more accurately, I’d been dumb for a while—at least since meeting the Anderson sisters.

I inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, and waited. At last, when I could think straight, I first considered what I wanted to do to the Anderson sisters. No point in going into details. And, after that, I focused on how calculating the old ladies were.

Following Samantha Berg’s death, they must have dangled Vern in front of law enforcement. And when the cops refused to bite, they had no choice but to wait. Three years later, when I came to town, the old girls cast him out again, this time, in my direction. They wiggled their lines but didn’t overplay them. If anything, they held back some. “Emme, we don’t know if it would be prudent to say who we think killed Samantha.” Yep, they held back just enough to convince me they were on to something.

But did they really dislike Vern and his family so much that they wanted him arrested for a crime he didn’t commit? Apparently so. And if they couldn’t get him arrested, did they truly hope to get a damning newspaper article published about him? Evidently. And who was the fool who was supposed to make all that happen? Well, that would be me.

I gritted my teeth. I was enraged and mortified at the same time. The plunge from dogged conviction to abject humiliation had been swift but anything but painless. The fact is both my chest and my feelings hurt something awful.

“
But you deserve it,” I mumbled. “You can be such a guppy at times!” I leaned back and stared down at my Size 10 feet while pulling at my orange hair. Guppy, hell, I was a damn clown fish!

Part Three - Combine the Meat and Noodles and Mix in the Soup and Seasonings

After Father Daley returned to the bar, Margie and I sat alone in our booth in the cafe. We didn’t say much. Margie knew nothing about my theory regarding Vern, so she wasn’t upset with me for suspecting him of murder. She was simply quiet.

As for me? Well, I was still smarting from being bamboozled by the Anderson sisters. I didn’t want to believe that three old ladies had taken me for a ride. But I guess they had. I saw no evidence of anyone else in the car.

I longed to hold the old girls accountable for everything that had happened, though I knew I had to assume some of the blame. The people of Kennedy had been nice to me. Yet I had wasted no time accusing them, one after another, of being murderers, accessories after the fact, or otherwise in cahoots. Margie was my host, for God’s sake, but even that hadn’t stopped me from offering her up as a suspect. Yep, I too was responsible for what had happened and how lousy I felt. No doubt about it, self-awareness can be a bitch.

For years, I had dreamed of becoming a big-time investigative reporter. And when I came to Kennedy, I got my chance, only to discover I wasn’t any good at it. Or more to the point, I wasn’t any good at mistrusting people. And that posed a problem since mistrust—or, at a minimum, cynicism—seemed to be a job requirement. And in all probability, my deficit in that regard had led me to get sucked in by the Anderson sisters.

Yep, just one more addition to the list of “Investigative Skills I Lack.” I could pencil it in right below “patience.” As I said before, my deficiency in that area undoubtedly explained my earlier rush to judgment regarding Ole.

I shuffled in my seat, attempting to refrain from sliding any farther into the funk developing like quicksand all around me. Believing in people and being spontaneous weren’t bad traits. I tossed that line around in my head as if it were a tow rope, meant to pull me back from the brink of despair. It didn’t work. The rope must have snapped.

Overtaken by melancholy and out of similes to describe how I felt, I sought relief by doing what I do best. Or, rather, second best. I chased my worries away. Of course I would have preferred to bury them under a mountain of brownies, but I didn’t spot any or possess the emotional strength to go in search of them. So, instead, I settled for banishing all negative thoughts. That’s right, Scarlett O’Hara had nothing on me. Well, nothing other than a plantation, two guys who loved her, and an eighteen-inch waist.

With my heart riding low in my chest, I distracted myself with the signs on the wall above my booth. The first, crudely written in thick, black marker, advertised a local farmer’s need for truck drivers for the upcoming beet harvest. Perhaps I’d quit journalism, learn to drive a truck, and apply for the job. But what about after harvest? Then what?

I moved on, noting I wasn’t much of a Scarlett O’Hara.

The next sign, professionally produced, displayed red letters against a multi-colored background. It announced that the County Center for the Arts was to present
The Sound of Music
the following week.

I hated
The Sound of Music
. I saw the movie for the first and only time while attending Our Lady of Perpetual Light Middle School, where Sister Grace was my music teacher and idol.

She was intelligent and beautiful and very godly. In my opinion back then, she was the epitome of sisterhood and the antitheses of Julie Andrews’s movie character, who went so far as to break her vows just to marry Mr. Von Trapp. And Margie thought Samantha Berg was a tramp!

I stared at the poster. Maybe I should join a convent. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about a career or romance. I’d simply do whatever I was told and take lots of cold showers.

Yeah, like that would work. More than likely there wouldn’t be enough well water for all the showers I’d need. And on my first day, Mother Superior would probably issue an order, and I’d ask a bunch of questions and end up in trouble, just like in high school.

In truth, I really didn’t do anything terribly wrong in high school. Mostly, I just questioned things—a lot. When I was younger, my parents encouraged it. But after I got older and my folks were no longer around, my curiosity was often seen as annoying. At times, extremely annoying.

On second thought, perhaps I’d be better off establishing my own convent. Then I could dig an extra deep well and wouldn’t have to take orders from anyone else. Yeah, I could buy a cheap house here in Kennedy and call it “Our Lady of the Arctic.”

The bar erupted in cheers, putting an end to my tongue-in-cheek musing. Two men had begun to sing Mac Davis’s “Oh, Lord, It’s Hard to Be Humble,” prompting Margie to set her cup on the table, a look of unexpected delight on her face. “Buford and Buddy must be here,” she said. “That’s their theme song, ya might say.” She eased from the booth and brushed the front of her tee-shirt. “Come on. Let’s go watch ’em.”

Not waiting for a response, she hurried toward the hall, and I had no choice but to angle from my seat and trail after her.

*

We passed two bathrooms and a coatroom before entering a banquet room reminiscent of a church basement. Like the hallway, the banquet room was paneled in faux wood, with florescent lights hanging from the dingy, acoustical-tiled ceiling. At the back, adults sat around long tables, alternating between eating and scolding their children. For the most part, the kids disregarded what they were being told in favor of pushing metal folding chairs across the vinyl floor and spilling paper cups of lemonade. Up front, Buddy and Buford sang on a slightly elevated stage, while three young women watched starry-eyed from a small, hardwood dance floor that flowed into the bar.

Margie mouthed that the young man stage right was Buddy, and the other was Buford, though her help with identification wasn’t necessary. Buddy had a shock of wavy, dark hair with thick eyebrows to match, while Buford was evidently attempting to hide his bald head beneath a faded, purple, Minnesota Vikings’ baseball cap. As for the scaly patches of burnt skin on his cheeks or his lack of eyebrows? Well, there was no hiding that. Yes, for the time being anyhow, Buddy was movie-star handsome, while Buford had a face only a mother or, in this case, an aunt could love.

Appearances aside, the twins were equal in their enthusiasm. Both sang with gusto. “Oh, Lord, it’s hard to be humble, when you’re perfect in every way. I can’t wait to look in the mirror ’cause I get better lookin’ each day.” That last line led the women in front of the stage and most of the folks bellied up to the bar to cheer wildly until Buford removed his cap and bowed. When the noise died down, the duo sang on, their voices surprisingly full and controlled. “To know me is to love me. I must be one hell of a man.” And nearly everyone in the place joined in for the refrain, “Oh, Lord, it’s hard to be humble, but I’m doing the best that I can.”

As the boys moved on to the second verse, I let my eyes stray. While in the bar earlier, I’d been on a mission to calm my nerves after “visiting” with Vivian. A daunting task. As a result, I hadn’t paid any attention to my surroundings. But now I saw that the bar was a cavernous place, punctuated only by the light fixture above the pool table and the neon beer signs affixed to the dark, wood walls. It also smelled of stale beer and cigarettes.

Smoking has been banned in Minnesota bars and restaurants for years, but I suspected the “V” wasn’t very strict about enforcement. Or maybe it was, but smoke from the past had penetrated the walls and furnishings so deeply that the place would always smell like … well, a bar.

My gaze came to rest on John Deere, his pal, and Shitty, the three of them perched on stools along the glossy, L-shaped counter, their feet resting on a tarnished, brass rail. They were visiting with Jim, the banker/VFW manager/bartender, who was far too busy mixing drinks and opening beer bottles to add much to the conversation.

On the short end of the counter, a woman sat alone and spoke to no one as she added to the pile of discarded pull tabs in front of her. My thoughts turned to the little Nelson girls, and a lump of disgust lodged in my throat. I looked away.

The Donaldson brothers were on the opposite end of the room, one of them hunched over the pool table, racking the balls for their next game. Behind them, Father Daley sat at a table shrouded in darkness. He was playing cards with three guys I couldn’t make out. And next to him stood an odd-looking character. It took some squinting on my part, but I finally recognized the “character” as the life-size, wooden, Precious Moments’ minister Margie had told me about. The one her sister, Vivian, had made for Little Val’s wedding.

I pointed out my find, leading Margie to bend her head in my direction. She then raised her voice above the din to say, “Father Daley jokes that they’re friends. He brings him out of the coatroom whenever he’s here.” She lifted her head only to angle it toward me again. “The wooden bride and groom are still in there.” She nodded toward the coatroom. “Before the night’s through, they’ll be arranged in all kinds of positions, some of which would even make Dr. Ruth blush. All courtesy of Buddy and Buford.”

I chuckled, noting I felt a whole lot better. Sure, I’d been played for a fool by the Anderson sisters, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Yes, they’d hurt my pride. And, yes, I now was fully aware that the career of my dreams would never be anything more than that—a dream not to be realized. But the day could have turned out a whole lot worse. I could have gone public with my suspicions regarding Vern. That would have really sucked. That would have been downright God-awful.