Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (20 page)

In my head, I kicked myself in the ass—not an easy feat.
Don’t be so melodramatic, Emme.
It was one of the tougher voices in my head.
You never really wanted to be an investigative journalist anyway. You merely convinced yourself you ‘should’ be one. But it’s time you stop allowing the disappointments
of your past to dictate your future. There are lots of jobs out there. Meaningful jobs. Some even in the news business. You’ll find one. And until then, you can keep copying down recipes. It’s not so bad.
Shitty stood nearby.
It’s got to be better than cleaning sewers.
And with that, the voice fell silent, leaving me amazed by its perceptiveness.

As for the twins, they finished their performance to a rousing ovation before Margie caught their attention and urged them over with a wag of her finger.

By my calculation, the guys were twenty-two or twenty-three and lean but hard-bodied, most likely from physical labor out on the farm. Buddy wore a light-blue denim work shirt, slightly fitted but untucked, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Burnt Buford was dressed in a white cotton henley
. Both had barbed-wire tattoos around the mid-points of their left forearms and leather boots that peeked out from beneath their faded jeans. As I said, Buford wasn’t much to look at, but Buddy was handsome enough to help me and every other woman on the planet forget our troubles for more than a night.

“Hi, Margie,” Buddy said as Buford greeted his aunt with a mere bob of his head. Both men then locked eyes with me, the stranger in town.

“Boys, I want you to meet Emerald Malloy. She’s a reporter from the Minneapolis paper. She’s here to write about me and my recipes.”

“That’s cool,” Buford replied, blinking his lashless eyes at his aunt. “You’re going to make the paper without cutting off a limb or anything.”

“Oh, stop that,” Margie scolded with very little conviction. Buddy dismissed his aunt and his brother with a shake of his head and then shook my hand. His touch sent a chill up my arm, but he didn’t seem to notice, so I pretended I didn’t either. He simply went on to introduce himself and his burnt brother by saying, “Buford’s nice enough. But if he invites you to join him for a barbecue, you may want to decline.”

I giggled. That’s right. I giggled. “I’ve heard a lot about you two from your aunt, but she failed to tell me what incredible entertainers you are.” Yep, even when down on myself and out of sorts, I can rally long enough to flirt. Troubling but true.

“Well, we do what we have to,” Buddy answered, and his burnt brother added, “And I have to get me a beer. My throat’s parched.”

Margie stiffened and glared.

And that, in turn, led me to take a shot at lightening what I thought might quickly turn into a tense situation. As I said earlier, I don’t handle conflict very well. It causes me distress. And I didn’t need any more distress. “Um … I noticed you guys have groupies.” I nodded at the young women who’d been watching the twins up close during their performance. At present, they were lurking in a nearby corner. “Are your girlfriends among them?”

Buddy canted his head, “Doubt it. Last I saw, Buford’s girlfriend was sprawled out on the closet floor. She’d sprung a leak and was pretty much deflated.”

“Oh, bite me,” Buford growled.

And Margie scolded, “Enough!” Her voice was kind of frosty for August. “Now tell me, have you two eaten?”

“That’s where we’re headed right now,” Buddy replied. From his tone, I gathered this was a common line of questioning, and he knew exactly how to respond. “Jim has a roaster full of Wild Rice Hot Dish behind the bar, and we’re on our way to get some.”

“Along with a beer,” Buford added wryly, snapping and popping his fingers against the palm of his hand. “My throat’s so dry I swear it’s been on fire.”

With a groan, Buddy backhanded his brother before asking me, “You hanging around for a while?”

“Yeah, I’ll be here all night.”

“Good.” Buddy flashed me a half smile.

It was one of those crooked, sexy, bad-boy smiles, which should have appealed to me. I was usually drawn to bad boys. Remember Boo-Boo? But this time, I reacted differently. This time I felt a rumble of unease inside of me. At least I thought it was unease.

“That’s real good,” Buddy repeated. “Maybe we can dance later.”

More rumbling. It was unease all right. “Um … maybe.” I gulped down an amassing sense of dread and scanned the room for an out. Buddy Johnson was extremely handsome, and I loved to dance, but I didn’t want to dance with him. My instincts were advising me against it. And while I normally dismissed my instincts, I felt bound to listen to them in this instance.

That’s right. For the second time in a day, I was going along with my common sense. Maybe all my therapy was at last paying off. Maybe my emotions were beginning to catch up to my intellect. One could only hope.

But this wasn’t the time for speculation. I was busy. I was on a mission. I was intent on finding an excuse so I wouldn’t need to spend one-on-one time with Buddy Johnson.

Another peek at him, though, and I reconsidered. Dark, sun-kissed skin and a strong, chiseled jaw. Not to mention, a small cleft in his chin, undoubtedly a mark made by God to signify some of his better work. So tell me again, why shouldn’t I want to be alone with him?

The rumbling,
a little voice from inside my head reminded me.
The rumbling.

Oh, yeah. I turned away and pressed my eyes into action, permitting them to rest only after they’d accomplished their mission of finding me a way out of my current predicament. They circled the room once, then twice, finally perching on the empty stage. “Just one problem,” I said to Buddy, my finger pointed at the vacant platform, “no band.” I did my best to convey an air of disappointment, but it was difficult given I was filled with relief. “Sorry.”

He merely offered up another devil-may-care grin. “No need to apologize, Emerald.” Motioning to the back door, he added with a wink, “Here comes the band now.”

The door squeaked open, and a sense of foreboding welled up in my chest. “Oh, how lucky for us,” I replied with as much enthusiasm as a cat in a room full of rockers. It was one of my dad’s favorite sayings, but not even invoking his memory made me feel any better.

Several people bumped through the back door of the bar. They carried instrument cases, drums, and audio equipment.

“Well, I’ll be,” Margie said, “that’s Little Val and Wally’s band. They must be fillin’ in tonight.”

As the musicians meandered toward the stage, I noticed a young, dark-haired woman lugging a giant, encased, bass fiddle. “Is that … ?”

“Yah,” Margie replied, “that’s Rosa. And the blonde with the baby bump is Little Val.”

She went on to inform me that the man with the pinwheel bald spot and the Adam’s apple that looked like he’d swallowed the fruit whole was Wally, Little Val’s husband. The older guy with the nickel-gray pony tail, carting the bass drum, was Tom, the high school band director and husband to Barbie, the newspaper editor. And while the last guy looked familiar, I couldn’t place him until Margie reminded me that he was the mayor. I’d met him in the café when I first arrived in town. She explained that in addition to his civic duties, he played guitar in the band and, during the day, worked as an accountant.

After Buddy assured me he’d be back later—much to my chargin—the twins made a beeline for the bar. And about that same time, Barbie lumbered in, the door slamming behind her. She was weighted down by a bulky, black amplifier. It teetered in her arms until her husband came to her aid.

Pawning the piece of equipment off on him, she surveyed the place and ultimately proceeded in our direction.

Someone then hollered for Margie from the hallway, leading her to return to the café after assuring me she’d be back in a “jiffy.” Now, I’ve never known the length of a “jiffy” but was positive that under the circumstances, it was way too long for my liking, regardless of its measure. Considering how my earlier conversation with Barbie had ended, I had no desire to be alone with her again, no matter the length of time.

“Hello,” Barbie said, finger combing her spiked, cranberry hair.

Without pause, I replied, “Margie was called away but should be right back.”

“Well, I’m glad I caught you alone. I wanted to apologize.” Barbie clasped her hands together, her eyes remorseful looking, like those of a basset hound, a makeup-wearing basset hound. “I’m sorry I snapped at you this afternoon. It was rude of me.” She waved her arms for emphasis. “It’s just that when drumming up businesses and new residents for this area, I espouse the virtues of small-town living, high among them, the low crime rate. Talk of that murder undercuts my sales pitch.”

I was impressed by her candor. “I understand. I was only curious.” Okay, I wasn’t as forthcoming. Big deal. “I’m sure you can appreciate that, you being a journalist too.”

A slight nod suggested she did. “For quite some time after Samantha Berg’s body was discovered, I hounded everyone with questions.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her flip-flops still in place, her toenails painted the same dark red as her fingernails. “But after a while, I saw what my questions and the police investigation were doing to these folks. They were becoming suspicious of one another. Rumors were flying.” She flapped her arms. “It was ugly.”

I knew what she meant. In less than a day, I’d become dismayed and disappointed over how I was thinking about the people in this town, and I didn’t even know most of them.

“I realize my attitude may seem cold,” she acknowledged, “but the case was tearing this place apart, and we can’t have that. There’s so few of us up here, we have to stick together.”

She played with the glasses that hung from the gold chain around her neck, the pair on top of her head earlier now nowhere in sight. “Admittedly, when Samantha first vanished, I didn’t feel all that bad. I figured it was merely the cosmos restoring moral order. But after her body was discovered and everyone began finger pointing, I became disheartened. And by the time the police and the FBI finished their initial investigation, I just wanted life to return to normal. Most folks did. That’s why we vowed to put the whole mess behind us and move on.”

I reflected on that. “If that’s true, why did Margie open up about it to me?”

Barbie narrowed her eyes. “Her brother died a few weeks ago. It stirred up a lot of memories and emotions.” She tapped her index finger against her maroon-colored lips. “She’s working to make sense of everything that happened back then. She’s not sure about some of the views she held.”

“Really? She was pretty sure of herself when she spoke to me about those days. She made it abundantly clear that she loved Ole and his wife and hated Samantha Berg for coming between them.”

Barbie granted me a faint smile. “Well, she certainly wanted Ole and Lena to get back together and live happily ever after. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Because Lena died.” I was stating the obvious, but it seemed appropriate.

“That’s what Margie would like to believe. But I doubt it would have happened regardless. See, Lena loved Ole, but she told me more than once that love isn’t always enough.”

“So she was a tough broad too.” I meant to keep that comment to myself, but it somehow snuck out.

“I don’t know how tough she was.” Barbie pinned her gaze on something far away—or maybe long ago. “She died of a broken heart.”

Hmm. Margie had said the same thing. And it now caused me to wonder if I’d ever love someone so much that losing him would literally break my heart. My parents probably shared that kind of love. If they hadn’t perished together, the survivor may have succumbed to a broken heart. The idea was sweet and, at the same time, disturbing in a Romeo-and-Juliet sort of way. But more than that, it was immaterial since both my parents were already gone.

“Well, let’s concentrate on Ole,” I suggested, knowing I’d be steadier emotionally if I limited our conversation to subjects that wouldn’t instantly remind me of my own parents’ demise. “Why did he cheat on Lena in the first place? According to Margie, it was some kind of mid-life crisis. Is that what you think?”

Barbie gnawed on her bottom lip. “It’s possible. But I believe it was something else.”

“What exactly?”

She continued to bite her lip as if it were lunch. “Well, um …” she stammered, “Lena thought Ole might have been … um … sick.”

“Sick? With what?”

Red blotches formed on her neck. “A mental illness of sorts.”

“A mental illness that caused him to have an affair?” Skepticism was clearly registered in my voice.

“Of course not.” The blotches migrated to her cheeks. “At least not directly. But some of those illnesses can play havoc with a person’s judgment. If left unchecked, the results can be devastating.”

I wasn’t sure if I could buy what she was selling. “Why didn’t Margie mention any of this to me?”

She shifted her feet as if part of her wanted to walk away. “She’d never do that. I only knew because Lena and I were friends. She shared her suspicions with me because my husband has the same kind of problem she thought Ole had.” She peered at me, apparently attempting to gauge any further reaction on my part. Having no idea what to think, I didn’t express anything.