Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (24 page)

As I stepped outside, I found that night had settled in. The air was cool and filled with the smell of freshly cut grass, while the sky was veiled in northern lights, a pleated curtain of pale colors that repeatedly intensified before floating down to the horizon.

“Aurora Borealis,” I stated, taking in the heavenly sight. “I’ve never seen them in person. Too many lights in the Cities.” I dropped my head back. “They’re spectacular.”

The deputy remained silent until I lifted my head, and our eyes met. “Yeah, very pretty,” he replied, making me glad it was dark because my cheeks undoubtedly pinked up after realizing he wasn’t referring to the sky. At least I didn’t think he was.

Breaking eye contact, he then strolled across the parking lot behind the bar, me stepping alongside him and the gravel crunching beneath our shoes.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said. “I didn’t want you to leave town thinking I was a jerk.” He paused, possibly to give me a chance to assure him he wasn’t, but I remained mum, and soon he heaved an audible sigh. “Well, I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m sorry for being so rough on you at dinner.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say that the investigation into Samantha Berg’s death has been hard on everyone around here. I don’t like talking about it. When the subject comes up, I can get kind of grouchy.”

He took our walk to the street, seemingly working through something, so I clamped my mouth shut to keep from disturbing him. “You know,” he said after we passed the gas station, already closed for the night, “during that time, folks got so they didn’t trust anyone around here, including those of us in law enforcement.”

The hair on the back of my neck bristled.

“Some acted as if we didn’t care about solving the case,” he said. “Can you believe that?”

It was more of an indignant statement than question, so I didn’t feel it was necessary to answer.

“And others thought we were covering for certain people.” He combed his hands through his hair in an unmistakable act of frustration. “Things are finally back to normal, and I’d like them to stay that way.” He stopped for a second or two. “That’s why I’d rather not talk about it. That’s not to say we don’t follow up on the new leads we get. We do. We just don’t broadcast it. That way folks don’t get all riled up.”

A couple strolled by, headed in the opposite direction, undoubtedly destined for the bar. Where else? The rest of town was buttoned up tight.

Deputy Ryden greeted them with a mumbled, “Hello,” and a dip of his head.

When they were well past, I spoke, determined to say what was on my mind and, in the process, pardon myself for maligning Deputy Ryden and his colleagues for what I had suspected was a lack of dedication. “I don’t know about anyone else, but you can’t be surprised by my curiosity. I’m a reporter. And if I seemed suspicious of you or you got the impression that I questioned the integrity of your investigation, it’s your own fault.”

“My fault?” Our walk had become a series of starts and stops, and my remark yielded an immediate halt.

“Yeah. You were so closed-mouthed, what did you expect?”

I knew I was being unfair. I also knew this tactic was effective. I had learned it from Boo-Boo, the master of shifting blame and, thus, easing his own guilty conscience. Whenever I caught him in a lie, he’d turn things around until I was apologizing to him.

“Well, if you think I’m going to tell you that I’m sorry for being closed-mouthed about a police matter, Emerald, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Evidently, Deputy Ryden didn’t understand how this strategy was supposed to work.

“And on top of that,” he said, “I think you should be up front with these folks about the story you’re writing.”

I held up my hands. “I’m not—”

“They’re decent. They deserve honesty.”

I waved my hands in front of his face. “But I’m not doing a story.”

He furrowed his brow. “What?”

“I’m not writing about the murder.”

He appeared suspicious. “Really?”

I crossed my heart with my finger. “I swear.” A gentle breeze stirred my hair, and I brushed it away from my face. “I’ll admit I was planning to. But that was before it became clear that I don’t possess the right temperament for investigative reporting. I just don’t like questioning people.”

His eyebrows shot skyward. And for a second, I thought they might actually rocket right off his face.

“Okay, okay, I like asking questions. But today I realized, or finally acknowledged to myself, I don’t like questioning people’s integrity.”

He began moseying down the street, and I followed. “You don’t have to doubt everyone to be an effective investigator,” he assured me.

“That may be true, but I can’t seem to turn it off. And it makes me feel mean and stupid.”

His gaze remained fixed on the road. “Stupid? How?”

I laughed hesitantly. “Remember how I was convinced that Ole had murdered Samantha Berg?” I caught up to him.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, he wasn’t the only one I suspected.”

He tilted his head my way. “And?”

“And I was wrong again and again and again. And I don’t like being wrong. It makes me feel stupid.”

He looked my way and smiled just enough so I could see the lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes. They made him look pretty damn sexy. “Well, um …” he said, “that probably wouldn’t happen so often if you weren’t so quick to make judgments.” On second thought, maybe he wasn’t all that sexy.

“It’s not my fault. I can’t help it.”

He stopped in his tracks, a contrite expression on his face. “What I meant to say is that investigative work requires lots of patience.”

“Which I have in short supply. And I can’t seem to do anything about it.” By giving voice to my biggest character flaw, the deputy had once more opened the tap on my self-pity. But since I didn’t want to serve up any more of that than I already had, I searched my mind for something else to talk about.

Shuffling through my thoughts, I came across what he had said about following up on the new leads in Samantha Berg’s murder investigation. Even though I was no longer professionally interested in the case, I certainly could appreciate that. And I did. I just didn’t get as excited about it as I thought I would—or should.

And why was that? I wasn’t sure. But I had an idea—an idea I didn’t like very much.

Deputy Ryden and I passed under a street lamp, its light casting elongated shadows and allowing glimpses of the homes and yards set back from the road. A silhouetted figure moved behind a drawn shade in a narrow two-story, while in the yard next door, a golf cart leaned into a hedge, its wheels hung up on a garden timber. The lawns were landscaped with flowers and a mixture of evergreens and maples, but no trees lined the boulevard, although a honeysuckle vine twisted around a light pole, offering a sweet fragrance as we strolled by.

“So,” the deputy said into the comfortable silence that had settled over us, “let’s try another subject.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Something more serious. Far more important.”

I tensed up, having no idea where he was headed.

“I’ve been wondering about your name, Emerald. It’s different. Where’d it come from?”

I relaxed with a smile. “My folks were part of the Woodstock generation. Real free spirits. They actually met there, at Woodstock, and were inseparable from that point on. Late in life, they decided it would be cool to have a baby and got married shortly before I was born.”

I hadn’t told that story for a long time and was amazed at how sentimental it made me. My eyes grew misty and my voice shaky. And I could only hope the deputy thought the wobble in my words was due to the cool night air.

“As you probably know, most babies—white babies anyway—are born with blue eyes, but mine were a brilliant green. My mother’s midwife, who had chalked up hundreds of deliveries along the Grateful Dead circuit, said she’d never seen anything like it. She insisted it was a sign that couldn’t be ignored. So my parents didn’t. They named me Emerald.”

“You do have nice eyes.”

“Thanks.”

He stutter-stepped, apparently uncertain whether to stop or keep moving. He chose the latter. “And what do they do for a living, these hippie parents of yours?”

“Well, Mom was a poet, though she earned a living by teaching high school English. Dad was a sculptor and ran a furniture restoration business out of our garage. They’re deceased.”

“Sorry.”

Okay, that was enough. I couldn’t talk about them anymore. “So what about your name?”

He squinted at me, closing one eye, looking confused. “Randy?”

“No. Deputy. How did you end up in law enforcement?”

He sniffed in amusement. “Truthfully, I became a cop because, after college, I learned I wasn’t good enough to play professional football, and I couldn’t stand the idea of working behind a desk. What’s more, my older brother assured me that uniforms were chick magnets.” He sniffed again. “The way I saw it, I could be a police officer or a fire fighter. I settled on cop because professional fire fighters only work in big cities, and early on, I knew I wanted the option to live in the country.”

“And how’s it going?”

“I told you before, I like my job.”

“No, I mean the chick-magnet thing.”

He barked out a laugh. “Not so great. I think my brother might have lied.”

There it was. My opening. I could ask about Rosa Johnson. I could say I’d heard he was dating—or had dated—the singer in the band. But I didn’t get a chance. I chickened out. Or maybe I just waited too long. In any event, I didn’t ask, and he shifted the focus of the conversation to me.

“Now, it’s your turn,” he said. “What got you interested in journalism?”

“Well, as you so aptly put it, I’m nosy.”

He stopped. “I don’t think I said—”

“Yes, you did. But don’t worry. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before.” We continued down the road. “I’ve been asking questions all my life. Couple that with my love of writing, and journalism was the logical career choice.”

“But there are all kinds of jobs in journalism. Why’d you decide to pursue crime reporting?”

“I never said—”

“Give it a rest, Emerald. I know better. You clearly want to do investigative work.”

“Wanted to. Past Tense. Not anymore.”

“Well, what got you interested in it initially?”

I shrugged. “I suppose I felt the need to right the world’s wrongs.”

He peered at me, speaking in an expectant tone, “A mighty tall order for one person, isn’t it?”

No doubt, he wanted to hear more, but I didn’t have the will to say anything else. I didn’t want to explain how, after my folks died, my aunt and uncle sued the state because the guardrail that gave way on the bridge, causing my parents’ deaths, was defective and reportedly so for years. Nor did I want to explain how the state dragged out the lawsuit until my aunt and uncle were forced to settle, yet the state refused to take responsibility, insisting the settlement agreement read that while a payout was made, no liability was accepted. And I certainly didn’t want to explain how the whole thing ate away at me, particularly after I began using that money for college and graduate school. Or how I decided to aim for a career in solving crimes via journalism in an effort to replace my guilt with a sense of purpose. Or how I convinced myself that by exposing wrongdoing, I’d pay tribute to my folks, who were wronged in the worst possible way and, at the same time, justify my use of blood money. No, I didn’t want to explain any of that.

Besides, I wasn’t sure what I thought about journalism anymore. I wasn’t especially enamored with it. Or with myself for that matter. At some point during the day, I’d come to terms with the fact that I lacked the personality necessary to be a good investigative reporter. I wasn’t cynical, tactful, or patient enough. But I continued to struggle with another revelation. One that caused me even more pain. You see, I’d also realized that I wasn’t the crusader for justice I imagined myself to be. Yes, there were some chinks in my self-righteous armor.

I’d always believed I was a “truth seeker” because of my parents or because it was a noble endeavor. But today I’d discovered that justice wasn’t my primary motivation after all. At least not in this instance. Sure, I may have said the right words. And for the most part, I even acted indignant when appropriate. But first and foremost, I was after the Samantha Berg story for personal glory and professional advancement. And that didn’t sit well with me.

Of course it explained why the case lost much of its appeal after I backed away from it professionally—why I wasn’t as thrilled as I thought I should be when I learned that the cops were continuing to follow up on leads. I guess, deep down, I figured that if it wasn’t going to make me shine, it didn’t hold much luster. Ugh!

We reached the end of town, about five blocks from the ‘V,’ looped around, and started our way back. The wind whistled across my face and sent a shiver down my neck, the sound of it escaping my lips. “Brrr.”

“You cold?” Deputy Ryden asked. “Should we pick up our pace?”