Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (27 page)

I prayed that my sweaty fingers wouldn’t slip from the door latch and that the two of them wouldn’t stay long. But only part one of that prayer got answered. I suppose I couldn’t expect more, given my spotty church record.

I glanced in both directions. Surely other people would happen by, causing the pair to move on, right?

Wrong. No one came near. The bar patrons had cleared the area, migrating to the sidewalk that ran alongside the highway. I guess the presence of a priest will do that. So here in the garden, Father Daley and Rosa were now all alone—except for yours truly. And here in the garden, all was quiet except for the sound of their voices.

“Rosa,” the priest said, “you may get angry with me for saying this, but I’m going to say it anyway. You need some professional help.”

Rosa didn’t respond, and the priest continued, his words tough but his tone loving. “I believe you’re hanging on to the anger you have over your parents’ deaths because it somehow helps you feel closer to them. I suspect you don’t want to offer forgiveness because, to you, that would be tantamount to abandoning them, maybe even betraying them. But Rosa, dear, that’s not a healthy way to live.”

“So you think it’s okay that my parents were, in effect, murdered, and the person responsible didn’t pay for her crime?”

I pushed higher on my toes, not wanting to miss a word.

Through the streaked window, I saw the priest sway. “I never said that. But Samantha Berg is dead. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

I watched as a pensive expression found Rosa’s face. “She never took responsibility. Not under the law.

“Rosa,” the priest continued, “are you telling me that because Samantha never was charged with a crime, you’re going to spend the rest of your life in your own private hell? That doesn’t make sense. You have to come to terms with everything that happened to your family. Believe me, I know.” He paused thoughtfully. “You need to do it for the good of your soul, of course. But you also have to do it for your future. You can’t move on if you hold on to all that hatred. It takes too much energy. You’ll be too drained to do anything else. On top of that, it’ll eat away at you.” He paused again. “It might be doing that already. Every time I see you, I see less of the old Rosa, the one I know and love.”

“Father, if Samantha had killed my parents with a gun or a knife, she would have gone to jail. But since she only killed their spirits and shattered their hearts, she didn’t have to pay for her actions. And that’s not right. People have to take responsibility for their wrongdoing, whatever form it takes. It’s that simple.”

I shook my head, momentarily questioning if I was listening to Rosa or a recording of myself. I’d voiced many of those sentiments about my own parents’ passing. I’d uttered some of the same words. And while I didn’t care to be in lock-step with Rosa on any subject, we appeared to be in sync on this one.

“Samantha Berg is dead,” Father Daley repeated, shuffling in his seat.

“And here I took you for a family friend.” Rosa’s words were uttered on a wave of emotion.

“I am a family friend. I loved both your parents very much. But—”

She cut him off. “But they’re gone. So get on with it, right?” She leaned back, defiantly raised her chin, and spoke in a caustic tone. “No big deal. Just forget about them and move on.”

He lowered his voice. “I didn’t mean that, and you know it.”

I got goose bumps. Their conversation sounded very much like one of my therapy sessions, where I routinely railed against the state for leading my parents to their watery graves. In this current production, however, I didn’t much care for Rosa’s portrayal of me. She was whiny, and I never was. Or was I?

“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean what I said. I’m just stressed out.” She absently deadheaded several shriveled blooms from the plant next to the bench.

“All the more reason you should talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you, Father. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

“Well, probably not. I’m not very objective when it comes to you and your family. I’m too close.”

She sniffed with laughter. “You had no trouble whatsoever telling me to see a shrink.”

He chuckled while pulling her into a one-arm hug. “That’s true. And I want you to think about it.” He took a two-beat rest. “In the meantime, I suppose you can talk to me if that will help.” Another beat. “Come to think of it, I’d like to know what got you so riled up this afternoon. Yelling at the garden girls? Rosa, that’s not your style.”

She visibly stiffened. “I’m out of sorts. That’s all. I don’t like that reporter snooping around here.”

I sucked in my breath and strained toward the window, determined to listen more closely.

“Oh, you don’t need to be concerned about her. I have it on good authority that she’s heading back to the Cities in the morning.”

“I still don’t like that she’s here.”

The priest shifted, and the bench squeaked. “Why, Rosa? Why does it bother you?”

My question exactly. She didn’t even know me.

“Are you keeping something from me, dear?”

The priest and I were thinking along the same lines.

“Oh, Rosa, you’re crying. Here. Take my hanky. Wipe those tears and blow your nose.”

She did. She blew hard. So hard he’d never ask for his hanky back.

“There now.” He patted her shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

I tilted my head and saw Rosa’s face illuminated by the light cutting across the garden. “I just don’t want her asking a lot of questions. It could cause all sorts of problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

We both waited—the priest and me—but again, Rosa said nothing.

“Rosa, did you hear that she was asking about Samantha’s death? Is that what’s troubling you? Do you know something about the murder? Is that what you’re saying?”

Her mouth opened, forming an “O,” yet she continued to play mute.

The priest lifted her chin with his finger until her eyes met his. “If you know anything at all, my child, you need to tell me.”

I held my breath. I didn’t want to miss her response. Yes, I was well aware I was eavesdropping on what amounted to a confession, and that was wrong on so many levels, yet I couldn’t help myself.

“Father, I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

I slowly exhaled, more than a little disappointed in her answer and in me for feeling that way. But, then again, I was getting used to being disappointed in myself. Disappointment had often kept me company and certainly had been my companion much of this day.

“I do know her death was an accident, Father,” Rosa said in a whisper. “There was no real malice. Not like when she killed my parents. And no, it’s not enough that she’s dead.” The whisper was gone, replaced by huskier-sounding resentment. “I wish it were. Maybe then I’d be able to sleep at night. But it’s not. She should have paid for what she did. Under the law. In public. Subject to everyone’s scorn.”

“Rosa!”

Cymbals crashed inside the bar, and Rosa edged forward. Again the cymbals sounded, and she cast her eyes toward the building. “Father, I’ve got to go. That’s my cue.”

“No,” he replied, dipping his head close to hers. “You need to stay here and tell me what you know about Samantha Berg’s murder.”

“I can’t. I have to get back inside for the next set.”

She abruptly stood, and I stepped away from the window, arching back as far as I could. As I said, a street lamp showered soft light on the garden, and I didn’t want to get caught up in it.

“Rosa—”

“Father.” She spoke with exasperation. “Maybe later. Maybe I’ll tell you more later.”

“When?” The man was insistent.

“Tomorrow,” she answered far too quickly, most likely saying only what she thought he wanted to hear. “I’ll come by the rectory tomorrow.”

From the corner of the window, I watched as Father Daley got up and braced Rosa’s shoulders with his thick paws. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Father, please don’t push.” Her voice warbled. She was on the verge of crying. “I’m trying. But I have to do this my way. And in my own time.”

He wrapped her in a bear hug. “Okay, we’ll drop it for tonight. But tomorrow …”

She bobbed her head. “Tomorrow, Father.”

And with that, they ambled down the garden path, the priest’s arm casually draped over Rosa’s shoulders. He spoke as they walked, and I could tell from his tone he was attempting to lighten her emotional load. At one point, he even let loose with a belly laugh, but she remained mum. A short time later, though, he made a remark about Green Bean Casserole that actually led her to chuckle, albeit half-heartedly.

Once Father Daley and Rosa were out of sight, I counted to a hundred before opening the door. Since I couldn’t explain my presence in the garden shed, I didn’t want to take a chance on being seen.

Peeking outside, I sucked in a sharp breath. Rosa was still there. Not right outside the door, like before, but just beyond the garden, on the other side of the alley. She must have circled back after parting company with the priest.

I gently pulled on the door, leaving it open only enough to watch as she stealthily moved toward her pickup truck. It was parked in the alley, between Samantha’s bungalow and the Anderson sisters’ house.

Reaching the vehicle, she surveyed her surroundings, evidently checking to see if anyone was on to her. Seemingly satisfied that no one was, she removed something from the truck bed. In the dark, I couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but it appeared to be a tool of some kind. She tucked it under her arm, eased beyond the truck, and jogged across the Andersons’ front yard.

I slipped from the shed to follow her. But first I too grabbed a quick look around. A few people lingered on the front sidewalk, next to the highway, but most had returned to the bar. I had every intention of doing the same. Although that was before Rosa lied to Father Daley about needing to hurry inside. Now I was curious. Now I wanted to find out what she was up to.

I moved toward the pickup, careful to tread lightly on the gravel. I peered into the truck bed. Nothing there but garden tools. So after another look around, I crept along the side of the truck until I reached the driver’s window. Peeking in, I saw only a pair of dirty garden gloves. As if on autopilot, I then edged toward the left front bumper, crouched down, and angled forward.

Rosa was climbing the crooked steps of her great aunts’ house. She crossed the porch, illuminated by a single overhead light. She knocked on the door. It screeched opened. She stepped inside. And I darted across the lawn.

I hadn’t planned on doing any spying. Common sense had dictated otherwise. But as I may have noted, common sense and I didn’t always walk in step. I tended to jump ahead. Although in this case, I slithered.

That’s right. I slithered along the exterior of the old ladies’ house, my back scratching against the blistering paint. I worked my way from the front porch to the bay window on the home’s south side. I assumed, like in most old homes, the dining room was located there. The lights were on. The shades had just been drawn. And shadows lurked behind them.

I inched ahead, squeezing between the house and the thorny rose bushes that bordered it. I glanced at my goal. The side pane in the bay window was open from the top, the sash lowered about a half foot. I pressed against the house. I was partially hidden behind a thick rose bush. No one could see me—at least not much of me—even if they knew where to look. But from my vantage point, I couldn’t hear much either. I had to get closer. I had to climb higher. And I had to hurry. Rosa would soon head back to the bar. She was part of the band. And the band was playing. My heart, beating with excitement or panic or a potent mixture of the two, was keeping time to the music.

I checked for something to stand on. Of course there’s never a ladder around when you need one, though I did spy an outdoor water spigot about fifteen inches off the ground. If I balanced my left foot on the spigot and held tightly to the window frame with my right hand, I could lean close enough to the opening to hear what was going on inside.

I tested the faucet. It seemed strong enough to support me, so I placed my foot on top and heaved myself up, grabbing the window frame. I grunted, and the voices in the house fell silent. I held my breath and anxiously waited for them to make the next move, which they did. Thankfully, though, it was only to resume their conversation.

Filled with relief, I peered through the gap between the frame and the shade. There, at a round oak table, sat Henrietta, Hester, and their grand-niece, Rosa. Harriet was nowhere in sight. Considering her earlier hysterics, I suspected she was in bed, sedated, and fast asleep.

An eighteen-inch-long dandelion digger lay on the table. I knew what it was because my dad had regularly used one in our yard when I was a kid. It must have been what Rosa had retrieved from the back of her truck.

“I’m taking this with me,” Rosa said, fiddling with the rusty, fork-like tool. “It’s too dangerous to leave lying around. Two of the garden girls were playing with it this afternoon, as if it were a toy.”

The old ladies grumbled, but Rosa remained firm. “No argument. Now I’ve got to go.” She scraped her chair across the bare wood floor and stood, the other two doing the same. All three women then left the room, switching off lights as they went.