Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (28 page)

I jumped to the ground, utterly disappointed. Here I’d been lurking around the Anderson house, where someone could easily catch me, and for what? Nothing but a lesson on garden-tool safety.

Totally frustrated, I stepped from behind the rose bush and readied myself to run to the back of the house before Rosa exited the front. To avoid suspicion, I planned to walk along the nearby street and down the alley, returning to the bar like anyone else who’d gone for a stroll. Once inside, I’d drink another beer or two, collect my recipe cards, and call it a night. I was tired. And I was done spying. It had led to nothing anyway.

I glanced at the old ladies’ porch. Still no Rosa. Breathing easier, I bent forward, swearing I could taste the beer that awaited me. I licked my dry lips and was about to take off when I detected something out of the corner of my eye. I stopped, one foot mid-air.

Two men loomed in the distance. They looked to be standing in the alley, visiting. I stared. No, that wasn’t right. They weren’t standing. Not anymore. They were walking. And they appeared intent on getting wherever they were going. I stared some more. And I gulped down a large heaping of fear when I realized they were headed my way.

I pulled back behind the bush and dropped to my knees, scraping my nose on a rose thorn in the process. The scratch stung, even worse when I rubbed it with my dirty fingers. I parted some branches to get a better view and pricked two fingers along with a thumb. I wanted to yell but settled for cursing under my breath. I swore because of my fingers and because of the men. My fingers ached. The men lumbered across the lawn. And my heart almost leaped from my chest when I recognized them as the Johnson twins.

Immediately I recalled Deputy Ryden’s warning: Stay away from Buddy and Buford. They’re trouble. Oh, how I wanted to heed that advice.

I pulled in my shoulders and crouched lower. My mind was spinning with thoughts, much like a hamster on a wheel. How did they know where I was? And how did they know I was on to them? Deputy Ryden wouldn’t have told them. He didn’t like them. He wouldn’t have sicced them on me. The idea was absurd. Around and around went the wheel.

But if not him? No one else knew about my suspicions. No one, that is, except Barbie. She was listening to us. But that didn’t mean anything. She wouldn’t have betrayed me. We were becoming friends, weren’t we? Or was she merely keeping an eye on me?

Questions continued to crowd one another in my brain, making it tough to focus on any one of them. But since the twins were closing in, it didn’t seem like a great time for “Q and A” anyway. I had to move. And I had to move soon.

Yet, I remained motionless, stilled by the one thought that had worked its way through the quagmire in my head. If the twins were after me, that meant I was right about them. I might have been wrong about Ole and Vern and some others in between, but I was right about the twins. Well, maybe not “right” exactly. But I knew something was up with Buddy. That much I knew for sure.

Yep, you got it. Killers were coming for me. Yet my fear was usurped by exhilaration and pride. But only for a second. After that, I was a hundred-percent scared shitless again. The Johnson brothers were closing in. I had to run. I had to escape.

I wanted to rise, but my legs wouldn’t support me. The muscles were too stiff, and my feet were numb. I must have been paralyzed by self-doubt and fear. Not particularly good timing. But there it was.

If I didn’t get away, though, I’d get beaten up—or worse. The “worse” made me shudder. If they murdered Samantha Berg, they wouldn’t have any qualms about killing me too, would they?

Buford and Buddy were almost on top of me. I had few options. My body was too frightened to listen to my brain, so my only hope was to use my mouth. I’d often employed my mouth without the aid of my brain, so I knew I could do it. And maybe—just maybe—this time things would work out for me.

I slowly lifted my arm to make my presence known. I had no idea what I’d say, but I had to say something. I opened my mouth.

And Buddy hollered, “Hey, Rosa, Wally sent us to find you. Your songs are coming up.”

The twins veered toward the porch. The screen door creaked open. Rosa muttered something. The door slammed shut. Rosa bounded down the rickety steps. And I fell on my butt. Thankfully, no one saw me. At least no one looked my way. Instead, Rosa linked her arms through those of her brothers, and together, they started toward the bar.

For a full minute or more, I remained on my rear, my head flat against the cement-block foundation. It was cool and, hopefully, would stimulate my brain. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking straight. One minute the twins were out to get me. The next, they weren’t. First, Buddy and Buford were crazed killers. Then they were nothing more than their sister’s escorts.

I wearily pushed myself up, using the wall for leverage. I needed to go to bed. I needed sleep. I’d been operating on little more than sugar and alcohol for most of the day, and it was wearing me down, impairing my judgment. I’d understand everything better in the morning. It would make much more sense then.

Still hunched over and stiff, I tip-toed beyond the bay window and around the corner to the back of the house. I moved past the rear stoop, confident no one inside was aware of my presence. The stars softly lit the sky, but no lights burned in the house. At least none that I could see. And I heard nothing but the whispering of the treetops and the indistinct voices of people in the distance.

I jogged along the sidewalk till it ended near the detached garage. I stepped into the grass, the dew licking my feet and ankles. I was almost to the street, a public thoroughfare open to everyone. And from there, I’d walk to the end of the block, turn down the alley, and head back to the bar, where I’d once and for all put an end to my nosing around.

I moved in the direction of the road—quickly but carefully—until I was stopped by the voices. The ones down the road—not those in my head. They were louder now. Much louder, prompting me to dodge behind another bush and peek between some more branches to get a bead on what was happening this time around.

Against the night sky, I saw six silhouetted figures. They were headed my way. And they were talking about … that couldn’t be right. I listened more closely. Were they truly talking about Oriental Hot Dish?

I pinched my arm.
Ouch!
Okay, I wasn’t dreaming. Although the entire day seemed like a dream or, more accurately, a nightmare now that I was frightened all over again. My palms were damp. My throat was like sandpaper. And goose bumps were running a relay race up and down my arms.

I was desperate that the people on the road not see me. If they did, they might ask what I was doing in the Anderson sisters’ back yard. And I didn’t have an answer. What could I say? And what would they do? Alert the ladies? Call the police? I wrung my hands. I had to hide. Just for a minute. Until they passed.

With no further thought, I put action to those words, whirling on my heels and rushing to the narrow door that led into the Andersons’ garage. I turned the knob, thanked the Lord it was unlocked, and slipped inside.

Like the garden shed, the garage was dark, the only light coming from the moon, a beam or two slanting through its sole dirty window.

I waited for my eyes to adjust. But even then I couldn’t see much beyond the outline of a large, older-model sedan. It claimed most of the floor, forcing me to creep sideways to avoid smacking my legs on the oversized bumper or brushing against the fiberglass insulation stuffed between the wall studs.

Reaching the window, I peered outside. The walkers had almost gone by, their retreating forms washed in the light of a street lamp. I scanned the road in both directions. No one else was around. I’d be able to leave in a minute or two and head back to the café. And after I got there, I’d go right up to bed. No nightcap. And no more snooping. Ever!

Feeling safer, though slightly embarrassed, I pivoted away from the window. I inhaled and exhaled slowly and deliberately. I’d overreacted. But that was okay. No one would ever find out about my foray into the Andersons’ garage or, for that matter, my close encounter with the Johnson twins and their sister. And if by chance they did, I was ready with an excuse. Hell, I had lots of them. I’d been up for more than eighteen hours. I’d driven 400 miles. I’d met a dozen people and had written down three times that many recipes. And I had done it all on a diet of mostly sugar, with a splash of alcohol thrown in for good measure.

I maneuvered away from the window and toward the door. I was convinced I had nothing to worry about. My actions weren’t really out of the ordinary. Okay, they were. But, again, no one would be the wiser.

As stepped forward, however, something prickled my senses. I listened closely but only heard the chirping of the crickets outside. Chalking up my worry to overwrought nerves, I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and edged ahead. I was done being scared. I was strong. I could take care of myself. Nevertheless, I felt the need for caution.
But caution’s okay
, I told myself. Caution wasn’t fear. Caution could be a good thing.

Shuffling between the car and the wall, some insulation must have brushed against my arm because I shivered. I tucked my arms against my sides and reminded myself that caution wasn’t fear. Caution could be a good thing. I tentatively moved, one foot in front of the other. I was almost there. Almost to the door. I swallowed, the sound of it terribly loud in my ears. Then I gasped as the door—the same one I had used—creaked open.

The overhead light flickered on, and I froze in place. The light illuminated the silver Buick, pink insulation, and Harriet Anderson. She stared at me, her eyes frenzied, her expression agitated. And I knew at once I was in big trouble. Very big trouble.

Harriet stepped into the garage and closed the door. “Ya just won’t go away, will ya?” She looked haggard. Her features sagged, and her short hair darted every which way, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.

“Pardon me?”

“Ya won’t leave us alone.” As I’d done only minutes earlier, she slunk sideways along the wall, her hands clasped behind her back.

“I didn’t mean to intrude, Harriet. I saw some people outside, and they scared me, so I hid in here. I know that doesn’t make sense, but I’ve had a really long day, and frankly, nothing’s making much sense. You won’t believe what I thought they were talking about. Hot dish. That’s right. Hot dish. How crazy is that? See, I’m just not thinking straight.”

“Quiet!” She edged closer. “I’m sick of ya and your nonsense. I’ve told ya time and time again to stay away. But ya just won’t listen.”

My pulse quickened. She shouldn’t have shaken me so. She was an old lady. But she frightened me just the same. I think it was her eyes. They were fully dilated and reminded me of black, treacherous pools of water. As for the feebleness I’d spotted in her earlier? Well, that was nowhere to be seen. Now she only looked strong and full of stormy resolve.

“I thought for sure I’d gotten rid of ya” She pinched her lips together. “But ya just won’t stay dead, will ya?”

I backed up, determined to extricate myself from the scene. I walked in reverse, pressing past the car, but then came to an unexpected halt when I bumped into something. I shoved against it. It wouldn’t budge. So I glimpsed over my shoulder. Shit! There stood a huge snow blower, almost three feet across and four feet tall. I was stuck, absolutely nowhere to go. The wall was to my left. The car was to my right. The monster snow blower was behind me. And crazy Harriet loomed about six feet in front of me.

My heart pounded hard against my chest. “Harriet, you’re making a mistake.”

“Shush! I told ya to be quiet. You’ve never been nothin’ but a trollop. Ya got yourself pregnant so Carl would hafta marry ya. And he hated ya for it. I know. He told me. He wanted to be with me. But ya made sure that didn’t happen.”

My jaw dropped as the meaning of her words sank in. Harriet had me confused with Elsa, the woman who’d run off with her fiancée, Carl, almost seventy years ago. “But, Harriet, I’m not—”

“I said quiet!” Her eyes then clouded over with what seemed to be an accumulation of years of torment and hatred. She slowly pulled her right hand out from behind her back. And there it was. The dandelion digger. Rosa had apparently left it behind. “I don’t care how many times it takes,” she hissed, “I’ll do it. I’ll kill ya.”

I was shocked and scared. Yet, I uttered, “So much for garden-tool safety.”

I know. I know. I crack wise when my life’s being threatened. Okay, I crack wise all the time. And I’m sure there’s some deep-seeded reason for it that my therapist would be more than happy to probe at length. But believe me, it was a discussion for another day. At present, I had to act.

Of course I had no desire to hurt Harriet. She was old and not in her right mind much of the time. Although she did have a weapon. And as she lifted it above her head, she appeared quite capable of doing some serious damage with it, especially if it connected with any of my vital organs.

I glanced around the room. I wanted a weapon of my own. Not to hurt her. Just to scare her away. I scanned the wall next to me, then the one on the opposite side. No weapons. No tools of any kind. I was in a frickin’ garage and not a single tool in sight!

Oh, come on, Emme
, one of my little voices said,
you don’t need a weapon. She can’t be very strong. Just go ahead and jump her
.