Hot Dish Heaven: A Murder Mystery With Recipes (29 page)

I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to hurt her. And there was always the off chance that something could go wrong, and she could end up stabbing me. No, I just wanted to escape. Then I’d run for help. And after that, we’d straighten out this entire mess. It was just some kind of terrible misunderstanding. I was sure of that.

Oh, Emme, it’s sweet that you want to work things out, but I don’t think she’s feeling the love. See that dandelion digger? It’s big! It’s sharp! And it’s pointed at you!

I didn’t care. I’d escape. Then I’d get help.

Help? Who’s going to help you, Emme? The Johnson twins? Barbie? Can you trust anyone around here?

Answers to those questions were irrelevant. First, I had to find a way out of the garage.

I glanced at the car beside me. It was a four-door sedan with push-button locks. They appeared to be up, which, after a moment or two of consideration, led to a whisper of a plan. And with Harriet schlepping nearer, I figured, it very well could be the only plan I’d get to “test drive” so to speak. Yeah, I know. A wiseass till the bitter end. I only hoped that the “end” wouldn’t be anytime soon.

That thought caused beads of sweat to form on my upper lip, while perspiration trickled down my sides. The garage was closed up tight. So stuffy my lungs could barely function, although my stomach was faring far worse. Dread was at war with determination, and currently, dread had the edge, actually pushing a little vomit up into my mouth. I swallowed it back down.

Shuddering from the bitter taste and the situation I found myself in, I reviewed my plan, visualizing it several times over. And when it worked well in my head, I went with it before I could find its flaws or chicken out for some other reason.

I mimicked everything as I saw it played out in my mind’s eye. I jerked the driver’s door open, jumped in behind the wheel and, in one fluid motion, bounced around, locking all four doors. I then laid on the horn.

I used my free hand to check for a garage-door opener. My objective was simple. I’d back the car out and drive myself to safety. Just one problem. No opener. Not on the visor. Or in the glove box. But that didn’t really matter because there weren’t any keys in the ignition either. I slouched against the back of the seat, not at all surprised. It had been that kind of day.

As I shook my head in resignation, my eyes fell on Harriet. She was propped against the wall, framed in pink insulation. The car door must have struck her when I yanked it open. I guess I missed it. I was too busy saving myself. But now I wondered if she was hurt. And for a split second, I thought about helping her. However, as she righted herself and charged at me, screaming like a banshee, I dismissed that idea.

I honked some more.

Where was everyone? Why didn’t they hear me? Were they all back in the bar? Was the band drowning out my SOS?

Another possibility nudged me like a tap on the shoulder. Oh, my God, were they purposely ignoring me? Was I no different from Samantha Berg? Just another outsider making waves? Just someone else who needed to go away?

As Harriet struck the driver’s window with the dandelion digger, I dismissed those questions, choosing instead to concentrate on my honking rhythm. Two long blasts followed by a series of short beeps. Did a minute go by? An hour? I wasn’t sure. Harriet pounded on the glass, and I honked my desperate tune. Another minute? Another hour?

Then there was something. Something else. Something other than the honking. I eased off the horn. It was more of a rumbling. Harriet stepped away from the car. Still more rumbling. But this time it wasn’t from inside of me. It wasn’t fear. Although fear was undoubtedly present. No, this was a mechanical rumbling. The rumbling of … the garage door. Yes, the garage door. It was rising. The garage door was rising.

I glanced in the rear-view mirror, eager for deliverance and a peek at my savior. Briefly, I imagined it to be Deputy Ryden. In my mind, he rescued me, carried me off for our date, and we lived happily ever after.

In reality, though, the image of Deputy Ryden morphed into one I couldn’t recognize at first. I blinked and checked the mirror again. The picture was getting clearer. Or was it?

I swiveled to see for myself, unable to accept the reflection in the mirror. But there was no mistake. It wasn’t an illusion. My actual rescuers were there. And they were none other than Henrietta and Hester. The air in my lungs escaped by way of a long-suffering sigh.

Of course they weren’t my saviors of choice. But what choice did I have? And I suppose it made sense. They were in the house. They heard the honking before anyone else. And they came to investigate. Now they only had to talk some sense into their sister. But could they? Would they? Or would they … help her?

Remember, Emme, blood is thicker than water.

I ordered the little voice in my head to shut the hell up.

Then I checked the glove box again. Still no garage-door opener. Still no weapon. So I bent over and searched beneath the seat. I only needed a screw driver. Or a hammer. Just a little something to even the score if necessary. But I found nothing except a useless plastic window scraper. I threw it back on the floor. I guess I was on my own, with nothing but a mind full of smart-ass comments and a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage.

“Now, tell me,” Henrietta barked, “what in the Sam Hill is goin’ on out here? Ya interrupted our snack. Me and Hester here were havin’ ourselves some Corn Flake Hot Dish.”

Part Four - Heat and Serve

The two old ladies separated, Henrietta slowly looping around my side of the car, where Harriet was standing, and Hester circling from the opposite direction.

“Harriet,” Henrietta asked, “what’s goin’ on here? What’s all the hoopla?”

Harriet stood firm. “I gotta kill her again. It didn’t take last time.”

Henrietta glanced at me. She must have noticed that I’d rolled down the window about an inch and could hear everything being said. “Now, Harriet, quiet down,” she warned. “Ya don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Oh, yah, I do. I thought I killed her that night she came to the house. Remember? It was the night ya cooked that Broccoli and Stuffing Casserole, and I told ya not to make it ever again ’cause it caused me to bloat somethin’ awful.”

“Harriet, you shush now.”

Despite my curiosity about what Harriet had just said regarding killing someone, a part of me actually wanted her to listen to her older sister and stop talking. I had no desire to hear about her bloating. None whatsoever. But I guess it didn’t matter either way, because I don’t think she even heard Henrietta. Rather, she appeared to have slipped into another world.

“Yah,” she said, “Elsa thought she was really somethin’. Tellin’ me to stop peepin’ out the window. Stop watchin’ her. Warnin’ me to mind my own business. But Carl was my business.”

Henrietta glimpsed at me, nervous tension clearly humming through her. “Harriet, shut your mouth. Don’t say any more. If ya do, ya could end up in trouble.”

Harriet was oblivious to us. She spoke in a soft monotone, the dandelion digger poised in front of her, ready to strike. “She laughed at me, ya know. After all she done, cavortin’ with Carl right next door, day after day, all those years, that tramp had the nerve to laugh at me.” She cackled like a witch. “Called me crazy and such. Well, I showed her crazy.” She cackled again. “Yah, I showed her crazy right in the heart. With this.” She shook the dandelion digger.

And I slumped against the seat. There it was. The missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle—the puzzle that had gone unfinished for years. With the final jagged piece now snapped into place, I could see the picture in its entirety. And what a picture it was. Not only had Harriet mistaken me for Elsa, she’d mistaken Samantha Berg for her too.

“Shut up, Harriet!” Henrietta shouted. “Shut up right this minute!”

Something flickered in the depths of Harriet’s eyes. She might have been shocked by Henrietta’s words, but more likely, she sensed that Hester had edged up behind her.

The smallest sister heaved her shoulders and stretched her arms high into the air in an effort to snatch the dandelion digger away. But Harriet wasn’t about to give it up. With a dog-like growl, she elbowed little Hester in the mid-section, sending her across the floor and to her knees. And after that, she pivoted, licking her moustache and slashing the dandelion digger like it was the sword of an old pirate—a pirate insane from being too long at sea.

Henrietta was waiting, and she too fought to wrench the dandelion digger away. Harriet still refused to surrender it. She yanked on the rusty tool and pulled it away, slicing Henrietta in the shoulder in the process. The mother hen let out a blood-curdling scream and crumbled to the floor.

I shoved the car door open just as Harriet lifted the dandelion digger again, its sharp end stained with her sister’s blood. Scared as I was, I bent to check on Henrietta. She was sobbing, her brittle hands pressed against her wound. The cut looked messy but not life threatening. Then again, what did I know?

Emboldened by the anger that grew from looking into Henrietta’s terrified eyes, I yelled at Harriet. “See what you’ve done! Now give me that thing!”

I was almost as furious with myself as I was with Harriet. I should have moved faster. I shouldn’t have allowed Henrietta and Hester to get hurt. But I was tired. And it had happened so fast. And none of it had seemed real. Yet, it was real. And now Harriet stood nearby, the dandelion digger at the ready.

“Harriet, you’ve hurt your sisters! You better give me that thing before you cause any more harm.”

The old lady backhanded drool from her lips. “I didn’t hurt ’em. I’d never hurt ’em. I’m good to ’em, and they’re good to me. The last time I killed ya they even helped me do away with your body.”

“What?” She continued to surprise me.

“Please, Harriet,” Henrietta whimpered, “don’t say anything else.”

Harriet didn’t bother to look at either of us. She just stared ahead, her eyes vacant. “When they came into the entry and saw ya dead on the floor, they wrapped ya in that big rug of ours. The one that used to be under the dinner table. Then we drug ya in here and put ya in the trunk of the car. You were way fatter then.” She flashed a demented grin. “We could barely lift ya.”

I remained silent. I didn’t want to interrupt. I wanted her to keep talking. To tell me everything. That’s right. Once again my curiosity overtook my fear and probably my common sense. Again, what can I say?

“You ’member?” Harriet’s accent was thicker, her words more ragged. She was getting tired. “We buried ya in that field, under da snow. And we hid the digger in Rosa’s garden.” Her grin drooped into a frown. “But those kids found it today. And ya wouldn’t stay buried.” She swayed from side to side, her rant taking its toll.

I carefully moved toward her, planning to grab the digger before she could react. But she saw what I was up to and tightened her grip, her knobby knuckles turning white. “Now I gotta kill ya all over again. Not only for what ya did to me and Carl, but for Rosa too.”

“Rosa?” Another surprise. “What about Rosa?”

“Well, we didn’t know that field was goin’ to get built on. Canola? Why would a canola plant get built here? When we found out, we had to ask Rosa. She’d know what to do.”

She gulped air. “We ended up movin’ ya to da snow bank. Behind da beet plant. Along da river.” She went in search of another breath, but this one was much harder to find. “Bad floodin’ was ’spected. Rosa reckoned ya’d float into Canada, bein’ the Red flows north. But ya didn’t. Ya came back here. Now I gotta—”

“Rosa helped you?”

Harriet wobbled, her eyes blinking uncontrollably. “She didn’t wanna. She had no choice. It’s tormented her somethin’ awful. And it’s your fault.”

“My fault?”

She waved the digger in the air like a magic wand that would help me understand the world according to Harriet. “If ya would of stayed away from Carl, none of this … But, no …” Her head rocked.

Another minute or two and she’d be unable to put up much of a fight. “Harriet, I still don’t understand. I thought you hated Carl for what he did.”

“Hated him?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “I loved him. I’ve loved him my whole life. Henrietta and Hester just wanted him to pay for what he done, gettin’ Elsa pregnant and all. And I agreed he should get taught a lesson. But I never hated him.”

A tear trailed down her cheek. I watched for my opportunity. She lifted her free hand to wipe it away. And that’s when I jumped her.

I clasped both my hands around the dandelion digger and shook it with everything I had. But she wouldn’t let go. She held on tight, staying with me, toe to toe, the two of us circling in a strange and furious dance. Around and around we went, her stale breath hot on my face, her arms hugging my shoulders. I led her. Then she led me.

When I backed her against the car. I thought I had her. But using the bumper for leverage, she propelled herself forward, thrashing with all her might, striving to shove the digger into my chest.

I’m sure my eyes relayed terror. But hers expressed nothing. And even though I was battling for my life, one tract of my mind veered off to something one of my professors had often said: “Don’t be fooled. Eyes aren’t the windows to the soul everyone thinks they are.”