A Potluck of Murder and Recipes

by Jeanne Cooney

  But first things first. I had to tell Randy about my afternoon. I needed to give him the lowdown on Boo-Boo. As a law enforcement officer, he’d know what to do.

  I twisted my hair while pretty much doing the same with my thoughts. Hopefully, communicating with my ex-boyfriend wouldn’t create more relationship obstacles for Randy and me. Admittedly ironic, given my concerns about Rosa. But, hey, this is my story. Even if I had no control over the outcome.

  Chapter Two

  FOLLOWING A HEARTY HELPING of Chicken Crescent Hot Dish, I set my plate on a table covered in purple tulle and switched my attention to the women around me. With any luck, their conversation would distract me from the goodies on the dessert tower, although I soon had my doubts.

  Their discussion focused entirely on the upcoming hot dish cook-off, with some of the ladies arguing for more “sophisticated judges” because “the simplest recipe always wins,” and others contending that there’s “nothing wrong with your basic hot dish.” As for me, I remained mum since I’d presumed all hot dishes were merely ground meat mixed with a can of cream soup and potatoes, noodles, or rice. And how much simpler could it get?

  With no one clearly winning that particular argument, the ladies went on to debate the merits of actually regulating the hot dish entries. And while most strongly opposed the idea, one woman insisted that something had to be done to stop certain people from participating. “I don’t know about the rest of ya,” she complained, “but I didn’t taste any of the entries last year, and I won’t this year either if Booger’s allowed to register.”

  “Booger?” I absently echoed the name while ogling the dessert tower.

  “Yes, Booger,” she replied. “That man picks his nose constantly, and since the entries are set out for sampling without referencing the cooks, you have absolutely no clue what you’re eating.”

  I shuddered before assuring myself that one or two bars probably wouldn’t do me any harm. As I stepped toward the dessert tower, however, Janice placed a fresh drink in my hand, and I immediately gulped down most of it. After that, I congratulated myself for avoiding the sweets.

  OF COURSE, MY DRINK’S rich flavor was primarily due to the incredible rum, yet I also had to tip my imaginary hat to Janice Ferguson. She was no slouch when it came to mixing drinks. True, she got plenty of practice. See, while serving as Kennedy’s city clerk by day, she often worked nights as a bartender at the VFW here in town and at the Eagles in Hallock, just up the road. From what I gathered, she needed the extra money. She played Bingo. A lot of Bingo. But she wasn’t very good, though I never understood where skill entered into it. Either you had N-14 or you didn’t, right? It wasn’t like you could bluff.

  “Okay, I have another joke,” Janice announced, tilting her head, her unnatural, pitch-black beehive doing its best to remain atop her head. “My friend Jeanne Reff Bates told me this one, but I altered it some.” Her long, skinny fingers, tipped with black dagger nails, jetted back and forth to punctuate her words. “Ole and Lena were driving down the highway one day when they hit a family of skunks. So, right away, they pulled over to check them out. And, wouldn’t you know, the mother skunk was dead.” Janice surveyed her audience. “Figuring he had no other option, Ole put the baby skunks in the car, while Lena fretted, ‘Oh, my goodness, oh, my goodness, dey look awfully cold, Ole. What more can we do for dem?’ But rather than answering, Ole gave her the once-over, his gaze finally settling on her big, flabby arms.”

  Janice cocked her head. “You know, the arms with so much fat hanging down it’ll slap you right across the face if you’re not careful.” She regarded her own arms. Despite being wrapped in a thick sweater, they remained Q-tip size.

  “Anyhoo,” she continued, clearly disappointed she couldn’t demonstrate the arm-flab waggle, “Ole told Lena, ‘I suppose ya can stuff da baby skunks under dose humongous arms of yours. Dat should keep ’em warm.’ Lena scrunched her nose. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ole. What about da smell?’ And Ole answered, ‘I’m sure da skunks will get used to it. I know I have.’”

  Barbie harrumphed. “That was bad, Janice. Really bad.” She sounded far more disgusted than warranted. It was only a joke. Crude, perhaps. And not all that funny. But a joke, nonetheless.

  “Oh, come on, Barbie. It was damn funny, and you know it.” Janice adjusted her turtleneck. Because she was cadaver thin, it was way too big for her. And, in spite of an abundance of makeup, she pretty much resembled one—a cadaver, that is. “You’re just a sourpuss.” She glanced between Sandy and me, obviously waiting for us to concur. When we didn’t, she mumbled, “Well, you are.” She sucked down the remainder of her drink and smacked her lips. “Come to think of it, you’ve been in a foul mood for over a month now. What gives?”

  Barbie fisted her hands against her broad hips and set her feet shoulder-width apart. “Just because I don’t find you all that funny doesn’t mean I’m in ‘a foul mood.’” Barbie was dressed in a thigh-length, green, knit tunic with matching leggings, all trimmed in fake white fur. With her spikey maroon hair, dramatically made-up eyes, and ample bosom, she reminded me of a plus-size Betty Boop. At the moment, a Grinch-type Betty Boop. But Betty Boop, just the same. “Maybe I simply have a more developed sense of humor than you.”

  Janice coughed, giving evidence of her two-pack-a-day habit. “You’re more developed, all right.” She examined Barbie. “In fact, you’ve ‘developed’ quite a weight problem.”

  Barbie got in her face. “What was that?”

  “Hells bells,” Margie muttered as she stepped behind Barbie, snaked an arm around her waist, and eased her backwards. “We’re supposed to be havin’ fun here.”

  “Well, she started it,” Barbie grumped.

  “She’s a grouch,” Janice countered. “And even if no one admits it, that joke was funny.” She jabbed a rigid finger in Barbie’s face. “And whether I say it out loud or not, you’re fat.”

  “Who you calling fat?” Before Barbie could haul off and smack the woman, Margie yanked her back a few more feet.

  “You,” Janice repeated. “You’re fat. You’ve always been big, but lately you’ve become downright fat.”

  Barbie strained against Margie’s grip. “Well, if I had a dog as ugly as you, I’d shave his ass and make him walk backwards.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” Sandy uttered to no one in particular, “my glass seems to be empty.” She spun on her heels and hurried toward the refreshment table, undeniably eager to distance herself from the pending brawl. I decided to follow, but Margie squelched that plan with a menacing look that implied I’d sorely regret leaving her to handle the situation on her own.

  “Janice,” Margie said after apparently assuring herself I’d remain rooted where I was, “why don’t ya go on and join Sandy, there. That’d be best for everyone.”

  Janice opened her mouth but held off saying anything, even though the combative expression on her face spoke volumes. For her part, Barbie puffed herself up and narrowed her eyes until they were mere slits. And the tension grew.

  I scanned the room in search of one or two women who, if necessary, could hold their own against these World-Wrestling wannabes. Margie was a big-boned Scandinavian, but I questioned whether she alone could restore peace if Barbie and Janice tore into each other.

  The other women were clustered in cliques, all captivated by the main event. A few near the kitchen spoke but only in hushed tones. For some reason, I watched as they whispered behind their hands. Then, they dug into their pockets and purses to retrieve money—bills as well as coins—and discreetly exchanged it among themselves.

  My mouth fell open, and I felt my eyebrows slap against my hairline. I could hardly believe what was happening, and if the hostility between Barbie and Janice hadn’t been so unnerving, I would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. Here I was in the Kennedy Senior Citizens’ Center, attending the wedding shower of a menopausal, first-time bride, and the attendees, prim and proper Swedish and Norwegian prot
estant women ranging in age from twenty to ninety, were wagering on which of two female guests would win a “knock-down, drag-out.”

  “Go on, now,” Margie repeated for Janice’s benefit.

  After a few more uncomfortable moments, during which the would-be warriors did nothing but glare at each other, Janice pivoted in the direction of the booze bottles. “I’m leaving but not because of you,” she shouted at Barbie as she walked away. “I just need a refill.”

  The gamblers by the kitchen groaned in disappointment. I guess they really wanted to see a fight. And, naturally, that surprised me. Then, again, I’d never before been to a Kennedy bridal shower. Perhaps wagering on brawls was commonplace. If entertainment choices were routinely limited to that or silly shower games, I could understand why.

  “LET ME GO,” BARBIE whined as she wiggled out of Margie’s grasp. “You’re hurting me.”

  “It’s your own gall-darn fault,” Margie scolded.

  “I wasn’t really going to hit her.” Barbie smoothed the front of her tunic. “And while I admit I’m getting heavier, I can always go on a diet.” She pointed an accusatory finger at Janice. “But, no matter what, she’ll forever be a witch.”

  With some trepidation, I waded in. “Barbie, I thought you and Janice were friends.”

  “We were. But not anymore.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Margie blew a strand of wayward gray-blonde hair from her forehead before quietly answering on her friend’s behalf. “Janice can be a real pain in the keister. And, at times, she’s totally inappropriate.” Margie dropped her head toward mine and further lowered her voice. “Last month, right around Thanksgiving, a bunch of us went to a fundraiser in Crookston, for Alzheimer research, don’t ya know.” She worried her bottom lip. “More and more folks ’round here are gettin’ that disease. Elma Carlson, one of the smartest people I’ve ever known, just got diagnosed. It’s the darndest thing.”

  Barbie cleared her throat, signaling Margie to get back on track. “Anyways,” she said, doing just that, “Janice spent most of the night chasin’ rich-looking widowers. And when none of them took notice, she went after the married men with sickly lookin’ wives. Ya know, women pullin’ oxygen tanks and such.”

  I shrugged. “That’s not all that unusual for Janice, is it?”

  “Well, Barbie was on the plannin’ committee, which was a pretty big deal. So, naturally, she was humiliated when one of the men Janice had been stalkin’ complained to the other committee members that Barbie’s guest was makin’ lewd suggestions to him.” She bracketed her mouth with her hand. “She made snide comments to his ailin’ wife, too.”

  “That’s right,” Barbie confirmed. “As if being tethered to an air tank wasn’t bad enough, that poor woman had to put up with Janice’s big mouth. She actually said that the candles on the old lady’s birthday cake were the leading cause of global warming.”

  “Yah,” Margie continued, “ever since that hullabaloo with her boyfriend last fall, Janice has been lots harder to get along with. She feels as if life’s been unfair to her.” She nodded to emphasize her point. “Not long ago she let it be known she was gonna start doin’ whatever she wanted regardless of who got hurt by it. Oh, for sure, she’ll settle down. But it might not be for a while, yet.”

  Margie draped her arm across Barbie’s shoulders. “And while she can be as ornery as all get out, she’s not wrong about everythin’. Fact is, when it comes to you, Barbie, I hafta agree with her. You’ve been real nasty lately.” She pulled her closer. “These days, when someone ticks ya off, I halfway expect ya to knife ’em in the back, then have ’em arrested for carryin’ a weapon.” She grinned, plainly aiming to coax a smile out of her friend with that remark. It didn’t work. “Come on, honey, spill the beans. What’s goin’ on with ya?”

  Barbie finished off her drink. “Nothing’s going on. Nothing at all.”

  “I don’t believe ya.” Margie’s tone was ripe with concern.

  “Well, I’m not about to discuss it with you tonight. This is your bachelorette party! As you said, we’re supposed to be having fun.”

  Fun? Really? If that was true, why was anxiety itching beneath the surface of my skin? Granted, I’d just witnessed a near brawl, and the Anderson sisters were glowering at me from across the room. I also had major Boo-Boo trouble. My trip from the Twin Cities had rivaled a journey through hell. And I’d arrived too late to see Randy. Nevertheless . . .

  I decided I needed another drink and started for the refreshment table, debating if I should ask Janice to do the mixing for me. I wanted a good cocktail. She was a master mixer. And since she wasn’t upset with me, she might consent to serving as my personal bartender.

  Almost there, my eyes pulled toward the dessert tower. Specifically, the Raspberry Squares. No question about it, if I didn’t opt for another drink, I’d eat one or ten of them. They looked scrumptious. And, as I alluded to earlier, I had a weakness for sweets, particularly when agitated.

  I nudged closer to Janice, waiting for an opportunity to interrupt her conversation with Sandy. Yep, one more drink, expertly made, and I’d offer my excuses and head off to bed. A few delicious cocktails, followed by a good night’s sleep, and I’d be far more relaxed in the morning, making tomorrow a much better day.

  Don’t count on it, Emme. The foreboding words were murmured somewhere in the recesses of my brain. Don’t count on it.

  Chapter Three

  BARBIE POKED HER THUMB and forefinger between her lips and whistled, the shrillness sending shivers down my spine. “Hey, everybody, it’s time for Margie to open her shower gifts!”

  The women clapped and shouted and, without being told twice, dragged their chairs across the worn carpet and staged them in a circle in the center of the room. I had no idea what was bothering Barbie, but I hoped all notions of fisticuffs could be set aside for Margie’s sake. Janice was seated between two Amazon women on the opposite side of the circle, well beyond Barbie’s reach, so, perhaps, we’d be spared a fight, at least for a while.

  Margie claimed her chair beneath a bunch of balloons tied to the ceiling fan, and Vivian crowned her with a sparkly tiara. That prompted almost everyone in attendance to do a joint eye roll. Being a nice person, Margie refrained. She also left the goofy crown on top of her head.

  “Everybody! Everybody!” Vivian flailed her hands as she squawked. “Prior to gifts, I have a few games I wanna play.” A number of women, excluding Margie, who was plainly bucking for sainthood, booed while throwing their wadded-up napkins in Vivian’s direction. It was quite a sight. It made me laugh, which felt really good.

  Vivian plopped down next to her sister and kicked at the napkins that buried the toes of her stilettoes. “If that’s how you’re gonna be,” she whimpered through pouty lips undoubtedly aided in their poutiness by a double dose of collagen, “we’ll just go ahead there and open gifts.” That announcement was met by a round of cheers, which led Vivian to attempt a frown. It was an exercise in futility, however, given her regular botox routine. Yep, Vivian was a plastic surgeon’s dream—a nightmare for most other people—but a plastic surgeon’s dream. “Just let it be said that I never overlooked a gift horse. I also hafta tell ya one and all you’re actin’ childish and ill-mannered, and when it comes to other parties and progressin’ them and what not, I’m gonna have an axe to grind my teeth on.”

  The room fell silent. I was pretty sure everyone was using the quiet time to decipher what the woman had said. I suppose, though, it was possible they were contemplating whether or not to feel bad for hurting her feelings. After all, she had organized the party. Yet, she was seldom nice to anyone, so why feel sorry for her? And, don’t forget, she’d planned shower games!

  Regardless of the reason for the silence, it didn’t last long. In short order, it was disrupted by a string of burps. Yep. Burps. A whole lot of them.

  Right away I peeked at Little Val, presuming she was the culprit, but her mouth was otherwise occupied�
�taking in more liquor. That left me to scan the rest of the group, practically coming full circle before reaching Hester Anderson, the smaller of Margie’s elderly aunts, who met me with a belch that would make any trucker proud.

  Given the old lady’s glazed eyes, I suspected dessert bars weren’t all she’d been sneaking. Sure, the cloudiness affecting her corneas may have been the result of cataracts, but odds were far greater she’d gotten too close and personal with the gin.

  My suspicions were confirmed when she slid off her chair, as if her bones had turned to Jell-O. Right away Margie leaped to her feet and grabbed her under the arms. “Sorry,” Hester muttered to her niece once she was propped back in a sitting position, “must of been somethin’ I ate.”

  “Late?” her sister, Henrietta, trumpeted from one seat over. “It’s not late. The party’s just gettin’ started. Ain’t that right, Margie?”

  “That’s right.” Margie raised her voice in an effort to push through the near century of sounds clogging Henrietta’s ears.

  “Ya don’t hafta holler, dear.” Henrietta patted Margie’s shoulder with her gnarly fingers. “Since I got this new hearin’ aid, I don’t miss a thing.” She pointed to her right ear. “Sure, it was a bit spendy. To be exact, $4,000. But it was worth every red cent.”

  Bonnie Johnson leaned forward. “What kind is it?”

  Henrietta checked her watch. “Nine-forty-five.”

  AN HOUR LATER, I was having a great time, with no more plans to retire early. Barbie and Janice were whooping it up, too, although in separate areas of the room. As for the Anderson sisters, they occupied chairs in the far corner, where Henrietta dozed, while Hester elbowed her every now and again to keep her from tipping onto the floor. And Margie? Well, she celebrated like never before.

  After two martinis, she agreed to model the black negligee and robe Barbie had given her. That, in turn, led Janice to ask about the edible underwear she had gifted.